We hustled up to the third floor and found the salon. By late afternoon, I had a head of smooth, shining, extra-conditioned hair booked and paid for by Blackbird. The appointment almost passed with no sightings of the mystery man or a new envelope, despite the fact that Polly kept a close watch on all the comings and goings by keeping her sunglasses on inside and talking out of the side of her mouth whenever a suspicious type entered the salon. When I asked the receptionist with the streaked blue hair if anyone had left anything for me, she said in perfect English with a British accent, “This isn’t FedEx.”
While it was impossible to relax completely, Polly and I chatted as we sat side by side, like we were at home in Pasadena, running down a list of our former classmates’ current statuses. Tinsley Madden: single lawyer, possibly gay, in process of adopting foster child. Kristy Lynch Newhauser: divorced from high school sweetheart, now in rehab, raising two boys, living in rather sad town house, dating younger guy with emerging man bun, and back to using maiden name. Tiffany Tang: dermatologist married to thoracic surgeon, living in an enormous house in San Marino with three Maltipoos and full-time help for the dogs. Bethie Sims: class officer, wife, mother of one adorable baby boy, and salt of the earth, working in development at the old alma mater. Val Neely: off the grid since college, returning with a vengeance, including a boob job, a Russian fiancé, and a lost decade on her résumé. Of course, Polly was the source for most of this information, maintaining her hometown network, even though she lived six thousand miles away.
“Why don’t I know any of this? I live there. No one tells me anything.”
“People are intimidated by you, Joan. They always have been. The parents, the cheekbones, your access to backstage passes.”
I think Polly was exaggerating, but I said, “They’re not scared of me anymore! Since the whole betrayal thing, I’m getting high fives in the parking lot from people who haven’t talked to me in years.”
“You’re one of them now. Flawed.”
“I did run into Bethie Sims and her blue blazer at Whole Foods a month ago. She was buying the world’s most expensive baby applesauce, and I was buying a bottle of wine, a sushi snack pack, and a pair of yoga pants so I didn’t have to do laundry. She was truly sorry about Casey, and I swear, Polly, she looked at the yoga pants in my cart and said, ‘Are you okay?’ Like buying clothes at Whole Foods was the sign of a mental health crisis.”
“Well, let’s face it, it is.” Polly reapplied her lipstick as she studied my coif. “Hair, nine. Front desk service, two. How do you think I’m doing with the pregnancy bloat? Trying to hold the line. Frenchwomen have no mercy when it comes to baby weight gain.”
“That lipstick shade is very slimming,” I responded, and thought maybe Blackbird had wanted me to have some girl time with Polly. Then I realized that maybe I had a variation of Stockholm syndrome, endowing the guy with a little too much humanity, considering his actions. I texted Nate to let him know we were finishing up. He wanted to send his car back for me.
To my surprise, the surly receptionist informed me that she had received an envelope at the front desk. She apologized for the misunderstanding earlier and added, “Delivered by messenger.”
The envelope had arrived after my service, as if the messenger was keeping an eye on the place to make sure I’d finished up before delivering the item. There was no credit card record for the payment; it had been cash, also delivered by messenger prior to my arrival. “Don’t you think it’s strange that we’ve gone from the Panthéon to the hair salon? What is this game?”
“It seems very personal. And whoever Blackbird is, he has a sense of humor, a sense of fun. Who doesn’t want a blowout? Picking the spot known for the Joan of Arc haircut is kind of funny, don’t you think?”
I had to give her that, even if my personal and professional reputations were on the line. “I guess. I might find it more hilarious if the sketchbook materialized.”
“Well, you look amazing.” Polly was due back for yet another social obligation, so I promised to email her the clue when I got back to my laptop, along with the message I wanted her to embed into her blog. I didn’t know quite what it would be yet.
As we parted with a double cheek kiss on boulevard Haussmann, my car and Polly’s taxi waiting, she squeezed my hand and said, “I know this is all crazy stuff and you’ve been through so much, but remember this: you will always have great hair. And that is worth something.”
With that, Polly swept into the cab and disappeared into the Parisian sunset.
The driver explained that we had to swing by the conference hotel to retrieve Nate, and I felt my blood rush a little thinking about seeing him again. I’d wait to open the envelope with Nate; I liked the way it felt to work out the clues with him, like foreplay, if you were the type to find crosswords sexy.
I checked my emails in the back of the car, looking for anything from Beatrice. Nothing. She was still MIA. But instead, I skipped to the next one, another email from Kiandra at the museum.
To: Joan Blakely
From: Kiandra Douglas
Hi, Joan . . .
Hope you are having a blast in Paris. I have received several desperate texts from Tai in the desert, begging me to bring trashy novels and gossip magazines to the curators’ retreat. He’s so funny. He sounds bored. I think it sounds like a dream to spend the weekend talking about what art to buy next, but, oh well.
It’s freakishly hot here in SoCal and my apartment has no AC, so I’ve spent the weekend at the office in the air-conditioning going through your mom’s mail. Win-win. Paid work & regulated body temps. Thanks again for your trust. I’ve made it through most of the letters.
First, let me say that your father has a lot of fans (still) and most of the letters are people reaching out to say how sorry they are. The letters go back ten years, but there are some as recent as last Christmas. It’s really touching how meaningful your father’s work is to people all over the world. I’ve never lost anybody significant to me and I know I’m lucky, but I think you’d find a lot of solace reading some of these notes. They are amazing reminders. Your choice.
Also, I wanted to alert you to one series of letters that seem both personal and urgent, even though they were sent in 2003 to 2005. There are six typed letters sent over a two-year period, addressed to your mother, who is referred to as “Suzannah.” The letters seem to be from someone both your parents knew and they include personal details about shared memories, like “the time we all swam in the Pacific at midnight” or “closed down that club in SoHo.” Unfortunately, they aren’t signed. Instead the sign-off is always Best and then a scribble of a black animal or bird or something. The reason they stand out is that he repeatedly asks your mother to contact him/her (although he writes like a him) about something of your father’s that he has in his possession. The details are vague, like the fact that he leaves no contact information, but it seems legitimate. In the last letter, he says that he won’t contact your mother again if he doesn’t hear back. I’ve gone through the stacks of mail looking for letters after 2005, but there aren’t any additional ones.
Oh, and it’s kind of weird because he makes reference to you and asks how you are coping. Sorry to dump all this on you when you are out of town, but you said to contact you if anything stuck out. These do, for sure.
Do you want me to send them to your mother? Or scan and send to you? Let me know. At the office most of weekend. Standing by . . .
Have a glass of Bordeaux for me.
Kiandra
Chapter 14