"Invite me in." A meaningful medley of warnings swims around Lena's head: blood tests, condoms, HIV screenings, complications from one-night stands for baby boomers unaccustomed to playing the field after such long timeouts. Harmon holds her; his lips soft against her own seem to fit her mouth. He leans against the doorjamb, holding her hand, and Lena feels like a teenager at the door of her parents' home.

"Why should I?" This is not revenge, she thinks, although it is definitely l.u.s.t. Her chance to prove him wrong. She wants s.e.x, and she'll have it. Maybe Harmon, maybe not. She is probably overthinking s.e.x-like Bobbie knew she was overthinking Tina.

"We're adults. Adults way over fifty." Harmon slides his forefinger down the length of Lena's cheek. "No need to play games. I want to be with you. I want you to know how sorry I am."

"You've apologized." Lena smirks, thinking back to that long-ago conversation with Jessie. "Why would I want to be with someone who was less than satisfied with my bedroom performance?" Gotcha.

Harmon chuckles. "Like you say, that was a long time ago. I could offer a couple of bulls.h.i.t reasons to explain my idiocy. Hopefully, I'm smarter than that now." He pulls Lena into his arms and kisses her again. Long. Slow. Hungry. Hard.

Lena slips the magnetic card into the lock; the machinery whirs and the door springs open as Harmon turns to leave. Inside, the lights are on, the room is empty, and Cheryl is nowhere to be found. Why, she wonders, should she deny herself? What difference does it make what Harmon thought twenty-six years ago? She's not the same person she was six months, let alone twenty-six years, ago. Old habits die hard. Break those habits, is what Tina would say. Take the next step to the new Lena.

"We're both too old for games this time around, Harmon." She reaches for his hand and guides him into the room, presses her body, her lips, against his. He tastes like wine: blackberries and currants. She is in control, and his body shows her he likes it.

Slow. Slow. She wants to go slow. To relish what she hasn't felt for almost eight months. Harmon's body, uncannily familiar in this foreign place, molds into hers. He smells like a waning winter fire, like expensive cologne she knows but can't remember the name of. Not like Randall: pepper and cinnamon. Lena shrinks away from Harmon and moves to the other side of the room. Will she remember how to make love, to screw, to get it on? "I can't."

When he reaches her, leaning against the curtains as if they were the only things holding her up, Harmon presses his fingers to her lips. "You're safe with me." With the rhythm of an easy two-step, they move past the bathroom and the desk and the mess she wishes wasn't there. To the bed. They touch: she his rounded belly, he her rounded hips.

Lena bends beside the lamp and reaches for the switch. Let the darkness hide her imperfections: the scar of her caesarian, the mound of her stomach, her dimpled thighs. Harmon pulls her hand away from the light.

"What do you fear right now?" He makes the moment stop; his way of going slow. Talking. He strokes her neck, glides his tongue across her shoulder, unzips her dress, the metal of the zipper so close to her skin she shivers as Harmon inches it down her back. Her dress slips to the floor with a faint swish.

"My body... I'm not twenty-nine anymore."

Harmon takes off his jacket, unb.u.t.tons his shirt, and lets his pants drop to the floor. Stepping out of his pants and shoes, he removes the rest of his clothes and tosses them on the other bed. "And neither am I." He stands, naked, in front of Lena and takes her hand. Like a brush skimming an artist's canvas, he moves her hand to his shoulder. "This is where they cut me when I had surgery on my shoulder." He presses her hand against the thick scar and lowers it to a rough, keloid line of skin near his waist. "And this is from having my appendix removed." His voice is deep and thoughtful. "They thought I might die, I was in so much pain before they took it out."

The memory of s.e.x with Harmon floods back. He likes to mix up the senses of touch and hearing, of taste and sight. The effect of concentrating on mind and body makes the room seem to spin around them. Randall's hands talked all over her body. Randall's hands talked all over her body. Harmon unhooks her bra, slides her panties down down down, drops to his knees, and nibbles at the scar that crosses her stomach. "Tell me." Harmon unhooks her bra, slides her panties down down down, drops to his knees, and nibbles at the scar that crosses her stomach. "Tell me."

"I was in labor sixteen hours before they cut me." Twenty-three years with one man. They grew accustomed to one another; predictable. "Take your time."

Harmon kisses the mole below her collarbone, cups her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his hands, kneads them, blows his warm breath across her nipples, presses his lips to them. Lena's body goes limp, then arches, relishing in this touch, in the here and now.

They go on like this and more. Licking, sucking, swaying in rhythm to the music in her head. He hears the same song; he moves with her. Onto the bed, beneath the sheets, grinding like there is no tomorrow. They are awkward and familiar at the same time.

"Feel it, Lena." He pushes while her body throbs. "Feel how sorry I am."

This is not making love; she does not love him.

Pepper and cinnamon. The thin scar at the base of Randall's throat. Unexpected sadness and joy.

Slow then fast. Fast then slow. "Say you forgive me."

Randall's fingers played her back like a piano. Lena shivers. Old images creep between the sheets and, as hard as she tries, the vision of Randall, of that curve between his shoulder and neck, the knot of his Adam's apple, will not disappear. Will not disappear while her body follows Harmon's moves so strong and sweet. Lena shivers. Old images creep between the sheets and, as hard as she tries, the vision of Randall, of that curve between his shoulder and neck, the knot of his Adam's apple, will not disappear. Will not disappear while her body follows Harmon's moves so strong and sweet.

Until death do us part; loving his body, his mind, forever. Never, never again was she to be with, to feel this good with, another man. Never, never again was she to be with, to feel this good with, another man.

His caresses move from her throat to thigh. Tingling, a moan stirring between her thighs, pulling, moving up her stomach, over her breast, and catching in her throat. It consumes her, that heat, and she holds her breath, releases, breathes into his stroke until she cannot remember where she is. "It doesn't matter. Doesn't matter anymore."

Lena squints at the clock beside her bed and tiptoes into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, she splashes cold water on her puffy face and prays that Harmon took her tears for joy. She turns the shower on, steps into the oversized tub, and lets the hot water beat against her skin.

"Can I join you?" Harmon asks from the other side of the bathroom.

"Isn't it time you went back to your room?" She grins and summons him with her fingers. In the old days they smoked after s.e.x like in the movies, and she wonders where those dark cigarettes are. Harmon presses against her back. She wants him to leave, wants him to stay. Wants to do it one more time.

His body says he wants her, too, and she wants to say, not so bad after all; but this touch, this rubbing against her, this heat is all she wants. Harmon's hands glide over her body. He turns Lena around to face him. "Seeing ghosts?"

"Now it's my turn to be sorry," she whispers. Slowly, deliberately, she nuzzles with lips, with hand, his swollen organ, the curve of his arm, the scar at his waist, the rise of his chest. Lena nibbles his shoulder, strokes him until he moans and moans. He is a hungry man-her body his buffet: her face, her navel, the crisscross scar on her knee. He sucks at her impatiently while the water beats against his back, enters her sweet wetness, pushes pushes pushes until she believes she cannot breathe; and yet she does.

Chapter 27.

So, did you sleep with him?" Cheryl lets the sugar from the shaker rain into her coffee. "I waited a polite amount of time before I asked. Aren't you proud of me?"

The air is filled with the aromas of everyday life: bread and yeast, croissants, thyme, rosemary, lavender, rose potpourri, orange blossom tea. The cafe at the old Negresco Hotel is a comfortable meeting spot after their full morning of aimless rambling, watching the tourists and the huge yachts make their way across the sea. Lena grumbles and sips one of the two cafe cremes sitting in front of her and dips a flaky croissant into the other.

"Oh, you did! You did!" Cheryl's shrill excitement attracts the stares of the people around her. She lowers her voice. "If you didn't, you would have denied it by now. Hooray! Tell me everything."

Lena flips through Paris Match, Paris Match, eyes fastened to the page, even though she doesn't understand one word in the famous French magazine. "Nope. You tell me about Bruce." eyes fastened to the page, even though she doesn't understand one word in the famous French magazine. "Nope. You tell me about Bruce."

"You are sooo chickens.h.i.t." Cheryl yanks the magazine away from her girlfriend's hand and grins. "Well, if you won't talk, I will."

Bruce and Cheryl stayed out all night; it hadn't been their intention, but that's the way it ended up. The restaurant hostess told them, on their way out, about a disco for the over-forty, sophisticated crowd. They found their way to the club, danced until one to old Motown music, then left when the deejay changed to techno. Feeling full of energy, they went to Monte Carlo and gambled all night long, with Bruce's money. Cheryl kept her winnings.

"I won a thousand euros at the roulette table. And to top it off, we didn't even sleep together. We found a cafe and ate a big American-style breakfast. We talked. Can you believe that?" Cheryl slaps Lena's arm. "So... did you or didn't you?"

"I wonder if they have cheese?" Lena turns to the side, the side opposite Cheryl's eager face, and scours the chalkboard sign above the bar. "Fromage. That's it, right?"

"What are you hiding it for, Lena? You're a grown woman. It's not like you're having an affair. You might as well tell me now. I'll be able to tell when you two are together, anyway."

"You'll just have to wait till then." Lena yawns. "Lighten up."

Bruce and Harmon look like Mutt and Jeff together. Instead of short and tall, they are tall and taller. As the two men approach the cafe, women on the street turn, their smiles flirtatious and appreciative at the same time. Both men acknowledge the women and keep their eyes on Cheryl and Lena.

"Yep, you did," Cheryl teases. "He stared last night. Today he looks satisfied."

Bruce runs his hand over the top of her head. Cheryl cuddles into him. Lena has never seen any man dare to touch Cheryl's hair, nor has she ever seen her friend's blush appear because of a man's attention. Bruce is different from the kind of man Cheryl dates, perhaps because he is closer to her own age, perhaps because his stomach extends beyond his waistband by more than a little and there is a lot of gray in his thinning hair. Lena thought Cheryl preferred struggling artistic types-she asked for Imara-bartender-artist's number after Marcia's party. The heavy bracelet dangling from Bruce's left wrist, the gold Cartier digging into his right wrist, his alligator sandals-all suggest money. There is tenderness in his eyes when he looks at Cheryl, and his look evokes the same in hers.

"So what's the plan?" Bruce asks.

Fourteen days to the concert; days of moderate heat, cloudless skies, and soft breezes. Four have come and gone since Lena and Cheryl arrived in Nice, and Lena hasn't researched Villefranche or figured out how she can get backstage to meet Tina without seeming like a crazed fan.

"Lena's looking for Tina Turner. I'm just along for the ride," Cheryl t.i.tters. "She's her role model."

Lena rolls her eyes, wondering if this channeling of Camille will never stop. Cheryl is a blabbermouth; her quirks are starting to come back to Lena.

"Are you're going to change your hairstyle to match Tina's? Maybe there's a wig shop around here." Bruce howls at this thought. "Or maybe we can find a Thunderdome outfit. The possibilities are endless."

"I don't know you, Bruce. And you don't know me well enough to mock me." Before Tina, before Vence and Philip, before Harmon, Lena knows her first inclination would have been to cut her eyes at Cheryl and stomp off to the barrier that separates the cafe from the street. Now she hits Bruce's arm with a half-playful, half serious punch.

"Hey, it was funny. No biggie. I'm sorry." Bruce turns from Cheryl to Harmon then Lena with a quizzical look on his face. Lena wonders how it is that such a big man can be so whiny.

"Bruce is only kidding. It takes a while to get used to his sense of humor. You'll get to understand him, once you've been around him longer. But I've got to admit, I'm as curious as he doesn't know how to say he is. Why Tina?"

Traffic horns blare. If she closed her eyes, Lena thinks, they could be anywhere. She prays Harmon's intentions are as sincere as his words. Had he always been this caring? Last night they stayed awake until the drapes lightened with the morning sun. Before she told him he had to go back to his room, he asked more about her than anyone has in a long time. What she wants out of life, what her next steps are. Why she is no longer married. If she is still in love with her soon-to-be ex.

"She conquered fear." Lena takes in the view and releases a long sigh. This is not just anywhere. Everything from the calm sea to the stone-faced mountains is old, historic. The houses, the wrought iron balconies, the ma.s.sive buildings, sidewalks, the streets. "I don't know why I'm being so defensive. It feels good to say it out loud: Tina conquered fear. She makes me feel like I can do anything, makes me know change is possible, and age isn't a barrier."

If the acknowledgment that spreads over Cheryl's face, even Bruce's chubby face and Harmon's, has not made this trip, this search, worth the pain it cost, then Lena is not clear what will.

"Tina Turner hasn't got a thing on you." Harmon reaches over to hug Lena and, to her surprise, so does Bruce.

"Are you ready to get going?" Maybe, Lena thinks, this is Bruce's apology. "What's the plan?"

"It's not quite eleven." Cheryl bats her eyes at Bruce, who has learned to bat back and seems, to Lena, smitten.

There is a tranquil nature to the aimlessness their vacation has taken that, Lena thinks, she might apply to her life. The lack of purpose evokes a sense of the unknown and freedom and a taste of the unpredictable. In Nice, the Mediterranean anchor is always to the east. Lena cannot get lost here; she has to figure out what her anchor in this new life will be.

"We're off to Eze so Lena can take pictures."

Lena can't recall if they discussed a plan when Harmon phoned earlier that morning, although the high and winding Corniche is a sight she wants to see.

"Do whatever you would do if I wasn't taking your picture. Talk." Lena points the camera lens to Harmon's face and adjusts it to the left and right until his profile is clear through the viewfinder. She waits for him to expose the tips of his teeth, then presses the shutter b.u.t.ton twice. "Be serious."

"I'm on vacation." Harmon poses, makes a face like a naughty ten-year-old, and tugs at the sides of his mouth with both hands. He sticks out his tongue. She snaps again. Harmon points to the st.u.r.dy metal railing and guides Lena to the potted olive tree in front of it. He entwines Lena's waist with both arms and presses his cheek to hers. They smile while the server figures out how to take their picture and include the dreary sky and smoke-colored clouds at their backs.

When the server places the check and his credit card on the table, Harmon signs the slip, draws a heart, and scribbles the initials HF + LH inside it. "Maybe that's not a manly reaction, but it's me. My sons would whoop up a storm if they could see me. Bruce is having a field day. Bl.u.s.tery lawyer, supposedly adamant and logical. I feel like a kid who found a special something he thought he'd lost, that's been lost for a long time."

"How can you care so quickly?" She asks, praying that he won't ask her to answer the same question.

"I know what I want when I see it, and frivolous youth doesn't count."

"You were thirty-six. I was almost thirty. Since when are the thirties frivolous?"

Litigation, he explains, requires well-timed a.s.sessments of facts and circ.u.mstances, and strong arguments. "So your unasked question is: if I hadn't run into you would I be paying as much attention to someone else I picked up between my bike trip and my return home?"

Eze is too beautiful, the day too divine to question Harmon's flirtation, but Lena wants answers nevertheless. Once again their deep conversations are surrounded by food and water.

"As a matter of fact, there was a woman on the biking trip. We were checking each other out, on the verge of... you know. My point is, you'll notice she isn't with me."

"And she's probably p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l, too."

Harmon shrugs.

"You dog. I better watch myself." Lena shrugs, too, unsure if her sarcastic admonition is for herself or Harmon.

Harmon and Lena wander from the limestone terrace of Chateau Eza's restaurant high above Nice, closer to Monte Carlo and Menton, and through its arched entryway back to the village. The uneven and narrow streets of Eze are filled, but not crowded, with other tourists wandering about, their single intention to browse. In this medieval town, history has settled in brick walls washed with the acid of time.

Lena focuses her camera. Snap. Snap. For the most part, the ancient buildings of every street are filled with boutiques and galleries. An iron gate-Porte des Maures-blocks the curious from a craggy path leading down the mountain. For the most part, the ancient buildings of every street are filled with boutiques and galleries. An iron gate-Porte des Maures-blocks the curious from a craggy path leading down the mountain. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. A sign, in French and English, tells all that in the year 900, Moors pa.s.sed through the gateway to invade the village and occupied Eze for more than seventy years. Lena points out to Harmon that this was probably the last time a mult.i.tude of dark-skinned people were ever in Eze or any city around the Mediterranean. A sign, in French and English, tells all that in the year 900, Moors pa.s.sed through the gateway to invade the village and occupied Eze for more than seventy years. Lena points out to Harmon that this was probably the last time a mult.i.tude of dark-skinned people were ever in Eze or any city around the Mediterranean.

Does it bother Tina that she stands out? Stardom would do that anyway. Perhaps this is a difference between Lena and her celebrity heroine. Oakland and the Bay Area is a melting pot that Lena loves. The lack of diversity, this different kind of diversity, at least in Nice, is what makes Lena know she couldn't live here.

Harmon changes direction and leads them to a small plaza off the main street. The church, Notre Dame de Asuncion, connects to a cemetery where French veterans from the two World Wars lie in rest. From where they stand, even though the sky is overcast, they can see the topography of the land. The dark promontories of the southern coast are stubby like papier-mache hills against the dull gray water. The view is far better than what can be seen from a plane; almost touchable, closer without queasiness.

"It's like having one foot in the plaza and the other in heaven." Lena plays with the exposure meter on her camera and snaps more pictures with and without Harmon in them.

"I have an idea."

"Just look at the view and act like you're enjoying yourself."

"Let me help you look for Tina's house."

"Even though you're a wonderful diversion, Harmon Francis, meeting Tina is a promise I'll fulfill on my own."

"So, subst.i.tute me for Cheryl, or add me to the equation. Take your pick. I'll be your guide."

"I'll think about it."

Inside the church a box of votive candles and wooden matches rest on a creaky table in front of a statue of Our Lady of the Ascension. Wind teases the flames beneath the statue. Lena strikes a match and lights four candles before depositing euros in a metal coin box.

"It looks like a traveler's prayer written underneath the statue." Harmon sticks his face close to the verse and translates. "'Let this light that I offer be my hope before my Lord and the Virgin and guide me to contentment wherever I go.'"

"Now, that," Lena says, teasing and truthful at the same time, "strikes me as divine."

Chapter 28.

Lena!" Cheryl yells from the terrace. Reading on the sunny balcony has become her ritual. Each morning she pores over pictures of European celebrities and decodes the French words that look like English ones. She buys several papers every day from metal-framed kiosks and periodical stores jammed with gossip, crossword, and cooking magazines in layers six inches thick. The covers are brilliant: handsome politicians, gorgeous film stars, lush red tomatoes, bouquets of deep green basil, country chateaus, skinny models clad in outrageous haute couture. "There's a picture in this paper of Tina Turner shopping in Villefranche-sur-Mer."

The only evidence of Lena's presence in the room is the long, crumpled lump in her bed. Apprehension has taken hold of her body; nervous antic.i.p.ation. The covers hide the top of her head. Can she sink any deeper into the soft mattress? Should she try to find Tina now, before the concert? Does she want Harmon, Cheryl, and Bruce to go with her? What will she say if she's allowed through the gates that surely must protect Tina from outsiders and autograph seekers?

If this were a trip planned for Lena's family, every detail of it would have been written, memorized, and ready to execute. She should have thought through the possibilities: written a letter to Tina and asked for fifteen minutes like she used to grant to community groups seeking an audience with the mayor. Just fifteen minutes, Tina, fifteen minutes to get an autograph, to take a picture and say thanks.

Underneath this six hundred thread-count tent, she checks her cell phone for messages in case Lulu, or one of the kids, has called. Randall's picture appears on the screen-the one she took when she got her new phone over a year ago; he sits on the couch, arms reaching to the camera, thumbs up. He looks like Kendrick or vice versa.