The Color of Light (15 page)

“But she should know that only makes you more curious.”

I laughed. “You'd think she would by now.”

He touched my cheek. “I overheard you asking Fergie to locate Thai Van. There are some resources I can call on, if you want.”

“Would you?”

“I should know better, but I will, as soon as I am back in Los Angeles.”

“What time is your plane this afternoon?” I asked.

“Too soon.” He looked at his watch. “Rafael is coming for me in the consul's car.”

“Is there anything you want to see or do before you go?”

He smiled. “I can think of a couple of ways to pass the time that might be quite interesting, but instead, I want you to make good use of me for the little time remaining so that we can lock the door and leave here by Tuesday afternoon.”

“Well then.” I handed him a stack of sticky-note pads. “Pink is for the furniture I'm taking. Yellow is for Robnett family pieces my cousin needs to look at. Thrift store items are green and need to go to the garage for pick-up, and blue is staying here. Dad's books also need to go out to the garage.”

We spent the rest of the morning affixing sticky notes and hauling stuff to the garage where it would be accessible for the trucks from the thrift store and the university library to haul away. Fortunately, the kitchen was finished. Roy and Lyle had sorted the kitchen cupboards when we were at the dump on Saturday, leaving full complements of dishes, pots, pans and utensils the tenants might need neatly stowed in the cupboards. The rest was carefully packed and labeled and ready to go. There was a nearly complete set of very old Wedgwood china for Susan, my parents' wedding china for Casey one day, and a few things that I wanted to keep. Lyle and Roy had taken with them a set of brightly colored vintage Fiestaware they had always admired. The rest we carried out to the garage for the thrift store truck that was due Monday morning.

The locksmith showed up while we were moving things into the garage. He reminded me about Sunday rates and I told him to install good bolts on all the doors, and to check all the windows on the ground floor to make sure their locks were good. And then we left him to his work.

When Max and Guido arrived, Jean-Paul and I took a break for lunch.

There was a frisson in the air between Jean-Paul and Guido, most of it emanating off Guido. We were longtime co-workers, good friends and nothing more. Except for one night when we were in Central America trying to file a news report about an attempted coup while we were under fire and had only a bottle of mescal for sustenance. Whatever happened that night—both of us blamed our lack of precise memory on the mescal—was never mentioned afterward. But Guido, of the Sicilian Patrini clan, just couldn't help being a bit possessive, and despite his efforts not to be, paternal.

I admit to feeling some relief when the front doorbell rang and interrupted their overly polite conversation. Though it was early, when I opened the door I expected to see Rafael standing on the welcome mat. Instead, it was Father John, wearing his white cassock and looking quite angelic.

“Come in,” I said. “This is an unexpected pleasure. We're just sitting down to lunch. Will you join us?”

“I rarely say no to a meal.” He followed me through the house to the backyard, commenting on the jumble the place was in at the moment. “Was there an earthquake I missed?”

“Looks like it,” I said. “What brings you?”

“I need a favor,” he said. “Beto was going to take all the food that the hungry ghosts and hungry friends didn't eat at the party last night and deliver it to the soup kitchen. I'm counting on it for lunch tomorrow. But he called me a bit ago to say that he had to take Bart to the hospital in the middle of the night and is still with him.”

“What happened to Bart?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Father John said. “But it looks like he'll be okay. I told Beto I would go by and see him later. But in the meantime, Larry, my fine cook and backup delivery boy, is nowhere to be found, again. Beto suggested I borrow your truck to pick up the leftovers and get them to the church basement.”

“Sure. My truck's in the shop but we have a van,” I said. “Do you need help loading the food?”

“I'd appreciate that,” he said. “And there's one other little thing.”

“Why am I suddenly quaking in my boots?”

He grinned. “I don't drive anymore.”

After lunch, Uncle Max, doing a bit of matchmaking himself, volunteered his and Guido's services to Father John so that Jean-Paul and I could have our last few minutes alone. Before they left in the van Guido rented at the airport at Max's behest, we picked everything out of the garden that was ripe and sent it along.

The silence that followed the three of them out the door felt loaded, as if a bomb were about to drop inside the house.

“It was an interesting weekend, yes?” Jean-Paul slipped his hand into mine and walked me into the living room. Looking weary, and still holding my hand, he dropped into an easy chair.

“Interesting, yes,” I said, perched on the arm of his chair. “It isn't every weekend that I dance in a couturier gown one day and get shot at the next. Or make love on a bed of rose petals.”

“Ah, the damn rose petals.” His cheeks colored from chagrin. “I was afraid I would bore you.”

“You, bore me? Dear God, Jean-Paul, you may be the least boring man I know. I was afraid that the chaos of this weekend would frighten you away.”

“I don't frighten easily.” He canted his head to one side and quietly studied me for a moment, pensive.

“Maggie, you know that my wife, Marian, and I were very happy, as I know you and Mike were. I have missed her so terribly these last two years. Between us, everything was so—” He searched for the right words. “Peanut butter and jelly. I don't know how else to say it. Comfortable, I suppose. Sometimes, you remind me of her.”

Last thing I wanted to hear: You remind me of my dead wife. Perhaps reading my reaction, though I tried not to show anything, he smiled in a self-deprecatory way, acknowledging a flub, and I relaxed.

“About the rose petals,” he said, pulling me across his lap. He swept some loose hair from my cheek and tucked it behind my ear. “I was trying so very hard to be a dazzling French lover; it is expected of my countrymen, is it not?”

“You do your nation proud, Jean-Paul.”

“Tu es très gentille.”
With his palm against my cheek, he looked deep into my eyes. “You reminded me this afternoon that a small, spontaneous gesture can touch one's heart more profoundly than the most elaborate
grand geste
.”

“Did I?”

“Without any hesitation, you wiped my face with your shirt and then carried on as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for you to do.”

“It was. There was tomato juice on your chin.”

“It was a gesture between intimates,” he said. “Something I have missed very much.”

“Yes.” I put my hand over his, happy, comfortable, yet wary: Where were we headed?

“What I tried to say and got all muddled up earlier was that Marian always took whatever was thrown at her in stride—no fuss. It is a quality I cherish in you as well.”

“Oh, I can make a dandy fuss,” I said.

“No doubt. But when I stupidly did not tell you that evening attire was required for the reception Friday, you never complained, and on short notice found a solution that turned heads. Maggie, if you had shown up Friday wearing this stained shirt...” He tugged my shirttail. “You would have turned heads.”

“I'm sure I would have.” I laughed, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I can hear them now, ‘Who's the babe with the imprint of the consul general's face on her shirt?'”

“Exactly.” He kissed the top of my head. “Natural, like peanut butter and jelly.”

Rafael arrived before that conversation could walk us further into the woods than we were ready to go.

Jean-Paul went upstairs and quickly changed into slacks and a dress shirt for the flight to Los Angeles. Because he would only be gone for a day, he took nothing with him except a book he found in Dad's den.

George Loper must have heard the Town Car pull up because he was on his front porch, standing watch, when I walked out with Jean-Paul.

Jean-Paul eyed him warily over my shoulder. “How long until Max and Guido are back?”

“Any time now.”

When he made no move to get into the car, probably thinking of some way he could stay, I said, “Go. And hurry back.”

I watched the Town Car disappear around the corner before I turned to go inside. George Loper was still on his porch. When I went in, I turned both of the new bolts on the door, hearing a very satisfying pair of clunks when they shot home.

I took advantage of the few available moments before the next wave of people arrived to gather myself. I found a bottle of good pinot noir in the stash Mom left behind for me, uncorked it, poured a glass, and to avoid the racket of the locksmith's drill, carried it out to the backyard. It was early maybe to indulge in wine, especially when there was so much work to do, but it was summer and the afternoon was warm and sweet-smelling. I took a few minutes to do absolutely nothing except savor the day and sip my wine and walk around the garden. I felt buried beneath stuff, old family stuff, and not all of it was of a physical nature. It could just wait a little longer, I decided. I took out my phone and called Beto.

“How's your dad?” I asked.

“He'll be okay,” Beto said. “Looks like he woke up in the night all confused, didn't know where he was. He went walking around in the dark and took a pretty good tumble. The docs are keeping him overnight again to check him out. They're talking about doing a brain scan tomorrow.”

“He got overtired getting ready for the party.”

“Probably,” Beto said. “You saw how he was. He had a little fit during the party and I sent him to bed. I probably should have asked Doc Saracen to put down his beer and his egg roll and come inside to take a look at him right then. Twenty-twenty hindsight, huh?”

“I'll hope for the best.”

“Hey, did Father John get in touch with you?”

“He did. My uncle is helping him.”

“Our old friend Larry was supposed to do the delivery, but he flaked out.”

“You weren't bothered that Larry was coming to your house to pick up the leftovers?”

“Why should I be?” he said. “That was then, this is now, if you know what I mean. We deliver bread from the deli to Father John's kitchen every morning. I've always had one of my guys make the run so I wouldn't risk bumping into Larry. But after talking to him, I know that was just stupid on my part. The man atoned; time for all of us to move on.”

“Dear God, Beto,” I said. “You sound like a grown-up.”

“I'm just parroting Father John.”

“And you sound tired,” I said. “But it was a great party.”

“Must have been,” he said. “Dad wasn't the only casualty of the evening.”

“Who else?”

“Lacy,” he said. “Kevin put her in rehab last night.”

“I'll light a candle.”

“If only it were that easy. Hey, girly, I gotta go. I'll call if anything comes up.”

“Please do.”

Next, I texted Kevin: “Call me. Now.”

* * *

Max and Guido were back and it was time to talk film business. Under the grape arbor, we went over our options for the Normandy project. Max had left several messages for Lana Howard, our executive producer at the network, but she hadn't responded to them—not a good sign. He was fairly confident that the network would eventually release funds to us, but the issue was when. Whatever they did, it was clear that our position with the network was increasingly fragile. We had alternatives. We could wait out the network. We could take the project to the French television production company and hope that a long-term relationship with them would develop. Or, as Guido preferred, we could strike out on our own and try to scare up independent funding and distribution. All three prospects had both potential benefits and unknown perils.

In the middle of the conversation, my phone buzzed. I looked at the I.D. screen. “Lana,” I said, flipped on the speaker function and set the phone in the middle of the table.

“Lana,” I said, speaking loudly. “This is the Lord's day. Why are you at work?”

“Are you underwater or something?” Lana snapped. “You sound weird.”

“You're on speakerphone,” I said. “I'm here with Max and Guido.”

“With Max and Guido? I was hoping you and I could have a little private talk. Where the hell are you?”

“We're in Berkeley,” I said. “Where the hell are you?”

“I'm in the middle of Malibu Canyon, sitting in my car in front of your house. That cowboy neighbor of yours wouldn't tell me a goddamn thing about where to find you.”

“You could have called before heading up there.”

“That's exactly what the bastard said.” She was in full rant mode; I knew it only too well. We had worked together for a long time, and it had never been easy. Not, as Jean-Paul would say, a peanut butter and jelly relationship. “Your damn uncle—and I know you can hear this, Max—gave me some cockamamie story about you and Guido taking your production to someone else. After all these years, I can't believe you'd kick me to the curb like this.”

“Lana, no one has kicked anyone, yet,” Max said. “But you know how important this project is to Maggie and Guido, and how narrow the time window is. That makes me think that this foot-dragging over the budget is your own sweet way of kissing us off.”

Guido chimed in, “That's how I read it.”

“You read it wrong,” she said. “This foot-dragging is more probably the head shed's way of kissing
me
off.”