Remember (11 page)

To begin with, he did not want to get seriously involved with any woman because he did not want to care so much for someone that he would feel bound to make a commitment, perhaps get married and eventually have children. For most of his adult life he had believed that this would be unfair, in view of the dangerous life he led as a war photographer.

And certainly he was not prepared to give up that life of travel and excitement. Besides, he enjoyed his freedom, he had no desire to be pinned down by marital obligations. If he was honest, he believed himself to be a bachelor at heart.

And then there was Nicky herself. She was perfect as a friend, but hardly the most suitable candidate for a lover. She was too complicated, too complex by far. And then there were the very obvious logistical problems—she lived an ocean away, and she had one of the biggest careers in American television. Hardly the right ingredients for a harmonious love affair.

Also, for a long time Clee had been convinced that Nicole Wells lived out her life on various battlegrounds—the battlegrounds of the wars she covered, the battlegrounds of network politics, the battleground of her damaged heart.

Furthermore, he could not help thinking that she was still in love with Charles Devereaux, as futile as that was, even though she had never made a single reference to him in the entire time he had known her.

This omission had always struck him as odd, inasmuch as they were best friends.

Arch Leverson had filled him in, however, and he had a fairly good picture of what had happened. In his opinion, and Arch’s, Devereaux had behaved like a louse. But then brilliant and successful women such as Nicky were not necessarily discriminating when it came to men. Very frequently they picked the wrong ones, the bastards.

The clock on the white marble mantelpiece chimed nine and Clee sat up with a jolt, realizing that he had been thinking about Nicky ever since he returned from the office.

What the hell am I,going,g to do about he7

?

The question hung there for a while, and then all of a sudden it occurred to him that he did not have to do anything. She had absolutely no idea that he was harboring these strange new feelings for her. If he was smart and did not reveal them, she would be none the wiser. Very simply, he would go on treating her as a pal. This was the ideal solution, the only solution to his predicament. When he was with her he must behave exactly as he had in the past, and everything would be all right.

Vastly relieved that he had finally solved a problem that had hovered over him since Beijing, Clee got up and went to the kitchen, took another bottle of beer out of the refrigerator and opened it.

As he was crossing the foyer the phone began to ring and he hurried through the living room to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Clee, it’s me.”

“Nicky!” he exclaimed, and he was so happy to hear her voice that he felt an overwhelming rush of pleasure, which startled him. He sat down heavily in the nearest chair.

“What’s happening down there in Provence?” he asked a bit lamely, glad that she was hundreds of miles away and couldn’t see his reaction to her voice.

“It’s very quiet here, but it’s been wonderful for me these last few days,” she said. “So sunny and peaceful, and you were right, I did need the rest. Clee, I love your farm. It’s just beautiful, and so comfortable. You made a wonderful job of it.”

When he did not immediately respond, she said quickly, “I hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient time.”

“No, no,” he assured her, finding his voice at last. After clearing his throat, he said, “And I’m glad you like it there, Nick. My sister Joan will be delighted, she’s the one responsible for the farm. She restored and decorated it for me.”

“And here I’ve been thinking you’ve got hidden talents,” she said, and laughed her throaty laugh, which suddenly sounded very sexy to him.

He muttered, “How long are you planning to stay in Provence?”

“I don’t know. Originally I thought a week, but maybe I’ll stay on for a while. Clee, I was wondering if you might come down for a few days?

Keep me company. If you don’t have anything better to do?”

“I’d love to, Nick, but I’m jammed. The agency’s flooded with jobs.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I’m just in the middle of something, let me call you back later,” he said. “Or will you be going to bed early?”

“No, that’s fine. Talk to you later, then. Bye.”

She hung up before he could say another word, and he felt rotten for being abrupt. He had been having erotic thoughts about Nicky, and he had begun to feel self-conscious, ill at ease on the phone with her.

She was a baffling woman in a variety of ways. When he first met her in Beirut two years ago, he had thought she was the classiest-looking woman he had ever seen—beautiful, elegant even in her battered safari suit, and very photogenic. At that time he had categorized her in his mind as a Grace Kelly for the eighties and nineties. She had that very poised, cool exterior that could be so off-putting to some men, but he was sure it concealed great warmth. Eventually he had come to believe that deep down she was romantic and passionate by nature, but that she had been so badly hurt by Devereaux she was frozen cold when it came to men.

None of this had mattered to him before because they were just friends and nothing more. And in any case, when he first met her he had been heavily involved with another woman and had not been interested in Nicky as a lover.

But it mattered now. Everything about her mattered now. But it mustn’t. I have to care about her as a friend, and that’s all, he cautioned himself.

Jumping up, Clee went back to the kitchen, where he tore a piece off the fresh baguette on the table, and made himself a sandwich.

Then he paced restlessly around the kitchen, munching on the sandwich and taking an occasional swig from the bottle of beer.

And though he tried his utmost to put her out of his mind, his thoughts continued to turn on Nicky Wells.

At ten o’clock he called her back, and went out of his way to sound warm and friendly. They chatted for about twenty minutes, he told her about Marc Villier and the interview planned for the following morning, they discussed his trip to the States for Life magazine. And, as they usually did, they touched on the subject of Yoyo, of whom there was still no news.

Just before he said good-bye, Clee murmured, “I’m sorry I can’t come down to the farm, Nick. There’s nothing I’d like better than a few days in the sun, a chance to relax with you. But duty calls, I’ve just got too much work.”

“Please don’t worry about it, Clee,” she said pleasantly.

“Honestly, I do understand.”

As he hung up he was not so sure that he did.

Clee sat for a moment reflecting, with his hand resting on the phone.

He had nothing planned for the next few days other than the meeting with Villier tomorrow and the date with Mel on Saturday night. He could in fact go down to Provence for a long weekend.

He sighed as he thought of Mel. He was forever canceling dates with her for one reason or another, and that was damned unfair of him.

Still, if nothing else, he supposed this told him something important about the status of his relationship with her. She was lovely, but his feelings for her were not particularly intense.

If he was truthful, he had to admit he was only mildly fond of Melanie Lowe, and this would never change.

His thoughts veered back to Provence. There was no real reason why he could not go down there. Not true. There was an excellent reason.

Nicky Wells.

He was also forgetting his decision of a short while ago—to keep his relationship with Nicky exactly the way it had been from their first meeting, platonic. He had absolutely no intention of changing that.

Nor did he have any intention of going to the farm this weekend. Why expose himself when he felt vulnerable to her at present? Surely it was better to get a grip on his feelings, wait for them to change, to settle down before he saw her again.

He would be with Mel for the weekend. And for as long as they both wished to continue their pleasant liaison. Mel suited him fine. She was sweet and loving and undemanding. Furthermore, he liked being with her, enjoyed her wry sense of humor, her easygoing ways and her brightness.

And Nicky would remain his comrade-in-arms with whom he shared so much on an entirely different level. She was ideal to have as his best buddy, and he knew he must never do anything to jeopardize their friendship, which he cherished.

What Guillaume told you is true, Mademoiselle Nicky,” Amelie said, nodding her head several times for emphasis. “Soon it will be scorching hot. Unbearable. This is not the day to go to Arles.” As she finished speaking, Amelie squinted up at the sky and repeated, “Scorching, oui.”

Nicky tilted her head, following Amelie’s gaze. The sky was so vividly blue it almost hurt her eyes and she blinked. She put on her sunglasses.

“If you think I shouldn’t go, then I won’t,” she murmured, deeming it best to trust the couple’s judgment. Amelie and Guillaume were wise in the ways of the Provencal land and the weather, and in the week she had been staying here they had not been wrong in anything they had told her about the area.

“Too hot to go tramping the streets of the city,” Amelie went on, waving her hand dismissively. “Better to be here. Sit under the trees in the shade. Swim in the pool. Stay cool. That is the best thing on a day like this, Mademoiselle Nicky.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do, Amelie.” Nicky smiled at her and added, “Thanks for your good advice. I appreciate it.”

It was eight o’clock on Friday morning. The two women were standing in the middle of the lawn that stretched from the edge of the outdoor dining terrace on one side of the house to the pool area at the bottom of the garden. The sun was shining brilliantly in that azure sky of dazzling clarity, and the air was already vibrating with intense heat.

Nothing moved, not a blade of grass nor a single leaf stirred, and even the birds were curiously silent this morning as they took refuge in the dark green branches of the trees.

Amelie straightened her crisp white apron, peered at Nicky and asked, “What would you like for lunch?”

Nicky burst out laughing. “Amelie! I’ve only just had breakfast!

You’re going to have to stop feeding me in this way. I’m beginning to feel like a duck being forcefed—fattened up forfoiegras.” Shaking her head, Amelie exclaimed, “But, Mademoiselle Nicky, you are too thin!” Opening her arms wide, Amelie threw them around her solid Provencal body and hugged herself. Then she winked and announced, “A man likes something to hold on to, n’est-ce pas? That is my opinion.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Nicky said, laughing. “But please don’t make anything too heavy for lunch. It’s much too hot to eat.”

“I will prepare the perfect lunch for the weather,” Amelie reassured her. “Yesterday Guillaume bought wonderful melons in the village, from Cavaillon. They are the best in the whole of France, mademoiselle. So sweet, like honey. Mmmm.” Amelie kissed her

fingertips, and went on, “So you will commence with the chilled melon. Then you will have a simple salade ni,coise, and for dessert, vanilla ice cream.”

“Thank you, it sounds delicious. But no ice cream, Amelie, iced tea instead.”

“As you say, Mademoiselle Nicky.” Amelie flashed her a warm smile.

“Excuse me, I must go to my kitchen. So much to do. And I must also think about your dinner for tonight. Nothing fattening, no.” And so saying she hurried up the steps leading to the terrace and bustled into the farmhouse.

Amused, Nicky looked after her, shaking her head. Amelie seemed to be determined to put some flesh on her bones whatever it took.

Turning, Nicky strolled over to the narrow flagged path cutting through the long stretch of sloping green lawn and headed down to the pool area located at the very tip of the garden. This had been skillfully designed to flow into the landscape and it had a lovely natural look to it. The pool was set in a rectangle of lawn, and only a few yards away a cluster of trees formed a small copse, where flowers had been randomly planted to make them look as if they were growing wild.

Under these trees Guillaume had arranged several chaises, oldfashioned deck chairs and low occasional tables, as he did every morning. Nicky had discovered that this was the coolest spot in the garden, frequently, a light breeze rustled through the trees, and it was her favorite place for reading.

She smiled inwardly as she walked toward the copse. Amelie had been fussing and mothering her all week long, and nothing was too much trouble for her or Guillaume. In consequence, she felt rested and spoiled, but she was also beginning to grow just a little bored after a week here alone.

Nicky had said this to her mother last night, when she had called her in New York. Her mother had exclaimed, “Good Lord, darling, how can you be bored in Provence! There’s so much to see and do.

Besides, it’s about time you stayed put for a moment or two. If only to catch your breath. You’re never still—forever rushing around the world in search of stories.”

Flabbergasted, Nicky had retorted, “Mother, how can you of all people say such a thing! You were doing exactly the same as I when you were my age. Not only that, you had me in tow.”

Her mother had had the grace to laugh. “Touche’ But to tell the truth, darling, your father and I do wish you would slow down a bit. For the past ten years you’ve been covering wars and uprisings and revolutions, been in the thick of all kinds of catastrophic events, in every corner of the globe. And when I look back, I can’t help but shudder to think what you’ve been through, the risks you’ve taken….” Her mother had stopped at this juncture in the conversation, and there had been a little pause before Nicky had asked softly, “Mom, are you trying to say that you and Dad want me to stop being a war correspondent?”

Her mother had been quick to deny this. “Of course not, your father and I would never interfere with your life or your career.

But I know it must get wearying for you. And it is dangerous.”