Paul kept glancing furtively at a piano that stood against one of the walls.
“Do you play?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, I started very young. I rented a piano when I was living in Paris, but I never played it. My heart wasn’t in it then. I started up again when we moved back here.”
“What neighborhood did you live in?” Thomas asked, making polite conversation.
“Rue de Bretagne. But I spent most of my time in Montmartre—so inspiring.”
“What a small world! My dad used to live on that street. Arthur tells me you’re a writer.”
“Supposedly. But I haven’t made any progress on my manuscript in months.”
“Why not?”
“I’m madly in love with Mia, and as if that weren’t bad enough, we’re happy.”
“I see,” Thomas replied.
“My editor won’t leave me alone. On a night like tonight, I should be sitting at my desk, but I always find an excuse to do something else. I’m afraid to finish it and even more afraid that people will read it. But that’s enough about me. Are you traveling for work?”
“No,” Thomas said hesitantly. “I’m actually here for my father.”
“Who lived on Rue de Bretagne! He’s in San Francisco now?”
“He’s no longer with us, but he wanted his ashes scattered at Golden Gate Park.”
Paul took a notebook out of his pocket and started jotting something down. “Go ahead. Tell me more,” he said, chewing on the end of his pen. “You’ve given me an idea.” Paul seemed to be waiting for Thomas to continue, his eyes focused on the paper.
“You don’t want to know. That’s only the tip of the iceberg. And no one would believe any of it, unless they’re into ghost stories.”
“Clearly, you have no idea who you’re talking to. I could have gotten a doctorate in ectoplasm studies with all I know about the subject. But what’s all this about ghosts? Is your father haunting you?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“That’s fantastic!” Paul exclaimed. “A father returned from the great beyond to work out differences with his loved ones. I’m telling you, nowthat’sa story.”
“If you say so. You’re the writer.”
Paul stared at Thomas and put away his pen. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate of me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not offended. You keep looking over at that piano. You should go play.”
“Yes, why not?” Paul agreed. “Mia would love that. Should I play some jazz or something classical?”
“Classical music might spoil the atmosphere.”
Paul winked knowingly at Thomas as he sat down on the piano bench. He uncovered the keys and began a ragtime number, turning toward his friends to see if they were listening.
They had in fact all gone quiet, as had several other tables, whose occupants were now focused on Paul. But not Lauren. She was looking at Thomas. “Do you play too?” she asked, leaning toward him.
“What makes you think that?”
“Your fingers have been drumming on the table ever since Paul started this little tune.”
Thomas nodded.
“Will you play something for us?”
