Where You Belong

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “And what’s that?”

  “You lying here like this, relaxing, taking it easy, and looking so contented.” He lowered himself onto the edge of the chaise next to mine as he spoke.

  “I certainly feel relaxed, Jake. It’s just so beautiful here, and the tranquillity’s hard to beat, isn’t it?”

  He merely nodded, and smiled again.

  I went on. “I feel . . . well, I feel really peaceful inside . . . for the first time in many weeks.” I genuinely meant every word I said. I did feel so much better, and after only a couple of days.

  There was a moment’s silence before he remarked, “So do I, Val. This house has always had a restorative effect on me in the past . . . it’s a benign house, full of love and good vibes. The only other one I’ve known with exactly the same atmosphere was my grandparents’ house in Georgia. I always looked forward to going there as a child, I felt enveloped by love, so safe and secure. I still derive pleasure from going there, in fact.”

  How I envied Jake. The truth was, I’d never felt safe or secure in my life except when I was with my grandparents.

  “How is your grandmother doing, Jake?” I now asked, knowing how much he loved the old lady. Actually, I think he loved her in much the same way I had loved Andrew Denning.

  “Still going strong. She’s really quite amazing. Very bright, not a bit senile, and in great health.”

  “She’s living there alone at the house?”

  “Oh, yes. Well, there’s help living there with her. A couple of old retainers who’ve been devoted to her for forty years or more. It would be hard to get her to leave, practically her whole life has been lived out there. It’s an old plantation house, not that big really, but beautiful. An antebellum house, redolent of the Old South that once was. You don’t see much of that anymore, except in a few remote places. Anyway, her place is not too far from Atlanta, and my parents now go there almost every weekend. They worry about her . . . but they shouldn’t, in my opinion.”

  “Why not?”

  “She makes everybody else I know look decrepit!”

  I smiled. “But she’s quite old, isn’t she?”

  “Eighty-eight. Going on thirty-five though! And she’s independent, opinionated, and very, very feisty. You’d love her.”

  Jake started to laugh again, and his bright blue eyes sparkled with sudden merriment.

  “What is it?”

  “I was wondering how to describe her physically, and I can say only this . . . she reminds me of an old movie actress from the 1930s and ’40s by the name of Maria Ouspenskaya. Do you know who I mean?” He went on chuckling and then added, “You’re looking mystified, Val.”

  “I am, I’m afraid I don’t know her.”

  “Ouspenskaya was petite, fragile looking, white-haired, and she spoke with the slightest of accents, more than likely Russian with a name like hers. Granmutti Hedy, as we call her, had a bit of a German accent, but it’s very slight now. Here’s something that might just jog your memory about Ouspenskaya. Did you ever see an old movie called Love Affair?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, Ouspenskaya was in it, playing an old lady, of course, and the stars were Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne, and it was about—”

  “Wait a minute, I have seen it!” I exclaimed, cutting in as I suddenly recalled the film. “And I do know what Ouspenskaya looked like. Incidentally, wasn’t that the original version of a later movie called An Affair to Remember with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr?”

  “Exactly! And so if you think of Ouspenskaya, you’ll know what my grandmother Hedy looks like. She’s an extraordinary woman, and she was so strong and vital when she was younger. A marvel, even though I say so myself. She is also very cultured, well read, full of knowledge about art and music. And she was a very, very wonderful grandmother to a little boy and his two sisters.”

  III

  As Jake had been speaking so lovingly about his grandmother, I’d noticed a change in his voice. It was ever so slight, but it was there nonetheless; a soft southern drawl had crept in to diffuse the transatlantic accent he had acquired from years of living in Paris and, before that, Oxford.

  Now he was saying, “Don’t you think that’s a great idea, Val? We’ll watch some old movies tonight. Peter has stacks of them, there’s quite a wide video selection in his library and there are lots of choices.”

  “I wonder if he has Love Affair?” I said, thinking out loud.

  “He might. I know he’s got Casablanca and many of the other classics from the thirties, forties, and fifties. He’s even got Gone With the Wind. I wouldn’t mind watching that again.”

  I started to laugh.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, raising a brow quizzically.

  Continuing to laugh, I said, “Are you feeling homesick for Atlanta, Jake?”

  Laughing with me, he nodded. “I’m always homesick for Georgia in one way or another, but it just happens to be a really fabulous movie. Let’s watch it, okay?”

  “Anything you want,” I answered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Simone coming toward us. “I guess lunch is ready,” I murmured to Jake, and glanced at my watch. I couldn’t believe it was already past one-thirty. Time seemed to fly at Les Roches Fleuries with Jake. The last couple of days had gone by in the blink of an eye.

  Pushing himself to his feet, Jake stretched out his hand to me. I took it and he pulled me up from the chaise, led me down the terrace.

  “We’re coming, Simone,” he called out, and she smiled at us, turned on her heel, and went back to the arbor at the far end of the terrace. This little shaded area was just a stone’s throw from the kitchen, and it was there she stood, waiting for us.

  Within seconds Jake and I were seated opposite each other under the vine-covered arbor, and Simone was saying to us, “Mademoiselle Denning, Monsieur Jake, I found a beautiful rouget at the fish market this morning. I’ve grilled it for you, and I shall bring it now with a dish of vegetables.”

  “Thanks, Simone, it sounds delicious,” Jake replied.

  She inclined her head, hurried off to fetch the fish, and Jake lifted the bottle of chilled vin rosé, which he loved to drink with lunch, and poured it into the large glasses.

  “I’m not planning to go back to Paris on Tuesday after all,” he suddenly said, glancing at me across the table. “It’s so restful here, the weather’s wonderful, and I’m seriously thinking of spending next week at the house. Won’t you stay on too, Val?”

  “Yes, I’d love to,” I answered immediately without even having to think about it. “Why not? I don’t have anything pressing to do,” I added.

  “That’s great. I’m glad you’ll stay and keep me company.”

  “What are best friends for?” I asked, returning his smile.

  Chapter 10

  I

  And so I stayed on at Les Roches Fleuries with Jake.

  It seemed to me that time just sped by, even though we didn’t do anything very special. In the first few days we were there together we fell into a routine, a pattern that was built on a number of little rituals and which we both discovered we enjoyed.

  I think the reason we found enjoyment in them is that we lived such a helter-skelter life when we were out on assignment and never knew what was going to happen from one day to the next, or where we might end up.

  But at the villa on the hillside, our days rarely varied, and neither of us minded this at all. In fact, we thought of it as a blessing.

  Every morning Jake and I had breakfast together, sitting at the round table under the vine-covered arbor. The weather was still glorious, and the shady arbor offered us protection from the early morning sun. Neither of us ate very much at breakfast, nor were we inclined to talk, so we were, as usual, compatible and at ease with each other.

  After breakfast I usually read for a short time while Jake sunbathed, swam in the pool, and occasionally called his photo agency for messages; on other mornings he would spend time writing in his noteb
ook.

  Sometimes I would take a swim with Jake but not always. However, I did go to the basement gym with him at exactly eleven o’clock every day, where I fast-walked on the treadmill. Because of his wounds, Jake avoided the treadmill, but he enjoyed lifting weights.

  After about half an hour in the gym, we went off to our rooms to shower and change into cool cottons, then we took the car and drove down into the little town of Beaulieu-sur-Mer.

  I knew Beaulieu quite well, since my grandparents had frequently stayed at La Réserve, a lovely pink-and-white hotel in the town. It sat on a wedge of land at the edge of the sea, was renowned for its elegance and its wonderful restaurant. When my grandparents had come to France to see me in the summer, they went down to the South after a week in Paris. I always joined them in Beaulieu, once the Sorbonne was on summer recess.

  Because of his frequent sojourns at Peter’s villa, Jake was also well acquainted with this charming little town, and we liked to walk around, buying the French and English newspapers and magazines, visiting the antique dealers we liked, and picking up the odd items we needed at the local shops. But our most favorite spot was the open-air fruit and vegetable market right in the heart of Beaulieu.

  Inevitably our mouths started watering when we stopped to look at the baskets of raspberries, red currants, strawberries, blackberries, plums, peaches, and the fragrant melons from Cavaillon, which we both knew from experience were the very best. Everything on the market stalls looked so luscious and tempting; but we never dared buy anything to take back to the house, for fear of offending Simone. She prided herself on her careful selection of produce for the delicious meals she created for us.

  There was a small port in Beaulieu, where sailboats and yachts were at anchor in the quiet harbor. It was a charming, picturesque spot, and there were all manner of bistros, cafés, and boutiques centered around the port. We loved to linger there, whiling away the time as we meandered along the quais.

  Just before lunch we went to La Réserve for an aperitif, since the hotel was close to the old port. If we didn’t stop there, then we would end up at the Grand Hotel du Cap-Ferrat on our way home to the villa. We had discovered that the outside bar on the tree-shaded terrace of the hotel was a cool place for a Kir Royale or a simple citron pressé.

  This kind of leisurely morning, devoid of the drama, stress, and death we were accustomed to coping with, was so unusual for us, we got a tremendous kick out of it. “Being normal, living normal,” Jake called it, and he was right. Most of our working days were spent watching people being blown up, maimed, or killed while we plied our trade as war photographers.

  After our visit to the Grand Hotel, we would then drive on, up the winding hill and through the woods, making it back to Les Roches Fleuries just in time for lunch.

  The afternoons were very lazy.

  Jake read and slept. I did the same, or listened to music. Neither of us ever thought of turning on the television set and tuning in to CNN. We didn’t want to hear the bad news, to know about wars, terrorism, earthquakes, hurricanes, floods, fires, or famine.

  This kind of quiet, uneventful time was rare for us, and therefore seductive . . . we wanted to make it last. And so we were never tempted to venture out in the evening; certainly we had no desire to visit the chic spots in Monte Carlo, Nice, and Cannes. For the most part, Jake and I stayed close to the villa, which we were very partial to and enjoyed to the fullest. It seemed to us that there was no reason to go anywhere else. The extraordinary peacefulness was our idea of bliss, and we made the most of it.

  II

  One morning at the end of my first week at the villa, I woke up and discovered that I felt different.

  I lay in bed for a moment, watching the sunlight slither in through the slats of the wooden blinds, wondering why I felt this way, and then, in an instant, I knew.

  It was because I hadn’t thought about Tony Hampton for several days. And because I hadn’t thought about him, or what he’d done to me, I wasn’t angry or hurt.

  I was just me . . . Valentine Denning. The Val Denning of old again. It was a great feeling.

  A second or two later I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at myself. To my astonishment, I even looked different. The violet smudges under my eyes had all but disappeared, and the grayish tinge to my skin had been replaced by a lovely golden glow. Without actually sunbathing, I had somehow managed to catch the sun, had acquired a light tan; even my hair was sun-streaked. I hadn’t looked so healthy for a long time, and suddenly I was very pleased.

  This miraculous and unexpected change in my appearance gave me a huge boost, a sense of renewed energy, and I threw off my nightgown, stepped into the shower, and turned on the water. After lathering myself with shower gel and then shampooing my hair, I rinsed off, stepped out, and toweled myself dry.

  Within minutes I was tying my hair in a ponytail, then pulling on a swimsuit; I found a white cotton-voile shirt in the wardrobe, pushed my feet into a pair of flat mules, jammed on my dark glasses, and went in search of Jake.

  I found him sitting at the edge of the swimming pool with his feet dangling in the water, his ear pressed to his cell phone. He was listening intently. When he saw me coming down the steps to the pool, he merely raised his hand in greeting then beckoned me to join him.

  After a moment or two of listening, he said, “Okay, Jacques. Thanks. Call me back if you think I can be of help.” Listening again, he reached for the notepad next to him. His eyes scanned it quickly, then he said, “Yup, I got it. See ya, Jacques.”

  Once he had clicked off the phone, I walked over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning.”

  “And top o’ the morning to you.”

  I smiled at him. “In our Irish mode, are we?”

  “I guess so. Perhaps because I had a call at the photo agency from Fiona. She’s in Dublin. At the Shelbourne Hotel. She wants me to call her.”

  I frowned. “I wonder why?”

  “God knows,” Jake murmured, and glanced down at his cell phone and then the notepad, and began to dial. A moment later he was asking for Mrs. Fiona Hampton. He waited for a couple of seconds, then said, “Thanks very much,” and clicked off. Turning to face me, he explained, “She’s checked out. No forwarding address.”

  “She’s probably gone back to London. To the house in Hampstead.”

  “I guess.”

  “Did Jacques have anything else to say?”

  “He wanted to know if I’d like to go back to Rwanda. To do another story on the gorillas. I said no. He’s going to ask Harry Lennox if he wants to do it. I told him I’d help with Harry if it was necessary. But I don’t think it will be. Harry’s ambitious, even if he is a bit of an innocent abroad, so to speak. He’ll jump at the assignment.”

  “Perhaps,” I murmured. I wasn’t sure about Jake’s assessment of Harry. I thought he was much more worldly than Jake gave him credit for. In my opinion, Harry Lennox was also devious, possibly even treacherous as well. He had always reminded me of my brother, Donald the Great.

  “You sound dubious, Valentine. What’s your problem?” he asked in his breezy way.

  “I think you underestimate Harry Lennox. He’s made dissembling a fine art. And he’s a jealous little bugger. Especially jealous of you.”

  Jake threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come on, Val, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not being ridiculous, and listen, I know his type. He’s like my sneaky little brother . . . I wouldn’t trust either of them as far as I could see them. And that’s a fact—” I broke off as I saw Simone hurrying down the steps to the pool. She was as white as bleached bone and obviously distressed.

  III

  “Simone, what’s wrong?” Jake said. And as he spoke he pulled his legs out of the pool and scrambled to his feet.

  She drew to a standstill in front of us and I saw at once that she was on the verge of tears. I reached out, put my hand on her arm. “Whatever is it?” I asked.

>   “It is my daughter, Françoise,” Simone began, and then her voice quavered. After a moment she recovered, and continued in a rush of words. “She had a bad fall this morning. Down the stairs. Olivier, her husband, has taken her to the hospital. They are worried about the baby.”

  “My God, that’s terrible!” I exclaimed. “Is there anything we can do?”

  Simone shook her head, looking distracted and worried, then brushed her hand across her eyes. “Olivier, he just phoned,” she added.

  Jake said, “You must go to Marseilles, Simone, with Armand. We can manage here. And you’ll only worry if you don’t go.”

  She nodded. “That is true, I will. Merci, Monsieur Jake. Please come, the breakfast is ready.”

  IV

  The three of us walked up to the vine-covered arbor at the far end of the terrace, and Simone disappeared through the door to the kitchen.

  Jake and I sat down, staring at each other worriedly. Jake sounded concerned when he said, “I believe Françoise’s about seven or eight months pregnant with her first baby. I hope she hasn’t injured herself and the child, that they’re going to be all right.”

  “So do I . . . but what are they doing in Marseilles? I thought their daughter lived in Cannes?”

  “That’s Solange, the younger daughter.”

  “I see.” I picked up the crystal jug of fresh orange juice that stood on the table and filled our glasses. Before I got a chance to say anything else, Simone was back with a large pot of coffee and a jug of hot milk for the café au lait we both preferred.

  Returning to the kitchen, she came out a second later carrying a basket of warm croissants and brioches. She said: “Armand is telephoning the Nice airport, Monsieur Jake. There’s a plane to Marseilles at one o’clock. I will attend to the beds, clean the kitchen—”

  Cutting in, Jake said, “You’ll do no such thing, Simone. I told you, we can manage. Go and get ready, I know how anxious you must be. Once you’re packed, I’ll drive you to the airport.”