Honestly, people had to get ahold of themselves.
Then Beckman announced with some gravitas that he was going to play a few songs from a new project and asked everyone to take their seats. “This is something I’ve been working on a long time. Like ten years. But I’ve never played the songs in public. I call it Bright & Dark. It’s about love and friendship and faith and loss and redemption. You know, Life’s Top Five. At first, I thought it would be an epic album, my last big solo project. But then it became something more. Something breathing, three-dimensional. I knew it was play, a rock opera, whatever you want to call it. I knew it had to come alive. Tonight, I want to play a few songs for you.” He nodded at my mother, who nodded back. Did she know? I don’t think so. He repeated his speech in French, and it sounded even more beautiful. Then he said, “This one’s called ‘Sweet Maid.’”
I looked at Nate, who was definitely moved now, because it was essentially the clues from our Parisian treasure hunt set to music. The melody was beautiful, and he sounded like a troubadour telling the tale of losing the girl while finding Saint Joan. Then Beckman played a kind of rock anthem, which included my father’s equation for moonlight in the verse, and a catchy hook that repeated “Light it up. Watch it shine.”
Finally, he picked up his acoustic guitar, sent the rest of the band offstage, and told the packed house, “This one is called ‘Palladium.’ It’s written as a duet, but tonight I’m singing it solo. Someday soon, though, I’ll find me a girl to sing this with.” Then he launched into a heartbreaking ballad about two beautiful people who fall in love in an instant, but not forever. Exactly the way my mother said it happened.
My mother was a puddle, a jet-lagged, gorgeous puddle.
While the crowd gave Beckman a standing ovation, JM, ever the lawyer, leaned over to me and said in English, “Make sure Peter Beckman buys the rights to this story from your mother. And make sure you get a piece of the show. Because these songs are pretty good.”
By the time the band revved up the Van Morrison as an encore, I had already put a reminder in my phone to call Luther. The way this night was going, I was pretty sure I might forget by the morning.
“I’m putting this in my Top Three Nights of All Time List. That was like rock and roll fantasy camp but for real.” We were back in my room, peeling off layers of sweaty clothes from a nonstop hour on the dance floor, and Nate was on a high. We’d danced off the alcohol, thanks to my mother. Once Beckman spotted her out of her seat, he must have decided that the music couldn’t stop. He and the band played a set of covers straight out of 1978, inspiring Nate to shout at me several times over the music, “Considered the greatest rock and roll year of all time.” We didn’t sit down again until Beckman loaded us back into the van, and we collapsed.
Now, emotionally spent but physically exhilarated, I unbuttoned my shirt slowly. “So, tonight was worth all the running around in Paris?”
“Yes. Even the time you accosted me at the conference in front of my peers and accused me of theft. I forgive you for that.” He pulled me toward him from behind, his hands at my hips. I felt his bare chest against my skin.
“What are the other two nights on the list?” I said, wanting to draw him out.
“Well, one was my first great coding breakthrough, and the other is not appropriate for someone as refined as you.” He turned me around. Nate was still in his jeans, and he reached into his front pocket. “Here, I picked this up for you today.” He handed me a coin, like the one Jacques de Baubin had, with Saint Joan on one side and an inscription on the other. “The church in the village was selling them for a euro. I bought one for myself, too. We can all use a little reminder to keep the faith every now and then, right?”
I rubbed the coin in my fingers, deeply touched. “Thank you, Nate. Thank you so much.” We kissed.
“I have to go to Geneva tomorrow. I can’t put it off any longer. My sister is freaking out that I missed so much of the conference, and believe me, this whole trip to Rouen was a little hard to explain to her. If I don’t meet with this Swiss company this week, we could lose the deal. Polly and JM are going to drive me to the airport on their way back into Paris.” My face must have fallen, because he reached for my chin. “I know. I don’t really want to go, either. So, while you were talking to your mother, I made a few calls. I thought we could meet in Copenhagen for a long weekend, then fly back to LA together. You can see your father’s piece at the Arken, which you haven’t seen in a while. I can buy some hard-to-find Star Wars Lego sets. And we can wander around and do nothing together for a few days. Can you get some time off?”
Probably the rest of my life if David Weller gets wind of what really happened, I thought. But at the very least, I was in the clear for the next ten days. I’d assumed I’d stay in Paris, but now, fleeing to Denmark with Nate seemed like the perfect plan. I nodded. “Aren’t you sick of me yet?”
“Not yet. Now, I didn’t say we’d spend the entire trip on the Blakely Family Memory Lane Tour. I feel like I’ve done my time on that front. But one afternoon at the museum would be a fitting way to . . .” Nate faltered. To what? Wrap this all up? Say goodbye?
“To celebrate?” I offered.
“Yes. Exactly. To celebrate.”
“I would love to meet you in Copenhagen.”
“We’ll work out logistics tomorrow.”
“Yes.” And now I had a few ideas on how to make sure that this night was at the top of Nate’s list. “How about a shower? A very unrefined shower?”
Only Beckman was in the kitchen when I went down for my morning coffee. He was sitting at the table in a plaid bathrobe, reading the paper and petting a giant calico cat that was sitting on his lap. He could have been anybody’s dad, in the morning light. He looked up. “Hey.”
“Hey. That was something last night. I was impressed.” There was a pot of French roast already made with blue ceramic mugs set out next to a white pitcher of milk. I poured myself a cup and then asked, “Do you need a refill?”
“Yes, thanks.” He folded the paper and scooted the cat away, ready to talk. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“My mother was very happy. And so was Nate.”
“And Joan? Was she happy? Or only impressed, which is not exactly a rave review.”
“Remember, I’m not here as a fan, Becks. More as a hostage.” I used my father’s nickname for him intentionally; Blackbird sounded goofy now, and Peter sounded all wrong. He’d always be Beckman to me. “I have other interests. Like protecting my mother. And my father’s memory. Your music was beautiful, and I look forward to hearing the rest and figuring out what happens next.”
“So, does that mean you’ve forgiven me?”
“I have a lot to work through still. What I know now it that I’m ready to move forward.”
Beckman looked a tad too proud.
“Do not give yourself complete credit.”
“Partial credit, though. I’m taking partial credit.”
“We still need to talk about rights to that material.”
“Peas in a pod. Your mother already mentioned that. Sharks, the both of you.” He was kidding.
I was not letting him off the hook. “It is her life you’re exploiting.”
“I object to the word ‘exploiting,’ but, yes, we can negotiate terms. Have Luther call me.” He stood up to cut himself a wedge of bread. “Is every moment with you so intense?”
“Well, Pot, or should I call you Black?” We could both laugh at that. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Of all the pages in all the notebooks, why did you include the Disneyland page? The It’s Not Really a Small World After All sketch. I understand all the others—the sketch of my mother, the archway of the retreat center—but how did you decide on that drawing?” It had been a piece of the puzzle I couldn’t solve.