Dad, call me. The police were here.
"Shit."
It was noon. The buzz from MJ's text had awakened him and he already knew why the police had shown up at her door. They were looking for him. A courtesy call from the State of Florida, looking for a fugitive retiree. It had to be.
Cal rolled out of bed and called MJ. It was time to confess that he'd skipped out on his community service hours to go play spook with Uncle Frank in France. He didn't expect it to go well.
It didn't.
Even when he skipped the "playing spook" part.
MJ had never been this mad at him. Not after he'd grounded her for a month when she was fourteen for sneaking out of the house, and not after he'd confiscated her car keys after she failed a term of pre-calculus a few years later. You promised you'd keep your grades up, MJ, and promises made are promises kept.
But now he was the one in trouble.
And his baby girl wasn't so little anymore. Or maybe it wasn't so much that MJ suddenly seemed so grown, maybe it was that Cal suddenly felt very small.
"Why the hell do kids grow up and have to take care of their own goddamn parents? Tell me that, Daddy?" she'd asked during the call.
It was a damned good question, and Cal didn't have an answer for her. He could only promise that he'd take care of it. Exactly how—he couldn't yet say—and she hung up to let him figure it out.
After the call, Cal stumbled into the kitchen feeling like a fifty-eight-year-old man who'd broken night, argued with his best friend, and then got shamed by his daughter. It was a shitty feeling. The horizontal shades in the kitchen were open, and the noon-day sunlight pressed into his eyes like white shards of glass. He needed water and food, and the sound and smell of sizzling eggs promised some relief. Frank stood over the stove with a skillet in his hand. When he turned around, he wore both a smile and his familiar mustache.
Cal shook his head at the salt-and-pepper whiskers.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Hey, cut me some slack," Frank protested. "This thing is part of my routine now. Besides, I made you eggs and baguette."
"Breakfast of champions," said Cal.
"Just like our joint book report back in eleventh-grade English," Frank said. "Remember that? You earned us both an A."
"You didn't even read the damn book," Cal laughed.
"It's thirty years too late, but here's my apology."
Frank turned to him with a plate full of hot breakfast and motioned to the dining room table.
Cal took a seat and dug in.
"Let me be clear," he said between mouthfuls. "I'm still angry and I still can't trust you, especially when you're wearing that ridiculous thing on your face . . . but I'll eat your eggs."
Frank sat at the opposite end of the table and dramatically peeled off the mustache, which stuck at the corner of his mouth until it popped off with a snap.
"No more secrets," he said with his stranger's face.
"We'll see."
They ate in silence until Frank broke it.
"I heard you talking to MJ in your room. What's up?"
Cal sank further into the chair. He soaked up runny egg yolk with a pinch of baguette and considered the situation. Frank could cook. He was a bastard and a liar, but he could cook.
With a heavy sigh, Cal brought Frank up to speed.
"So, you've a bench warrant in Florida for your failure to appear," Frank summarized.
"Yep."
"And they have a Maryland sheriff's department looking for you at MJ's place."
"Yep."
"So, if you go home to either state, you're going to end up in the slammer."
"Yep."
Frank paused, smoothing his fake mustache in thought.
"So never go home! Fuck it!"
Cal stared hard across the table. "And never see my daughter or grandson again? Brilliant."
"They can come here! Hey—I'm trying, bud."
Cal smiled. He almost meant it.
"Anyway," he said and stood from the table, bringing his plate and silverware to the kitchen sink. Frank followed him with his own. "Thank you for the eggs. I'm walking over to Eeva's now. She said she's up, so I want to surprise her and say hi."
Frank grimaced.
"Because women always love being surprised at home."
"It's fine. I need to walk and think anyway."
Cal opened the front door of the apartment, and it was almost closed when Frank stopped it with a toe.
"So, Butch. Do you want to hang out later? It's warming up. Maybe hit the beach or a new restaurant tonight? Maybe rob a train?"
Cal saw past the cheesy smile plastered across Frank's strange face. Frank was nervous. Was he worried that Cal was walking out for good?
Cal wondered if he ever would.
"No promises."
The back entrance to Eeva's apartment building was just a minute away through the backyard garden, the spindly branches of its many shrubs now pregnant with flower buds ready to pop with color. Little birds had invaded the space, their European species unrecognizable. Cal wondered if he'd ever again see the red crest of a North American cardinal.
Niles and Jonathan were absent, and Cal had to admit that he had no idea how the odd couple spent their hours when Niles wasn't in the garden flying drones. Maybe he should change that; get to know them better—or at least Jonathan—who was the least-crazy member of their Garden Gang.
Or would Frank get jealous of that relationship, too?
The elevator in Eeva's building was a modern design, tucked into the center of the building near a reception desk. The layout reminded Cal more of a hotel than his own Wine House and, indeed, it was a larger building with more units and a small, fulltime staff. The receptionist smiled at Cal when he approached.
"You just missed her," she said in accented English. Cal didn't remember her name, but he knew her face and, apparently, she knew his.
"Thanks," he answered, then hovered in place, unsure of his next move now that he'd missed Eeva.
The receptionist seemed to sense his hesitation. "You can probably catch her. She went out the front just a minute ago, to the right."
"Merci," he said with a smile and then followed Eeva's path out the front entrance and then down the street. He scanned the sidewalk ahead, hoping to see a bob of feathery blonde hair.
Nothing.
The sidewalks were packed with strangers, locals and tourists alike. The Nice Carnival was still going strong—the event lasting more than two weeks— and, in a few hours, there would be the first Flower Parade. Apparently, all the parade floats would be redecorated with hundreds of thousands of flowers, and all the costumed dancers would switch to floral outfits straight out of a Jane Austen novel—or the French equivalent—with poofy dresses or coats and tails, with top hats and sunhats and long, lace gloves.
Molly would have loved it.
But he hoped to take Eeva.
People of all ages and colors chatted in a multitude of languages all around him as Cal hurried his pace and weaved through the crowd sidewalk, eagerly trying to catch up to Eeva and hoping he was still on the right path. He walked with his cellphone to his ear, but his call only went to Eeva's voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message, hoping that she'd see his missed call and return it.
Damn.
His best friend was some sort of spook psychopath. His daughter was upset. He was wanted by the law in two states—and, oh—he'd lost the last real gift his wife had ever given to him, his Bell & Ross dive watch. Never mind the dislocated finger. Or his brush with death.
Retirement wasn't going as planned.
But at least he'd connected with Eeva.
He'd been clinging to his grief as if it meant something, as if his love for Molly would be measured by God only by the depth of his sorrow. It was like a room with lots of windows and only a single door. Cal had spent four years peeking through the blinds like a suspicious neighbor watching the world walk past, and he'd pulled back and let the blinds snap closed whenever he was spotted. But now he'd unlocked the door and pushed it open, just a crack, and found Eeva across the street, peeking through the crack of her own front door, hiding herself away in another house that grief had built.
It was time to leave the house and cross the street.
Literally. Cal approached an intersection and spotted the back of Eeva's blonde head, diagonal across the intersection and walking away. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a white blouse. Her familiar turquoise purse with the geometric Navajo design was strapped across her body. A cellphone was raised to her ear, and she seemed to be in conversation. No wonder his earlier call had gone to voicemail.
Cal crossed the intersection only to jump back a second later, after a sleek Audi A3 slammed on its brakes and honked its horn.
Cal raised a hand and mouthed sorry to the invisible driver, the buildings of Nice reflecting across the Audi's windshield, and then more carefully dodged another car coming the other direction before he reached the opposite sidewalk. Eeva was further down the sidewalk now, on the opposite side, walking quickly with her phone still to her ear. He matched her pace and followed parallel, trying to keep her in sight while weaving through the crowded sidewalk and watching for a break in the traffic so he could skip to the opposite sidewalk and finally catch up to Eeva. Somewhere in the city a siren wailed and then faded. As soon she was off the phone, he'd try calling her again, but damn was she having a long conversation. Then she turned off the sidewalk and entered through an ornate doorway of glass and dark-stained wood, where a doorman held it open for her.
The signage above the door read L'Hôtel du Ciel.
Weird. What's she doing at a hotel?
Maybe she had family visiting from Estonia? If he rushed after her now for answers, it would look like he was following her . . . which he was, but that hadn't been his intention. He was just trying to catch up to her.
Right?
If only she were off her phone. No more secrets, she'd said.
No, those were Frank's words from earlier at breakfast.
He needed to think. There was a cafe just across and down the street from the Sky Hotel—his French was getting better all the time. He planted himself at an outdoor table with a view of the hotel entrance and then ordered a coffee casually in French. Exactly as Frank would have done, both with the French and the table with a view of the hotel.
He sent her another text and this time she answered immediately.
Hi Cal! I'm doing errands now. Call you later?
He replied that it would be great and then frowned into his coffee. Today he drank it black.
Was Eeva his girlfriend? Did she owe him the truth? Sure, they'd shared a few passionate kisses and long, heartfelt moments, but what did that mean?
He couldn't deny the spark he felt with her. It was a baseball feeling: that moment in a big game when his team was behind, there were runners on base, and his best batter was up to the plate. He knew that feeling and chasing after it like a ground ball had kept him coming back season after season, even after Molly died. It was the thrill of the possible. It was hard work finally paying off. It was hope.
Yet sometimes hopes were dashed and Cal couldn't take his eyes away from the hotel across the street.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
It was his own voice, but it was also Moll's—and MJ's. And Frank's.
Don't ruin a good thing.
The espresso was cold before he'd finished sipping it. It was best to ignore this whole morning and give Eeva a chance to explain. She would, and Cal would admit to seeing her in the street, and then they'd laugh. Maybe she'd introduce him to whatever friend or family was staying in the hotel.
Cal paid for his coffee and almost missed Eeva leaving the hotel. She hadn't seen him from across the street, and he fought the urge to call out to her.
Because it wasn't her.
The woman walked at a brisk pace and a dark green dress swooshed around her calves from side to side as she walked. Wavy brown hair bounced around her shoulders and Cal caught a view of designer sunglasses obscuring most of her face. She was just another stranger along the busy sidewalk except for the large, turquoise purse hanging diagonally across her body.
The one her dead brother had brought home from America.
"What the..." Cal whispered to his own doubts before plunging back into the crowded sidewalk in pursuit of answers.