As Nate spoke, it reminded me of how easily he mixed with the crowd of photographers and drivers at the art gallery. I couldn’t help but compare him to Casey, who stood at alert in the company of other men. My ex exuded competition; Nate exuded competency and curiosity. A sweet sensation of pride welled in me, despite the circumstances. His antagonism toward Beckman had softened, for sure. “You actually like him.”
“I don’t have a stake in this at all, Joan. It doesn’t matter whether I like him or not. And I don’t have to trust him like you do, if you want to understand what happened ten years ago or three days ago. But remember, in my business, it’s common for me to work with difficult personalities who have strong visions of exactly what they want. Not many have gold records, so that’s a little impressive.” He shrugged. “He’s a complete egomaniac, but he’s not bad.”
I was too drained to go too hard on Nate. “Great. You were all ‘He tried to kill you’ and now you’re on his side?”
“I’m on yours. Always.” Nate paused to let that sink in. “Clearly, he believes that he did you a service. I tell you this, based on the number of big radio hits for other bands that he played for me today in the studio, whatever money he didn’t make as a seminal punk band in the eighties, he’s making up for it now. I think he could buy ten more collections of Joan of Arc sketches if he wanted.”
I managed to laugh. “The museum blew it. We should have charged a million, straight up, and all gotten bonuses.” I fell back into my pillow; I’d never get up now. “What day is it?”
“Sunday. Almost Monday now.”
“Don’t you have to go to Sweden on Monday?”
“Switzerland. But I pushed it back.”
“You can go if you need to, Nate. I mean, I don’t want you to go, but I know that you have work. And this has been a really long one-night stand.”
‘That is true.” Nate sat beside me and rubbed my back. “Sleep now. I’ll bring coffee in the morning. I’m going to my room. I have to do a little work, re-arrange a few things.” He kissed me softly. “If it counts for anything, I like Shook Up Joan. She shakes me up.”
Chapter 20
The coffee next to my bed was stone-cold. Nate must have put it there hours ago. I felt like I had slept the sleep of the dead. I rolled over and checked my phone. It was nearly eleven, and there were a bunch of missed calls from Polly. I should have checked in with her once more last night. She probably thought I was being held hostage in a Normandy barn. I hit the screen, and the phone promptly died. I needed a charger.
The smell of fresh-baked bread got me out of bed. Then I heard the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen. And voices coming from a different place, maybe even outside.
I opened the shutters and looked across the lawn. There were two tall figures standing in the garden, gesticulating broadly with voices raised.
One was Peter Beckman, and the other was my mother.
“What is happening?”
It wasn’t the most dramatic entrance, but when I took in the scene in front of me, it was the only phrase that popped into my head. Sitting at the farmhouse table in the kitchen that was part sixteenth century, part Traditional Home photo spread, was Nate, drinking coffee and chatting up Polly, who was standing in a striped apron at the stove sautéing something like she was the lady of the manor. Marianne played sous-chef, arranging a sideboard of ham, quiche, roasted vegetables, bread. A full offering of all kinds of citrus caught my eye, brightly colored oranges and grapefruit, sliced and arranged on a white platter. The sun was streaming in through the lace curtains, bringing light and warmth. The kitchen looked so cozy, the disconnect was annoying. I snapped. “How did my mother get here?”
Nate immediately got up and poured me a cup of coffee, handing it to me while holding back any details. Polly, to her credit, was raising her hand in admission.
“It was me. I’m so sorry. I thought you knew or at least had some idea. Your mom called me from LAX and said that she had spoken to you and you needed her. She said she got my number from my mother, who was thrilled that Suzi Blakely had called her about anything. Your mother was on the plane to de Gaulle before I could check her story,” Polly conceded, then handed her wooden spoon to Marianne and said in French, “Can you watch these? Don’t let the mushrooms get too soft.”
Polly crossed the kitchen to hug me. “In my defense, I did try to call, but I guess you were immersed in your own mystery here. Nate here has been filling me in a bit. I’m glad you found the notebooks. I can’t imagine what that feels like. And, it sounds like the museum got its money and you can keep your job. So that’s great. But seriously, what are we all doing here?” She looked at sous-chef Marianne to see if that comment got a rise, but the Frenchwoman remained focused on the mushrooms.
I took a seat at the big table. “I was hoping to find that out today, like right now. But it looks like some old business is getting taken care of. I can’t believe my mother is here.”
Nate remained silent, but I was guessing that he, too, could not believe my mother was now involved.
“Your mom told me that she and Blackbird there were an item back in the day. Is that true?” Polly resumed her position back at the stove.
“You probably know more than me at this point. But I think so.” I could see the two of them out the window, the volume of their conversation lower but still intense. I hadn’t seen my mother this animated in ten years.
“Eighties punk music wasn’t really my jam, but I can see he has a vibe your mom would like.” Polly played the cello in high school, and the only CDs that ever seemed to be in rotation in her car were by Yo-Yo Ma, En Vogue, and Arrested Development. Punk was definitely not her jam.
“Yup.” It was clear that Nate hadn’t told Polly that Beckman might be my real father, or I don’t think her tone would be so light. I didn’t want to go into details in front of Marianne, but I appreciated Nate’s discretion. I took a slug of coffee. It made a difference. “What happened when she walked in? How did Beckman react?”
“He was speechless,” Nate said.
“She was not,” Polly added.
“He recovered quickly, and then they disappeared to work it out.”
Polly picked up the story: “First, they went into the library and she did some yelling. Then they went into the studio and it was quiet for a bit. But they’ve been outside yelling at each other for a good fifteen minutes. I’m surprised they didn’t wake you up sooner. It’s only funny because on the trip here from the airport, your mother must have said a million times that she has learned to accept whatever life may throw in her path. Apparently, not so much.”
I looked at Nate. “Does she know all about Blackbird, the clues, and the whole Paris treasure hunt?” Nate looked at Polly.
Polly nodded. “I could only fill her in on what I knew, but I did. I hope you don’t mind. It was a long drive from de Gaulle,” she said.
What did it matter who told her what and when? This was happening and I couldn’t control the unfolding. “Thanks. Saves me the trouble.”
Polly poured me more coffee. “She seems pretty mad about the notebooks. And he seems pretty happy that she’s here.”
Right then the back door opened.
“Joanie! Here I am!” My mother rushed to hug me, her enthusiasm more befitting a surprise visit for a bridal shower than a potentially awkward family moment. Her coat was cold from the damp air outside, and her eyes were red like she’d been crying, but her energy was strong. “It was like the old days. I hung up the phone after talking to you, packed, and was at LAX in a few hours. By the time Charlie, you know the driver I use, by the time he dropped me off, I had a plane ticket and Polly on the other end picking me up. How great is it that Polly could make this happen?” My mother, gracious as always, gave Polly a little squeeze. She unwrapped several layers of cashmere and sat down at the table next to Nate.