“Truly, no detail escapes you, detective. Maybe he was casing the place. Mr. Bartel’s daughter spoke to him. In fact, she’s the one who went and got him for the service. Our gardener saw them together outside.”
“Where might I find this young woman?”
“We have her father’s address.”
The detective copied it down in his notebook and left.
Thomas woke up late. He heard noise coming from the living room and found his father sitting in front of the TV.
“How did you turn it on?”
“No idea. I thought really hard about it and poof! Wavelengths work in mysterious ways—I spent my entire life working as a surgeon only to be reincarnated as a remote control. Totally worth it, am I right?”
Thomas sat down next to him. He wished they could trade places, wished he could protect and reassure his father. He would have liked to tell him that things would be better the next day, even though he knew they were running out of time together. But Raymond made the first move, as always, to console Thomas.
“Don’t be glum, son. We tried. And this trip gave us some extra time together. Not everyone gets that. I can’t bear to see you sad because of me. I had a wonderful life, and yours will be even better. Think ofall that’s ahead of you: concerts, love, the beauty of sunrises, the joy of being alive, everything you have yet to experience. It’s wonderful. Do you realize how lucky you are? Don’t waste a single second feeling sorry for me. I made my choices and wouldn’t change them for the world. Even though I worked a lot, I raised you too; I loved you, watched you grow and become a man—such a good man! So, believe me, I’ll be going without any regrets, except for Camille, but I’m sure she’ll understand. You and I don’t have much time left, so go ahead, ask me anything you want. Actually, just ask me one question, whichever one is most important to you, and I promise to answer.”
Thomas looked affectionately at his father and asked, “Tell me, Dad: What does it mean to be a father?”
“What time is your plane?”
Manon lifted the metal security gate halfway up and ducked to get into the bookstore. Then she turned off the alarm and looked around. She loved this time of day, before opening, when she could walk alone among the shelves, take inventory of her stock, flip through a book she grabbed off a table, or choose what she would read to her mother in the afternoon. She put down the book she’d picked up. It struck her that, starting now, life was back to normal. Manon wasn’t the kind of person to let herself wallow; she had inherited Camille’s optimism.
She walked into the storeroom and started opening boxes full of the summer’s new releases. Books were published seasonally, but their release dates didn’t always coincide with the best time for reading them. Manon spent a lot of time shelving them appropriately. She would place them on tables, arranging them like flowers in a vase—never by theme. She wanted to kindle customers’ curiosity. Booksellers live to answer readers’ questions. Giving advice, making recommendations, and sharing in a customer’s delight all brought her joy, even when the reader wasn’t particularly friendly.
That thought reminded her of the order she had placed for the antiques dealer next door. She rifled through the boxes she’d received that week and pulled out the titles he’d requested. Then she returned to her desk behind the counter to start on the accounting. A pile of bills was waiting—but they would have to wait some more.
She had just received a text.
Saying that he needed time to pack, Thomas escaped to the bedroom while his father watched yet another episode of his new favorite show. He climbed out the window, crossed the yard, walked up the alley that ran along the side of the house, and knocked on his hosts’ door.
A few minutes later, he returned the way he’d come.
Next, he worked up the courage to call his agent and ask for a favor.
“What are you doing in San Francisco?” Marie-Dominique asked. “I believe you’re supposed to be in Paris.”
“My father always said belief is for religion.”
“Leave your poor father out of it. So, what’s your plan exactly? Are you going to come back to Paris—in time to hop on a plane to Warsaw and play after flying all night? Is that really reasonable?”
“More reasonable than canceling the concert. But I have no choice. I have to stay here one more day.”
“So, you need me to get your ticket to Warsaw.” Marie-Dominique sighed. “Will you ever change?”
“If I changed, you wouldn’t like me as much.”
“Who says I like you? You’re terrible.”
“Marie-Do, don’t make me beg. Oh, all right, I’m begging you.”
“A simple ‘please’ would have done the trick. Fine, I’ll get you a San Francisco–Warsaw flight. I can’t promise it’ll be direct, but I’ll make sure you get there on time. And you, you’d better play like a god, jet lag be damned.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Arrogant to boot! I hear you slipped up at Pleyel last Friday. The conductor was not pleased.”
“Bad workmen blame their tools. If he had done a better job conducting, he wouldn’t have had anything to complain about.”
