Secrets From the Past

  Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was fifteen minutes to six. That was when Zac was due at the bolthole. Glancing at myself once more, I went out into the living room, seeking Harry’s approval.

  He turned around when he heard the clicking of my high heels on the wood floor, and was obviously startled for a moment. Then he said, ‘Good girl! You look wonderful, Serena. You’ll knock him dead.’

  I smiled, and reminded him who my teacher had been. ‘That’s what Mom taught us – to go out there and knock ’em dead. The last time Zac saw me, I was kneeling on a bathroom floor, cleaning it, and I looked a mess. I was sweating, had blood on my legs, and wet hair. That was his last memory of me, Harry.’

  ‘And if you break up with him tonight, he’ll have quite a different memory of you, won’t he, Serena? The glamour puss personified, not the cleaning woman, and—’

  ‘Oh, God, do you think I’ve overdone it, Harry?’ I broke in. ‘Shall I go and take Cara’s fake pearls off? Or the high heels?’

  ‘I don’t want you to change a thing. You look perfect … and perfectly beautiful.’ He walked over to me and kissed my cheek, and then stood staring at me.

  I saw his eyes grow moist as he added, ‘You think you don’t look like Elizabeth, but you do, sometimes. It’s a certain gleam in your eyes, an expression on your face – you remind me of her a lot.’

  ‘Zac has said that, and I think it’s probably a family resemblance. I have a bit of Granny in me, and she was Great Aunt Dora’s twin …’ I let my voice trail off, then asked, ‘So what’s the plan of action?’

  ‘When Zac arrives I shall offer him a drink, chat with you both for a short while, and then excuse myself. I’ll amble off, disappear, and you and he can be alone. That’s the only way this situation can be handled. You don’t need an audience.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I went over to the ice bucket on the table, lifted out the bottle of white wine, poured us both a drink. I said, in a confiding tone, ‘I do love Zac, and I suppose I always will. The thing is, can I live with him?’

  ‘That’s always the million-dollar question, Serena.’ Harry picked up the glass of wine. ‘Keep an open mind. Let him do the talking first. Remember, he’s the one who asked to see you.’

  ‘I will. Listen, Harry, you look dashing tonight. Very much so. Do you have a date?’

  He burst out laughing. ‘Who with, for God’s sake? So no, I don’t, but I’m going down to Harry’s Bar to have a drink with Amos Haversmith, who retired here some years ago. You remember him; your mother always liked his paintings. I usually give him a call when I’m here.’

  ‘I do remember, and I know where you’ll be if I need you.’ I sat down, took a sip of my drink. ‘I can’t believe all that stuff that’s happening at the Rixos. It’s just awful. Frightening.’

  ‘It sure as hell is. Yusuf was smart, and made all the right moves, as usual. He’s got such a knack for that.’

  There was a knock on the door. I stood up instantly, went over to the TV, hovering there, suddenly feeling nervous.

  Harry opened the front door, and exclaimed, ‘Zac! Hello! Come on in, I’m glad you made it out of Libya okay. And just in time. You had a narrow escape.’

  The two of them embraced.

  ‘I know I did,’ Zac responded, and began to walk towards me, then hesitated, stopped in the middle of the floor.

  His face was serious, but he looked healthy. I smiled inwardly, because he too was well dressed tonight, wearing a pale blue shirt, navy jeans, and the brown penny loafers.

  I felt that same rush of excitement I experienced whenever I saw him after an absence, and hoped he wouldn’t hear my heart thudding.

  I gave him a quick peck on the cheek, stepped back. I said, ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

  ‘Thanks, I would,’ he answered and turned to Harry. ‘What a fluke it was that Yusuf decided to move us from the Rixos to the Corinthia. If he hadn’t, I certainly wouldn’t be standing here tonight. I’d be one of the hostages in the Rixos, and so would Yusuf and the lads.’

  Harry said, ‘I was stunned when I heard about it on the news this afternoon. Over thirty journalists being held, not allowed to leave. It’s madness. Those loyalist Gaddafi soldiers waving around Kalashnikovs don’t seem to understand that there’s a ceasefire.’

  ‘What I worry about is that most of the hotel staff have fled the Rixos. There’s no one to run anything. It could develop into a dangerous situation. The hotel won’t be operating properly,’ Zac pointed out.

  ‘You’re not kidding.’ Harry sat down, and so did I, next to him. Zac took the other chair. We went on chatting about this unexpected and serious development at the hotel in Tripoli. Harry was right. Zac, Yusuf and the lads had really had a narrow escape.

  Zac crossed his legs and, turning to Harry, explained, ‘There’s got to be some intervention. Maybe by the Red Cross. Or perhaps one of the rebel militias. I just hope there’s no bloodshed. About thirty-five journalists held captive in the Rixos, and to what purpose?’

  Harry announced, ‘It gives us a taste of what might happen once this civil war is over. Chaos.’

  ‘Jesus, I daren’t think about it,’ Zac exclaimed, and took a swig of wine.

  Harry had left and we were alone.

  I was relieved I was in a chair, and not on the sofa. I didn’t want Zac to come and sit next to me. I had felt that sexual pull towards him when he had walked into the bolthole. And immediately. There was something about him that was irresistible. He excited me, made me want to be with him. In every way.

  Remembering what Harry had told me, I didn’t say a word. I just sat there, sipping my drink. My long silence finally forced him to speak first.

  His head on one side, his eyes riveted on me, he said in a soft voice, ‘You look wonderful, Serena. So you must be feeling better.’

  ‘I am. Harry’s been spoiling me all this week, and generally fussing over me. He reminds me of Dad.’

  ‘I know what you mean. Can I have another drink?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He went over to the table and poured the wine. ‘How about you?’ he asked without turning around.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said, swallowing hard. I hoped he wasn’t just going to sit there, guzzling the wine. I wanted to get on with it, discuss what had happened in Tripoli, and be finished with the whole messy affair.

  Returning to the chair, Zac put the glass on the coffee table. He said, ‘I know you’re angry with me, and I don’t blame you. I behaved like a shit. I have no real excuse for my behaviour. I was rude, nasty, unfeeling and cruel to you; showed no love or affection whatsoever. And I’m sorry. So very sorry, Serena.’

  I didn’t answer, I just sat there like a statue. Immobile. I wanted to make him understand I was not going to be a pushover. I would be relentless.

  He said, ‘I’d been drinking when I came up to check on you that night. I just wasn’t myself.’

  ‘Yes, you were yourself,’ I shot back, my voice cold. ‘Because you repeated the way you behaved last year, after my father’s funeral in Nice. There was violence in you then, Zac. And again last weekend. That undercurrent of violence frightens me. Because I don’t know what brings it on.’

  He shook his head. He had turned pale, and his green eyes were stricken. It struck me that he didn’t know how violent he could be, and perhaps it frightened him, too.

  Finding his voice, he said, ‘But I’m not a violent person, Serena, and you know that. I’ve never struck you, never hurt you. Or any other woman. Only cowardly men strike women. I’m not a coward.’

  ‘What you say is true. So let me amend what I said. You sound violent. You seem to have a pent-up fury inside you. And so it makes me expect a violent act from you. It’s an awful feeling, scary.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the booze. I guess I should watch my intake,’ he muttered, starting to reach for the wine and pulling back, leaving the glass on the table.

  ‘You shouldn’t drink at all, in my opinio
n,’ I said icily, giving him a hard stare.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you have PTSD, and abstinence is better for you right now. I think booze fuels the anger you’re feeling because of all you’ve witnessed in war zones.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. I sound violent perhaps, but I never would do anything to hurt you or anyone else. As for the front lines, I’m never going to set foot on a battleground again. It’s over for me. I’m retiring from war.’

  ‘You said that when you came out of Afghanistan. But as soon as I’d helped you to get better, you got all excited about the Arab Spring, and just had to rush off to Libya, because your adrenaline was high and you wanted to be in the middle of it all.’

  ‘I know. I broke my promise to you. I’m so sorry about everything: breaking my promise, screaming at you, showing no compassion. I guess I just lost it, and the drink didn’t help.’ There was a sorrowful look on his face and he had tensed in the chair.

  I was taken by surprise when I noticed, suddenly, the tears glittering in his eyes. But I made no comment. After a long moment of silence, I finally said, ‘You never gave me a chance to explain anything. You stalked off in a fury, treated me like dirt.’

  ‘I know. It was wrong. I was so heartless. I don’t know how I could behave that way towards you of all people. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, Serena. I really mean that. You must know I adore you.’

  When I still said nothing, he pulled his chair closer to mine, and reached for my hand. ‘Please, please forgive me, Pidge. Please. I can’t live without you. There’s nothing in this world for me without you.’ His voice broke, much to my astonishment, and he jumped up and strode to the window.

  I realized then how sincere he was being; he meant every word. And he was chastened, contrite, and obviously he had a conscience. He was fully aware how mean he had been, and it troubled him. Because deep down inside, he was a decent man, a good human being. Rising, I walked across the room and stood next to him. He didn’t speak, and neither did I. And then I became aware he was crying. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

  Staring straight ahead, looking out of the window at the piazza, not wanting him to know I’d noticed his tears, I put one hand on his arm. Very softly, I said, ‘I accept your apology, Zac.’

  ‘But do you forgive me?’ he asked, in a low voice, without looking at me either.

  ‘I want to, I’ll try. The problem is that you more or less said I’d killed our child, and you blamed me. You said it was my fault that I’d had the miscarriage. And it wasn’t. I’d been so careful, and a woman can have a miscarriage without doing anything extreme or careless. It just happens. Mom always told me that. And it’s true.’

  ‘I was so wrong. And I’m truly sorry. I think I’m going to live to regret everything I said to you for the rest of my life, which will be meaningless without you.’

  ‘Can I explain something, Zac?’

  He nodded, did not speak, and I knew why. He couldn’t. The tears were still trickling out of his eyes.

  ‘When I discovered I was pregnant, it was literally just before we were leaving for Tripoli,’ I confided. ‘I did wonder if I should tell you. And I almost did. I wanted to share my happiness with you, hoped you’d be happy. But—’

  ‘I would have been thrilled,’ he interrupted swiftly. ‘I want a child with you.’

  ‘I believed you would be happy, Zac. Then I knew how disappointed you’d be if we decided I couldn’t – or rather shouldn’t – go to Tripoli. I guess I wanted to please you, and that’s why I never told you about the baby. I took care of myself in Libya. I didn’t do anything rash. Nor did I jump about as I normally do, off trucks and jeeps. It was a fluke that I lost the baby, I guess. And I’m sorry, too. I really wanted that baby of ours.’ I realized my voice had softened, and it had quavered with emotion as well.

  He wiped his cheeks with his hands, and turned to look at me at last. ‘Sorry about that, getting so emotional. But I love you. I can’t imagine being without you for the rest of my life.’

  When I didn’t respond, but stood there, looking up at him, he said, ‘Don’t you love me any more?’

  ‘Of course, I love you, and with all my heart!’ I cried, before I could stop myself.

  He reached for me, pulled me into his arms, and began to kiss me, carefully at first, on my cheeks and neck, and then his mouth found mine. I clung to him, returning those kisses, and I understood that I was lost.

  As it had months ago, something shifted inside me, and I knew this was the only man I could be truly happy with. To be with anyone else would be ridiculous.

  When we stood apart, he gently stroked my face. ‘Let’s start again … you know we’re meant to be together.’

  I took hold of Zac’s hand and led him back to the chairs, where we sat down. ‘I forgive you,’ I said sotto voce. ‘And I want us to be together. And to get married as we planned. However, I need to say something, and you might not like it.’

  ‘You’re going to give me conditions. I’ll agree to whatever you want, Pidge,’ he cried, his face brightening, his eyes suddenly sparkling.

  ‘I want you to limit your drinking. Especially hard liquor. I want you to get medical attention for your post-traumatic stress disorder. And I absolutely insist you must never go to a war zone again.’

  ‘I agree. To everything. I’d like to be in Nice, because I think Doctor Biron is the best there is for my problems. Is that all right?’

  I smiled, and then I started to laugh, shaking my head.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I think Harry knew this was going to happen. I realize now that he went out of the bolthole looking rather happy, not worried at all.’

  ‘I only have eyes for you,’ Zac assured me. ‘Are we going to get married in Nice, next spring as we planned?’

  I simply gave him a beatific smile.

  He suddenly said, ‘Oh, I want to apologize for something else. Not helping more to find Val Clifford.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘I always had a strange feeling you thought she was your mother, and that you had a need to find her, to meet her.’

  ‘I happen to have all the answers now. She wasn’t my mother, Zac, but she did give birth to me. Elizabeth Vasson Stone was my mother. She took me into her arms when I was just a day old, and she loved me, nurtured me, cherished me for twenty-six years, until the day she died.’

  ‘Yes, Mom was your mom, I know that. The beautiful Elizabeth adored you. How did you find out that Val was your biological mother?’

  ‘She contacted Harry, who was an old friend. She wanted a favour. She asked him to be the executor of her will.’ I stood up. ‘Back in a minute.’

  When I returned to the living room, I was holding the letter from Val. I handed it to him silently.

  Zac sat reading it, and when he had finished he looked at me, his face sad. ‘How very moving,’ he said. ‘And so sincere.’

  I told him everything I had learned from Harry, and when I’d finished he said slowly, ‘Isn’t it odd, though, that you always thought there was some sort of secret? After you found those pregnant pictures.’

  ‘It was seeing my name on Dad’s captions that alerted me.’

  ‘I loved your father. He was the very best person I’ve ever known.’ Zac gave me an odd little smile. ‘Whatever happened, ever so briefly with Val, he was nevertheless a one-woman man, you know.’

  I looked into Zac’s eyes, and nodded my head rather vehemently. ‘Remember, I grew up with them, and he sure was a one-woman man. I can testify to that!’

  ‘And so am I,’ Zac responded. ‘I’m your one-woman man.’

  ‘For the rest of your life,’ I murmured.

  ‘And even afterwards,’ he added, and stood up, pulling me to my feet. He led me to the window, where we stood looking out at Venice. He put his arms around me, held me tight, and when he released me finally, he looked deeply into my eyes. ‘I can’t believe
you’re going to be my wife, Pidge,’ a sense of wonder in his voice, and anticipation.

  ‘I am,’ I answered, feeling his love surrounding me.

  ‘Then let’s go and tell Harry.’

  And we did.

  EPILOGUE

  Nice, October 2011

  EPILOGUE

  It was Friday 14 October. Jessica and Cara were thirty-nine years old, and we were celebrating with a small dinner party at the house.

  Jessica, who always did the cooking, had been forbidden to enter the kitchen by Adeline. She and her sister Magali would prepare the special birthday supper, both of them insisting that Jessica could not slave over a stove on her birthday.

  It had been a gorgeous Indian-summer day, but the weather had changed abruptly, had turned cool; as I walked into the peach sitting room I decided we needed a fire. After lighting it, and the small votive candles scattered about, I glanced around. Cara had placed some of her exotic orchids on various tables, and the room looked warm and welcoming.

  I went over to the French doors, opened them and stepped onto the terrace. I glanced up at the sky. It was dark but clear, littered with bright stars, and there was a huge full moon. It was a beautiful Mediterranean night, but really chilly. Swiftly, I went back inside and hurried over to the fireplace.

  I felt relaxed, at ease, as I stood with my back to the fire blazing up the chimney. There was something uniquely peaceful about Jardin des Fleurs. I smiled to myself. Mom had always known that. It had been her safe haven. And it was mine.

  Zac and I had been here for a few weeks. The tranquillity had done wonders for me, and although my miscarriage had been a shattering blow, my sadness had begun to recede. Zac was loving, understanding and considerate, which had helped me to mend, and continued to give me comfort.

  Jessica and Allen Lambert had just become engaged, and he was now considered a member of the family. Even Cara had come to realize they were perfectly suited, made a great couple. I was thrilled to see Jessica so happy and radiant, and so was her twin.