Where You Belong (23 page)

Jake said, “Tell me something, Fiona, do you think Tony would have committed bigamy and married Val?”

“I don't know, Jake. Perhaps he would. Other men have done it, 'tis a well-known fact that they have. And they got away with it too. At least, for a long time—until they were eventually caught.”

“Or he could have found an excuse to break it off,” I remarked. “Other men have also done that.”

Jake raised a brow. “The mind of a man,” he began, and stopped abruptly, looked away; he was uncomfortable.

David ventured, “All kinds of excuses would've worked. Such as: My wife is seriously ill, I can't leave her now . . . that's just one of them that comes to mind.”

“And if the mistress throws a tantrum, or protests unduly, she looks like a bitch,” I muttered.

David glanced at Fiona and murmured, “You may not agree, love, but I think Tony would have broken the law and married Val.”

“And why not Anne Curtis, if she was the other one?” I asked.

Ignoring my comment, Fiona answered David when she said, “Maybe he would have committed bigamy with Val. He was impulsive and unpredictable. On the other hand, the ‘my wife is desperately ill' excuse would've appealed to Tony. He might have used it, I am thinking. . . .”

“Listen, all of you! He duped me!” I cried, my voice an octave higher. “Because I'm a grown-up, a mature woman, I can accept that. But what I want to know is why did he do it?”

“Do you mean why did he do it to you? Or why was he the way he was?” Fiona asked me. “Do you mean why did he have so many women and tell so many lies?”

“Absolutely. I mean all of that, yes. You've hit it on the head exactly,” I answered tensely. I felt uptight, filled with fury all of a sudden. I tried to relax, to ease the anger away.

She took a deep breath, allowed all the air to trickle out of her, and then slumped against the chair back. After a small silence, she said slowly but with total assurance, “He picked you, Val, because he knew Jake wanted you. I told you that in the restaurant. But it was also because you were fair game, gorgeous, and a challenge to him. But Tony was a born womanizer . . . through and through. And through again. I always suspected he was unfaithful to me on our honeymoon, you know, but I had no way of ever proving it. He was also very selfish, with an infantile need for instant gratification. If he wanted something, he wanted it now. Just like a child.”

Fiona's eyes swiveled from me to David to Jake, and she shook her head sadly, just sat there, staring at us wordlessly. I felt so sorry for her because of the life he had inflicted on her.

No one said a word.

What was there to say?

But eventually Fiona spoke, explaining in a low, almost inaudible voice, “Yes, he was extremely selfish but he was also a very sick man. In his head. But not a bad man, no, not that . . . he was mentally disturbed in certain ways. I also think he was addicted to sex. I believe he needed different women all the time in order to . . .”

“Get it up,” I said, unable to curb myself. “To get an erection.”

“That's right,” she responded, her eyes meeting mine and knowingly so.

“He was rotten to the core, in my considered opinion,” David announced. “And you know it, Fiona. We all know it.”

I was really surprised at David's courage. This quiet, laid-back man was impressing me more and more. He certainly knew who he was, what he believed, and he wasn't afraid to say what he thought, even at the risk of upsetting Fiona a little. He had earned my respect in just a few hours, and he was certainly much more worthy of Fiona than Tony had ever been.

“There's something else,” David went on, addressing Fiona. “I know you won't misunderstand . . . and it's this. Basically, Tony didn't give a damn about your feelings, or the children's feelings either. Or Jake's or Val's. Or mine, for that matter, not that I really count in this domestic drama.”

“But you do, David! You do!” Fiona protested, her voice rising sharply. “And he knew that. Tony knew I cared for you, and that you cared for me and his children.”

“Your children,” David announced very quietly. “He never had much to do with their upbringing. He was always away.”

“But I got the impression from Moira and Rory that he spent a lot of time with them this past summer,” Jake said in a puzzled tone, looking at Fiona and David, his eyes narrowing.

“He was at home for a couple of weeks . . .” Fiona replied. “Well, you know, Jake, they do tend to exaggerate a bit and fantasize. They wished he'd been there for months on end, but that was not actually the way it was. Even though they told you that perhaps.”

David downed his cognac and got up. “Mind if I help myself, Jake?”

“No, go ahead, David.”

David walked across the floor and then turned around when he was almost at the console table. “Tony did what he wanted, took what he wanted, and to hell with the consequences. That was his attitude. Nobody else mattered. Oh, yes, he was a charmer, and lovely to us all. And talented. And he could spin the best yarns, take the best photographs, prepare the greatest meals, make us all laugh. And cry. We all loved him at one time or another. But he was a bastard nonetheless.”

Fiona sighed. “He's the father of my children . . . and I did love him once, but 'tis true, what David's just said.”

III

Jake's bright blue eyes settled on Fiona as he asked in a warm voice, “Why did you bring this up tonight, Fiona? Had you been planning it?”

Emphatically she shook her head from side to side. “Oh no, no, Jake, I hadn't been planning it at all. But when I saw you and Val together at the dinner table, saw the way you were . . . so very much together, so in love, I thought you should know the truth, know about the real Tony. I knew him better than anybody, and I suppose you could say I knew what made him tick, what went on in his mind. He was so complex. . . .” She sighed and shook her head again. “Well, there's nothing worse than having a tantalizing ghost hanging around, and I wanted you to know about him.”

“There's a lot to be said for that, getting rid of ghosts,” I exclaimed. “And I for one am glad we've had this chance to talk. I knew you were Tony's widow, not his ex-wife, the day of the memorial service. When I stood next to you in the Brompton Oratory, I just knew, Fiona.”

“I don't want you to suffer needlessly, grieve needlessly, ruin your life yearning for such a man. I felt you should understand about him, know the truth about him. I have always put great value on truth.”

IV

I had believed for the past few weeks that I had exorcised the ghost of Tony Hampton. And that Jake had too. But only after this very honest discussion with Fiona did I really feel truly liberated.

It struck me that Jake felt the same way. We didn't mention it or discuss it after they finally left just after midnight. We simply turned out the lights and went into the bedroom. But there was a carefreeness in him, a lightness that had not been present before. It was as if a weight had been lifted, and I certainly felt as though my shoulders were lighter, a terrible burden finally sloughed away.

Yes, Tony Hampton was gone from my life, and from Jake's as well. All I wanted now, tonight, was to lie next to Jake, make love to him, have him make love to me. I wanted to be with the man who truly loved me, and whom I loved with all my heart.

V

The past became dust. The present was passion.

Jake pulled down the strap of my nightgown and began to kiss my breast very tenderly. After a moment he looked into my eyes, and I saw that his were spilling his love for me.

He gently stroked my cheek with his fingertips and kissed my eyelids, and then he tugged lightly at my nightgown again and murmured, “Take this off, Val. Take it off.”

I did as he asked, and eagerly so.

He slipped off the bed and shed his pajama bottoms, and as he stood there naked, looking down at me in my nakedness, I shivered slightly.

The room was dim except for the moonlight filtering in through the windows. And he looked so masculine in that pale light, my breath caught in my throat. Tall, lithe, broad of chest, his face finely etched, and those eyes such a vivid, startling blue. He was all man; and his manhood proclaimed his desire and longing for me.

He lay down on the bed again and pulled me into his arms, murmuring my name. He began to kiss my breast, sucking on the nipple until it hardened, became erect. And he entwined his legs around mine and held me close, and I could feel his hardness against me. And I wanted him.

The heat of passion and an urgent desire raced through me, burned me up, and I cleaved to him, holding on to him tightly. “Oh Jake, oh Jake, I want you so much,” I whispered against his shoulder. “Now.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow, looked down at me, and said softly, “Oh look, look. Just look at you . . . you're so beautiful, Val.”

All his attention became centered on that mound of blondish-brown hair at the top of my thighs, and he bent over me, lavishing me with kisses and tender touching until I opened up to him fully. And as always he brought me to the edge of climax, then stopped, took me to him with infinite tenderness and care, fitting the length of himself into me with expertise.

Swiftly and with precision we rose and fell together, lost ourselves in each other, gave ourselves to each other. And as deep shuddering began to overcome me, and I found myself spiraling into ecstasy, he let himself go. He rushed headlong into me, calling my name over and over again as we came together, were fused together as one.

After our passion was spent, and we lay wrapped in each other's arms, I looked deeply into those clear blue eyes, and I saw that he was at peace with himself and with me. Just as I was.

Jake had said we were destined to be together. And he was right. It had always been so, from the beginning. We had simply missed our way for a short while. But I was his . . . his woman, his passion, his love.

And he was the only man for me, the only man I wanted. And that was the absolute truth.

I

A week after our remarkable dinner with Fiona and David, my newfound inner peace and contentment suddenly shattered, blown to smithereens by several unexpected and unwelcome phone calls.

The bad news came filtering into the Beekman Place apartment on a cold but sunny Wednesday morning, thereafter etched in my mind as Bad Day at Black Rock, to remind me that the good things didn't last very long for little old Val.

The first call came from Mike Carter in Paris. My boss began by telling me that I had missed the boat with the famous artist, who'd retreated to his compound in Mexico to wield his magic brush in a more congenial environment than a SoHo loft. And then he had added in a dour voice that there was serious trouble developing with Olivier, the abusive husband. He had somehow discovered that Françoise was staying with Mike, and was apparently on the warpath, violent, threatening, and out to make mayhem.

Before I got into what I knew would be a difficult discussion about Françoise, I apologized for missing the great Alexander St. Just Stevens, who had never even had the courtesy to return my innumerable phone calls to him. Which was the reason I had never had a peek at his paintings before he had flown the coop for more exotic climes.

I then addressed the problem of Olivier, cop on the rampage.

“You've got to send Françoise here,” I pushed, only to be told by Mike that she did not want to come stateside, as he called it.

“New York is too far away, Val, and she says she won't like it. Especially since you're not going to be there. And you're not, are you? You are coming back to work next week, aren't you?”

After reassuring him that I was indeed returning to Paris and work, I decided to offer him a bit of good advice. “If you haven't done it already, get her a lawyer. And make sure he's not only tough but has vast power within the French legal system, you know, the right connections. That's the only kind of legal eagle who'll be able to handle Olivier. That flic obviously has pull somewhere. And tell me, how the hell did he find out she's staying with you and the girls?”

“No idea. As for the lawyer, I have hired somebody, a powerhouse, a real shit, I'm told, and just the kind of guy she needs. Françoise is seeing him tomorrow. But I wish I knew where I could send her for a while . . . out of the country would be preferable. London would be great, but I don't know anybody—”

“Pig on the Roof!” I practically shouted down the phone, clutching the receiver tighter as an amazing brainstorm hit me.

“What the hell does that mean, Val?” Mike said.

I had to laugh, even though I knew this wasn't a laughing matter, and also that my laughter would annoy him. Taking a deep breath, adopting a more sober tone, I explained. “It's a restaurant, Pig on the Roof is . . . and it is being opened imminently by Fiona Hampton, Tony's widow. She also bought a house close by, and both are in Middleham. That's in Yorkshire. She told me she was looking for an assistant to help her pull both places together, especially the decoration of the restaurant. It just occurred to me that Françoise might be ideal, since she works for a decorator in Marseilles, or at least used to work for one.”

“I don't know,” Mike mumbled uncertainly.

“She would be safe there, I'm sure, Mike, and listen, Yorkshire's not that far from Paris. Fiona invited Jake and me to go and stay with her for Christmas if we want, and she said we could fly from Paris to Leeds-Bradford Airport, which is in a place called Yeadon. Or fly into Manchester Airport and drive to Yorkshire from there. Françoise would be in easy reach if you wanted to see her, Mike.”

“It's a possibility, yes,” Mike responded, suddenly sounding a bit brighter. “And could she live with Fiona Hampton?”

“I don't know, but under the circumstances, I would think so, yes. Fiona's one of the most understanding women I've ever met. Do you want me to call her? She went back to London yesterday.”

“I'd better talk to Françoise about it first.”

“It sounds to me as if you're heavily involved there,” I ventured to say, and then stopped abruptly, deeming it wiser not to pry. Besides, as Jake kept telling me, the less we knew about that particular mess, the better off we were.

Mike was saying, “Well, yes, I am very involved. I'm in love with her and she with me . . . I want to marry her.” There was a pause before he added, “She's the only woman I've loved since Sarah's death.”

I wasn't a bit surprised to hear this declaration, but the mere idea of this union made me excessively nervous, not the least because Olivier was definitely not someone to tango with by choice.

Taking a deep breath, I forced a cheerfulness I suddenly did not feel when I said, “I'm going to be brides-maid, I hope. Or should I say maid of honor?”

Mike chuckled, promised to call Françoise immediately, and get back to me pronto.

After cautioning him to be careful about Olivier, I hung up.

II

I had no sooner put the phone down, when it rang again.

“Hullo?” I said, and was startled when my brother returned my salutation.

“I've got to come and see you, Val,” Donald said in a rush of words and with no preamble whatsoever. “As soon as possible.”

“But it's only seven-thirty in the morning! I haven't even had coffee yet,” I protested, and wondered what had happened to Jake, who had gone out to the supermarket to buy milk.

“I don't mean this minute,” Donald explained. “But later this morning. Please, Val, we've got to talk.”

“What about?”

“The will.”

“Oh, come on, Donald! We talked about that the other Sunday. You know how I feel. You can have everything, Lowell's included. I don't want her stuff or her business, and I explained that to you. And to her.”

“But she says you have to inherit the business, she won't listen to me. I thought perhaps you could give it one more shot. Maybe work something out with her.”

“Oh, Donald,” I groaned, and sighed heavily. “She won't listen to me. You're her favorite. You used to be able to twist her around your little finger, so why don't you try doing that again?”

“She's stuck on this family thing, The Tradition, as she calls it, with two capital T's.”

“Do you think that's a binding legal document? Or is it simply a tradition within the family, something started by Amy-Anne Lowell a hundred years ago?”

“I just don't know,” Donald answered, his voice glum.

“It didn't occur to me to ask her the other day, but I wonder if it's written into the articles of incorporation? Try to find that out if you can.”

“I will, but why do you want to know?”

The dumbness of this question took my breath away, but then, you didn't have to be a genius to be duplicitous, which was Donald's main claim to fame in the family. “Because if it's written into the articles of incorporation of Lowell's, then it has to be treated as a legal matter,” I replied patiently. “But if it's just a wish, a suggestion, a desire put forward by Amy-Anne, then I guess it would be simple to break. Because it's not legal.”

“She'd never let us break The Tradition.”

“What's the matter with you this morning, Donald? Get with it! If there's no legal document, then I can simply decline to accept Lowell's. Or better still, I suppose I should accept it, then give it to you by drawing up the appropriate papers.”

“You keep saying you'll do that. But will you give it to me?”

“Don't you trust me?”

“Sure I do,” he muttered, sounding doubtful, I thought.

“Call up your mother, find out what you can, and meet me here at one o'clock,” I ordered tersely, resorting to my bullying of old. “I'll take you to lunch at a local joint, and we can settle this damn thing once and for all. Okay?”

“Okay, sis.”

“Donald!” I shouted. “Don't call me—”

He hung up on me.

Ungrateful little pig, I thought, and wondered why I bothered with him. Anyway, I didn't want Lowell's, that was the absolute truth, and he should have it as our mother's son. There was no one else, except for those distant Lowell cousins who received annual checks for doing nothing.

Desperate now for a blast of caffeine, I padded into the kitchen and filled a mug with coffee, adding sweetener. I didn't particularly like it black, but Jake hadn't returned from his errand to buy milk.

I stood at the kitchen window, looking out, thinking that it appeared to be one of those clear, crisp fall days. The sky was a blameless blue and the sun was already edging out from behind foamy white clouds. I always enjoyed the change of seasons, which is why I had never wanted to live permanently in a hot climate.

The sudden shrilling of the wall phone made me jump, and I grabbed the receiver and said hello, wondering who it was this time.

“Is that you, Valentine?”

I didn't recognize the woman's voice, and said, “Yes, it is, who's this?”

“Good morning, Val, it's Lauren, Jacques Foucher's wife.”

“Hello, Lauren! How're you?”

“I'm fine, but I'm afraid Jacques has had a terrible accident. I was looking for Jake to tell him about it. Is he there?”

“No, he's out on an errand. He'll be back any minute, but please, tell me what happened.”

“Jacques is badly injured, but he will recover. Eventually. He's in hospital, obviously, and he's lucky to be alive. He was on his way home last night, when he had a heart attack. In the car. He was driving, Val, and he hit a parked van, empty, thank God! And then he careened across the street and slammed into a brick wall head-on.”

“Oh my God!” I said. “You're right, he is lucky to be alive. How bad are his injuries?”

“He broke his nose and his collarbone, and an arm and a leg, and of course he has a lot of contusions, bruises, some minor internal injuries. But that's about the extent of it.”

“It could have been worse, let's face it.”

“Yes, he could be dead,” Lauren said. “Anyway, will you tell Jake I'm at the office now, and I'll come in every day until you get back to Paris. When do you think that'll be?”

“Next week, of that I'm absolutely sure. But Jake might want to leave earlier now.”

“It's not necessary,” she replied. “Everything's under control, and fortunately Jacques is in the best medical hands. Please tell Jake I can cope with the agency, not too much is going on at the moment anyway.”

“I know you can cope,” I said, remembering just how efficient Lauren Crane was. English born, she was a successful agent running the Paris office of a well-known American talent agency. Like me, she had lived in Paris for a number of years and was a dyed-in-the-wool Francophile. She was Jacques Foucher's second wife, and he adored her and their four-year-old daughter, Jasmine.

“But how are you going to run your own office?” I now asked Lauren.

“I'm going to spend the mornings here at Photoreal,” she explained, “and the afternoons at my own office. Since I'm dealing with New York and Los Angeles, the time differences work in my favor.”

“I see,” I responded. “And I'll have Jake call you the minute he gets back. It won't be long. And give Jacques my love, and tell him I hope he's feeling better soon.”

“I will, Val, and thanks.”

III

After we had both hung up, I stood drinking my coffee, continuing to gaze out across the East River, though a little absently now, I must admit. I was thinking of Jacques and trying to remember his age. I knew he was older than Jake, by about fourteen years I thought, which would make him around fifty-two. Still, that was relatively young to have a heart attack, wasn't it? Luck was running with him, I thought, just as it was with me and Jake in Kosovo. Our time wasn't up then, and neither was his last night. It's all to do with destiny.

When the phone began to ring again, I cursed under my breath and reached for the receiver once more. “Yes,” I said somewhat sharply, which wasn't like me at all. But this unexpected early morning activity was suddenly getting to me.

“Val, 'allo, it is me, Françoise.”

“Françoise, hello, how are you?” I asked, my voice instantly softening. “You must be glad to be out of the clinic and back with Mike.”

“Oui. Yes, I am very happy with him. He is wonderful. But, Val, it is Olivier, he will grab me any minute and take me back to Marseilles, I feel this.”

“Listen to me, Françoise,” I instructed, “and listen carefully. You must get out of Paris after you have seen that lawyer tomorrow. And I think I can arrange for you to stay with a friend in England. How do you feel about that?”

“I will go. Mike explained it to me. About the Pig on the Roof lady. I am so frightened of Olivier. And so are my parents now. He is going to see them at Les Roches Fleuries. All the time.”

“I'll bet he is! And I also bet he's got the phone tapped and the mail monitored. Stay away from them, Françoise, if you want to be safe.”

“Oui, oui. I know this must be the way. They are worried about me.”

“Things will turn out all right,” I reassured her. “I'm going to phone my friend in London, and I'll get back to you. Or, rather, I'll call Mike. That would be better. Just be careful, Françoise, and don't take any chances.

“I understand. Merci, Val. Au revoir.”

“Bye, Françoise, keep your chin up.” As I put the phone back in the cradle, I wondered if she knew what that phrase meant. Too late to explain.

I walked out of the kitchen, now more baffled than ever by Jake's prolonged absence; I was heading down the corridor to the living room, when I heard the key in the lock. Then the door slammed.

As I hurried into the entrance foyer, I saw Jake struggling with three large bags from the supermarket. He was dressed in a heavy white fisherman's sweater, blue jeans, and a baseball cap worn backward. He looked a little flushed, or perhaps it was windburn.

“Hi, Kid,” he said, grinning at me over the top of the bags. “It's bitchy out there, cold all of a sudden. Sorry I took so long, but I bought stuff for dinner tonight, to save time. I thought we could—”

“There's bad news, Jake,” I interrupted, going forward to help him with the overflowing supermarket bags.

“What bad news? What's wrong?”