"Lena?"

"It's Randall. He called."

"Ignore him. Leave it to the big shot to spend money on an international call to find out what cleaners you sent his shirts to or the name of the store that carries his precious little-eared pasta. Yuck."

For a minute, one short minute, Lena wonders what Randall needs, how she can help. She presses her finger against the b.u.t.ton to retrieve Randall's message: call me.

"Did you hear me? Tina is in town. We can all meet her." Cheryl reaches for the phone. "I'll tell Bruce to get the car."

Lena hits the delete key, thankful once again for Tina-to take her mind off Randall this time-and wonders when finding Tina Turner became a we, we, instead of instead of me, me, quest? Is the quest? Is the we we she and Cheryl or is it what has now become their almost inseparable foursome? Harmon and Lena have scoured Nice for new sidewalk cafes and local gossip about Tina. They have pondered this question-Lena more than the others-as the captain of the yacht Bruce and Harmon rented sailed along the southern coast. It is their morning routine, familiar if only after five days. They've studied maps and travel books and combined stops at antiques shops that sell old Rolexes, Baume & Merciers, French military chronographs, and Jaeger-LeCoultre watches on the way to visit ancient mansions converted into art museums. she and Cheryl or is it what has now become their almost inseparable foursome? Harmon and Lena have scoured Nice for new sidewalk cafes and local gossip about Tina. They have pondered this question-Lena more than the others-as the captain of the yacht Bruce and Harmon rented sailed along the southern coast. It is their morning routine, familiar if only after five days. They've studied maps and travel books and combined stops at antiques shops that sell old Rolexes, Baume & Merciers, French military chronographs, and Jaeger-LeCoultre watches on the way to visit ancient mansions converted into art museums.

"I'm feeling like this is something that only the two of us, or maybe I, should do."

Cheryl hangs up the phone. "Bruce says to be ready in thirty minutes."

Lena lies back down on the bed. "I'll wait until Harmon and Bruce leave. And what do you think Randall wanted? I wonder if the kids are okay."

"Well, if they're not, he'll call back. Or better yet, call them yourself. Duh. Go with the flow."

"If you'll notice, if you can notice anything other than Bruce and shopping, you'll see I am am 'flowing.'" She hadn't planned on Harmon, she continues. Hadn't planned to sleep with him, to spend virtually every waking hour with him. Hadn't planned to feel happy-not in this way. They've held hands as they walk the cobblestone streets. Harmon opens doors for her; offers her a first taste of his wine, his main course, his dessert, and she takes it. They talk late into the night, aware that their days together are numbered, and made love more than they should, they've said, for people their age. 'flowing.'" She hadn't planned on Harmon, she continues. Hadn't planned to sleep with him, to spend virtually every waking hour with him. Hadn't planned to feel happy-not in this way. They've held hands as they walk the cobblestone streets. Harmon opens doors for her; offers her a first taste of his wine, his main course, his dessert, and she takes it. They talk late into the night, aware that their days together are numbered, and made love more than they should, they've said, for people their age.

"I didn't plan on Bruce-or let's just say I planned to meet a man, and Bruce more than qualifies. That's where the fun comes in." Cheryl flicks her hand.

Randall-what the h.e.l.l does he want? Last night Harmon asked Lena if she was over her husband. Lena was shocked to hear him refer to Randall, less by his question than how difficult it has been to get rid of thoughts of Randall. She admitted that her soon-to-be ex creeps into her thoughts in restaurants when the menus are full of nothing but the crab, shrimp, and exquisite cheese he loves; on the steep hills of Cimiez that she and Randall would have walked instead of driven. She won't admit what she thinks when they're in bed, though his ghost is fading there.

"I envy you, Cheryl."

"No need to be jealous. Follow my example."

"I'll work on it," Lena says, dialing her phone. "After I touch base with Kendrick and Camille."

"They're fine. Or at least Camille says she is. Kendrick didn't answer his phone." Lena signals to Cheryl before the valet pulls the rental Mercedes in front of the hotel. Harmon eases behind the steering wheel so that Lena can sit beside him and avoid the new sensation of motion sickness she suffers whenever Bruce takes the sharp curves of the winding roads at twice the posted kilometers per hour.

"Tell me what you know about where Tina Turner lives." Harmon drives up a hill toward the middle of the three mountain roads that meander above and away from Nice.

She rifles through a manila folder. The hours spent scouring the Internet have left her with an inch-thick file on the woman, the vicinity of her villa, what she likes and doesn't like. "I don't have a street or an address." Harmon winces, and Lena braces for a complaint like Randall would issue if they were lost or undirected. His eyes stay on the road, and he whistles as they slowly approach a curve.

"Isn't there some kind of map to the homes of the stars?" Cheryl asks.

"This isn't Hollywood, Cheryl."

"Well, what's the plan? If there's no plan, let's head to the casino. I'm feeling lucky." Bruce's loose plans have redeemed him from his rudeness and overeating and helped them see all of Nice. "Thanks to my lucky charm." He wraps his arm around Cheryl's shoulder. Bruce's silk shorts swish with the touch of what Lena sees from the corner of her eye is Cheryl's hand in a place she wishes she didn't see.

"I'm not in the mood to gamble." Lena faces the road ahead and the worn asphalt. The sides of the mountain are sandy white with bits of cactus-like shrubbery protruding from random jags.

Cheryl scoots close to the front seat and Lena's ear. "The mantra is, 'Have fun.' Remember?"

Lena dismisses Cheryl's advice with a wave of her hand. Being with Harmon has been fun; roaming the streets of Nice and all the surrounding hill towns has been fun. This is not fun. It smacks too much of what she came to Nice to forget. Harmon reaches his hand to free Lena's from their tight clasp in her lap. Vernon's words come back to her: delight in what can be. Definitely worth the hundred bucks she spent. Lena takes Harmon's hand and squeezes it. "Okay. Let's do it."

"Then what's the plan?" Bruce asks again. "In my business, success requires planning."

Just like with Randall. She has no plan. Why, she wonders, isn't she learning from all that has happened? "I wasn't prepared for a group."

"What's the matter with all of us looking? That can be the plan." Cheryl rejoins. "I'd like to meet Tina, too."

At the arrow marking Villefranche-sur-Mer, Harmon turns right and down the main road where the city slopes toward the sea. Heat vapors rise from the medieval rooftops blurring together orange, ochre, and blue.

"Since we're here, I guess there's no harm in asking around." Lena releases and relaxes into the leather seat.

"We'll walk around, have a little something to eat. Shop and see what happens." Harmon's words are meant to encourage. "If we do see her, I'll make sure you get to her first. I promise we won't spoil your plans."

This smaller city is as busy as Nice and full of cafes with limestone terraces and smartly dressed women dining on paltry portions of food. Nice, Menton, Cagnes-sur-Mer, Mougins, Villefranche, Eze, Vence all resemble one another: time-stained brick walls connecting the twenty-first century to the Middle Ages; twisting streets, famous artists-this one Cocteau-a house or hotel marking where each lived and created art. Fortresses that provided protection against invasion that look the same, but don't look the same, and Lena marvels at the beauty man can create when survival is of the utmost importance.

Every city in the south of France has a visitor's bureau. This one is housed on the ground floor of a three-story building. A wood-framed picture window is filled with posters of Villefranche-sur-Mer, the homes along the hillside, and yachts afloat in the port. Inside the bureau, one woman among the staff of five admits to speaking English. "h.e.l.lo," she calls out from behind her desk.

Harmon steps forward and asks if anyone knows where Tina Turner lives. He carries himself with an air of responsibility and privilege. The woman puts on her gla.s.ses, then looks him up and down. Stepping to the counter, she tells him she has heard Madame Turner lives near the top of the Colline du Vinaigrier; that many tourists come to look for the celebrity, but that Madame does not come to town often. It is possible she shops or has lunch in la vielle ville la vielle ville-the old town-the woman doesn't know, she is not a fan.

"There are other celebrities that habitent habitent-live-in this area as well," the woman says. "Messieurs Bono and Elton John." She lays a map over the counter and bends over it, motioning to Harmon to do the same. She gives vague directions to the hill where Tina's Villa Anna Fleur could be and goes on to say that at each of the very expensive homes in that area there are guards and secured gates. "We French are not secretive, simply very, how would you say, hush-hush, monsieur? There is no way to tell who lives where, but there is a rumor that her villa is higher up the mountain than Monsieur Bono's."

Harmon proffers his full chipped-tooth smile and bows. Lena watches him work his magic on the woman and hopes that he can do the same with Cheryl and Bruce and get them interested in these other famous people's homes, although Sonny Bono is the only Bono she knows, and he died years ago.

"We'll drive around for a while. It won't hurt to do a little reconnaissance preparation." Harmon looks at Lena when he speaks. "Or would you rather get something to eat first?"

"Maybe Tina would like to meet a couple of hip brothers and sisters from the States. That can't happen too often." Cheryl offers her reason why Tina would want to open her doors to them. "There can't be too many black folks that come through here."

"Whatever works," Bruce says. "But whatever we do, we need to make it quick."

Three blocks past the laurier-rose the woman described, up the crest of the hills and past an old stone wall. Harmon cannot follow the signs and drive at the same time. The woman gave Lena a postcard from a website that describes nightlife, shopping, and the celebrities in and around this area. Usually the postcards in Nice show pictures of the sea from a vantage point in the hills. This one is of a building close to the water's edge, marked with a red arrow pointing to a gathering of palm trees and brush on top of the hill. "Tina's villa" is written in block letters.

They drive up and up past many gates with iron forged into initials, flowers, and what look like family crests. The juices in Lena's stomach gurgle from nausea and antic.i.p.ation. What will she say if they find Tina? She has a vague speech prepared for after the concert, but if they run into Tina here they would appear to be fanatical. Her intention to thank Tina would be lost. So close and so far away.

From this high up Lena observes, like she did in Eze, that the world lies before them, this time from a different angle. Full, thick trees frame the view of Cap Ferrat and the coast toward Monaco.

"Without a street address we could wander aimlessly for hours." Harmon steers carefully from left to right. He opens his window and sticks his head out every time they come to an initialed gate in hope that they will come across the letters TT or a guard who, seeing their fancy car, might feel sorry for them and give them better directions than they have.

"Man, I don't know about you, and you'll forgive me, Lena, but I've about had it up to here with these roads and quaint cities." Bruce yawns.

"I like the snaky roads. It's part of history," Lena says. "Even you said the French take pride in their history."

"I say let's take our pride and get out of the south of France." Bruce looks directly at Harmon's eyes in the rearview mirror as he speaks. Lena catches this coded signal and saddens at the thought of Harmon's departure. All things in their time.

"What's the plan?" Cheryl looks at Bruce, having picked up the signal as well.

"After the bike trip, we'd always planned to go to Paris for four days, then head back to Chicago. Harmon and I were thinking maybe you two would-"

"Yes!" Cheryl's voice is resolute.

"I've got unfinished business here." Lena has seen Paris, twice. Has seen the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-elysees, wandered through the Pere-Lachaise cemetery, and bought handmade umbrellas in the boutique on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. She adores the City of Lights.

"Should we flip a coin? Heads Paris, tails Paris. Either way, I'm going." Harmon swerves the car to the side of the road and searches his pockets for a coin. "It's only a couple of days."

"Only a couple of days," Bruce says. "Nine hours by car, a little over five by train, and, most importantly, a quick trip of about an hour and a half by plane. What say you, ladies?"

Lena is amazed at Bruce's collection of seemingly unrelated facts. If nothing else, she has gained respect for the man. Her Tina Turner folder sits in her lap, research that has led nowhere; no closer to finding Tina than she was when they stepped off the plane. But she cannot deny the calm, the pluckiness that has gathered in her heart and soul since she has been in France. Whether it is Tina or Harmon or whacky Cheryl, she is thankful. "I've been there before. Too many memories."

"No Eiffel Tower, no Notre Dame, no Louvre. We'll go to places neither of us has seen before. C'mon. Tina would want you to take advantage of the moment."

Randall would have demanded; Harmon is asking. Does it make a difference? Because, bottom line, isn't she hitching herself to somebody else's star all over again?

Chapter 29.

A limousine whisks the four travelers away from the airport, the cars, jitneys, a cab driver arguing with a gendarme over the parking lot exit fee and whizzes along a freeway that resembles an American turnpike: heavy trucks, modern office buildings, apartments, and factories to the left and right of the road; fields of green, industrial warehouses, Ikea. limousine whisks the four travelers away from the airport, the cars, jitneys, a cab driver arguing with a gendarme over the parking lot exit fee and whizzes along a freeway that resembles an American turnpike: heavy trucks, modern office buildings, apartments, and factories to the left and right of the road; fields of green, industrial warehouses, Ikea.

"What should we do first? I say: Sacre-Coeur or the Pantheon." Harmon pokes Bruce's shoulder. "No eating."

Bruce's expression implies his difference of opinion. "That's what you think."

"Paris is eye candy," Lena says. "Everywhere is someplace different. Walk and look, that's what I want to do."

Paris is divided into twenty spiraling sections like the chambers of a nautilus sh.e.l.l; each arrondiss.e.m.e.nt arrondiss.e.m.e.nt is different, a city within a city. On their first trip to Paris, Lena and Randall roamed for days in silly search of the red dividing lines so carefully drawn in guidebooks-which were nowhere to be seen. Instead, they ended up with twenty photos of themselves, one for each arrondiss.e.m.e.nt, standing beside the twelve-inch-high blue signs with white lettering that mark the districts. is different, a city within a city. On their first trip to Paris, Lena and Randall roamed for days in silly search of the red dividing lines so carefully drawn in guidebooks-which were nowhere to be seen. Instead, they ended up with twenty photos of themselves, one for each arrondiss.e.m.e.nt, standing beside the twelve-inch-high blue signs with white lettering that mark the districts.

"I want to taste as many of the four hundred varieties of cheese as I possibly can." Lena reaches for Harmon's hand. "And discover new wines."

As the car gets closer to the center of Paris, the tip of the Eiffel Tower appears in the distance and the city changes. Now the buildings, their slate tiles and zinc roofs and stone in all shades of beige and oyster, become more weathered and wear their centuries proudly. People line the sidewalks from curb to building edges. The Seine splits the city; the spires of churches split the skyline.

"Shopping. Right Bank couture, rue Saint-Honore, Left Bank hip-that works for me," Cheryl offers. "You get a little bit of everything when you shop-food, views, art."

"The Buddha Bar." Bruce's words are more order than suggestion. "Cheryl will love it. Some of the highest priced drinks in the world-twenty-five bucks for champagne c.o.c.ktails-food's good, but the people-watching is better."

The limousine driver swings a hard right onto one of the thirty-six bridges connecting the Right Bank to the Left and their hotel. Cheryl twists her neck for a better view of the Louvre's ornate moldings. From this angle the museum's walls-too pale to call mustard, too yellow to call beige-are immense. "If we had more time, I'd spend days in there."

Their boutique hotel sits in the middle of a narrow block named rue des Beaux-Arts. The street, Cheryl tells them, is named for the celebrated art school bordering it where Matisse, Seurat, Caillebotte, and thousands of other famous artists once roamed. Students with backpacks hanging from their shoulders and canvas totes slung like messenger bags across their chests wander in and out of a narrow gate into the school's courtyard. Cars parked b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper like vertical sardines on the curb leave room for traffic to flow in only one direction. There are art galleries-their windows crowded with African masks and iron sculptures and abstract landscapes-small restaurants, retail s.p.a.ce on the street floors of buildings meant for multilevel living. Everything is compact, every s.p.a.ce occupied; utilitarian.

The limo driver parks the long sedan in front of the hotel. Bruce and Harmon open the wide doors and step out to tip the driver and take care of the luggage. Cheryl yanks Lena's coat as she scoots across the seat to follow them. "I'm staying in Bruce's room."

Lena scrutinizes Cheryl's face as if she hasn't a clue what her friend is talking about and realizes that it's hard to hear what Cheryl is saying. Lena doesn't know, and doesn't care, if it's the French influence or Bruce's, but this new softness is better on her ears. Smiling, she motions to Cheryl to repeat her words, and when she does, Cheryl adds, "You can have our room all to yourself. But, think about staying with Harmon. He's falling in love, and that's not a bad thing."

Lena knows how much truth there is in Cheryl's words. It is in Harmon's eyes when he listens to her plans and his touch when she least expects it; it's in the way he says her name when he holds her, in their silences.

All the buildings on this street, including the hotel, are constructed as if leaning one on the other; each one distinguished and different from the next. Each is composed of three or four even rows of twelve-foot-high rectangular windows and nine-inch ledges beneath them bordered by vine-patterned, wrought iron railings. The facades are washed in faded yellows, grays, and blues, interrupted with carved wooden moldings, closed doors, eighteen to twenty feet high, that lead to courtyards and the apartments above.

The hotel is like this, a beautiful secret behind an ordinary door. The lobby is intimate and welcoming. The walls are covered in rich, maroon velour; striped brown and gold curtains held together with variegated gold-threaded swags create intimate conversation corners; black velvet-covered chairs and the Oriental carpet mimic the same color scheme. A circular foyer and an antique table with claw feet separate the lobby from the bar beyond. The gla.s.s vase on top of the table is full of tall curly willow, roses, lilies, and hand-sized exotic purple flowers that Lena doesn't recognize.

"Stay with me?" As they approach the faux-painted front desk, Harmon tugs Lena's elbow. "I booked a room with a terrace."

"Bonjour, mesdames, messieurs. Bienvenue. Welcome." A young woman dressed in a tailored beige dress and a Chanel scarf greets Lena, Cheryl, Harmon, and Bruce with an enthusiastic smile. Once the paperwork is complete, she hands the men the keys to all three rooms.

Harmon hands a key to Lena. "Your decision."

What will it hurt, she ponders, to let this sumptuousness, this attention overtake her? She hands her key back to Harmon and takes his hand. Once in front of Harmon's room, the bellman opens the door onto a suite, cozy and luxurious in the way that only the French can create: budding roses, sheer window curtains, crisp linens, books by the bed, and an antique writing desk with curved, spindly legs. A sofa faces the window to the street, and, on the opposite side of the room, a floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s door opens to the deck and the rooftops of Paris.

Pigeons nest in the eaves outside the window, their coos velvety and continuous. In the bathroom, the walls are covered with flocked wallpaper, the floors with marble tiles that mix well with the modern faucets, shower, and tub. Lena recognizes, discreetly tucked into a corner of the counter, the labeled soap and perfume vial. They are not the normal gratuitous toiletries; they are gifts of the signature gardenia fragrance of Annick Goutal.

"Lulu loves this stuff," Lena calls out to Harmon and gathers the bottle and bars of soap like Lulu does whenever she stays in a hotel. "These are for her collection."

"There's more where those came from, Lena." Harmon watches Lena stuff the toiletries into a drawer under the sink.

"Go 'way. Shoo!" Lena taunts. "I'm calling Lulu. She'll expect me to bring home more than this once I tell her it's here." Lena dials the 0-1-1+1+ Lulu's number.

"We can buy more if she likes it that much."

"This is much more fun."

Lulu's voice quivers a weak greeting on the other end of the phone.

"It's me, Lulu. Bonjour." Two in the afternoon in Paris is very early in the morning in California and not a problem for Lulu, who can't sleep past dawn. "Cheryl and I decided to visit Paris for a few days. Your favorite perfume is in the bathroom."

"Free?" Lulu's voice changes to an energized pitch at the prospect of more of this expensive perfume that Lena has included in Christmas and Mother's Day presents for the last twenty years. "Then you better make sure you bring a lot of it home and save yourself some money!"

Lena tries to paint a picture with her words, that she will back up with her photographs once she is home, of how different Nice and Paris are from anything Lulu has ever seen. The farthest Lulu and John Henry ever traveled was back to Mississippi to sell John Henry's family's farm and visit the few relatives they had left in the small town they grew up in.

"Cheryl met a new friend. They both like to shop, which means he likes to spend money, and she likes having money spent on her." Lena wonders if this is a temporary arrangement or if Cheryl will continue her relationship with this brusque man after they return home. She is certain that by the time their trip is over, if not any day now, Cheryl will tell her what she wants to know and more.

"She always finds men. Too bad you can't meet someone."

"I'm having a great time, Lulu." Lena won't tell Lulu about Harmon. She's not sure what kind of lecture she'll get: you're still married, or Harmon's a good catch so don't let go.

"That's good, baby girl. Take a lot of pictures. Send a few to Camille and Kendrick so they can let their father know you can still enjoy the good life without him." Lulu snickers at her joke. "You're showing him, Lena. I'm proud of you."

Harmon tiptoes behind Lena as if he, too, is concerned that her mother will find out he is there. As his arms wrap around her waist, Lena is perfectly aware that his concern is not great enough to keep him from distracting her. "Get lost with me."

"I might send a few pictures to Camille, but not for that reason."

"You go on and see Paris, baby girl. Don't waste your money on phone calls. Go out and have a good time." Lena visualizes Lulu stretching when she releases a loud yawn. "I love you."

Out the hotel and to the left of the art school, rue Jacob is the street that leads from the hotel to Boulevard Saint-Germain and the Metro. Shops and cafes occupy the rez-de-chaussees rez-de-chaussees of every building. Ground floors house jewelers, antique framers, a furniture boutique, a store full of old watches and penknives. of every building. Ground floors house jewelers, antique framers, a furniture boutique, a store full of old watches and penknives.

"I've never seen art supplies look like art." Layers of velvet folded to entice customers: sticks of pastels, chalk in gradations of color from light to dark, erasers, rulers, tablets, single-sided razor blades, and mechanical pencils spread out like a sharp-tipped fan. A costume jewelry store is next to the art store. Pendants, earrings, and necklaces-some in thick ropes of amber, ruby, green, and yellow crystals-gleam in the diffused light captured in the window.