Chapter 33 The Garden in the Sky
The Garden in the Sky
The awning at the main entrance to the hotel leads us down a narrow outdoor passageway.
The rock walls close in around us as we pass hotel rooms, winding us toward the hotel restaurant. One way in, the only way back out.
The sole thing to signify our arrival is a small sign with a golden goat, the restaurant name beneath it, Le Café du Jardin—a garden suspended in the sky.
Two people stand beside that sign, by that goat: a hostess with a clipboard in her hands, and a lone security guard in a black suit. An earpiece in his ear.
I don’t know what I expect when we get there, but I certainly thought there would be more security than this. More than two people who are more welcoming than frightening, a smile breaking out on the hostess’s face.
“Bonjour,” the hostess says. “Nous sommes fermés pour une soirée privée…”
Soirée privée. A private party.
“Oui…” Nicholas says. That’s what we are here for. “Nicholas Bell.”
“Ah…” She looks down at her list, searching until she lands on his name. She checks it off.
“Welcome,” she says. “Monsieur Bell.”
The security guard steps forward. He puts his hand out and points to my messenger bag.
“I’ll need to check your bag first, miss,” he says, his American accent thick, the Texas lilt rising up from behind it.
“Of course,” I say.
I sound casual, but I feel my stomach roll as I hand him the bag, knowing what’s inside. What he will certainly find inside. This security guard that Frank has brought all the way from home with him.
The guard reaches in and moves my things around. Then he pulls out exactly what I don’t want him to pull out. What I’m carrying for us—what Nicholas and I need to give to Frank. The tablet.
The tablet is turned off, but the guard turns it over in his hands and I worry that he is going to turn it on—demand the passcode to inspect what’s on there. If he does, if he sees what is on there, this will all end here.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m a bit of an overprotective mom, if I’m being honest, and that feeds to my kid’s room. Please don’t judge me for it. I get enough grief from my husband about letting our son live his life.”
I force a laugh. Then I point to Nicholas, trying to sell it.
“It’s his grandkid and he’s always making fun of me too. I wish I could tell you that he’s still a baby and that was my excuse, but he’s eight now…”
He is still looking at the tablet, as if trying to decide whether to turn it on—whether to just take it away. I can hear the words he is toying with—the decision he is toying with. You can pick this up after the party. No devices allowed.
I jump in to stop it. To stop him.
“Do you have kids?” I say.
He doesn’t look up. But he answers. He does answer.
“Three,” he says. “Older than yours.”
“Tell me when it gets easier.”
“Not so far…” he says.
And then, like a miracle, he hands me back the tablet. “This has got to stay off, understood?” he says. “Can’t be used for recording anything on the veranda.”
“Of course,” I say.
But it’s like the guard doesn’t hear me, or at least he doesn’t care. He turns toward Nicholas—as if he will be the one to enforce it, to enforce me.
“We’ll keep it off,” Nicholas says.
“Phones need to stay in airplane mode too. There is to be no recording on the patio, or anywhere during the party. No photographs.”
Nicholas nods. And then the guard steps out of the way, Nicholas motioning for me to go first as we walk through the sliding doors, entering the bar area.
“That wasn’t great,” I say. I keep my voice low.
“It was expected.”
“It didn’t feel expected,” I say.
“Well, you handled it, so thank you for that.”
“What would you do if they had taken you off the list?”
“I was hoping not to find out. But, based on that little display, I’m sure you would have thought of something…”
I start to give him a smile, offer a little laugh, but he is focused as we walk into the restaurant’s bar.
It’s a small and regal room with thick carpet, brick walls, and stained glass windows—medieval flags wrapped around the ceiling. Tonight it’s being used as a greeting area. A waiter welcomes us with a tray of champagne flutes and tall glasses of sparkling water.
Nicholas takes two flutes of the champagne, handing me one.
I take a sip and pull my nerves together as we head outside to the staircase leading down to the veranda.
Even in this precipitous moment, it’s impossible not to notice the breathtaking views.
This stunner of a garden restaurant perched high above the cliffs of èze, the Mediterranean Sea spread out far below, the peninsula jutting out, sailboats twinkling in the distance.
And the veranda itself, where the family party is in full swing: kids running around, adults racing after them, music playing and drinks being poured, cocktail tables lit up with tea candles and rustic lanterns.
The feeling in this party surprises me: the lightness, the joy. And what’s striking is that it could be any family. Rather, any family who could afford to be standing on top of the Mediterranean Sea celebrating an eightieth birthday.
For a moment, we could be any two other guests, any close friends of the family—standing at the top of the small flight of stairs, entering the party. But then, people start to look up and notice us.
Or, I should say, they notice Nicholas. They are focused on Nicholas, a murmur making its way through some of the family.
But Nicholas doesn’t seem to notice them. He isn’t interested in any of the chaos around us—the kids racing around, the adults starting to stare at him—as he heads down the flight of steps and onto the veranda.
And whatever uneasiness he was showing outside—whatever vulnerability I was concerned about—it’s disappeared.
Nicholas’s eyes are steely cold—steely cold and focused and ready. And I recognize it in that readiness: This is what happens when you’ve saved all your energy to do the thing that matters the most.
He is entirely focused on the other end of the veranda, on one person. The only person who matters.
Frank stands in the far corner, in a perfectly tailored linen jacket and jeans—his shoulders wide and broad. He doesn’t look eighty. He looks a decade younger than that—everything about him still confident and strong and together.
Frank is in an intimate conversation with a younger man, whose back is to us. A man who is taller than Frank: tall and lanky. Frank’s hand reaching up to touch his shoulder—Frank staring at him lovingly.
When the younger man turns, I see that it’s Teddy. Teddy, who is also in a sports jacket and jeans, looking like a mirror image of his father (handsome, chiseled, secure). His father to whom he is leaning in close.
This is when I see who is standing behind them. Four security guards in black suits—matching the guard who just searched my bag by the front entrance. Who almost stopped all of this.
They are standing discreetly behind Frank, but near to him all the same. Near enough to intervene.
Near enough to protect him.
If this worries Nicholas, he isn’t showing it. He isn’t focused on the security guards or Frank’s kids. He is, still, entirely focused on Frank.
And maybe Frank feels Nicholas’s focus, because he looks up. He looks up and locks eyes with Nicholas.
And he looks at him like he’s seeing a ghost.
Which is when it occurs to me, in his mind, he is.
Nicholas squeezes my arm as we make our way toward them.
Teddy follows his father’s glare in Nicholas’s direction.
He does a double take. Then he turns toward me, his eyes scanning my legs and dress and my hair.
I know there are a lot of women who may find him good-looking.
But the way he is unabashedly eyeing me makes me certain that no one knows that better than he does.
What’s almost worse than his unapologetic lasciviousness is what’s lingering behind that gaze, behind his eyes, which are bloodshot and vacuous. Something like an emptiness—a blankness. It makes me eager to turn away from him, but I don’t let myself. I will not be the one to blink first.
Frank, meanwhile, is still locked onto Nicholas.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Frank says.
“Happy Birthday, Frank…”
“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Frank says. “On account of the fact that you’re supposed to be dead.”
“Yeah. Sorry for the confusion there.”
Frank laughs, soft and genuine. But he is still staring at Nicholas, confused. And I think they’re going to shake hands, but Frank leans in and holds Nicholas to him, the hug of longtime friends. Of brothers.
Frank pulls back, and the two men hold eyes—neither of them wanting to break. Until Frank turns, nods in my direction.
“And this must be Hannah…”
I nod. Even though Frank isn’t asking. He knows who I am. But if he wonders what I’m doing here, he doesn’t let on. He is too focused on what Nicholas is doing here—Nicholas, who he believed was lost to him.
Everyone else seems to be wondering too—about Nicholas and maybe about me. They’re also less invested in hiding their confusion than Frank is. Teddy is still eyeing me. The conversations nearby lowering to a softer din, the security guards moving in closer.
In my periphery, I see a woman heading toward us from where she was holding court a few feet away.
Quinn. She is dressed in a red pantsuit, chunky Christian Louboutin heels, her blond hair pulled back in a low bun. She is elegant and striking at once. Those heels adding even more inches to her six-foot-tall frame.
She has disengaged from the conversation she was in, to move closer to us. To be standing by Frank’s side. Quinn now on one side of him, Teddy on the other. The two of them flanking their father. The guards right behind them.
“What the hell is going on here?” she says.
“Nice to see you too, Quinn,” Nicholas says.
But Nicholas doesn’t look at Quinn when he says it. He doesn’t look at Teddy or at Quinn. He keeps his eyes firmly on Frank.
“Nicholas,” Quinn says. “Care to explain yourself?”