Chapter Twelve
Why on earth had he said his name was Sam?
As the call from his manager vibrated in his hand, Jackson stepped outside the bar and slapped himself dramatically on the forehead, earning a strange look from an old woman passing by.
The thing was, Julia hadn’t recognized him; he was sure of it.
If he’d given her his real name, everything would have changed.
And he didn’t want that. He just wanted to have a conversation with a pretty girl without worrying that she already had an idea of him—or of his bank account—fixed in her head.
He had the sudden unsettling sense that he’d been missing out on something fundamental for decades.
“Hey, Cash,” he said, finally answering the phone.
“Well, you’ve got me now,” Jackson said, rubbing his forehead as the beginnings of a headache began to set in. Cash tended to have that effect on him. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got a guy here who wants to ask you a favor.”
“Isn’t that your department?” Jackson asked.
“He’s a songwriter from your past, Jackson. Old dude named Henry McGee.”
“McGee? The guy who wrote ‘City of Light’?” Jackson said instantly.
“You know him?”
“Never met the guy. But I owe him my career, don’t I?”
Cash made a growling sound. “You owe me your career, Jacks.”
“Right.” Jackson rolled his eyes. Cash had long believed he’d created Jackson from scratch, as if Jackson had been a lump of clay waiting for an artist to come along and sculpt him into something worthwhile.
As if Jackson’s years of singing on street corners and pounding pavement to hone his skills as a performer had nothing to do with it. “So what’s the favor?”
“What?” Cash barked.
“The favor Henry McGee wants.”
“Oh. Right. Something about a woman he loves,” Cash said. There was a muffled male voice in the background and then Cash added, “He says he wants to talk to you. But I can get rid of him if you want.”
“Cash, is he standing right there?” Jackson asked in disbelief.
“Yeah.”
“Of course I’ll talk to him.”
“Fine,” Cash said. “Then get your ass back here.”
“Can’t you just hand him the phone?”
“Says he wants to talk to you in person and that he’s happy to come to you,” Cash said.
“But you’re due back here for blocking, anyhow.
I didn’t fly you to Paris four days early so that you could wander around with your head in the clouds.
This is where we launch your tour, Jackson.
It’s make or break for you, and you don’t seem to get that.
If the critics trash this show, man, you’re dead in the water. ”
“Right, of course.” If Jackson left the bar now, though, where did that leave him with Julia? But was that a ridiculous thought? Maybe he was making his conversation with her into more than it was. Besides, he’d started off with a lie, hadn’t he? “I’ll leave now. McGee doesn’t mind waiting?”
“He says he’s got all day. But I don’t.” Cash hung up before Jackson could say another word.
He shoved his phone back into his pocket and returned to the bar, where Julia still sat, sipping her pastis. The Aussie bartender, Russ, smiled at him as he settled back onto the stool beside Julia.
“Sorry about that,” Jackson said with a smile.
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“Yeah, well, I’d prefer to spend the next hour sitting here with you, but unfortunately, that was work, and I have to go.”
“Oh, you do?” Was it his imagination, or did Julia sound disappointed? “I mean, of course. Work has to come first.”
He scratched his head. What was he going to do, explain that he had to get out to the arena to meet with the guy who’d penned his biggest hit song? No. Instead, before he could chicken out, he said, “Look, I hope I’m not being too forward, but I’d love to see you again.”
Surprise flickered across her pretty features, followed by something else he couldn’t quite place, something that looked almost like sadness. But it was gone so quickly that he was sure he must have imagined it. Or that’s what he thought, anyhow, before he noticed a sheen in her eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned.
“Oh, yeah, of course. Fine.” She smiled at him. “It’s just, I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”
He felt instantly foolish. “Of course. I mean, that was way too forward of me.”
“No, it isn’t that,” she said quickly. “It’s that—” She stopped abruptly. “It’s nothing. I just… I’m not a good person to get involved with right now.”
He studied her. “Neither am I. But I think sometimes life doesn’t hand us enough chances, you know?
Like we think we’ll have a million opportunities, and the older we get, the more our lives are already on a single track we chose a long time ago, and…
” He trailed off, realizing he was not only rambling, but also probably sounding pathetic.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just not that often I meet someone I get along with for the right reasons.
” He grabbed a napkin from the bar. “Do you have a pen? I’m going to give you my number, just in case you change your mind, okay? ”
She nodded and handed him one from her purse.
He quickly jotted down his number and passed it to her. “No pressure. I just… Life’s too short.”
“Life’s too short,” she repeated, and then, after a pause, she grabbed the napkin and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans.
Feeling like he’d already lost her, Jackson signaled for Russ and handed him a fifty-euro note. “For my drinks and the lady’s,” he said.
“You don’t have to buy my drink,” Julia said.
“Please,” he said with a smile. “You led me to the fountain of youth. It’s the least I can do.”
“Let me just get your change, mate,” Russ said, but Jackson waved him away.
“Keep it, man,” he said. His phone dinged with an incoming text, and he glanced at the screen.
His driver had arrived and was waiting outside.
He raked a hand through his hair. He would come back here tomorrow, because it already felt like a place where he could be himself, but he had the feeling he’d never see Julia again. He looked at her. “I have to go.”
“Okay. It was nice to meet you. And… Thanks for the drink.”
He smiled. “Call me if you change your mind, okay?” And then, before he stayed there forever, he forced his feet to carry him toward the door and out into the sunny afternoon, where his sleek, black luxury car idled at the curb, waiting to take him away from the only place in Paris he wanted to be.
After Piper had a quick coffee with Nicolas at a little café around the corner from Café Le Petit Pont, he walked her out to the sidewalk, brushed the hair from her face, and stood there with his hand on her cheek, looking into her eyes for such a long time that she nearly stopped breathing.
“This has been nice,” he said. “But I have to be back at work. And I know your mother is expecting you.”
“Right, of course.”
“You know,” Nicolas said, “we haven’t even exchanged numbers yet. But I’d love to be able to text you later to see how your dinner with your mother was.”
Her heart raced, but she fought to sound nonchalant. “Cool.”
With a smile, Nicolas pulled out his phone and swiped it open, then handed it to Piper. “Would you like to give me your number?”
With a nod, Piper quickly tapped the new contact button—nouveau contact on his phone—and added her name and number before handing it back to him.
“I’ll text you from work,” he said, sliding the phone into his pocket. “And I’ll call you tonight. If that’s okay.”
“It’s very okay,” Piper said.
“Good,” Nicolas said with a smile, his hand returning to her cheek, his eyes locked on hers.
And then, as the world went by around them, he leaned in and kissed her softly, gently, and though it wasn’t her first kiss, it felt like something new entirely.
When he finally pulled away, her whole body was humming. “Have fun with your mother.”
“Have a good night at work,” Piper said, still dazed.
He held her gaze for another long second. “I’ll talk to you tonight, okay?”
“Cool.” Apparently, it was her new favorite word. “And, Nicolas? Thanks for today. I can’t remember the last time someone listened to me the way you did. You’re… well, you’re amazing.”
“You are, too, Piper.”
And then, with one more quick kiss, he turned and walked away, leaving her staring after him, missing him already.
Jackson knew he had screwed up with Julia.
He wasn’t accustomed to dating like a normal person.
He hadn’t done that in thirty years. In his heyday, there’d been movie stars and pop stars; just past his prime, there’d been a constant supply of fans thrilled to score some alone time with their favorite singer, though more than one had made off with his boxer briefs as a souvenir the next morning.
There’d been two broken engagements—both to models—and even an attempt at dating a seemingly nice kindergarten teacher, only to discover after a month that she secretly had a shrine to him, candles and all, in her basement.
There had been other women over the years but, normal or famous, they all saw him as a rock star.
And while that was well and good for a fleeting affair, it couldn’t exactly be the foundation of anything lasting.
But Julia had been different. She had looked him in the eye. She hadn’t giggled like a schoolgirl. She’d liked that he’d remembered the bar when it was The Red Telephone Box, just as she had. She had even flirted with him—he was sure she had.
And then he had walked away. He had asked to see her and she’d said no, and he’d given her his number, anyhow, like a loser, and he’d left the bar before he could change her mind.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Manon asked from the driver’s seat, giving him a look of concern in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah,” he said, turning to stare out the window at the gold-domed H?tel des Invalides on the left. But things weren’t actually all right at all. Jackson felt like someone had just turned on the light after many years in the dark, illuminating all that was wrong with his life.
Forty-five minutes later, Manon dropped him at one of the arena’s loading docks, where Cash waited in the shadows, checking his watch and looking like some kind of mobster.
“You’re late,” he said.
“Traffic,” Jackson said. “Where’s McGee?”
“In the greenroom,” Cash said, giving Jackson a can-you-even-believe-it look. “I didn’t know where else to put him. The guy’s almost a hundred years old.”
“A hundred? Come on.” Obviously, Cash was exaggerating.
But as they rounded the corner into the snug room backstage where Jackson would hole up before his set this weekend, his jaw nearly dropped when he saw the white-haired man sitting there, squinting at him through the thickest glasses Jackson had ever seen.
“Hello, Mr. Quick,” said McGee, standing with effort and sticking out his hand. He looked nervous, and his palm was sweaty as Jackson grasped his hand and shook it.
“Please, Mr. McGee, call me Jackson.”
“Only if you’ll call me Henry.” The old man smiled. “I do apologize for dragging you down here, Jackson. I could have explained myself on the phone.”
“Yeah, but then I would have missed the opportunity to meet the man who wrote the biggest hit of my career.” Jackson ignored Cash’s soft snort of derision. “Really, Henry, I can never thank you enough.”
“Well, it’s I who should be thanking you,” Henry said modestly. “If you hadn’t made a hit out of it, I never would have won a Grammy or been able to afford to put my granddaughter through graduate school.”
Jackson chuckled. “And I never would have had the chance to have the life I’ve had, sir. So what is it you wanted to see me about?”
“Ah.” Henry looked uncomfortable. “Well, to be plain, I need your help.”
Jackson felt a familiar bristling, his walls starting to go up.
Anything Henry asked, he would do it if it was within his power—he’d meant it when he’d said he owed his career to the song Henry had written.
But Jackson had forgotten, just for a few hours, that everyone in his life wanted something from him.
The bubble of Le Maison Grog—with a bartender who didn’t treat him like a celebrity and a woman who laughed at his lame lines because they were moderately funny, not because he was famous—had left him in a fog. “Right, of course,” he said stiffly.
Henry seemed to quickly read his tone. “I’m sorry, I’m not explaining myself well. I don’t need you to give me anything. Nothing like that, Jackson. It’s more—it’s a matter of the heart.”
“Of the heart?”
Henry took a deep breath. “Eighty years ago, there was a girl…”
Jackson listened as the old man told his devastating story of being shot down over France during World War II and losing the girl who’d saved him.
“I spent my whole life thinking she’d died,” Henry concluded, his voice breaking. “But she’s alive, Jackson. She’s still alive and she’s in an assisted-living home in Paris, but her dementia is advanced, and the song I wrote—the one you made famous—is the only way I can think to reach her.”
There was a lump in Jackson’s throat. “You wrote ‘City of Light’ for her?”
“I modernized it over the years, but I used to sing the verses to her as we lay in bed together, staring up at the sliver of night sky we could see from her bedroom window.”
“The moon and the stars have nothing on you,” Jackson sang softly, a line from the second verse.
“In this city of light, your light carries me through.” He had never understood the words before, but now he could imagine a much younger Henry staring out from his hiding spot, knowing that he had to go, but at the same time, not wanting to leave the woman he’d fallen in love with.
“That’s right,” Henry said. “But I can’t sing anymore. And she can hardly hear. And I just thought that maybe, if I could bring her to your concert, if we could sit near the stage, she could feel the song in her bones, the way she once did when I was lying beside her, holding her in my arms.”
“My God, of course!” Jackson said without hesitation. “But, Henry, we have to do more.”
Cash stepped quickly between the two of them. “Jackson, all the man’s asking for is house seats. You’re under no obligation to—”
“Come up onstage,” Jackson interrupted, stepping around Cash to look a startled Henry in the eye. “Play the song with me. You can sit in on piano. That is, if you want.”
Henry stared at him. “You’d do that for me?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the best love story I’ve ever heard, Henry. It deserves to be told. And you deserve every chance to show her how you feel.” Jackson again pushed thoughts of Julia from his head.
“Well.” Henry didn’t seem to know what to say.
“Cash will set it up. Do you have any family you’d like to bring? We’ll get you as many tickets as you need.” Jackson turned to Cash, who was staring at him in disbelief. “Cash’ll get you backstage passes, too, okay? Come see me before the show.”
“Thank you, Jackson,” Henry said. “You might have just changed my life.”
“Well, Henry,” Jackson said with a smile, “you’ve already changed mine.”