Searching For Tina Turner Part 13

"I told you last night. Pull that kind of act again... no. Don't pull that kind of s.h.i.t again. Period. Dot. End of conversation." Lena gathers her hair and tucks it under her broad-rimmed raffia hat. "Trust me. I'm getting good at leaving people."

With the slightest shake of her head, Cheryl acknowledges Lena's challenge. "Don't get crazy. I guess I could say I had too much to drink, but that's not really the truth. I'm used to doing what I want, when I want, and I didn't give you much thought." Cheryl leans over to Lena and gently pulls her sungla.s.ses away from her face. Without protesting, Lena sighs and looks at Cheryl. "I get it. I'm sorry, so let's not let this ruin our vacation. Now we know the rules." Cheryl lets the straps of her bikini fall down her shoulders and slathers sunscreen on her face, neck, and chest. "Just don't be so d.a.m.n judgmental... and for the record, I look good in this bikini."

"I'm going to be who I am. I thought you understood." Lena adjusts the top of her one-piece bright orange and turquoise floral swimsuit-a maillot, the saleslady called it.

"This is all I'm going to say, and then can we please please move on?" Cheryl picks up a hotel magazine for tourists and flips through it. "I know the concept of dating all over again is going to be hard for you, Lena, and I'm sorry. But in my mind it simply means you need to loosen up. Randall's ghost isn't lurking in the shadows; you're not obligated to him anymore." move on?" Cheryl picks up a hotel magazine for tourists and flips through it. "I know the concept of dating all over again is going to be hard for you, Lena, and I'm sorry. But in my mind it simply means you need to loosen up. Randall's ghost isn't lurking in the shadows; you're not obligated to him anymore."

Lena pushes her sungla.s.ses back onto her face and lets Cheryl's words soak in. "If I've learned anything over the last few months..." Lena pauses until Cheryl lowers the magazine in front of her face. "If I've learned anything from Tina Turner, it's that I'm the boss of me. But, I'm sorry, too." She relaxes into her chair and into the thought that somewhere, under this Mediterranean sun, Tina is basking as well: two black women from Oakland, Tina, and all the white people in the south of France.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned. Looks like we got a party going on." Splashing and flat slaps of stomach against the water rouse Cheryl from her hour-long nap. She nudges Lena's leg: black people alert.

From beyond and to the far side of the pool voices drift in their direction. A man stands at pool's edge. He is long and tall and a shade darker than desert sand. He extends his arms and arcs his back like he knows what he is doing, then dives and swims toward his buddy, in the only square corner of the pool.

Cheryl sits up straight in her chair, strains her neck and stares. His chest heaves after his short swim. "You won't believe who that man looks like." She pushes at Lena again. "That's Harmon Francis!"

The two men, arms stretched over the edge of the pool, chat as much with their hands as their voices. The swimmer appears taller than the average Frenchman, giving Lena another reason, beside his skin color, to be able to see him. Harmon Francis. Definitely. He crossed her mind when she watched the last of a man's familiar walk turning a corner in Vence. Now, the van outside the Matisse museum makes more sense. And here he is again. Harmon Francis. She hasn't seen him in almost twenty-six years, not since the day he'd told her he wanted to get married.

He was the same but different from Randall: street smart. Lena didn't watch Randall's love of designer suits and fancy accessories evolve while he lived on the East Coast, but she enjoyed their benefits when they dated the second time around. Harmon was already grounded in his expensive habits when they met. Unlike Randall, he loved hats-baseball cap, porkpie, beret-and hated jewelry except for the gold watch still hanging from his wrist. Back then he had his hair cut at a salon instead of a barbershop. He collected first editions and world maps; had a great sense of humor, a keen eye for good deals, and a key to an exclusive social club. Within a month of their first date, Lena was in love with Harmon. In the fifth month of their eight-month relationship Harmon told Lena he was tired of being single.

They sat together on the cushy sofa of the restricted club surrounded by football players and real estate tyc.o.o.ns. Under low lights, they sipped Dom Perignon from hundred-dollar champagne flutes and watched the parade of bachelors and flirtatious women on the dance floor. "I'm the kind of man who does better with a woman by his side," he said. Lena figured he was looking for a mother for his two boys. "I've been honest about dating other women." His voice was confident, picking up tempo as he went along; the faster he spoke the faster Lena's heart pumped in antic.i.p.ation. "I've narrowed my marriage prospects down to two-you and someone else."

Armed with the insight that he was about to pop the question, over the months that followed Lena did what she thought she was supposed to: never let him see her without makeup, introduced him to her parents, had s.e.x with him every day of every other week-her share of him-wowed him with her budding domestic skills. She met his seven-year-old twins. Harmon told her about their difficult mother, revealed his personal finances, took her on a business trip to Las Vegas, introduced her to his law partners.

Harmon was handsome, upwardly mobile, and available. She loved him but never understood that sharing her love with him was her choice, not just his. He broke her heart when he decided to marry her compet.i.tion, Natalie. It broke her heart even more when she went to his best friend and sobbed on his shoulder, asked why not me, and his best friend said because Harmon thought Natalie was better in bed.

Harmon Francis. Of all the people to run into.

"Let's go over there," Cheryl pulls a makeup bag from her plastic tote and freshens her lipstick. "I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees you."

"Nope! Stay here. Maybe I did learn a thing or two from you last night." Lena drops her wide-brimmed sun hat onto her chair. Her swimsuit's colors set off her even brown skin, the suit cuts across the tops of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, like a strapless prom dress, and accentuates the dark mole centered above her cleavage, her favorite. At fifteen, Lena counted the moles on her body, afraid they would multiply into the hundreds like those that dotted her Auntie Inez's face and hands. "But, I'm doing this my way."

In the short distance from deck chair to pool, Lena relaxes her hips in a rhythmic sway that is slow and easy. Rolling. From behind her, a long, low whistle signifies someone's appreciation. She lowers herself on one long leg and dips the other into the warmish water. Eyes focused on the deep blue as if hypnotized by its rippling motion, she pulls her leg out slowly, then squats, dips her cupped left hand into the water, and drips a bit onto her right arm.

As she descends into the shallow end of the pool, pausing after each step, the tiny waves climb her calves, her thighs, her waist. She gazes straight ahead, letting the water envelop her body, then arcs her arms into an inverted V and slips under the surface. Her gentle b.r.e.a.s.t.stroke guides her across the pool until she is close to the two men. In one smooth motion, Lena rolls over on to her back, stretches her arms out, and floats like a suspended cross.

The men's voices are clear, their words jumbled. She knows black folks attract black folks, especially when there are only a few around, especially when there are men and women. She figures they're deciding who will approach her first. Or perhaps, in all the time she took to get to their end of the pool, Harmon has recognized her.

"Always said you had the best legs in the world." Her body bobbles with the tiny swell Harmon's approach creates. He dog-paddles closer. "And here you are in the heart of the French Riviera proving it."

Harmon looks as good as he did in 1978. Full face and body, crinkled forehead, shaved head. When he grins his chipped front tooth peeks between his parted lips.

Still s.e.xy.

"Don't talk to me." Even strokes send her spinning away.

"Stop moving." His gaze travels the length of her body, lingers on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her thighs, her bright red toenails.

"We're in the middle of the pool; floating is my only choice."

"You know what I mean."

Lena drifts toward Harmon, refuses eye contact. Once upon a time she thought she would scratch his eyes out if she ever saw him again. Time and a good marriage, or what used to be a good marriage, mellowed her anger.

"I guess I should be grateful; I wouldn't have met my husband if it hadn't been for you." People around them laugh at Harmon's raucous response. Lena grins, lets him think that her great life is payback.

"Everything's turned out good for you?"

"Yes." Success is the best revenge. That was what Elizabeth said at their final meeting. Lena never thought it would apply to such an accidental reunion. She spins a half-truth and tells him about her life the way it was when her marriage was good, when she was truly Mrs. K. Randall Spencer and Camille and Kendrick's mother in more than name only.

"Married, children, community work, nice house, fancy car, adoring husband." She pieces together happiness from memories because she wants Harmon to be jealous. "Someone who loved me for who I was..."

"I should have married you you."

Any smart-mouthed comment Lena could make about his decision is unimportant, doesn't matter anymore; but she finds it comforting to realize that the past can become so insignificant and can hardly wait until that happens with Randall. "That's a stupid thing to say to somebody who couldn't care less. What are you doing in this part of the world anyway?" She splashes the water between them, spins and swirls so that the rolling circles eventually smack against him.

"Don't be so mean." He puckers his lips in an unconvincing pout. "Up until this morning I was traveling with a biking group across the south of France. Bruce and I broke off from them. Too much ha.s.sle." He pauses, the lines in his forehead crinkle tighter. Lena remembers that face: it is serious, pondering. "I used to ask Jessie about you from time to time. I talked to my buddy about everything. You remember him, don't you?" She acknowledges the man who told her what Harmon would not and lets the sweeping motion of her hands move her around him.

"I talked to Jessie about Natalie, too," Harmon says. "How great she was in bed, how she drove me crazy." Now Lena recalls her biggest disappointment in Harmon: he couldn't keep his business to himself.

"So I heard." Lena slaps the water hard with the palm of her hand so that it splashes onto Harmon's face. "Well, Harmon, it's been good to see you." She starts to swim away. He grabs her leg so that Lena is forced to fold herself into an uncomfortable treading position.

"Don't go." His front tooth shows again.

Harmon announced his marriage plans to Lena the night they took his boys to the circus. The high-energy twins fidgeted all night long while the elephants dumped in front of their prime-dollar seats, while a tiger jumped through a fiery hoop, while the horses pranced with twirling acrobats atop them.

The night was one of those when the Oakland skyline was as clear and twinkling as San Francisco's. He told her his decision while they were on the freeway, headed back to his place-he was going to marry Natalie. After all, she had a son as well.

The car swerved into the next lane when Lena's hands flew to her face. Harmon grabbed the steering wheel until Lena recovered seconds later. She had volunteered to drive because Harmon had had a long day. Why the h.e.l.l hadn't he told her before she went to the circus? Before she wiped cotton candy from the boys' sticky fingers, let them share her soda, all the time hoping that Harmon would appreciate her maternal instincts. When they arrived at his house, the kids jumped out of the car. Harmon tried to apologize; she put the car in park and kicked at him until he jumped onto the cement to get away from her spiked heels, then sped off, car door swinging as she drove down the street, leaving him and his whining boys in the middle of his driveway.

"Where are you going with this? It's been-what?-twenty-six, twenty-seven years?" She snaps, aware that there is too much anger in her voice; water under the bridge. At the time his rejection hit below the belt, in more than one way.

"You always did say I talked too much. To make a long story short, I guess I bragged a little too much. Jessie and Natalie had an affair." He shrugs. "Like a soap opera, I caught the two of them in my bed, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g their brains out... she left me for him."

"There's something so ironic here. If I hadn't been here, how would you have gotten all of this off your chest? Why do you think I'd care now anyway?" Her questions tumble lightly like drizzle in May. She truly doesn't care, but truly she is curious. "Are you dying or something?"

"Must be karma," he chuckles. "I'd like to meet your husband. It may sound corny, but he's a very lucky man."

"Randall? Randall's not here." He will never be here with her ever in life, she thinks. "I'm here with a friend. You remember Cheryl?"

"Who could forget Cheryl Jamison?" Harmon motions to his friend, a big man, too, different from Harmon. Flabby yet solid, Harmon's friend, from what Lena judges, appears to be the kind of man who would look skeletal weighing less than 225 pounds. He is well over that weight. He bobbles toward them, lists from side to side like an untethered buoy, unsure in the water. "Bruce Patterson meet an old friend, Lena-the one I let get away. Tell Lena she has to have dinner with us tonight."

"Lena has to have dinner with us tonight." Bruce delivers this line stoically-Lena a.s.sumes he is either very witty or lacks imagination-just as Cheryl swims up. When she bobs out of the water like a fish on a hook, Lena sees that Cheryl is right: she does look good in her bikini, regardless of her age.

"She has to have dinner with us tonight." Bruce beams at Cheryl. has to have dinner with us tonight." Bruce beams at Cheryl.

"I say yes to whatever he wants." Cheryl beams back.

"Sure," Lena chortles, liking the idea of another chance to gloat, to let Harmon see what he missed, even if that life is no longer real. "We'll join you."

"Your husband won't mind?" Harmon asks.

Cheryl cuts a quick look at Lena.

"No, he won't mind. He won't mind at all."

Chapter 25.

Why did you let Harmon think you're still married? He could be your get-over-Randall screw."

"Don't say it. Don't think it. Not interested." Lena lifts her arms away from her body so that nervous perspiration will not create a salty half moon in the armpit of her dark linen dress. Clothes are strewn on the floor, the bed, the chairs, the small table that pa.s.ses for a desk as if she and Cheryl have hundreds of clothing choices instead of the few they've brought with them. Or the few Lena brought.

"What're you waiting for? You can be guaranteed Randall's not." Cheryl pulls underwear from the elastic pouches around the side of one of her two oversized suitcases.

"That thought turns my stomach." Lena makes a face. "But this isn't about Randall. Let Harmon stew."

"I don't care what you say; Harmon is charming. Harmon is doing well. Harmon is a catch." Cheryl pulls on a low-cut, sheer red dress. "I always liked him. He has a good heart-he invested in the works of a couple of unknown artists I represented when I first started-it got my business going. I'm glad to be here for your first date the second time around."

Energy crackles like electricity in the room and while Lena understands her own, she doesn't quite get Cheryl's. Cheryl dates. There was a time when Cheryl called Lena every weekend with updates on her escapades; that stopped after Kendrick was born. Lena guesses this excitement has to do with Bruce, has to do with the south of France, has to do with an unexpected, free meal at a fancy restaurant and settles with the realization that because she hasn't been around Cheryl this way in a long time, her girlfriend is excited.

"It's not a date-it's old friends getting together." Lena tugs at her dress: black, plunging neckline and back, tight across the waist and hips. It looked good on her in the store. It looks good on her now.

"Hmmm, I like." Cheryl adjusts the neckline of Lena's dress so that it falls lower and exposes more cleavage. "It shows off your chest. And remember: it's okay to flirt, shamelessly."

Wanting to look good for a man this soon is a confusion Lena didn't expect. If she thinks of this evening as practice for when the next real thing comes along, it will make the evening go smoother. No need to worry about small talk: there's always the past to talk to death. Tiny adjustments, another veneer of marriage falls away: Lena twists the bare knuckle of her third finger left hand.

"You do that a lot, rub your ring finger. Stop it."

Lena gives Cheryl a thumbs-up and eases her hand from b.r.e.a.s.t.s to waist to hips, wishing she had the guts to expose as much of her chest as Cheryl does. "You look beautiful!"

Cheryl grabs a floral print shawl identical to the fabric of her dress and poses like a runway model. "This is my knock'em-dead alluring. That Bruce may have potential."

Bruce and Cheryl hit it off immediately. They traded quips for the remainder of the afternoon. Even Lena had to admit that Bruce was funny and pretty smart. He knew a lot about wine, food, and foreign politics-a fact he proved with his explanation of the European Union, the conversion to the euro, and its effect on the global economy.

"And one last lecture about last night." In the bathroom, Lena straightens the cosmetics strewn across the counter, fiddles with her hair for the sixth time, smoothes her dress, sucks in her stomach. She is procrastinating. She knows it. Cheryl knows it. Still she takes her time. After all these years, Harmon Francis can wait ten minutes more. "Take your own key. Because if you decide to spend the night, or whatever, with Big Bruce, I'm not getting up to let you in."

Lena would have married Harmon if he'd asked. Two months after their relationship ended, she realized that she'd gotten love, l.u.s.t, and money completely confused. Yet, there was his honesty, his crooked smile, and sense of mystery that intrigued her. They hadn't paid attention to what they wanted from life-or each other. That's what she loved about Randall-he paid attention.

Out, out d.a.m.ned spot.

Lena wishes that she had her diamond on her finger at the pool to show Harmon that someone thought her performance in bed was quite good, thank you very much. It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. Sometimes old friends come back into your life for a reason, and right now that reason is so she and Cheryl can have some fun.

Bruce, Lena, Cheryl, and Harmon stand in the entryway of Le Chanson. The restaurant is lit by flower-shaped sconces evenly hung along the length of both sides of the room; cla.s.sical music plays from speakers in the background. White rubrum lilies nestle in a cut-gla.s.s vase atop a polished black marble table. Silverware, winegla.s.ses, and large pieces of jewelry around women's necks and wrists sparkle in the light of the candles on each table. Candles, larger and many more than in Philip's restaurant, surround them on ledges, in cubbyholes and windowsills. Lena wishes to be in a restaurant where music blares and bright lights create a glaring, anything but amorous, atmosphere.

"I hope you ladies enjoy this restaurant," Bruce says. "The Michelin guide calls it one of the best in the south of France."

"Oh, you picked this restaurant?" Cheryl nudges Lena as if to say, "See, you're making way too much of this."

"I build all of my vacations around restaurants." Bruce spreads his arms in front of him. "As you can see, I don't miss many meals."

The hostess, whose hips and stomach are equally flat underneath her chic silk sheath, escorts the two couples to a table on the veranda. Cheryl sidles up to Lena and rubs her back. "You're shaking like a virgin. Calm down. Enjoy. That's all this is about."

Lena breathes from her stomach through her chest and nose, blows it out the way she learned in yoga. The remnants of sunset hang in the sky, its warm colors mirrored in the Mediterranean's gently lapping waves. Lena turns to Harmon. Her intention is to lie, to tell Harmon she is sick, bordering on nausea, that it is too cold, that there are shooting pains in her stomach, her chest, her head, anything to persuade him to leave for somewhere less romantic. "All that's missing is a full yellow moon."

"That's for next time," Harmon says, getting her sense of humor like he did when they dated. "It's good to be with you again. And, for the record, you look great."

"Allow me to order for everyone," Bruce says when the waiter hands each of them a menu. "Take a look at the menu, and let me know if there's anything you absolutely veto."

They mull over the bilingual menu: rougets-tiny red mullets- sea ba.s.s with grilled shallots, gamberoni, baby octopus and squid, lemons, olive oil, truffles, wild mushrooms. Both men study the pages of the wine list. Bruce orders a white Bordeaux-a 2000 Chateau 'Y' d'Yquem, Bordeaux Superiore. "There have only been twenty-three vintages of 'Y' since the first one in 1959. It goes well with foie gras, if anyone likes that, and it's a good match for seafood."

Harmon suggests a cabernet from the same region with less flourish or commentary-a 1988 Leoville-Las-Cases, St-Julien. "This one's a tasty wine just coming into its own." He leans over to Bruce and points to the wine list; they guffaw as if sharing a private joke. "They have one bottle of 1982 Cheval Blanc, St-Emilion-it sells for almost nine hundred dollars back home. I'd love to taste that."

"How do you two know so much about French wines?" Cheryl looks at Bruce, more interested in his response than Harmon's.

"Bruce is the one who decided on the bicycling trip. He wanted to exercise off some of the weight he's gained in two years since his divorce." Harmon points to his buddy's protruding stomach. "Actually, I thought it would be a great opportunity to see the south of France and to drink and buy a lot of wine."

Bruce straightens his tie and leans back in his chair as if he is about to deliver an important message. "Harmon and I are both considering a break from corporate America to start our own business." Which, he explains further, they haven't quite nailed down, but it will have to do with importing obscure French wines to the States and staging pairings with gourmet food. "So I guess you could say that I'm responsible for bringing the two of you back together." Bruce's whole frame wobbles when he chuckles at his good deed.

"And for us." Cheryl bats her eyes at Bruce again. If a big man could bat his eyes, Lena is sure Bruce would. Instead, he grins like a kid and takes her hand.

The waiter, deferential and unimposing, returns to the table and pours enough of the cabernet and white Bordeaux into four gla.s.ses for the men to a.s.sess. Each takes a gla.s.s of red wine by its thin stem and holds it up to the dim light. First, they rest their noses on the edge of the bowl, sniff hard, and nod their approval of the round bouquet. Then they sip loudly and let the wine rush to the back of their throats to let their palates experience the full flavor.

Harmon's and Bruce's faces light up with mutual appreciation, but Bruce is the one whose approval signals the waiter to pour a gla.s.s of both red and white for the four of them.

"So, we saw a group of black folks and a van loaded with bikes pulling away from the Matisse museum yesterday. Was that you?" Cheryl asks.

"You mean I missed you?" Harmon sits across from Lena and scrutinizes her face, not for the first time. He has been staring at her since they sat down. Staring with l.u.s.t and ordinary interest all at the same time, watching her hands as they punctuate her thoughts.

"A toast, to old friends and new. Let's see if I can recall a Yeats poem." Harmon pauses, his lips move in muted preparation. He looks from Cheryl to Bruce and rests his gaze on Lena. The heat of what would be a blush, if she blushed the way Cheryl does, covers her face.