Chapter Twenty-Eight
Celeste stared up at the man playing the piano.
She knew this song. She was certain she did.
She had never seen the young man onstage before, the one the crowd seemed to be cheering for, the one with the kind eyes and the charming smile.
But the man at the piano. Him, she knew. But how? And from where?
“Who is that man?” she leaned over and asked the young man to her left, who was someone she was nearly certain she should recognize. Was he her son? Her grandson? Why couldn’t she remember?
“That’s Henry McGee,” the young man—almost certainly her son—said loudly, though she had to read his lips to understand him over the din of the crowd. “He loves you, Grand-mère. He’s been in love with you since you were teenagers.”
Celeste’s eyes widened. In love with her? Since they were teenagers? He looked far too old to have been a teenager at the same time as Celeste, in any case. “In love with me?” she repeated, just in case she’d misunderstood.
“In love with you,” the young man confirmed. “He wrote this song for you many years ago.”
This was flattering, but also perplexing. “Why is the other man singing it, then?”
“He was the one who made the song famous. And Henry can’t sing anymore, anyhow,” the young man reported. “But he hoped you would hear this song and remember.”
Celeste looked back at the old man at the piano.
His eyes were closed, and he looked lost in the music, and she had the strangest sense of having seen his face before, seeing his eyes closed, just like that, of sleeping beside him, of kissing his cheeks in the morning when his skin was far less wrinkled than it was now.
But had those things really happened? Or was she imagining them? She felt so lost within the maze of her own mind these days, so confused about what had really happened and what hadn’t, and why people seemed to know her when she didn’t know them at all.
But then the man opened his eyes and, even though he was still playing the song, he was looking directly at her.
There was something about getting lost in his gaze for a moment, with the song swirling all around them, that unlocked something for her, and before she knew what she was doing, she was singing along, her lips moving to words that she didn’t know, but somehow also knew, and when she sang them, she could feel them in the very depths of her soul.
“Wherever you are, you make the world bright. You light all the flames. You’re my City of Light.
” And when the man at the piano looked at her, tears rolling down his face, she knew that the words were for her, and that some time ago, in a different place, he had sung these very words to her, whispering them while they lay side by side in her bed, dreaming about forever.
“Henry,” she whispered, and beside her, the young man gasped.
“You remember, Grand-mère?” he asked, and suddenly, she knew exactly who he was, too.
“Jean-Luc,” she murmured, and his eyes went wide with surprise. “Jean-Luc, I once loved that man.”
“Yes, you did,” Jean-Luc said, his eyes damp.
“And he loved me, too.”
“Yes,” Jean-Luc agreed. “He still does, I believe. He has been coming to see you every day.”
“He has?” Celeste asked, panic beginning to rise within her.
“Why don’t I remember?” She wanted to hear the rest of the song.
She wanted to stay in this moment, to remember the man named Henry who was playing the piano so beautifully, but already, the fear was like a fog rolling in from nowhere, covering everything that had been so clear just seconds before.
“Grand-mère, try to listen to the words,” the young man beside her said. She couldn’t hear him at all—she could hardly hear anything—but she could read his lips clear as day. “They are for you.”
Celeste swallowed the fear that was rising in her throat. “But who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I? I—I don’t want to be here!”
She looked once more at the stage, where there was an old man at the piano who was staring at her oddly, and she suddenly felt confined and uncomfortable. “Why is he looking at me?” she demanded of the man next to her. “What’s happening?”
“Grand-mère,” his lips said, and it was strange, because she was certainly not his grandmother. She could not remember the names of her grandchildren, but they couldn’t be older than school-aged, and this man next to her was a full-grown adult.
“I think,” she said, trying not to sound as frightened as she felt, “that you have confused me with someone else. I would like to go home now.”
“But—” the man began.
Celeste would not take no for an answer. She was already rising, already shuffling unsteadily away with her walker when the young man caught up with her.
“I’ll take you back to Paris,” he said sadly.
“Back to Paris?” she asked, her panic rising. “Where on earth are we? Where have you taken me?”
Up onstage, the old man watched her go, and she could feel—even after she’d turned away and was no longer looking at him—the sadness in his gaze. She could hear the tears in the notes of the music he was playing.
And there was a part of her, a part she couldn’t explain, that wanted to stay, that wanted to hear the rest of the song, that wanted to walk right up to that old man and say, “I know you, don’t I?” But she didn’t know him. And she didn’t know the song. And all of a sudden, she was very, very tired.
“It’ll all be all right,” the young man said as they exited the arena.
“I just want to go home,” she said, but as the man gave her a sad smile, she had the sense that she’d just done the wrong thing, had missed something important that was right in front of her.
But as quickly as she’d had the thought, it was gone again, and so a few minutes later, as she allowed the young man to help her into his car, she had already forgotten why they were here, and who he was, and there was peace in the darkness that descended, because when the lights went out in her mind, she could no longer see her fear.
Melanie’s heart broke for her grandfather as Celeste lurched out of her seat, grabbed her walker, and made a beeline for the exit.
She could see devastation on her grandfather’s face, replacing the elation that had been there just a minute before, when Celeste had begun to sing the lyrics before saying her grandfather’s name and stopping abruptly.
Celeste had been there for a second. She had remembered. And then, just as quickly, she was gone again.
I’m sorry, Jean-Luc had mouthed to Melanie as he had quickly jumped up to escort his grandmother out. Please tell your grandfather I’m sorry.
Melanie had nodded in sympathy, because she didn’t know what to say. She looked back to Grandpa Henry, still playing the piano along with Jackson’s band, as the singer belted out the chorus that still had everyone in the arena on their feet.
“You… and me… Underneath the stars. I want… to be… wherever you are. You… and me, it all feels so right. Wherever you are, you make the world bright. You light all the flames. You’re my City of Light.”
She looked over at Gilles, who was bobbing his head, mouthing the lyrics along with the rest of the audience.
He looked over at her, throwing her a quick, tentative smile before returning his attention to the stage, and suddenly, she felt sick to her stomach.
You and me, the lyrics said. It all feels so right.
Had she ever felt that way about her husband?
Or had she, with the best of intentions, simply thrown herself headlong into a marriage that had never really been a fit?
“The world shatters around us. But, still, we are here,” Jackson Quick sang, words her grandfather had written for a woman he’d known for only a few weeks but still loved all these years later.
“Beside you always, the world so bright, together forever, you’re my City of Light.
” Jackson Quick sang, and Melanie tried to remember the last time she’d felt that kind of deep love and hope with Gilles.
She thought once again of the blonde in the café, who’d had the courage to take her future into her own hands.
Gilles must have felt Melanie’s gaze lingering on him, because he turned, his brows knitting together, and asked, “What is it?”
Melanie took a deep breath and spoke the truest words she’d uttered since she’d learned of her husband’s affair.
“I think this is over, Gilles,” she said tentatively, trying on the words, but the moment they were out of her mouth, she felt lighter than she’d felt in years.
Yes, she was scared about what came next.
Yes, she was worried that she didn’t know how to be alone.
But now there wasn’t a single ounce of doubt in her mind that she was doing the right thing.
Gilles looked confused. “Pardon?” he shouted over the din of the applause and cheers that greeted the end of “City of Light.” On the stage, her grandfather was joining Jackson in the spotlight, taking a bow as the crowd roared.
“Our marriage! It’s over!” Melanie shouted, just as the crowd quieted down, which meant that her voice carried.
Onstage, Jackson’s eyebrows went up, and he gave her a small smile of encouragement, and beside him, her grandfather beamed.
Good for you, kiddo, he mouthed, and Melanie felt tears of relief in her eyes.
“Is this a joke?” Gilles asked, staring at her blankly as her grandfather exited stage left and Jackson launched into another one of his hits.
“No,” Melanie said. “I’m sorry, Gilles.”
“This is just because I cheated on you?” he asked in disbelief. “People have affairs all the time, Melanie. We will work through this.”