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

after he took me to Maxim’s for dinner, we set out with a bottle of champagne and what looked like a box that would hold a small cake, for what I thought would be a nighttime tour of the city. That would’ve been the sweetest gift in itself, but there was so much more.

His gift to me even overshadowed my birthday dinner, and you know how I’ve longed to dine at Maxim’s.

I thought it curious when the coach veered deeper into the right bank’s more residential neighborhoods. Usually, the sleepy streets aren’t our idea of fun, but I was happy to be with him and it was interesting to see this side of Paris—with its tree-lined streets and handsome homes.

Suddenly, the carriage stopped in front of a pretty building that was set back off the road. A stately wrought-iron fence surrounded it and the sweetest little garden. A lone stone bench sat waiting off the main walkway.

Andres hopped out of the carriage and helped me down.

He used a key to unlock the gate.

I followed, peppering him with questions.

He pressed his index finger to his lips and said I would understand soon enough.

Another key let us inside the double front doors to a reception area with marble floors. He led me up the grand staircase. Finally, we stood in front of a polished wooden door, which he unlocked. Before I knew what was happening, he scooped me into his arms and carried me over the threshold.

Inside the apartment, a banner hung over the fireplace. It read “Happy Birthday, My Love! Welcome Home!”

Then he handed me the keys and said he thought I could use an apartment of my own since Helen is traveling so much after winning a spot in the Ballets Russes.

I glanced at the stately floor-to-ceiling windows and the regal crown molding. At the sofa that commanded the center of the room and the delicate writing desk, which graced the wall between the tall windows.

I told him it was a lovely place, and so nice of him to find and furnish it for me, but I could not afford it. I could barely afford my current apartment, and that place wasn’t nearly as grand as this one.

Then he said the most curious thing. I would find the new place much more affordable than my current rental because this place was paid for in full. He had set up a fund to cover the taxes and utilities. I would find my new home had everything I needed: a modern kitchen, the latest in indoor plumbing, and a soaking tub.

He teased that I might find the commute to the boulangerie a bit longer, but I could always quit and focus on my clothing creations.

I was at a loss for words. It was a lovely gift, but how could I accept it? It dawned on me that perhaps this was a way of tricking me to move in with him.

I thanked him again but reminded him I had no intentions of being a kept woman.

Then he really shocked me. He said he didn’t understand how I could consider myself a kept woman since I owned the place. He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out an envelope.

Tucked inside was the deed to the apartment—with my name on it. The place is mine to do with as I please. It belongs to me, even if I decide to kick him out of my life tomorrow or sell the place and move back to Bristol. Those last words were his, not mine. How could I throw him out when I love him so very much?

I was sure there had to be a catch, but I could not find one.

Soon, my full heart overflowed and I could not contain the tears. I threw my arms around him.

He scooped me up and carried me into the bedroom and made love to me until the moon was high in the inky sky.

We did take a break to eat the birthday cake and drink the champagne he’d brought. He lit the candles and sang the birthday song—wearing nothing more than his own birthday suit.

It was one of those rare instances in life when everything seemed right and good and, dare I say, perfect. Right now, as I write, he is softly snoring beside me.

I want to live in this moment forever. However, reality elbows its way in, deflating my bliss. I must contact my parents.

Before I left London, I gave my mother the address of the rue du Cardinal Lemoine apartment. However, given my mother’s propensity for showing up unannounced at the most inopportune moments, I dared not tell her the first apartment was such a disaster that Helen and I had been forced to move. I never sent her the address of the second apartment because she was likely to show up simply to wag her finger in my face and remind me of how I’d failed. She would have delighted in being right and rubbing my nose in the fact that I was not clever enough nor talented enough to secure a position in the atelier of Mademoiselle Chanel.

If she had learned of my work for Pierre… I shudder to imagine what might have happened.

Still, the fact remains my own mother threw me out. She made it clear I was no longer welcome in her home. If she had changed her mind—if she had cared one iota—she could have found me in Paris, but she didn’t.

But, dear diary, I refuse to dwell on that sad truth because for the first time since moving to Paris, I am settled and deeply happy. I am finally in the position to write and tell my parents I am doing well.

I shall post a note home tomorrow.

Twenty-One

January 14, 2019—3:00 p.m.

Paris, France

Marla was gone for four days. By the time she returned, Aiden has come and gone and I don’t have to try to explain something I don’t yet understand