Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (32 page)

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

T
he door of Sebastian's upstairs study was ajar. I pushed it open and went in, glad to escape the crowd downstairs and wanting to recoup after my little skirmish with Luciana.

How hateful she was. She had not changed; when we were growing up she forever targeted me, tried to make my life miserable. Seemingly she still had that need.

Moving across the floor, I went to one of the windows, parted the lace curtains, stood looking out at the back gardens and the stables beyond. For a split second, in a flash of memory, I saw us out there in the stable yard—Jack, Luciana, and me.

We were all astride our horses, waiting for Sebastian, who was mounting his gelding. Without warning, my horse Firebrand had bolted, almost throwing me, and would have done so if I had not managed to hang on tenaciously. Sebastian had galloped after me and had helped me to reign in the horse.

Only later that day did Jack tell me that Luciana, then eight years old, had been responsible. He had seen her giving Firebrand several hard prods with her riding crop, which had caused my horse to take off like lightning. I might easily have been killed.

Even though we were both shocked that she had done such a wicked and dangerous thing and should be punished for it, we had not told Sebastian. We did not dare. He would have exploded, been harsh with her. It had been our secret, one of many we shared as children. Jack and I had been best friends, and he had never failed to stand up for me, or take my side. He too had suffered at Luciana's hands and, in consequence, he was forever wary of her.

Long ago I had come to understand that she had many problems when it came to her father, the chief ones being jealousy and extreme possessiveness. Even in death. That was quite apparent to me. Very simply, she had not wanted me to be present today. If the truth be known, she had probably not wanted Jack there either. Nor her husband.

Continuing to stare out of the window, I could not help thinking how sad and lifeless the stable yard looked. Once it had been full of bustle with horses, dogs, grooms, stable boys, and children milling around. But for years now it had been deserted.

After my mother died in 1976, Sebastian's passion for horses had lessened. A year later he had started to sell them off, and he had given away quite a number. By the time we were married his bloodstock had dwindled down to almost nothing, and the few horses he kept were for us to ride when we went to the farm at weekends.

Also around this time Sebastian's involvement with his charity work had increased to the point where it occupied him constantly He had his hands full with Locke Industries and the foundation; we were traveling more and more, and doing good, helping others, had become his main passion.

Aldred, his major domo of many years, died in 1981. After that everything changed at the farm. By the time we were divorced, all of the horses had finally gone. What was once a thriving horse farm of some repute had become just another charming old farmhouse sitting in the midst of hundreds of magnificent acres.

In the last few years Mrs. Crane had been in charge, acting as housekeeper when Sebastian was in residence, caretaker in his absence. By the time she took over, all of the old outdoor staff had left, except for Harry Blakely, the aborist who looked after the trees. The gardens were tended by a team of part-time gardeners who came from a local nursery to keep them properly maintained.

Turning away from the window I thought: Nothing ever remains the same, everything changes. But then as I stood regarding the study I had to amend this thought slightly.

The room was exactly the same as it had been the day I finished decorating it eleven years ago. Nothing had changed here. Crimson-glazed walls, dark green plaid carpet, and English antiques that I had culled from different rooms in the farm still made the right statement, in my opinion. Sebastian must have thought the same thing, since he had left everything intact.

I walked through into the adjoining room, which had once been mine, and discovered that the little sitting room looked the way it had in my day A melange of blues played against bright yellow walls, and the pieces of black-lacquered Chinoiserie furniture remained where I had placed them so long ago.

Curiosity truly getting the better of me, I wandered into the master bedroom. I was not in the least bit surprised to see that this, too, was unchanged. Shades of
Rebecca,
I muttered to myself, thinking of the old movie and wondered what Sebastian's last wife had had to say about my decorating skills.

If I remembered correctly, Betsy Bethune had not spent much time at Laurel Creek Farm. She was a famous concert pianist and was usually performing on a stage in some foreign capital, while Sebastian had been thousands of miles away in some Third World country. Which was why, in the end, they had divorced. They never saw each other, were never together, and Sebastian had told me at the time that it was pointless to continue the marriage.

I noticed a photograph of me in a silver frame, standing on an antique French chest of drawers between two windows. I went over, picked it up, and looked at it.

It was an enlargement of a snap he had taken on our honeymoon in Africa. There I was, in my safari gear and wide-brimmed bush hat, smiling at the camera. Sebastian had written across the bottom:
My darling Vivi at the foot of Kilimanjaro.

I continued to gaze at it for a moment, and then I placed it back on the chest, surprised but also touched that he had kept it there for all these years.

“You can have that. If you want,” Jack said, making me jump.

I swung around. “My God, don't creep up like that! You gave me such a start,” I exclaimed.

He strolled into the bedroom, joined me in front of the chest. Lifting the photograph, he studied it for a moment, then handed it to me. “Take it. It's yours.”

“Thank you. That's so nice of you, but are you sure?”

He nodded. “I'd keep it myself. But I have better pictures of you. And Luciana won't want it.” As he spoke his mouth twitched, and he tried to suppress a laugh. He was unsuccessful and began to chuckle.

I laughed with him. “She came at me like a spitfire a few minutes ago.”

“I noticed her angry stance. What was it all about?”

“She accused me of playing the grieving widow.”

Jack shook his head slowly, looking bemused. “She's off the wall. Pay no attention to her.”

“I don't. But she did make me terribly angry. I wanted to slap her. That's why I came upstairs, in order to get a hold of myself.”

“Thought as much. That's why I came after you.” He peered at me, looking concerned in the same way he had years ago. Clearing his throat, he added, “Are you okay, kid?”

“I'm all right, really. It takes more than Luciana to do me in, as you well know. I suppose I am a bit vulnerable, though. And I was absolutely furious the way she tried to make a scene, today of all days. She's as maddening as she ever was.”

“You're right about that.” Jack opened the top drawer of the chest. “There's another reason I followed you. Wanted to give you some of his stuff. It's in here. Choose anything.”

Taken by surprise I said nothing. Returning the photograph to its place, I looked in the drawer with him.

“It's all mine. He left it to me.” Jack took out a small black velvet case, showed me a pair of ruby cufflinks. “Would you like these?”

I shook my head. “But thanks anyway. However there is something I'd love to have . . .”

“Anything, Viv.”

“His sapphire evening studs . . . if you don't want them . . .” I looked at him swiftly. “I'd understand if you didn't want to part with them.”

“I don't want them.” Jack began to open more of the small velvet boxes, finally found the studs, and handed them to me. “They're yours. There's a pair of cufflinks. Somewhere. They match. Ah, here they are.”

“They're beautiful, thank you, Jack. It's so thoughtful of you to give me a few mementos in this way.”

“I told you, take whatever you want. That goes for the farm too. It belongs to me now. Do you want his desk? Any furniture you had? When you were married?”

“No, no, and thanks again. It's lovely of you to offer, but the things you've given me are enough, and they really are so very meaningful to me.”

“Change your mind, let me know.”

We walked out of the bedroom through the main door, which led directly onto the upper landing. As we headed along the hall toward the staircase I paused, touched Jack's arm. “I suppose you haven't heard anything from the police, have you? About the autopsy, I mean?”

“You'd be the first to know.”

“I don't understand it, Jack. Why is it taking so long to get the report?”

“The Chief Medical Examiner wants to make every possible test. To be absolutely sure. That's why he's taking his time. Nothing unusual. It's not even a week, Viv. Don't forget that.”

“Believe me, Jack, I haven't,” I said.

 

The following Wednesday morning, the memorial service for Sebastian was held at the Church of St. John the Divine in Manhattan. The whole world came—statesmen, senators, representatives of foreign governments, and all those who had personally known and loved him or had admired him from afar.

Luciana had done her work well. The church was filled with flowers; the eulogies were moving, touched me deeply. Beautiful things were said about this man who had done so much for the world. I sat with Jack, Luciana, and her husband Gerald, who had flown in from London.

The moment the service was over, I took a cab to Kennedy Airport and caught the night plane to France.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

W
henever I returned to Provence I always felt a great sense of anticipation and excitement, and today was no exception. I could barely contain myself as I sat in the back of the chauffeur-driven car, watching the landscape slide by the windows.

We were traveling from Marseilles up through the Bouches du-Rhône, heading for Lourmarin in the Vaucluse, and
Vieux Moulin.
I could hardly wait to get there.

I had arrived in Paris from New York this morning, and taken a flight to Marseilles, where the driver from the car company I used was waiting for me at the airport.

His name was Michel, and I had known him for several years. Michel was a pleasant, friendly, and accommodating Provençal who was extremely well informed about the whole area. He could be relied upon to supply accurate information about local towns, villages, ancient chateaux and churches, antique shops, stores, and restaurants, although he only volunteered the information when asked. This was one of the reasons I liked him as a driver; he was never overly familiar or chatty, and therefore not in the least bit intrusive. I preferred to be quiet, to relax and think when I was being driven. I couldn't abide a constant stream of conversation.

I glanced out of the car window, thinking how extraordinary the landscape looked on this sunny and mild October afternoon. It seemed to be aglow in the legendary light of Provence that dazzles the year long, and which has captivated artists for centuries.

So many painters have come here to paint, attracted by this most spectacular light and the vibrant colors of the earth . . . terra-cotta running into burnt sienna and a mixture of browns, russets bleeding into gold, apricot and peach, bright marigolds, acid yellows, and every shade of green. These were the hues that came startlingly alive under the purest of blue skies.

Vincent van Gogh had splashed these brilliant colors across his canvases, thickly layered and richly textured. And in so doing he had created the first brightly colored paintings of the nineteenth century and at the same time immortalized the landscape of Provence and himself.

Sebastian had been an avid collector of Impressionist art at one point in his life. He had loved van Gogh's work, had owned a number of his paintings; now they would belong to Jack or Luciana. I could not help wondering to whom he had left them in his will, and then decided it would surely be Jack who would inherit them.

Michel was heading farther inland, and it was not long before we were skirting the town of Aix-en-Provence, which I knew well after years of spending vacations at the Château d'Cose. No doubt Jack would be arriving there next week; I suddenly realized I had no desire to see him. I had had enough of him for the time being.

The roads were virtually empty this afternoon and we were making good time. We were soon leaving the Bouches-du-Rhone behind and driving into the Vaucluse. This was the department of Provence I loved the most, and where I have lived, off and on, for the past fourteen years with both of my husbands.

One of the things which appealed to me about it was the diversity of its terrain. Fruit orchards, vineyards, and olive groves gave way to flat fields, rolling hills, and the mountain ranges of the Lubéron. Where I lived, just outside Lourmarin, the countryside was wonderfully colorful for the whole year. This was largely due to the enormous variety of trees, wild-flowers, and fruit that flourished and benefited from the longest growing season in France.

Of course it had other attractions as well. The village was charming and picturesque and was known as the capital of the Lubéron. It was also considered to be a sort of cultural capital for the Vaucluse. Many painters, musicians, and writers like myself lived in the village and the surrounding area, and it was once the home of the great French writer Albert Camus, who is buried there. Music festivals, concerts, and art exhibitions were the norm the entire year.

As we drew closer to Lourmarin I opened the car window. The warm, sweet air wafted in, carrying with it the mingled scents of wildflowers, rosemary, fruit, lavender, and pine, familiar smells I loved and that always heralded home for me.

We were moving through open, pastoral countryside now, land filled with bountiful orchards and vines, olive groves, and my own lavender fields stretching almost all the way to the mill.

“Voila! Regardez, Madame Trent!” Michel suddenly exclaimed, breaking the silence.

As he spoke he slowed the car and just ahead of us, silhouetted in a jagged line against the pale blue sky, was the little medieval village perched high on top of the hill.

“It's good to be home, Michel,” I said, my excitement increasing as he turned off the narrow dirt road we had been traveling and headed up the long driveway leading to
Vieux Moulin.
Stately cypress trees, elongated, dark-green sentinels, flanked the drive on each side all the way to the paved courtyard that fronted the house.

The late afternoon sunlight was dappling the ancient stones of the sixteenth-century mill, and they looked as if they had been touched here and there with brushstrokes of gold. The many windows sparkled in the warm light, and the courtyard was filled with huge olive jars planted with vivid flowering plants that were cheerful and welcoming.

The big oak door stood wide open, and as we drew to a standstill in the courtyard, Phyllis and Alain Debrulle, the couple who worked for me, came rushing out.

Phyl, a transplanted Englishwoman married to a Provençal, gave me a warm smile and a hug, and said, “Welcome home, Mrs. Trent.”

“Hello Phyl, and you can't possibly know how truly glad I am to be here.”

“Oh, but I think I can,” she replied.

Alain shook my hand, smiled broadly, and told me I had been missed, then he turned to Michel, who was taking my luggage out of the trunk, and spoke to him in rapid French.

“Ah oui, bien sûr,” Michel said. “Merci beaucoup.” Looking at me, he added, “Alain invite me to the kitchen for a coffee.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “Come and see me before you leave, Michel.”

“Oui, Madame. Merci.”

 

I hardly had a chance to catch my breath before the phone started ringing. It occurred to me that the whole of Lourmarin must know I had returned from New York. Clearly the village had its own kind of tribal drums.

When I picked up the receiver for the umpteenth time in the space of ten minutes and said “Oui?” rather sharply, I discovered it was my close friend Marie-Laure on the line.

“I'm just calling to say a quick hello, Vivienne,” she explained and then asked worriedly, “But is there something wrong?”

“No, of course not. Why?”

“You sound . . . how shall I put it . . . a bit rattled.”

“I'm all right, really I am.”

“You had a good journey, I hope.”

“Yes, it was easy, Marie-Laure, after all these years I guess I've got it down pat. But can you believe it, the whole town seems to know I've arrived . . . I've already had a number of phone calls. I must be the big event of the day.”

I heard the laughter and warmth in her voice as she said, “Yes, I think you are, chérie. It was Madame Creteau who told me, when I was at the boulangerie early this morning. She said Phyl had told her you were due around five o'clock this afternoon. I hope I am not calling at a bad time.”

“No, no, it's lovely to hear your voice. Still, I must admit the village tomtoms never fail to surprise me. They're the equivalent of bush telegraph in darkest Africa.”

“That's a unique way of describing it, yes,” she exclaimed, laughing. “But you know how the locals love to gossip, to be into everybody's business, they just can't help it. They mean no harm. I'm glad you're back. I've really missed you.”

“I've missed you too, Marie-Laure. How's Alexandre? And the girls?”

“We are all well, Vivienne.” There was a moment's hesitation on her part, and then she said in a low, sympathetic tone, “I want to tell you again how sorry I am about Sebastian. It is such a loss for you. I do hope you are not suffering too much.”

“I've been sad, of course, that's only natural. And in a way, I feel as if a door has been suddenly slammed on a period of my life that was very special to me,” I murmured, sitting down on a nearby chair, glad to talk with her for a few minutes. “As you know, we didn't see that much of each other lately, because he was traveling constantly, but we kept in touch by phone. Obviously his death has been a great shock to me. It was something I never expected, Marie-Laure.”

“How could you? He wasn't old, only in his fifties, and he always appeared to be so fit to me.”

“Yes he was, and I think I'll feel much better when I know
how
he died. Unfortunately, Jack hasn't had the autopsy report from the police yet.”

“Really.
I thought you'd know everything by now,” she said, sounding surprised. Then she went on rapidly, “There's been nothing more in the newspapers here. A few days ago they were filled with stories. The French press made his death sound most suspicious.”

“So did the New York papers. But what can you do. . . . Anyway, to be honest the way he died
is
a bit of a mystery I was glad to finally get away it was all so upsetting. Of course, I had to stay for the memorial service, it was very important to me that I attend.”

“How did it go?”

“Very well. It was held yesterday, and the church was packed. A lot of dignitaries were there from our government and from foreign governments as well. And there were delegates from the UN, heads of charities, people from all over the world actually. The famous and the not-so-famous. It was very gratifying to me that so many people came to pay their last respects. But I crept away once it was over, picked up my luggage, and went straight to Kennedy. I couldn't wait to get back to my normal life.”

“And I can't wait to see you. Can you come to dinner on Saturday night? It's just us, just the family. Perhaps you'd like to bring Kit?”

“Thanks, I'd love to come and I'll ask him later. I know he's been painting furiously, trying to finish the last big canvas for his show next month. I haven't called him yet. I just haven't had a chance,” I explained.

“You'll come by yourself if he's not available, but I'm certain he will be. Oh yes, I'm very sure of that,” Marie-Laure said knowingly, always the incurable romantic. “I had better go, Vivienne. I'm in the middle of paperwork for the antique show next weekend.”

“And I must unpack. See you on Saturday, darling. Oh, about what time?”

“Around seven. Ciao.”

“Bye, Marie-Laure.”

We hung up and I went in search of Phyl.

 

Leaving my bedroom in one of the new wings, I walked along the hallway which linked this new part to the original structure. The latter was built entirely of large stones, ranging in color from soft sand and golden tones to various pale pinks and deep grays and all were exposed in the sixteenth-century manner.

Dating back to 1567, or thereabouts, the nucleus of the mill was a central area composed of four huge rooms that we had turned into the main living quarters. Virtually undamaged when Sebastian bought the mill for me, the interior rooms only needed repairs to their walls and ceilings. These were the rooms where the olives used to be pressed between gargantuan circular stones, and they were impressive. Immense vaults, several of which were thirty feet high, separated these massive spaces from each other and added to the grandeur.

A number of smaller rooms, forming the outer perimeter of the original structure, were in the worst tumbledown state when we took possession of the property. All needed to be rebuilt; this we did, turning them into a series of storage rooms, pantries, and a laundry.

Throughout the mill we laid down new tile floors, put in many additional windows, doors, and extra beams to reinforce the ceilings. Sebastian had insisted we use old wood and stones for our remodeling, either culled from the mill's rubble or bought from local builders; we also selected only those tiles and other materials that had an aged look to them. It was impossible to distinguish the new from the old, and the finished effect was awe-inspiring in so many different ways, but mostly because the infrastructure looked as if it had been there forever.

The hallway led down three steps into the kitchen, which was the crux of the central area of the mill and part of an open floor plan. The dining and living rooms flowed off it, as did the library Although it was full of the most up-to-date appliances, it had great warmth and a rustic, country charm with its ceiling beams, exposed stone walls, and terra-cotta floor. Adding to the cheerful Provençal mood were the many baskets, copper pots and pans, dried herbs, sausages, and cheeses hanging from the beams.

An enormous stone fireplace was the focal point, its generous hearth holding a giant-sized basket of logs, polished-brass fire tools, and tall wrought-iron candlesticks, almost five feet high, topped with plump wax candles.

An old French farm table surrounded by wooden-backed chairs stood in front of the fireplace, and I went and sat down at it.

Phyl was standing near the stove and she glanced at me as I did so. “A watched pot never boils,” she said, nodding at the kettle on the stove. “I'm making you a cup of tea. I was going to bring it to you in the bedroom.”

“I'll have it here, thanks, Phyl. And then I'd like you to help me unpack, if you wouldn't mind.”

“‘Course not,” she answered, and glanced anxiously at the kettle again.

“By the way, Michel didn't leave, did he?” I asked. “I haven't paid him yet.”

“No, he's still here, Mrs. Trent. He drank a coffee, then went out back with Alain. To have a cigarette, I suppose.”

I nodded and said, “Phyl, the house looks wonderful. You've kept it up beautifully. Thank you.”