Where You Belong (14 page)

V

I made no response to this statement of his.

I just lay there next to him, still filled with awe at our amazing lovemaking. I felt euphoric; I was also luxuriating in the sense of wonder and joy he had wrought in me.

“Who would've ever thought we would be so passionate with each other,” I murmured at last.

“I would,” he answered swiftly, and pushed himself up on his arm, looked down at me. “I knew it from the first. At least, I knew how I felt.”

“You did!” I said, surprised.

“Sure. When I met you in Beirut, I thought who the hell is this chick who's strolled along into my life? Who is this tall, long-legged, blue-eyed creature with sun-streaked hair and the face of an angel? I was immediately smitten, instantly undone.” He paused and grinned at me. “I guess I was gobsmacked, to use your favorite expression.”

“About me?”

“Of course about you. Who else?”

“But you didn't show it, didn't say it!” I exclaimed, staring at him intently.

“How could I? And that's not my way, I was married then, remember? Still struggling with Sue's emotional upset about her miscarriage, fighting off her demands that I go back and live with her in New York, give up being a war photographer, so I could babysit her while she pursued her modeling career and I put mine on hold. . . . Val, you know what those few years were like. Hell on earth for me. Looking back, I realize she was off the wall in certain ways, and actually not cut out for marriage. Not marriage to me anyway. It was a big mistake, our being together. Those were bad years for me, and I didn't think I should get involved with you until I had sorted out my mess. And I did eventually sort it out. Suddenly I was free at last—divorced, available. And where were you? Involved with Tony, to my dismay.” He sighed. “I was out in the cold and there wasn't much I could do about it.”

“Oh, Jake, if only I'd known.”

“What difference would it have made?”

“A big difference, I think. If I'd known how you felt before, I'm sure I wouldn't have even looked at Tony. He and I had . . . well, quite a few problems when we were together, and there was a lot to be desired in our relationship. And for lots of reasons . . . some of which we now know.”

“Yep, that's true, I was well aware things weren't always great between the two of you. But I don't go around snatching my best buddy's girl, that's just not me.”

I nodded. “But I always had a . . . bit of a yen for you, Jake,” I admitted softly, suddenly feeling a little shy with him. “You were in such a tangled web with Sue, I just tried to be your friend, and sort of disappeared into the woodwork, I guess.”

“I wish you hadn't,” he muttered, sounding regretful.

“So do I.” As I said this, I couldn't help thinking how different my life would've been if Jake and I had been together. What a lot of heartache and pain I would have avoided ultimately; I felt sure I would have found a great deal more happiness with Jake than I had with Tony. He was a much more compassionate and decent man. And unlike Tony, he had integrity, and certainly he was honest and straightforward. Basically, what you saw was what you got as far as Jake was concerned.

Jake was saying, “Listen, that was then, this is now. ‘Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be' . . . it's our time now. Anyway, I hope it is, Valentine Denning.” His bright blue eyes searched my face questioningly. “It is, isn't it?”

“Oh, yes, Jake, it is!” I reached out, put my arms around his neck, and pulled him down to kiss me. It was a lingering kiss, and we embraced for a long time, finding pleasure in just holding each other close.

Outside, the storm was raging. The rain sounded like nail heads hitting the windows, sharp and metallic against the glass, and the wind was so fierce, I knew that the mistral had blown up. But I felt secure there with Jake, safe in his arms. And I, who didn't believe in miracles, knew that one had just happened to me. My miracle was Jake Newberg.

VI

Much later, after we had showered and put on trousers and sweaters, we went down to the kitchen.

Earlier, Jake had put a bottle of Dom Pérignon in the refrigerator, and after opening it he poured two glasses and said, “Here's to you and me, sweetheart.”

We clinked glasses, and as I took a sip of the champagne, Jake added, “And now I'm about to bowl you over.”

“You just did. And then some. But I'd be happy for you to do it again.”

He laughed, planted a kiss on my forehead, and walked over to the refrigerator. “Now, sit down like a good girl while I prepare the southern dinner I've been promising you.”

“I'm not going to move an inch,” I answered, parking myself on one of the tall stools. “In this instance, I don't mind that you're being bossy.”

“Me bossy?” He swung around, raised an eyebrow. “Never. Just authoritative.”

“We're into semantics again,” I muttered, and chuckled with him.

He was quick and deft, and knew exactly what he was doing, I soon realized, as I watched him moving around the kitchen with speed and grace. “I couldn't get everything I needed,” he explained at one moment. “No okra, so I'll have to substitute zucchini in the gumbo. Have you ever eaten gumbo, Val?”

I shook my head. “No, and I'm not even sure what it is.”

“A casserole of rice, tomatoes, and okra, but it'll taste just as good with the zucchini, I'm sure. I couldn't find the ingredients for corn bread either, so I can't make us any hush puppies—that's fried round corn bread, Val— and you'd love it. But we'll have that in Georgia, when I take you home to meet my folks,” he finished, and went on expertly working with the food he had spread out on the worktable.

I didn't say a word or acknowledge his comment, just sat there sipping the champagne and watching him, and knowing that I was going to fall hopelessly in love with him. I think I was a little already, always had been actually. How little we know ourselves, I thought unexpectedly, how little we understand our real feelings, our true feelings. We masked so much because we were afraid of looking foolish or of being rejected. At least, I did.

VII

“You can always be a chef if you ever get tired of being a war photographer,” I joked later as we sat at the dining room table, eating Jake's southern dinner. “This is all wonderful food, delicious.”

“I'm tired already,” he said, surprising me.

“So you won't be going back to Kosovo, then, will you?”

“No, because you won't go there, and I want to be where you are, Val my Val.”

“Likewise,” I murmured, and smiled at him.

He smiled back and exclaimed, “I'm glad you like my southern cooking, and it's great to see you eating properly for once.”

“Well, I've worked up an appetite, don't you know,” I shot back and leered at him.

“So have I,” he replied with a small self-satisfied smile, and helped himself to some more of the mashed potatoes and fried green tomatoes.

“You're much too smug, Newberg,” I said, and took a piece of fried chicken. Biting into it, I went on. “You'll have to teach me how to cook some of these dishes. Your sweet potato pie is heavenly.”

“Wait until you taste the dessert . . . my peach cobbler is as good as my mother makes. But I'll let you be the judge of that.”

I raised a brow and asked, “Do you mean it? Are you really going to take me to Georgia to meet your parents and your grandmother?”

“You bet,” he responded with a grin, and glanced at the fire. “I'm glad you decided to light that, Val, we'd be cold without it. The weather's turned lousy tonight. It's the mistral.” Rising, he picked up the bottle of Saint Émilion, came and poured me a glass, managing to kiss the top of my head as he did. “You're very special,” he said against my hair. “Don't ever forget that.”

I took hold of his hand resting on my shoulder and squeezed it, but I didn't say anything. He lingered close to me, and finally I looked up at him. And I saw such a look of anxiety on his face, I was taken aback. I exclaimed, “Whatever's wrong, Jake?”

He stood there mute, staring down at me, and then at last he let out a long sigh and said, “I don't want anything to come between us, least of all the memory of Tony. He's not going to haunt you, is he?”

Pushing back my chair, I got up, put my hands on his shoulders, stood staring deeply into his eyes. I said quietly but in a firm voice, “He won't haunt me, Jake, I promise you that. As it turns out, he was a louse, so how could I let that happen?”

“I don't know, some women might, and the memory of a dashing lover cut down in his prime can be very powerful.”

“You don't have to worry about Tony, not after what he did to me!” I reminded him.

“I guess we'll never know what was in his head, Val, or why he did what he did to you. He's dead, so he can't tell us. Nobody can.”

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.

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 them, 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.