Manon said good night to her father and closed the window, then started the car.
Mr. Bartel watched the Prius drive off into the distance. When he went back inside, he placed Camille’s urn in the library closet and set an alarm before going to bed.
Raymond was watching TV in the living room. Thomas was dozing in the bedroom.Ray Donovanwas on Showtime.
“Rwayis pretty good, don’t you think?” said Raymond, struggling to pronounce the name with an American accent.
“What are you talking about?” his son mumbled.
“Maybe I’ll start going by Ray for short! So stylish.”
“How are you still so obsessed with style at your age?” asked Thomas.
“What do you mean? I’m ageless!”
Thomas sat up in bed. His father was trying to act lighthearted, but he wasn’t fooled. Yes, he’d managed to get Raymond’s urn back. But their trip was still a failure.
He got up and grabbed his laptop, and when he checked his email, he found one from Manon.
Dear Thomas,
When I got home earlier, I turned on my computer to catch up on all the work I haven’t kept up with these past few months. I don’t remember if I told you, but I run a bookstore on Geary Street. It’s not very big, but I love it. My mind was wandering, so I did a little digging online. I know it’s very nosy of me, but it’s to be expected in this day and age. I typed in the words “pianist” and “France” and found out who you are. When I saw the videos of you performing, I realized what an amazing gift you gave me today. How many people came to see you play in Stockholm? A thousand? Two thousand? Maybe more.
I feel terrible about making you play for fifty people—and in a mausoleum! You didn’t ask for anything in return, despite the fact that I was a perfect stranger and the repertoire was hardly the one you’re used to. I just needed to write to thank you and to let you know I’ll always remember what you did for me.
I love the company of books and wouldn’t change professions for the world, but the look in your eyes when you were playing was something I’ve never seen before. I’ll admit, I envied you.
If I make it to France someday, I’ll come hear you play. I imagine that, given all the faces you must see on your tours, you’ll have forgotten mine by then, butI’ll remind you of the day I buried my mother, when you helped comfort a stranger.
Thank you for being there and for your generosity.
Manon
Thomas read through the email a second time before drafting his own.
Dear Manon,
I’m not the disinterested Samaritan you think I am.
I knew perfectly well who you were. The truth is unbelievable. If only I’d been able to share this part of it with you sooner.
My father and your mother were madly in love for over twenty years. They loved one another in silence, despite the physical distance between them and the obligations and expectations of the time. I only found out recently, while learning about my father’s last wishes.
I lied to you. I didn’t just happen to be in that park. I had come to steal your mother’s remains on the very day you were burying her, in order to fulfill their ultimate wish—to be together forever.
I’d like to find the words to justify my actions, but there aren’t any.
You don’t owe me any thanks. In fact, I owe you an apology.
Please know that I only acted out of love for my father. I guess I decided eternity was worth a lie.
Please forgive me.
Thomas
The television had just gone silent. Thomas quickly closed his computer before he could send the email. He slipped it under the covers and buried his head in his pillow.
Raymond watched his son from the doorway and smiled. “I can’t sleep, either. Well, you know what I mean. You can sleep on the plane. I’ll spend tonight in the living room. Try to get some rest.”
