Lost in Paris Elizabeth Thompson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

house and I’ll keep the Paris apartment. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

A bark of bitter laughter escapes my throat and threatens to turn into a genuine fit of histrionics.

“Okay, I know you’re not serious—”

“I am serious.” She has the audacity to look offended. “It’s the answer to our problem.”

“You realize this apartment is worth at least five times the value of Gram’s house. I know you’re smart enough to have figured that out.”

There’s something in the way her eyes shift that makes me realize she might not have thought of it.

“I know that. But money aside, if you think about it in sentimental terms, it would really be the answer to our problems.”

“Our problems? No it won’t. If we keep this place, and that’s a big if, we’ll need every penny of the proceeds from Gram’s place—and probably more—to pay the inheritance taxes on this apartment.”

She’s looking at me, but I know she’s not listening. She’s staring off into the middle distance. Her gaze has a faraway look that I recognize from long ago, back in the days when Gram would get on her case about something, usually having to do with me. Marla would be there physically, but her mind was somewhere else.

I don’t need this. I have a happy life in London. Granted, by her standards, maybe it’s not the most exciting life, but it works for me. Think of the things I could do if I had my half of the proceeds from Gram’s house in Florida and half the net of the Paris apartment.

I could pretty much write my own ticket.

July 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

I’m happy to report that after leaving Pierre’s studio, I found work.

As it turned out, salvation was at my doorstep. Or just below it.

The boulangerie beneath our apartment was in need of a counter girl for the first shift. They hired me on the spot, which proves it’s always good practice to be nice to your neighbors.

The day starts early. I report at 4:45 in the morning. The pay is a pittance, but it’s something. It will leave my afternoons free to sew and search for fashion work.

I shared the good news about my new job with Helen when she got home from Luc’s studio, and she insisted I come with her and Luc to celebrate at Dingo Bar.

I urged her to go without me and have a good night. To celebrate for me. Because my alarm clock would awaken me early, and there was the uncomfortable possibility of running into Pierre.

Before the words had left my mouth, Helen was already shaking her head. She would not hear of it. She said I could not avoid Pierre forever. She promised that Luc would not allow Pierre to harass me.

Since we’ve been in Paris, I’ve learned to stand up to Helen, but that night I actually did want to have some fun. Because it felt like the first time since moving here I had something to celebrate. Why not enjoy myself?

When we arrived at Dingo Bar, the place was lively and festive. The music was loud and people were drinking and dancing. I’m starting to recognize the regulars who are fixtures of the place.

True to their word, Helen and Luc stood guard, even though there was no sign of Pierre. Immediately I relaxed and drank champagne and talked to a handsome blond man named Scott, who, as it turns out, is a famous author.

I have heard of his book, The Great Gatsby, though I haven’t yet read it. How exciting to meet someone famous!

Helen and I were flirting with Scott when a commotion arose. I turned to see a petite blonde holding a champagne flute and stomping toward us on top of the tables. She was stepping on people’s hands and knocking over drinks in her determination to reach us. People were shouting and cussing, but she seemed oblivious.

She stopped before us and asked Scott to be a darling and help her down. As if it were perfectly normal to walk on tabletops in a bar.

As he lifted her down, Scott asked her what in the Sam Hill she was doing up there on the tables. She claimed it was the only way she could get to him. That there were too many people and tables between them, that nobody would keep her from the man she loved.

She introduced herself to us as Zelda, Scott’s wife.

When we had a moment, Helen pulled me aside and told me that she’d heard Scott had had an affair with a beautiful young American starlet. Now, Zelda is rabidly jealous of him even looking at another woman.

I can’t say I blame her, but Helen and I didn’t get to talk about it very long because that’s when I saw Andres Armand across the crowded room. His height and his dark good looks made him stand out like a spotlight had illuminated him in the crowd.

His gaze connected with mine and my heart thudded in the most unexpected way. The next thing I knew, he was standing next to us and Zelda was squealing like her long-lost best friend had appeared. She linked her arm through Andres’s and I wondered if Scott would get jealous because Zelda was gushing on and on about how Andres was the most talented writer she’d ever met. She made us swear we would not tell Scott because she would deny ever having said it, even though it was the God’s honest truth. Scott, of course, was standing right there and would’ve needed to be unconscious not to hear her. When he didn’t react, Zelda introduced Andres to us.

Helen wasn’t aware he was the very man I’d met at Miss Stein’s salon and again in Pierre’s studio.

He turned to me and lifted my fingers to his lips the way he had at Miss Stein’s home. Only this time, he dusted them with a featherlight kiss.

I was swept away.

By then Zelda had drifted off to dance the Charleston with