“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.”