“Terrence is a writer too,” I said.

“I’m a reporter for a hometown paper,” he said. “Not a writer like James Baldwin.”

“Few people are,” said Jerrold. “Jimmy says he could never write in America, that being black stifled him there.”

“But that’s what he writes about,” said Terrence, “being black in America.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t live in America. He lives in France.” Jerrold sipped his wine. “Paris is the place to pursue your dreams. It’s a place to be free as a man, as an artist. You and Roxanne could be openly in love there.”

I reached over and put my hand over Terrence’s. “I would go.”

“And leave everything you’ve built up here?” asked Terrence.

“If you wanted to go, I would leave with you,” I said.

Terrence shook his head. “Our lives are here. The battles I want to fight are here.”

“Love should not be a battle,” said Jerrold, “but all too often it is. I’m writing a film now, The Oubliette, about a French girl who falls in love with an African student, and both their hearts are broken. In the days before the French Revolution, the oubliette was a cage, a place where, if you were once cast there, you would be forever forgotten, but I am using the title more poetically. When their love affair breaks up, they both try to oublient, to forget; they each seek a place where they can forget the other. We start filming soon. You should come and help me. Paris is a wonderful place for artists and lovers.”

I leaned against Terrence. “Maybe we should go. We should make the time. And thanks to Julia, I have the money.”

“No, Liza Jane.” He put an affectionate arm around my shoulders. “My mama didn’t raise me to live off a woman, but I sure do enjoy the French lessons you teach.” He winked.

The hour grew late, and Jerrold wanted to be out of Los Angeles before dawn. He was driving down to Riverside to see Max and Marian briefly, and then back to Portland. He gathered his hat and coat, and before he left he held me close. “You are like a daughter to me, Roxanne.” He reached out and took Terrence’s hand in his own. “Look after her.”

“I do, though I can’t always keep her out of trouble.”

“Oh, most of that I make for myself,” I said, tucking myself in the shelter of his arm.

“Trust each other,” said Jerrold. “Don’t let the world come between you. And when you come to Paris, you come to me first, you understand?” He gave me a last kiss on the forehead, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and walked out into rain that had diminished to a mere silvery drizzle.