My mother and I spent most of the afternoon reacquainting ourselves with Henry Blakely through his notebooks. We didn’t do much talking. Talked out, I guess, but occasionally we’d share a page with each other. My mother loved the scale of his later work and the places they’d been together while he created it. She’d hold up a page and say, “Look, the piece he did in Sydney. That was a massive installation.” Or, “I’d almost forgot about the Vegas exhibit. I thought I’d never find my way out of that mall, but they paid him a boatload.” At one point, she dozed off in the leather chair next to the fire, jet lag catching up to her.
I spent more time in Paris with the Bright & Dark notebooks, even finding a few copies of the photos Jacques had shown us stashed in the pages. Everything was so fresh in my mind; I could see the installations now.
At some point in the early afternoon, there was a knock on the door and Beckman stepped into the library. The scent of baking apples wafted into the room. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Yes,” my mother said, waking like Sleeping Beauty.
“Everything’s fine,” I echoed, not sure exactly how to feel about this man who my mother had crushed but my father trusted with his work. I still needed to hear a full accounting from him directly.
“Quick update. Someone named Jean-Michel arrived. He appears to be Polly’s husband or very good at role-play. Polly says he’s here for extra security, so don’t worry. If someone sues us tonight, we’re in good shape. Otherwise, I’m not sure he’s going to be much help. But I like his shirts. Marianne is teaching Polly how to make a traditional apple cake so she can photograph it for her blog. Can you smell it? Nate and I are walking into the village. Do you need anything? Bread? Cheese? Decorative lace?” We both shook our heads. “Okay. Well, don’t make any plans for tonight. I have a surprise for all of you.”
I started to laugh, like we were cooking up some wild Monday night in the French country. “Okay, I’ll cancel the fire-eater.”
“Drinks and explanations at six. I know I owe you that, Joan. Then we head out for Local Night at a spot outside of town with great food and live music. I know the band playing there tonight. I think you’ll like them. Be ready to rock and roll. Sound good?” He made a point to look at me. I nodded.
“Can’t wait,” my mother responded.
He’s producing his own confession, I thought. “Hey,” I called to him as he was shutting the door. “Marianne said you usually work with these notebooks in your studio. What kind of work?”
“You’ll see. Soon enough,” Beckman paused, a little mirth leaving his face. “à bient?t.”
Chapter 21
No doubt, the library had been staged for full effect. Marianne had lit candles, placed three large pewter vases with fresh flowers on various tables, and set out a tray of drinks and small plates. The fire was lit, music was on low, and everything, including the people, sparkled. Despite my efforts to remain angry at Peter Beckman, I felt caught up in the party atmosphere, almost like it was the opening night of a show. Anticipation was thick.
Nate and I waited for the others to filter in. I’d had a chance to tell him about the conversation with my mother and the news that Beckman was not my father, but I had concerns he might be my new stepfather. “If my mom had to remarry, it would be to a retired bank manager, not a genuine rock star,” Nate said.
Polly and JM arrived at the library minutes before six, dressed for dancing at a country club engagement party, with looks that included pressed blue jeans and blue blazer for him and a navy-blue sheath dress for her, her pregnancy showing now for real. I had considered wearing my magic black dress again, mainly for Nate, but also for me, as it had become like couture armor. But JM appeared to have arrived with a week’s worth of outfits for Polly, so she loaned me a sparkly top and some dramatic earrings, two items she herself was never going to wear, and she made that clear.
“Remember these?” she said as we got ready in my room, as we had so many times before in our lives. “You wore this top when we went to that club in Saint-Germain junior year. The really smoky one with the cheesy Europop, but they let American girls in for free. I dug it up for you.” Polly’s memory of details was astonishing. I barely recalled the club, never mind my outfit.
When Nate saw me in jeans, sequins, and loaner heels from my mother, he gave me the thumbs-up and the pointed to his own dancing shoes, L.L.Bean moccasins. “They’ve never let me down.”
Beckman waltzed in and poured himself a Diet Coke from the bar. He was in another version of all black, but, tonight, he looked cleaner, shinier, like he truly was ready to rock and roll.
My mother was the last to arrive, well after the appointed hour. The decades fell away as she stepped into the library, the low lighting on her side. Somehow, in the rush to get to LAX, she had managed to pack her Elie Saab jumpsuit that I’d seen her wear on several occasions over the past few years on her rare nights out. The fit was stunning. I think the photo from Paris Match had inspired her, because she piled on a few extra layers of jewelry and created a head wrap out of an Hermès classic silk scarf. She circled the room to greet everyone with kisses before picking up an aperitif from the silver tray.
No one was more impressed than our host. “Worth the wait, Suzannah. Always worth the wait.”
“This is a bigger audience than I had bargained for, but I welcome you all here tonight. To new friends and old.” Beckman lifted his glass in a toast, and the rest of us automatically responded. I was losing the battle of neutrality. “Joan, I lured you here because it’s been ten years since your father gave me the notebooks. And the time was right to return them to you and to you, Suzannah.” He made a grand show of acknowledging my mother. No doubt, he’d been rehearsing this monologue for days.
“Forgive me, Joan. But I thought you needed a shake-up,” he said, now leaning down next to me, like a Shakespearean actor begging his point. “And that’s what I do. I shake people up. I rattle their brains. I push their buttons. And I get them to put down on paper or on a vocal track how they really feel. But first, I knock them off their feet.”
Nate’s assessment rang in my head: He’s a complete egomaniac. “You don’t even know me. How could you possibly know what I needed?” I said.
“Luther.”
“You know Luther?”
“Of course. Met him several times with your father. We’ve talked once a year since your father’s death. I usually call him in September to check in.” Beckman announced this like keeping in touch with my dead father’s best friend made complete sense.
“Does Luther know you have the notebooks?” I hoped the answer was no. I couldn’t imagine Luther keeping that information to himself while watching my mother and I struggle day-to-day. He would have told us, wouldn’t he?
Beckman shook his head. “No, because your father gave them to me to keep for ten years, not Luther. He must have done that for a reason, right? I like to think it’s because I’m an artist, not a lawyer. But we’ll never really know.” Clearly, Beckman took his role as Keeper of the Notebooks seriously. As resentful as I was about his withholding the information from us, as one art courier regarding another, I did admire his loyalty to the mission.
“What do you and Luther talk about?”
“You. Your mother. Your dad. Life. I like to check in on you, Joan.” Beckman paused to let that sink in. It did. Then he picked up his story: “When I got sober, I realized that I had, for lack of a better word, a gift that didn’t need booze or drugs. Disruption. It’s why I started the Ravens, it’s why I still write, and it’s why I’m here on this planet. Why the fuck am I still here? Henry asked at that retreat. This is why.”