Chapter 16

The interlude with Jordan only happened once in Allegra's life for a few weeks. It was a reminder of things she already knew. She never heard from him again. She heard that he was back from England nine months later, and judging by the tabloids, the revolving door on his bedroom remained in working order. About two years later, she read that he got married, to a young actress, and divorced a year later. And he'd finally won an Oscar. Allegra had no interest in speaking to him again, and he didn't try either. Simply put, he wasn't real, and never had been.

—

After the last time Allegra saw Jordan, she went back to work on the book. It took her a year to finish it. She wrote the final words in the book on the second anniversary of Henry's death. It was symbolic. She still missed him terribly, but the book had kept her busy, and him alive in her daily life. She found an agent and a publisher. Pippa read it and loved it, but she didn't edit nonfiction.

The biography of Henry Platt, Ode to Joy, came out three years after his death. The movie scores he'd written had become even more famous in that time. He was a legend. And the book had considerable success.

Allegra sent copies of the book to Henry's children, in the hope that they would get to know their father and the kind of man he was through her book. They deserved to know his history, because he was a part of them, and it was their history as well. He was a man to be proud of. She hoped that they read it, although she never heard from them. The poison their mother had filled them with against their father had proved to be fatal to the relationship they had never had with him, and had been an even greater loss for them than for him.

Before the biography came out, Allegra wrote a novel. Her editing skills helped her hone the process. It was a respectable first work of fiction.

In the nine years since his death, she had written the biography and five novels. The last two were firmly on the bestseller list for several weeks, the most recent at number one. She was proud of it, and she thought Henry would have been too. She worked as hard as he had on his music. She had learned that from him, yet another gift he had given her, along with the seven years of their marriage.

She worked night and day on a book until it was finished and did little else. Her books were her life. The characters in them were her family and friends. She had found her path once he was gone. She had been too busy with him to write before that. But at forty-two, she was a successful author and led a peaceful life. Her month of madness with Jordan Allen was a unique event she eventually forgave herself for.

She lived in L.A., in the house Henry had left her in Bel Air. Louise still worked for her, although she was threatening to retire. Allegra went to Paris for a week every year in June, on the anniversary of her first trip there with Henry, and stayed at the Ritz. She lived for that trip, and knew the city well now. Her most recent book was set in Paris and included a murder at the Ritz. She had dedicated all of her books to Henry.

Allegra hadn't been seen publicly since her last time, at the Academy Awards with Jordan. Her publisher complained constantly that she didn't do enough press. She hardly did any, except for the rare telephone interview, or a Q&A by email. She remained a mystery to most of her readers, which she preferred. She thought the books should stand on their own, without her exposing herself to the media. Her life was comfortable the way it was. She had no desire to discuss her life, her childhood, or her marriages.

She had just started a new book, a month after finishing the last one. She had worked late the night before, the way Henry used to, and she had just gotten started with a mug of coffee sitting next to her when Louise came to tell her that there was a man named Galen Fairchild on the phone. Allegra didn't recognize the name. Louise knew Allegra hated interruptions when she was writing, but it was still early in the book. She had just started it a few days before. Louise knew not to disturb her when she was trying to finish one.

"I don't know him," Allegra said vaguely, without looking up from her computer. "Find out what he wants and take a message. Tell him I'm writing." She usually checked her messages at the end of a day's work, or Louise put them on her meal trays. She found Galen Fairchild's when she ate a sandwich for lunch. It said he was from The New York Times. Allegra groaned when she read it. Occasionally, she wished she had an assistant, but most of the time she didn't need one.

Allegra debated about returning the call after lunch. He probably wanted an interview, which she wouldn't give him. But reporters were persistent, and he'd call again. It was easier to get it over with and scare him off now. She took particular pleasure in doing that, and confirming her reputation as a recluse. Jordan had cured her of wanting to try "dating" again. She'd probably just get herself in trouble, or fall for someone like him. No one would measure up to Henry. She'd been lucky once, but didn't want to try her luck again. She'd had a great love, and now she had a career, which was going well. It was enough for her.

She picked up the phone and called the number Louise had written down. It was an L.A. number. A man answered, and she asked for Galen Fairchild by name. He came on the line immediately. He had a deep pleasant voice and sounded cheerful and friendly.

Allegra said who she was, and he thanked her for returning the call. "I work for The New York Times, " he explained. "I cover books and authors in the L.A. area. I read your biography of your husband recently and loved it. And I just read your latest novel, and I love that too. I've admired your husband's work for years. And I have a particular fondness for Paris. I studied there for a year, so you hooked me with the location and the Ritz. And now here I am. I'm told you don't do interviews," he said, sounding amused. "But I thought I'd give it a shot and see if you'd talk to me. It's for the Sunday magazine. Full profile. Good for book sales," he said, hoping to be convincing, while she hesitated.

"It's true, I don't do interviews, and I just started a new book. Maybe in six or eight months, we could talk sometime," she said vaguely, hoping to fob him off, and he laughed.

"Oh, cruel woman," he said, "what do I tell my editor?"

"That I'm a cranky pain in the ass, and I wouldn't talk to you. You can lie and tell them you couldn't reach me." He laughed again.

"Wait, let me write that down…cranky pain in the ass…Why don't you like interviews, by the way?"

"Because I have nothing to say. I don't think interviews are relevant. I could be psychotic and it doesn't matter, if the book is any good. And my private life is my business, not the public's."

"All true. You don't sound psychotic."

"I'm not. Just cranky, and private. My late husband was too."

"I know. He really was a remarkable person," Fairchild said admiringly. "You portrayed that beautifully. I fell in love with him, reading your book." They had sent him a review copy.

"Me too. He was a very special person." Her voice softened when she said it, and filled with emotion.

"Would you have coffee with me? Entirely off the record, not an interview. Maybe we could figure out something you'd want to talk about. Paris maybe. I just think your readers deserve to know more about you. I got the feeling that the woman who wrote about Henry Platt was special too. You understood all the nuances of his artistic persona. That's a real talent, and being able to write about it and convey it to the reader is another one. You write well, and you're a brilliant observer of the human species."

"Not always," she said, thinking of Jordan Allen. "I've been fascinated by people since I was a kid. I used to think I was invisible, that I could see them and they couldn't see me." Fairchild knew it was the sign of an unhappy childhood, but he didn't say that to her. He'd had a drunken father as a child, and had been severely beaten by him, as had his mother. He survived it, she didn't. She had died of a fractured skull when he was ten, and his father had gone to prison. Galen Fairchild had been placed in an orphanage, and had been lucky when a loving couple in Boston had adopted him six months after his mother died, and changed his life. He would never have survived without them. They had taken him to Paris and he had fallen in love with it. They had been like fairy godparents in his life, and had opened the world up to him.

"I was invisible for a while too," Galen Fairchild shared with Allegra. "It was hard to pull off though. I have red hair." She laughed when he said it.

"So do I," she said, smiling.

"I know, from the photos on the back of your books. So, should we be invisible and have coffee? Would you trust me for one cup, if you can get away from the book you're writing?" She hesitated. She really didn't want to meet him, but he sounded like a decent guy. Few reporters were, in her opinion.

"I hate being interrupted," she growled at him.

"You don't have to do the interview," he said. "The cup of coffee doesn't obligate you. And you can do the interview a year from now, or whenever your next book comes out, if you want to. Your publisher will like that." It was true, and he was persistent, gently but doggedly so.

"You're very persuasive for an invisible guy with red hair," she said, and he laughed.

"Who knows, maybe we'll wind up friends. Stranger things have happened. I usually like my subjects. I can't write about them if I don't."

"I have to like the characters in my books," she shared with him.

"You're lucky. I want to write a book one day. I have no time now with my job."

"Eleven o'clock tomorrow morning." Allegra gave him the name of a deli she went to occasionally, where no one paid attention to her.

"I'll be there." He jotted it down. "And thank you. We can make it quick."

"I want to be at my desk by noon," she said firmly.

"I'll get up and leave mid-sentence at eleven forty-five." He knew she lived in Bel Air. "See you tomorrow, and thank you." Galen Fairchild had a gentle voice, and there was something about him she liked. She wasn't sure why, since he was a journalist, and she had a deep suspicion of them.

Allegra was about to put on a gray sweatshirt and jeans the next morning after she showered, and she stared at her red hair in the mirror. It looked a mess, and she brushed it. It hung straight down her back, and she put on black jeans and a white sweater, just to make some small effort. She didn't want to be one of those authors who tried to look their worst to prove that they were intellectuals. She put gold earrings on as she rushed out the door and got in her car.

She got to the deli five minutes early and waited in her car until she saw him. She didn't want to sit in the restaurant alone. She was still shy, and even more so once Henry was gone, and no longer there to protect her. She had felt so safe with him for those magical seven years. Now she was alone again and had to protect herself.

Allegra was surprised by Galen Fairchild's size. He was very tall, with broad shoulders. He looked like a big teddy bear. She noticed the red hair immediately. He was wearing a blue shirt, a blazer, jeans, and loafers. He looked like he came from the East Coast, and had the right look for a reporter from The New York Times. Respectable. Traditional. Old-school.

She walked into the deli a minute after he did, and he smiled down at her. She felt tiny next to him, although she wasn't. She guessed him to be about six four.

"You were watching me," he said with a smile, amused.

"How do you know that?" she asked him, and he pointed to her hair.

"I saw you in your car. You're not as invisible as you think. Neither am I. I was six four by the time I was fifteen. That's hard to hide, with the hair."

They got their coffee and sat down, and she asked him where he was from.

"Boston." They talked about Paris and the East Coast, and she told him about the cottage in Newport. He had been there once. He said he loved Los Angeles and had lived there for five years. He told her he was divorced and had no kids. He had gone to Yale, and was an English literature major, as she had been. He told her he was adopted, and she sensed that there was a story there. They both had their histories. He said that he and his ex-wife were good friends. She had remarried and had four kids, and he was godfather to one of them.

"I didn't want kids, so we split, and she found the right guy after me."

"I didn't want them either. I didn't want to give someone a miserable childhood if I made mistakes," she confessed.

"Yeah, me too, something like that. The sins of the father, and all that." She knew exactly what he meant. She had worried that she would be a mother like her own. What if it was in their DNA? Galen Fairchild was two years older than she was, though they looked about the same age. She vaguely remembered that he was forty-three. She had looked him up on Google. He stood up then while they were talking and looked at his watch. "Time's up." She was startled and then she remembered their deal, and smiled as she stood up too. "You have to go back to your desk or you won't talk to me again." She probably wouldn't anyway, and decided to be honest with him as they left the deli.

"I'm not going to do the interview, you know."

"I figured." He didn't look surprised. "I just wanted to meet you. Your books are so interesting. I love them, I'm reading your second novel now." She laughed.

"I was curious too," Allegra admitted. She liked him. He seemed normal and real, and it sounded like he might have had a rough road too to get where he was. Not wanting kids was a clue. She suspected they had more in common than red hair. But he wasn't angry or bitter. And he loved Paris, so he couldn't be all bad. She hadn't taken a risk on anyone in nine years, since Henry died, and wondered if it was time. She hadn't even considered it since Jordan and hadn't missed it. The books had filled her time. But some of what Jordan had said was true. She needed a life. And the books weren't enough. She needed real people in her life too. The books were her escape into a fantasy life, and had been since her childhood. She read them then. Now she wrote them.

Galen Fairchild walked Allegra to her car. She felt dwarfed beside him. "Can I call you again?" he asked her.

"I told you I won't do the interview," she reminded him.

"I know. I heard you. I meant for lunch or dinner sometime. Just me, no interview. Invisible dining," he said, and she laughed. "Or maybe I could meet you in Paris for lunch. All my favorite restaurants are there. Although I know a nice little French place on Melrose that's pretty authentic. Cassoulet, hachis parmentier, confit de canard, boudin noir. French bistro food. The real deal." He seemed like the real deal too, not just because of the food he liked. She could sense that he was an honorable man and a straightforward person.

"That would be nice," Allegra said. She'd been running for a long time, and wondered if it was time to stop. It was tiring, running from the world alone, and not a lot of fun. Galen seemed like he might be interesting. She didn't know what had made her agree to meet him, but something had. Destiny maybe, or blind luck, like when she'd gone to interview with Henry for a job, and a whole new world opened up to her after that.

"Call you in eight months when you finish the book?" he said, with a hopeful tone of voice and a twinkle in his eye.

"Maybe in three or four weeks, after I get the outline worked out," she said, and he nodded, pleased. He had the strong feeling that they had met for a reason, and so did she.

"That'll work. I'm free in eight months too, if you lose track of time. I know how writers are," he said, and she laughed out loud. "I'm going to tell them you wouldn't take my call, by the way. They'll leave you alone and won't assign anyone else to you, for a while anyway."

"Thank you." Allegra felt an unseen thread that connected them as she looked at Galen. It was a powerful bond of some kind. He felt it too. Maybe similarities in their histories, or something comparable.

"Thank you for coming to meet me," he said, as she got into her car and looked up at him.

"See you soon," Allegra said, and knew she would. Galen stepped back and she waved as she drove away. She could see him in the rearview mirror as he got in his own car, a battered Jeep. He was smiling, and as she drove back to Bel Air, she realized the most precious legacy Henry had left her. She had put it away for a long time and tried to forget it. But it had bubbled back up to the surface and she could feel it rising up inside her. It was joy. And when you added love to it, magic happened. That was what Henry had left her to keep with her forever. She remembered it now. Joy. No one could take it away from her. It was deep within her, and no one could deprive her of it. She had sensed joy in Galen too, and kindness, and courage. It took courage to hang on to joy, and determination not to lose it. The bad people and the bad times made one grow stronger and appreciate joy even more when one found it again, still intact, its light shining even brighter than before. She was looking forward to seeing Galen again. And whatever happened, she had joy in her soul. She had found it again, deep within her, brighter and stronger than ever.