Long Lost (Myron Bolitar) (5 page)
I didn’t have Terese’s phone number, but I remembered the Hotel d’Aubusson. I called and left a message that I was on my way. I got onto the plane and jammed the iPod buds into my ear. I quickly slipped into that airplane half-sleep, thinking about Ali, the first time I had dated a woman with children, a widow no less, the way she turned away after she said, “We’re not forever, Myron. . . .”
Was she right?
I tried to imagine life without her.
Did I love Ali Wilder? Yes.
I had loved three women in my life. The first was Emily Downing, my college sweetheart from Duke. She had ended up dumping me for my college rival from North Carolina. My second love, the closest thing I’ve had to a soul mate, was Jessica Culver, a writer. Jessica had also crushed my heart like it was a Styrofoam cup—or maybe in the end I had crushed hers. It was hard to know anymore. I had loved her with everything I had, but it had not been enough. She was married now. To a guy named Stone. Stone. I kid you not.
The third, well, Ali Wilder. I had been the first man she dated after her husband died in the North Tower on 9/11. Our love was strong, but it was also calmer and more mature and maybe love wasn’t supposed to be like that. I knew the ending would sting but it wouldn’t be devastating. I wondered if that too came with maturity, or if after years of getting the heart crushed, you naturally start being protective.
Or maybe Ali was right. We weren’t forever. Simple as that.
There is an old Yiddish phrase I find apropos—but not by choice: “Man plans, God laughs.” I am a prime example. My life was pretty much laid out for me. I was a basketball star my entire childhood, destined to be an NBA player for the Boston Celtics. But in my very first preseason game, Big Burt Wesson slammed into me and ruined my knee. I tried gamely to come back, but there is a big difference between gamely and effectively. My career was over before I hit the parquet floor.
I was also destined to be a family man like the man I most admired in the world: Al Bolitar, my father. He had married his sweetheart, my mom, Ellen, and they moved to the suburb of Livingston, New Jersey, and raised a family and worked hard and threw barbecues in the backyard. That was supposed to be my life—supportive spouse, two-point-six children, afternoons sitting in those rickety stands watching my own offspring, a dog maybe, a rusted hoop in the driveway, visits to the Home Depot and Modell’s Sporting Goods on Saturdays. You get the idea.
But here I am, north of forty now, and still unmarried with no family.
“Would you care for a beverage?” the flight attendant asked me.
I’m not much of a drinker but I asked for a scotch and soda. Win’s drink. I needed something to numb me a little, help me sleep. I closed my eyes again. Back to blocking. Blocking was good.
So where did Terese Collins, the woman I was flying across an ocean to see, fit in?
I never thought of Terese in terms of love. Not like that anyway. I thought about her supple skin and the smell of cocoa butter. I thought about the grief coming off her in waves. I thought about the way we made love on that island, two shipwrecks. When Win finally came via yacht to bring me home, I was stronger from our time together. She was not. We said our good-byes, but that hadn’t been the end of us. Terese helped me when I needed it most, eight years ago, and then she vanished back into her hurt.
Now she was back.
For eight years, Terese Collins had been gone not only from me but from public view. In the nineties, she had been a popular TV personality, CNN’s top anchorwoman, and then, poof, gone.
The plane landed and taxied to the gate. I grabbed my bag—no need to check luggage when it was for only a couple of nights— and wondered what awaited me. I was the third off the plane, and with my long stride I quickly took the number one spot as we headed for the customs and immigration line. I had hoped to breeze through but three other flights had just landed and there was a logjam.
The line snaked through roped-off areas Disney World-style. It moved fast. The agents were mostly just waving people through, giving each passport little more than a cursory glance. When it was my turn, the female immigration officer looked at my passport, then at my face, then back at the passport, then back at me. Her eyes lingered. I smiled at her, keeping the Bolitar Charm setting on Low. I didn’t want the poor woman disrobing right there at customs.
The agent turned away as if I’d said something rude. She nodded at a male agent. When she turned back to me, I figured I should up my game. Widen the smile. Turn the charm setting from Low to Stun.
“Step to the side, please,” she said with a frown.
I was still grinning like an idiot. “Why?”
“My colleague will take care of your case.”
“I’m a case?” I said.
“Please step to the side.”
I was holding up the line and the passengers behind me were not pleased about it. I stepped to the side. The other uniformed agent said, “Please follow me.”
I didn’t like this, but what choice did I have? I wondered, why me? Maybe there was a French law against being this charming because—snap—there should be.
The agent led me into a small windowless room. The walls were beige and bare. There were two hooks behind the door with hangers on them. The seats were molded plastic. There was a table in the corner. The officer took my bag and put it on the table. He started rummaging through it.
“Empty your pockets, please. Put everything in this bowl. Remove your shoes.”
I did. Wallet, BlackBerry, loose change, shoes.
“I need to search you.”
He was pretty thorough. I was going to make a joke about him enjoying it or maybe say a boat ride on the Bateau Mouche would be nice before he felt me up, but I wondered about the French sense of humor. Wasn’t Jerry Lewis an icon here? Maybe a sight gag would be more appropriate.
“Please sit.”
I did. He left, taking the bowl with my belongings with him. For thirty minutes I sat there alone—cooling my heels, as they say. I didn’t like this.
Two men stepped into the room. The first was younger, late twenties maybe, good-looking with sandy hair and that three-day growth pretty boys use to look more rugged. He wore jeans and boots and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the start of the elbow. He leaned his back against a wall, folded his arms across his chest, and chewed a toothpick.
The second man was midfifties with oversize wire-rimmed glasses and tired gray hair that was dangerously close to a comb-over. He was drying his hands on a paper towel as he entered. His windbreaker looked like something Members Only sold in 1986.
So much for Frenchmen and their haute couture.
The older man did the talking. “What is the purpose of your visit to France?”
I looked at him, then at the toothpick chewer, then back to him. “And you are?”
“I’m Captain Berleand. This is Officer Lefebvre.”
I nodded at Lefebvre. He chewed the toothpick some more.
“Purpose of your visit?” Berleand asked again. “Business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure.”
“Where will you be staying?”
“In Paris.”
“Where in Paris?”
“At the Hotel d’Aubusson.”
He didn’t write it down. Neither of them had pen or paper.
“Will you be by yourself?” Berleand asked.
“No.”
Berleand was still wiping his hands on the paper towel. He stopped, used one finger to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. When I still hadn’t said anything else, he shrugged a “Well?” at me.
“I’m meeting a friend.”
“The friend’s name?”
“Is that necessary?” I asked.
“No, Mr. Bolitar, I’m nosy and am asking for no apparent reason.”
The French are into sarcasm.
“The name?”
“Terese Collins,” I said.
“What is your occupation?”
“I’m an agent.”
Berleand looked confused. Lefebvre, it seemed, didn’t speak English.
“I represent actors, athletes, writers, entertainers,” I explained.
Berleand nodded, satisfied. The door opened. The first officer handed Berleand the bowl with my belongings. He put it on the table next to my bag. Then he started wiping his hands again.
“You and Ms. Collins didn’t travel together, did you?”
“No, she is already in Paris.”
“I see. How long do you plan on staying in France?”
“I’m not sure. Two, three nights.”
Berleand looked at Lefebvre. Lefebvre nodded, peeled himself off the wall, headed for the door. Berleand followed.
“Sorry for any inconvenience,” Berleand said. “I hope you have a pleasant stay.”
5
TERESE Collins was waiting for me in the lobby.
She hugged me but not too hard. Her body leaned against mine for support, but again not that much, not a total collapse or anything. We were both reserved in our first greeting in eight years. Still, as we held each other, I closed my eyes and thought I could smell the cocoa butter.
My mind flashed to the Caribbean island, but mostly it flashed—let’s be honest here—to the thing that truly defined us: the soul-piercing sex. That desperate clawing and shredding that makes you understand, in a totally non-sadomasochistic way, how pain—emotional pain—and pleasure not only intermingle but amplify each other. Neither of us had an interest in words or feelings or false comforts or hand-holding or even, well, reserved hugs—as if all that stuff were too tender, as if a gentle caress might pop this fragile bubble that temporarily protected us both.
Terese pulled back. She was still knee-knockingly beautiful. There had been aging, but on some women—maybe most women in this era of too much facial tucking—a little aging works.
“So what’s wrong?” I asked.
“That’s your opening line after all these years?”
I shrugged.
“I opened with ‘Come to Paris,’ ” Terese said.
“I’m working on dialing back the charm,” I said, “at least until I know what’s wrong.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“I got a room for us. A duplex. Separate sleeping areas so we can have that option.”
I said nothing.
“Man.” Terese managed a smile. “It’s so good to see you.”
I felt the same. Maybe it had never been love, but it was there, strong and true and special. Ali said we weren’t forever. With Terese, well, maybe we weren’t everyday, but it was something, something hard to define, something you could put on a nearby shelf for years and forget about and take for granted and maybe that was how it should be.
“You knew I’d come,” I said.
“Yes. And you know the same is true if you’d been the one to call.”
I did. “You look great,” I said.
“Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”
The doorman took my suitcase and sneaked an admiring glance at Terese before giving me the universal man-to-man smirk that said,
Lucky bastard
.
Lucky bastard
.
The Rue Dauphine is a narrow road. A white van had double-parked next to a taxi, taking up nearly the entire street. The driver of the taxi was screaming what I could only assume were French obscenities but it might have just been a particularly aggressive way of asking for directions.
We turned right. It was nine in the morning. New York City might be in full swing by that hour, but strolling Parisians were still rousing themselves from their beds. We reached the Seine River at the Pont Neuf. In the distance on our right, I could see the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral. Terese started down the river walk in that direction, past the green boxes that were famous for selling antique books but seemed more intent on pushing chintzy souvenirs. Across the river, a giant fortress with a gorgeous mansard roof rose, to quote Springsteen, bold and stark.
As we got closer to Notre Dame, I said, “Would you be embarrassed if I rounded my shoulders, dragged my left leg, and shouted, ‘Sanctuary!’”
“Some might mistake you for a tourist,” Terese said.
“Good point. Maybe I should buy a beret with my name stenciled on the front.”
“Yeah, then you’d blend right in.”
Terese still had that incredible walk, head held high, shoulders back, perfect posture. One more thing I just realized about all the women in my life: They all have great walks. I find confident walks sexy, the near prowl-like way certain women enter a room as if they already own it. You can tell a lot by the way a woman walks.
We stopped at an outdoor bistro on Saint Michel. The sky was still gray but you could see the sun fighting to take control. Terese sat and studied my face for a very long time.
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