Where You Belong (4 page)

V

When Jake finally let go of me, he gave me an odd little smile that seemed a bit self-conscious to me. Then he abruptly swung around and closed the front door.

For a moment I believed that he, too, was startled by the fervor and length of his embrace, and then I changed my mind. He was my best friend and we had been close for years, so why wouldn't he hug me excessively when he'd just returned from a trip? And especially under the circumstances.

“It's not raining,” I murmured.

“No, it's not,” he answered, turning to look at me. “The storm seems to have blown away before it got started.”

I nodded and headed for the kitchen to open a bottle of his favorite Pouilly-Fuissé.

Jake followed me.

“I'll do that,” he said when I took the bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. He opened a drawer where he knew I kept the bar utensils and found a corkscrew. While he deftly pulled the cork, I took two wineglasses out of the cupboard and set them on the counter next to him, and a second later he was pouring wine for us.

He handed me a glass, and I said, “I've got good news, Jake. Mike heard from Ajet's brother. Qemal told him Ajet is safe and well in Macedonia.”

“Hey, that's great!” he exclaimed, and clinked his glass to mine. “Here's to Ajet. Thank God he made it okay.”

I nodded. “To Ajet.”

We took our drinks into the living room, where Jake lowered himself into a chair near the fireplace and I sat down in the corner of the sofa, as I always did.

“What's the full story?” Jake asked, peering across at me over the rim of his glass.

After I told him the whole story, I settled back, studying Jake, thinking how well he looked after a week's rest in the South. He'd asked me to go with him to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, but I'd declined, and I suddenly wondered if that might have been a mistake on my part. A vacation would have obviously done me good. His few days in the sun had given him a golden tan, turned his streaky hair more blond than ever, and he was in glowing health. Tonight he was wearing a blue cotton shirt with his gray sport jacket and slacks, and his eyes looked more vividly blue than ever.

“You're staring at me,” he said. “What's wrong?” That was Jake, who was always questioning me about everything in my life. It had been that way since we'd first met in Beirut.

“Nothing's wrong,” I replied at last. “It's just that you look in such great shape, I think I ought to have accepted your invitation.”

“Yes, you should have,” he quickly replied. He spoke softly enough, but I detected a certain undertone of vehemence in his voice. He took a swallow of white wine and then sat nursing his drink, staring down into the glass, his face thoughtful.

When he looked up at me, he said, “You needed a holiday, and even though you think you look great, you don't really. The makeup doesn't deceive me. And you've lost weight.”

So much for my efforts with the cosmetic pots, I thought, and said, “Black makes me look thin.”

“It's me you're talking to,” he answered. “I know you better than everyone, even better than you know yourself.” He put the glass down on the coffee table and seemed about to get up but suddenly leaned back against the rose-colored-linen cushions and closed his eyes.

After a couple of minutes, I ventured to ask, “Are you feeling all right, Jake?”

Opening his eyes, he said, “Yep. But I worry about you, Val.”

“Oh, please don't,” I said. “I'm fine. I haven't lost a pound,” I lied. “Nothing. Nada. Zilch.”

He shook his head. “Has Mike said anything about your going back to work?”

“He said I was welcome back anytime I felt like coming in, but to take my time, that it was my call.”

“The sooner you get back to the agency, the better, in my opinion. You need to be busy, occupied, Val, not walking around the streets of Paris every day and sitting here alone in the apartment afterward. I know you're suffering. I am too. Tony was my best buddy, but we've got to go on, that's what he would want.”

“I'm trying hard, I really am, Jake. And the walking helps. I'm not sure why, but it does.”

“You're less alone when you're out there in the streets. They make you feel more alive because they're full of life, people, traffic, noise, activity. The streets are the world. Did I ever tell you about John Steinbeck and what he did when he heard that Robert Capa had been killed in Indochina?”

I frowned. I wasn't certain whether he'd told me or not, and yet at the back of my mind I thought that perhaps he had. Or was it Tony who had told me? Certainly we all revered Capa, the greatest war photographer who had ever lived. I said, “I'm not sure, you might have. But tell me again.”

“Capa was killed in 1954, on May twenty-fifth, actually. And of course within hours, news of his death spread around the world. Steinbeck, who was a good friend of Capa's, was in Paris when he heard. He was so shaken up, he went out and walked the streets for fourteen hours straight. I guess he just couldn't believe it. And he couldn't sit still. He had to be on the move. And you're doing something very similar, but you're doing it every day, Val.”

“No, I'm not, I don't walk the streets for fourteen hours!”

Jake sighed and said nothing, just gave me one of those penetrating looks of his that always made me reexamine everything I said to him. I shrugged, and finally admitted, “Okay, you're right, I guess I am doing the same thing. And you did tell me the story. It was on one of those days when you were ticked off with Tony because you thought he was too reckless. You were comparing him to Capa.”

“No, I wasn't.” Jake sat up straighter and gave me a hard stare. “Capa wasn't reckless in the way that Tony was. Those who knew Capa always said he was very cautious. Don't forget, he was an expert when it came to taking calculated risks. When he went to Indochina, it was his fifth war, and only a photojournalist of his great experience would know how to properly calculate when something was truly dangerous or not. From what I know about him, he measured the risks, especially when he had to walk across exposed areas, and he was always cautious, did not take risks unnecessarily. But if he saw the possibility of a great photograph and there was a calculated risk, then he took the risk. Tony just rushed in without—” He cut himself off and took a swallow of his wine, obviously feeling disloyal.

“Without thinking,” I finished for him, stood up, and headed toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the bottle of wine,” I answered. When I came back, I filled his goblet, and then mine, and put the bottle down on the glass coffee table. “What about the memorial service?” I said, getting right to the heart of the matter. “Do you know when it is?”

“Next week. On Tuesday.”

“I see. Where's it being held?”

“At the Brompton Oratory at eleven o'clock.”

I was silent, looked down at the drink in my hands.

Jake said, “I've booked us in at the Milestone in Kensington. I know you like that hotel.”

I nodded. He had surprised me with the information about the memorial. Events seemed to be moving more quickly than I'd anticipated, and I wasn't prepared at all. Only four days away. And then I'd be sitting there among all of his friends and colleagues, many of them my colleagues, in fact, and listening to the world talk about the man I was still grieving. I was suddenly appalled at the idea, and I sat back jerkily.

Jake was telling me something else, and I blinked and tried to concentrate on his words. He was saying, “I've spoken to Clee Donovan, and he's definitely going to be there, and I've left messages for the Turnley brothers. I know they'll come too if they're able.”

I gazed at him blankly. I was feeling overwhelmed, and the prospect of going to London frightened me, filled me with tension and anxiety.

“What's wrong?” Jake asked.

I swallowed. “I'm . . . dreading it. There'll be so many people there,” I said.

Jake made no response for a split second, and then he said, “I know what you mean, but let's be glad and proud that so many people want to celebrate Tony's life. Because that's what a memorial is, Val, a celebration that the person was ever alive. We are showing our gratitude that Tony was born and was among us for as long as he was.”

“Yes.”

He got up and came and sat next to me on the sofa, took hold of my hand in the most loving way. “I know it's tough . . . but he's dead, Val, and you've got to accept that because—”

“I do,” I cut in, my voice rising slightly.

“You've got to get yourself busy, start working. You can't just . . . drift like this.”

I stared at him. There he was, being bossy again in that particular very macho way of his, and before I could stop myself, I exclaimed, “You've not done very much yourself since we came back from Belgrade.” And I could have bitten my tongue off as soon as these dreadful words left my mouth; I felt the flush of embarrassment rising from my neck to flood my face.

“I wish I had been able to work, but my leg's been pretty bad, and it's taken longer to heal than I expected.”

I was furious with myself. “I'm sorry, Jake, I shouldn't have said that. I know your injuries were more severe than mine. I'm so thoughtless.”

“No, you're not, and, listen, let's make a pact right now. To help each other go forward from where we are tonight, to get ourselves moving. Let's get started again, Val, let's pick up our cameras and get on with the job.”

“I don't think I could go back to Kosovo.”

“God, I wasn't meaning that! I don't want to go there either, but there are other things we can cover as well as wars.”

“But we're best known for doing that,” I reminded him.

“We can pick and choose our assignments, Val darling.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

Jake's eyes changed, turned darker blue, became reflective, and after a moment he adroitly changed the subject, remarked, “I've booked us on a plane to London on Monday night, okay?”

I simply nodded. Reaching for my glass, I took a sip of wine, then put the glass down and exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, “Tell me about your trip to the South of France.”

“It was really great, Val, I wish you'd been with me—” Jake stopped and glanced at the phone as it started to ring.

I extracted my hand from his, got up, and went to the small desk on which it stood. “Hullo?”

VI

To my utter amazement, it was my brother, Donald, calling from New York, and I sat down heavily. I was flummoxed at hearing his voice, although after we'd exchanged greetings, I quickly pulled myself together and listened to what he had to say. Donald had always been tricky; deviousness was second nature to him.

Once he had finished his long speech, I said, “I just can't get away right now. I have to go to London next week, to a memorial service for a colleague, and I've also got loads of assignments stacking up.”

I listened again as patiently as possible, and once more I said, “I'm sorry, I can't make the trip at this time. And listen, I really can't stay on the phone, I have guests and I've got to go. Thanks for calling.” In his typical selfish fashion, determined to get all his points across, Donald went on blabbering at me, and short of banging the receiver down rudely, I had no option but to hear him out. When he finally paused for breath, I saw my opportunity and jumped in, repeated that I could not leave Europe under any circumstances for the time being. After saying a quick good-bye, I hung up.

Returning to the sofa, I sat down and said, “What a nerve! I can't believe he called me!”

“Who? And what did he call you about to get you so heated up?”

I turned toward Jake and explained. “It was my brother, Donald, calling from New York. To tell me my mother's not well. I should say his mother, because she's never been a mother to me. He wanted me to fly to New York. What cheek!”

“What's wrong with her? Is she very sick?”

I saw the frown, the baffled, almost confused look in his eyes, and I instantly realized that he'd never truly understood the relationship I'd had with my mother. But then, how could he understand when I couldn't either. From what Jake had told me about himself during the years we'd known each other, he came from a marvelously warm, loving, close-knit Jewish family, and he had been raised with a lot of love, understanding, and tremendous support from his parents, grandparents, and sisters. Whereas I'd been an orphan within the bosom of the Denning family. If it hadn't been for my father's parents, and Grandfather in particular, I would have withered away and died a young death from emotional deprivation. I asked myself then why I even thought in terms of having a relationship with Mother, because there had never been a relationship between us.

Iceberg Aggie, my grandfather had called her, and he had often wondered out loud to me what his son, my father, had ever seen in her. She had been very beautiful, of course. Still was, in all probability, although I hadn't seen her for years, not since my Beirut days.

Cutting into my thoughts, Jake asked me again, “Is your mother very ill, Val?”

“Donald didn't really explain. All he said was that she wasn't well and that she had told him she wanted to see me. He was relaying the message for her. But it can't be anything serious, or he would have told me. Donald's her pet, Jake, and very much under her thumb. Still, he never fools around with the truth when it comes to her well-being, or anything to do with her. He'd definitely have told me if there were real problems, I've no doubts about that.”

“Maybe she wants to make amends,” Jake suggested, and raised a brow as he added, “A rapprochement perhaps?”

I shook my head vehemently. “No way. She hasn't given a damn about me for thirty-one years. And I'm not going to New York.”

“You could phone her.”

“There's nothing to say, Jake. I told you about her years ago.” I bit my lip and shook my head slowly. “I can't feel anything for a woman who has never felt anything for me.”

Jake did not respond, and a long silence fell between us. But at last he said quietly and with some compassion, “Jesus, Val, I've never been able to understand her attitude toward you. It seems so unnatural for a mother not to love her child. I mean, what could she possibly have had against a newborn baby?”

“Beats me,” I answered, and lifted my shoulders in a light shrug. “My Denning grandparents could never fathom it either, and as far as my mother's mother was concerned, I really didn't know her very well. My grandmother Violet Scott was an enigma to me, and she avoided me.” I laughed harshly. “I used to think I was illegitimate when I was younger, and that my mother had become pregnant by another man before she married my father. But the dates were all wrong, they didn't jell, because she'd been married to my father for over a year when I was born.”

“Maybe she slept with somebody else after she married your father,” Jake suggested.

“I've thought of that as well, but I look too much like my grandmother Cecelia Denning when she was my age. Grandfather always commented on it.”

I jumped up, opened the bottom desk drawer, and took out a cardboard box. Carrying it over to the sofa, I handed it to Jake. “Take a look at these,” I said as I sat down next to him again.

He did so, staring for a few minutes at the old photographs of my grandmother that he had removed from the box. “Yes, you're a Denning all right, and a dead ringer for Cecelia. If it weren't for her old-fashioned clothes, she could be you as you are today.” He shuffled through the other photographs in the box and chuckled. “I took this one!” he cried, waving a picture of me at me.

“Hey, let me see that!”

Still laughing, he handed it to me. I couldn't help smiling myself as I stared back at my own image. There I was in all my glory, standing outside the Commodore Hotel in Beirut, which is where I'd first set eyes on Jake. I was wearing my safari jacket and pants, and a collection of assorted cameras were slung haphazardly around my neck. It was obvious from my solemn expression that I took myself very seriously indeed. I was looking too self-important for words, and I gave a mock shudder. “I must have really fancied myself, but God, how awful I looked in those days.”

“No, you were the most gorgeous thing on two legs I'd ever seen!” he exclaimed, and then stopped with suddenness; a startled expression crossed his face, as if he had surprised himself with his words. Clearing his throat, Jake returned to the conversation about my mother when he said, “It is very odd, Val, the way your mother has always treated you. With all of your accomplishments, she should be proud of you.”

I sighed and made a small moue with my mouth. “It's a mystery. And one I have no intention of solving. I just can't be bothered. Now, how about taking me to dinner?”