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

I mean, it’s been twenty-seven years. What am I supposed to say to him? Oh, hey, Dad. Nice to meet you. Now what?

“I don’t know, Marla.”

She looks crestfallen. “You don’t want to meet him? Hannah, how could you not want to meet him?”

“I do, but… I… I don’t know when I can get away. The tour and this—” I make a circular motion with my hands. “It’s a lot right now.”

“Just leave it to me, okay?” Her blue eyes are shining again. “I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry.”

I’m worried.

April 16, 1940

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

Andres will arrive any moment to take me to the ship. I am nearly paralyzed by the emotions I’m feeling. I know there are many people who are far worse off than I am, and I keep reminding myself that Andres is doing noble work. I would only be in his way if I stayed. Or worse yet, I might put him and the entire operation in danger.

Early this morning, while Andres worked, I paid a call to Madame Dreyfus’s boulangerie to wish her well and tell her that Andres was still in Paris and would help her should she and her family need anything. I discovered the shop locked up tight during what would have been the busiest hours. No one answered when I knocked. There were no lights on in her small apartment behind the business. I can only hope that she and hers have landed somewhere safe.

As I stood there, it dawned on me that I should not be so sad about leaving my home. I will return. Madame Dreyfus, however, might not.

I walked back around to the front of the building and glanced up at what was once Helen’s and my living room window. My first real home in Paris. The place I tried so hard to get away from when life wasn’t going my way.

I closed my eyes and I could almost hear Helen’s voice saying, “What if you leave with your tail between your legs and success is right around the corner? You will miss everything.”

It’s been years since I’ve seen my dear friend, but she was right.

And yet, there I was once again, standing in Montparnasse and contemplating a return to Bristol.

It will be the first time I’ve been back to England since arriving in Paris in March 1927.

With a heavy heart, I bid my dear friends a silent farewell and said a prayer that we should meet again in Paris.

Andres has arrived to collect me. The time has come to lock up, but I will leave my heart—and your unfilled pages, dear diary—right here on square la Bruyère until I can return.

Twenty-Seven

February 9, 2019—2:00 p.m.

Paris, France

The long and short of the story is they sacked me from my own band because I wasn’t a squelchy enough punk.” Darius Gaynor throws back his head and laughs a loud, deep belly laugh that makes people turn and look. We’ve been sitting at the table at Les Deux Magots in Saint-Germain-des-Prés for nearly two hours and all I know is I want Marla to marry this guy.

Not my call, I know, but I never dreamed that meeting my father for the first time after all these years would feel like I’d known him forever. No wonder Marla thought he was the love of her life.

When she told him I was tied up with work, he immediately offered to meet me for lunch in Paris.

After he asked me to tell him everything about myself, I learned that just as Marla suspected, Darius had been shaken by being fired from the band he and his brother had founded in their garage.

“What I learned from that, Hannah, was sometimes it takes a swift kick in the arse like that to set us on the path we’re supposed to follow. I traded my drum kit for university and studied business accounting. How boring is that? My life hasn’t been quite as glamorous as the one your uncle Martin led, but I’ve been happy.”

He pauses and looks at me, searching my face again.

“I wish I could’ve known you sooner. All these years that we can’t get back.”

He sighs, and stares into the middle distance before he continues. “It wasn’t Marla’s fault, ya know. She did the best she could given the circumstances.”

“I know that.” Or at least now I do.

We settle into companionable silence for a few moments, sipping our coffees as reality sinks in.

“You have a half sister and brother,” he said. “Their names are Candace and Johnathan. Candace is a doctor and John is a teacher. Neither is married—too busy working and trying to make their mark on the world. I’d love for you to meet them, but I have to be honest, I haven’t had a chance to tell them about you yet. It’s all come together so fast.”

“It has. We’ll take it one step at a time. For now, I’m glad we could do lunch. Thanks for meeting me here, Darius.”

“If you’re comfortable with it, you can call me Dad.”

RATHER THAN JUMPING THROUGH the clinical hoops and expenses that Marla and Martin Gaynor went to when they were trying to figure out on the sly if Darius and I shared DNA, Marla, Étienne Armand, and I agreed to do one of those drugstore DNA tests.

Three weeks later, the results are in. All three of us are enough of a match to suggest that we are cousins. That means Andres Armand was likely Gram’s father, which makes him Marla’s grandfather and my great-grandfather.

Just when Marla and I thought we were the only ones we had left, our little family has grown by leaps and bounds.

A COUPLE OF WEEKS later, Étienne asks if he can visit us in Paris. It’s a good idea. It’s been a month and a half since I promised Desirae Montpellier from The Guardian the exclusive on the Andres Armand manuscript story. It’s time the family sits down to talk about the