We spent the next day together in the hangar. George-Harrison was running behind on a job, and I got a kick out of watching a master at work. As he carved out the legs for a chest of drawers, I found the lathe especially fascinating. The way the wood whistled as the chips flew made it seem like a musical instrument, and watching the spirals take shape was utterly mesmerizing. It was beautiful to see someone so passionate about their craft. A little later, George-Harrison assembled the whole piece, explaining that the key was to sculpt the tenons so they fit perfectly into each mortise. While I thought he was pushing it with all the jargon, I played along and pretended to be fascinated by all the details. He studied the chest carefully from every angle until he was satisfied with the results. I gave him a hand loading it into his pickup, then agreed to come along and help unload it at the antiques shop.
As we stepped inside, Pierre Tremblay looked up from his newspaper and leapt to his feet, greeting us warmly. The man was positively over the moon about meeting me. I could tell by the kind, warm look in his eyes that it wasn’t every day “GH” brought someone to meet him. However, his face fell when he saw the chest of drawers. He shook his head in disappointment, pouting and telling us to just leave it in the back.
“Really? You’re not going to put it out front in the window?” asked George-Harrison, feigning surprise. Pierre grumbled something about leaving it in the corner overnight until he made up his mind, then George-Harrison asked the antiques dealer to join us for dinner. They chose La Mère Denise so I could feast my eyes on their “authentic” antique eighteenth-century bookcase. The forgery was undeniably impressive, even to the untrained eye. Seeing George-Harrison’s talent filled me with a sense of pride, however silly that sounds.
Pierre Tremblay recommended the bouillabaisse from the Magdalen Islands, which he thought would pair perfectly with a dry white wine from Les Brome—a local Quebecois winemaker, he noted with hometown pride. After a warm toast, Pierre leaned in to George-Harrison and raised the delicate subject of the chest of drawers, chalking the whole thing up to a misunderstanding.
“I know you’re not going to want to hear this, GH,” he said. “But I think I asked you for an antique sled, not a chest of drawers.”
“Indeed, you did,” George-Harrison shot back. “And I asked you for any leads on my father, only about a thousand times. Since you never had any, or at least none you were willing to share, I had to go out and do some digging of my own. Which took a very long time. Nobody can be in two places at once, as they say. So, it was either hit the road or work on your sled. So, the sled had to wait, you see. Count yourself lucky. I started that old chest of drawers a while back, and spent all day today putting the finishing touches on it so I wouldn’t come empty-handed.”
“I see,” Pierre grunted. “So, the whole dinner invitation, introducing me to this fine young lady . . . was just a trap?”
“What good would that be, since you don’t know anything?”
“Easy now,” Pierre cautioned. “Don’t make a scene and get all nasty in the middle of a restaurant. I never told you anything because I wasn’t allowed to. I made a promise. And a promise is a promise, as they say.”
“What exactly did you promise?”
“Not to say a word, GH. Not while she’s still around.”
“But she’s not really still ‘around,’ now is she, Pierre? The woman you made that promise to is gone; she doesn’t even know who she is most of the time.”
“I will not have you talk about your mother like that.”
“It’s sad but true, and you know it. You’ve seen it yourself, many times over. You think I’m blind? You didn’t think I’d recognize all the furniture you brought out there to spruce up her bedroom? Bedside table, pedestal table next to the door, Victorian armchair by the window . . . You’ve gone to see her enough times to bring a whole bedroom set.”
“Well, somebody had to go.”
“Don’t play the guilt card. I’m sure she prefers getting attention from you over me any day. Now, I’m asking you to do exactly what you should have done from the minute I told you about that letter, and tell me what you know.”
“What I know? First, you tell me: What’s any of this got to do with your new friend here?”
“Eleanor-Rigby is Sally-Anne Stanfield’s daughter,” George-Harrison responded, calm and steady as always.