“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Never.” And this was true, I hadn’t ever thought of photography in terms of power over a person, only as a powerful tool with the public.
“You’ve always told me your parents, especially your mother, didn’t pay attention to you, that they weren’t concerned about you or what you were doing when you were growing up. I think that must have been a pretty lousy feeling to have, Val.”
He was staring hard at me again, and there was such compassion on his face, I was touched by his empathy and concern. He really was a true friend and a good person. I wondered suddenly what I would have done without him in my life.
Jake continued. “Think of how powerful it must have been for you, as a child, to have a camera in your hands, recording everyone, having their images on your reel of film. It gave you an advantage, don’t you think, Val?”
“I guess so, yes, I guess you’re right, but I never thought of it in that way.” I laughed. “Still, it’s true I was never without my camera, Jake. I shot everything from the dog throwing up to Donald the Great stealing cigarettes from my father’s cigarette case—”
I stopped with sudden abruptness and looked up. A large spot of rain had just hit my arm. I saw at once that the sky had turned a cold, steely gray and yet there was a curious luminosity behind that grayness. It was an ominous sky that threatened bad weather. I was wondering if a mistral was about to blow up, when the rain started to pelt down.
“I have a feeling there’s going to be a helluva storm,” I exclaimed, getting to my feet. “Come on, Jake, we’d better get going.”
Together we hurried up the path through the gardens, and within seconds we were running as fast as we could. The rain was falling in torrents, and it was a heavy, slashing rain that drenched us through to the skin. As we ran past the swimming pool and up the steps to the terrace, there was a loud crack of thunder. Flashes of lightning were illuminating the darkening afternoon sky, and I felt the cool touch of the mistral blowing over my body as we stumbled on toward the villa.
II
By the time Jake dragged me into the kitchen, we were both sodden to the skin. Water ran off us and pooled around our feet on the terra-cotta floor.
Grabbing hold of the kitchen towel, he dabbed my face with it.
“Hey, stop!” I cried. “It’s a dirty towel, Jake.”
“Sorry.” He started to laugh as he grabbed the roll of paper towels, tore some off, and reached for me again.
I backed away, holding up my hands, laughing with him. “We need proper towels,” I told him, pushing my wet hair out of my face. “We’re both soaked.”
Without a word Jake dashed through the kitchen door; I struggled out of my dripping voile shirt and threw it on the floor, then stepped out of my ruined sandals.
A second later Jake was back with an armful of towels. After cocooning me in a large bath sheet, he picked up a smaller towel and began to rub my hair. Snatching up a towel myself, I leaned forward to do the same to him. In the process of drying each other off, we were becoming a tangle of arms and towels; Jake couldn’t stop laughing, and neither could I.
III
The laughter died in us both at precisely the same moment.
All of a sudden Jake and I were very sober, gazing at each other intently, motionless and silent in the middle of the kitchen. We might have been struck by the lightning bouncing off the windows outside. Maybe we had been.
After a prolonged moment of total silence, Jake took a jerky step backward, and he seemed about to say something. Apparently he changed his mind, since he remained mute, but his eyes were very intense and most revealing.
He did not need to say anything to me. What he was thinking was written not only in his eyes but all over his face. Desire and longing were etched there . . . for the first time in our friendship I finally understood how much he cared about me as a woman.
As for me, I had the oddest feeling I was sloughing off a dead skin, shedding forever my old self. Even the events of the past year tumbled away from me as if they had never happened. I experienced a sense of enormous liberation.
I stood there, rooted to the spot, mesmerized by his unblinking blue gaze, and unexpected desire flared in me. This startled me. I realized I was seeing Jake Newberg differently, in a way I had never seen him before, not as my comrade-in-arms or my best friend, but as a man I desired sexually and with whom I wanted to make the most passionate love.
I took a step toward him, every part of me wanting him now. I was certain he felt the same.
At exactly the same moment, as if he had read my mind, he was moving toward me, reaching out for me.
I stepped into his arms, and I knew as I did so that this was where I belonged, had always belonged. He clung to me, and I held on to him tightly, wondering if he could hear the thundering of my heart.
Eventually he tilted my face to his, looking deeply into my eyes, impaling me with his. Again his expression told me everything I needed to know, and it was confirmation of what I was feeling for him. He brought his mouth down to mine and kissed me gently, tenderly, at first. But almost instantly his passion spiraled upward, and he began to kiss me with greater urgency and an eagerness that inflamed me further.
I found myself responding to him with a rush of ardor, my hands pressing on the back of his neck, reaching up into his hair. My body cleaved to his; I felt the light touch of his tongue on mine, seeking, seeking. He ran his hands down my back and onto my buttocks, pulled me tighter to him, pressed me closer. Clinging together in this way, we shared a moment of total and complete intimacy I had never known before.
It was then I knew that I was his, would always be his. Perhaps I’d even been his from the first moment we’d met without my knowing it.
There was a sudden stillness about Jake now as he murmured softly against my neck, “Come on, Val, come with me. Let’s be together.”
IV
Arms around each other, we moved out of the kitchen, climbed the stairs, and went into his bedroom. Outside the huge window the sky was dark, almost as black as night, and the rain slashed down against the glass, driven hard by the wind.
Jake closed the door behind us with one hand without letting go of me and led me over to the bed. “Take this off,” he muttered, touching my wet swimsuit. Stepping away from me, he swiftly shed his soaking trousers and shirt.
He wrapped the bath sheet he had brought upstairs around his waist, picked up the one I’d dropped on the floor, and tied it on me toga-style. Without a word we lay down next to each other. Neither of us spoke. My heart was racing.
Suddenly Jake raised himself on one elbow and gazed down at me.
My eyes stayed on his face expectantly.
“I never thought this would happen. I’ve waited so long for you, Val,” he said in a quiet voice thick with emotion, and his face was congested with desire.
“Oh, Jake, I—”
He cut me off. “Don’t say anything. Not now.”
It was apparent he had an overwhelming physical need for me, as I did for him, and we reached out, clutched at each other, devoured each other with our mouths. Our tongues grazed, touched, caressed, and then lay still. Unexpectedly, Jake pulled away from me, tugged at the towel knotted around me. It fell open, and he brought his mouth to my neck and then my breast. He sucked on my nipple and at the same time he was stroking my inner thigh.
I could feel his mounting excitement. His heart was slamming against mine and I held him tighter, pressing my hands on his back and his shoulder blades. I moved my fingers up onto the nape of his neck, and they were strong and supple against his skin.
When we broke away at last, we were gasping, out of breath.
“My beautiful Val,” he murmured, and leaned over me, his fingers seeking to know me fully. I stiffened as he touched the core of me, and he whispered, “Relax, darling, let me love you like this.” And he slid down the bed, rested his head against my thigh, and eventually his mouth joined his fingers in his search fo
r the center of my womanhood. I found myself relaxing as he had asked, and I opened myself up to him completely. It seemed to me that I floated away on waves of ecstasy of a kind I’d never known before. And then at that moment he pulled himself on top of me and took me to him. “Mine,” he said. “You’re mine now.”
We made love for a long time, absorbed in each other and our bodies. I was reeling from amazement, startled by the passionate and erotic feelings he aroused in me, and reveling in them as well.
Finally spent and exhausted, our desire for each other sated at last, we lay still and unmoving on the bed. Half groaning, half sighing, Jake eventually slid off me and flopped against the pillows. “Oh God, Val,” he muttered, and then he reached for my hand and held it tightly before bringing it up to his lips and kissing it with tenderness.
Then suddenly he was half on me again, flinging one leg and part of his body over mine, pulling me closer to him. “I’m never going to let you go. Not ever, Val.”
V
I made no response to this statement of his.
I just lay there next to him, still filled with awe at our amazing lovemaking. I felt euphoric; I was also luxuriating in the sense of wonder and joy he had wrought in me.
“Who would’ve ever thought we would be so passionate with each other,” I murmured at last.
“I would,” he answered swiftly, and pushed himself up on his arm, looked down at me. “I knew it from the first. At least, I knew how I felt.”
“You did!” I said, surprised.
“Sure. When I met you in Beirut, I thought who the hell is this chick who’s strolled along into my life? Who is this tall, long-legged, blue-eyed creature with sun-streaked hair and the face of an angel? I was immediately smitten, instantly undone.” He paused and grinned at me. “I guess I was gobsmacked, to use your favorite expression.”
“About me?”
“Of course about you. Who else?”
“But you didn’t show it, didn’t say it!” I exclaimed, staring at him intently.
“How could I? And that’s not my way, I was married then, remember? Still struggling with Sue’s emotional upset about her miscarriage, fighting off her demands that I go back and live with her in New York, give up being a war photographer, so I could babysit her while she pursued her modeling career and I put mine on hold. . . . Val, you know what those few years were like. Hell on earth for me. Looking back, I realize she was off the wall in certain ways, and actually not cut out for marriage. Not marriage to me anyway. It was a big mistake, our being together. Those were bad years for me, and I didn’t think I should get involved with you until I had sorted out my mess. And I did eventually sort it out. Suddenly I was free at last—divorced, available. And where were you? Involved with Tony, to my dismay.” He sighed. “I was out in the cold and there wasn’t much I could do about it.”
“Oh, Jake, if only I’d known.”
“What difference would it have made?”
“A big difference, I think. If I’d known how you felt before, I’m sure I wouldn’t have even looked at Tony. He and I had . . . well, quite a few problems when we were together, and there was a lot to be desired in our relationship. And for lots of reasons . . . some of which we now know.”
“Yep, that’s true, I was well aware things weren’t always great between the two of you. But I don’t go around snatching my best buddy’s girl, that’s just not me.”
I nodded. “But I always had a . . . bit of a yen for you, Jake,” I admitted softly, suddenly feeling a little shy with him. “You were in such a tangled web with Sue, I just tried to be your friend, and sort of disappeared into the woodwork, I guess.”
“I wish you hadn’t,” he muttered, sounding regretful.
“So do I.” As I said this, I couldn’t help thinking how different my life would’ve been if Jake and I had been together. What a lot of heartache and pain I would have avoided ultimately; I felt sure I would have found a great deal more happiness with Jake than I had with Tony. He was a much more compassionate and decent man. And unlike Tony, he had integrity, and certainly he was honest and straightforward. Basically, what you saw was what you got as far as Jake was concerned.
Jake was saying, “Listen, that was then, this is now. ‘Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be’ . . . it’s our time now. Anyway, I hope it is, Valentine Denning.” His bright blue eyes searched my face questioningly. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, Jake, it is!” I reached out, put my arms around his neck, and pulled him down to kiss me. It was a lingering kiss, and we embraced for a long time, finding pleasure in just holding each other close.
Outside, the storm was raging. The rain sounded like nail heads hitting the windows, sharp and metallic against the glass, and the wind was so fierce, I knew that the mistral had blown up. But I felt secure there with Jake, safe in his arms. And I, who didn’t believe in miracles, knew that one had just happened to me. My miracle was Jake Newberg.
VI
Much later, after we had showered and put on trousers and sweaters, we went down to the kitchen.
Earlier, Jake had put a bottle of Dom Pérignon in the refrigerator, and after opening it he poured two glasses and said, “Here’s to you and me, sweetheart.”
We clinked glasses, and as I took a sip of the champagne, Jake added, “And now I’m about to bowl you over.”
“You just did. And then some. But I’d be happy for you to do it again.”
He laughed, planted a kiss on my forehead, and walked over to the refrigerator. “Now, sit down like a good girl while I prepare the southern dinner I’ve been promising you.”
“I’m not going to move an inch,” I answered, parking myself on one of the tall stools. “In this instance, I don’t mind that you’re being bossy.”
“Me bossy?” He swung around, raised an eyebrow. “Never. Just authoritative.”
“We’re into semantics again,” I muttered, and chuckled with him.
He was quick and deft, and knew exactly what he was doing, I soon realized, as I watched him moving around the kitchen with speed and grace. “I couldn’t get everything I needed,” he explained at one moment. “No okra, so I’ll have to substitute zucchini in the gumbo. Have you ever eaten gumbo, Val?”
I shook my head. “No, and I’m not even sure what it is.”
“A casserole of rice, tomatoes, and okra, but it’ll taste just as good with the zucchini, I’m sure. I couldn’t find the ingredients for corn bread either, so I can’t make us any hush puppies—that’s fried round corn bread, Val— and you’d love it. But we’ll have that in Georgia, when I take you home to meet my folks,” he finished, and went on expertly working with the food he had spread out on the worktable.
I didn’t say a word or acknowledge his comment, just sat there sipping the champagne and watching him, and knowing that I was going to fall hopelessly in love with him. I think I was a little already, always had been actually. How little we know ourselves, I thought unexpectedly, how little we understand our real feelings, our true feelings. We masked so much because we were afraid of looking foolish or of being rejected. At least, I did.
VII
“You can always be a chef if you ever get tired of being a war photographer,” I joked later as we sat at the dining room table, eating Jake’s southern dinner. “This is all wonderful food, delicious.”
“I’m tired already,” he said, surprising me.
“So you won’t be going back to Kosovo, then, will you?”
“No, because you won’t go there, and I want to be where you are, Val my Val.”
“Likewise,” I murmured, and smiled at him.
He smiled back and exclaimed, “I’m glad you like my southern cooking, and it’s great to see you eating properly for once.”
“Well, I’ve worked up an appetite, don’t you know,” I shot back and leered at him.
“So have I,” he replied with a small self-satisfied smile, and helped himself to some more of the mashed potatoes and
fried green tomatoes.
“You’re much too smug, Newberg,” I said, and took a piece of fried chicken. Biting into it, I went on. “You’ll have to teach me how to cook some of these dishes. Your sweet potato pie is heavenly.”
“Wait until you taste the dessert . . . my peach cobbler is as good as my mother makes. But I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
I raised a brow and asked, “Do you mean it? Are you really going to take me to Georgia to meet your parents and your grandmother?”
“You bet,” he responded with a grin, and glanced at the fire. “I’m glad you decided to light that, Val, we’d be cold without it. The weather’s turned lousy tonight. It’s the mistral.” Rising, he picked up the bottle of Saint Émilion, came and poured me a glass, managing to kiss the top of my head as he did. “You’re very special,” he said against my hair. “Don’t ever forget that.”
I took hold of his hand resting on my shoulder and squeezed it, but I didn’t say anything. He lingered close to me, and finally I looked up at him. And I saw such a look of anxiety on his face, I was taken aback. I exclaimed, “Whatever’s wrong, Jake?”
He stood there mute, staring down at me, and then at last he let out a long sigh and said, “I don’t want anything to come between us, least of all the memory of Tony. He’s not going to haunt you, is he?”
Pushing back my chair, I got up, put my hands on his shoulders, stood staring deeply into his eyes. I said quietly but in a firm voice, “He won’t haunt me, Jake, I promise you that. As it turns out, he was a louse, so how could I let that happen?”
“I don’t know, some women might, and the memory of a dashing lover cut down in his prime can be very powerful.”
“You don’t have to worry about Tony, not after what he did to me!” I reminded him.
“I guess we’ll never know what was in his head, Val, or why he did what he did to you. He’s dead, so he can’t tell us. Nobody can.”