Jean-Paul came back, bringing with him the celebrity pianist and his Tahitian wife. We were joined by a French politician and his very elegant Italian wife, a financier who knew my newly discovered French uncle, Gérard-as did Jean-Paul, a Swedish movie star and her French television-producer girlfriend, and a famous American cellist with a one-syllable surname.
With grace, Jean-Paul made introductions, initiated conversations, and when all were happily engaged, excused himself. His primary duty, it seemed to me, was getting the right people together.
The French television producer recognized my name. “Is it correct that your documentary series was canceled?”
“It was.”
“Dommage,” she said, clinking her glass against mine in a gesture of sympathy. “But isn’t that the way of the business? Bastards.”
She asked, “What are you doing now?”
“Teaching,” I said.
“Which is it, USC or UCLA?”
“Neither. Anacapa Community College.”
She shrugged, but the financier who knew my Uncle Gérard moved into the conversation. “Why do I know that name?”
“It’s a public two-year college,” I said.
“Oh!” The Italian wife, Renata, spoke up brightly. “Wasn’t there a murder?”
“There was,” I said. “Yesterday.”
Naturally, the death of Park Holloway had been the lead story on the eleven o’clock news the night before. God only knew how the cable talkers were dealing with it.
“My husband knew him.” Renata touched her husband’s arm. “What was his name, chéri?”
“Holloway,” the French politician offered. “I met him on a China trade junket some years ago.” He turned to my uncle’s friend. “You were on that trip as well, Tristan.”
“Yes, yes. Congressman, wasn’t he?”
“Very interesting fellow,” the politician offered. “Very knowledgeable about Chinese antiques.”
He turned to his wife. “He helped me select the jade brooch I brought you.”
“Exquisite taste,” Renata said, acknowledging her husband’s gift, but not ready for a new topic.
She put a hand on my arm, leaned in and asked, “Did you know him?”
“Slightly,” I said.
I glanced at Mom, and bless her lovely reserve, she did not mention that it was I who discovered the body. Her only acknowledgement of my role was the cool, sympathetic hand she placed on my arm. She knew that I did not want to have any part in the inevitably sensational coverage of that awful event.
“He was a great friend to the arts,” offered the cellist. “Hammered Congress every year to bolster NEA funding. But then he disappeared. I always suspected there was a scandal.”
“Was it a mistress, do you think?” asked Renata.
“Or a mister, a very young one,” offered the Swede. “American politicians get into so much trouble with little boys.”
“Perhaps.” Uncle Gérard’s acquaintance, Tristan, held up the fingertips of one hand and rubbed them against his thumb, a gesture that referred to money, suggesting financial perfidy.
The topic of murder had not played out, but after that, I lost track of who was asking or offering what as the conversation caromed from person to person and, at last, slithered away from Holloway.
“One does not expect violence-non-political violence at any rate-on a campus.”
“Who’s to say it wasn’t political?”
“There was Columbine.”
“And Virginia Tech.”
“And that college in Montréal where all the victims were women.”
“Certainly, that was political.”
“But how is it possible to explain what happened to those little Amish girls. Such a tragedy. What message could there have been?”
“Madness. That is the only explanation.”
And so it went.
By the time the thread had run its course, Mom, the pianist, and the cellist had moved off together and become engaged in an entirely different conversation. They found cushy fireside chairs and were deep into a very lively discussion about composer Erik Satie: Dada, didactic, innovative, which?
I had no idea what the businessman, the politician, Renata, and the pianist’s Tahitian wife were talking about because they spoke, seemingly all at the same time, in very rapid French.
The television producer and her film star partner and I wandered off to look at the ocean and talk about the strange business of television and film.
During all the conversation, we were continuously plied with excellent food and wine. Regretfully, thinking about driving Mom home through the canyons, I cut myself off after the second glass.
The orchestra took a break, and soon a bright arpeggio on the grand piano in the grand salon filled the air. Raised by a pianist, I knew it to be someone testing the touch of the keys, and turned to check on Mom. She was no longer in her chair beside the fire, nor were the pianist and the cellist.
I spotted the three of them at the piano, Mom on the bench next to the pianist while they waited for the cellist, who obviously was part of the planned program, to tune his instrument. Right away, they launched into a classical jam session using some obscure Satie composition as the starting point: piano duet with cello-duet played four-hands on one piano. Mom was having more fun than I had seen her have for many years.
I was on my way inside to watch them when I ran into Jean-Paul. He took me by the arm and walked with me.
“Your mother is charming,” he said, smiling broadly, his face close to mine, brown eyes full of light.
“She is having a wonderful time.” I looked up into his face and kissed him, just once, and lightly, on the lips. “Thank you, Jean-Paul.”
His arm went around my waist. “I only wish I had thought of it sooner.”
As people gathered around the piano, the musicians became aware that they had gathered an audience, grinned at each other, played a last grand flourish, and rose. The guests applauded; the three of them, laughing, bowed and began to step away.
“Don’t be in such a hurry.” Still smiling, the cellist put his hands on the pianist’s shoulders and with considerable dramatic flair stopped him from going further.
“I believe we all came to hear you, as we say in this country, tickle some ivory, Sebastien. Now that Betsy and I have you warmed up, don’t you think you should perhaps play for your supper?”
The pianist bowed, the guests applauded. The cellist took Mom by the arm, found her a chair, took up a position beside her, and the recital began.
As the music swelled and the guests grew quiet, rapt in the performance or being silently polite, Jean-Paul patted my shoulder, and when I turned to him, nodded toward the now-empty terrace. I followed him outside.
“Walk with me.” He offered me his hand and we walked down to the sand.
I said, “Won’t you be missed?”
He gave a little Gallic toss of the head. “I am a Frenchman. When a Frenchman takes a beautiful woman by the hand and leads her away, no one thinks to miss him.”
I laughed.
Suddenly more serious, he said, “You know I was in Paris last week?”
“Good trip?” I asked, wondering what this opening was prelude for. As an answer, he offered a little shrug, a little moue, a gesture that could mean anything from so-so to absolutely amazing.
I asked, “Is your son settled in?”
“Yes, very much settled in. He has been very comfortable with my sister’s family since he arrived there in January. She tells me he is working very hard. He has only two more months now to prepare for his baccalaureate exams. And then?” Another shrug, meaning who knows?
His smile was wistful. “I was near him for one week. I hadn’t seen him since New Year’s Day, and still I managed to get him away for dinner only once.”
I put a hand on his arm. “They grow up, Jean-Paul.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “And they fly from the nest.”