* * *
Honey and Leonard rented a car and found Monet's house and gardens at Giverny without incident. It was only 75 km up the A13 from Paris. Leonard drove and he was chatty the whole way. The paranoia of the night before had long been forgotten. He was having a great day on his way to doing something he had wanted to do his entire life. He was keenly aware, however, that he and Honey were probably being followed if not chased.
"Yep. Two nights in that hotel was enough," he said to Honey. "We've got to keep moving if we don't want to get caught."
"Do you really think they're after us?"
"No doubt about it. I'm amazed we've made it this far. I'll bet the police are looking all over Paris by now. Too bad for them. We're gone."
"What about Gretchen?"
"You know, that girl has turned into the biggest disappointment of my life. I thought she loved me. I know she did. I hope she still does. The terrible truth is she's fallen in love with my money. We've been through a lot together. But she just can't handle me being with you. That doesn't make any sense. I mean, the girl is my brother's daughter. After he died, she became more like my daughter. So, I can't understand why she wouldn't just want me to be happy. She knew what a train wreck my marriage was after we lost our only child."
"Leonard, I've got some bad news for you. News you already know but won't admit to yourself."
"What?"
"Gretchen's been stealing your money and she doesn't want me helping you find out about it."
"I can't believe that. I can't believe that's true. She's a good girl. But let's not talk about it anymore. We need to savor this moment. Here we are at Claude Monet's place. Can you believe it? Here we are, parking our fancy rental car in the lot outside Claude's house. Come on, let's go see his gardens and the paintings and the places he used to have breakfast and drink wine and go to bed."
Honey and Leonard walked, hand in hand, to Monet's house and went on the inside tour first. Honey's favorite part, by far, was the bright, yellow dining room. "Oh, Leonard, it's so beautiful. Who would ever think to make a dining room this gorgeous yellow?"
"Monet and artists in general are all about color," Leonard said. "You know, it's funny. People look at paintings and they want to impress everybody with their knowledge of art history and compare this artist to that artist. All they need to say is, 'Hey, I love the yellow.'"
They went outside in the bright autumn sunshine and strolled down the sloping gardens of daisies and poppies and rare flowers; down the central aisle, covered by iron arches for climbing roses in the spring. "You don't need to talk about art," Honey said. "You need to feel it. Like we're doing now. We don't need to decide which flower is the most beautiful, we just need to appreciate the whole garden."
"I'll tell you what we need to do," Leonard said as they entered the underground tunnel to make their way to the water garden. "We need to create our own garden back home."
"But we're not painters."
"We'll invite the painters over so they can wander the paths and mingle with the flowers and paint things the way they feel them."
"What if they feel like cutting off their ear?"
Leonard laughed, "Then we won't invite them over."
"Poor Vincent," Honey said. "He was so unhappy."
"I'll bet he wasn't unhappy when he was painting. His work always makes me feel good about myself. Like this place does."
Honey gasped as they came out of the tunnel and approached the water gardens. "Look, there's the Japanese bridge and the Wisteria and the lilies. Oh, my stars, it's even more beautiful in real life."
As they walked the paths around the water, Leonard told Honey a little about Monet. "You know, when he died in 1926 he was 86 years old. Some of his best paintings, the water lilies, were done in his eighties. You know what that means?"
"What does that mean?" Honey said as she pulled her gaze away from the pond and looked at Leonard.
"It means the best is yet to come," he said as he gave her a big hug. "It means we're still a couple of kids who can go anywhere we want and do whatever we want. It means we're young and in love."
Honey couldn't help but laugh with him in his enthusiasm. "I can't argue with you," she said. "I do feel young in this perfect garden with you."
"You know when the critics called his work Impressionism when he was a young painter, they meant it as an insult. But the young painters loved the term and used it for themselves."
"So why do they call it Impressionism?" Honey asked.
"Because it's not realistic. It goes beyond that. Monet and his buddies started painting the effects of light with broken color and rapid brushstrokes. Some of the stuff almost looks fuzzy. They called it plein air because they painted in the great outdoors and they weren't afraid to add a little emotion to the canvas."
"How do you know so much about art?" Honey asked.
Leonard thought about the question for a moment before he answered, "I don't know that much about it, but my mother was an artist. She painted in oil on big canvasses. She painted the great outdoors and everything in it. We'd come in from the fields, and there she'd be, doing a painting of the barn with a cow in front of it. Or painting a vase of flowers, catching the light just right in the evening sun. I used to love her work."
"Do you still have any of it?"
"You know, that's the darndest thing. I don't have a single painting. She died when I was twenty-two and all the relatives swooped in, and then there were no more paintings. Dad gave them all away. He couldn't bear to look at them. Her death was hard on him. It was hard on my brother and me too. She died of lung disease. She was a smoker, so was Dad. Once she got sick she made me promise to quit, and I did. My brother, Daniel, tried to quit but he couldn't do it. They didn't even call it cancer back then. It was quick, though. One day she was fine. Three months later, she was gone."
"Oh, Leonard, that's so sad."
"Monet was her favorite painter. She had a book of his work that she always kept on the coffee table in the living room. I used to love looking at the pictures of his paintings. They always felt so far away and romantic and colorful. Funny thing, now that I'm here, this place reminds me of home. It's really a lot like the farm. Look at the rolling hills and the trees and all the beautiful things growing. We could be back in Indiana."
"Don't tell me you're getting homesick."
"No, I'm not homesick. Home is where you are."
"What a perfect thing to say."
Leonard lingered in the gardens for another hour but eventually began walking Honey toward the car. "It's time to hit the road," he said. "We can't stay here too long. Gretchen knows this is the first place I'll visit."
As Honey and Leonard were leaving the gardens, a young woman came up in an excited rush and asked them to sign a copy of her newspaper. Honey put her glasses on to see the paper. She couldn't read the headlines but it was impossible to miss the photo of her and Leonard, it took up much of the top half of page three.
"What does it say?" Honey asked the woman. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes, I do. Oh my, it is really you. Please sign my paper. Here's a pen. You are going to be famous in France."
"What does the headline say?"
"Oh, yes, excuse me. It says 'Elder Lovers Flee to France.'"
Honey signed the newspaper as Leonard said, "Like I said, it's time to go. Looks like the French papers are picking up the story and photos from The Chicago Tribune." Then he turned to the young French woman and said, "Tell anyone who wants to know that we're headed for Amsterdam."
Honey and Leonard got in their car, and Leonard drove back to Vernon and across the Seine River. Honey said, "This doesn't look like the way to Amsterdam."
"Who said anything about going to Amsterdam?" Leonard laughed. "We're about to get lost in the French countryside, headed south for the Riviera. You in?"
* * *
Jack Crumbo landed in Paris three days after Honey and Leonard. He had no idea how to find the elder loveb
irds. They could be anywhere in France, or Europe for that matter. So, he did what any journalist would do. He went to the main offices of a Paris daily newspaper.
His Tribune credentials opened all necessary doors, and he was quickly introduced to Corbin Lacoste, reporter in charge of the exploding Honey and Leonard story. Lacoste was thrilled to meet the man who initially broke the story and eager to share what few leads he had as to the couple's whereabouts. Fortunately for Crumbo, Lacoste spoke excellent English.
"I am so happy to meet the man who turned a love story into international news," Lacoste said.
"It wasn't international until you guys picked it up."
"Look at these clips from all over," Lacoste said. "Here's the London story, here's Stockholm. And look at this—it's even in Tokyo. Reporters from all over the world are picking up your story. You're a hero."
Crumbo laughed aloud at that comment. "All this means is I've got a lot more competition."
"What's Leonard like? Is Honey really in love with him? Did she try to poison him? Where did a farmer get all that money?"
Crumbo laughed again. "That's too many questions. You've got to ask them one at a time." He was pulling rank on Lacoste, who was twenty-eight years old, seventeen years Crumbo's junior.
Lacoste didn't mind. "Yes, yes, I am sorry. Please just tell me about Leonard. Tell me everything. I want to know it all."
"Tell you what," Crumbo said. "I'll tell you the most important facts about the story if you agree to help me find them. But you've got to agree to keep it off the record until I give you the okay."
Lacoste was so delighted to be partnering with Jack Crumbo and The Chicago Tribune he could barely restrain himself. At nearly six feet tall, Lacoste was a couple inches taller than Crumbo and in much better physical condition. Crumbo was carrying an extra thirty pounds around his midsection.
"Okay, then," Crumbo said. "Settle down. Here, let's have a seat. People are watching." Indeed, half the newsroom was staring at the newly formed reporting team.
"Honey never tried to poison Leonard. He had high levels of arsenic in his blood from being a farmer all his life and being exposed to arsenic in the pesticides he used on his fields."
Lacoste looked at Crumbo like he expected him to continue. Crumbo paused to let the meaning of his words sink in to the French reporter. It took a minute, but Lacoste finally lit up when he realized the significance of what he'd just been told.
"Then why are they running?" he asked Crumbo.
"Because nobody knows this except you and me and Honey's attorney. Honey and Leonard don't even know it yet."
"But Honey must know she didn't try to poison Leonard," Lacoste reasoned. "And Leonard must know he was never poisoned."
"They do," Crumbo said. "But they also know the law in Indiana is trying to keep them apart. So, they decided they didn't have time to wait on the law."
"We've got to find them," Lacoste said.
"Why do you think I came to see you?" Crumbo asked.
"Oh, right. Yes, yes. I did get a tip just today that they might be heading south. We had a sighting in Dijon."
"Is that where they make the mustard?" Crumbo asked.
"Yes," Lacoste said. "You Americans probably think it's a brand name, but it's really a quaint little town in France with big mustard factories. My guess is they'll keep heading south and be in Avignon by now. All the tourists head there on their way to the Riviera. It's a well-preserved medieval city."
Crumbo and Lacoste packed their things into Lacoste's car and took off for Avignon.
Eight
HONEY AND LEONARD arrived in Avignon somewhat the worse for wear. After being in the car with Leonard for three straight days, Honey was beginning to realize there was no way she could keep him from repeating himself. Dijon had been the worst.
Leonard was driving south of Paris on A5 when Honey spotted the first sign for Dijon. It was, in fact, the exit sign for Dijon and they were almost past it when Honey said, "Leonard, turn here. Turn now. Take this exit. Look, it's for Dijon. That's got to be where they make the mustard."
The tires squealed as Leonard cranked the steering wheel to make the exit. The truck he cut off to make the turn blasted its horn. Leonard turned to Honey and said, "Pumpkin, please, don't scream at me like that. You're going to get us both killed."
Honey apologized but thanked him for being such a good driver and for following her spur of the moment directions. Then came the first of many signs for Dijon.
"Dijon," Leonard said, "that's where they make the mustard."
"Yes, sweetie, that's what I just said. That's why we're going there, to see the mustard factory."
The second sign for Dijon appeared on the side of the road in about 3 kilometers. Leonard said, "Dijon. That's where they make the mustard."
"Leonard, you just said that a minute ago. We both know Dijon is where they make the mustard."
By the fifth sign for Dijon with Leonard saying the exact same thing each time, Honey decided the only way to handle his repeating himself was to ignore it.
There's no use telling him he's repeating himself. He forgets what I say as much as he forgets what he says. So, if he can't remember what he says, how is it that he repeats the exact same thing every time, like he remembers what he said before? It's like a broken record, repeating the same thing, over and over.
Honey and Leonard arrived in Dijon with high hopes of learning how mustard is made. After a few inquiries, though, they learned that the mustard factory did not allow tourists to visit.
"They must have something to hide," Leonard concluded.
"Either that or it's just not that exciting to watch mustard being made," Honey said.
Not being allowed inside the mustard factories did not dampen Leonard's mood for long. He shifted into fine form, acting like a tour guide, although he'd never seen the city before. Now, he wasn't repeating himself as he had been on the highway. The repeating business seemed to come and go.
"I tell you what we'll do," he said. "Since we can't tour the factories, we'll go to a shop and buy a bunch of those little mustard jars we've been seeing everywhere. Then, we'll go to a restaurant and sample them at dinner. How's that sound for a plan? I'm hungry, aren't you?"
"Yes, I'm famished and that sounds like a wonderful plan," Honey said. She was falling more deeply in love with this resourceful man every step of the journey, even if she was troubled and becoming more mystified by his memory problems.
Nonetheless, the realization that "love might not conquer all" was slowly taking shape in her mind. It was beginning to dawn on her that Leonard's memory might keep getting worse no matter how much she loved him or how much quality time they spent together.
At dinner, Leonard borrowed her glasses to read the label on one of the mini mustard jars. "Look here," he said. "Dijon mustard began in 1856 when some guy substituted the juice of not-quite-ripe grapes for vinegar."
Honey was paying more attention to the menu than to Leonard, so he pressed his point, "Don't you think it's funny how one little difference in the recipe can change the way the world thinks about mustard?"
Honey looked over her menu at Leonard and smiled. "I do think that is interesting. But what I find even more interesting is that bright yellow mustard we've got back in the States is called French's."
As they laughed together, the waiter came over to check on them. Once Honey clued him in on the joke, the waiter said, "We do find that funny. But not as funny as calling your grease-fried potatoes French fries."
"I'll have some French's Mustard on my French fries," Leonard joked.
"No sir," the waiter said. "For that, I am afraid you will need the tomato sauce the English call ketchup."
Once he left, Honey leaned over and said to Leonard, "Isn't it fun to see how people from other countries look at food?"
"I'm just glad he didn't recognize us," Leonard said. "People seem to be looking at us like they know us from somewhere but they can't quite remember where."
But the waiter had recognized them from their photos in the newspapers. Honey's generous tip did nothing to keep him from calling in a tip of his own to the Paris newspaper. He'd been following the growing story and wanted to be part of it. He didn't get paid for his information but he did get to talk to the rising-star reporter, Corbin Lacoste. The waiter told the reporter he had overheard Honey and Leonard talking about heading south.
* * *
Leonard was excited to see Avignon. He told Honey all about the ancient town on the Rhone River. He had been reading travel brochures along the way. "This city was actually the center of the Roman Catholic Church in the 1300's," he said. "Some Pope moved out of Rome and started building palaces and churches in Avignon. From what I hear the old town is surrounded by medieval ramparts with guard towers and gates and the whole bit."
"So that's why they call the wine Chateauneuf-du-Pape," Honey said.
"That's right. The name means the Pope's new castle. As you know, it's my very favorite wine in the world, and they make it right around here." Leonard said.
"You just like it for the fancy seal and the castle on the label," Honey teased.
"You know me better than that. It's the richest, most full-bodied red wine on the market today. And I'll bet it's a lot cheaper here than it is in the States."
"Well, let's get ourselves into town and get a hotel room and go out and find some of that new Pope wine," Honey laughed.
Finding a room in Avignon was easier said than done. The streets were much too narrow for modern traffic. Even the main central boulevard, Rue de la Republic, was no wider than an alley in a more modern city. Two-way traffic at 4 p.m. was moving slowly. So slowly that Jack Crumbo recognized Honey and Leonard as they drove past him and Lacoste.
"That's them," Crumbo said to his fellow reporter. "Stop the car. Let me out. That's Honey and Leonard."
Lacoste slammed on the brakes, and Crumbo jumped out to try and catch their car. But Leonard was moving away too quickly. A break in traffic allowed him to speed away just as Crumbo was waving his camera at them and shouting at them to stop.
Honey and Leonard Page 9
