“Julia’s getting ready,” says Harold, “but I have something for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes,” says Harold, and picks up a small leather box, about the size of a baseball, from beside his coffee mug and holds it out to him. He opens it and inside is Harold’s watch, with its round white face and sober, forthright numbers. The band has been replaced with a new black crocodile one.
“My father gave this to me when I turned thirty,” says Harold, when he doesn’t say anything. “It was his. And you are still thirty, so I at least haven’t messed up the symmetry of this.” He takes the box from him and removes the watch and reverses it so he can see the initials engraved on the back of the face: SS/HS/JSF. “Saul Stein,” says Harold. “That was my father. And then HS for me, and JSF for you.” He returns the watch to him.
He runs his thumbtip lightly over the initials. “I can’t accept this, Harold,” he says, finally.
“Sure you can,” Harold says. “It’s yours, Jude. I already bought a new one; you can’t give it back.”
He can feel Harold looking at him. “Thank you,” he says, at last. “Thank you.” He can’t seem to say anything else.
“It’s my pleasure,” says Harold, and neither of them says anything for a few seconds, until he comes to himself and unclasps his watch and fastens Harold’s—his, now—around his wrist, holding his arm up for Harold, who nods. “Nice,” he says. “It looks good on you.”
He’s about to reply with something (what?), when he hears, and then sees, JB and Malcolm, both in suits as well.
“The door was unlocked,” JB says, as Malcolm sighs. “Harold!” he hugs him, “Congratulations! It’s a boy!”
“I’m sure Harold’s never heard that one before,” says Malcolm, waving hello at Julia, who’s entering the kitchen.
Andy arrives next, and then Gillian; they’ll meet Laurence at the courthouse.
The doorbell rings again. “Are we expecting someone else?” he asks Harold, who shrugs: “Can you get it, Jude?”
So he opens the door, and there is Willem. He stares at Willem for a second, and then, before he can tell himself to be calm, Willem springs at him like a civet cat and hugs him so hard that for a moment he fears he will tip over. “Are you surprised?” Willem says into his ear, and he can tell from his voice that he’s smiling. It’s the second time that morning he’s unable to speak.
The court will be the third time. They take two cars, and in his (driven by Harold, with Malcolm in the front seat), Willem explains that his departure date actually had been changed; but when it was changed back again, he didn’t tell him, only the others, so that his appearance would be a surprise. “Yeah, thanks for that, Willem,” says Malcolm, “I had to monitor JB like the CIA to make sure he didn’t say anything.”
They go not to the family courts but to the appeals court on Pemberton Square. Inside Laurence’s courtroom—Laurence unfamiliar in his robes: it is a day of everyone in costume—he and Harold and Julia make their promises to each other, Laurence smiling the entire time, and then there is a flurry of picture-taking, with everyone taking photos of everyone else in various arrangements and configurations. He is the only one who doesn’t take any at all, as he’s in every one.
He’s standing with Harold and Julia, waiting for Malcolm to figure out his enormous, complicated camera, when JB calls his name, and all three of them look over, and JB takes the shot. “Got it,” says JB. “Thanks.”
“JB, this’d better not be for—” he begins, but then Malcolm announces he’s ready, and the three of them swivel obediently toward him.