The Last of the Stanfields(106)
“I see how hard you’re trying, I really do. It means lot to me, a hell of a lot, but slow down a little bit. She also was in love with a guy named John, a guy named Tom, a guy named Henry . . .”
“A guy named Pierre,” I added, and instantly regretted it.
“Wait, what about Pierre?”
“She also had a thing for a guy named Pierre, an antiques dealer.”
“I know who the guy is, damn it!”
“And you know that . . . that they . . .”
“Of course I know! And you can spare me your pity. I’ve known forever. The way they would brush up against each other, the way they acted when she dropped me off or picked me up at his shop, or whenever he came to our place. Whenever he saw her, he would always caress her hand ever so softly. Then he’d give her a very friendly kiss when saying goodbye, right near her lips. It’s the type of thing a kid doesn’t miss. But I didn’t care. Out of all the men she was with, he was the only one who never . . . you know, treated me with pity, like he felt sorry for me. Quite the contrary. Whenever he talked about Mom, he made it sound like I was lucky to have her all to myself. He didn’t act all guilty and sheepish. It was a breath of fresh air. All Pierre ever did was take care of me, with enough decency to never act like a substitute father. Having him around was . . . reassuring. But why’d you mention him?”
“Because I have a hunch he knows a lot more than he’s ever told you. Maybe more than just a hunch.”
George-Harrison reached out and cranked up the volume on the radio, letting me know he had heard enough for one night. A whole half hour passed without a word. Finally, as we arrived in Magog, he turned the volume back down.
“There’s one thing gnawing at me. If our poison-pen knows every last thing about the two of us, wouldn’t he already know my father was dead? So, why write to me in the first place?”
That sent chills down my spine. The first logical explanation that came to mind was that the poison-pen couldn’t tell George-Harrison, so instead he had tried to steer him toward uncovering the truth on his own. But I kept that to myself, not wanting to add another layer. I had already done enough damage for one night.
George-Harrison pulled the truck into his studio. Just being back inside the hangar lifted my spirits, for maybe the first time that day. It was chilly, and the cold had somehow penetrated the walls, so George-Harrison turned on a space heater while we ate dinner. Though he tried to hide it, I could tell that the sadness and loneliness were consuming him. Seeing him like that broke my heart. Even with my own family waiting for me back in London, I knew I had to face the truth. There was something I had been denying desperately ever since George-Harrison nearly left me on the sidewalk in Baltimore. The intense panic I felt at that moment wasn’t out of fear of being left alone; I was afraid of being apart from him. After all we had been through, I wasn’t going to let secrets and hypocrisy stand in the way of my happiness ever again.
I waited until he had been in bed for a while, then went into his room and nestled in between the sheets, pressing myself close against him. George-Harrison turned and took me in his arms. It would have felt wrong to make love for the first time on the day George-Harrison had learned his father was dead. Instead, we floated together in our own little bubble, more tender than any mere joining of bodies.
We spent the next day together in the hangar. George-Harrison was running behind on a job, and I got a kick out of watching a master at work. As he carved out the legs for a chest of drawers, I found the lathe especially fascinating. The way the wood whistled as the chips flew made it seem like a musical instrument, and watching the spirals take shape was utterly mesmerizing. It was beautiful to see someone so passionate about their craft. A little later, George-Harrison assembled the whole piece, explaining that the key was to sculpt the tenons so they fit perfectly into each mortise. While I thought he was pushing it with all the jargon, I played along and pretended to be fascinated by all the details. He studied the chest carefully from every angle until he was satisfied with the results. I gave him a hand loading it into his pickup, then agreed to come along and help unload it at the antiques shop.
As we stepped inside, Pierre Tremblay looked up from his newspaper and leapt to his feet, greeting us warmly. The man was positively over the moon about meeting me. I could tell by the kind, warm look in his eyes that it wasn’t every day “GH” brought someone to meet him. However, his face fell when he saw the chest of drawers. He shook his head in disappointment, pouting and telling us to just leave it in the back.
“Really? You’re not going to put it out front in the window?” asked George-Harrison, feigning surprise. Pierre grumbled something about leaving it in the corner overnight until he made up his mind, then George-Harrison asked the antiques dealer to join us for dinner. They chose La Mère Denise so I could feast my eyes on their “authentic” antique eighteenth-century bookcase. The forgery was undeniably impressive, even to the untrained eye. Seeing George-Harrison’s talent filled me with a sense of pride, however silly that sounds.
Pierre Tremblay recommended the bouillabaisse from the Magdalen Islands, which he thought would pair perfectly with a dry white wine from Les Brome—a local Quebecois winemaker, he noted with hometown pride. After a warm toast, Pierre leaned in to George-Harrison and raised the delicate subject of the chest of drawers, chalking the whole thing up to a misunderstanding.