She sets the tray on a cocktail table and nods earnestly. “I’m sorry.”
“Second, you said there are a lot of things I don’t know about your relationship with Gram. Will you tell me?”
She looks resistant.
“I need to know. I know you said it wouldn’t necessarily make things better, but really, anything is better than being kept in the dark.”
Marla leans forward on the damask-covered wingback chair and squeezes a lemon wedge into her teacup. She lifts the cup and saucer and tucks her leg under her body. She takes her time blowing on the hot liquid and slurping at it.
I let her form her thoughts.
Finally, she says, “You never knew your Grandfather William. My dad.”
I nod.
“I’m sorry you didn’t, because he was a hell of a man. We were so close.”
Marla has a faraway look in her eyes. I don’t say a word. I almost don’t even want to breathe for fear she’ll stopping talking.
“I guess you could say I was the ultimate daddy’s girl. I had him wrapped around my little finger. At least that’s what Gram used to say.”
She pauses and I can see the sadness closing in.
“One night, I decided I wanted ice cream. I thought I couldn’t go on if I didn’t have some cookies-and-cream ice cream from this place in Winter Park. But Gram said no, absolutely not. I was grounded and she saw right through the ice-cream ploy that was really an excuse to get out of the house and hang out with my friends for a while. She had me pegged. There was a boy who worked at the ice-cream shop that I had a crush on—now I don’t even remember his name… Ricky or Robby or something like that. I’d just gotten my driver’s license and the day after that I got the worst report card of my school career. Gram grounded me and she was not letting me get out of it—even for a few hours. I pitched a big fit. There was a lot of door slamming and tears and teeth gnashing. But she wouldn’t budge. Not even after Daddy tried to win me a reprieve. In fact, he got a little mad at Gram, saying she was being too harsh. He wanted a compromise. If I did my homework, then I should be able to get ice cream. He believed in positive reinforcement. So then the fight transferred from Gram and me to Daddy and Gram.
“He ended up saying if she wasn’t going to let me get ice cream, he was going to go get me some.”
A tear slips from the corner of her eye and meanders down her cheek.
“He got in a bad wreck. Someone blew through a red light and hit him broadside. And he didn’t—” She hiccups. “He didn’t make it.”
My breath hitches. I knew Grandpa William died in a car accident, but I’d never heard the circumstances surrounding it.
“After he died, I went off the deep end and Gram didn’t know how to handle me or how to go on without him. After Daddy’s accident, something broke between us. Our relationship already felt like a fraying thread. That day, it snapped. She blamed me. Not outright. It was one of those passive-aggressive grudges. From then on, Gram didn’t care what I did. Before, it sometimes felt as if she and I were in a competition for Daddy’s attention—not in a creepy way. Daddy was the most generous gentleman you’d ever meet. But I always felt like Mama turned things into a competition. Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to.”
It’s the first time I can remember her referring to Gram as Mama.
“It was as if she’d checked out. So, that summer, I went to Europe and followed the Wellies. When I came home pregnant with you, even that didn’t wake her up from her sleepwalking. Until you were born. Then, it was as if she showered you with all the love she couldn’t give me but that she’d been storing up. Not too long after that, Grandpa Tom died and Ivy moved in with Gram. The three of you were as tight as three peas. There was no place for me.
“Hannah, at least when I left you with her, I was sure you were with someone who loved you. When Daddy died, he left me all alone. Mama was just as happy for me to stay away.
“I know this might sound like a lame excuse, but I didn’t know how to be a mother because I’d never had a very good example to follow.”
We sit there in silence as dusk settles over the apartment, making the shadows long and the light dim.
“I’m trying to reconcile the Gram who raised me, the woman who was so loving and caring, even if she wasn’t very outwardly demonstrative,” I say, “with someone who iced out her own daughter.”
“That’s why I said me telling you this might not help things,” Marla says. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”
I shake my head. “Not telling me doesn’t change the way things were. I’m not quite sure what to do with this information right now. I need time to process it.”
“I know you do, and that’s fine. If it helps at all, I think that you—the way you acted, the way you loved her—you were the person Gram always wished I would’ve been. That’s why you, Gram, and Granny Ivy all got along so well.”
I nod. I don’t really agree, but I hear her. And I want her to know that.
As I digest what she’s told me, I let a few more minutes of silence hang between us before launching into my final point, and I’m glad to have some good news for her.
“The third thing I wanted to say was if I were to hire you, you’d have to respect the fact that I would be your boss.”
Through the hazy ambient light I see her blink. She sits up straighter, adjusts her posture.
“You can’t think of me as your daughter,” I continue. “If I ask you to do something, you can’t second-guess me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nods with the vigor of someone trying to save her own life.
“Hannah, I promise. I will be a model employee. I’ll be at your beck and call.”
“If I hire you, it will be for a sales position. Is that something you’d want to do?”
“You mean selling seats on the tour?”
I raise my brows. “Yes. That’s exactly what you’d be doing. I need this tour to be a success right out of the gate and the only way that’s going to happen is if we are booked out for months at a time.”
“I think I’d be good at that,” Marla says.
“I do, too. I’m going to hire you on a probationary basis to see how you do between now and the first tour—”
Marla’s phone rings. I’m a little irritated when she answers it in the middle of what she should think of as a job interview.
“Hello?… Oh! Hello, Dr. Campbell; this is Marla. It’s good to hear from you so quickly. How can I help you?”
Marla puts the phone on speaker so I can hear what he’s saying.
“I’ve had a chance to read through the copy of the manuscript you delivered the other day,” he says. “While it’s quite early in the process, my gut feeling will not let me rule out that it could be the work of Andres Armand. However, I can’t quite authenticate it at this point. Would it be possible for me to have a look at the actual manuscript?”
Marla looks to me.
“Hello, Dr. Campbell. I’m Hannah Bond, Marla’s daughter. She put you on speaker so I could hear the call. We would be happy to return with the original.”
We make arrangements to call him back once we know when we can make the trip.
“Wow, that was fast,” I say after we disconnect the call.
“At least he didn’t give us a big, fat shrug like we got from Professor Sore-Bone,” Marla says. I stifle a laugh at her play on words. “What exactly will it mean if Dr. Campbell thinks this is the work of Andres Armand?”
“It will mean a newly discovered Armand book. Then we’ll have to figure out what to do with it. Do we consult literary agents ourselves or do we partner with the Armand foundation? If Armand has descendants, we need to find out if they have any claim on the book. I have no idea what copyright laws say about who owns the manuscript. It might even fall in the public domain, for all I know.”
“Maybe Monsieur Levesque can help us figure it out,” Marla suggests.
“Or more likely he can dir
ect us to someone who can. In the meantime, I’ll keep reading Ivy’s diaries. I know she and Andres had a relationship, but did he live here, too? I can’t imagine who else all the men’s stuff would belong to, but Ivy seemed so adamant about not living with him outside of marriage.
“It seems like she was good about journaling for the first three years or so and then there are long stretches when either she didn’t write or the diaries are missing. And then we have the partial diary from 1940 that was there by the bed, which is more about the impending war than anything else.”
“Don’t you think that people mostly write in diaries when times are hard?” Marla says. “The rest of the time you’re living life and you’re too busy to pour out your heart on the page. But the day-to-day, that’s the juicy stuff. It’s like that saying about how life is what happens when you’re making other plans.” She stops and takes a deep breath, then clears her throat. “That’s why I’m trying to live in every moment right now, Hannah. I know I can’t go back and change the past, but I’m grateful for this chance to have you in my life now. Thank you for letting me prove myself to you through this job. I promise you I won’t mess up.”
I don’t quite know what to say. Especially when Marla starts crying.
“I don’t mean to get all emotional on you.” She sniffs, looks up, and fans her face with her hands. “Never mind me. Carry on. Nothing to see here. Time to start prepping for London.”
Frankly, I’m taken aback by her gratitude.
“Sounds good to me. I was thinking—maybe we should make a trip to Bristol while we’re there to see if we can go through marriage records. Something’s still not sitting right with me about the timeline.”
April 1929
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
I am bereft and without words.
A letter from my cousin Abigail arrived. All I am able to do is copy it here, because even after reading the news several times, I still can’t believe it’s true.
Dear Ivy,
I tried to reach you at rue du Cardinal Lemoine, the only address your parents had for you. However, my letters were returned as recipient unknown. Until now, I did not know how to find you.
I am now writing with a heavy heart to inform you that your parents have passed. Your father died of apoplexy last July. Your mother could not bear to be without him. It is believed she died of a broken heart barely three months later.
They have both been laid to rest in Canford Cemetery. The next time you are home, I do hope you will pay your respects to them.
Your cousin,
Abigail Braithwaite
Twenty-Two
January 16, 2019—1:00 p.m.
London, England
Two days later, armed with a release supplied by Levesque for Dr. Campbell to sign before we turn over the original manuscript, we take the train to England. For someone who hadn’t spent much time in Paris before the apartment came into my life, I feel quite cosmopolitan traveling back and forth between Paris and London so often.
We meet Dr. Campbell at his flat in Stockwell. It’s the second floor of a brick row house. The place is clean but cluttered with an overflow of books and papers stacked on every flat surface. He has to clear off two chairs for us to sit down.
He’s a small, stooped man with silver hair and thick glasses that magnify kind brown eyes. He signs the paperwork without hesitation. When we turn over the box, his whole face lights up like we’ve handed him the Holy Grail.
“Ah, so this is the baby.”
He sits on the sofa, pulls on the cloth gloves I’ve provided, and opens the box like he’s unwrapping a Christmas gift.
He lifts the first page up to the light and squints at it. He makes some noises that I can’t quite decipher as good or bad.
“As you know, I’ve already read the story and the style is consistent with Armand’s work. Now I want to enlist the help of a handful of colleagues. I’d like to try to date the paper and see if we can figure out what kind of typewriter was used to ensure it all corresponds with the time period. It may take a while before we can give you an answer one way or the other, but I will keep you updated.”
As we’re leaving, Dr. Campbell says, “Say, have you thought of contacting the Andres Armand Foundation?”
Marla and I look at each other.
“Yes, we have considered it. But we don’t exactly know how they’re supposed to fit into the picture.”
“I have a contact there,” Dr. Campbell says. “One of Andres’s descendants by the name of Étienne Armand. I’ll touch base with him and see what he has to say.”
* * *
IN THE CAB, ON the way back to Cressida and Tallu’s flat, Marla and I are giddy at the possibility of authenticating the manuscript. But Dr. Campbell said it would take a while, so I redirect my thoughts to the more pressing tour. I’ve been thinking about something Emma said about me using the same formula for Les Années Folles that I used for the Jane Austen tours.
Sure, the structure worked for Austen, but I have a nagging feeling that I should think outside of the box for this one. I have so much original, personal material in Ivy’s diaries. It would be a shame if I didn’t use it. But there’s something else, too.
I text Aiden.
I’m in town tonight. Spur-of-the-moment trip or I would’ve let you know sooner. Are you free?
It takes him less than a minute to respond, but the seconds feel like an hour. When I see the text bubbles dancing, my heart jumps to my throat.
I’m working tonight, but come by the restaurant for dinner.
Meeting him at the restaurant is the best of both worlds. I get to see him, but there will be none of the awkwardness of being alone. I still don’t know what I’m looking for with this… friendship? Relationship?
Hannah: What time?
Aiden: If you can come later, I can spend more time with you. Might even be able to eat with you. 10 p.m.?
Hannah: It’s a date.
My heart is thudding with a combination of relief that I didn’t screw things up when he was in Paris and anticipation of seeing him again. I’m hoping he’s still game to do the tour dinner. After I thought about it, I realized it would be a unique way to celebrate the launch. The dinner might be a one-off, but it would make the inaugural tour special.
Just because he can’t be there to do the dinner at the end of every tour doesn’t mean I have to cut off the idea at the knees. Who knows? If it works this one time, maybe I can hire a local chef to make it a regular thing.
“Why do you look so dreamy?” Marla asks.
“Nothing.” I shove my phone into my open purse on my lap.
“Was that Aiden?” she asks.
I nod. “I’m going to see him tonight. I can’t remember if I told you, but he was in Paris last weekend when you went to London.”
“Really?” Her brows shoot up. “And?”
“There is no and,” I say, because I know exactly what she’s getting at, “except that he offered to create a meal for the first evening of the tour. He suggested calling it a ‘moveable feast.’ ”
“Oh, like that book,” Marla says.
“Yes, like Hemingway’s book.”
We ride in silence for a while.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask her.
“I’m not sure. Cressida and Tallulah both have dates. I’ll probably call it an early night since we have a train to catch at the crack of dawn.”
“Sounds like a good idea. I won’t be out too late, even though I’m starting late.”
When I leave the flat at 9:30 to take a cab to Lemon and Lavender, Marla is snug in her flannel jammies, watching TV, and nursing a cup of herbal tea.
* * *
THE COMPACT RESTAURANT IS exactly as I’d imagined: Red-lacquered tables with mismatched chairs painted in a rainbow of bright colors. Matisse- and Cézanne-inspired art on the lavender walls. There’s a cozy fire in the French-country-style fireplace. The warmth reaches all the way
back to the snug table for two in the far corner where Aiden and I enjoy our dinner.
“Here’s my thought,” he says when I ask him to tell me more about his dream moveable feast. “What if we serve it picnic style on the Champ de Mars under the lights of the Eiffel Tower?”
“That sounds promising.” I take a bite of the Grand Marnier soufflé he prepared for us for dessert. It’s like tasting heaven on a spoon. “Would it be too cold to eat outside?”
“I could prepare a menu that would warm up everyone. Who doesn’t want to have a picnic under the Eiffel Tower no matter the temperature?”
I want to have a picnic under the Eiffel Tower, I think. Especially since I’ve been in Paris for weeks now and I’ve only seen it in the distance.
“We could start with some onion soup or foie gras on a crispy baguette and then move on to cassoulet,” he says. “I have a great recipe. I could serve a mixed-greens salad with a Dijon vinaigrette and we could end with crème brûlée. What do you think?”
“I think it sounds delicious, but you’d better give me a budget. And where are you going to cook this feast? I’d love to offer my apartment, but the setup is circa interwar. Marla and I have been subsisting mostly on cafés and takeout and the occasional one-pot meal she prepares.”
“Where I cook is the last thing you need to be concerned with. Don’t worry about me. I have my resources.”
Our gazes snare and he’s radiating the same electric warmth as the first time I saw him. He doesn’t seem to be nursing a grudge over the way the evening ended when he was in Paris. I’d fully prepared myself for him to use it as an excuse to push me away.
“So, you’re saying I should trust you?” I say.
“Well, yeah. Have I ever given you reason not to?”
No, Aiden, you haven’t. But I still worry that one day I’ll discover you’re like all the rest.
“I usually don’t give people a chance to let me down when it comes to work, but lately I’ve been throwing caution to the wind.”
Lost in Paris Page 23
