Where You Belong

  The truth was, I had come to New York because Jake Newberg was coming, and he wanted me with him. And that was where I wanted to be, by his side, in his arms, in his bed, in his life, and in his heart. I wanted to be with him when we were working, relaxing, traveling, sleeping. Night and day for as long as I lived.

  Chapter 17

  I

  When Jake walked in an hour later, I couldn’t tell from his expression whether or not the meeting with the editor had gone well or not. He was poker-faced and his eyes revealed nothing.

  After placing his briefcase on a chair, he walked over to me, gave me a bear hug, and kissed my cheek. “Hi, honey,” he said. “Gotta get a Coke,” and he walked off in the direction of the kitchen.

  My eyes followed him. I couldn’t help thinking how smart he looked today in the gray pinstriped suit, pale blue shirt, and darker blue polka-dot tie. Everything about him gleams, I thought as he came strolling back with the can of Coke in his hand, from the top of his blond-streaked hair to the tip of his highly polished brown loafers. I felt a little rush of pride in him. He had been gone all day, and ever since we had become involved, I was always surprised when I saw him after even only a few hours absence. He was so personable, so good-looking, and so well put together, it was always a bit of a shock when he strolled in nonchalantly, as he was doing now. He was the only man for me, the only man I wanted.

  Sitting down next to me on the sofa, Jake said, “Why don’t we go out tonight? I don’t think you should cook.”

  “Whatever you want,” I answered, and fixing my eyes on him intently, I asked, “What happened at the publishers? How was the editor?”

  His face lit up. “He’s a great guy, Val, you’re going to like him. I wish you’d been at the meeting, but I’ll get the two of you together real soon. His name’s Bill Forrest, and he’s very with it, very knowledgeable. Knows what he wants, how the book should look, what it should say, convey in terms of text and photographs. He’s very enthusiastic about the project.”

  “So we have a contract,” I asserted.

  “Not yet. But that’s pretty much a foregone conclusion, I think. Harvey agrees with me. But before we move on to that stage, Bill needs an outline. So what you and I have to do is break the book down into chapters and content, show him some more pictures, and then he’ll make the deal, I guess. I told him we’d give him a little presentation next week.”

  “Will we have it ready?” I asked, a brow lifting.

  “Sure. It’s a snap as long as I have you helping me.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said.

  “I sincerely hope so. Because I want to get everywhere with you.”

  “You have, silly.”

  He smiled, said nothing more, took a long swig from the can of Coke. Placing the can on the coffee table, he murmured, “We can work all weekend, sort the pictures, plan out the book. We’ll be fine.”

  “I guess so—” I paused, gave him a fast glance. “Jake?”

  He turned to look at me. “What is it? You sound concerned. And you look it.”

  “I am a bit. About Françoise. She phoned this afternoon, and she’s staying at Mike Carter’s apartment.”

  “Why? What happened? Don’t tell me. I can guess! Olivier showed up.”

  “Not in Paris, at Les Roches Fleuries.”

  “Yes, that’s what I meant. I suppose he’s been giving her folks a hard time? Is that it, Val?”

  “Apparently. But they’ve been pretty tough with him from what I can gather. Nevertheless, Mike decided it would be better to move her out of my place.”

  “I see. Well, I guess that was shrewd of Mike. A smart cop might well put two and two together and come up with five. We’d been staying down there, he could jump to conclusions, come up with the truth. Why wouldn’t you or I provide some sort of help, give her shelter? A sharp flic might well figure that out. You and I would be easy to find in Paris, we’re so well known. A cop wouldn’t have any trouble locating us sooner or later.”

  I nodded. “True. I think Mike likes her . . . what I mean is, I have a feeling he’s attracted to her.”

  For a moment Jake appeared startled, and then his expression changed, and he grinned at me. “And why not? She’s a lovely-looking young woman, and she seems very sweet. And Mike’s been a widower for . . . what is it, ten years now?”

  “Yes, Sarah was killed in that horrible car crash ten years ago, when Lisa was four and Joy was two. They’re teenagers now, and quite grown-up. Mike told me the girls are very taken with Françoise, he said they’d all become friends.”

  “Fast friends fast, heh?” He laughed.

  I laughed too but made no comment.

  “Yup, I guess she’s better off at Mike’s. It would be hard for Olivier to track her down there.”

  “I hope you’re right. You know, I do work for Mike— if Olivier makes the connection, he could show up at Gemstar.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, but he sure as hell won’t get anywhere with Mike Carter.”

  “He’s a tough guy, I know that. A match for anybody,” I answered.

  “What a lousy world we live in,” Jake muttered, swigging the Coke again, then slapping the can down hard on the coffee table.

  I saw the flicker of anger in those deep blue eyes, and his mouth was drawn in a tight line. He was such a good man, so full of feeling for others.

  He went on. “Wherever you look, people have such problems. Take Françoise—an innocent, loving young woman, beaten and battered about by some tough cop who goes ape when he drinks. Not fair, is it?”

  “No, it’s not, and I just hope she gets through the birth of the baby okay, that nothing goes wrong. Then once the child is born, she can decide what to do. Personally, I’m praying she stays in Paris. She might have a future with Mike.”

  Jake gave me a long, studied look, then leaned back against the sofa, frowning slightly, “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know . . . well, yes, I do. There was a sort of . . . connection between them the day Mike took us to lunch, and she was so carefree, so happy. I couldn’t believe it. I know it had something to do with Mike. And he looked . . . well, I guess it was the same for him. He was happy too. I haven’t seen that kind of expression on his face for as long as I’ve known him, and that’s seven years now.”

  “So they clicked, hit it off, but it doesn’t mean there’s a future there. Listen, she’s married, and married to a maniac whose child she’s expecting . . . better slow down, honey.”

  “I know, I know. But it would be nice if they—” I stopped, shrugged. “You know, got together . . . somehow.”

  Jake bent forward, kissed the tip of my nose. “Spoken like a true romantic, Val. And I agree, it would be nice for Françoise. Mike’s a good guy.”

  II

  Since Jake wanted to go to a nice neighborhood restaurant, I led him to Le Périgord on Fifty-second Street later that evening. I knew he would love it because he preferred French food—after southern soul food that is. And I was right.

  This was another of Grandfather’s old haunts, and I’d been brought there for many special occasions in the past, and for over twenty years at that. Georges Briguet, the proprietor, came over to greet us and seat us, and before we could even blink, two glasses of sparkling champagne stood before us on the table. To welcome us, Georges explained, offering us the Perrier-Jouët.

  Jake quickly got into the spirit of things, and because I was happy to see him so happy and carefree for once, I went along with him. More champagne followed the first glasses. He ordered oysters for us both, and then roast duck, which was accompanied by a bottle of his favorite red wine, Saint-Émilion. We finished the meal with sumptuous floating islands in vanilla sauce.

  “I was too thin before, I know that,” I said to Jake at one moment. “But pretty soon I’m going to be too fat. Far too fat. I’ve got to go on a diet.”

  “You’re fine the way you are, fine for me, that is,” Jake murmured. “I
don’t like sticks.”

  I didn’t say anything, since I’d just remembered how anorexically thin his ex-wife, the famous model, had been, a fact that had troubled Jake no end. I focused on her for a moment, wondering how she was, what she was doing. Still a top model, I knew that. They had been divorced for almost two years; God, how time was flashing by me at the speed of light.

  “Did you call Donald?” Jake asked.

  Lost in my thoughts as I was, I blinked several times before answering, “Er, no.”

  “You have to, Val.” Jake looked at me closely, intently, and covered my hand with his. He continued. “Not only for your sake, but ours. I don’t want you to have this situation hanging over your head. Your past has always been a terrible burden for you, I realize that as much as you do. I want you to shed it once and for all, get rid of it. You’ve got to be free, sweetheart.”

  “I want to be, Jake, honestly, but—”

  “No buts, I won’t take buts,” Jake interrupted me sharply. “Just pick up a phone and make a date to see Donald. Alone. Then see your mother another day. Let’s do it while we’re here in New York, Val, it’s such a good opportunity.”

  “Oh, Jake, you just don’t know . . .”

  “I do, and I’ll help you. I’m here for you, I’ll even go with you to meet him, or we’ll have him to the apartment. You can see him alone if you want, but I’ll be in another room, a safety net for you. Please, Val,” he insisted in a low voice.

  “I’ll think about it. . . .”

  “You’ll see, it won’t be so bad. Call him tomorrow morning, see him tomorrow. The sooner the better.”

  “I can’t tomorrow. I have lunch with Muffie.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I’d forgotten. But lunch isn’t all day, Val. What about the afternoon? Or listen, see him in the evening. Okay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then see him on the weekend,” Jake suggested, determined to settle this.

  “I thought we were going to work on the book.”

  “We are. And surely you’re going to spend only an hour with Donald? It couldn’t possibly take longer than that, could it?”

  “You never know with Donald the Great.”

  “I’ve often wondered why you call him that?” Jake’s blondish brow lifted quizzically, and he fixed his bright blues on me.

  “Because my mother thought he was the greatest thing to hit the earth. The greatest thing since sliced bread, my grandmother used to say. My mother was always saying, ‘Donald’s great at this, Donald’s great at that,’ and I just got fed up. I guess we all did. And one day I said here comes Donald the Great, and Grandfather was tickled to death, and the name just stuck.”

  “I guess nicknames do. But surely it won’t take longer than an hour, will it?” he asked again.

  “Who the hell knows,” I mumbled, and I shrank down farther on the banquette. I felt as though I were shriveling up inside. The mere idea of meeting with my sibling was something I could hardly bear to contemplate. I associated Donald with too many painful memories.

  Jake said, “You’re really trying to duck it, Val darling, and I don’t think you should. Nor should you duck your mother. Face her head-on. You can do it, Val.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why? You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “Yes, I think I am,” I whispered.

  “Of her? Or of what she has to say?” Jake asked gently, taking my hand in his again, endeavoring to soothe me.

  “Of what she has to say,” I admitted. And then I sat up a little straighter, suddenly feeling better now that I’d admitted this to him, and just as important, to myself.

  “Oh, Val, don’t be. It’s all in her, you know. I bet it’s actually nothing to do with you. How could it have anything to do with you? You were only a baby when this started, from what your grandfather told you anyway. Isn’t that so?”

  I nodded.

  “Listen to me . . . you and I have a lot of things going for us. But one of the most important is our shared integrity, that sense of honor, and our love of the truth. The truth in all things. I don’t deal in lies, Val, and neither do you. I will always tell you the truth. Just as I know you will tell me the truth. Correct?”

  “Yes,” I replied, my eyes glued to his.

  “Okay, then. I am telling you the truth now, Val. You’ve nothing to fear, nothing to be afraid of. Whatever your mother has to tell you, it’s nothing to do with anything you’ve ever done. It’s all about her. Don’t you see? It’s to do with her.”

  I let out a long sigh.

  “Do you want me to come with you when you go and see your mother?”

  “I don’t know that she’d like that. She might not open up under those circumstances.”

  “Well, it’s possible, yes,” he admitted. “But we won’t know that unless we go visit her. Only then will we find out.”

  I had to agree with him. “It’s nice of you to offer to come with me, Jake, it really is.”

  “I care about you.”

  “And I care about you too, and I know you’re right in everything you say. I will phone Donald tomorrow, I promise, and I’ll make a date with him. I think I’d rather hear what he’s got to say before I do anything about my mother.”

  “Take it slowly, one step at a time,” he said, and leaning closer, he kissed me on the cheek.

  III

  In the quiet, darkened room, in the vast four-poster that had been my grandparents’ bed, Jake made love to me as he never had before. Nor I with him. Slowly, voluptuously, he drew me along the edge of ecstasy, as I did him, tantalizing, bringing each other to a fine pitch. And then ceasing all touching and kissing suddenly, we rested against each other to catch our breath.

  “I want to draw this out, make it last forever,” he whispered against my hair. “And so do I,” I whispered back, moving my fingers slowly up his stomach to rest on his chest.

  Jake raised himself up on one elbow and kissed my eyelids, my cheeks, my lips, and my neck. He let his mouth linger on mine, devoured mine, and then kissed each breast. Slowly, he moved his lips down to that final resting place against my thighs, swiftly, surely, brought me up onto another high plateau. My legs were trembling, my whole body quivering under his touch, and I yearned to be part of him. And after a moment, as if he read my mind, he took me to him. We found our rhythm instantly, as we always did, and soared higher and higher together, and as our passion increased, he said tensely, “I love you, Val.” And I said the same to him.

  Much later, as we lay together, our arms and legs wrapped around each other, exhausted and sore, I said to Jake, “Always . . . it’s for always. It’s got to be.”

  “It will be,” he replied; he held me closer, cradled me in his arms, and kissed my hair.

  My joy and happiness at being with Jake so filled me with euphoria, it never occurred to me we might well be tempting fate when we spoke of always. But I was to remember this night later, and reflect on our words.

  Chapter 18

  I

  It wasn’t such a beautiful day after all. The bright sunshine of early morning had given way to a dull pale sky overladen with whitish clouds, but it wasn’t going to rain. At least so I had been assured by Jake, who had been tuned in to CNN for several hours.

  And so I decided to walk to the Carlyle Hotel, where I was meeting my old friend Muffie Potter Aston for lunch. I said this to Jake as I went into the study to kiss him good-bye.

  Jake was seated at the old desk in the window that had been Grandfather’s, making notes on a yellow pad and sipping a Coke from the can.

  “I’m off,” I murmured, kissing him on top of his head. “I’ll see you later.”

  “You’re leaving early.”

  “I’ve decided to walk.”

  “All that way?”

  “It’s only twenty-five blocks,” I said, laughing.

  “And across First, Second, Third, Lexington, Park, and Madison,” he pointed out, grinning at me.

&nbsp
; “I need the exercise,” I countered. “I feel like one of those ducks the French fatten for foie gras, and it’s all those meals you’ve been feeding me, Jake Newberg.”

  “Mmmm. Nice and plump and the better for plucking.” He leered.

  “Beast. And I’m not plump.”

  He merely smiled in that enigmatic way of his. Or was it a smug smile this morning? I wasn’t sure. I said, “Are you going to the agency later?”

  He nodded. “Gotta get into those files Harvey’s been filling up for years. I know there’s a batch of my pictures in there, and they could be useful for the book. I’ll mosey on over there at about one o’clock, have a bite with Harvey, and then get to work. It’s a no-brainer; all I have to do is locate the files. After that it’s just a matter of pulling the shots.”

  “I’ll come back here after lunch,” I said, edging out of the room.

  “And you’ll call Donald,” he reminded me, giving me a stern look.

  “Yes, I will. Bye.”

  “I’ll buy you a Chinese dinner tonight,” he shouted after me.

  “I won’t be hungry, so thanks but no thanks,” I called back, smiling inwardly, and hurried through the foyer and out the front door before he could say anything else.

  II

  Since I hadn’t gone window shopping in New York for years, I walked down East Fifty-seventh Street, making for Madison Avenue. As I turned onto this famous fashion street, I was amazed to see so many new stores and boutiques. It was a pleasure to stroll along at a leisurely pace, gazing in the windows at the latest clothes, shoes, and bags.

  Not that all the styles appealed to me. They didn’t. I tended to choose plain, tailored clothes in dark colors, because I knew they suited me. They were also much more practical for the life I led as a war photojournalist. My entire wardrobe was built on black, navy, and gray, a bit somber, I know, but easy to wear and easy to accessorize. Occasionally I went slightly crazy and bought something in white or cream, but never bright colors, because I hated myself in them.