Where You Belong (24 page)

IV

Jake went immediately into the study to call Lauren in Paris.

I retreated to the kitchen to make fresh coffee and toast the bagels Jake had bought.

While the coffee perked and the bagels browned, I set up a tray with milk, sweetener, butter, and apricot jam. I added mugs, plates, spoons, knives, and napkins, and then stood watching the bagels, not wanting them to burn.

Earlier, I had planned a cozy little domestic scene. A blissful breakfast with Jake, since our sojourn in New York was soon coming to an end. I craved intimacy with him. All kinds of intimacy, and most especially the domestic kind. I asked myself why I needed this; then it had occurred to me the other day that domesticity with Jake made me feel safe, secure, and nurtured. Things I'd never really known. But today, unfortunately, life had intruded.

Once the coffee was ready, I put the pot on the tray, then peered into the toaster oven to evaluate the bagels. They looked perfect, and I lifted them out with a clean kitchen towel and dropped them on one of the plates.

As I carried the tray into the study and put it down on the big coffee table, Jake hung up the phone after saying good-bye to Lauren.

“What a lousy thing to happen to Jacques,” he said, walking over, sitting down on the sofa, and pouring coffee for us both. “The funny thing is, there's no history of heart trouble. Lauren says he had a checkup only two weeks ago and he was fine.”

“Thank God he's alive,” I said, flopping down next to Jake. “He could have so easily been killed. He had a narrow escape.”

Jake nodded, buttered a bagel, and spread it with apricot jam. He bit into it and nodded his approval.

While he munched on it, I relayed the news about Françoise and the rampaging husband out to get her and Mike and his two daughters. And whoever else got in his way. Like little old Val, perhaps.

“Shit!” he exploded, almost choking on the bagel. “I knew that situation spelled trouble right from the beginning!”

“And then some,” I muttered, and rapidly told him about my idea of asking Fiona to take Françoise under her wing for a few weeks.

“But you're doing it again, Val!” he exclaimed, impaling me with his blue eyes.

“Doing what?” I asked, feigning sudden innocence.

“Meddling, for God's sake!” he almost shouted.

“Having meddled once, and created a problem called Love with a capital L, certainly not anticipated by me, I feel I have to help them overcome the newer problem. The problem which that love has brought upon them. In short, the fury of Olivier.”

“Mike's a big boy,” Jake snapped. “He can take care of Françoise, and I don't want you getting mixed up in this any more than you already are. A guy like Olivier can easily go berserk, and if you get in his way, he'll think nothing about exterminating you.”

“What you say is true, but calm down, Jake—please. All I want to do is put a call in to Fiona, explain the situation, and ask her if Françoise can go and stay with her for a while. Surely there's no harm in that?”

Jake let out a long, exasperated sigh, took off his baseball cap, flung it to the other side of the room, grabbed me, and pulled me into his arms. “You're . . . you're just . . . incorrigible, Valentine Denning, the most impossible, stubborn, interfering, meddling, beautiful, sexy—”

I stopped this flow of words by planting my lips on his. I gave him a long, soulful, passionate kiss, then slid my tongue in his mouth and let it linger there. Which was a big mistake on my part, because it only inflamed him, gave him all the wrong ideas.

Except that they were not so wrong, I decided as he slowly but deliberately began to make love to me on the overstuffed sofa.

What a lovely intimate breakfast it turned out to be after all, I thought, smiling to myself.

I

When Donald turned up on my doorstep at exactly one o'clock, carrying a large bunch of expensive-looking flowers wrapped in cellophane and tied with pink ribbon, I was immediately suspicious. I had to curb the impulse to snarl at him.

Did he think I was a fool? Didn't he realize I saw through this ruse, this sudden loving gesture, the first one in years? Flowers, indeed.

He underestimated me if he thought I hadn't twigged that he was cozying up to me, being sweet and ever so friendly because I had suddenly become vital to his future.

But somehow I managed to swallow the acerbic words that had leapt to my tongue. I might as well be pleasant; I had nothing to lose. I laughed inside. Sex with Jake for breakfast was infinitely more satisfying than coffee with bagels for breakfast; our unexpected and wonderfully fulfilling lovemaking on the overstuffed study sofa had put me in a generous mood. And so I allowed Donald to get off unscathed.

Smiling sweetly, I offered him my cheek to kiss, thanked him for the flowers, and told him to throw his coat on the bench in the entrance foyer. After putting the flowers on the kitchen counter, I led him into the paneled study overlooking the East River.

“Where's the Costner clone?” he asked, glancing around.

“Having lunch with Gwyneth Paltrow,” I said in a snippy voice, knowing that this would make him crazy. Donald the Great had always groveled at the feet of female movie stars.

“Is he really?” my brother asked, impressed, his eyes widening.

“Donald, come on! Don't be daft. I was kidding. Jake's gone to have lunch with the publisher. At the Four Seasons.”

“You've got a publisher?”

I nodded. “Sure do. He apparently gave a terrific presentation, and the deal's made. They're drawing up the contracts now.”

“Congratulations, sis.”

“Donald,” I said threateningly, glaring at him.

“Sorry, Val.”

I pointed to the sofa where earlier Jake and I had enjoyed our delicious sexy romp and said, “Sit there and start talking. What did she tell you?”

He did as I said as I stood hovering over him, my eyes riveted on his face.

“She didn't tell me much—”

“What!” I exclaimed, cutting across his sentence. “You come here with no information, expecting me to welcome you with open arms. Is that why you brought the flowers? As a peace offering?”

“No, no. And you didn't let me finish!” he whined.

“Okay, shoot.”

“Listen, Val, you don't let me get the words out. You've certainly reverted to your old self. You're so fucking bossy and bullying again, I can't stand it.” He started to get up. “I think I'm going to leave and you—”

“You're not leaving, Donald,” I snapped. “So put that idea out of your head. And please refrain from using bad language. You know it irritates me.”

“Okay, okay. Let's get back to Mom. She didn't say much when I first got there. Just sat like Elizabeth the First on her throne, looking regal and imposing. Then she eased up after I'd stroked her ego and yabbered at her for half an hour. I finally managed to establish that there's no legal document. About The Tradition thing.” He sat back, looking pleased with himself.

“That's good to know,” I exclaimed, and beamed at him, hoping to encourage him to keep talking. “What else did she say?”

“She explained about The Tradition. And that's all it is, Val, a tradition started by Amy-Anne, who wanted to give the women in the family the power, not the men. But even though there was—is—nothing in writing per se, Mom says the Lowell women have taken it very seriously for a hundred years. It's kinda . . . like . . . well, I guess it's like their Bible.” Leaning forward slightly, Donald looked up at me and confided, “Mom says that the women descendants of Amy-Anne believed that it would bring bad luck to the family if a woman stopped being the head of Lowell's. Maybe she believes it too?”

“Goodness me, Donald, where does that leave you?” I asked sweetly, and walked across the room, stood leaning against the fireplace, trying to hide the amused smile that had sprung to my lips.

“I'm getting engaged. To Alexis. She accepted my proposal.”

“How fortuitous for you, Donald,” I purred sarcastically, thinking what an opportunist he was. He wasn't wasting any time or taking any chances. But what did I care. It suited my purpose to give him the family business. I certainly didn't want anything to do with it. Nor did I want anything from her.

He said, “I think Mom wants to see you again, Val.”

“What for?” I demanded, turning frosty with him.

“I don't know, she didn't say.”

“God, Donald, you are dim at times! Why didn't you ask her?”

“I did. And stop being a bitch!”

I ignored this and said, “And how did she answer you?”

“She didn't, at least she wouldn't tell me her reason, except that she said something about owing you an explanation.”

“No kidding,” I murmured, wondering what had prompted this sudden need for truth-telling on my mother's part.

Donald nodded and sat back against the pillows.

I softened my attitude toward him and said in a pleasant tone, “Well, Donald, this is really good news for you. About there not being a legal document. That makes it so much easier for me to give you the company.”

“I told her you wanted to do that, and she says she won't let you.”

“I don't inherit Lowell's until she dies, Donald, and when she's dead she won't be able to stop me handing the business over to you. Now, will she?”

“Mmmm. Yes, that's true, I guess.”

“No guessing. It is true.”

“You're going to have to see Mom again, Val.”

“No way, brother mine.”

“I'll go with you.”

“I bet you would, under the circumstances,” I said.

“Please, Val. Be nice. You used to love me, and when you stopped, I was really hurt. You damaged me when I was a child because you dumped me, withdrew your love.”

“Cut the crap, Donald, you know she took you away from me the moment it suited her.”

“Bad language, Val, really!”

“Donald, tell me something, why the hell do you want Lowell's anyway?” I asked, truly perplexed by this and genuinely wanting to know.

“Because you don't want it and it should stay in the family.”

“But would you work there?”

“Sure as hell I would.”

“But you've got your dream job on the magazine. You always wanted to be a gossip columnist. After all, you cut your teeth on gossip in the family.”

“There you go again, being a bitch.”

“Oh, stop using that word. You're getting monotonous. So tell me, why would you want to give up your column? Which, I hear from Muffie, is very influential, to go and work in an office every day, making and selling cosmetics that nobody's ever heard of or really cares about.”

Donald looked at me alertly, his eyes narrowing slightly, and after a split second he said, “You don't know, do you?”

“Know what?” I asked swiftly, noting the sudden change in his demeanor, and wondering what bombshell he was about to drop.

“About Lowell's, and what's happened to the company?”

I shook my head. “How would I know? I spend most of my life shooting pictures of the dead and dying on the battlefronts of the world.”

Donald stood up. “Let's go to lunch,” he said, suddenly becoming authoritative, “and I'll tell you all about it.”

II

He had intrigued me with his comment about Lowell's and I tried to pump him as we walked across Beekman Place and out onto First Avenue. But he wouldn't be drawn, and insisted on telling me about his fiancée, Alexis, whom he wanted me to meet before I returned to Paris.

To shut him up, I finally agreed to this, and hoped Jake wouldn't mind that I'd invited them to have dinner with us on Friday.

By the time we arrived at Billy's, a place I liked for its fish and chips and great hamburgers, Donald was all over me like chicken pox, being sweet because of the dinner invitation, no doubt. And everything else I was doing for him.

After hanging up our coats, we were shown to a table in the second room, which I preferred. The restaurant had a warm, attractive publike atmosphere, with bare wood floors and tables covered in red-and-white-checked cloths. Its informality and good food made it a favorite of mine, especially when I was in a hurry and wanted to eat well without a lot of fuss.

Donald said, “Let's have a glass of white wine to celebrate.”

Frowning, I asked, “Celebrate what?”

“My engagement to Alexis,” he answered, staring at me. “What did you think I meant?”

“I didn't know,” I said, although it had just struck me that perhaps he was counting his chicks before the hatching, if he was now celebrating his entry into the business world.

When the waitress showed up at our table with the menus, Donald ordered two glasses of dry white wine and took the menu from her, as did I.

Once she had departed to fill the drinks order, he leaned across the table and said, “A lot of siblings wouldn't tell you this, Val, they'd let you go back to Paris in ignorance. But I'm not like that, and whatever you think, I've always loved you. I may not have always liked you, but loved you—yes.”

I stared at him but made no comment. Let him hang himself, I thought, and sat back in the chair, wondering why he was suddenly making these protestations of love for me.

He said, “Don't look so suspicious. And doubting. I know you think I'm like Mom, but I'm not.”

“Let me go back to Paris in ignorance of what?” I demanded.

“Lowell's amazing success. The company's become a gold mine.”

“Lowell's?”

He started to laugh. “Yes, Lowell's. They've had an amazing success in the last ten years, thanks to Mom. The products are in all of the best stores in New York, and across the—”

“What stores?” I asked, leaning closer, pinning him with my eyes, now riddled with curiosity.

“The best . . . like Bergdorf's, Saks, Barney's New York, Neiman Marcus, in fact, Lowell's products are distributed across the country. The line has become very popular with women in every city in America. Going to take Europe soon.”

“Those little dinky bottles, the homespun creams and lotions,” I exclaimed, totally taken aback by this news.

“Oh, yes, Val, and you shouldn't sound so disparaging about those dinky bottles and homespun creams, as you call them. That's part of the success, according to our mother.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning.

At this moment the wine materialized, and the waitress asked if we wanted to order. I selected a hamburger medium rare with French fries, and so did Donald. With the lunch order out of the way, he lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers,” I answered, touching my glass to his. “So, Donald, tell me more.”

“I was just saying that the dinky bottles, as you call them, are not really so dinky. And they haven't changed much since Amy-Anne started Lowell's. They're actually a modern version of the apothecary jar, in miniature of course, with the glass stopper and the plain printed label. And that's where the homespun bit comes into play. Did you know the labels on the Lowell products haven't really changed in a hundred years, Val?”

“How could I possibly know that?”

“I guess you couldn't, and I didn't either until quite recently.”

“Been doing your research already, then, have you?” I asked, endeavoring to curb the sarcasm that frequently crept into my conversation when talking to my brother. But he missed it, as he so often did; or maybe he merely chose to ignore it.

He replied, “No, I haven't. But Mom sometimes talks to me about business when I go over to dinner, and she was telling me about a Japanese company recently that wants to import the products to Japan. And the president of this company told her that Japanese women love the plain old-fashioned apothecary bottles and simple printed labels that merely state the product, its purpose, and give the ingredients.”

“You're kidding me!”

“No, I'm not. It's funny about the Japanese—do you know hundreds of thousands of them love Early American furniture?”

“What's that got to do with Lowell's cosmetics, Donald?”

“Nothing, I was merely making an analogy. But it's the old-fashioned apothecary bottle and the old-fashioned label that appeals to millions of women here too. Call it nostalgia, confidence in something that looks homemade, whatever . . . it's part of the secret, Mom says. The old-fashioned packaging apparently works better than ever, and by keeping to the simple bottles and simple labels, she's managed to keep her costs down. It's the same with the products . . . by limiting them, she's kept production costs down too.”

“What do you mean when you say limiting them? I'm not actually following you,” I said.

“Mom told me that when Dad was alive he wanted her to make a lot of other products . . . lipsticks, eye makeup, nail polish, that sort of stuff. But she wouldn't, she remained faithful to the line created by Amy-Anne. You know, the face, hand, and body creams, shampoos and bath products. That decision has played into the success of Lowell's today, because her costs have remained fairly reasonable. Also, she hasn't had to cater to fashion and its changes.” Donald paused, took a big swig of his wine, and finished, “Where she has spent money is on marketing.”

“How the hell did she suddenly turn this company around?” I exclaimed, and shook my head, totally baffled. “When we were little, there were always money problems, money struggles, as I recall.”

“Things weren't that bad, were they?” Donald muttered, and looked at me questioningly over the rim of his glass.

“I think money was very tight at times,” I responded. “But the only really nasty problem I can remember was when they wanted to let Annie go, and we both became so hysterical in the end, she wasn't fired. But I have a feeling our grandfather paid her salary for a while.”

“Annie loved us, didn't she, Val? She was the best nanny.”

“Yes, she was. . . .” I let my sentence trail away, thinking that without Annie Patterson looking after me from birth, I would have probably never survived in that household.

“Anyway, Val, to give you a final definitive answer about Lowell's success today, let's say it's all been in the marketing. Apparently Mom sent it to every top model, every Broadway actress, every movie actress, and every female celebrity she could think of. She had an old-fashioned carpetbag made, filled it with products, and enclosed a handwritten letter on Victorian-style note-paper. It worked, everybody fell for . . . the carpetbag, the dinky bottle, and the homespun products, as you just called them.”

“So she's making millions?” I said, grinning at him. “Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

He nodded. “She sure is. She has a mail order catalogue. She's on the Internet. And Lowell's has a Web site too. And in about eighteen months, after she's launched the product in Europe and Japan, I think she'll go to Wall Street and do an IPO.”

“My God, Donald, our mother's a veritable tycoon, and I never knew it!” I hoped he'd get my sarcasm, but I could tell he hadn't.

“I had no idea either. I've picked up stuff from her from time to time, but Alexis is a financial journalist, and she's the one who's filled me in with a lot of information lately.”

“Do you mean in the last week, Donald?” I asked, eyeing him speculatively.

He shook his head, “No, I don't. I mean ever since Mom got sick, you know, had the first heart attack.”

“Well, congratulations, Donald darling, I think you're going to inherit a great company and be very rich.”

“You really mean that, don't you, Val? I can see you're not leading me on.”

I stared at him and frowned. “Of course I'm not, why would I?”

He took a deep breath. “When Mom does the IPO next year, or in the year 2000, Lowell's could bring in between five hundred million to a billion dollars, give or take few hundred thou.”

I gaped at Donald, unable to speak. Taking a deep breath, I said at last, “I'm gobsmacked, Donald, utterly and completely gobsmacked!”

He laughed, but I think more from the expression on my face than the words that left my mouth. When he stopped laughing, he said, “But I don't know what gobsmacked means, Val.”

“Smacked in the mouth, in the parlance of the British,” I explained.