Where You Belong (26 page)

IV

Margot Denning was gaping at me, as stunned and devastated as I was. Her face was white, stricken, but I did not care. I had no sympathy for her. How could I? She had ruined my childhood and almost ruined my life, and if it had not been for Annie Patterson, our nanny, and my Denning grandparents, God knows how I would have ended up. In a straitjacket, perhaps. Or, worse, a coffin.

To deny maternal love to your own child, an innocent child, was cruel, inhuman, and unconscionable, and that was what she had done to me. I felt the tears rising in my throat, pricking behind my eyes, but I pushed them back. I was damned if I was going to let her see me cry.

Drawing myself up, I said, “And somehow, now, because you need me, you think you can lure me back into your orbit, into your world. Well, tough luck, Margot. I'm not buying your brand of shit today. As for Lowell's, if you don't want Donald to have it, who is entitled, by the way, I suggest you give it to that daughter you gave away so long ago. Little Anjelica. If you can find her after all these years.”

V

Donald's face was crumpled up, as if he were going to cry, and he reached for me protectively and said, “Val, please let me—”

“No, I don't need help, I'm fine,” I cried, and shook free of him, stepped away, stepped to one side.

Margot Denning was frozen in place like a marble statue in the chair, her face as white as bleached bone, so stark looking, her cheekbones appeared more prominent than ever, as though they were protruding from her face. She cried, “Val, I—”

“Don't say a word to me!” I screamed. “You've said and done enough these past thirty-one years.” I was shaking all over and my heart was hammering in my chest, I was so outraged. I knew I was in danger of doing something violent if I didn't escape this room. “You are a reprehensible and destructive woman,” I shrieked at her. “And when I think of my painful childhood, of the cruelty you inflicted on me by refusing to love me, to acknowledge my existence, I have only this to say to you: I hope you rot in hell, Margot Denning.”

I stumbled out of the room blindly, my body racked by the terrible pain and anguish I'd bottled up for years.

Donald came rushing after me and got into the elevator with me. As we rode down together he endeavored to comfort me, to calm me, but without any success. I just couldn't stop shaking and I felt nauseated.

Donald must have retrieved our coats when he ran out of the apartment, and he wrapped mine around me when we got out onto Park Avenue. As he shrugged into his, he hailed a cab and bundled me into it, gave the Beekman Place address.

Riding across town, edging through the rush-hour traffic, I clung to him, buried my face against his shoulder, praying this awful shaking and feeling of sickness would go away.

But it didn't, and it took all my self-control not to throw up all over my brother. Donald kept trying to talk to me, to sympathize, to soothe me, but I just couldn't speak, and I refused to cry, although hot tears were very near the surface.

Once we arrived at the apartment building in Beekman Place, Donald helped me out, paid the cabbie, and put an arm around me as he maneuvered me across the lobby and into the elevator.

At the front door of the apartment I began to fumble in my bag for the keys, but I wasn't doing too well, and Donald took the bag away from me, found my keys, and opened the front door.

Still helping me, both his arms around me, we went into the apartment together.

Jake must have heard us, and he came out of the study, exclaiming, “Hi, where've you been—” But the words died on his lips when he saw me half crumpled over, clinging to Donald as if my life depended on it.

“My God! Val, what's wrong? Are you sick, darling?” he cried, rushing into the entrance foyer.

Letting go of Donald at last, I moved forward and stumbled into Jake's arms, filling with relief as I did. He looked into my stricken face and cried again, “You're as white as a sheet, what is it?”

I stared back at him, struck dumb, unable to utter a word.

Looking over my head, he asked my brother, “Donald, what the hell's wrong? What happened to Val?”

“Let's get her inside, let's sit down,” Donald muttered, and at once Jake did as he asked, half leading, half carrying me into the study. I collapsed on the sofa and Jake sat down next to me after pulling off my coat and throwing it to one side. He wrapped his arms around me again.

“Come on, let's have it, Donald! Why is Val in this terrible state?”

Donald sat down in the chair opposite and began to tell him.

And I began to weep, finally letting go now that I was safe with Jake.

VI

I wept all through Donald's excruciating narrative, desperately holding on to Jake, clinging to him. As he listened to Donald, he stroked my hair, tightened his grip on me, but did not interrupt my brother with the questions. He simply listened and digested everything.

When Donald finished, Jake exclaimed in an angry voice, “I've never heard anything so disgusting, so despicable in my entire life. It's monstrous, and your mother must be a monster. Or mentally ill.”

“A monster,” I mumbled through my tears.

“And mentally ill in certain ways,” Donald ventured.

Unexpectedly, I began to sob brokenly, and I couldn't control myself. I cried for a very long time, sobbing out the tears that had been filling me up for years. Ever since the day I had been born, in fact. That's how long she had punished me for not being Anjelica.

I

Paris, November
“I'm glad Françoise has settled in so well with Fiona,” I said to Mike Carter, leaning back in the chair, crossing my legs.

“I am too, and there's absolutely no way Olivier can find her, I'm convinced of that,” Mike responded, looking at me intently across his desk.

“I agree, I'm sure she's safe. It was a good idea of yours to charter a private plane.”

“It was Fiona's idea, not mine, and she arranged everything with a local charter company. Her point was, private plane, no manifest, no way Françoise could be traced through the airlines. And it was a point well taken, Val. And much appreciated by me. I'm so grateful for your introducing us to Fiona.”

Mike rose, walked across his office at Gemstar, and closed the door, then returned to his desk. He was a big, burly man with a barrel chest and thick dark hair tinged with gray at the sides. His craggy face was open, honest, and kind, reflecting his character, and his dark eyes were full of humor and wisdom. Intelligent, hardworking, and supremely loyal, he was the best boss I'd ever had, and a truly good friend.

He said, “As I told you on the phone, I flew over with her—”

“Was that wise?” I interjected, frowning. “What if Olivier has a PI tracking your movements?”

Mike let out a belly laugh. “You think of everything, Val. And I do too, I must confess. I took a circuitous route to Le Bourget, and traveled alone. So did Françoise, also alone. I doubt anyone could have followed us.”

“And Fiona welcomed you with open arms from what you and Françoise have told me.”

He nodded. “She's a terrific gal, and we got on well. More important, she took Françoise under her wing, and I think it's all working out very well. Françoise loves decorating and designing, and she's really been able to make inroads on the restaurant, it's going to be finished in record time. Fiona wants to open it before the Christmas holidays.”

“That's great, and I'm so relieved Françoise is okay. Listen, I hate to bring up Olivier, but what's happening with him? Any information?”

“A bit, yes. Apparently he's working on a big murder case in Marseilles, to do with drug dealers and the worst bunch of criminals around, the scum of the earth, in fact. So that's keeping him busy, since he is the crack homicide cop down there. The lawyer I hired for Françoise has been in touch with him, and so Olivier knows she's taken out a restraining order, filed for divorce, and moved out of Paris. I think he'd like to get his hands on her if he could, and if he knew where to look. But as I said, he's really caught up in that case, and he's vital to the investigation, seemingly. Therefore his bosses are not going to let him off the hook all that easily, so that he can go searching the world for his estranged wife. I've been in touch with Armand and Simone, and they haven't heard a peep out of him or seen him lately. They know nothing about him other than that he's working on the murder case. There's been a helluva lot of press coverage about the case, and he's always mentioned, and in glowing terms, I might add.”

“I'm presuming Armand and Simone have no idea where Françoise is staying.”

He grinned. “In a pig's eye they don't! What do you think I am, honey, stooopid?”

I started to laugh. “Oh, Mike, you're a card! Anyway, let's keep our fingers crossed, let's hope he stays tied up with the murder case, that he's far too preoccupied with it to hunt down Françoise.”

“From your mouth to God's ears, honey,” Mike replied, and shuffled the papers on his desk, glanced down at them, then looked up, squinting in the sunlight.

“No wars,” he said, “nothing dangerous, that's what you told me when you got back two weeks ago. This rule still holding, Val?”

“Absolutely, Mike. Very honestly, I'm burnt out. And I don't want to risk my life for a picture anymore, nor do I want to go out of town on a job.”

“Unless it's with Jake, right?”

“That's correct. I do want to go back to work now, take on some assignments, but providing they're interesting—and local.” I gave him a long look and went on. “I'm tired of all the junk that's flung around in war, Michael. Tired of all the lies, all the deceit, all the nonsense that goes on with the military and the politicians. And on both sides. I've seen too much. Too much death, too much destruction.” I sighed heavily, shook my head. “Frankly, I don't think I could take it anymore. And I know I don't want to experience that awful fear, the panic inside, that sick feeling when I have to look at the dead, the dying, and the mutilated. Or deal with those who are alive but frightened out of their wits, so terrified, they're incapable of saving themselves.

“You know, Mike, there's nothing glorious about seeing the dead in their Sunday clothes, killed by surprise, after a special lunch or a religious service, or a day's outing with the family. And I'm weary of picking my way through rubble and broken glass, mud and blood and . . . dead bodies. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that the devastation of war has devastated me.”

Mike was silent for a moment, and then he said quietly, in a serious voice, “I know exactly what you mean, Val. And you are burnt out. That doesn't surprise me either. You've covered too many wars already in your young life, and it's time for a change. So—” He paused, shuffled through the papers on his desk once more, and said, “I think this story might appeal to you. . . .”

“What is it?”

“It's a fashion shoot, and no, don't pull a face like that. This could be interesting. Behind the scenes of Paris haute couture, mainly three houses . . . Balmain, Lacroix, and Givenchy. The designing and preparation of the summer collection for 1999. It's got glamour, beauty, and intriguing people. You could make it into something interesting, Val, and very easily. It has potential, and it can be a lot more than just a few pretty pictures.”

“I'll think about it. Anything else?”

“Well, I am hoping that the famous painter will let us shoot his big canvases in Mexico, but that's a few months off.”

“Alexander St. Just Stevens? Who never returned my calls. I don't think so, and what kind of a name is that anyway?”

“It doesn't matter what the guy's called, Val, he's a genius,” Mike said, and laughed at my expression. He went on. “I have a movie shoot you could do with your eyes closed. And incidentally, before I forget to ask, how's the book coming along?”

“Wonderfully, Mike!” I exclaimed. “Jake and I put quite a lot of effort into the selection of the pictures in New York, and he's been working on it in Paris for the last few weeks. He's had time, actually, because he's not been out in the field.”

“Oh, hell, that's right! Jacques is still in hospital. How's he doing?”

“Really great. His broken limbs are mending, thank God, and the doctors at the hospital have been treating him for his heart. He's going to be fine, but he's going to have to take it easy. He'll never go out in the field again, and he was hankering after that. It's an office job, and permanently, for Jacques Foucher, I'm afraid.”

“So Jake's been running the agency, has he?” Mike asked, and chuckled. “I bet that's not pleased him too much.”

“Not really. On the other hand, he has had time to work on the book.”

I got up. “I won't keep you, Mike, I know what kind of day you have, and listen, I'll do the haute couture shoot. Why not? Anyway, I've got to earn a living, you know.”

“Don't we all, Val.”

I grinned at him, went to the door, paused, and swung around. “Listen, let me know when you want to come to dinner, and I'll cook up a storm for the three of us.”

His face lit up, and he asked eagerly, like a kid: “Would you make a pot roast? A real American pot roast, Val?”

“Sure I would, just name the night, and we're all set.” I stepped into the corridor, then turned, stuck my head through the door, and added, “And for dessert it'll be homemade apple pie and ice cream. How about that?”

He grinned and gave me the thumbs-up sign.

II

After the meeting at Gemstar with Mike, I went home to my apartment on the Left Bank.

By the time I got back to the Rue Bonaparte, Janine had gone for the day, but she had left the place as immaculate as always, gleaming brightly and filled with fresh flowers.

The whole apartment smelled faintly of beeswax, lemons, potpourri overlaid with the scent of cinnamon, and pinecones, a mingling of fragrances that evoked the fall to me.

I had done the marketing earlier, and I went immediately into the kitchen to start dinner. I had always liked clay-pot cooking, and since it was such a cold, damp day, I had decided earlier to make my version of poulet grandmère, using a clay pot called a Römertopf. My chicken casserole was based on a whole chicken, along with a mélange of winter vegetables such as carrots, parsnips, turnips, onions, leeks, mushrooms, and a handful of chopped celery. All of these went into the pot with the chicken, which I had left in the refrigerator marinating in chicken stock, tomato juice, and a mixture of herbs when I had gone to Gemstar.

As I prepared the vegetables for the casserole, I thought of the last couple of weeks since our return to Paris. Once again Jake and I had fallen into a pleasant routine, which worked for us, since we were both addicted to order. Every day we worked on Flowers of War because we had to meet a December deadline for the publisher. My dining room had always doubled as an office, with a big English partners desk in the bay window and my filing boxes hidden inside an antique armoire set against an end wall.

And so when Jake went off to his photo agency every morning, I settled down to complete the captions and edit the main body of text. Jake struggled with this every day at the office, or at night at the apartment, and he was making excellent progress. Once he was relatively satisfied with the pages he had written, he passed them to me for editing and polishing.

When Jake had been a Rhodes scholar at Oxford, he had majored in European history, and he was much better educated than I was, and certainly better equipped to write the book, since he was a historian. But this aside, the book was his idea and I felt he should be ultimately responsible for the text, that it should reflect his point of view.

The good thing was that we were working well together on this project, just as we did out in the field when we covered wars. We were making great progress, beginning to see the light of day; the book would be finished sooner than expected, and we now hoped to accept Fiona's invitation to go to Yorkshire for Christmas.

Jake was living at my apartment with me, although he made frequent trips to his own place to check things out, collect his mail, and bring back fresh clothes.

In the beginning, when we first returned from New York, he had been concerned that Olivier might be loitering about, lurking near my place looking for Françoise. And even though Janine had assured us things had been quiet in my absence, he insisted on moving in. I was glad he had; I certainly didn't argue. His presence pleased me, and we quickly settled into that pattern of normalcy, of domesticity, which I craved, needed to share with him.

With all the vegetables now ready, I placed the chicken in the clay pot, added the thick, herb-flavored stock and the vegetables, then put the pot in the cold oven, a necessity for clay-pot cooking. I turned the oven on and went into the dining room to set the table. Once this chore was finished, I hurried into the living room; after turning on the lamps, I found a box of matches and lit the fire that Janine had left ready, the grate filled with paper, wood chips, and logs. It was already growing dark outside and it had started to rain. To my way of thinking, there was nothing more welcoming and cheerful than a roaring fire on a night like this. Jake would appreciate it, I knew that.

How nice everything looks, I thought as I sat down on the sofa, enjoying the surroundings that had been so lovingly created by my grandfather. And at that moment of quietness in my busy day, it was not long before my thoughts turned to Margot Denning.