want to believe they’re good. Same people would totally steal from work, right? But they send back a wallet, they feel good about their souls.”
He was right. But how dare he? How dare he drop his things all over the globe and trust that they’d return?
He said, “This movie is a trip!”
“Did you come here to watch it, Jake?” She didn’t hide her sarcasm.
“No,” he said. “I was looking for you. Not, like—not in a creepy way. Sorry. I wanted to ask you something.” If he weren’t so attractive, she’d have run away by now. She’d have grabbed the arm of the nearest man, said, “Here’s my husband!” But instead she just stood there, looking up into his face and waiting.
He said, “I was mad at myself, after we got off the plane, for not asking more about Richard Campo. Like—I don’t want to sound like a stalker, but I could totally do something with him. I could pitch that so easy.”
Fiona held up a hand to stop him. She said, “I’m missing some information.”
“Sorry. I can’t remember how much I said. I write culture stuff, mostly for travel magazines. You read National Geographic? I had a piece there last summer, on this Mayan dance festival in Guatemala.”
“Okay.” It all made sense—the pilot who’d been, what, fired for drinking? Or decided he wasn’t cut out for that life, that there were better ways to see the world? She said, “He’s been doing a ton of interviews. I don’t know if that makes it more likely or less that he’d agree.”
“It wouldn’t really be about art, is the thing. It would be about living here, you know, like an expat artist’s view of the city. Or it could be about the art. I don’t know, whatever he wants.”
Why was she even considering helping him? Maybe it was the same principle as the wallet: She wanted to feel good. Maybe it was his beautiful eyes. Maybe it was a welcome distraction. She pulled her phone from her purse and said, “I can give you his publicist’s number.” His publicist being Serge.
Jake adjusted his backpack, scratched his beard. He said, “That would be phenomenal.”
She still had the phone in her hand, was still giving him the last digit of Serge’s number, when it started vibrating.
“Oh holy shit,” she said. “I have to take this!” She left him there, walked quickly for no good reason.
Static at her ear. Arnaud cleared his throat and said, “Well, they were easy to find. Mr. and Mrs. Kurt Pearce, and I have an address.”
She stuck her left hand into her jeans pocket to stop shaking. “You’re sure it’s them?” Mr. and Mrs.!
“Ha, yes, he was easy to find because he was arrested last year. No prison, don’t worry.”
“God, what for?”
“Small theft,” he said, before her mind could fully go to murder, infanticide, domestic terrorism. “It’s—the fine he got, this was probably just some shoplifting.”
“Wait,” she said, “hold on. No. He’d be deported, wouldn’t he?”
“Ah,” Arnaud said, “okay. No, not really, and it also turns out he’s an EU citizen. They could have, but—”
“Since when?”
Arnaud didn’t know. But hadn’t Kurt’s father been Irish or something? Maybe he’d had dual citizenship all along. Maybe that helped explain their move to France.
Serge was across the side street, waving. He trotted to her and stood there, listening.
“You didn’t talk to him, did you?”
“What I have is an address in the Fourth, just outside Le Marais. Affordable street for that area, but not dangerous or anything. You know Le Marais?”
Fiona remembered Richard implying it was a gay neighborhood, although she also thought she remembered this was where the Arabs lived, or maybe it was the Orthodox Jews. Surely not all three together, that would never work, would it? She said, “Not well.”
“I’m going to stake it out. Like in the movies, okay? Just surveillance.”
“Can I come?”
He chuckled. “This is not a great idea.”
“So, when, tonight? You’re doing this tonight?”
“Unless something comes up. I’ll take photos.”
“What do I do in the meantime?”
“Enjoy Paris. Your friend with the motorbike, he can take you out, yes? Go sightseeing.”
Sightseeing. Lord.
“Promise you’ll rest. Yesterday you nearly fainted in your omelet. Save your strength for when you need it, okay? For now, we wait. Drink some wine, rest, relax.”
Resting didn’t sound that bad. And she was so, so tired.
1985
Hanukkah passed, and the edges of the lake froze white. Charlie’s mother couldn’t fly in for Christmas because her new boyfriend was taking her to the opera. She’d come later, she