Lost in Paris, Elizabeth Thompson [good book club books TXT] 📗

on Christmas Day, which I initiated, it’s been several months since we’ve spoken—since I flew back to Orlando for my grandmother’s funeral at the end of summer.

In addition to wishing her a merry Christmas, I called for an update on how things were proceeding with the sale of Gram’s house, which Marla and I jointly inherited and she offered to stage and list. As of last week, she was still sorting through Gram’s possessions and grumbling about the clutter she needed to eliminate before we could even think of putting the house on the market.

I didn’t feel too bad for her, because as compensation for preparing the house, we agreed that she could keep any of the clutter she wanted or pocket the proceeds of anything she sells.

She lives in Orlando. I live in London. That’s the only way it was going to work.

The cold weaves its way through the fabric of my red wool coat. I tighten my scarf and shove my hands into my pockets. I’ll call her when I get back to London. Or tomorrow. Maybe.

“Jane Austen frequented Sally Lunn’s bakery, which is still famous for its large brioche buns. I hope you’re hungry because we’ll sample them when we have our tea. In the meantime, you might be interested to know Jane mentioned Sally Lunn’s baked goods in a letter to her sister, Cassandra, in 1801. She said, ‘Though, to be sure, the keep of two will be more than of one, I will endeavor to make the difference less by disordering my stomach with Bath buns.’ ”

Two of the Fitzwillings are whispering again. They’re eyeballing Jerry.

I talk louder.

“Based on that quote, we can see that Jane was well acquainted with Sally Lunn’s buns.”

A titter ripples through the group.

“I am, of course, referring to brioche.” More laughter. “It’s been said that our Jane would often keep a stash of Sally’s bakes in her room to supplement the scanty meals served by her aunt Leigh-Perrot, whom Jane and Cassandra visited in Bath.”

The ladies are laughing less subtly now, hardly containing their whispers, and Jerry’s gaze remains trained on them with sniper-like focus.

It’s been a long week. The tour started in London and stretched up to Chatsworth House, famously the location of Darcy’s Pemberley in the 2005 Pride and Prejudice movie. We gave equal time to Lyme Park in Cheshire, the 1995 Pemberley. We’ve made all of the relevant stops along the way as we circled back through Bath on day six.

The women are oblivious to Jerry’s irritation until he says, “Come on, out with it, ladies. Let us all in on the joke. Tell us what’s so funny.”

They fall silent, but Jerry is having none of it.

“Really,” he says. “We want to know what is so damn hilarious that you keep interrupting Hannah.”

“Jerry, it’s fine,” I say. “I think we’ve all had enough architecture. Let’s go have tea. The reservations are listed under Heart to Heart Tours. I’m sure they won’t mind if we’re a little early.”

I hope.

I herd the group toward the restaurant in a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation.

It works.

We step inside and I give the information to the hostess, who, by the grace of God, has our tables ready.

I let the others go first and that’s when I see him. He’s sitting at a table all alone, his head bowed over a folio as he writes.

A navy peacoat and a tartan scarf are draped over the empty chair at the table. He’s wearing a black button-down, dark skinny jeans, and boots. His vibe is rock and roll or some other old-soul creative cool, but the intense way he furrows his brow as he writes makes me think of Mr. Darcy himself. I wonder if the Fitzwillings have noticed him.

My watch buzzes another alert and it makes me jump. He must see the movement out of the corner of his eye because he looks up and catches me staring at him. There’s a flash of recognition on his face and he squints at me.

He looks familiar… vaguely.

Do I know you?

If not, I want to know you.

I scroll through the files in my head. Famous people? No. People I know in Bath? Uh-uh. Other business acquaintances not from Bath? Not that I can remember. Someone from university? No. Guys my roommates have dated or tried to fix me up with? Hardly. People from London? No. Nothing.

It’s as if time has stopped around us and we’re the only ones in the room. Until I realize the hostess is talking to me.

“Right this way, miss,” she says.

I tear my gaze away from his and follow the hostess. In an attempt to center myself, I look at the text on my watch. It’s my mother again.

DID YOU GET MY MESSAGE??? CALL ME NOW! VERY IMPORTANT!!!

I’m not sure if her choice of all caps implies actual importance or impatience.

Either way, I can’t talk to her right now. After we order, some of the Fitzwillings begin peppering me with questions.

“Hannah, how did you get into this line of work?” Lucy asks. “It’s like a dream job. You must have such fun going to work every day.”

I adore my boss, Emma, owner of Heart to Heart. She’s become more of a friend than a boss. I will never be able to repay her for hiring me as a seasonal employee and keeping me on because I desperately needed work. Not only that, she’s given me creative freedom to make the Austen tour what it is today.

It’s not her fault that I feel… stuck. I’m twenty-seven years old. I can move on whenever I want.

“No, seriously,” Lucy presses. “How did you, an American, land a cool job like this? I mean, it allows you to live here and work here, right?”

I nod. “I guess I was lucky.”

The Fitzwillings are distracted by other conversation. I look over at Brooding Darcy. His head is bowed over his folio again and he’s furiously scribbling away. I wonder if I’d imagined our exchange a moment ago.

Then some