Where You Belong (15 page)

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 and 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.

In a conversational sort of way, I said, “You know, this is my favorite spot, Françoise. I love it here. And what a coincidence—I guess it must be your favorite place too.”

She blinked and seemed to rouse herself at last from her trance. She said slowly, hesitantly, “I came here often with Madame Adelia. When I was a child.”

“Please sit down with me, Françoise, talk to me about her. She fascinates me,” I explained, striving for normalcy.

Françoise hesitated, then she swiveled her head and looked down at the rocks and the sea far below her, swaying slightly.

Once more I held my breath, trembling inside. Fear made my throat close. But I said nothing, made no move, simply sat there quietly.

Unexpectedly, she swung around and my stomach lurched, so sudden and swift were her movements, and then to my great relief she actually stepped away from the edge of the precipice and slowly walked toward me. I felt limp as the fear ebbed.

Swallowing, I said, “Madame Adelia was your friend, then?”

Françoise now stood in front of me. She nodded. “Yes . . . she was a very special woman.”

I rose, took hold of her hand. “Please sit and talk to me.” And as I led her to the iron bench she did not resist. But she did not say anything further, just sat down next to me, gazing out into space, that preoccupied look continuing to glaze her eyes.

I decided to remain silent.

Eventually she broke the silence when she confided, “I feel safe here.”

“Do you mean here in this particular part of the gardens?”

“Oui, oui. Madame Adelia is here . . . her spirit is here. I am close to her here. She helps me.”

Very gently I asked, “Do you want to talk to me about your problems, Françoise?”

Looking at me closely, intently, she repeated, “Problems?” and she frowned, seemed puzzled.

I nodded.

She did not speak.

“Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger. An American playwright, Tennessee Williams, once wrote, ‘I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.' So why don't you?”

A deep sigh escaped her, and she looked out into space, and it seemed to me that she saw something I could not see and that she was disturbed by what she saw. At last she muttered, “I . . . I . . . don't want to go back . . . I am . . . very afraid . . .”

“Of your husband?”

She chose not to answer, turned her head away from me.

“Of Olivier?” I asked very softly.

She inclined her head, but she was still avoiding my eyes.

“Then you must stay here at Les Roches Fleuries.”

“No, no, I cannot. I must go. Far away.”

“Because he'll come here looking for you, is that it, Françoise? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“You must talk to your mother. I am sure she must know about Olivier's treatment of you. Or suspect that he abuses you.”

“C'est possible,” she agreed. Tears suddenly welled in her lovely pellucid gray eyes. “I came here to think. To listen to Madame Adelia's voice. But I became so afraid, I could not hear her voice.”

“We must act very calmly, use our heads,” I said, taking her hand in mine again.

She turned to face me again and gave me a long, sorrowful look. “That is what she would have said to me.” A sigh escaped again. “Madame Adelia died here.”

Startled, I asked, “Do you mean here in this spot?”

“Oui. There was a wooden chaise longue here, and my father put many cushions on it every morning. Madame Adelia rested here. This was her memory place. That is what she told me. And one day she died. Right here. And then she went to the duke.”

“Her spirit, you mean,” I said, and wondered why I myself had been so attracted to this corner of the gardens.

“Yes,” Françoise answered, “her spirit. I do not want to return to Marseilles. I am afraid. I would be better off dead. And the baby.”

“No, no, you mustn't say that!” I tightened my grip on her hand. “And you mustn't make a habit of standing over there at the edge of the cliff. It is a dangerous place. I was so afraid for you a few moments ago. I thought how easy it would be for you to take a false step and fall over the edge. Yes, it's very dangerous to walk around over there.”

“Yes, I know.” She looked into my eyes, searched my face, and there was a plea in hers. “Mademoiselle Denning, please do not tell Maman . . . that I was on the edge of the precipice. It will frighten her. And worry her.”

“All right, I won't.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. But you must make a promise to me.”

“What do you wish for me to promise to you?”

“You must promise not to even think of harming yourself or the baby.”

“But I cannot go back to him. He is crazy when he drinks. One day he will kill me. I know. Why should I wait for him to do that? Why should I suffer? It is better I do kill myself. Maintenant. And the child. I think it would be less painful. Yes?”

“No, you mustn't even think in that way. We must make a plan. I will come up with an idea, an idea where you can go, where you will be safe.”

Sudden hope flashed across her face, and then it disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. “He will find me. He is a flic . . . a cop, Mademoiselle Denning.”

“I know. Do you mind if I talk to Monsieur Jake?”

She looked frightened and shook her head. “No! You must not. He will speak with Maman. He will tell her.”

“No, he won't, not if I ask him not to, Françoise,” I reassured her. “He will respect your wishes. He is a man of integrity . . . a man of honor, and he has much compassion, you must trust me on that.”

Folding her hands in her lap, Françoise sat there for a few moments, lost to the world, as she tried to come to a decision. “It is all right,” she answered finally. “You can tell Monsieur Jake. Please be kind, ask him not to say one word to my mother.”

“I will. And you can trust him just as you can trust me. I have an idea already, Françoise. Let me think about it, think it through. Now, come, we must go inside. Your mother must be wondering where you are.”

II

When I walked into the library, Jake was standing by the desk. He swung around and said, “Hi, I was just coming out to find you—” Abruptly he broke off, frowning, and asked, “What's wrong? You're looking mighty strange.”

“You were right about Françoise being an abused wife,” I said, hurrying across the floor, flopping down into a chair near the fireplace. “She's just admitted to me that she's afraid of Olivier, and that she thinks she'd be better off dead now rather than waiting to get killed by him at a later date. And suffering until that actually happens.”

Jake sucked in his breath and stared at me. After a beat, he exploded, “Jesus, Val! How the hell did this all come out so suddenly?” He dropped into the opposite chair, obviously both startled and dismayed.

Leaning forward, I quickly told him what had occurred in the garden while he had been on the phone to his Paris office. He listened attentively, as he always did, and I could see from the expression on his face that he was appalled at what he was hearing.

When I had finished recounting everything in detail, he said nothing, remained absolutely quiet. I became aware of the stillness in him, all around him. It was an internal patience, and I knew it well by then, and it was one of the things I'd always loved about him. He had this ability to become very calm and focused in times of trouble or crisis. Jake never panicked or flew off the handle; he was a cool guy who played it cool.

III

I could see that he was deep in thought, and I sat back and waited, trying to be as patient as he was. At last he said slowly, “Tell Françoise I won't say anything to Simone. Although I'm sure her mother knows she's being battered, beaten up. Simone's nobody's fool, and, anyway, mothers know these things instinctively, don't they?”

“How would I know, I never had a mother.”

I saw him wince, but I couldn't help what I'd said, and I certainly wasn't going to retract it. The words had popped out automatically, and they did happen to be the truth.

“Oh God, Val, I forgot! Mike Carter called a few minutes ago, just before you walked in. Your brother's been on the phone to him. This afternoon. He's looking for you. Mike wouldn't give him this number, but he told him he'd try to get a message to you. Apparently your brother wants you to call him. He explained to Mike that it's urgent, important that he speaks to you.”

I really didn't care, and I didn't want to return the call, but I muttered, “I wonder what that's all about?”

“I guess he didn't give any other explanation to Mike, Val, and I wrote the number on the pad by the phone,” Jake was saying.

“Thanks,” I replied, but I made no move to get up.

Pushing himself to his feet, Jake walked over to the French doors, stood looking out at the terrace and the gardens beyond. After a second or two, he remarked, as he turned to face me, “You said you told Françoise you'd had an idea . . . what is it?”

“It occurred to me that she would be safe with me in Paris. She could stay at my apartment, there's a daybed in my office, as you know. Besides, I'll probably be off on an assignment somewhere, or with you. I mean, I could camp out with you at a pinch, couldn't I?”

“I'll have to think about that.”

I smiled, knowing he was teasing me, and continued. “Olivier doesn't know me. And as long as Simone and Armand keep quiet, he'll never be able to find Françoise. She'll be safe.”

Jake sighed. “True. But he'll put pressure on them, I reckon.”

“They'll never tell him where she is!” I exclaimed, and rushed on a bit heatedly. “Simone's strong and tough, and I'd pit her against anybody anytime, even a flic.”

He nodded. “So would I, and Armand's no pushover either. He was in the Resistance during the Second World War, during the German Occupation, he told me once. He was just a kid, of course, but he said it toughened him up, that he learned a lot about life and about people.” Jake now focused his vivid blues on me steadily, unblinkingly, and asked, “Why would you take Françoise in, Val? Just like that.” He snapped his thumb and second finger together and went on. “It's very nice of you to make the offer, but she's a stranger, you just met her today, and you hardly know her parents.”

“I like Simone a lot,” I replied. “In fact, I've become rather attached to her. She's so motherly; Mother Earth, the salt of the earth, to me at any rate. This is a terrible predicament for Simone and Armand, and for Françoise, to be in. What a tragedy for them all. And Françoise being pregnant and getting battered is unconscionable. I think I can help them, so why wouldn't I? We see so much suffering and pain, you and I, Jake, and it's suffering we haven't been able to do anything about, at least not much. Look how many times we've rescued kids and their mothers, and pregnant women from bad situations, dangerous situations, and then we've had to leave them to fend for themselves. I just want to rescue her, see something through for once. And I can't bear the thought of that beautiful young woman being battered to death, which is what will happen eventually. If she's not removed from Olivier's grasp, taken out of that hideous marriage.”

“You're right—in everything you say, and it's very admirable of you to want to help Françoise, and you know I'll pitch in, do anything I can. Yup, we should go for it.”

“Thanks, Jake, I'm so glad you agree with me.”

“I do . . . and there's something else, something I'm curious about.”

“Tell me.”

“What made you think of making noises, offstage, so to speak? What gave you the idea to sing? How did you know these antics of yours would work?” An arched brow rose quizzically, and he shook his head. “I don't think I'd have ever thought of doing such things.”

“I honestly don't know why I did what I did. Common sense, I guess. I realized that if I startled her, she could easily fall off the edge of the cliff, or that she might just go ahead and jump. I suppose I wanted to distract her, turn her away from her purpose, but in a gentle way. That's why I tried to act so normal. Any other kind of behavior on my part could have pushed her . . . literally over the edge, so I believe.”

“Is that what you really think? That she was intending to jump?” Jake seemed suddenly perturbed.

I thought about this question for a moment and then I nodded. “I do, Jake. She told me she'd gone there to hear Madame Adelia's voice, but that she was so afraid of Olivier, she hadn't been able to hear her. I'm pretty sure she would have killed herself this afternoon. If I hadn't come along when I did.”

“Oh Jesus,” he said, and came over to sit on the chair next to me. “You saved her life.”

“I think so, and I want to save her some more, get her out of Olivier's clutches, get her safely to Paris. She can have the baby there.”

“He's a cop, Val, Simone and Armand will have to be careful, and about a lot of things, especially phone calls.”

I gaped at him, frowning slightly, not understanding what he was getting at. “Phone calls?”

“Well, I don't know whether cops can get hold of phone records in France or not, but they sure can in the States. I will have to warn them, they're going to have to use public phones, and mostly Françoise will have to call them. And talking of phone calls, perhaps you ought to get in touch with your brother. Don't you think?”

“I guess,” I reluctantly agreed, and rising, I walked over to the desk. I seated myself in the chair and picked up the piece of paper with Donald's number written on it. And as I read it, I realized how much I really did detest the idea of calling him. For deep within myself I knew it had something to do with Margot Scott Denning. My mother, so called.