Searching For Tina Turner Part 18

"I know there must be at least one soul food restaurant here." Cheryl taps Bruce's shoulder lightly with her fist and pokes out her bottom lip like a spoiled child. "Let's have fried chicken in Paris!"

"Fried chicken in Paris. Ha!" Bruce playfully pinches Cheryl's cheek. When it comes to food, he readily voices his opinions. His cheeks and stomach jiggle with his joke. "As long as I can go to my mother's house and eat the best fried chicken in the world, I will not be eating any soul food in Paris."

Two hours later, the plaza in front of Sacre-Coeur is crowded with groups led by tour guides lecturing in Spanish, German, and j.a.panese. All of Paris-the streets skinny like lines, the gold roof of the opera house, the Eiffel Tower-is within sight. A British guide addresses his group from atop a wooden box.

"Take note of the stone. Sacre-Coeur was built in the late nineteenth century with the stone of Chateau Landon. The brilliant white is actually the effect of rainwater. When wet, the stone secretes a white substance similar to paint. Thus, it is always a brilliant white." The guide smiles as if this is a fact that everyone in his group, and Lena, and the other English-speaking eavesdroppers around the perimeter of the group, should be proud of.

Lena points her camera at a waddling toddler making his way up the stairs without the help of his parents. "I haven't the vaguest idea how to describe this to Lulu. I'm going to the top and take a picture." Bruce gently taps her shoulder before she climbs to the vestibule of the Byzantine-styled building and points to the funicular. "Cheryl and I are going down." He glances at Harmon. "Sorry, man. It's flat there..."

The libraire's libraire's sixteen-foot walls are covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of books. Lena asks the woman behind a tall desk if she speaks English. "Pet.i.t peu," the woman says, holding a s.p.a.ce between her thumb and forefinger of no more than an inch. sixteen-foot walls are covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of books. Lena asks the woman behind a tall desk if she speaks English. "Pet.i.t peu," the woman says, holding a s.p.a.ce between her thumb and forefinger of no more than an inch.

"I want to buy a gift. A special memory of Paris." Lena points to Harmon browsing the tables on the outer edges of the store. "A surprise."

"Ah, oui, madame." The woman's face fills with glee while she questions Lena on Harmon's likes and dislikes. The woman pauses for a minute, her eyes move from left to right as if recalling her entire inventory. She eases off of her stool and enters the back of the store through a draped curtain. A man comes out and drags a wheeled ladder attached to the shelves until he spots what he is looking for. He climbs to the very top step, his head grazing the ceiling, and pulls a book out with both hands. He holds on to the book loosely while descending the stairs like he seems to have done a thousand times. The shopkeeper holds her arms out to him when he nears the bottom of the ladder, relief visible in her eyes, and places a loving hand on the man's balding head.

Lena flips through the book-the pictures are sharp and show the detail she is looking for. The text is in French, but the pictures need no translation. "Perfect." She thanks the woman three times until the woman steps from behind the tall mahogany pulpit that pa.s.ses for the sales counter and thanks Lena, in the French way-cheek to cheek. "I am hopeful your ami ami finds enjoyment with this book." finds enjoyment with this book."

At three o'clock in the afternoon, this sidewalk cafe still serves ham-and-tomato sandwiches on crunchy baguettes and hunks of cantal-the hard French cheese Lena loves the most.

"Two more days here and then it's back to the south of France, Tina's concert... and home." Lena pa.s.ses the brown bag from the bookstore to Harmon across the table. "Thank you for sharing Paris with me. This is for you."

Harmon strips away the tape carefully as if his gift is wrapped in expensive paper.

"Les eglises de Paris." He p.r.o.nounces the words slowly. Lena muses at how much his accent has improved. He traces the outline of the steepled church on the cover with his finger and opens the book to the first page. Triforium is a word that will stay with me as much as the memory of you and our little church. If that word describes an opening, it is what you have built in my heart. Love, Lena. Triforium is a word that will stay with me as much as the memory of you and our little church. If that word describes an opening, it is what you have built in my heart. Love, Lena.

"Don't go back to Nice. Come to Chicago." He reaches his hand to Lena's cheek and holds it there. His touch holds all the tenderness he has shown her over the past days.

"I've already let you take me off track, no matter how much fun it's been." She dips a cookie into her dark wine and bites into it.

"I can rearrange a few appointments. I'll stay longer if you do. Let's see where this-us-is going."

There is nothing she wants more. Nothing she wants less. She cannot help herself because being taken care of by someone who cares makes you feel like chocolate ice cream on a summer day. Lena caresses Harmon's hand. The action, his request, feels comfortable: a promise of security, a predictable future.

"We're moving at the speed of lightning. I'm not done with one man. I have to be sure that it's not this." Lena waves her arms from the curlicued Metro station gate to the ornate buildings rising on the hill beyond the cafe. "And when the time comes, I'll be looking for a partner, not someone to take care of me."

"I hear you loud and clear."

"This is what vacations are: we laugh, we talk, we fool around. Once we're back home, we'll visit. I'm not going anywhere, and I won't lose sight of my goals. Not this time."

"I love you, Lena. I love your search for change. I don't think you know how indomitable you are." He presses his hand to her mouth. "You can't say anything to me that I haven't said to myself, or Bruce." Harmon looks straight at Lena and searches her eyes for a.s.sent. His wide smile, his toothy smile, spreads across his face. "Marry me, Lena. I was going to ask you at dinner tonight. The concierge even found a bottle of that Cheval Blanc, St-Emilion, to celebrate." Frown lines disappear as he pulls a small satin pouch from his pocket and opens it. The ring is a band of diamonds that s.h.i.+mmers in the afternoon light. "I know marriage is a bigger commitment than you're ready for right now. So think of this as a promise ring."

"Too fast, too soon." Can he hear her fear? she wonders.

"I'm not a capricious man, Lena. I know you're still married-even if it's not for much longer. I know what you've got to get out of your system. But, I told you. I a.s.sess facts, and I make decisions-business or emotional. I trust my intuition, otherwise I wouldn't be here."

Lena signals with her hand for Harmon to keep his distance. She does not want to cry, does not want to cry. Didn't the optometrist tell her that her eyes were dry? Didn't she laugh and tell him it was because in eight short months she had cried an ocean, a lifetime of tears, that there were no more, that her whole body was dry?

"I love you because it's taken you a long time to realize what you want, and now you're ready to go for it. You admire Tina Turner and, no matter how odd everybody else thinks that is, you hold on to her as role model. I love you because you've let go of thinking of power as the most important thing in your life. I love you because you don't want anything from me. If you go, I'm not sure I'll get the chance to ask again."

Lena swallows hard to wet her throat and checks her fingers for nonexistent hangnails. "I don't love you the way a woman should when her man proposes marriage."

"Yes, you do, Lena. Don't deny it. You wouldn't be here with me right now if you didn't."

Chapter 31.

Take it from your buddy-accept love. It's a gift. Two marriages, and a whole lot of men in between, have taught me that." Cheryl hooks her arm through Lena's like so many French women do. The gesture confirms the importance of alone time with her friend and convinces Lena that encouraging Harmon and Bruce to sample eau-de-vie on their own at a private tasting room near the Place Vendome was the right thing to do.

The days of this short stay in Paris have toppled like dominoes under a child's heavy hand. Lena has lost count, can barely tell Tuesday from Thursday. All she knows is that they have two days left in Paris and that Cheryl is trying to convince her that love can truly conquer all.

A group of pedestrians moves against the stoplight and across the wide boulevard. Lena loves that Parisians take jaywalking as seriously as they do their coffee. Couples hold hands, smooch, discreetly pat each other's bottoms. "Paris makes you want to be in love, makes you do things you may later regret."

"You. Not me, honey. I haven't done anything I haven't wanted to do. Bruce has been fine company." Cheryl rattles her newly acquired-thanks to Bruce-wide gold bangles. "And besides, Bruce is worried that his boy Harmon is too attached."

"I've finally made some sense of the rues and boulevards. It feels like I belong here." Lena draws an invisible line with her finger on the map to point the way from Boulevard Saint-Germain, where they stand, to the museum at the Luxembourg Gardens. The streets converge at odd angles; at every corner a new rue or avenue sprouts, like tree limbs, in different directions. "Harmon genuinely cares. And that's more important than what he has or what he can give. If it's meant to be, it will."

The museum is separated from the rue de Vaugirard by stairs and a ten-foot wrought iron fence with gold-tipped spikes. Oversized, cloth posters below the sculpted pediment announce the exhibit. Rows and rows of trees jut out behind the building and offer a glimpse of the park beyond. Inside the small gallery, the walls of two rooms are covered with Matisse pieces. The rooms are big enough to accommodate the fifty or so people milling around and small enough to get close to the art and see the brush strokes, the thickness of the paint, a hint of an original pencil sketch.

The exhibit pays homage to Matisse's friends.h.i.+p and correspondence with artist Andre Rouveyre, who influenced Matisse's creativity in the latter part of his life. Display boxes are filled with the men's original letters. In the middle of the first room, gla.s.s cases enclose letters and drawings by both artists. Matisse's envelopes are works of art covered with endearments and sketches of abstract leaves from the tree of life in the chapel at Vence.

"These two artists inspired each other to greater heights." Cheryl loops her finger in the direction of the letters.

"We should... correspond. That's what they used to say."

"That's what email is for." Cheryl waves Lena forward. "No one writes letters anymore."

"I still have the letters Randall wrote to me before we were married." The letters were still tied with the ribbon from the first bouquet of flowers (the second time around) he gave her for no other reason than he wanted to.

"Well, that bit of 'correspondence' should go right into the trash."

"Sometimes letters communicate what can be hard to say in person."

"I say what's on my mind," Cheryl declares. They move with the crowd into the next room. "Like, for instance, this: for me this little fling with Bruce is just that, a fling. I don't expect anything more from him than what I've gotten. He's fun and funny and a big spender. Now I've got a friend in Chicago."

In the second room one wall is devoted to "Jazz," twenty vibrant canvases, each one twelve by sixteen inches, working with the same musical theme. Cheryl stops in front of two canvases of the 1947 piece: the stark black silhouette of a man falling through a deep blue field of golden starbursts, an elephant balancing on a ball behind slashes of red.

"You compartmentalize," Lena says. "Work. Relations.h.i.+ps. Just like men."

"And I'm proud of it! But I insist on having fun while I'm doing it. I'm determined not to form any connections that have the slightest chance of becoming anything more." Cheryl nudges Lena. "But you, sister girl-you are a one-man woman. You were that way with Harmon when you dated the first time around, and you were that way for all those years with Randall. So, I'm asking you-how does it feel to be in love with two men at the same time?"

"I'm not sure what being in love means anymore. I won't lie; I have feelings for Harmon-maybe love, maybe grat.i.tude. There's a gentleness about him that makes him attractive." Lena moves to the black-and-white charcoal sketches, like first drafts of a novel, that Matisse created for the Vence chapel. "I love the memory of Randall, but I'm disappointed in the present him. I love the present Harmon, but I'm disappointed in the memory."

Cheryl points back to the varying canvases of "Jazz." "The work in this collection is different from what Matisse had done in the past. He always used bold colors and these abstracts still carry his love for color, but they are new interpretations of what he felt. It's artistic evolution. Rouveyre helped him to understand the need to incorporate old ideas into new images and let go of the past." Cheryl paces back and forth between paintings to emphasize her words. "Since I believe that art imitates life, and I'm your friend, I want to remind you that Tina Turner finally made choices based on putting herself first. You're no good to anybody if you can't do that. Tina figured it out, and maybe that's what you're here to learn."

They study the rhythm, the preparation, and implications of Matisse's work in light of what Cheryl has said. Harmon's declaration was not surprising. His attention and affection feel like more than l.u.s.t. "I wanted this affair to be the first time that love and commitment were not not my priority." my priority."

"And, I might add, isn't that a bit risky for a woman over fifty?" Cheryl teases, mocking Lena's own words.

Lena presses her purse for her book, past the point of writing her thoughts in the margins. There is no longer any reason to compare her predicament. They stop in to the museum's gift shop, its shelves and counters stacked with art books and mementos of the exhibit. Beyond the gift shop window a queue extends down the stairs and around the side of the building. Paris is chilly but bright, its trees are fading from green to gold, and Lena is glad to be alive.

Randall's love meant security, but when it came down to the two of them sitting across from one another, listening to the rain scratch against the window that stormy night, none of it amounted to the kind of love that should have kept them together. Maybe, if she had been more open. But maybe is just a cake that's all eaten up; if wishes were fishes and fishes could fly...

While Cheryl decides which art books she cannot live without, Lena waits on the museum steps. She has picked the same card for Camille and Kendrick and jots the same note to them: "The next time I come to Paris, you're coming with me-even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. You'll love it, and I can't wait to share this city with my two favorite people." Her postcards to Lulu and Bobbie tell them how fabulous Paris is. She will spray Annick Goutal on Lulu's card when she returns to the hotel. The last postcard, a black silhouette tumbling through blue s.p.a.ce and yellow stars, she addresses to herself. On the left side she scrawls her note in capital letters, "ME... THAT'S THAT'S WHAT LOVE HAS TO DO WITH... EVERYTHING!!" WHAT LOVE HAS TO DO WITH... EVERYTHING!!"

Chapter 32.

Harmon's body is longer than the silk-covered couch. He sleeps, arms folded atop his chest, head on the armrest at one end, feet dangling over the cus.h.i.+oned edge of the other. Lena has come to learn a few of his habits: he catnaps in the late afternoon; he rarely gets into bed before midnight and then without TV, lights, or noise.

Lena tiptoes around the suite, stops to take in the fragrance of the rubrum lilies. Since the concierge discovered they are her favorites, the room has been full of the fresh flowers every other day. Today he has added a spray of a flaxen, star-shaped flower that Lena reminds herself to ask the name of. She smiles at the attention to detail and reminds herself to tell Harmon to be generous when the time comes to tip.

Who can she talk to, she wonders? Who can she tell how strong she feels, not so much loved-in a way she hasn't been in a while-but cared about for who she is, not what she can do, and that makes her feel secure. Her cell phone comes alive to a perky ring tone. Harmon grumbles and turns onto his side before she closes the bathroom door behind her. The phone screen flashes Randall's photo for the second time in five days.

Lena turns the bathtub faucets, pours all of the bath oil into the tub, and drops her clothes onto the floor. In the tub, the slow-running water and bubbles envelop her; the fragrance of the sweet gardenia soap makes her think of Lulu. Her mother would be delighted if she could see her baby girl stepping out on her own. Or almost. One touch of the recall b.u.t.ton on her phone makes it easy to call Randall back.

"Why haven't you answered my messages, Lena?" Caller ID eliminates the need for a proper, kinder greeting.

"I'm..." Lena takes a second to adjust to the realization that she doesn't have to report in or make excuses.

"How are you?" Manners restored, Randall goes on without her response. "I'm in Brussels."

Close but far away. Her stomach tightens, and she wishes for the thick pink liquid in her suitcase to coat her insides against the acid building there. Getting it might awaken Harmon, and then what would she do? Her heart says to chitchat, to inquire: Did the CEO position come through? Why are you in Brussels? Do you miss me? Do I miss you?

"What do you want, Randall?"

"Camille told me you're in Nice. I have to be in Paris, tonight. Have dinner with me. I can make reservations for your flight, and I'll pay for your ticket and a night at the Crillon."

The elegant five-star hotel is where Lena told him she wanted to stay on their next visit to Paris. From a distance the hotel looked like an extension of the Louvre or an official building meant to house government offices. As they approached the historic Place de la Concorde, where the Jardin des Tuileries ends and the Champs-elysees begins, they discovered that the building was not what they thought, but rather the famous Hotel de Crillon. They stood near the fountain of sculpted black bodies with gold turbans and watched the doormen help guests from a line of Bentleys, Maybachs, and other expensive cars neither had seen before. Once inside the landmark hotel, they strolled from the lobby-the floor a marbled black-and-white checkerboard-to the bar. The hotel smelled like money, like extravagance, like someplace Lena wanted to be.

"Let's see. The last time I saw you, Randall, you snarled at me." Lena's voice is a loud whisper she prays Harmon cannot hear. "For months you schemed to keep most of what we had on your side of the balance sheet, now you happen happen to be in Brussels, to be in Brussels, and and you conveniently have to be in Paris, you conveniently have to be in Paris, and and you want to have dinner with me?" you want to have dinner with me?"

Randall chuckles in the playful way she hasn't heard in a long time. "Put that way, my proposition does seem a little farfetched. But what have you got to lose?"

"I already lost it," Lena whispers, "and one dinner in Paris isn't going to make up for that." The soft spot is still there. Eight months since she slept with Randall, eight months since they shared the same bed. Two months, more or less, since they signed their settlement paper. Since she saw the look she never wants to see in his eyes again. Lena kicks the faucet with her foot to stop the water from spilling over the side. The overflow drain gurgles as it sucks up the excess.

Perhaps she is more like that d.a.m.n Kimchee than she realized. Perhaps that is why she couldn't stand the cat. One day, during what she now thinks of as her foggy time, Lena drove past the grocery store, the yoga studio, the library where she volunteered and parked at the Berkeley Marina to watch the waves crash against the abandoned pier. When she came home from her pretend errands, she found Kimchee strolling across the kitchen counter, tail lifted high, as if the granite were his path to glory. He continued around the counter until he got to the spot where he wanted to jump down. His eyes dared Lena to say a word.

At this moment, Lena feels like she understands that uppity cat. She feels like looking Randall in the eye and daring him to accept her as she is right now, this day, in a hotel room with a man-not him-who claims to love and appreciate her as much or more than he once did. This is her territory. She will not be intimidated by his smile, by the eyebrow that lifts when she walks into a room, by the curve of his lips as they turn from frown to smile. She will not be seduced by his lavish lure. She will strut into that restaurant, if only for the effect.

"I'm in Paris. Tell me where and what time, and I'll meet you."

The bathroom door swings open.

"I'm not going to lie. I heard you talking, heard you say his name. So I listened. That's the problem with being a light sleeper." Harmon closes the toilet seat and sits on top of it. His face is unreadable.

"I'm sorry."

Harmon pauses, his hands folded across his chest. His eyes reflect his thoughts, like the winning attorney he is, of what her last words to Randall mean.

"What does he want?"

"To have dinner."

"And if I asked you not to go?"

"I've been honest, Harmon. I'm still not used to saying no to him."

She lays her phone on the floor and steps out of the tub, extending her arm for one of the plush towels from the counter rack. With her back to Harmon, Lena wraps the towel around her, covering her body from the top of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her mid thigh so that pa.s.sion cannot take over where logic should.

"How did he know you were here?" Harmon stands and paces from the tub to the toilet and back. His voice is steady, like a probing drill.

"We have children together, Harmon. Camille and Kendrick know where I am. Camille told him."

He asks his next question, again the strategic litigator who never asks compound questions: "How did he know you were in Paris?"

"He knew I was in France. It's a crazy coincidence that he's in Paris."

"What does he want?"

"He didn't say." And she didn't ask. Old habits die hard.

Harmon walks out of the room.

"It's dinner, Harmon. Nothing more."

"Like we had dinner dinner that first night in Nice?" that first night in Nice?"

"That's not fair." Lena shakes her head no and reaches for his arm. He pulls away and heads for the desk where the ring sits in its open pouch.

"I was serious when I bought this. I'm serious now. Think about that when you see him. Your ex is no fool." He grabs the room key, slips into his sandals, and walks to the door. "I'm going downstairs to the bar, and I'm going to stay there until you're gone. I'm going to get drunk. I'm going to hope you remember whose bed you've been sleeping in for the last eleven days. But don't worry, I won't give away your little secret rendezvous." The door slams behind him, but he speaks loud enough for her and everyone else on the floor to hear. "But, I might reconsider my d.a.m.n theory of fate."