When the last conversations had faded into the distance, Thomas walked over to the altar.
He had to be quick. Open Camille’s urn, grab his father’s, which he’d hidden, transfer the ashes, and walk out as discreetly as possible.
He placed his hand on the lid, wondering if he needed to lift it off or unscrew it. But a small amount of upward pressure proved to be enough to pull it free.
“What are you doing?” Manon asked.
Thomas jumped. He hadn’t heard her come in. He quickly pushed the lid back into place, but he wasn’t able to close it properly, so he turned around toward her, using his body to shield the urn from view.
“I was paying my respects to your mother,” he said awkwardly.
“That’s very kind, thank you. But I still need you.”
“To play?”
“No, I don’t need a pianist. I need you. I can’t take being alone in the middle of all those people.”
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“I’d love that, but my father would kill me if I left. Would you mind keeping me company instead? You don’t even need to talk to me, just stay by my side so people will stop coming to offer their condolences. I’m at my wits’ end.”
“I promise to stick to you until the guests have finished all of the hors d’oeuvres. If they stay longer than that, we’ll have to improvise.”
“This is going to sound strange, but I really feel like I’ve met you before.”
Thomas kept quiet.
“Okay, that was a terrible line, I admit it,” Manon said.
“Don’t worry about it. Come on, your father is waiting for you, and I haven’t eaten all morning. Let’s hit that buffet.”
The guests had gathered in a large, brightly colored room. A huge portrait of Camille hung over the mantel of an artificial fireplace. She looked to be about fifty in the photograph. It was the first time that Thomas had really looked at the face of the woman his father had fallen madly in love with, the woman he had maintained a romance with, mostly through letters, for over twenty years.
Manon had just finished making a plate with an assortment of hors d’oeuvres, and she hurried over to Thomas before a pretentious-looking older lady wearing an anguished expression could get too close.
“Your mother was beautiful,” he said, picking up a macaron.
“I think she was lovely—which is much better than pretty. Beauty fades, but she always kept her smile, even after the rest of her was pretty much gone. Mom left us long before she died. In her final months, she kept calling me ‘miss.’ She thought I was the nurse or the cleaning lady. On really bad days, she even thought I was my father’s daughter by another woman. She would scream that I couldn’t take her daughter’s place even if shewasungrateful and neglectful of her mother. And thenat other times, a light would come into her eyes, and I felt like she recognized me, though she didn’t say so. Now I can finally grieve. I’m sorry, this isn’t the happiest of topics.”
“Don’t worry. You can say whatever you need to. That’s why I’m here.”
“I hardly think you came to San Francisco to attend Mom’s funeral, and certainly not to help get me through it. You’ll have such lovely memories of your trip to share! I hope you’ll at least be able to laugh about them.”
“Only with you, I promise.”
“You were terrific on the piano. When you said you were a musician, I thought you were just bragging. Everyone in this city claims to be an artist, but I see now I was wrong about you.”
“No need for praise. It’s actually my job,” Thomas replied with a shrug.
“Being able to express your emotions without words must feel like magic.”
“But you haven’t told me what you do for a living.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I’m asking now.”
“I’m a pastry chef. I’m glad you like my macarons. Eight in a row, that may be a record!”
