Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  “You’re sure?” I say. “He really wants to meet me? I don’t want to show up and have him be like, ‘Who are you? Get out of my life.’ ”

  “I promise you. He wants to meet you.”

  Okay. Whoa. Slow down. I don’t have time to run back to London right now, and we shouldn’t rush something like this. 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 strategy.

  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 wo
uld 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 we can be together again, I will remain true.

  Your future wife, the mother of your child,

  Ivy

  The most heartbreaking letter of them all is dated May 17.

  My Dearest,

  I have heard the most devastating news, but I refuse to believe it’s true. There is talk that you have not survived the war. If, by the grace of God, you are alive, I wanted you to know that I am leaving to go to the States until after our child is born. Please contact Major Tom Norton in Bristol, and he will know how to find me.

  Please be safe, my love.

  Forever yours,

  Ivy

  Marla is supposed to read the final letter, but she can’t because she’s crying. She hands it to me. I’m not much more composed, but I take a deep breath to steady myself before I begin.

  June 1, 1940

  My Dearest Andres,

  I am in Florida now. I need you to know that I will never give up on you. In my heart I will always believe you are alive. I close my eyes and picture you sitting in your chair in the little apartment on square la Bruyère or leaning over your typewriter working. I know how hard it is for you to settle down to write, but once you do, your words are sheer brilliance.

  My friend Tom agrees.

  My love, I have news that I hope you will understand. You said yourself that times of war call for sacrifices from all, that fighting forces people to make choices they might not necessarily make in times of peace.

  I have faced a hard choice.

  Since I am pregnant and the situation in Bristol is tenuous, Tom tried to help me arrange passage to the States on a military ship. We soon learned that places aboard the ship were only for Americans or family of American servicemen.

  Andres, I know you want what’s best for our child. It will be best for the baby to be born in peace and safety. Please find it in your heart to understand that that’s why I married Tom Norton.

  He is a good soul and he knows I love you. He has agreed to release me from our arrangement once I hear that you are safe and ready to reunite with your family.

  In the meantime, our square la Bruyère apartment will be waiting for you. Please go there and contact me when you can.

  My love always,

  Ivy

  Marla and I are both sobbing by the time I reach the end of the letter.

  Étienne leaves the room and returns with a box of tissues.

  “Andres died on May fourteenth,” he says as we do our best to compose ourselves. “From what I can piece together, he was killed before he received Ivy’s letters. Our family in the South of France saved the correspondence. Either they didn’t try to locate Ivy or they didn’t bother because she’d married out of the family.”

  “I think she was so devastated by Andres’s loss that she couldn’t bring herself to return to Paris or even sell the apartment because that would mean that she’d given up on him,” Marla says. “Her whole life she clung to the idea that he could still be waiting for her in that apartment.”

  I’m moved by how moved my mother is by today’s revelations.

  “I think it’s also worth mentioning that Tom must’ve been head over heels in love with Ivy to marry her and raise Gram as his own,” I say. “I wonder if Gram knew?”

  We will never know, but we do know that Tom did right by her—by both of them.

  Ivy and Andres’s story is tragic, but somehow, it feels as if our acknowledging their relationship has given them closure. Maybe that’s why Ivy left the documents in the trunk in Florida for us to find—so that Marla and I would happen upon them one day and embark on this crazy Parisian adventure of our own. Someday, when I have my own children and grandchildren, I hope I can leave them a key that will unlock half the possibility that Ivy’s Paris apartment has unlocked for us.

  Epilogue

  May 14, 2019—2:00 p.m

  Antibes, France

  I’ve always found cemeteries to be uncomfortable places. Not for the obvious reason—that they’re full of dead people—but because visiting someone’s grave seems morbid.

  Doesn’t it reinforce the fact that they’re gone?

  I haven’t visited many graves in my life. I haven’t had a chance to go back to Florida to visit Gram’s grave since the funeral. But on the occasions that Gram and I would go to Granny Ivy�
�s to leave flowers, I never felt close to her there—not nearly as close as I felt to her in the pages of her diaries, or in the Paris apartment.

  But a trip to the cemetery is a sign of respect. I get that.

  That’s why Aiden and I are meeting Marla and Étienne at Andres’s grave in Antibes on the anniversary of his death.

  Aiden and I stop at a flower shop to buy a bunch of lilies. As we’re waiting for our Uber, Aiden says, “I need to talk to you.”

  He looks so serious it scares me.

  There was a time when I would’ve jumped to conclusions and anticipated the worst.

  Not this time.

  Instead, I take his hand. “What would you like to talk about, my love?”

  “Remember the feast we made for your first Les Années Folles tour?” he asks. “How would you feel about making the dinner a regular feature? It really elevates your tour above the others, you know?”

  “It’s a great idea in theory. But the logistics might be a little tricky. We both know those Chunnel tickets don’t come cheap. And I do two tours a week.”

  “What if I told you I wouldn’t need a Chunnel ticket to make it work?”

  I squint at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that Le Cordon Bleu offered me a job as an instructor. The pay is decent and it will give me a chance to quit Lemon and Lavender, move to Paris, and save for a restaurant of my own.”

  “You’re moving to Paris? Stop it.”

  He smiles at me and plants a kiss on my lips. “I’m moving the feast to Paris.”

  * * *

  AIDEN HOOKS HIS ARM around my waist as we approach my great-grandfather’s grave. Earlier, I tied a piece of lace from Ivy’s sewing box around the flowers so a small part of her would be here with us. As I lay the lilies at the base of the headstone, I wish that I could sprinkle half of Ivy’s ashes here with Andres and leave the other half where she rests now, next to Tom.

  I’ve been thinking about how lucky she was to have the devotion of two men in her lifetime.