Where You Belong (17 page)

IV

The phone jangled, interrupting my train of thought, and I jumped, startled out of my reverie, as I reached for it swiftly. “Hello?”

“It's Françoise,” she said in the soft, lilting voice I had come to know.

“Hello, Françoise, hello!” I exclaimed, thinking how close she sounded. “Is everything all right? And how are you feeling?”

“It is all okay, Mademoiselle,” she answered. “I am feeling well. But it is Olivier, he has been to see my parents at Les Roches Fleuries—”

“Oh my God, are they all right?” I cut in worriedly. “Has he been pestering them?”

“Oui . . . but they are strong. They will not tell him where I am . . .”

Suddenly, abruptly, Françoise stopped speaking, and I heard muttered asides, another voice at her end of the phone. I assumed she was calling from my apartment, since it was now about ten-thirty at night in Paris. I couldn't help wondering who was with her.

“Françoise, Françoise,” I said loudly into the receiver. “Are you there? Are you all right?”

Still she did not respond.

I was about to say her name again, when Mike Carter exclaimed, “Hi, Val, it's me, honey.”

“Mike, is Françoise upset? Is everything okay with her parents? I'm sure Olivier's being a pest, and I'm being kind when I call him that.”

Mike chuckled. “You're right, pest is too mild a word to describe that son of a bitch. Let's just say he's been pretty difficult with them, but they're holding up okay. All of this blew up yesterday afternoon when her husband showed up at the villa in Cap-Ferrat. You were flying over the Atlantic by that time. I think the parents have things pretty much under control. They've assured Françoise they're fine, and I brought her over to stay at my place this afternoon.” He laughed. “My girls think she's pretty neat, and they're good friends already.”

“It's a relief to know she's safe, Mike, thanks so much for being her . . . guardian angel, shall we say?”

“I'm happy to help her, poor kid,” Mike replied. “I feel sorry for her. She's not had an easy time of it.”

“I know that. Anyway, I feel better knowing she's actually staying with you and the girls. To be honest, I was a bit worried about leaving her alone at my place.”

“I don't blame you, honey. I doubt that her parents would tell him where she is, but even if they did, under duress of some kind, she's no longer there now.” His deep chuckle rumbled down the wire before he added, “Gone like a puff of smoke.”

“Do her parents know she's with you? They'll worry if there's no answer to my phone.”

“She's told them she's moving in with a friend, but she didn't say she was coming to my place. We thought it wiser her parents were kept in the dark . . . what they don't know they can't spill.”

“That's smart of you.”

“I thought we'd better phone you though, Val, to let you know where Françoise is, just in case you phoned her and there was no reply.”

“I'm glad you did.”

“And how's little old New York?” he asked, sounding suddenly wistful. New York was his favorite city; he'd told me that so many times.

“Great, just great, and it's wonderful weather . . . Indian summer sort of weather.”

“Enjoy. I'll call you later in the week. Meantime, here's Françoise,” he finished, sounding brisk, businesslike once more.

“Mademoiselle Denning, please don't worry,” Françoise said.

“I won't. But I told you to call me Val.”

There was a small laugh, and she said, “Oui . . . Val. I feel safe with Mike's family. Olivier will never find me here. Because no one knows where I am . . . except you, Mademoiselle, I mean . . . Val.”

“I'm not going to tell anybody.”

“It will be better if you do not telephone Maman, I think.”

“I understand, Françoise, and I won't. But you can call me anytime you wish. I'm going to be in New York for a good week, perhaps even two.”

“Okay. Thank you for everything, and do not worry about me, Mademoiselle Denning.”

“It's Val,” I half shouted down the phone, and we both laughed.

“Au revoir, Val,” she said softly.

“Good night, Françoise, and be well. I'll phone later in the week.”

V

After replacing the receiver, I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk, my head in my hands, thinking. The call from Françoise had brought me back to reality, my reverie about Jake and our lovemaking interrupted by her. My own life was suddenly rather sharply in focus, and I contemplated Jake's advice of earlier.

Before he had left for the meeting, he had suggested that I call my brother Donald. “Get it over with, once and for all,” he had said, and there had been a stern look in his blue eyes. “Wipe that slate clean and forget it.”

I knew he was right, and yet I hadn't been able to make the call. At least, not so far; but after all, I had been here for only a day. On the plane I had asked myself if I was really coming to see Donald and my mother . . . and not flying to New York simply because I wanted to be with Jake, as I believed.

Examining this thought now, I was able to answer myself; a resounding albeit silent no reverberated in my head. I was here in the city of my birth because of Jake, and that was the truth.

VI

Donald and my mother meant very little to me, and for all the obvious reasons. Nothing, nada, zilch, I muttered under my breath. And they had given me nothing, nada, zilch, and I had no intention of being at their beck and call at this stage of my life.

From this standpoint, Jake was right. I should get rid of all that old baggage, discard it, and start afresh without the burden of my past. But to do so I would have to confront them, my mother especially, and I had vowed long ago, and to her face, that I would never speak to her or see her ever again. And I hadn't. And I didn't want to now. I wasn't even remotely curious to know what these sudden overtures were all about.

The truth was, I had come to New York because Jake Newberg was coming, and he wanted me with him. And that was where I wanted to be, by his side, in his arms, in his bed, in his life, and in his heart. I wanted to be with him when we were working, relaxing, traveling, sleeping. Night and day for as long as I lived.

I

When Jake walked in an hour later, I couldn't tell from his expression whether or not the meeting with the editor had gone well or not. He was poker-faced and his eyes revealed nothing.

After placing his briefcase on a chair, he walked over to me, gave me a bear hug, and kissed my cheek. “Hi, honey,” he said. “Gotta get a Coke,” and he walked off in the direction of the kitchen.

My eyes followed him. I couldn't help thinking how smart he looked today in the gray pinstriped suit, pale blue shirt, and darker blue polka-dot tie. Everything about him gleams, I thought as he came strolling back with the can of Coke in his hand, from the top of his blond-streaked hair to the tip of his highly polished brown loafers. I felt a little rush of pride in him. He had been gone all day, and ever since we had become involved, I was always surprised when I saw him after even only a few hours absence. He was so personable, so good-looking, and so well put together, it was always a bit of a shock when he strolled in nonchalantly, as he was doing now. He was the only man for me, the only man I wanted.

Sitting down next to me on the sofa, Jake said, “Why don't we go out tonight? I don't think you should cook.”

“Whatever you want,” I answered, and fixing my eyes on him intently, I asked, “What happened at the publishers? How was the editor?”

His face lit up. “He's a great guy, Val, you're going to like him. I wish you'd been at the meeting, but I'll get the two of you together real soon. His name's Bill Forrest, and he's very with it, very knowledgeable. Knows what he wants, how the book should look, what it should say, convey in terms of text and photographs. He's very enthusiastic about the project.”

“So we have a contract,” I asserted.

“Not yet. But that's pretty much a foregone conclusion, I think. Harvey agrees with me. But before we move on to that stage, Bill needs an outline. So what you and I have to do is break the book down into chapters and content, show him some more pictures, and then he'll make the deal, I guess. I told him we'd give him a little presentation next week.”

“Will we have it ready?” I asked, a brow lifting.

“Sure. It's a snap as long as I have you helping me.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said.

“I sincerely hope so. Because I want to get everywhere with you.”

“You have, silly.”

He smiled, said nothing more, took a long swig from the can of Coke. Placing the can on the coffee table, he murmured, “We can work all weekend, sort the pictures, plan out the book. We'll be fine.”

“I guess so—” I paused, gave him a fast glance. “Jake?”

He turned to look at me. “What is it? You sound concerned. And you look it.”

“I am a bit. About Françoise. She phoned this afternoon, and she's staying at Mike Carter's apartment.”

“Why? What happened? Don't tell me. I can guess! Olivier showed up.”

“Not in Paris, at Les Roches Fleuries.”

“Yes, that's what I meant. I suppose he's been giving her folks a hard time? Is that it, Val?”

“Apparently. But they've been pretty tough with him from what I can gather. Nevertheless, Mike decided it would be better to move her out of my place.”

“I see. Well, I guess that was shrewd of Mike. A smart cop might well put two and two together and come up with five. We'd been staying down there, he could jump to conclusions, come up with the truth. Why wouldn't you or I provide some sort of help, give her shelter? A sharp flic might well figure that out. You and I would be easy to find in Paris, we're so well known. A cop wouldn't have any trouble locating us sooner or later.”

I nodded. “True. I think Mike likes her . . . what I mean is, I have a feeling he's attracted to her.”

For a moment Jake appeared startled, and then his expression changed, and he grinned at me. “And why not? She's a lovely-looking young woman, and she seems very sweet. And Mike's been a widower for . . . what is it, ten years now?”

“Yes, Sarah was killed in that horrible car crash ten years ago, when Lisa was four and Joy was two. They're teenagers now, and quite grown-up. Mike told me the girls are very taken with Françoise, he said they'd all become friends.”

“Fast friends fast, heh?” He laughed.

I laughed too but made no comment.

“Yup, I guess she's better off at Mike's. It would be hard for Olivier to track her down there.”

“I hope you're right. You know, I do work for Mike— if Olivier makes the connection, he could show up at Gemstar.”

“Yeah, that's true, but he sure as hell won't get anywhere with Mike Carter.”

“He's a tough guy, I know that. A match for anybody,” I answered.

“What a lousy world we live in,” Jake muttered, swigging the Coke again, then slapping the can down hard on the coffee table.

I saw the flicker of anger in those deep blue eyes, and his mouth was drawn in a tight line. He was such a good man, so full of feeling for others.

He went on. “Wherever you look, people have such problems. Take Françoise—an innocent, loving young woman, beaten and battered about by some tough cop who goes ape when he drinks. Not fair, is it?”

“No, it's not, and I just hope she gets through the birth of the baby okay, that nothing goes wrong. Then once the child is born, she can decide what to do. Personally, I'm praying she stays in Paris. She might have a future with Mike.”

Jake gave me a long, studied look, then leaned back against the sofa, frowning slightly, “What makes you say that?”

“I don't know . . . well, yes, I do. There was a sort of . . . connection between them the day Mike took us to lunch, and she was so carefree, so happy. I couldn't believe it. I know it had something to do with Mike. And he looked . . . well, I guess it was the same for him. He was happy too. I haven't seen that kind of expression on his face for as long as I've known him, and that's seven years now.”

“So they clicked, hit it off, but it doesn't mean there's a future there. Listen, she's married, and married to a maniac whose child she's expecting . . . better slow down, honey.”

“I know, I know. But it would be nice if they—” I stopped, shrugged. “You know, got together . . . somehow.”

Jake bent forward, kissed the tip of my nose. “Spoken like a true romantic, Val. And I agree, it would be nice for Françoise. Mike's a good guy.”

II

Since Jake wanted to go to a nice neighborhood restaurant, I led him to Le Périgord on Fifty-second Street later that evening. I knew he would love it because he preferred French food—after southern soul food that is. And I was right.

This was another of Grandfather's old haunts, and I'd been brought there for many special occasions in the past, and for over twenty years at that. Georges Briguet, the proprietor, came over to greet us and seat us, and before we could even blink, two glasses of sparkling champagne stood before us on the table. To welcome us, Georges explained, offering us the Perrier-Jouët.

Jake quickly got into the spirit of things, and because I was happy to see him so happy and carefree for once, I went along with him. More champagne followed the first glasses. He ordered oysters for us both, and then roast duck, which was accompanied by a bottle of his favorite red wine, Saint-Émilion. We finished the meal with sumptuous floating islands in vanilla sauce.

“I was too thin before, I know that,” I said to Jake at one moment. “But pretty soon I'm going to be too fat. Far too fat. I've got to go on a diet.”

“You're fine the way you are, fine for me, that is,” Jake murmured. “I don't like sticks.”

I didn't say anything, since I'd just remembered how anorexically thin his ex-wife, the famous model, had been, a fact that had troubled Jake no end. I focused on her for a moment, wondering how she was, what she was doing. Still a top model, I knew that. They had been divorced for almost two years; God, how time was flashing by me at the speed of light.

“Did you call Donald?” Jake asked.

Lost in my thoughts as I was, I blinked several times before answering, “Er, no.”

“You have to, Val.” Jake looked at me closely, intently, and covered my hand with his. He continued. “Not only for your sake, but ours. I don't want you to have this situation hanging over your head. Your past has always been a terrible burden for you, I realize that as much as you do. I want you to shed it once and for all, get rid of it. You've got to be free, sweetheart.”

“I want to be, Jake, honestly, but—”

“No buts, I won't take buts,” Jake interrupted me sharply. “Just pick up a phone and make a date to see Donald. Alone. Then see your mother another day. Let's do it while we're here in New York, Val, it's such a good opportunity.”

“Oh, Jake, you just don't know . . .”

“I do, and I'll help you. I'm here for you, I'll even go with you to meet him, or we'll have him to the apartment. You can see him alone if you want, but I'll be in another room, a safety net for you. Please, Val,” he insisted in a low voice.

“I'll think about it. . . .”

“You'll see, it won't be so bad. Call him tomorrow morning, see him tomorrow. The sooner the better.”

“I can't tomorrow. I have lunch with Muffie.”

“Oh, that's right, I'd forgotten. But lunch isn't all day, Val. What about the afternoon? Or listen, see him in the evening. Okay?”

“I don't know.”

“Then see him on the weekend,” Jake suggested, determined to settle this.

“I thought we were going to work on the book.”

“We are. And surely you're going to spend only an hour with Donald? It couldn't possibly take longer than that, could it?”

“You never know with Donald the Great.”

“I've often wondered why you call him that?” Jake's blondish brow lifted quizzically, and he fixed his bright blues on me.

“Because my mother thought he was the greatest thing to hit the earth. The greatest thing since sliced bread, my grandmother used to say. My mother was always saying, ‘Donald's great at this, Donald's great at that,' and I just got fed up. I guess we all did. And one day I said here comes Donald the Great, and Grandfather was tickled to death, and the name just stuck.”

“I guess nicknames do. But surely it won't take longer than an hour, will it?” he asked again.

“Who the hell knows,” I mumbled, and I shrank down farther on the banquette. I felt as though I were shriveling up inside. The mere idea of meeting with my sibling was something I could hardly bear to contemplate. I associated Donald with too many painful memories.

Jake said, “You're really trying to duck it, Val darling, and I don't think you should. Nor should you duck your mother. Face her head-on. You can do it, Val.”

“I can't.”

“Why? You're not afraid, are you?”

“Yes, I think I am,” I whispered.

“Of her? Or of what she has to say?” Jake asked gently, taking my hand in his again, endeavoring to soothe me.

“Of what she has to say,” I admitted. And then I sat up a little straighter, suddenly feeling better now that I'd admitted this to him, and just as important, to myself.

“Oh, Val, don't be. It's all in her, you know. I bet it's actually nothing to do with you. How could it have anything to do with you? You were only a baby when this started, from what your grandfather told you anyway. Isn't that so?”

I nodded.

“Listen to me . . . you and I have a lot of things going for us. But one of the most important is our shared integrity, that sense of honor, and our love of the truth. The truth in all things. I don't deal in lies, Val, and neither do you. I will always tell you the truth. Just as I know you will tell me the truth. Correct?”

“Yes,” I replied, my eyes glued to his.

“Okay, then. I am telling you the truth now, Val. You've nothing to fear, nothing to be afraid of. Whatever your mother has to tell you, it's nothing to do with anything you've ever done. It's all about her. Don't you see? It's to do with her.”

I let out a long sigh.

“Do you want me to come with you when you go and see your mother?”

“I don't know that she'd like that. She might not open up under those circumstances.”

“Well, it's possible, yes,” he admitted. “But we won't know that unless we go visit her. Only then will we find out.”

I had to agree with him. “It's nice of you to offer to come with me, Jake, it really is.”

“I care about you.”

“And I care about you too, and I know you're right in everything you say. I will phone Donald tomorrow, I promise, and I'll make a date with him. I think I'd rather hear what he's got to say before I do anything about my mother.”

“Take it slowly, one step at a time,” he said, and leaning closer, he kissed me on the cheek.