She’s right. We’ll be in public, I’m a big girl, and everything will be fine. Still, I can’t help but feel like Marla is bailing on me again.
Why am I surprised?
Gabriel offers to pick me up. While it would be nice to have a chauffeur carry me door-to-door to and from the Sorbonne, I tell him I’ll meet him there.
He’s at the university when I arrive, waiting in the reception area outside of Professeur Descartes’s office. His eyes light up when he sees me, and he stands. After saying something in French to the receptionist, he makes small talk with me, mostly about the manuscript and the impending meeting with the professor. It’s as if nothing happened the other night.
I’m glad. There’s nothing to talk about.
However, I do wonder what happened between him and his wife after I left.
Did Veronique storm out, or did the two of them enjoy the coq au vin that Gabriel had prepared for me?
Was it some sort of kinky role-play act to keep their marriage exciting? You know how sometimes couples will go to a bar separately and pretend to pick each other up? Maybe Gabriel and Veronique arrange for him to invite another woman over for dinner, and she walks in on them. They pretend to fight and then…
Never mind. I don’t really care what they do. As long as it doesn’t involve me.
When Professeur Descartes is ready for us, his assistant shows us into the office.
Gabriel serves as our translator.
Descartes acts unimpressed as he dons the extra pair of white gloves I picked up before the meeting. The manuscript is now housed in an acid-free box.
Descartes says something to Gabriel in a tone that doesn’t seem to bode well.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He says he does not want to speculate. It could take some time. He must read the work and figure out if it is a draft of one of Armand’s previously published works. If not, he will compare it to those works and see if the styles are similar. For now, he has everything he needs and will be in touch when he has an answer.”
Gabriel has him sign a receipt that he received the manuscript and would take all necessary precautions to protect it. I ask Gabriel to give him my cell number and contact me directly when he is finished.
With that, Descartes stands and unceremoniously walks to his office door and opens it, the universal sign for end of meeting. No time for questions or discussion.
Once we’re outside, I realize we didn’t discuss fees or expenses. “How much is this going to cost?” I ask. “I meant to ask him before we left, but my head is spinning with so many questions, and of course, there’s the language barrier.”
Gabriel’s car is waiting for him.
“No worries,” says Gabriel, edging toward the vehicle. “He will contact you should any potential expenses arise. He will do what he can through the Sorbonne. However, should he need to seek outside council, there might be fees.”
I smile through the painful thought of additional financial outlay.
I have no idea where we will find the money, but we will. Or I will. Somehow. It’s for a good cause. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Even though I don’t want to ask Gabriel for favors, I realize I’ll need someone to step in if I’m not in Paris when Professeur Descartes finishes because I’d rather not have Marla toting a potentially valuable manuscript around the city.
“I’m going home tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll be available by phone, but I’ll need some notice if Professeur Descartes makes any discoveries and wants to meet in person, or needs me to pick up the manuscript.”
“If he finishes before you can get away, I will send someone from the office to pick it up tout de suite,” Gabriel says.
At least we seem to be in unspoken agreement that we shouldn’t entrust it to Marla, who might inadvertently leave it on the Metro or in a café if she got distracted flirting with a guy.
The best part: Gabriel volunteered. I didn’t have to ask him.
“You are going back to work?”
I nod. “I start back Wednesday. I have to make money to cover that inheritance tax.”
I almost add and legal fees, but the last thing I want is to sound like I’m fishing for freebies.
* * *
“HOW DID EVERYTHING GO?” Marla asks when I walk in the front door. “Does he think it’s the real thing?”
“It might take a while before we know anything. Lots of reading and comparing. You know, all sorts of academic stuff.”
“Boring.” Marla feigns a yawn and returns her attention to a wooden box full of what appears to be costume jewelry. She swirls her hand through the bobbles. It sounds like a wind chime.
I laugh. “You didn’t think I was going to come back with a definitive answer, did you?”
She shrugs. “I was hoping. I don’t know how that stuff works. I didn’t know if they have some kind of database where they can plug in the words and get an answer.”
“That would be nice, wouldn’t it? If this book has already been published, there will be a record of it. That will be easy. If not, all they can do is compare style and do some sort of test on the paper and ink. And maybe even try to figure out what kind of a typewriter it was written on.”
My gaze darts around the living room. “You didn’t happen to come across a typewriter while you were taking inventory, did you?”
“Nope. I didn’t see one.”
She picks a rhinestone-studded brooch out of the box and holds it up to the light.
“What are your plans?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my vacation is almost over. I’m leaving tomorrow. Are you comfortable staying here by yourself?”
She drops the brooch back into the box and resumes swirling.
“I guess so. I’m certainly not going back to Orlando, and you made it clear you don’t have room for me in London.”
I start to suggest she could always find her own place, but I don’t.
“You’ll have to go back to Florida sometime—after Gram’s house closes.”
“When that time comes, you can come with me.”
She’s right. We will both have to sign the papers when we sell the house.
“What are you going to do in the meantime? I mean, do you have money to get by?”
She sets the jewelry box on the coffee table and sits up, pushing herself forward to the edge of the couch seat and gripping the seat cushions as if for support.
“I have a little bit, but I’ll have to get a job eventually. I’m not sure how to do that here. I mean, since I’m a property owner, does some kind of a visa come with it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You’ll need to look into that. You do realize even if you live here, this place belongs to both of us.”
When we jointly inherited Gram’s house, Marla wouldn’t hear of us keeping it. She needed money, not memories. I, of course, would’ve been hanging on to the place solely for the memories. It was my childhood home. When I suggested we rent it out, she wanted no part of that, either. The only arrangement she would entertain was me buying out her half or putting the house on the market.
I wonder if she’s remembering that now.
“What are you saying?” She squints at me.
“I’m saying given the inheritance tax and the high cost of living in Paris, maybe you shouldn’t get too comfortable here. We might need to rent the place out or eventually sell it.”
“I can’t even think about that,” she says. “We’ve worked so hard this week to get it into livable shape; doesn’t it seem a shame to let someone else move in? Hannah, I feel so at home here. For the first time in my life, I feel connected to a place. I feel a connection to you and Ivy. It’s all we have left of her. This is our legacy. We can’t just turn it over to someone else.”
“Remember what you said about Gram’s place? You insisted I needed to buy you out or we needed to sell it—”
“Hannah, you know I am not in a
position to buy you out. I thought we’d made so much progress. I thought this apartment had brought us together.”
Here we go, plucking the heartstrings to distract from the fact that she’s trying to skirt the very rule she made: buy the other one out or sell.
No negotiation. No discussion.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “I can read it on your face.”
“Why should I pay rent in London while you’re living in Paris rent-free. How is that equitable?”
“Don’t think of it as me living rent-free in Paris. Think of it as me being the custodian of our investment—of our legacy.”
Of course, she evades the question.
“Did you really want to hang on to Gram’s house?” she asks. “Did it mean that much to you?”
I shrug. It’s not an easy yes-or-no answer. I wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons, but the practical side of me knew keeping a house in Orlando wasn’t… well, it wasn’t practical. “It was my last tie to Gram.”
Marla rolls her eyes.
“You know rude gestures like that are not helping, right?” I say. “They’re not winning you any points.”
“I’m not trying to win points, Hannah. I’m trying to stay in Paris.”
“It’s always all about you, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Hannah.”
She gets up and walks to the window and looks out. Her back is to me, reminding me of all the other times in the past when she turned her back when things got hard.
“I wanted to keep Gram’s house, but you wouldn’t even discuss it.”
She whirls around to face me, but she’s smiling rather than wearing the pigheaded glare I was expecting. “That’s it! That’s the answer. You keep the Orlando 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 a man who wasn’t Scott. Andres and I spent the rest of the evening talking. Pierre’s name did not come up the entire night, nor did my modeling for him. We were too busy speaking of art and books and my new job at the boulangerie.
He was the perfect gentleman. Even when he walked me home again, as he had after the salon. I willed my traitorous heart to stop fluttering, to remember its place, because a man like Monsieur Armand wouldn’t be interested in an unsophisticated girl from Bristol. He must’ve realized that, too, because once again, he didn’t ask to see me again after we reached my door.
If I were smart, I would put Andres Armand out of my mind forever. My head knows that, but my h
eart can’t forget him.
Sixteen
January 8, 2019—11:00 a.m.
London, England
Marla and I come to a temporary compromise on what to do with the apartment. We decide, for the time being, not to decide.
Even so, I think she insisted on coming back to London with me because she is afraid I’ll try to sell the apartment out from under her while we’re apart.
So, here we are. I need to get back to normal, and she’s at loose ends.
Since I don’t want to leave her to her own devices at the London flat, I take her to the Heart to Heart tour offices, where I’m meeting my boss, Emma, for a catch-up before I go back to work tomorrow. I’m hoping Marla will want to slide into one of the city tours and give me a breather.
“This is where you work?” Marla asks, wide-eyed, as she looks around the suite on Buckingham Palace Road. “Where do you keep the busses?”
“This is where the corporate office is housed. We contract the busses from another company and they meet us at predetermined sites, depending on the tour. It wouldn’t make financial sense to keep our own fleet.”
Violet, the receptionist to whom I’ve just introduced my mother, smiles at me.
“Oh.” Marla looks disappointed. “I thought a tour company would own a whole farm of busses. I was hoping they’d be those cute red ones you see all over town.”
“We also have walking tours,” Violet says. “In fact, would you like to choose one of these that starts at the top of the hour? I’ll arrange for you to go while Hannah meets with Emma. It would be on the house. Here, I can show you what’s available.”
“Thanks, Violet,” I say. “That’s a good idea. I might be a while.”
Marla shakes her head. “I’ll just sit out here and wait for you. I won’t bother anyone.”
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