TWENTY-NINE
Jimmy was on the rooftop patio of Jean’s apartment. It was clear with one of those once- or twice- or three-times-a-year views, all the way to Catalina. The traffic below on Sunset was heavy but the sound was reassuring, people in motion, full of purpose, everything shiny and bright and clean.
Jean came out with a bottle of water. Jimmy cracked the seal and took a drink.
“Do you believe in heaven?” she said.
He took another drink.
“No,” he said, “but I believe in a whole bunch of places they’ve never given a name to.”
She smiled and walked to the railing.
“It really is over with your father,” Jimmy said behind her.
She nodded.
She turned to face him.
“When you said that you can’t know everything, I guess this was what you meant.”
He looked at her. “At the time I think just meant . . . generally.”
She wasn’t close to him.
“So you just wait . . . for the next blue moon?”
Their story was over. At least for now. They both knew it.
“Nah, we were just kidding about all that,” he said and tried a smile.
“I’m moving,” she said. “To San Francisco.”
He nodded.
“Maybe, after awhile . . .” She trailed off. He didn’t help her finish the sentence.
“I have something for you,” she said.
She went into the apartment and came back with something closed in her hand. She stood in front of him. She opened her hand.
It was a glass bottle, perfume in a functional but elegant glass bottle. He took it. It was a beautiful color.
“It’s what your mother wore,” Jean said. “They don’t make it anymore. I had it synthesized. The scent was still on her dress in the case.”
He took her hand.
“Maybe this will help you remember her,” she said.