Where You Belong (30 page)

IV

Acapulco
The Hacienda Rosita had to be seen to be believed. It was undoubtedly the most beautiful property in the area, a compound composed of a series of villas, guest cottages, a huge studio where Alexander St. Just Stevens painted, a building where kitchens were housed, and a house where the domestic help lived.

All of the buildings were of white stucco, very Spanish in feeling, and beautifully designed and built. Inside the main villa, where the artist lived, the floors were of white marble, as were some of the walls; the rooms were filled with distinctive antique pieces of Mexican origin, many of his own paintings, and eye-catching accessories and lamps.

These buildings were perched high on a cliff, just outside the town, and the view from any part of the grounds was spectacular. Far below, the brilliant azure sea glittered, and the gardens were filled with a riotous profusion of flowers, plants, flowering shrubs, and trees.

The entire compound was surrounded by a very high wall, guarded at the main gate and the back service gate by armed guards.

I have to admit that I was startled when I first saw the gun-toting guards when we drove into the property the day I arrived, over a week ago now. I had been picked up at the airport in Acapulco by Len Wilkinson, the painter's personal assistant, and it was the genial and courteous Len who had explained: “The guards are necessary, Val, because there's so much of value here, quite aside from Alexander's paintings. So why make the place a temptation to thieves? The guards keep the unwanted at bay, believe me, they do.”

I had taken to Len at once. He was from Leeds, and as he had volunteered himself, “I'm part of the Yorkshire Mafia that surrounds our hero.” He'd had a twinkle in his eye when he'd used the word hero, and I knew at once we would get along, that there was no pomposity or pretension in him.

Donald and Alexis had arrived two days before I did, and they had brought with them the lights and other equipment I needed for the shoot. As it turned out, nothing I'd requested had been superfluous, and I soon realized the two of them worked well together. I remembered how much I liked Donald's fiancée; she was charming, willing, energetic, and sure of herself, the kind of young woman who was reliable, and who was going places. She was also pretty and stylish, and obviously well brought up.

On the afternoon I arrived, Len Wilkinson had taken me straight to the large sun-filled villa I was sharing with Donald and Alexis. “See you later for dinner. At nine o'clock,” Len had said before disappearing through the front door.

Donald had greeted me warmly, obviously pleased to see me, and Alexis had immediately volunteered to help me unpack. I was grateful that she had, since I'd traveled from Paris to New York by Concorde, spent the night in the Beekman Place apartment, and then flown out to Acapulco on Mexicana Airlines that morning. I was used to travel, but I felt bushed the first day I arrived; all I had wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep.

“How on earth will I stay awake until dinner at nine?” I asked Donald, who had laughed and said, “Have a nap once you've unpacked and we'll get you up later.”

“If you say so,” I agreed, and set about emptying the big bag I'd brought, while Alexis put my clothes on hangers.

Once this had been accomplished and everything had been hung up, Donald, Alexis, and I went out and sat in the garden for a while, drinking iced tea.

They couldn't wait to fill me in, and I had listened in amazement as Donald had explained the setup at Hacienda Rosita.

“It's quite a place,” Donald had confided, “and you're going to like Alexander, he's kind of neat, very eccentric though, and a flashy dresser.”

“But he's very handsome,” Alexis had volunteered.

“And a womanizer,” Donald had added, winking at me.

I had nodded. “Yes, I do know a few things about him. I did a bit of research before I left Paris. He's had several wives, several mistresses, and there are innumerable children.”

“And they all live here,” Donald had told me with a huge grin.

“The first wife can't possibly live here, Donald,” I had answered, laughing. “She died long ago.”

“True, but you know what I mean. They're all here. But there's no one special that I know of at the moment. They're all exes. You know, ex-wives, ex-mistresses. Better watch out, Valentine, he's got an eye for a pretty face.”

“You don't have to worry about protecting me, brother mine,” I had retorted. “Just keep an eye on Alexis.”

“Oh, he's not interested in her,” Donald had muttered, and had broken into amused laughter again. “He's looked her up and down already, and turned away.”

“Well, thanks a lot for those few kind words,” Alexis had exclaimed, and punched my brother on his arm.

V

That discussion was now a week old. I had quickly settled in at the Hacienda Rosita, and so much so, I wondered if I could ever bear to leave. It was the most beautiful spot and so calm and tranquil. The weather was temperate, warm and balmy during the day, cooler in the evenings. The sky was always blue, the sun was always shining, and I felt rejuvenated there.

I knew everyone now. The Yorkshire Mafia was made up of several old friends of Alexander's from his student days, and that was one of the things I liked about the artist. He seemed to have a strong streak of loyalty in him. Len Wilkinson was the capo di tutti capi, as Alexander liked to call him jokingly, using Sicilian Mafia parlance. And Len was indeed the boss of all bosses, in charge of everything to do with the painter's business transactions, his art exhibitions, and the sale of his paintings.

Len was of medium height, fresh-faced and silver-haired, an attractive man with an attractive wife. Jennifer Wilkinson was also an old friend from the painter's earliest days in Leeds; then there were two former fellow students who hadn't made it themselves in the world of art, and who helped Alexander move canvases, prepare them, frame the giant-sized paintings in plain wood, mix paints, and assist him any way they could. They all enjoyed working with Alexander, and it was easy to understand why. He was kind, respectful of them, and always courteous.

For all his eccentricity, flamboyance, and womanizing, he was at heart a good man, dedicated to his work, a devoted father, and nurturing of the women who had once occupied a place of importance in his life.

As for the art, it was extraordinary. The new series of paintings was overwhelming. Each one had strength, energy, power, and brilliant color. They really were mesmerizing, and took my breath away. They would take the art world by storm, of that I was absolutely certain.

For a whole week I had been photographing these marvelous paintings, which I considered to be master-pieces and in a class of their own. They were huge, dominating, and dramatic, and I knew my photographs would do them justice.

But today I was going to start taking pictures of Alexander St. Just Stevens . . . at work in his studio, in his white marble villa with his small children, and out in the grounds of the compound with his friends from Yorkshire. All of these settings could not be covered in one day, as I had explained to him, and he had agreed to spend the next few days with me, posing for the camera.

VI

I brushed my hair back in a ponytail, tied a piece of ribbon around it, slipped on a pale blue T-shirt, then stepped into a pair of white cotton shorts. I decided to wear a pair of comfortable tennis shoes, old but clean, since I would be scrambling around all over the place, and on my feet all day.

“I'm leaving, Donald,” I called to my brother, who was still in his room.

The door flew open and he exclaimed, “Oh, that's right, you're having breakfast with the maestro this morning. Be careful, Val, he's devouring you with his eyes more than ever. This guy definitely has the hots for you.”

“I'm sure he doesn't,” I said evenly, aware that Donald enjoyed teasing me.

“But he does, Val,” Alexis remarked, coming out of the room.

I frowned. “Honestly, you two, you've got sex on the brain.”

“No, he does,” Donald said. “His eyes are lascivious.”

I burst out laughing, “Donald, what an expression! You must use that in your column.”

“Do you think so? I will for sure.”

Alexis then said to Donald, “Let's have breakfast now, and afterward we can go and meet Val at ten, as she said we should last night. Is that still all right, Val?”

I nodded. “That's about right. Alexander invited me to the studio for coffee, not the villa, so meet me over there at ten.”

“Okay.” Alexis bit her lip, hesitated slightly before saying, “Look, are you going to photograph any of his women or not?”

“I'm not sure he'll sit still for it. Why?”

“I just think it adds a bit of . . . color, spice, if you like to the story.”

“But this is about the art, great art, as a matter of fact and about the painter. It's not about his love life, his women, and his four kids.”

“Six altogether,” Donald interjected. “Two are away at college.”

“Thanks a lot, Donald, for reminding me, but I hadn't forgotten, honey.”

“I just thought he might like to be photographed with his . . . extended family. It sort of makes him more . . . human,” Alexis said.

“You have a point,” I answered. “I'll think about it and decide later.”

Picking up my cameras, I added, “Don't forget to bring all the equipment, Donald. Even though that studio is so well lighted, I want to create the same feeling we had the other day.”

Donald nodded. “No problem, sis.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks, Donald.”

My brother began to laugh.

“What's wrong?”

“I've been calling you sis all week, and you haven't screamed at me once.”

“It doesn't bother me anymore,” I said, meaning every word.

I

I thought of Jake as I walked through the garden of the guest villa, heading in the direction of Alexander's studio. He was never far from my mind, and I fretted about him, worried about his safety. Often I turned on the television at night for news of the war in Kosovo but switched off almost immediately. Chaos and mayhem reigned over there.

Mike, good friend that he was, stayed in daily contact with Jacques Foucher at Jake's photo agency and sent me updates by fax. For the moment Jake was alive and covering the war from Priština. And so I held my breath, got on with my work at the villa, and prayed for his safety.

I had liked the subject of my photo shoot right from the beginning. At forty-five, Alexander St. Just Stevens was considered to be the world's greatest living artist, often called the Picasso of the Millennium. But to me his paintings were much more exciting, had more visual impact, and they were full of life and vibrant color.

Alexander was an extremely good-looking man with a strong, well-defined face. His dark hair was tinged with white prematurely, and the silver wings at his temples seemed to make his green eyes all that more piercing as they gazed out at the world from beneath thick black brows. Tall, well built with a wonderful physique, he was tanned and fit, and something of an athlete, enjoying tennis, swimming, and deep sea fishing.

I knew full well he was a womanizer. I hadn't needed my brother to inform me of that. His passion for women, and his many involvements with them over the years, was well documented in the newspaper and magazine articles I'd read for my research before coming here. And in a sense his passion for the female sex reflected somewhat his passion for his art, his work.

Len Wilkinson had told me that Alexander often painted for days on end without cease. And I had noticed myself that the artist had an unusual energy and strength, visible in everything he did.

Although I had pooh-poohed the idea that Alexander was eyeing me speculatively, Donald had, in fact, been accurate. My brother didn't miss a trick. His lively, observant eyes were everywhere, and since he was working alongside me on a daily basis, he saw everything.

But I deemed it wiser to claim ignorance, pretend I was unaware of Alexander's interest in me, and so keep a lid on the situation. But it did worry me at times, because I knew he was more than merely attracted to me. I felt he was actually becoming involved with me, even though I had not encouraged this.

On the other hand, in the past nine days we had spent an enormous amount of time together, in the same environment, working, eating, and relaxing. We had come to know each other extremely well, without there being any sexual intimacy, of course. And we had discovered we were compatible, understood each other, and enjoyed being in each other's company.

There had been a lot of socializing in our free time. Alexander had invited us all to dinner at the villa every night; we also had lunch together during the photography sessions. But even though two ex-wives and two ex-mistresses lived within the compound in their own villas, they had not been included in these social occasions. Len and his wife, Jennifer, were always present, as were Neal Lomax and Kevin Giles, Alexander's devoted assistants who worked with him in the studio. Marcia Dermot, Alexander's secretary, was often there as well, but not always, since she had a three-year-old daughter.

Alexander lived alone at the main house, the white marble villa. It was there that he did his lavish entertaining, although I knew he often worked in the studio long after we had all gone to bed. He was obsessed with his art; it was his life, he told me.

It was Jennifer Wilkinson who had explained that there was no one special in Alexander's life at the moment. However, this had been an offhand remark, not pointed in any way. And I had merely nodded, made no comment whatsoever.

When I arrived at the studio, I paused for a moment and looked up at it. Poised as it was close to the edge of the cliff but within the encircling outside wall, it looked grand and imposing in the early morning sunlight.

Walking on, I pushed open the heavy oak door and went inside, and, as I usually did, I remained standing in the doorway, admiring this extraordinary interior.

The studio itself was one vast room with a wall of glass that soared to the ceiling and overlooked the sea. This glass wall moved up onto the ceiling to form a wide skylight, which cut through the roof at one end to allow more light to enter the space.

At another end, a raised platform, a kind of stage, was used to display the finished paintings, some of which were huge. Behind this stage there was a fully equipped kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom where Alexander frequently slept when he was working at night.

A second platform was built at the opposite side of the studio. Here light flooded in through the skylight as well as the wall of glass; Alexander painted both day and night on this platform, and overhead ceiling spots flooded the area with artificial light after dark.

I hesitated in the doorway. There was no sign of Alexander, and the studio was quiet. “Hello! Hello!” I called and walked into the room, glancing around.

“Is that you, Val?” Alexander's voice boomed out, and he suddenly appeared from behind the stage. His face was covered in shaving soap and he was holding a razor. Bare-chested, he wore a pair of white cotton slacks badly smeared with paint, and tennis shoes that were equally as messy.

“Who else but little old me,” I said, laughing. “Good morning, Alexander, I hope I'm not too early.”

He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “No. Anyway, you could never be too early for me. Give me a minute and I'll be right with you. They've already brought breakfast over from the kitchens.”

“I'll wait for you on the terrace,” I said as he disappeared.

I went outside; the terrace was on the far side of the studio, quiet, secluded, and hidden from the rest of the buildings in the compound. It overlooked the sea, and there was a table with a sun umbrella attached, as well as four chairs. I sat down at the table to wait, and within a couple of minutes Alexander came out carrying a large wooden tray. He was now properly dressed in white cotton slacks, pristine tennis shoes, and a white Mexican shirt.

II

“I've been working,” he said, putting the tray down on the table.

“All night?” I asked, looking up at him.

He shook his head. “No, since dawn. I wanted to finish something—something special, I think. I'll show it to you later.”

He served the coffee and motioned to the basket filled with thick slices of home-baked bread and pound cake, and slices of toast.

I shook my head. “I'm not hungry,” I murmured, and sipped my coffee.

Alexander also drank his coffee, then buttered a piece of toast and munched on it. And we sat together in a compatible silence for a short while.

Finally I said, “Would it be all right if we started shooting in the studio this morning? I mean, could I do the first shots of you with the finished paintings?”

“Yes, if you wish, Val.” His green eyes rested on me for a moment before he said, “I'd like to keep the pictures of me to a minimum, Val, if that's all right with you?”

I nodded. “Okay, but I would like to get a couple of shots of you painting, as well as standing next to the ones you've completed. And also—” I stopped, hesitating, suddenly wary of continuing.

“You're not going to ask me to pose with my former wives and mistresses, are you?”

I was silent.

“I know my ex-wives are somewhat reluctant to be photographed, and certainly Danielle and Carole are extremely shy. They too prefer not to be featured in the story.”

“Well,” I began, and stopped.

“Well, what?” he asked softly.

“I guess I can understand that, but—” I paused again and stared at him. “I guess I thought it would add a human touch to the story.”

He smiled at me, and very knowingly so. “Listen, Val, I've led, still lead, a somewhat unconventional life. Many people think I'm crazy to have everyone living here at the compound, but it's none of their business, and I consider it best for the ladies and my small children. They are all safe, protected, well looked after, and taken care of all the time. They can come to no harm here. But I am not too certain about advertising my lifestyle to the world.”

“I realize that, Alexander, but I thought that perhaps a photo of you with the children?” I raised a brow.

He shook his head. “Oh, no, I don't think so. The world is full of crazies, you know that, and I don't want to expose my children to the possibility of kidnapping.”

“But they live here with you in this highly protected compound.”

“True.” He sighed, gave me a long, penetrating look, and finished, “Let me think about it.”

A silence fell between us and I did not want to break it. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts and rethink some of the photographs I'd planned on taking. I glanced away, stared up at the sky. And then I stretched slightly, turned my face to the sun, and closed my eyes for a few minutes.

At last I sat up straighter in the chair and turned to Alexander. “I'm sorry if I've asked too much, but the photographs are so important, and the feature is going to be appearing worldwide.”

“Oh, I know, and I want you to do the pictures, Val, but I prefer to keep my private life out of this shoot.”

“I understand,” I responded, realizing I was not going to win this one, and I didn't want to antagonize him by pressing further.

Alexander suddenly said, “I've enjoyed having you here. You like Hacienda Rosita, don't you?”

“I certainly do!” I exclaimed, my enthusiasm apparent. “It's beautiful, peaceful . . . a paradise. And there aren't many of those left in this world.”

“Why don't you stay on a bit longer?”

“I wish I could, but I've got to leave at the end of the week. Got to get the pictures back to Paris.”

“If that's the only reason you have to go, I can easily send Neal. He'd love a trip to Paris.”

I stared at him speechlessly.

He said, “I like you, Val. When I first set eyes on you, I knew you'd do me good.”

Still I didn't say anything. I just looked at him, and I wondered what he would say next.

“We've had some good talks this past week, Val,” Alexander said in his mellifluous voice. “I've never opened up to anyone the way I have with you, at least not since I was an art student in Leeds.” He offered me a warm smile. “And you know all about those days now, about my whole life, about me and what makes me tick. And I know you, and what you're all about, and that's quite unique.”

“I feel the same way, Alexander. You're a wonderful listener. . . .” I began to laugh. “You're the possessor of all my secrets. I think I've really bent your ear, talking so much.”

“I did my portion of talking too, and I'm glad you stayed up late with me, sharing so many things. It's not often that happens to me these days.”

“I think we've become truly good friends, don't you?”

“I hope we have.” He leaned forward and pinned his eyes on me. “Stay a bit longer, Val. You've brought something special here.”

“I'll think about it,” I replied, not knowing how to answer him. It was true, we had confided a great deal in each other. We'd talked about our childhoods, our lives, and those we had loved. We had become exceptionally close, although that wasn't so surprising under the circumstances. We had been thrown together, and we had clicked.

III

It was a long day.

I shot endless film of Alexander in the studio and with his two assistants. We worked well together, and it was a smooth shoot, with Donald and Alexis backing me up. They were efficient yet relaxed about things, made no fuss.

We all had lunch together on the terrace and then went on working until early evening. Finally we packed it in at seven. I was tired, but Alexander was still full of energy and vitality. He insisted on cocktails on his terrace at the villa, a swim in the pool before supper, and after we had eaten we sat and watched a movie in his screening room, eating popcorn and laughing at the comedy he had chosen.

At midnight I said, “I'm on my last legs, I've got to go to bed.” I got up and started to leave the screening room with the others.

He nodded, and I knew he wanted to walk me back to the villa. But Donald and Alexis sidled up to me, and that was that.

When we got back to the guest villa there was a fax from Mike. In it he told me that Françoise was finally back in Paris and that all was well. He had not mentioned Jake, and so I assumed that he was still alive and in Kosovo.

Later I fell asleep easily, because I was so exhausted. And I had a dreamless sleep for once, awakened refreshed and rested the next morning.