"Forgive me for not quoting the exact words: 'Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye; that's all we shall know for truth before we grow old and die. I lift the gla.s.s to my mouth, I look at you and sigh.'" He takes his time raising his gla.s.s to his mouth, lets it linger on his bottom lip.

"So where's the rest of the group?" Cheryl changes the subject for the sake of Lena's trembling hands.

"We biked near Avignon and the surrounding countryside-Aix-en-Provence, Chateaurenard, Gordes, Chateauneuf du Pape, and Arles a bit farther south. I can't even remember all of the names of the towns, there were so many of them." Bruce ma.s.sages his thighs. "It was too much."

"City after city full of history. In Arles we walked through a coliseum that was built before Christ was born-avant Jesus. At least that's what I could make out-my French is rusty and wasn't that good to begin with-from the plaques at the entrance." Perhaps, Lena thinks, this is Harmon's version of small talk, and, as he wipes his palms with his napkin, she wonders if he is as nervous as she is.

"Two thousand years ago black folks ruled Africa," Cheryl says. "They probably fought in that coliseum. Bet that wasn't on the plaque."

"Yeah, that's what we said to the guide. He got a little freaked out about African blood mixing with French blood." Bruce adds, "The blood of our ancestors is everywhere."

The waiter appears at Bruce's side and asks in heavily accented, but grammatically correct English, if they have questions about the menu, if they need more time, or if they would like to order now. They don't, Bruce explains, except perhaps to pour a little more wine and a few appetizers to start. Harmon gives the waiter carte blanche to bring a few plates so they can sample the menu's offerings.

"I pa.s.sed a brother-or what looked like a brother-in the lobby, after we left the pool. I smiled, but he turned his head. Have you noticed black folks don't acknowledge one another over here? I've tried to make eye contact with a few sisters." Lena makes quotation marks in the air; the last time she used her hands that way she was talking to Randall and Dr. Brustere. Stop. "No eye contact. Nothing. It's depressing."

"The only thing I can think of is that they either don't want to be a.s.sociated with us or that color isn't as important to them as it is to Americans." Harmon speaks to the three of them, but his attention is on Lena.

Bruce goes on with an explanation: "It's simple. They're French, and for them that's what comes first. Heritage. Legacy. Birthright. That's what patrimony is all about." He pauses to let the power of patrimony sink in. "That's what's most important. Someone who looks like us, but is French, treats us the same as they would a white American. They a.s.sume we're ignorant because we don't speak their language. They view us not as slaves but as slightly beneath them-wrong word-less than them, because every American black is a descendant of slaves."

"Slavery or not, they're uninformed. They believe stereotypes based on TV and basketball." Cheryl's disposition is demure-meaning only the four of them can hear her-which Lena a.s.sumes is her way of being coy. The intense look on Bruce's face says he's serious now, and so Cheryl is serious, too, even as he breaks a chunk of bread from the small freshly baked loaves in front of him and slathers b.u.t.ter all over it.

"They should appreciate our commonality, our connections. If not in language, how about skin color, hair texture?" From the corner of her eye, Lena catches Harmon watching her. "Trust me, they're not as pure as they think. I hear it's the same way in some parts of Africa."

"I never have any problems with the French-black or white-and this is my third time here," Bruce says. "That includes this trip. Everyone's been really cordial, but heads did turn as twenty black folks went bicycling by. Especially in the smaller towns. I bet they've never seen so many of us, French or otherwise."

"Yeah, Bruce does well," Harmon chuckles at his buddy. "His only complaint is the food."

As if on cue, three waiters place dishes on the table with dramatic flare to allow time to admire the food's structured presentation: layered mullets in parsley b.u.t.ter sauce, thinly sliced meat in round swirls roasted tender enough to cut with a fork, delicate, a triangle of fresh anchovies sauteed in olive oil.

"How can someone contemplating a gourmet business complain about French food?" Lena frowns at Bruce. "The food is wonderful. Yesterday, in Vence, Cheryl and I had the best pork loin roast in the world."

"I don't disagree. The wine is great. The food is great." Bruce points to his ample belly with both hands. "It's the portion sizes that bother me."

Dinner is ordinary in the sense that conversation is smooth and entertaining. Bruce grins every time Cheryl asks him a question, answers like he has never told the important facts of his life to anyone but her. She knows more about his marketing vice presidency, his ex-wife, and one kid than Lena has learned about Harmon's recent past. The waiters serve at a moderate pace, giving them time to linger over each dish. All four work through the six-course meal-foie gras like b.u.t.ter; pale, flaky sea ba.s.s; salted crabmeat; sauteed sweetbreads with crawfish in a sauce that smells of the sea; a puree of bright green hothouse asparagus topped with dark red sun-dried tomatoes; soft, hard, and pungent cheeses-at a leisurely pace. The evening is less tense than Lena thought it would be. Fresh sea air blows through the restaurant, a pleasant mix of salt and perfume. The breeze is gentle enough to make the candles flicker, refreshing enough to clear cigarette smoke from the air.

Four hours pa.s.s, and when the bill comes, Bruce and Harmon insist on dividing the entire tab between the two of them.

"I did some research. Our options are a nearby club with disco music and dancing or the casinos in Monte Carlo," Bruce says, surprising Lena not for the first time this evening and causing her to reconsider him as playful and prepared.

"I pa.s.s." Lena pushes back from the table.

Harmon catches her left hand. "Stay. Have a gla.s.s of wine with me."

"Yes, stay with Harmon." Cheryl winks in a way that says she wants to do more than dance. "He'll make sure you get back to the hotel."

When the waiter appears at the table, Harmon orders another bottle of wine. "For savoring," he tells Lena. "And reminiscing. I've thought of you more times over the years than I can count on my fingers and toes."

"You should have been thinking about your wife."

"Did you ever think of me?" His face is momentarily innocent, like a young man's.

Harmon's birthday is two days after Randall's. Around that time the occasional thought of him entered into her mind and left just as easily; an empty thought more self-reflection or karmic happenstance than anything else. Although she would never tell Harmon this, doesn't want to give him the satisfaction, wants to keep the illusion going.

Then why is she sitting in this romantic restaurant with this man, this former lover, who thinks she is happily married?

"I worked in public relations for the city of Oakland for a while. I had a husband, kids, a household to run. When, or better yet, why why would I have time to think about you?" would I have time to think about you?"

"Not even a little?"

She admits to the time she took Camille and Kendrick to the circus and an elephant p.o.o.ped in front of them.

"What does it matter now?"

"I regretted marrying Natalie long before I found her in bed with Jessie. What do you think of that?" Harmon tells her that before their friendship ended, he questioned his buddy about Lena from time to time: Is she married? What's her husband like? Does she have children? What does she look like? Does she still take pictures? "I felt like a fool. I lost the chance to make it up to you." He tells Lena that he saw her once, sitting alone in the lobby of a Chicago hotel. He headed in her direction, but before he reached her, a man-he a.s.sumes that it was her husband-joined her and took her hand in his. Harmon considered speaking, meeting Lena's husband, but they appeared to be so much in love, the look on their faces told him they weren't interested in anyone or anything other than each other. He walked away. "I was young, dumb, and h.o.r.n.y. Tell me who you are now."

"You've had entirely too much wine, and I need to leave."

"Ah, the elusive Lena. Always so secretive."

Secretive enough, Lena thinks in the silence of Harmon's pause, to never tell him she'd had his baby sucked out of her a month after she pushed him out of the car. Never regretted her decision. Never told Randall. That wasn't secretiveness. It was their agreement: the past stayed in the past. They were born-again virgins, he said on their honeymoon. No one else mattered.

Harmon reaches for her hands. His are warm, hers cold. She cradles her hands in his for a moment until she tightens and pulls away. "Where's your wedding ring, Lena Harrison? You're not planning to cheat on your old man, are you?"

Isn't she behaving like a married woman? Is there an aroma, a pheromone that says she's no longer married? she wonders. She could change the subject, tell Harmon about Tina, about Camille and Kendrick.

"What the h.e.l.l, Harmon. I never could lie. I'm divorced, or will be by the end of January."

"Why lie at all?"

"I wanted you to believe my life was perfect. And it was, almost, at least up until this year." She wants to tell Harmon that she hasn't harbored love for him-fondness maybe, but not love. There is a tender spot in her heart for him, but her love was always, is always, Randall. "Too much truth in wine." She raises her gla.s.s in a toast and takes another sip of the rich wine that tastes of blackberries and currants.

"I missed you."

"Bulls.h.i.t."

"Truth."

"How can you claim to miss someone you happened happened to run into on the other side of the world?" She rolls her eyes, finally understanding the intent of her children's favorite response. "If this is your best line, Harmon Francis, you need to go back to the drawing board." to run into on the other side of the world?" She rolls her eyes, finally understanding the intent of her children's favorite response. "If this is your best line, Harmon Francis, you need to go back to the drawing board."

"I should've married you."

"I made my life, you yours." She can't help but chuckle. She wants to tell him that maybe the next time around he'll think with the head on his shoulders instead of the one between his legs, but he doesn't know what she knows. "You're not telling me that after all this time you're still pining for me, are you?"

"I can tell you that if you're game, I am." He divides more wine between the two of them.

"And if you hadn't seen me today, tomorrow, whenever?"

His face takes on that little boy look again. "You're the one that got away."

"Let's talk reality. Or at least if you're trying to seduce me, do it with fewer cliches." When Harmon smiles, Lena turns away to avoid his infectious humor.

"Then start by telling me who you are now."

Chapter 26.

Harmon and Lena exchange stories of their lives like two fighters: shadowboxing, ducking, sparring, parrying.

After his divorce, he took a sabbatical from the law and moved, with his sons, to the Caribbean.

Her description of her present life is simple: she is in Nice to see Tina Turner in concert, and she will do whatever it takes to meet her, get an autograph, and take her picture.

He spent three years as a consultant in St. John, studying the potential for start-up technology businesses before he moved to Chicago.

Once she returns to Oakland, there is a new job at the museum and photography cla.s.ses. She borders him in a frame using the thumbs and forefingers of both hands. Thinks of what angle might best capture the waning candlelight.

The restaurant is empty; the bottle before them half full. The wait staff, in their impeccable French way, stand at a distance yet close enough to antic.i.p.ate a signal of what to do next. Harmon winks at the waiter, who hands him two clean gla.s.ses, corks and wraps the bottle in a white napkin.

Outside, the sky is black. The lamps glow yellow along the promenade, lighting the path like mini moons. A cool breeze dusts Lena's shoulders with chill b.u.mps. They walk not hand in hand but close enough to brush against each other and continue their conversation in disjointed phrases.

He loves Shakespeare, reads it, memorizes pa.s.sages-a relief from the stiffness of legal language.

She takes pictures of buildings, architectural details, vertical lines. Inanimate things: doors, rusty fences, nails. This trip is about finding Tina Turner, about finding herself.

The promenade is edged with planked wood benches with wrought iron arms that swirl and curve and invite. Harmon waits for her to sit before he does.

"I don't want to be seen as spineless. My choices so consumed me, I lost all respect for myself."

"I find that hard to believe," he says, splashing wine into their gla.s.ses.

"In retrospect, so do I. But that's behind me now. I'm moving on." She knows this is a lie, or not quite a lie, but a good misrepresentation of the truth when she still thinks of Randall and their life together nearly every day. "Or trying to."

"So, what's your next step? I mean after Tina?"

"Must you ask so many questions?"

"It's how I make my living. And I'm nervous."

"Nervous? You're a big hunk. Why would you be nervous around l'il ole me?"

"It's good to see you. Good to be around you. You always made me a little nervous." Harmon is serious. The lines framing his mouth say take him at his word.

Between the chilly night air, Harmon, and the flittering in her stomach, Lena feels twenty all over again. On a first date with no idea of what to do except stifle a giggle. "I think I should get back to the hotel," she says without moving from the bench.

"You were always a little unpredictable and very demanding. I don't mean that in a negative sense. I mean that you make a man step up his game. Your standards were pretty high. Maybe that's why your husband couldn't handle you."

Now she does laugh. Laughs at the thought of Randall's inability to handle her or anyone. No one has called her unpredictable in a long time. She left it at the altar when she said, "I do," and let unpredictability morph into indecisiveness. "And what about you?"

"I love the law, but I'm tired of it. When you're a litigator, you fight every day. My sons called the knots that come up here," he says, touching the wide s.p.a.ce between his eyebrows, "'meanies,' because whenever I was in trial I wore them night and day. I'm looking to make a change. I want to make this next part of my life as good as but as different from the first as I can."

If this were a date, Lena thinks, they would rush to fill the gaps in their conversation. Neither makes the effort. They sip their wine and allow themselves to mull over topics too silly to repeat out loud; the tacit free a.s.sociation of couples comfortable with silence. A family strolls past them oblivious to the late hour the way Americans might be. The parents hold flashlights while the children rush to dig and dump sand into small pails.

"You remember the night I told you that I was going to choose between you and Natalie?" Harmon waits for Lena to signal yes. "Stupid, huh?"

Lena thinks of her own dependence on Randall and shakes her head no. "Most men wouldn't admit it, that's all."

"I've been divorced for thirteen years. I like my independence, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit to something I feel right now, something I thought I'd forgotten. You wear your sadness on your sleeve. Did you know that?" He wants to see her photographs, take her to bed, rid her of that sadness. Make up for his mistake. Create something new. See where it goes.

He is the litigator, she thinks, forger of compelling arguments, and her face smarts in the intensity of his words. She feels it. He feels it. She understands that her first step must be to slow down and not be swept away by supposition. Anything she does, any new relationship she starts, must be on her terms.

"I'm sure I never told you this-I'm only beginning to understand it myself. My theory has evolved over the years; I believe everything that happens is part of a master plan, a divine plan created by a higher being. G.o.d, Allah, whomever." He divides the last of the wine between their gla.s.ses. "I'm not a religious man, but I consider myself a spiritual one. I've practiced law too long to believe in coincidences."

"You Leos can be philosophical and idealistic about how life should be." Not caring much for astrology until she met with Vernon, Lena looked up the characteristics of the sign to try to understand her Leo husband better. The similarities and differences in the two men are recognizable: they both love the finer things in life, yet uncontrolled impetuosity is a characteristic Randall could never be accused of.

"Don't dismiss me, Lena, I'm serious."

"This is coincidence, Harmon." Lena points at everything around her. "We happen to be in the same place at the same time, and I don't view it as anything else but that."

Harmon explains that if she were to look at coincidence as mere happenstance, random events, or factors colliding, then yes, that would be true. But if she views coincidence as the coming together of a set of predetermined circ.u.mstances controlled by a hierarchical being, then no. "This is no coincidence. This is fate."

The beach is far from empty. The crowds are spa.r.s.e along this path, but groups of roving young people, couples, and a few solitary figures walk the beach and the promenade. The energy, the socializing, the celebration of the warm weather she observed on her first day in Nice continues late into the night. The lights, the wine do not mask or allow Lena to avoid Harmon's intensity, the possibility of his theory as truth.

"What happens when a person doesn't believe in a hierarchical being? What controls fate then?"

"It doesn't matter if you believe or not. Freedom of choice guides us to our inevitable fate. You could have very easily chosen another heroine." Harmon lowers his voice to a level just above the whoosh of the breaking sea. "Then where would you have gone, or would you have gone anywhere? You think fate has nothing to do with us meeting again?"

Someone from your past is waiting for you. Vernon's words, his prediction. Is Harmon that someone?

Tina's performance, that first time around, brought Lena and Randall together; their separation brought her back to Tina, and Tina brought her to the south of France and Harmon. Is that, she wonders, coming full circle, coincidence or fate? "I know that for the longest time, I let someone else make my choices, and when you do that you lose your power. Even though some choices were made from love, there was an element of control, too."

"Yet here you are in charge of you," Harmon says.

"This is my fate because I planned it."

"Or because your plan is part of a larger one."

Harmon provides the opportunity, the dimly lit hallway the ambience. He holds her for a long time. Lena relaxes into his shoulder. Her body aches with his touch, makes her feel her need. It is the touch of his hand on her neck, his hand against her cheek, her arm, his thigh against her thigh. It has been months since a man has touched her-with pa.s.sion or not. Months since a man has tasted her.