I continued to stare at him, saying nothing. But Jake was wrong about this, as we were later to find out. Someone did know about Tony, and that person had all the answers. At least answers that would satisfy me. But this was yet to come. It was in the future.
VIII
After dinner we sat in front of the fire in the living room, sipping a large cognac each and talking endlessly about everything. About ourselves and our childhoods, about the years when we didn’t know each other, about our first meeting in Beirut, and about all those missed chances of being together.
“Now is the perfect time for us, the right time, Jake, just as you said before. I’m much more grown-up and mature, better for you now.”
“You were always better for me, Val, better than anyone else. We were destined to be together. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes, I do,” I said, meaning this, and knowing that he had meant every word he had said. I leaned my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes, but after a moment he took me in his arms and held me close, stroking my hair. And I knew that at last I had found my safe haven, the place where I was meant to be for the rest of my life. And for the first time in years I was at peace with myself.
Chapter 14
I
Two days after they had left for Marseilles, Simone and Armand returned to Les Roches Fleuries. They arrived in the late morning, as Simone had said they would when she had called the day before, and they came with their daughter Françoise.
I happened to be in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee and wondering what to prepare for Jake’s lunch, when Simone appeared in the doorway, very suddenly and unexpectedly, dragging Françoise in her wake.
“Mademoiselle Denning, bonjour!” she exclaimed.
“Bonjour, Simone. I’m glad you’re back, and you arrived just in time to help me.” I grinned at her. “I was looking around for inspiration—wondering what to prepare for Monsieur Jake’s lunch.”
“Ah, Mademoiselle, c’est pas nécessaire maintenant. I am here, it is not necessary for you to cook.” She smiled warmly in her usual good-natured way, and then taking hold of her daughter’s hand, she brought her forward.
The girl had been hanging back, had positioned herself behind Simone, and she appeared to be a little shy, I thought. But I realized, as she came into the sunny, lightfilled kitchen, that she was badly bruised on her face; this was probably the reason she was reluctant to show herself to a stranger. She was a lovely-looking young woman, slender and fair of coloring, with blond hair and light gray eyes.
“This is my daughter,” Simone said. “And, Françoise, this is Mademoiselle Denning.”
“I am pleased to meet you,” Françoise murmured quietly in excellent English, shaking my outstretched hand.
I smiled at her. “And it’s nice to meet you too.”
Françoise endeavored to smile back, but she was finding this difficult, no doubt because there were bruises around her mouth as well as on her forehead and cheek-bone.
“I’m so glad you’re all right, that nothing serious happened to you and the baby when you fell,” I remarked, wanting to put her at ease.
“I was lucky,” she replied in the same low voice.
Sensing that they would both feel better if I vacated the kitchen, I gestured at the coffeepot and said to Simone, “I’ll be back in a minute or two for the coffee.”
“No, no, rest tranquil. I will bring it to you and Monsieur Jake in a moment. Avec du lait.”
“Merci, Simone, and I’ll tell Monsieur Jake you’re back.” I went outside and walked along the terrace to talk to Jake, who was relaxing on a chaise under an umbrella. “Simone’s here,” I announced, “and Françoise is with her.” I leaned against the table, stared over at him, and then, pulling a chair out, I sat down.
Glancing up at me, looking surprised, Jake put down the book he was reading and said, “Odd she didn’t mention Françoise would be coming when she phoned me last night. How does Françoise look?”
“Bruised. On her face. She’s a lovely-looking girl though, isn’t she?”
“A beauty. Maybe Simone and Armand decided it was wise to bring her back here with them to keep her safe from Olivier.”
“Or perhaps to recuperate from her fall,” I suggested gently. “She’s not necessarily a battered wife.”
“No. But you did say her face was bruised. And I’m not so sure your face gets bruised when you fall down steps.”
“Yes, I guess she could be battered. Only she knows the truth, and her mother perhaps.”
“Simone would never mention anything to us. But she’s a wise woman from what I know of her, and she’ll do everything she can to protect Françoise from Olivier, if that’s what is needed,” he said.
“I’m sure you’re right—” I began, and then paused when I saw Simone walking toward us, carrying a tray. “Here she is now,” I added sotto voce.
Jake pushed himself up off the chaise just as Simone arrived at our side. She placed the tray of coffee on the table where I was seated and said, “Bonjour, Monsieur Jake.”
“Hello, Simone,” he replied, grasped her hand, and shook it. “I hear Françoise is with you.”
“Oui, Monsieur. It will be good for her to relax here with us for a few days, to recover from her . . . fall.”
“You’re absolutely right. It’s the perfect place, and we’re glad she’s here with you and Armand. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, Simone, or for Françoise, and thanks for bringing the coffee.”
With a nod and a small pleased smile, she disappeared down the terrace.
Jake said to me slowly, thoughtfully, “She and Armand were so insistent about taking a cab from the airport. They didn’t want me to pick them up, maybe because Françoise was with them. . . .” He looked at me and made a face, then, sitting down at the table, he lifted the coffeepot and poured for both of us, saying, “I guess everybody’s got to do their own thing.”
“That’s true, and we can’t intrude on them. After all, they’ve lived here for twenty years, the girls grew up at Les Roches Fleuries, and this is their home. We’re just Peter’s guests here, Simone and Armand belong.”
“Talking of being Peter’s guests, when do you want to leave, Val?”
“Never,” I answered, smiling across at him, reaching out, taking his hand in mine. “Les Roches Fleuries is the best place I’ve ever been, Jake.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because you’re here, and because we’re together in the best sense of that word.” I threw him a flirtatious look and added, “But anywhere with you would be marvelous. Still, this is such a fabulous house.”
He laughed softly. “I feel the same way as you do about this house. And I adore you, and I don’t want to leave either, there’s something very special about Les Roches Fleuries . . . it’s very romantic, perhaps that’s what’s so appealing about it.”
“The atmosphere is happy,” I remarked. “And I think that this goes back to Adelia Roland. After all, she’s the only person who’s lived in it other than Peter. She created a unique villa and extraordinary gardens. And I’ve always believed that people who inhabit a house give it a certain feeling, either good or bad. Don’t you think that?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Anyway, perhaps Peter will let us come back one day.”
“Anytime you wish.”
“We will have to leave soon, I suppose, go back to work, earn our living. So what actually are your plans?” I asked. “When we leave here?”
“Not sure. Well, that’s not exactly true, Val. To be honest, I’m thinking of going to New York for a couple of weeks.”
“Oh.” Flabbergasted to hear this, I gaped at him.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he said swiftly. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something. About a book I want to do. That’s the reason I may be heading to New York. To talk to a publisher. Harvey Robinson has one in mind. In fact, he’s already broached the idea to t
hem, and they’re very interested. They’ve told Harvey they want to see me.”
“And you never even told me!” I exclaimed, staring at him somewhat reproachfully.
“I’m telling you now.”
Realizing I had sounded hurt in the most childish way a moment before, I now spoke in a more positive mature voice when I said, “I think that’s terrific, Jake. A wonderful idea.”
“It will be if you work on the book with me, Val.”
He had surprised me again, and I didn’t say anything for a moment, then I asked, “What will the book be about? And why do you need me?”
“It’s about war, to answer the first part of your question. And I need you as a collaborator because I need your pictures, plus your help with the text. You’re a great reporter, Val, the best, and you write so well. Far better than I do.”
I couldn’t help but be pleased with his compliments, and I said, “That’s nice of you to say so, but as far as the book’s concerned, I just don’t know.” I frowned as I added, “Anyway, what exactly do you mean when you say a book about war?”
“Not war per se, but, rather, it would be a book about the children of war. And not the dead children either, but those who managed to survive, who are the future of their countries, the flowers of their countries, the flowers of war in a sense, who offer hope to the world. You’ve got loads of dramatic shots of children—before, during, and in the aftermath of war. Because that’s always been your speciality, not mine, not Tony’s.” He leaned closer. “Come on, honey, say you’ll do it.”
Wanting to hedge for a couple of seconds, I said, “That’s a good title.”
“What is?”
“Flowers of War.” I put great emphasis on the words.
“Jesus, you’re right! You see, I do need you.”
“I sincerely hope so,” I murmured, and blew him a kiss.
“Is it a yes, Val?” he pressed, his eyes fastened on mine.
I smiled enigmatically. “It could be . . . it just depends on ...”
“On what?” he demanded.
“How well you treat me.”
“I’ll love you to death,” he promised.
“Then it’s a deal.”
Obviously delighted that I had agreed, he exclaimed, “And it really will be a proper deal, you know, fifty-fifty partners, a split right down the middle on any advance and on the royalties. How does that sound?”
“Great, Jake.”
“We’ll have some fun.” He grinned at me, looking like a little boy who had just won the biggest prize of his life.
II
As usual, Simone made a wonderful lunch.
We started with vichyssoise, followed by an extraordinary Niçoise salad, served along with finely sliced charcuterie and warm baguettes. For dessert Simone presented us with our favorite Cavaillon melon topped with red currants mixed with raspberries.
All through lunch, as we ate the delicious food and sipped vin rosé, Jake talked about what had now become our book. His excitement about it was infectious.
I also liked the idea because I felt that working on it would keep Jake away from Kosovo. Although he had said he didn’t want to go anywhere without me, I was nevertheless a bit worried that Jacques would pressure him into covering the war again. And if not that particular war in the Balkans, then another one somewhere; there were always wars to cover these days, and after all, Jake was a war photographer, as I was. But I had lost my taste for this dark side of journalism, at least for the time being anyway. I prayed he had too.
And so we talked about the pictures we’d taken, what we had in our files, and which ones would work; we even got down to outlining some of the chapters. With his particular brand of enthusiasm, he made the project sound both exciting and challenging, and by the time we had finished lunch, I discovered I was as committed to the book as he was.
III
We went upstairs to take an afternoon nap. But in the privacy of my room, resting seemed to be the last thing on Jake’s mind. Very slowly, he undressed me, peeling off my shirt, bra, and cotton shorts; and then he shed his own clothes. Leading me over to the bed, he gently pushed me onto it, lay down next to me, and took me in his arms.
“Oh, Val, my darling Val,” he whispered against my neck, stroking my hair. “We’re so lucky to have found each other . . . we have so much together.”
“Yes, I know we do.”
He brought his face to mine and kissed me softly. I held him tightly, my arms around his neck. Finally, in a low voice, he said, “I adore you, Val. I have ever since the first day, but much more now.”
“I feel the same way, Jake.”
“Let’s not lose this . . . let’s try to keep it, keep it as long as we can . . .” His voice tapered off. He looked deeply into my eyes, as if he were seeing into my soul, and his own were very, very blue, reflecting his desire for me, and his love.
“For always. Let’s keep it always,” I responded.
“If we possibly can,” he murmured. “Always is a long time . . . but we can aim for it, can’t we?” Without waiting for a response, he kissed me again, and then very tenderly and gently he began to make love to me.
But as usual our passion swiftly flared, and we clutched at each other, devoured each other, were unable to get enough of each other. And then afterward, wrapped in each other’s arms, we fell asleep, at ease and content, knowing we belonged together.
Chapter 15
I
Jake went downstairs to call his photo agency, as he did every day. He sat at the big, beautiful antique desk in the window area of the room, which overlooked the gardens, and talked at length to Jacques Foucher. As one of the owners of the agency in Paris, Jake liked to know what business they were doing, what assignments were coming in and from which magazines and newspapers.
Knowing he would be occupied for quite a while, I went for a walk in the gardens, as I often did in the late afternoon. The furious storm of two days before had wreaked havoc and wrought a vast change in the vegetation and foliage. So many plants and flowers had been damaged by the rain and wind, and I had seen Armand walking around earlier today, looking crestfallen, glum, and concerned as he assessed the damage, especially to the azaleas and rosebushes.
The weather had changed as well since the storm. It was not as sunny as it had been, and the air was much cooler. Even the sky had altered in appearance. The vivid blueness had faded away, and this afternoon it was etiolated, a bleached-out sky the color of celery. In fact, the halcyon days of summer, which we had enjoyed for almost two weeks, had been replaced with a hint of fall. But I did not mind this change, or the cooling down, since I was happy being with Jake at Les Roches Fleuries.
As I came around the edge of the rosebushes, making for my favorite spot under the cedar tree, I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw Françoise. She was standing so near to the edge of the cliff, looked to be in such a precarious position, I thought she would fall off at any moment. My heart began to pound against my rib cage; I was scared. And I did not know what to do.
I felt panic rising in me, but I managed to push it back, knowing that I must keep a cool head and think very clearly. I dare not move abruptly or with suddenness. If I did, I might easily startle her, and that could prove fatal.
And so I just stood there, watching her, endeavoring to keep calm, wondering what my next move ought to be. After a couple of minutes I decided to make a few small noises, light sounds that might catch her attention without frightening her.
One false step on her part, and only one, and she would be tumbling over the edge. I couldn’t help asking myself what she was doing there in the first place. I hoped to God she wasn’t planning to commit some awful and irreversible act. I wondered again if she was indeed a battered wife, as Jake seemed to believe she was.
Suddenly she moved.
I held my breath, and my eyes closed involuntarily. Immediately I snapped them open. Thankfully Françoise was still there; my heart was racing faster than ever a
nd I felt a terrible fear settling in the pit of my stomach. How could I stop her from jumping, if that was her intention? My mouth went dry.
Taking complete control of myself, I reached out and shook the nearest bush, but the rustling of the leaves did not draw her attention. She seemed oblivious of everything; in fact, she still stood there as unmoving as a statue with her back to me, staring down at the rocks.
Very carefully, and with stealth, I stepped backward, moved away from the cedar tree, until I was out of sight behind the hedge. Then I turned and hurried down the lawn. I paused in the middle of the grass, took a deep breath, and then began to sing. Not too loudly, which would have startled her, but just loud enough for her to hear me, for her to be aware of my presence in the distance, to know it was me and not anyone else. I hoped a distant voice would break into her contemplation of that steep drop to the sea, and without scaring her into doing something rash.
“Dance, in the old-fashioned way. . . . Dance, in the old fashioned way. . . . / Come close where you belong. . . .” It was the only popular song I knew the words to, and this old Charles Aznavour classic was my favorite.
As I sang the words over again, I moved forward more rapidly, going back down the lawn toward her. And as I stepped through the flowering rosebushes I saw to my relief that she had turned around, that she had been alerted to my presence. She was rooted to the same spot on the edge of the cliff, staring at me blankly through troubled eyes.
I stopped and stared back at her, wanting to appear normal, casual, unconcerned.
“Françoise, hello, hello!” I exclaimed in a soft voice. “I hope I didn’t startle you with my awful singing.” I forced laughter onto my lips and went on. “I don’t have a very good voice, I’m afraid.” I laughed once more, hoping to make light of the situation.
But there was no response. She just went on standing there, gaping at me as if she didn’t know who I was. But thank God she hadn’t taken a false step. Believing that behaving normally with her was my best bet, I began to walk very slowly toward the iron bench under the cedar tree.
Where You Belong Page 14
