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

The family. I love the sound of that.

I told Desirae I’ve been busy. After the wonderful article she posted about the tour, we’re booked solid for the next eight months. The great response has allowed me to train Marla and Tallulah, who has moved to Paris permanently, to handle their own tours and hire a full-time office assistant.

We also hired a literary agent who helped Marla, Étienne, and me sort out what to do with Andres’s final manuscript. She sold the rights to the book at auction. That was the easy part. Now I have to wait what feels like years before I can hold my great-grandfather’s book in my hands. I’m so impatient, but the agent assured us that these things take time.

The world has been without the manuscript for this long, so I suppose a few more months won’t hurt anyone.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that I’ll believe it.

We never found out who leaked the news of the manuscript to the press, but I have my suspicions—his name might start with Gabriel and end with Cerny—but it really doesn’t matter. Desirae kept her word, so we are eager to reward her with an exclusive. We’ve decided we will even invite her to the square la Bruyère apartment and share the before photos. She will see the transformation with her own eyes.

But first, Marla and I want to meet with Étienne alone—just family.

The evening he arrives in Paris, Marla and I go to his hotel on rue de la Paix. He invites us up to his suite, saying he has something that is sure to interest us. On the coffee table is a box, not so different from the acid-free number we’ve used to store the manuscript.

Étienne has ordered wine and a cheese-and-charcuterie board. Once we’re all seated, he pours the wine and we toast.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. “I want us to enjoy the snacks I have ordered, but before we do, I want you to see what’s in the box. For that, we must keep our hands clean.”

Marla and I exchange a puzzled glance.

He nods toward the box. “Open it, please. There is something I would like to show you. In fact, I would like to propose a trade. The original hard copy of the manuscript for these letters.”

Marla gently lifts the lid off the box. Inside is a stack of letters. I count them. There are ten in all. Marla takes one out.

“It’s addressed to Andres.” She shows it to me. The address is Antibes, France. It’s the same handwriting I’ve come to know in Ivy’s diaries.

“What is this address?” I ask.

“It was our family home and now the location of the Andres Armand Foundation. It is where I work. I think you know part of my mission has been to carry on my great-uncle’s legacy. In doing that, I have kept all his documents and papers. That includes drafts of his manuscripts and all of his correspondence. After we met at George Campbell’s home in London, I searched through the volumes of correspondence I have in the archives. I found these letters that may provide you with some answers.”

I reach into the box and pull out another letter.

Marla lifts the flap of the envelope she’s holding and peers in.

“May I read it?” She’s nervously fiddling with Granny Ivy’s ruby ring, which she’s still wearing on a chain around her neck.

“Of course,” says Étienne. He looks like a regal gentleman, his dark hair graying at the temples. He is sitting with one leg crossed over the opposite knee in the gilded armchair, wineglass in hand.

Marla and I both remove the letters and begin reading.

“When is yours dated?” she asks.

“April 24, 1940,” I say.

“Mine is April 20,” she says.

“Read yours first,” I say. “Read it out loud.”

She begins tentatively.

My Dearest Love,

I am writing to you at your family home as you asked me to do. I made it to England safely. I’m sorry for the delay; it took a while to make passage from Dover to Bristol and get my bearings. I met the nicest man, a US soldier named Thomas Norton. He has been a tremendous help. I showed him my engagement ring. I cannot take my eyes off of it. He knows of you as he has read your books. He says translated versions are quite the rage in the States. He would like to meet you once you arrive in Bristol. Until then, he asked me to convey that he will look out for me and you should not worry.

I will be counting the days until I can be your wife.

With all my deepest love,

Ivy

“Thomas Norton! That’s Great-Grandpa Tom,” I say. “That’s how they met?”

We marvel at discovering the missing puzzle piece.

My letter is short and doesn’t offer much information. Just a basic accounting of Ivy’s day. The next few are much of the same.

We don’t come across anything particularly juicy until the letter dated May 15, 1940.

My Dearest Andres,

I have not heard from you since I set sail for Dover. I must confess I am worried. I have tried to placate myself by believing the mail is delayed because of the German attack on France. There is talk of the French government fleeing Paris. Please tell me that is not so, my love—that it is just hysteria.

What I wouldn’t give to know that you are safe and out of harm’s way.

Each day I wake with the hope that it will be the day that we are reunited. I have a daydream that I will look up and see you walking toward me, smiling that smile that sets my heart racing. That smile I couldn’t resist from the moment I saw you.

I am not the only one depending on you to return to us safely. Darling, soon we will be a family of three. Can you believe it? You will be the best father.

If my condition did not dictate that I stay in Bristol, I would come searching for you myself. Until