We were in the elevator again, what I’d come to think of as our elevator. I turned to face him, placing my right hand on the middle of his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, his frustration. I felt the same sort of tension. I moved my hand up and down gently. Nate started to relax. I pressed two buttons, one for my floor and one for his. “I don’t want you to feel obligated, you know, to stick around if it’s too intense. This is not your problem to solve, Nate.”
“You sound like my sister. When we come up against something at work, I go into this tunnel until I can figure out how to fix it. But she says that I should accept and understand why the issue arose before I try solve it.” I stayed silent because I could tell Nate wasn’t done. He was working out his end of this whole charade. “This Beckman guy seems to be on this power trip that I don’t get.”
Ah, yes. “Don’t meet your heroes,” I said quietly.
“What?”
“I see now. You are a Ravens fan. You’re a Beckman fan, and this is not the guy you learned to love to impress your babysitter. It’s the old ‘don’t meet your heroes because they’ll disappoint you’ scenario.”
“I thought of him as a guy with integrity. His music is honest. He stood up to the labels. He left when it wasn’t working for him anymore. Why he would put you through this ego-driven bullshit, jumping through hoops? Did he steal the sketchbook instead of buy it? If he has the notebooks, why doesn’t he arrange a meeting and give them to you?”
For the first time since I’d met Nate, I felt like I had some wisdom to offer him, not vice versa. “I can’t explain his motivation. But I do understand where he’s coming from. Because it’s where I came from. These people—the artists and musicians I met growing up—they can be brilliant. And they can be very, very small. Their insecurities can equal their talent. They need to know where they stand in comparison to others all the time—the charts, the awards, how much did that sell for, how big is your contract, where did your last album chart, why did she get the cover of the New York Times Magazine and not me. The comparisons can kill them. It comes with the territory.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s the exposure. It’s putting yourself out on the ledge, inviting people to judge your work. Every day. In the most public way. Now, it’s 24-7 with the Internet. That doesn’t happen in most jobs. The constant scrutiny. I work at museum, and I get an annual review, a few action items to work on to improve my performance, and then I go back to my tiny office for twelve months. Like most people. We’re not being constantly deconstructed publicly. It’s brutal. No one was surer of his vision than my father. But his drinking was a crutch, his wall against the judgment of other people, of himself. After he stopped drinking, my mother became the wall. They all need protection in some way.” My brain scrolled through flashbacks of all the pep talks I’d given over the years to Casey, moderately talented Casey. It was exhausting being someone’s wall. I won’t miss that, I thought.
“That doesn’t explain Beckman’s behavior toward you. I’m mean, what is the point of this? I don’t get it.”
I kissed him. “It’s not yours to get. This whole thing may get weird, Nate.”
“This whole thing already is weird, Joan,” Nate laughed. “From that first glass of champagne on the plane until right now.” Nate’s right hand was on my face, my neck, my collarbone, while his left hand found my hip. He pulled me closer. “I’m sorry. I’m not great with so much chaos. This”—he gestured back and forth to indicate the two of us—“has a lot of variables.”
I recalled how Tai had teased me for looking forward to a Virgin Mary exhibit. Now look at me! I started to really laugh. “Neither am I!”
“It was supposed to be one dinner, you know.”
“Yup.” We were both struggling to define what “this” was.
“I didn’t mean anything by that, except that I was looking forward to one dinner with a pretty girl and then getting back to my normal life.”
“Of work, work, and more work?”
“I can be a little intense about what I want. At least that’s what . . . other people say about me.”
“That’s clear from the last few hours. One minute you’re buying art like a playah and the next minute, I think you might deck an old man for serving us a cheese plate.”
“I didn’t think the Camembert had softened enough.” Ah, there we go. Nice Nate back in action. “By Monday, you either have to have the sketches back or tell the museum. Or that Mike guy is going to do it for you. We don’t have much time to find Beckman, this poor suffering artist with the outsize ego. I’m still worried about your safety, too. I feel like I should stick around. If you don’t mind.” He pressed his body into mine gently. He felt fully present. So did I.
“I don’t mind. I have a plan for how to use Polly’s blog to set up a meeting tomorrow. No more running around, no more clue solving. Let’s find Beckman, the Panthéon Sketches, and, maybe, my father’s notebooks. Please stick around.” I pressed back into Nate and let him touch me. Kiss me. He was right. He was good at intense, and I was satisfied for once that we weren’t some average couple on your average romantic weekend in Paris. The elevator doors opened on my floor. “This is my stop.” We both got out.
“You’re leaving?” The clock said 3:00 a.m., and Nate was pulling on his jeans in the dark.
“Going back to my room. I have to make some calls back to the States. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Nate, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I was thinking about what you said, about ego and insecurity. Please don’t ever introduce me to George Lucas. I couldn’t take it if he turned out to be . . . not the guy I think he is.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “I’ll be by with coffee in the morning. Try to get some sleep. Sound good?”
“Very good.”
“The Polly setup is perfect. It will work. I’ll see you at ten. Big day.”
Nate slipped out, but his words echoed in my head. I had some calls to make, too.
I reached for my phone and texted Mike: Closing in on Panthéon Sketches. Long story but appears to be in possession of old friend of my father’s. Can you call me for name? Don’t know motivation but making contact tomorrow. Will be safe. Don’t worry.
Then I sent another: Thanks for your faith in me. I got this.
Then, I dialed California.
“Mom? It’s Joan.”
“Joanie, what a surprise! How great to hear from you. I just walked around the Rose Bowl with Candy, who says hello. It’s a beautiful day here in Pasadena. High seventies and perfect.” When did my mother get old enough to mention the weather on every phone call? “What’s it like there?”
“Damp and gray, but I don’t mind.”
“Of course not, you’re in Paris. You get to see all the women in their great coats. Is anyone actually wearing that honeysuckle pink they’re calling the color of the year?”
This was valuable information to discuss at three in the morning.
“Nobody, except the under-ten set and Polly. She had a honeysuckle scarf on today, and it looked fantastic on her, of course.” It still amazed me that my mother could care about the color of the year and the future of third-wave feminism in equal measure.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re spending time with Polly! She’ll make you smile again.” Then there was a pause on my mother’s end and some recognition of the hour. “You never call when you’re out of the country. Wait, it’s cocktail hour here. What time is it there?” I could hear my mother pouring herself a glass of wine as she spoke.
“It’s the middle of the night. My sleep schedule is all messed up, jet lag. Wide awake at three a.m. Thought I’d send some emails, catch up on work.”