Searching for Tina Turner (26 page)

“That thought turns my stomach.” Lena makes a face. “But this isn’t about Randall. Let Harmon stew.”

“I don’t care what you say; Harmon is charming. Harmon is doing well. Harmon is a catch.” Cheryl pulls on a low-cut, sheer
red dress. “I always liked him. He has a good heart—he invested in the works of a couple of unknown artists I represented
when I first started—it got my business going. I’m glad to be here for your first date the second time around.”

Energy crackles like electricity in the room and while Lena understands her own, she doesn’t quite get Cheryl’s. Cheryl dates.
There was a time when Cheryl called Lena every weekend with updates on her escapades; that stopped after Kendrick was born.
Lena guesses this excitement has to do with Bruce, has to do with the south of France, has to do with an unexpected, free
meal at a fancy restaurant and settles with the realization that because she hasn’t been around Cheryl this way in a long
time, her girlfriend is excited.

“It’s not a date—it’s old friends getting together.” Lena tugs at her dress: black, plunging neckline and back, tight across
the waist and hips. It looked good on her in the store. It looks good on her now.

“Hmmm, I like.” Cheryl adjusts the neckline of Lena’s dress so that it falls lower and exposes more cleavage. “It shows off
your chest. And remember: it’s okay to flirt, shamelessly.”

Wanting to look good for a man this soon is a confusion Lena didn’t expect. If she thinks of this evening as practice for
when the next real thing comes along, it will make the evening go smoother. No need to worry about small talk: there’s always
the past to talk to death. Tiny adjustments, another veneer of marriage falls away: Lena twists the bare knuckle of her third
finger left hand.

“You do that a lot, rub your ring finger. Stop it.”

Lena gives Cheryl a thumbs-up and eases her hand from breasts to waist to hips, wishing she had the guts to expose as much
of her chest as Cheryl does. “You look beautiful!”

Cheryl grabs a floral print shawl identical to the fabric of her dress and poses like a runway model. “This is my knock’em-dead
alluring. That Bruce may have potential.”

Bruce and Cheryl hit it off immediately. They traded quips for the remainder of the afternoon. Even Lena had to admit that
Bruce was funny and pretty smart. He knew a lot about wine, food, and foreign politics—a fact he proved with his explanation
of the European Union, the conversion to the euro, and its effect on the global economy.

“And one last lecture about last night.” In the bathroom, Lena straightens the cosmetics strewn across the counter, fiddles
with her hair for the sixth time, smoothes her dress, sucks in her stomach. She is procrastinating. She knows it. Cheryl knows
it. Still she takes her time. After all these years, Harmon Francis can wait ten minutes more. “Take your own key. Because
if you decide to spend the night, or whatever, with Big Bruce, I’m not getting up to let you in.”

Lena would have married Harmon if he’d asked. Two months after their relationship ended, she realized that she’d gotten love,
lust, and money completely confused. Yet, there was his honesty, his crooked smile, and sense of mystery that intrigued her.
They hadn’t paid attention to what they wanted from life—or each other. That’s what she loved about Randall—he paid attention.

Out, out damned spot.

Lena wishes that she had her diamond on her finger at the pool to show Harmon that someone thought her performance in bed
was quite good, thank you very much. It didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes old friends come back into your life for
a reason, and right now that reason is so she and Cheryl can have some fun.

f   f   f

Bruce, Lena, Cheryl, and Harmon stand in the entryway of Le Chanson. The restaurant is lit by flower-shaped sconces evenly
hung along the length of both sides of the room; classical music plays from speakers in the background. White rubrum lilies
nestle in a cut-glass vase atop a polished black marble table. Silverware, wineglasses, and large pieces of jewelry around
women’s necks and wrists sparkle in the light of the candles on each table. Candles, larger and many more than in Philip’s
restaurant, surround them on ledges, in cubbyholes and windowsills. Lena wishes to be in a restaurant where music blares and
bright lights create a glaring, anything but amorous, atmosphere.

“I hope you ladies enjoy this restaurant,” Bruce says. “The Michelin guide calls it one of the best in the south of France.”

“Oh, you picked this restaurant?” Cheryl nudges Lena as if to say, “See, you’re making way too much of this.”

“I build all of my vacations around restaurants.” Bruce spreads his arms in front of him. “As you can see, I don’t miss many
meals.”

The hostess, whose hips and stomach are equally flat underneath her chic silk sheath, escorts the two couples to a table on
the veranda. Cheryl sidles up to Lena and rubs her back. “You’re shaking like a virgin. Calm down. Enjoy. That’s all this
is about.”

Lena breathes from her stomach through her chest and nose, blows it out the way she learned in yoga. The remnants of sunset
hang in the sky, its warm colors mirrored in the Mediterranean’s gently lapping waves. Lena turns to Harmon. Her intention
is to lie, to tell Harmon she is sick, bordering on nausea, that it is too cold, that there are shooting pains in her stomach,
her chest, her head, anything to persuade him to leave for somewhere less romantic. “All that’s missing is a full yellow moon.”

“That’s for next time,” Harmon says, getting her sense of humor like he did when they dated. “It’s good to be with you again.
And, for the record, you look great.”

“Allow me to order for everyone,” Bruce says when the waiter hands each of them a menu. “Take a look at the menu, and let
me know if there’s anything you absolutely veto.”

They mull over the bilingual menu: rougets—tiny red mullets— sea bass with grilled shallots, gamberoni, baby octopus and squid,
lemons, olive oil, truffles, wild mushrooms. Both men study the pages of the wine list. Bruce orders a white Bordeaux—a 2000
Château ‘Y’ d’Yquem, Bordeaux Superiore. “There have only been twenty-three vintages of ‘Y’ since the first one in 1959. It
goes well with foie gras, if anyone likes that, and it’s a good match for seafood.”

Harmon suggests a cabernet from the same region with less flourish or commentary—a 1988 Léoville-Las-Cases, St-Julien. “This
one’s a tasty wine just coming into its own.” He leans over to Bruce and points to the wine list; they guffaw as if sharing
a private joke. “They have one bottle of 1982 Cheval Blanc, St-Emilion—it sells for almost nine hundred dollars back home.
I’d love to taste that.”

“How do you two know so much about French wines?” Cheryl looks at Bruce, more interested in his response than Harmon’s.

“Bruce is the one who decided on the bicycling trip. He wanted to exercise off some of the weight he’s gained in two years
since his divorce.” Harmon points to his buddy’s protruding stomach. “Actually, I thought it would be a great opportunity
to see the south of France and to drink and buy a lot of wine.”

Bruce straightens his tie and leans back in his chair as if he is about to deliver an important message. “Harmon and I are
both considering a break from corporate America to start our own business.” Which, he explains further, they haven’t quite
nailed down, but it will have to do with importing obscure French wines to the States and staging pairings with gourmet food.
“So I guess you could say that I’m responsible for bringing the two of you back together.” Bruce’s whole frame wobbles when
he chuckles at his good deed.

“And for us.” Cheryl bats her eyes at Bruce again. If a big man could bat his eyes, Lena is sure Bruce would. Instead, he
grins like a kid and takes her hand.

The waiter, deferential and unimposing, returns to the table and pours enough of the cabernet and white Bordeaux into four
glasses for the men to assess. Each takes a glass of red wine by its thin stem and holds it up to the dim light. First, they
rest their noses on the edge of the bowl, sniff hard, and nod their approval of the round bouquet. Then they sip loudly and
let the wine rush to the back of their throats to let their palates experience the full flavor.

Harmon’s and Bruce’s faces light up with mutual appreciation, but Bruce is the one whose approval signals the waiter to pour
a glass of both red and white for the four of them.

“So, we saw a group of black folks and a van loaded with bikes pulling away from the Matisse museum yesterday. Was that you?”
Cheryl asks.

“You mean I missed you?” Harmon sits across from Lena and scrutinizes her face, not for the first time. He has been staring
at her since they sat down. Staring with lust and ordinary interest all at the same time, watching her hands as they punctuate
her thoughts.

“A toast, to old friends and new. Let’s see if I can recall a Yeats poem.” Harmon pauses, his lips move in muted preparation.
He looks from Cheryl to Bruce and rests his gaze on Lena. The heat of what would be a blush, if she blushed the way Cheryl
does, covers her face.

“Forgive me for not quoting the exact words: ‘Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye; that’s all we shall
know for truth before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth, I look at you and sigh.’” He takes his time raising
his glass to his mouth, lets it linger on his bottom lip.

“So where’s the rest of the group?” Cheryl changes the subject for the sake of Lena’s trembling hands.

“We biked near Avignon and the surrounding countryside—Aix-en-Provence, Châteaurenard, Gordes, Châteauneuf du Pape, and Arles
a bit farther south. I can’t even remember all of the names of the towns, there were so many of them.” Bruce massages his
thighs. “It was too much.”

“City after city full of history. In Arles we walked through a coliseum that was built before Christ was born—avant Jesus.
At least that’s what I could make out—my French is rusty and wasn’t that good to begin with—from the plaques at the entrance.”
Perhaps, Lena thinks, this is Harmon’s version of small talk, and, as he wipes his palms with his napkin, she wonders if he
is as nervous as she is.

“Two thousand years ago black folks ruled Africa,” Cheryl says. “They probably fought in that coliseum. Bet that wasn’t on
the plaque.”

“Yeah, that’s what we said to the guide. He got a little freaked out about African blood mixing with French blood.” Bruce
adds, “The blood of our ancestors is everywhere.”

The waiter appears at Bruce’s side and asks in heavily accented, but grammatically correct English, if they have questions
about the menu, if they need more time, or if they would like to order now. They don’t, Bruce explains, except perhaps to
pour a little more wine and a few appetizers to start. Harmon gives the waiter carte blanche to bring a few plates so they
can sample the menu’s offerings.

“I passed a brother—or what looked like a brother—in the lobby, after we left the pool. I smiled, but he turned his head.
Have you noticed black folks don’t acknowledge one another over here? I’ve tried to make eye contact with a few sisters.”
Lena makes quotation marks in the air; the last time she used her hands that way she was talking to Randall and Dr. Brustere.
Stop. “No eye contact. Nothing. It’s depressing.”

“The only thing I can think of is that they either don’t want to be associated with us or that color isn’t as important to
them as it is to Americans.” Harmon speaks to the three of them, but his attention is on Lena.

Bruce goes on with an explanation: “It’s simple. They’re French, and for them that’s what comes first. Heritage. Legacy. Birthright.
That’s what patrimony is all about.” He pauses to let the power of patrimony sink in. “That’s what’s most important. Someone
who looks like us, but is French, treats us the same as they would a white American. They assume we’re ignorant because we
don’t speak their language. They view us not as slaves but as slightly beneath them—wrong word—less than them, because every
American black is a descendant of slaves.”

“Slavery or not, they’re uninformed. They believe stereotypes based on TV and basketball.” Cheryl’s disposition is demure—meaning
only the four of them can hear her—which Lena assumes is her way of being coy. The intense look on Bruce’s face says he’s
serious now, and so Cheryl is serious, too, even as he breaks a chunk of bread from the small freshly baked loaves in front
of him and slathers butter all over it.

“They should appreciate our commonality, our connections. If not in language, how about skin color, hair texture?” From the
corner of her eye, Lena catches Harmon watching her. “Trust me, they’re not as pure as they think. I hear it’s the same way
in some parts of Africa.”

“I never have any problems with the French—black or white—and this is my third time here,” Bruce says. “That includes this
trip. Everyone’s been really cordial, but heads did turn as twenty black folks went bicycling by. Especially in the smaller
towns. I bet they’ve never seen so many of us, French or otherwise.”

“Yeah, Bruce does well,” Harmon chuckles at his buddy. “His only complaint is the food.”

As if on cue, three waiters place dishes on the table with dramatic flare to allow time to admire the food’s structured presentation:
layered mullets in parsley butter sauce, thinly sliced meat in round swirls roasted tender enough to cut with a fork, delicate,
a triangle of fresh anchovies sautéed in olive oil.

“How can someone contemplating a gourmet business complain about French food?” Lena frowns at Bruce. “The food is wonderful.
Yesterday, in Vence, Cheryl and I had the best pork loin roast in the world.”

“I don’t disagree. The wine is great. The food is great.” Bruce points to his ample belly with both hands. “It’s the portion
sizes that bother me.”

Dinner is ordinary in the sense that conversation is smooth and entertaining. Bruce grins every time Cheryl asks him a question,
answers like he has never told the important facts of his life to anyone but her. She knows more about his marketing vice
presidency, his ex-wife, and one kid than Lena has learned about Harmon’s recent past. The waiters serve at a moderate pace,
giving them time to linger over each dish. All four work through the six-course meal—foie gras like butter; pale, flaky sea
bass; salted crabmeat; sautéed sweetbreads with crawfish in a sauce that smells of the sea; a purée of bright green hothouse
asparagus topped with dark red sun-dried tomatoes; soft, hard, and pungent cheeses—at a leisurely pace. The evening is less
tense than Lena thought it would be. Fresh sea air blows through the restaurant, a pleasant mix of salt and perfume. The breeze
is gentle enough to make the candles flicker, refreshing enough to clear cigarette smoke from the air.