Since 1987, I have not stopped pondering the question of where Veronique Tibo has gone. I came across her freckled face and reddish hair on the London Underground. As soon as she strode onto the platform at the crowded Piccadilly station, she caught my attention. She sat down in front of me and chattered in French with a guy who did not take his eyes off her. I realized I had no chance, especially with my shyness, and immersed myself in reading the brochure that was being handed out in the square about the harmonica player Toots Thielemans.

"Parle Francais?" I heard her ask in her charming and sexy-sounding French. "Monsieur?" I listened closely but still did not realize that these romantic sounds were directed towards me. "Excusez-moi?" This time I raised my head. Her laughing eyes spoke to me and her painted lips continued, this time in English, asking if I liked jazz.

"Beaucoup," I replied, using a word I remembered from my favorite high school teacher. "We love it too, and tonight we're going to the club in that brochure you’re holding.” I sighed. Why were the best-looking women always taken?

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