Where You Belong (12 page)

I

Climbing the stairs from the pantry, I went back to the kitchen.

After pouring myself a large glass of water, I went out to the terrace and walked down the steps, making for a favorite spot of mine.

This was located in one of the smaller gardens of the villa which was mostly composed of green lawn surrounded by flowering shrubs. The lawn ran to the tip of the property, where steep craggy rocks fell precipitously down to the sea.

I felt as though I were on a ship whenever I sat here on the wrought-iron bench that had been placed under an ancient cedar. I leaned back, closing my eyes, enjoying the warmth of the morning air and the early sun filtering through the wide-splayed branches of the tree.

When I finally opened my eyes a few minutes later, I blinked. Brilliant sunshine was now filling the pale blue sky with incandescent light, and the sea spread out before me glittered like dark-blue glass shot through with golden veins.

A boat came into my line of vision, its white sails billowing out in the morning breeze. What an idyllic scene it was, and so very familiar to me . . . a lone ship etched against the blue horizon where sea and sky merged, sailing along . . . carrying whomever to where? I had often wondered that. It was mysterious, yet oddly intimate in my mind's eye. I'd seen other sailboats just like this so many times before in the past. . . .

II

A rush of memories assailed me.

Memories of those days spent here in the South of France with my grandparents, when I was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris. I had always joined them on summer recess from the university. Just a girl I'd been then.

Cecelia and Andrew Denning
. . . they had been so good to me. All of my life. Until the day they died. She had gone first, very sadly, and then him. But thankfully I'd had the comfort of my grandfather for a few years longer.

The three of us a team, three against the world, my gran used to say with a light, cheery laugh. She was spirited and vivacious, even when she was old, and she had told me so many times that I must always spit in the eye of trouble, keep my back ramrod straight, my head high, and my heart wide open to receive all the good things that were coming my way.

They had loved me very much, and, more important perhaps, they had been able to show that love to me. It had been a shield after they were gone.

How very badly they had wanted to make up for the deficiencies of their son. “Henpecked,” my grandmother had frequently muttered, and a trifle disdainfully at that, her sharp blue eyes glinting like steel, her generous mouth narrowed in disgust at the thought of her weak-kneed son.

What she'd said about him being henpecked was true, I think. My father had never been able to stand up to my mother, who had behaved as if I didn't exist. And therefore so had he.

I would still ponder this from time to time, wonder why my mother had behaved so strangely. There had to be a reason, didn't there? But what could it be?

This question had haunted me most of my life, and I'd never been able to come up with a proper answer for myself. Yet deep inside I was certain I was innocent of any wrongdoing. What
could
I have done to offend her when I was still a small baby?

Why would a mother hate her own child?

Once again the question hung there in front of my eyes, staring back at me balefully.

I sighed under my breath. Perhaps
hate
was too strong a word. She had shown no
interest
in me ever, but she hadn't
hated
me, had she?

No, I didn't think she had. Disliked me, perhaps. My mother had certainly never mistreated me or abused me. At least, not physically. Nor had she abused me verbally either; that was not her way. Still, in one sense she had been abusive to me, because she had behaved as if I weren't there. No wonder I was insecure, always longing to find a safe harbor for myself.

I wondered, all of a sudden, why I was a war photographer, constantly flinging myself into the face of danger, putting myself in harm's way. I didn't have an answer to that, and I never would. Perhaps only a psychiatrist would be able to provide one.

What a mess I would have been, I thought now, if it hadn't been for my grandparents, especially my grandfather. He had made me what I am, and he was the best part of me. Without him in my life, and with such constancy, without his guidance, love, and caring, I would have been nothing; I would have achieved nothing.

Unexpectedly, I thought of Tony Hampton. I almost laughed out loud. Here was I, seemingly always seeking a secure place to land, and yet I had become involved with him. Why
him
? He was as likely to offer me security and safety as a violent terrorist holding a gun to my head. So why had I chosen him? Because he had charmed me into a love affair, had truly convinced me he was madly in love with me. And because I hadn't known he was a two-timing, double-dealing lothario who didn't understand the meaning of truth, integrity, fidelity, or loyalty.

I pushed the image of him away from me, crushed it under my feet until it no longer existed. And silently I repeated my resolutions like a litany:

I had buried the dead.

I was not about to resurrect the dead.

I had started afresh with a clean slate.

I was interested only in the future.

Lolling back against the bench, I closed my eyes, drifting with my myriad thoughts. Out of the blue, Fiona Hampton came into my mind. Yesterday she had phoned Jake at his agency in Paris. Yet again, I couldn't help wondering why. Perhaps just to say hello? To cling to memories? . . . the past? . . . an old friendship? . . . her husband's best friend? I wasn't sure. Nor did it matter. If she really needed to speak to Jake, she'd call again. It had nothing to do with me, nor was it any of my business.

Without knowing, Fiona had enabled me to shake off my searing grief. And she had helped me to bury the dead. Her dead as much as mine, as it so happened.

It was through her that I'd had a moment of the greatest insight, had seen everything the way it actually was, and not as I imagined it to be.

I had seen the truth, looked it in the face.

And I suddenly understood the reality of her life. And the reality of mine. She was the wife, I the mistress. Sharing the same man without knowing that we were. Both of us lied to and misled. Sisters under the skin. Linked emotionally without either of us realizing this.

At least, she didn't know it. I did. Now.

Meeting Fiona Hampton had changed my life, and irrevocably so. And I was glad of that. It was she who had given me a future in a certain sense.

The nightmare of the memorial service had fortunately been just that—a very bad dream. And like most bad dreams, it had gone away. The burden had been lifted off me.

And now I was truly free.

Opening my eyes, I lifted my face, glanced up at the blue translucent sky. I was as free as that lone bird flying so high up there in the sky . . . higher and higher it seemed to soar . . . until it finally disappeared from sight. Yes, I
was
as free as a bird on the wing. My spirits lifted at this thought.

Rising, I turned away from the glittering sea, slowly made my way back along the flagged path, heading up to the villa. As I walked along, I wondered if I would ever fall in love again, have a good relationship with a man, get a chance of lasting happiness with someone someday, in the not too distant future? I laughed hollowly to myself at the mere idea. It would take a miracle to make that happen, and I surely didn't believe in miracles. Again I laughed dismissively, not realizing that I would soon discover how wrong I was.

Especially when it came to miracles.

III

There was no sign of Jake when I got back to the house. I glanced at my watch, saw that it was almost twelve-thirty. He had been gone for several hours now, and it wasn't that far to Nice. Looking up at the kitchen clock on the wall, I checked the time. My watch was five minutes fast, but that was all.

He'll be back soon, I thought, shrugging lightly as I went to the sink, where I washed the glass I was carrying, and my hands. I then decided I might as well start to prepare lunch.

After retrieving the parcel of lettuce and the platter of cucumber and tomatoes from the pantry, I got out the green cabbage-leaf salad bowl, a glass mixing bowl, and a whisk. I put all of these items on the worktable near my parcel of lettuce; after opening it up and patting the leaves dry with paper towels, I tore them into pieces and dropped them into the cabbage-leaf bowl. I then added the slices of cucumber and tomatoes to the lettuce.

I remembered Simone's vinaigrette dressing, and I ran to the pantry to get it. I shook the jar several times before unscrewing the lid and looking at it. The dressing was a little thick from being in the cold pantry, and it needed to stand for a while to liquefy a bit more. Taking it over to the table, I left the lid off and returned to the pantry. I brought out the bowl of eggs and went back for the wooden board holding the selection of cheeses; there was just enough room for all of this on the table.

My first task was to whip up the eggs for the omelette. I broke six into the glass mixing bowl, decided this was not enough, added two more, threw away the shells, picked up the whisk, and began to beat them. Once they were smooth and creamy looking, I reached for the pepper mill and the container of fines herbs. I added dashes of both to the eggs, along with several pinches of salt.

Suddenly the door flew open, and I looked up quickly as Jake pushed his way into the kitchen. At least, I assumed it was Jake, since his face was largely hidden by the paper bags of groceries he held in his arms. A muffled “Hi, Kid,” emanated from behind the bags.

“Hi to you too,” I replied, and went to help him with the bags, grabbed one from him, as he explained. “Couldn't get everything I needed for my genuine, authentic southern dinner, but enough to give you a sampling tonight, honey.”

“I wondered where you were,” I muttered, peering into the bag I'd placed on the countertop near the sink. “Oh, Jake!” I cried. “You went and bought fruit without me, and after all the mouthwaterings we shared!”

He grinned at me and set his bags down on the counter. “Don't be mad at me. I wasn't going to do it, I know how you've been longing to shop at the open-air market, but I was already there when I remembered that. It saved time, Val, I couldn't really drive back to get you.”

“I know. Anyway, it's almost redundant, the fruit, I mean. There's all sorts of stuff in the second pantry down the steps to the basement.”

“That figures, knowing Simone.”

“They got off all right, I assume.”

“Sure did. Well, I guess the berries'll keep for another meal. I'm certain Simone and Armand won't be back for a couple of days or so. What's that?” He was now staring at my bowl of beaten eggs.

“Your lunch. Soon it will be an
omelette fines herbs.
”

“Great.” He opened the refrigerator door and began to empty the bags into it. I noticed him placing chicken and other items on the shelves, then I turned away and went to get a skillet.

When the bags had been emptied, Jake said, “I'll bring up some rosé from the wine cellar,” and headed for the door to the basement. He was back in a couple of minutes carrying two bottles. These he put in the refrigerator. “Now what can I do?”

“Can you hand me the butter, please?”

“Sure can.” He went over to the refrigerator.

“Thanks,” I said when he gave it to me. I walked to the stone jar that stood on a chest at the far end of the kitchen; it was in this large stone olive jar with its wooden lid that Simone kept her baguettes. She purchased these fresh every day at the bakery in Beaulieu. I took one of the long loaves out of the jar, but it didn't feel too fresh. And I realized she had not gone to the bakery that morning because of the phone call from Marseilles.

Taking the baguette to the sink, I wet it under the tap and put it in the oven. Later, once the omelette was ready, I would turn on the oven, set it at low, and in five or six minutes the bread would be warm, and as fresh as if it had just been made. Simone had shown me this little trick only the other day, and now I was pleased she had.

Jake poured himself a glass of water, then sat down on a stool and watched me making lunch, not saying very much but looking thoughtful.

And then quite out of the blue, he said slowly, in a muffled sort of voice, “I'm worried about Simone.”

I glanced across at him. “What do you mean?” I quickly turned back to the omelette, not wanting it to spoil.

“She was very strange on the way to the airport, barely spoke at all, and she was extremely anxiety ridden and tense. Actually, she was sort of rigid with fright in the car. At least, that's what I thought.”

“Well, she
was
worried when she got the news, Jake. A fall like that can be very dangerous to a pregnant woman, especially one who is seven or eight months gone,” I pointed out.

“I realize that. But Simone's worry, her fear, seemed somehow a bit abnormal. Over the top, in a way.”

“What about Armand, how was he?”

“Relatively silent, but then, he's not talkative, a quiet sort of guy. Always has been. Simone's much more outgoing.”

Jake sighed so heavily, I turned around swiftly, the spatula in my hand, and stared at him. “You're getting at something, Jake.” I stared at him more intently, saw the genuine worry etched on his face, and then it hit me. “Oh my God, you don't think Simone's daughter was pushed down the stairs, do you?”

He shook his head. “I kinda think Simone believes that's what happened.”

“What makes
you
think
she
thinks such a thing?” I asked, and felt the gooseflesh spring up on my neck and arms. “Did she tell you that?”

“Not in so many words, Val, no.” Jake bit his lip. “But she said some really odd things. At one point she muttered to Armand about Olivier. I didn't quite catch it completely, but it was something like
I'll kill him if he did
that
. And Armand gaped at her. He was startled, aghast, and shook his head, as if to warn her not to speak in front of me. Although obviously she knows I speak French. When we got to the ticket counter at the airport, Armand was busy buying the tickets, and I tried to talk to her again. Sort of soothe her, Val. She was so uptight, I thought she was going to explode. I finally gave up. I didn't want her to think I was prying. I told her to take as long as she wanted. After all, we're just guests here. It's Peter who's her employer.”

I nodded. “Let's continue our conversation over lunch,” I suggested. “Everything's ready now.”