“Okay, Suzi . . .” My face reddened like a teenager. “Got it. Totally understand. Thanks for sharing, Mom.”
She was very pleased with herself, and I was worried she was going to give more details, but she surprised me. “He’s pretty unbelievable onstage, isn’t he?” I nodded. He was. “But really I was thinking, ‘If he can do that at his age, why can’t I do my thing at my age?’”
“So you’re going back to full-time groupie-hood?”
“No, strutting my stuff. I miss being in the limelight, Joanie. I know that was never your thing, but it was mine. I loved modeling, playing the part with the hair and makeup and clothes. I want to be relevant again, not famous, but I want to at least show up in my own life. Wasn’t that why your father gave Beckman the notebooks and said to keep them for ten years?”
“True. Henry Blakely wasn’t ready to become a biannual think piece in the New Yorker.”
“I so get that. If the notebooks’ reappearance means anything to me, it’s that I’m not done yet. I was jealous of Peter up there, staying true to himself after all these years.”
“So, what does that mean? Staying here and working out of Paris?”
There was a definitive head shake. “Oh, no. I can’t compete with the Frenchwomen my age. I’ve had too much sun, and they have a genetic advantage. And really, whatever this is with Peter, it’s temporary. Or, let’s at least say, not full-time.” She paused for effect to take a sip of wine and look out over the street. “But, what do you think if I move to New York? Get a little place in the Village. Be part of the scene again, if there is a scene in the Village anymore.”
“According to my sources, the scene all moved to Brooklyn in 2009,” I said, then saw how determined she looked. She meant it. “Seriously? Back to the Village?”
“Yes. Seriously. That’s what I was thinking about last night. There must be an Eileen Fisher catalog shoot I can get in on. I can call my good friend Ralph, see if he needs a young grandmother in the Holiday campaign. Of course, I’d have to detox, do a cleanse, a month of boot camp, and, you know, whatever it takes to look my best, courtesy of Dr. Injectable. And my agent will have to call in a few favors to get some new decent portfolio shots. But I’ve still got it, right?”
I was stunned and thrilled at the revelation. “Oh my God, yes. A million times yes. You should totally do that. New York. Modeling. Everything. Jump back in.”
“It will mean some changes. As long as we’re selling the Motel, maybe it’s time to sell the house in Pasadena.” She said it gently, as if I might crumble at the suggestion.
But as soon as it came out of her mouth, the mantle of responsibility was lifted off my shoulders. I felt a lightness immediately, freedom. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I love the house, but now it’s too much for me.” I didn’t want to admit that Casey had soured the last of the good vibes I got from the place. Plus, I needed a change. “We both need to move on. We should do it on our terms, though, not on Beckman’s.”
“Agreed.”
Then I added something of my own delicate situation. “There’s something I’ve been thinking for a while, since that visit to Ojai. Maybe we need someone outside the family but inside the art world to run the Henry Blakely Foundation. Especially now that we have the notebooks back. There really is a Henry Blakely archives now. And I don’t want to be the de facto person in charge anymore. I think Tai would be a great choice. He’s a scholar, knowledgeable about Dad’s work, and we know him, he knows us, so he’d be respectful but bold and thoughtful in his approach. He’s eager to strike out on his own, apart from the WAM. I think we should talk to Luther about structuring the foundation with a paid position for Tai and an assistant or two, even if it means selling some of the artwork at the house for an endowment. Plus, Tai adores your personal style.”
Without hesitation, my mother chimed in. “Brilliant. Oh, Joanie, you’re brilliant. I loved your Dad, but I’m not the best person to carry on his artistic legacy. I was good at managing him, but not his place in history.”
“Me neither. Frankly, after this last week, I’ve sorta had it up to here with his artistic legacy.”
“Cheers to that!” We clinked glasses, attracting the attention of the table of Germans and the waiter who asked if we needed anything else. My mother asked for some water without bubbles and the check in her decent French.
I carried on, “And, not to give Peter Beckman too much credit, but I think it’s time for me to leave the museum. That is, if I don’t get fired when I tell David Weller what actually happened, which, of course, I have to do.”
I could tell that pleased my mother. She’d been a bullhorn about leaving since the departure of Casey. But she played it cool. “What will you do?”
“Travel, for sure. Go back to school, maybe for an MBA in arts management. Then, a gallery of my own, someplace new. I’m ready.” Then, without any buildup, I told my mother what I’d kept hidden from Nate. “I heard from Casey.”
She perked up. “When? About what?”
“Well, I saw him at LAX when I was flying out. There he was with the whole family, off to Belize for his art show, apparently, and he looked . . . not happy. Kinda terrible actually, which made me kinda happy. Then, the next day, I got an email from him. He wants to see me again and see if we can ‘heal together.’ That’s what he said: ‘I’ve thought about you a lot since seeing you at the airport and I think we should talk so we can heal together.’”
“Sure, a few months of full-time fatherhood and a lame offshore art opening and now he wants back into the Blakely Family fold.” I was surprised she knew about his exhibit. “Polly told me in the car about the show and the airport sighting. We did some digging. The reviews were meh.”
“I know. I checked, too, after Polly told me. He doesn’t want to heal together; he wants to self-promote using my name. Like old times. He’s lost a little of his art-world cred.”
“I would say a lot of his credibility. So transparent.”
“He went on to say that he’d made a big mistake, wished he done everything differently, and seeing me made him realize that I had always been the calm in the storm. He actually wrote, ‘You were my North Star.’ I mean, really . . .”
“That’s no Peter Beckman lyric. What a . . . I don’t even know the word for him.”
“Coward?”
“Did you respond?”
“At first, no. But then I sent him a brief note. I wished him well in his future endeavors, because I thought that sounded like a college rejection letter. I ended with the request that all communication should go through my lawyer and, once we’d finalized the sale of the Motel, that would be the last of our contact.”
“Did you hear back?”
I shook my head. “No, I shut him down. And you know what? It wasn’t hard at all. I’m glad that I didn’t waste one more minute with him. Not one.”
“Here’s to you.”
We toasted again, with the dregs of our beverages, as the water and the check arrived. My mother pulled out twenty euros to cover the bill and handed it back to the waiter, who smiled with something more than gratitude. An appreciation for her effort on all fronts, from her attempt at French to her roots’ maintenance to her command of navy and beige.
I thought about what my mother had said about Beckman, about not handing over control at her age. We had something in common. My future felt like my own. “I have to admit, I’m relieved. I thought I’d be spending Christmases here with the two of you like some sort of adult third-wheel child.”
“You’d never be a third wheel anywhere but, really, I wouldn’t worry about holidays yet. I mean, I’m not leaving right away. Remember, ten years of cold storage, so I think I’ll stay a few weeks at least and enjoy all that France has to offer.”
Pretty sure France was a metaphor in that sentence. “Okay, see, I can’t have this conversation with you.”