Where You Belong (11 page)

I

And so I stayed on at Les Roches Fleuries with Jake.

It seemed to me that time just sped by, even though we didn't do anything very special. In the first few days we were there together we fell into a routine, a pattern that was built on a number of little rituals and which we both discovered we enjoyed.

I think the reason we found enjoyment in them is that we lived such a helter-skelter life when we were out on assignment and never knew what was going to happen from one day to the next, or where we might end up.

But at the villa on the hillside, our days rarely varied, and neither of us minded this at all. In fact, we thought of it as a blessing.

Every morning Jake and I had breakfast together, sitting at the round table under the vine-covered arbor. The weather was still glorious, and the shady arbor offered us protection from the early morning sun. Neither of us ate very much at breakfast, nor were we inclined to talk, so we were, as usual, compatible and at ease with each other.

After breakfast I usually read for a short time while Jake sunbathed, swam in the pool, and occasionally called his photo agency for messages; on other mornings he would spend time writing in his notebook.

Sometimes I would take a swim with Jake but not always. However, I did go to the basement gym with him at exactly eleven o'clock every day, where I fast-walked on the treadmill. Because of his wounds, Jake avoided the treadmill, but he enjoyed lifting weights.

After about half an hour in the gym, we went off to our rooms to shower and change into cool cottons, then we took the car and drove down into the little town of Beaulieu-sur-Mer.

I knew Beaulieu quite well, since my grandparents had frequently stayed at La Réserve, a lovely pink-and-white hotel in the town. It sat on a wedge of land at the edge of the sea, was renowned for its elegance and its wonderful restaurant. When my grandparents had come to France to see me in the summer, they went down to the South after a week in Paris. I always joined them in Beaulieu, once the Sorbonne was on summer recess.

Because of his frequent sojourns at Peter's villa, Jake was also well acquainted with this charming little town, and we liked to walk around, buying the French and English newspapers and magazines, visiting the antique dealers we liked, and picking up the odd items we needed at the local shops. But our most favorite spot was the open-air fruit and vegetable market right in the heart of Beaulieu.

Inevitably our mouths started watering when we stopped to look at the baskets of raspberries, red currants, strawberries, blackberries, plums, peaches, and the fragrant melons from Cavaillon, which we both knew from experience were the very best. Everything on the market stalls looked so luscious and tempting; but we never dared buy anything to take back to the house, for fear of offending Simone. She prided herself on her careful selection of produce for the delicious meals she created for us.

There was a small port in Beaulieu, where sailboats and yachts were at anchor in the quiet harbor. It was a charming, picturesque spot, and there were all manner of bistros, cafés, and boutiques centered around the port. We loved to linger there, whiling away the time as we meandered along the quais.

Just before lunch we went to La Réserve for an aperitif, since the hotel was close to the old port. If we didn't stop there, then we would end up at the Grand Hotel du Cap-Ferrat on our way home to the villa. We had discovered that the outside bar on the tree-shaded terrace of the hotel was a cool place for a Kir Royale or a simple citron pressé.

This kind of leisurely morning, devoid of the drama, stress, and death we were accustomed to coping with, was so unusual for us, we got a tremendous kick out of it. “Being normal, living normal,” Jake called it, and he was right. Most of our working days were spent watching people being blown up, maimed, or killed while we plied our trade as war photographers.

After our visit to the Grand Hotel, we would then drive on, up the winding hill and through the woods, making it back to Les Roches Fleuries just in time for lunch.

The afternoons were very lazy.

Jake read and slept. I did the same, or listened to music. Neither of us ever thought of turning on the television set and tuning in to CNN. We didn't want to hear the bad news, to know about wars, terrorism, earthquakes, hurricanes, floods, fires, or famine.

This kind of quiet, uneventful time was rare for us, and therefore seductive . . . we wanted to make it last. And so we were never tempted to venture out in the evening; certainly we had no desire to visit the chic spots in Monte Carlo, Nice, and Cannes. For the most part, Jake and I stayed close to the villa, which we were very partial to and enjoyed to the fullest. It seemed to us that there was no reason to go anywhere else. The extraordinary peacefulness was our idea of bliss, and we made the most of it.

II

One morning at the end of my first week at the villa, I woke up and discovered that I felt different.

I lay in bed for a moment, watching the sunlight slither in through the slats of the wooden blinds, wondering why I felt this way, and then, in an instant, I knew.

It was because I hadn't thought about Tony Hampton for several days. And because I hadn't thought about him, or what he'd done to me, I wasn't angry or hurt.

I was just me . . . Valentine Denning. The Val Denning of old again. It was a great feeling.

A second or two later I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at myself. To my astonishment, I even looked different. The violet smudges under my eyes had all but disappeared, and the grayish tinge to my skin had been replaced by a lovely golden glow. Without actually sunbathing, I had somehow managed to catch the sun, had acquired a light tan; even my hair was sun-streaked. I hadn't looked so healthy for a long time, and suddenly I was very pleased.

This miraculous and unexpected change in my appearance gave me a huge boost, a sense of renewed energy, and I threw off my nightgown, stepped into the shower, and turned on the water. After lathering myself with shower gel and then shampooing my hair, I rinsed off, stepped out, and toweled myself dry.

Within minutes I was tying my hair in a ponytail, then pulling on a swimsuit; I found a white cotton-voile shirt in the wardrobe, pushed my feet into a pair of flat mules, jammed on my dark glasses, and went in search of Jake.

I found him sitting at the edge of the swimming pool with his feet dangling in the water, his ear pressed to his cell phone. He was listening intently. When he saw me coming down the steps to the pool, he merely raised his hand in greeting then beckoned me to join him.

After a moment or two of listening, he said, “Okay, Jacques. Thanks. Call me back if you think I can be of help.” Listening again, he reached for the notepad next to him. His eyes scanned it quickly, then he said, “Yup, I got it. See ya, Jacques.”

Once he had clicked off the phone, I walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning.”

“And top o' the morning to you.”

I smiled at him. “In our Irish mode, are we?”

“I guess so. Perhaps because I had a call at the photo agency from Fiona. She's in Dublin. At the Shelbourne Hotel. She wants me to call her.”

I frowned. “I wonder why?”

“God knows,” Jake murmured, and glanced down at his cell phone and then the notepad, and began to dial. A moment later he was asking for Mrs. Fiona Hampton. He waited for a couple of seconds, then said, “Thanks very much,” and clicked off. Turning to face me, he explained, “She's checked out. No forwarding address.”

“She's probably gone back to London. To the house in Hampstead.”

“I guess.”

“Did Jacques have anything else to say?”

“He wanted to know if I'd like to go back to Rwanda. To do another story on the gorillas. I said no. He's going to ask Harry Lennox if he wants to do it. I told him I'd help with Harry if it was necessary. But I don't think it will be. Harry's ambitious, even if he is a bit of an innocent abroad, so to speak. He'll jump at the assignment.”

“Perhaps,” I murmured. I wasn't sure about Jake's assessment of Harry. I thought he was much more worldly than Jake gave him credit for. In my opinion, Harry Lennox was also devious, possibly even treacherous as well. He had always reminded me of my brother, Donald the Great.

“You sound dubious, Valentine. What's your problem?” he asked in his breezy way.

“I think you underestimate Harry Lennox. He's made dissembling a fine art. And he's a jealous little bugger. Especially jealous of you.”

Jake threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come on, Val, don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not being ridiculous, and listen, I know his type. He's like my sneaky little brother . . . I wouldn't trust either of them as far as I could see them. And that's a fact—” I broke off as I saw Simone hurrying down the steps to the pool. She was as white as bleached bone and obviously distressed.

III

“Simone, what's wrong?” Jake said. And as he spoke he pulled his legs out of the pool and scrambled to his feet.

She drew to a standstill in front of us and I saw at once that she was on the verge of tears. I reached out, put my hand on her arm. “Whatever is it?” I asked.

“It is my daughter, Françoise,” Simone began, and then her voice quavered. After a moment she recovered, and continued in a rush of words. “She had a bad fall this morning. Down the stairs. Olivier, her husband, has taken her to the hospital. They are worried about the baby.”

“My God, that's terrible!” I exclaimed. “Is there anything we can do?”

Simone shook her head, looking distracted and worried, then brushed her hand across her eyes. “Olivier, he just phoned,” she added.

Jake said, “You must go to Marseilles, Simone, with Armand. We can manage here. And you'll only worry if you don't go.”

She nodded. “That is true, I will. Merci, Monsieur Jake. Please come, the breakfast is ready.”

IV

The three of us walked up to the vine-covered arbor at the far end of the terrace, and Simone disappeared through the door to the kitchen.

Jake and I sat down, staring at each other worriedly. Jake sounded concerned when he said, “I believe Françoise's about seven or eight months pregnant with her first baby. I hope she hasn't injured herself and the child, that they're going to be all right.”

“So do I . . . but what are they doing in Marseilles? I thought their daughter lived in Cannes?”

“That's Solange, the younger daughter.”

“I see.” I picked up the crystal jug of fresh orange juice that stood on the table and filled our glasses. Before I got a chance to say anything else, Simone was back with a large pot of coffee and a jug of hot milk for the café au lait we both preferred.

Returning to the kitchen, she came out a second later carrying a basket of warm croissants and brioches. She said: “Armand is telephoning the Nice airport, Monsieur Jake. There's a plane to Marseilles at one o'clock. I will attend to the beds, clean the kitchen—”

Cutting in, Jake said, “You'll do no such thing, Simone. I told you, we can manage. Go and get ready, I know how anxious you must be. Once you're packed, I'll drive you to the airport.”

“But, Monsieur Jake—”

“No buts,” he interrupted again, holding up his hand, taking charge. “Go and do as I say, and we'll leave whenever you want.”

“Merci, Monsieur Jake, c'est gentil de votre part.”

When we were alone, Jake said, “How about coming with me to the airport in Nice?” He poured coffee and hot milk into his large cup, then looked across at me.

“Well . . .” I cocked my head on one side and murmured, “Maybe it's better I stay here, tidy the kitchen, do a few chores, be domesticated for a change.” I smiled at him. “And I'll prepare a lovely lunch.”

He nodded. “Okay, but only if you let me fix dinner.”

“Southern style?” I demanded.

He laughed. “You're on.”

V

Once they had left, it didn't take me very long to stack the dishwasher and mop the kitchen floor; I then went to make the beds and tidy up our bathrooms.

When all these jobs were finished, I returned to the kitchen and went directly to the walk-in pantry near the refrigerator. I was amazed when I saw how beautifully kept it was. Everything was arranged so neatly, the glass jars of bottled vegetables, fruits, and pickles carefully labeled and dated by Simone.

There were stacks of canned goods on higher shelves, and on the long countertop were most of the ingredients I needed for our lunch. A bowl of large brown eggs, a big wooden board holding different local cheeses, and a straw basket containing tomatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers. I picked this up and took it out to the sink.

After washing and drying the lettuce leaves, I wrapped them in paper towels and put them back in the pantry. I peeled and sliced half of a long cucumber, then sliced two large tomatoes. Once I had arranged these slices on a platter, I covered it with plastic wrap. This, too, went into the pantry.

All I would have to do later was arrange the ingredients in a salad bowl and add Simone's famous vinaigrette dressing, which stood on the shelf right in front of my eyes.

The eggs for the omelette could be beaten later, once Jake had returned from the airport. At that time I would also warm a baguette and bring out the cheese board. Everything was on hand, and ready to prepare at the last moment.

Walking to the far end of the kitchen, I pulled open the door leading down to the basement, which ran the full length of the house. The first flight of six steps stopped at a wide landing fitted with large stone shelves, and it was here other foodstuffs were stored. A second flight of stone steps continued on to the actual basement, where there was a wine cellar, one much appreciated by Jake, since it contained some rare vintage wines. Peter had given him the run of this.

It was dark and I switched on a light before descending into the murkiness. I shivered slightly, it was so cold, and glanced around. Simone had arranged things as neatly here as she had in the other pantry. On one of the stone shelves I found small trugs of berries, bowls of fresh figs, several melons—Cavaillon—lots of vegetables, and a big basket of apples. Certainly there was plenty to choose from, and we weren't going to starve during Simone's absence in Marseilles.

I stood for a moment, my hand resting on the stone shelf, thinking again of Simone's sudden and unexpected departure a short while ago. How white-faced and anxious she had been when she had come to the kitchen to say good-bye to me.

“I'm sure everything's going to be all right, that Françoise is fine,” I'd murmured, wanting to reassure her. I had given her a quick hug, and discovered how tense her body was.

Nodding, Simone had bravely tried to smile but without much success. “Ma petite fille, my little girl . . . I must go to her. She needs me, I know.”

Catching her hand in mine, I'd squeezed it, and agreed. “Yes, she does need you, Simone, but you'll be with her soon. Try not to worry.”

Again Simone attempted to give me another smile, but this, too, had wavered and she left with Jake and Armand, who looked as worried as his wife.

I stood at the kitchen door, waving good-bye to them as Jake backed the car out. A loving mother, a good mother, I had thought as I'd turned to go back inside. And I hoped that Françoise had not lost the child she was carrying, and that she herself was not in any danger.