Chapter 7

Jean-Paul was on the sidewalk in front of the French consulate, watching for me. He came to meet me, smiling his shy, upside-down smile, holding his arms wide for me to walk into. I put my arms around him and offered my face for les bises, the kiss on either cheek, plus the third for close friends and lovers that is the standard French greeting.

He was dressed for the evening in a beautifully tailored silk tux, minus the jacket.

“You’re gorgeous,” I said. And he was.

“I’ve missed you.” He kept his arm around my waist as he led me inside to the guest apartment where I was to change; I clung to him. Looking down into my face he asked, “All is well?”

“All is well. You’re here.”

While I dressed, he lounged across the guest bed, looking as gracefully elegant as a panther, talking to me as I transformed myself from bedraggled commuter to evening butterfly. Or dragonfly, as it were.

Mom had sewn a piece of felt into the shoulder seam of the black dress as an anchor for the dragonfly brooch so that it wouldn’t pull the delicate fabric. Jean-Paul watched me engineer the placement of the brooch, as I had watched Mom do the same.

“Beautiful,” he said.

“The brooch?” I said.

“No, chérie, the woman who wears it.”

I stretched out beside him, curling myself into the contours of his body. “I’ve missed you.”

“I am afraid,” he said, kissing the side of my neck, “that if we don’t get up from here right now, we will not get up at all. And, sorry to say, we will be greatly missed.”

We weren’t in a hurry about it, but we did get up, and we left. A driver named Rafael, who doubled as a security guard for the San Francisco consul general, ferried us to the de Young Museum of Fine Arts in Golden Gate Park. At the door we were greeted by the museum people, the staff from the Georges Pompidou Center in Paris that had accompanied several of the Matisse works, and the chocolatier who was underwriting the event as a way to announce the opening of his first American shop, a confectionary in the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero; commerce and culture wed.

Before the invited guests arrived, we were given a brief tour of the reception preparations and the exhibit. The museum’s main concourse had been transformed to represent a street in Montparnasse, with faux sidewalk cafés and shops, and a street musician playing an accordion. The terrace at the far end of the concourse, where dinner would be served, had become a Parisian garden bistro, lit by candle light. As we walked through the special exhibits gallery on the lower level, I turned to Jean-Paul and asked, “Where is your San Francisco counterpart?”

“Monsieur le consul general of San Francisco?”

“Oui.”

He lifted one shoulder, pretending to be studying a painting. “We did le swap. He is in Los Angeles tonight at the opening of a French film.”

“Le swap, huh?” I said, putting my palm against his cheek and turning his face toward me. “When did this come about?”

He made a moue, trying to hide a smile. “It took two days to negotiate with my colleague, but the deal was sealed day before yesterday, just before I called you. I thought an evening out would be a nice break for you. All I had to do was persuade my colleague that he would enjoy spending an evening with some film stars more than he would an evening with Monsieur Matisse.”

“Et voilà,” I said.

“Yep.” He kissed me quickly.

M. Matisse’s opening drew an interesting collection of local luminaries, both political and social. I ran into an old friend from my days working at KQED, the PBS outlet in San Francisco. We had a good catch-up conversation while Jean-Paul took care of some official duties. He made a charming short speech in two languages, thanking various dignitaries for their support, and hanging medals around the necks of some of the people responsible for mounting the exhibit in furtherance of Franco-American friendship. Or something.

As he escorted me in to dinner, he put his head close to mine and said, “There is a bit of a stir among the Centre Pompidou staff about your dress.”

“What? This old rag?”

“Exactly.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I was asked—accused might be a better word—of having the dress lent to you for the evening out of the couturier’s archival collection.”

“And you told them?”

“That I know nothing about such things, which is the truth.” We found our seats and he held my chair for me. “But, if you don’t mind, what is the provenance of la belle robe?”

“I found it in Mom’s closet yesterday after I spoke with you. I hadn’t brought evening attire with me.”

“Of course,” he said, taking his seat beside me. “She perhaps acquired it at the couturier’s shop during a trip abroad?”

“Hardly,” I said. I looked over and saw the staffers with their heads together, watching us. I smiled. “She bought it at a rummage sale.”

“What is that?”

“Like a brocante.” A French flea market.

He laughed, his gaze following mine to the little clutch of curious women. “Let’s tell them nothing.”

Afterward, as we rode together in the backseat of the Town Car, headed across the Bay Bridge toward Berkeley and the work that awaited me there, I felt a bit like Cinderella after the ball. Except that Prince Charming was riding in the coach with me.

Jean-Paul was quiet, looking out his window at the play of lights on the water below us. The Bay Lights installation was still up, twenty-five thousand LED lights illuminating the length and height of the west span of the Bay Bridge. It was dazzling, but I’d had a very bad night before and a very long day, and the car was very plush, so I was struggling to keep from nodding off. When Jean-Paul took a deep breath and cleared his throat, I came to a bit, wondering if perhaps I was about to find out why he had gone to all the trouble to arrange le swap. He broke the silence with a question.

“Has your network come across with funding for your film in ­Normandy?”

“Not yet,” I said. “My producer wants it, but the network hasn’t, or won’t, approve a budget.”

“What is the hold-up?”

“I think it’s me,” I said, patting the flesh under my chin. “Jean-Paul, I am old for television.”

He folded my hand into his. “In Europe, a woman your age would just be coming into her own.”

“Maybe,” I said, “if her own wasn’t a career in front of a camera.”

He tipped his head slightly to one side, acknowledging that what I said could be correct. He asked, “Perhaps the issue is the cost of making a film abroad?”

“Not if I can shoot the film I want,” I said. “The heart of the project will be conversations with my grandmother at the farm in Normandy during harvest, and then at her Paris home late in the fall. To keep the point of view at an intimate level the only crew I need is a camera­man.”

“Guido?” he said.

“Yes. Guido and I can do this one alone, the way we did field reports when we were still covering news stories together. Because we will stay with Grand-mère and we don’t need a big crew, the production costs will be minimal. But if we don’t get funding soon, we’ll miss the harvest this year. Grand-mère is ninety-three. Next year may be too late.”

“If the network does not come through, would you go ahead with the film if an alternate source of funding could be found?”

“If I could come up with both funding and a distributor I would certainly give it some serious thought,” I said.

“May I make inquiries?”

I tried to read his expression as freeway lights danced across his face. “Why do I think that line is the opening gambit for something?”

He laughed when I defined gambit; though his English seemed flawless, occasionally a word or its use would stump him.

“All right, yes,” he said. “I am caught.”

“So?”

“I have some contacts,” he said. “Perhaps, if you approve, I could make some calls.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Something was up. I could hear it in his voice. “What am I missing?”

“Maggie, you know I am nothing except a businessman who accepted a political appointment to serve as consul general.” When I acknowledged that I did, he said, “On the other hand, the consul general here in San Francisco is a career diplomat. His appointment to San Francisco is a stepping stone for him. But for me? Well, I am an interloper. What do you say, a temp?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’ve told me.”

“If I were at all political, and I am not, I would have been recalled a long time ago so that a true diplomat could take over. But, the new administration has been kept very busy, crisis after crisis. As there has been no emergency to handle in my assigned region, and I have managed not to disgrace my country and have actually been of some small service, I have been left in place.” He turned and gave me a pointed look. “I have been here far longer than I expected to be.”

“Have you been recalled to France, Jean-Paul?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Not yet,” he said. “But I understand that it will happen.”

“When?”

He wrapped an arm around me and pulled me close. “After the summer holidays, perhaps. When the government goes back to work.”

“How do you feel about that?”

He raised his shoulders, frowned. “My son received his exam results.”

“Yes?”

“Dom qualified to enter the preparation course for admission to the grandes écoles,” he said.

“Congratulations,” I said. This was big news, indeed. Very few French students pass the baccalauréat exams at the level necessary to qualify for the nation’s premier public universities. The bombshell here was that, having qualified to prepare for the grandes écoles, seventeen-year-old Dominic would not be finishing high school in Los Angeles. And I doubted his father was ready to send him back to France, alone. “When do his classes begin?”

“In September.”

“Ma’am?” The driver, Rafael, interrupted the dark pall that settled over the car after Jean-Paul’s announcement. “Were you expecting someone?”

I looked up as we slowly came to a stop at the curb in front of Mom’s house. A man sat on the top step, holding a baseball bat across his knees.

“It’s the next-door neighbor,” I said. “Something must have happened.”

Rafael opened Jean-Paul’s door first, and then stood close beside me after he handed me out of the car and walked me up to Jean-Paul.

“Mr. Loper?” I called, staying near the car as George Loper rose and started down the steps toward us. “Is there a problem?”

“That damn hoodlum.” He smacked the side of his leg with his bat. “I told him that if I saw him hanging around here anymore, I wasn’t going to call the cops again. Next time I’ll take care of him myself.”

“Are you talking about Larry Nordquist?” I asked.

“Damn right,” he said.

I saw some movement behind the big hydrangea next to the front porch. So did Rafael. Before he could move or say anything, I gripped his elbow. When he looked down at me I mouthed, No. He got the message and he stayed where he was.

Loper, sounding like the patronizing jerk I remembered him to be, said, “I don’t want the guy skulking around, not with you alone in the house.”

“I’m not alone now,” I said. I introduced Jean-Paul to him.

“Well, well.” Finally, Loper smiled as he offered his free hand—the one without the bat—to Jean-Paul. “The boyfriend we’ve heard so much about. My wife would love to meet you, Mr. Bernard. She’s a regular Francophile. Can I offer you a drink? A little nightcap?”

“Thank you,” Jean-Paul said. “Perhaps another time. I’m afraid that it is quite late.”

“Rain check, then,” Loper said, releasing Jean-Paul’s hand.

I wished him good night and thanked him for his concern. As he turned to leave, he winked at Jean-Paul while aiming a finger at me.

“Take good care of our girl, now,” he said. “Trouble seems to follow her around.”

Jean-Paul said, “Good night.” He sounded genteel; he meant Go away.

We watched Loper until he reached his own front walk.

Rafael asked, “What do you want done?”

I knew he was referring to the person hunkered behind the hydrangea. I said, “Would you please help us with the things in the trunk?”

The three of us huddled over the open trunk. I explained to them who Larry was and that I wanted to speak with him. “Please don’t let him get away. He’ll probably try to run.”

Rafael laid out a strategy. Jean-Paul gathered our bags and Rafael collected the two towers of green silk-covered candy boxes that the chocolatier had given Jean-Paul to hand out as promotional gifts. With Jean-Paul on the porch beside me and Rafael waiting at the bottom of the steps, I unlocked the front door.

As soon as I opened the door, the two men sprang into action. Jean-Paul dropped the bags and dove right, toward the hydrangea, flushing out Larry. Larry, rising from a crouch, was off balance, easy pickings for Rafael, who grabbed the smaller man, pinned his arms behind him and marched him into the house.

“Hello, Larry,” I said, as he was quick-walked across the threshold past me.

“Yo, Maggie,” he said, giving up his resistance to Rafael. “Long time no see.”

“Do come in.”

Rafael sat him down in a chair in the living room as Jean-Paul moved into position blocking the most obvious escape route, with Rafael standing as backup near the locked front door. Larry seemed agitated, sweating profusely, as he noted where Jean-Paul was. I wondered, as Beto had, if he was on something.

I said, “Can I offer you a cup of tea, a glass of juice?”

“I could use a shot of something a hell of a lot stronger than tea.” Larry pushed off his hood and shook out his ponytail.

“Sorry,” I said. “That’s all I can offer.”

“Yeah.” He settled into his seat and looked around the room. “It’s nice here. Really nice. Comfortable, you know. Not all formal like I expected. Some places, jeez, they’re so done up you’re afraid to touch anything. Know what I mean?”

“You’ve never been inside the house before?” I asked, thinking about the person in the house the night before who moved about as quietly as a shadow, as if he were familiar with the layout.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, his tone bitter, defensive. He picked up a coaster from the table beside him, glanced at it and tossed it back down. “Like maybe you invited me to your birthday parties with all your prissy little friends? That never happened.”

I heard self-pity in his tone and found it worrisome. I said, “I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

“Yeah, well.” He flicked his chin toward Jean-Paul, a question in the gesture. “It’s kind of personal.”

“Larry, this is my friend Jean-Paul Bernard. Jean-Paul, meet Larry Nordquist.” They exchanged perfunctory nods. “Larry, Jean-Paul is staying, and so is Rafael.”

He swiveled in his seat to find out where Rafael was.

“Why don’t we just get it over with?” I sat on the sofa, facing him across the coffee table. “Before someone like Mr. Sato or Mr. Loper knocks your block off for sneaking around.”

He dropped his head, chagrined. But he remained quiet.

“Sir,” Jean-Paul said. When Larry looked up, he said, “It is quite late. Miss MacGowen has had a very long day. If you have something to say...”

Larry nodded, but seemed unable to begin. I tried to nudge him along.

“Beto told me you want to make amends to people you feel you have harmed,” I said. “You and I had a couple of run-ins when we were kids, but I don’t feel you harmed me.”

Again he glanced at Jean-Paul. “Did she ever tell you she beat the crap out of me?”

“I never laid a hand on you,” I said.

“But you still won, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings that day,” I said. “Is that what you want to talk about? That fight? What you said that day?”

“No.” He swiped the arm of his sweatshirt across his glistening face, took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders.

“Maggie,” he said. “I did wrong you. And I’m sorry if what I did hurt you or put you in danger.”

“If it’s not the fight, then what are you talking about?”

“I saw you on TV,” he said. “When that woman died.”

“You mean Isabelle Martin?”

“Freaked me out,” he said, nodding. “I mean, I knew her. When I saw her picture on TV and they said she was your mother I about lost it, you know? Because I knew her.”

“What do you mean, you knew her?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain.” He scratched his neck, looked behind him, hoping maybe for some help to appear.

“Do your best.”

“The woman who died? Miss Martin?” he said. “Way back then, she got me to report about what you were doing all the time. She gave me stamps and paper, and I wrote stuff to her. Sometimes she called me on the phone and asked about you.”

“You spied on me for her?”

“She paid me.” He shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face. “I didn’t look in your windows, or anything. I just told her about school, like the time you played some kind of bird in the school play.”

“I was an owl,” I said. “Fourth grade.”

I glanced up and caught Jean-Paul smiling. Rafael must have thought that the situation was under control. Quietly, he slipped outside to collect the bags and chocolates we had left behind. But when he came back, I heard the snick of both deadbolts shooting home. So did Larry: He watched Rafael the way that prisoners watch their keepers, always knowing where they are, always wary, afraid that they’ll be called out.

“What you did was—” I searched for the right word.

“Bizarre,” Jean-Paul supplied.

“Definitely, bizarre,” I said. “But I never knew about it. And nothing happened to me because of what you did.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I still needed to tell you.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Larry,” I said. “I’m sure it was difficult for you to come forward.”

“Pffh.” Uttered with an eye roll as if coming clean were no big deal.

I said, “A couple of people think you might have been sleeping in the backyard here.”

“That’s bullshit,” he said with a smirk. “Why would I do that? You think I’m homeless?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said.

“The thing is, I come by now and then to water the garden,” he said. “That old Jap gardener only shows up maybe once a week. If it was left to him, the whole yard woulda dried up and died a long time ago.”

“How in the world did that come about?”

He pointed at his chest. “You mean, me watering the place?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yeah, well, see.” His face colored. “I was always curious, you know? I mean about what it was like back there. I used to hear your family out in the yard all the time, and I always wondered what it was like on your side of the fence. So when I heard no one was home here, I just came in to take a peek.”

“You could hear us?” I asked. “I don’t remember that we were especially noisy. Where were you that you could hear us?”

“That’s the thing of it,” he said. “I kind of made myself comfortable in the bushes where I was tonight and sort of listened.”

“To my family?” Creepy, I thought. But he didn’t seem to think it was especially strange. “Because Isabelle Martin paid you to?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “But that’s how it got started. One day, you guys were eating dinner outside, the way you did. I was just hanging out in the bushes, minding my own business, when she showed up. Scared the shit out of her when she stepped on me.”

Feeling absolutely nonplussed, I looked over at Jean-Paul. He seemed thoroughly puzzled, but fascinated as well.

“Why?” I asked Larry.

“You all seemed so normal,” he said. “I only wanted to know what that was like. You know, being normal.”

“And Isabelle gave you an excuse to keep spying on us,” I said.

“Not an excuse, exactly,” he said. “When she caught me, she promised that she would tell on me unless I wrote to her about you. She scared the shit out of me, too.”

“Dear God.”

“Yeah. But what I told you already, that’s only part of it.” He looked around, his glance shifting from Rafael to Jean-Paul. “I know you, ­Maggie. Or I used to. We could talk about it, you and me. But I don’t know these guys.”

“They’re my friends.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck who they are; I don’t know them.” He brushed his hand across his balding pate where he once had a pompadour and finally I recognized the old Larry. The punk. The lost boy. The bully. He checked again on Rafael and began to rise from his chair. “If you want to hear what I have to tell you, lose the friends.”

Mr. Sato was right, I am nosy as hell. I wanted to know the rest of what he had to say, but I didn’t want to be alone with him, not when he was so agitated. Clearly, Larry wanted to be the one calling the shots. There was a chance, I thought, that if I could keep him talking he would change his mind and open up.

I asked, “How long did you spy on me?”

“Couple o’ years.” He stayed on the edge of his seat, poised to go. “Until that day—”

“Until the fight?”

“That day, anyway.”

“Beto’s mom died that day,” I said, watching his face. When he nodded, I asked, “Is that what you want to talk about?”

“Something like that.” He stood abruptly. “When you’re free to talk—just you—let me know.”

“You know where to find me,” I said.

“Yeah.” He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt back up over his head and started toward the door. Rafael stepped aside; the man was not a prisoner.

“Do you need a ride anywhere?” I asked, hoping to find out where he was staying at least; Father John did not know.

“Who, me?” He had a sardonic grin. “You offering me a ride in that hearse you drove up in?”

That wasn’t my offer to make. I turned to Jean-Paul.

“Certainly,” Jean-Paul told him. “Just tell Rafael where you wish to go.”

“S’okay,” Larry said. “I have wheels.”

We followed him to the door.

“Larry,” I said as I threw the bolts. “Next time you see me, don’t rabbit.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” He paused in the open door to zip up his sweatshirt. “The thing is, I’ve caught you on TV a couple times, but I haven’t seen you in person since way back. So the other day when I saw you in the yard, you know without all that TV makeup crap on, saw just you, I freaked. I mean, I really lost it.”

“Why?”

“Because you look so damn much like that Miss Martin. And I know she’s dead.”

He stepped outside. With his head hunched low, he checked for enemies, and quickly walked away into the night.