This was the first time Lily Granger had ever flown, the first time she had left Ohio since she and her mother settled there after leaving France at the end of World War II. She was scared and excited at the same time, not knowing what to expect, anxious to experience whatever would come next.
She felt the jerk as the plane began to back away from the terminal, roll slowly across the tarmac, and take its place in line waiting to takeoff. It crept forward and stopped several more times before it made a turn to the left. The engines roared as they began pulling the plane, faster and faster, down the runway, the gravitational force pressing her further back into her seat. She felt the pain from the events of the last several months being pulled out of her from deep within, and hoped against hope it would not return.
She held her breath as the plane lifted into the air and the landing gear retracted. The pressure eased. She felt lighter, freer than she had ever felt. The muscles in her shoulders relaxed their grip and she felt them sag. She took a deep breath happy she had survived the takeoff. It would be seven hours before the next harrowing part of her journey arrived, the landing at Aéroport Paris-Charles de Gaulle!
Suddenly, the plane banked sharply left! Lily grabbed the armrests as she looked out on the roofs of houses and buildings below, sure the plane was going to crash. A sharp right followed, causing her to become lightheaded as she looked down at the water racing by under the tip of the wing. She closed her eyes, her inner voice telling God she did not want to die. At last, the plane leveled off into a steady climb. She cautiously opened her eyes and saw the brilliant blue of the sky above her and the snow white tops of the clouds tinged with soft pink from the setting sun.
“First time you’ve ever flown?” The voice had a French accent.
Lily turned to the man next to her as she tried to regain a sense of composure. He looked to be in his early-forties. His graying hair was neatly trimmed outlining his oval face.
“How could you tell?”
“I think the fear in your eyes and the white knuckle grip of your armrests gave it away.”
His piercing steel gray eyes showed a hint of humor behind the glasses he wore; his smile was soft and understanding.
“Are you going to be staying in Paris, or is it just a stop over?” He asked.
“I’m going to study at the Sorbonne.”
“Interesting. What are you going to be studying?”
“The techniques, colours, and the methods the Impressionists used to capture light in their paintings.”
“You’re an artist, then?”
“Maybe someday. Right now, I’m a ‘learner.’ I studied art in college, but that was some time ago.”
“Is the book in your lap something that deals with art?”
Lily looked down at the diary, running her fingers over the leather cover. She didn’t really want to discuss it or what had happened that led up to her finding it. She tried to think of what she could say that would terminate the conversation in a nice way.
“It’s… it’s a diary my mother had. I planned on reading it during the flight.”
Realizing from her tone that she was reluctant to give more details he reached into his pocket, withdrew a small, business sized card, and handed it to her.
“Take this. Once you’re in Paris, if you need anything, or would like to see the sights, feel free to give me a call.”
Lily glanced at the card as she placed it in the diary. It read ‘Discoverer of Lost History’. Beneath the title was a name – Lucien Chesnel, with an address and phone number in the lower right corner.
“I take it you’re Lucien?”
“I am.”
“What does a ‘Discoverer of Lost History’ do?”
“I find things for people.”
“You find things for people. What kind of ‘things’?”
“During the last war and the turmoil that followed, a lot of people were separated, husbands from wives, children from parents. Some lost art objects; some lost records of big events in their lives, such as marriage certificates, birth certificates. I attempt to find out what happened, perhaps even discover ways to reunite the people, or recover the items they were missing.”
“Why would anyone want to find a lost marriage certificate?”
“You sound like a woman who was married at some point in the past.”
“Sorry. I guess I need to get past the lingering resentment,” Lily said.
“Understood,” he replied. “However, for many others, they may need to prove who they are, prove they were married to someone for inheritance purposes, perhaps prove they are the rightful owner of a piece of property.”
“Sounds like you have an interesting profession.”
“I enjoy it. I enjoy the research, the chance encounters,” he said looking at her, “and it gives me the opportunity to travel to different places, like America for instance.”
“Well, thanks for the card. The offer of a tour is appreciated, and, I just may take you up on it someday in the not too distant future.”
“I’d like that. Paris is an amazing city, and I love showing it to people and telling them about it. But, for now," he said nodding toward her lap, "I’ll let you read."
Lily smiled to herself as she realized she had just made the first acquaintance of her new life. She placed the card in the diary and tilted the seat back. She closed her eyes hoping to take a power nap but the image of her mother’s body hanging from a rafter in the attic of their house stormed back into her consciousness and would not leave her alone.
Their relationship had never been a close one. Her mother, Sarah, was always a very private person. But the fact that she did not speak after Lily told her about being accepted at the Sorbonne, followed by her taking her life the way she did, had weighed heavily upon Lily. She left no note as to why she had taken her own life. Mothers were not supposed to be like that. Not with their daughters.
Sarah never learned English, never made any effort to know the neighbors, and never wanted to go anywhere. The few times Lily was able to coax her out resulted in Sarah very being very uncomfortable. Her reason, she said, was that she didn’t like people staring at the scar that ran from below her nose to her left ear. Even less, she resented the questions people asked when they saw it, rudely expecting a detailed explanation of what had happened.
Lily discovered the diary buried within stacks of drawings found in an old trunk in her mother’s house, along with a notebook, and what looked to be a savings book from a bank in Paris. The name on the savings book was L. K. Bouchard, and even with her limited knowledge of the French Franc, she could tell the account contained a large sum of money.
Looking around the cabin she saw the lights above the seats did not infringe upon the space of the other passengers attempting to sleep. She reached up, turned on her light, and lifted the diary from her lap. She wondered if there would be anything inside that would help her understand the actions of her mother. Resigned to a long night of reading someone’s diary that had been written in French over thirty years ago, she opened it to the first page and began.
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