Searching for Tina Turner (28 page)

“Why should I?” This is not revenge, she thinks, although it is definitely lust. Her chance to prove him wrong. She wants
sex, and she’ll have it. Maybe Harmon, maybe not. She is probably overthinking sex—like Bobbie knew she was overthinking Tina.

“We’re adults. Adults way over fifty.” Harmon slides his forefinger down the length of Lena’s cheek. “No need to play games.
I want to be with you. I want you to know how sorry I am.”

“You’ve apologized.” Lena smirks, thinking back to that long-ago conversation with Jessie. “Why would I want to be with someone
who was less than satisfied with my bedroom performance?” Gotcha.

Harmon chuckles. “Like you say, that was a long time ago. I could offer a couple of bullshit reasons to explain my idiocy.
Hopefully, I’m smarter than that now.” He pulls Lena into his arms and kisses her again. Long. Slow. Hungry. Hard.

Lena slips the magnetic card into the lock; the machinery whirs and the door springs open as Harmon turns to leave. Inside,
the lights are on, the room is empty, and Cheryl is nowhere to be found. Why, she wonders, should she deny herself? What difference
does it make what Harmon thought twenty-six years ago? She’s not the same person she was six months, let alone twenty-six
years, ago. Old habits die hard. Break those habits, is what Tina would say. Take the next step to the new Lena.

“We’re both too old for games this time around, Harmon.” She reaches for his hand and guides him into the room, presses her
body, her lips, against his. He tastes like wine: blackberries and currants. She is in control, and his body shows her he
likes it.

Slow. Slow. She wants to go slow. To relish what she hasn’t felt for almost eight months. Harmon’s body, uncannily familiar
in this foreign place, molds into hers. He smells like a waning winter fire, like expensive cologne she knows but can’t remember
the name of. Not like Randall: pepper and cinnamon. Lena shrinks away from Harmon and moves to the other side of the room.
Will she remember how to make love, to screw, to get it on? “I can’t.”

When he reaches her, leaning against the curtains as if they were the only things holding her up, Harmon presses his fingers
to her lips. “You’re safe with me.” With the rhythm of an easy two-step, they move past the bathroom and the desk and the
mess she wishes wasn’t there. To the bed. They touch: she his rounded belly, he her rounded hips.

Lena bends beside the lamp and reaches for the switch. Let the darkness hide her imperfections: the scar of her caesarian,
the mound of her stomach, her dimpled thighs. Harmon pulls her hand away from the light.

“What do you fear right now?” He makes the moment stop; his way of going slow. Talking. He strokes her neck, glides his tongue
across her shoulder, unzips her dress, the metal of the zipper so close to her skin she shivers as Harmon inches it down her
back. Her dress slips to the floor with a faint swish.

“My body… I’m not twenty-nine anymore.”

Harmon takes off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, and lets his pants drop to the floor. Stepping out of his pants and shoes,
he removes the rest of his clothes and tosses them on the other bed. “And neither am I.” He stands, naked, in front of Lena
and takes her hand. Like a brush skimming an artist’s canvas, he moves her hand to his shoulder. “This is where they cut me
when I had surgery on my shoulder.” He presses her hand against the thick scar and lowers it to a rough, keloid line of skin
near his waist. “And this is from having my appendix removed.” His voice is deep and thoughtful. “They thought I might die,
I was in so much pain before they took it out.”

The memory of sex with Harmon floods back. He likes to mix up the senses of touch and hearing, of taste and sight. The effect
of concentrating on mind and body makes the room seem to spin around them.
Randall’s hands talked all over her body.
Harmon unhooks her bra, slides her panties down down down, drops to his knees, and nibbles at the scar that crosses her stomach.
“Tell me.”

“I was in labor sixteen hours before they cut me.” Twenty-three years with one man. They grew accustomed to one another; predictable.
“Take your time.”

Harmon kisses the mole below her collarbone, cups her breasts in his hands, kneads them, blows his warm breath across her
nipples, presses his lips to them. Lena’s body goes limp, then arches, relishing in this touch, in the here and now.

They go on like this and more. Licking, sucking, swaying in rhythm to the music in her head. He hears the same song; he moves
with her. Onto the bed, beneath the sheets, grinding like there is no tomorrow. They are awkward and familiar at the same
time.

“Feel it, Lena.” He pushes while her body throbs. “Feel how sorry I am.”

This is not making love; she does not love him.

Pepper and cinnamon. The thin scar at the base of Randall’s throat. Unexpected sadness and joy.

Slow then fast. Fast then slow. “Say you forgive me.”

Randall’s fingers played her back like a piano.
Lena shivers. Old images creep between the sheets and, as hard as she tries, the vision of Randall, of that curve between
his shoulder and neck, the knot of his Adam’s apple, will not disappear. Will not disappear while her body follows Harmon’s
moves so strong and sweet.

Until death do us part; loving his body, his mind, forever.
Never, never again was she to be with, to feel this good with, another man.

His caresses move from her throat to thigh. Tingling, a moan stirring between her thighs, pulling, moving up her stomach,
over her breast, and catching in her throat. It consumes her, that heat, and she holds her breath, releases, breathes into
his stroke until she cannot remember where she is. “It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

f   f   f

Lena squints at the clock beside her bed and tiptoes into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, she splashes cold water on
her puffy face and prays that Harmon took her tears for joy. She turns the shower on, steps into the oversized tub, and lets
the hot water beat against her skin.

“Can I join you?” Harmon asks from the other side of the bathroom.

“Isn’t it time you went back to your room?” She grins and summons him with her fingers. In the old days they smoked after
sex like in the movies, and she wonders where those dark cigarettes are. Harmon presses against her back. She wants him to
leave, wants him to stay. Wants to do it one more time.

His body says he wants her, too, and she wants to say, not so bad after all; but this touch, this rubbing against her, this
heat is all she wants. Harmon’s hands glide over her body. He turns Lena around to face him. “Seeing ghosts?”

“Now it’s my turn to be sorry,” she whispers. Slowly, deliberately, she nuzzles with lips, with hand, his swollen organ, the
curve of his arm, the scar at his waist, the rise of his chest. Lena nibbles his shoulder, strokes him until he moans and
moans. He is a hungry man—her body his buffet: her face, her navel, the crisscross scar on her knee. He sucks at her impatiently
while the water beats against his back, enters her sweet wetness, pushes pushes pushes until she believes she cannot breathe;
and yet she does.

S
o, did you sleep with him?” Cheryl lets the sugar from the shaker rain into her coffee. “I waited a polite amount of time
before I asked. Aren’t you proud of me?”

The air is filled with the aromas of everyday life: bread and yeast, croissants, thyme, rosemary, lavender, rose potpourri,
orange blossom tea. The café at the old Negresco Hotel is a comfortable meeting spot after their full morning of aimless rambling,
watching the tourists and the huge yachts make their way across the sea. Lena grumbles and sips one of the two café crèmes
sitting in front of her and dips a flaky croissant into the other.

“Oh, you did! You did!” Cheryl’s shrill excitement attracts the stares of the people around her. She lowers her voice. “If
you didn’t, you would have denied it by now. Hooray! Tell me everything.”

Lena flips through
Paris Match,
eyes fastened to the page, even though she doesn’t understand one word in the famous French magazine. “Nope. You tell me
about Bruce.”

“You are sooo chickenshit.” Cheryl yanks the magazine away from her girlfriend’s hand and grins. “Well, if you won’t talk,
I will.”

Bruce and Cheryl stayed out all night; it hadn’t been their intention, but that’s the way it ended up. The restaurant hostess
told them, on their way out, about a disco for the over-forty, sophisticated crowd. They found their way to the club, danced
until one to old Motown music, then left when the deejay changed to techno. Feeling full of energy, they went to Monte Carlo
and gambled all night long, with Bruce’s money. Cheryl kept her winnings.

“I won a thousand euros at the roulette table. And to top it off, we didn’t even sleep together. We found a café and ate a
big American-style breakfast. We talked. Can you believe that?” Cheryl slaps Lena’s arm. “So… did you or didn’t you?”

“I wonder if they have cheese?” Lena turns to the side, the side opposite Cheryl’s eager face, and scours the chalkboard sign
above the bar. “
Fromage
. That’s it, right?”

“What are you hiding it for, Lena? You’re a grown woman. It’s not like you’re having an affair. You might as well tell me
now. I’ll be able to tell when you two are together, anyway.”

“You’ll just have to wait till then.” Lena yawns. “Lighten up.”

Bruce and Harmon look like Mutt and Jeff together. Instead of short and tall, they are tall and taller. As the two men approach
the café, women on the street turn, their smiles flirtatious and appreciative at the same time. Both men acknowledge the women
and keep their eyes on Cheryl and Lena.

“Yep, you did,” Cheryl teases. “He stared last night. Today he looks satisfied.”

Bruce runs his hand over the top of her head. Cheryl cuddles into him. Lena has never seen any man dare to touch Cheryl’s
hair, nor has she ever seen her friend’s blush appear because of a man’s attention. Bruce is different from the kind of man
Cheryl dates, perhaps because he is closer to her own age, perhaps because his stomach extends beyond his waistband by more
than a little and there is a lot of gray in his thinning hair. Lena thought Cheryl preferred struggling artistic types—she
asked for Imara-bartender-artist’s number after Marcia’s party. The heavy bracelet dangling from Bruce’s left wrist, the gold
Cartier digging into his right wrist, his alligator sandals—all suggest money. There is tenderness in his eyes when he looks
at Cheryl, and his look evokes the same in hers.

“So what’s the plan?” Bruce asks.

Fourteen days to the concert; days of moderate heat, cloudless skies, and soft breezes. Four have come and gone since Lena
and Cheryl arrived in Nice, and Lena hasn’t researched Villefranche or figured out how she can get backstage to meet Tina
without seeming like a crazed fan.

“Lena’s looking for Tina Turner. I’m just along for the ride,” Cheryl titters. “She’s her role model.”

Lena rolls her eyes, wondering if this channeling of Camille will never stop. Cheryl is a blabbermouth; her quirks are starting
to come back to Lena.

“Are you’re going to change your hairstyle to match Tina’s? Maybe there’s a wig shop around here.” Bruce howls at this thought.
“Or maybe we can find a Thunderdome outfit. The possibilities are endless.”

“I don’t know you, Bruce. And you don’t know me well enough to mock me.” Before Tina, before Vence and Philip, before Harmon,
Lena knows her first inclination would have been to cut her eyes at Cheryl and stomp off to the barrier that separates the
café from the street. Now she hits Bruce’s arm with a half-playful, half serious punch.

“Hey, it was funny. No biggie. I’m sorry.” Bruce turns from Cheryl to Harmon then Lena with a quizzical look on his face.
Lena wonders how it is that such a big man can be so whiny.

“Bruce is only kidding. It takes a while to get used to his sense of humor. You’ll get to understand him, once you’ve been
around him longer. But I’ve got to admit, I’m as curious as he doesn’t know how to say he is. Why Tina?”

Traffic horns blare. If she closed her eyes, Lena thinks, they could be anywhere. She prays Harmon’s intentions are as sincere
as his words. Had he always been this caring? Last night they stayed awake until the drapes lightened with the morning sun.
Before she told him he had to go back to his room, he asked more about her than anyone has in a long time. What she wants
out of life, what her next steps are. Why she is no longer married. If she is still in love with her soon-to-be ex.

“She conquered fear.” Lena takes in the view and releases a long sigh. This is not just anywhere. Everything from the calm
sea to the stone-faced mountains is old, historic. The houses, the wrought iron balconies, the massive buildings, sidewalks,
the streets. “I don’t know why I’m being so defensive. It feels good to say it out loud: Tina conquered fear. She makes me
feel like I can do anything, makes me know change is possible, and age isn’t a barrier.”

If the acknowledgment that spreads over Cheryl’s face, even Bruce’s chubby face and Harmon’s, has not made this trip, this
search, worth the pain it cost, then Lena is not clear what will.

“Tina Turner hasn’t got a thing on you.” Harmon reaches over to hug Lena and, to her surprise, so does Bruce.

“Are you ready to get going?” Maybe, Lena thinks, this is Bruce’s apology. “What’s the plan?”

“It’s not quite eleven.” Cheryl bats her eyes at Bruce, who has learned to bat back and seems, to Lena, smitten.

There is a tranquil nature to the aimlessness their vacation has taken that, Lena thinks, she might apply to her life. The
lack of purpose evokes a sense of the unknown and freedom and a taste of the unpredictable. In Nice, the Mediterranean anchor
is always to the east. Lena cannot get lost here; she has to figure out what her anchor in this new life will be.

“We’re off to Eze so Lena can take pictures.”