“Tell me: How’s your whole Beatles thing coming along?” she asked, meaning George-Harrison.
“It’s not.”
“That’s a relief. Like I’ve been telling you, he could still be in it just to make off with the loot. I still haven’t heard anything to convince me he’s not the poison-pen, or that he’s not just using you to get closer to the treasure.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If there’s one subject I’m an expert in, it’s men. Talk to you tomorrow, sis.”
As I said goodbye to my sister, I realized the truth was out and there was no turning back. I was part of a family I would never meet, people whom I knew nothing about. Out of respect for my mother’s memory, I vowed not to look for their final resting places. Visiting their graves would do nothing except make me feel like I was betraying her. However, I was intrigued by Sam Goldstein. My mother had taken his name as her own, so he must have had some redeeming qualities. I was eager to learn more about him. And about the Stanfields, too, to be quite honest.
I approached the pickup to find George-Harrison waiting for me behind the wheel. He gave me a questioning thumbs-up, clearly concerned over whether my father and I had patched things up.
Maggie was dead wrong. One look was all I needed to convince me George-Harrison couldn’t be the poison-pen. No way.
“Everything okay?” he asked as he opened the door for me.
“Yes, or at least it will be first thing tomorrow.”
“Perfect. Where to now?”
I felt guilty thinking once more that my side of the investigation was advancing so rapidly, while his seemed to be at a standstill. The best I could do was apologize, but he just shrugged it off.
“I’ve been waiting so long, so what if it’s not this week, this month, this year . . . or even this lifetime?”
“Hey, don’t talk like that! We’re going to find your father. I promised, remember?”
“We’ll see. In the meantime, there’s still one person I can think of who knows more than he’s letting on. So, first thing tomorrow, we head back for round two with Professor Morrison.”
I looked straight at him. An old pickup truck parked on a forgettable Baltimore street is probably one of the world’s least romantic settings, and yet, right then and there, probably still reeling from my emotional roller-coaster ride, I decided to lean in and kiss George-Harrison.
It was a long, passionate kiss, the type that makes you forget where you are . . . unforgettable and full of tenderness. It didn’t seem like a first kiss at all, strangely enough. It was so familiar and natural, it felt like we had known each other forever.
At last, I pulled away, my cheeks flushed and red. “I don’t know what came over me,” I stammered. George-Harrison started the car without a word, and we drove on for a long while in silence, our hands clasped together.
32
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Baltimore