Her Own Rules

  But Marie-Laure had reminded me that we never really knew anybody, however close to them we were, or knew what went on in their minds. People could do surprising things. In essence, she had helped me to put matters in a better perspective, and I began to relax for the first time since Sebastian’s body had been found.

  By the time I arrived at the mill it was almost six-thirty. The sun was sinking low behind the ragged line of dark hills, the pale blue sky of earlier fading into an iridescent pearly gray. As I swung off the dirt road and into my driveway, it was already dusk.

  Once I’d parked the car, I went inside and raced straight to my bedroom without even letting Phyl know I was back. I didn’t have much time to get ready before Kit arrived to pick me up for dinner.

  In my bedroom I pulled off my blue jeans and sweater, slipped into my dressing gown, and refreshed my makeup. After brushing my hair and spraying on perfume, I dressed quickly in beige wool culottes, a cream silk shirt, and black and beige shoes. Taking a black blazer out of the wardrobe, I slipped this on and made my way to the kitchen.

  Phyl was standing at the old farm table, filling a wine cooler with ice cubes, and she glanced up as I walked in.

  “There you are, Mrs. Trent, I thought I heard you come in a short while ago. This is for the Sancerre. Should I open it now, do you think?”

  “Hi, Phyl, and why not.” I glanced at my watch. “Mr. Tremain will be here shortly, he’s usually on time. You know, Phyl, it’s turned quite coolish, I think it would be better if we had drinks inside tonight. In the library, I guess.”

  “Good idea. Shall I light a fire?”

  “No, thanks anyway. It’s hardly worth it. We’ll be going out for dinner in half an hour.”

  “There’re a couple of messages for you, over there on the dresser,” she said.

  I strolled across the floor, took the messages from underneath the small old-fashioned flat iron that served as a paperweight, and read them quickly. Renny Jackson, my book editor in London, had called to tell me she would be in Aix-en-Provence next weekend, and could we have lunch. She said she would ring me again on Monday to make the date. The other message was from Sandy Robertson, one of the editors I worked with at the London Sunday Times. Nothing important, Phyl had scribbled. He will phone you tomorrow.

  “Are you sure Mr. Robertson doesn’t want me to call him back now, Phyl?”

  “Oh yes, quite positive. He said he was just leaving the office, that he’d only phoned up to have a social chat with you.”

  “I see.” I crumpled the messages in a ball, gave them to her to throw away just as the door bell clanged loudly.

  “That must be Mr. Tremain,” Phyl said.

  “I’ll get it,” I told her and hurried out.

  When I opened the door and greeted Kit a split second later, I was surprised to see how fit and well he looked, despite his arduous painting schedule of the last few months.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” he exclaimed, beaming as he stepped into the hall.

  He swept me into his arms and hugged me tightly, not giving me a chance to say anything.

  When he finally released me, he kissed me lightly on the lips and held me at arm’s length, his expression appraising. “You look great, just great, Vivienne.”

  “So do you.” I smiled at him. “And you don’t look a bit done in, as you claimed you were.”

  “I am, though. But just knowing you’d returned put the starch back in me and cheered me up no end,” he replied, grinning at me. Slipping his arm around my shoulders, he walked me across the hall, and his happiness at being with me was palpable.

  “Since it’s turned cool tonight I thought we’d have drinks in the library,” I said. Looking at him, I added, “It’s lovely to see you, Kit.”

  “And you. I feel as if you’ve been gone forever. Now that you’re finally here I hope you’re going to stay, Viv.”

  “Yes, I am, thank God. I’ve got to dig into my book again, finish it by March.”

  We met Phyl in the doorway of the library; Kit greeted her in his usual breezy, friendly fashion, before ushering me inside the room. Its walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling, and I had used wonderful old Provençal furniture.

  Turning to me he said, “This is my favorite spot in the whole house, you did such a wonderful job on it.”

  “Thanks,” I said and went to the table where Phyl had placed the wine cooler holding the bottle of wine and two glasses. I poured.

  “Cheers,” Kit said, touching his glass to mine. “Welcome home, fair lady. You’ve been missed.”

  “I’ve missed you too, Kit.”

  “I hope so,” he answered and lowered himself into a chair near the big picture window which overlooked the gardens.

  I sat down on the sofa opposite, and as I leaned back against the soft leather and looked across at him, I was surprised to discover how much I really had missed him. I had not realized it until this moment.

  Christopher Tremain was an attractive man by anybody’s standards. Of medium height, he was slender, wiry in build, with a shock of dark-blond hair above a surprisingly unlined college-boy face. Since the first day I met him I’ve always thought of him as looking like the all-American hero, racing across a football field clutching a ball. Forty-two years old, he was a New Yorker as I was. He had lived in France for eighteen years, where he was deified as one of the great modern impressionist painters of his generation, and had moved to Provence from Paris two years ago.

  Intelligent and exacting gray eyes stared back at mine staring at him. He said, “What’s wrong? Do I have a dirty mark on my face?”

  I shook my head. “No, I was just thinking again how truly fit you look, in the best of health. Certainly much better than you did just before I left in July.”

  “I feel better. It’s the work, I guess. All that painting, the supreme physical and mental effort seems to have regenerated me.”

  “I know what you mean, work is a great turn-on for me too.”

  “Viv . . . look, there’s something I want to say—” He stopped.

  “What?” I asked swiftly, detecting an odd note in his voice. “What is it?”

  “I want to get this out of the way before we go to dinner. When I was getting ready a bit earlier I had the news on, and CNN had a flash about Sebastian. I guess the autopsy report’s been released by the Connecticut State Police—” Again he cut himself short and looked at me worriedly.

  “It has. Jack called me from New York this afternoon as soon as he knew. The Chief Medical Examiner’s verdict is suicide, barbiturate poisoning. You must know that though, surely they had it on CNN.”

  “Yes, they did.” He hesitated, before adding, “It seemed odd to me.”

  “I thought so. In fact I drove over to see Marie-Laure earlier to discuss it with her. She knew Sebastian a long time, and knew him quite well.” I let out a long sigh. “We tossed it around for ages, and there doesn’t seem to be any other explanation for his death. We finally agreed on that, we’d no alternative.”

  “I know how upsetting his death must have been to you, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to comfort you,” he expressed with genuine sincerity.

  “I’m okay, Kit. It was a bit of a shock at first, and Jack’s news today knocked me for a loop. But as Sebastian would have said, life has to go on.”

  “Life’s pretty unpredictable,” Kit said, putting his drink down on the coffee table in front of him. “One never knows what’s in store, what terrible shocks there are around the next corner.”

  Rising, he came and joined me on the sofa, stretched one arm along the back, and drew closer to me. “I want to help you, Vivienne, help you to cope, to make things easier for you, if I can. I’m here if you need me.”

  “I know that. I’m fine, honestly I am.”

  “Is it all right, Viv? Between us, I mean.”

  “Of course it is, Kit.”

  “So I can assume we’re picking up where we left off in July?”
r />   “Oh yes,” I answered quickly I was beginning to realize that I not only wanted to resume our relationship, but needed it, needed him.

  He leaned forward, took my face between his hands, and kissed me passionately. I returned his kisses with the same ardor.

  “Oh God, Viv, I want you, I want to make love to you,” he whispered against my hair, when we finally drew apart. “It’s been so long since we were together, I can’t stand it. Let’s go to bed now, before we go out to dinner.”

  I touched his face gently. “Later, Kit. We’ve got all the time in the world, you and I.”

  He shook his head. “No we don’t. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. We’ve got to grasp today, live it hard, take life with both hands. Oh darling, I want you so much.”

  “Later, Kit,” I said again. Leaning closer to him, I kissed him quickly and added, “Let’s go to dinner and afterward I’ll come home with you.”

  He looked at me swiftly, his eyes suddenly intense as he asked, “Will you stay the night?”

  I nodded. “I want to see the paintings for the exhibition, especially the last one, the big canvas.”

  “Oh, so it’s my work that interests you, is it, and not me,” he laughed.

  “Both,” I answered and laughed with him.

  When we had made our date for tonight, Kit had promised to take me out on the town. And, true to his word, he did.

  We went to the best four-star restaurant in the vicinity, Le Moulin de Lourmarin. He had ordered champagne in advance, and it was served the moment we were seated at the table.

  With our dinner, a marvelous veal stew, we had one of the best of our local wines, a Châteauneuf-du-Pape from a nearby vineyard, Domaine de Mt-Redon.

  Quite aside from the delicious food and wines, Kit himself was in top form. He was amusing and expansive throughout the meal, talking about his work, his exhibition in Paris, and then he filled me in on the local gossip, told what had been happening during my stay in Connecticut. He kept me laughing and highly entertained for several hours.

  Later, over coffee, he suddenly said, “Will you come to Paris with me in November, Viv? Come to the opening of my show?”

  “Oh, Kit, I’ve got such a lot of work to do yet on my book,” I began and paused when I saw the look of genuine disappointment settling on his face.

  “Please, Viv, it’s important to me that you’re there.”

  “Then I’ll come,” I said, making a sudden decision. “It’s at the end of the month, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s Friday the twenty-fifth of November. Why?”

  “It’s just that the last part of the month is better for me. It gives me a chance to get back into the book. I’ll work like crazy for the next few weeks, so that I can take a long weekend off to be with you in Paris.”

  The look of pleasure that crossed his face told me what my acceptance meant to him, and I was touched. I said, “Thanks for asking me, Kit, I know your show’s going to be a huge success. And I can’t wait for my private preview of the paintings tonight.”

  “And I can’t wait for you,” he said, leering at me wickedly, then grinning he added, “But I honestly think it’s better to view the canvases tomorrow In the daylight.”

  “Oh you do, do you?” I answered, raising a brow.

  I stood at the bedroom window, looking out toward the ancient castle of Lourmarin, waiting for Kit. There was a full moon and it illuminated the castle’s Renaissance bulk, its stark towers, and brought a silvery sheen to the time-weathered stones.

  I had always loved the view from his bedroom and tonight there was something special about it, something different. Perhaps it was the play of brilliant moonlight on those ancient ramparts and the rolling fields where the castle stood. Or maybe it was the dark sky, littered with bright stars and fast-moving clouds that occasionally scudded across the face of the moon to obscure it.

  Or perhaps it was because I was different tonight.

  I was more relaxed and at ease with myself in a way I had not been for a very long time. I was glad to be with Kit. That had registered with me hours ago. I had forgotten how good he made me feel with his warmth and attentiveness and loving gestures. This was nothing new He had always treated me well, beautifully really. I’d just forgotten in the three months I had been away.

  Suddenly he was there, standing behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. Lifting my hair, he kissed the nape of my neck. Then slowly he turned me around to face him.

  He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe, and he handed one to me. “Please, darling, get undressed, let’s go to bed,” he murmured.

  But as I started to move away he pulled me back into his arms and kissed me. It was a long hard kiss and when he released me, he said in a low, urgent voice, “Hurry, I can hardly wait, Viv, I’ve missed you so much.”

  A few minutes later I returned wearing the terry-cloth robe and joined him on the bed. We lay side by side for a second, holding hands, watching the sky turning color, and I was happy to be next to him, to savor this moment of rare peace and intimacy. Then in a sudden movement Kit pushed himself up on one elbow, lay on his side, regarding me intently. “You’re beautiful, Vivienne,” he said and opened my robe, began to stroke my breasts, my stomach, and my thighs, his hands moving over me lightly. Finally settling into a kneeling position, he bent over my body, kissing every part of me, until he finally arrived at the core of me. And it was here that his mouth lingered. I relaxed and let him love me as he wanted to, in the way he always had.

  PART TWO

  JACK

  DUTY

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I first come to the château d’Cose when I was seven years old. If a small boy of that age could fall in love with a house then I did.

  In those days I did not understand why I loved it so much. All I knew was that I felt at home. Its vastness did not frighten me. Nor was I intimidated by its grandeur. I was at ease in the great rooms. Or roaming through the meadows and woods of the estate.

  Deep in my soul, I knew that I belonged at the château. Forever. This was my place. I never wanted to leave. When I had to, I was sad for weeks afterward. I could not wait to return. We came back every summer. It was never long enough for me.

  My father gave me the château and its lands just after he married Vivienne in 1980. I was stunned when he told me. I did not believe he meant to go through with it. I kept thinking he would back off at the last minute. To my surprise he did not.

  Sebastian had grown bored with the château. He was no longer interested in the vineyards and the winery. But that was my father. He soon grew bored with things. And with wives.

  After he and Vivienne split up, Luciana and I started to call him Henry behind his back. After Henry the Eighth who had six wives. The name quickly deteriorated into Hank.

  Luciana and I had secret names for a lot of people when we were kids. Vivienne was VTG. This stood for Vivienne the Great. My father thought she was just that. So did I. But Luciana detested Vivienne. So VTG was a derogatory name to her. Never to me. I laughed up my sleeve.

  My half sister also hated Vivienne’s mother, Antoinette Delaney. I didn’t. I loved her. I thought she was beautiful. Her hair was full of sunlight, her green eyes the same color as the emeralds my father constantly gave her. She had pale, pale skin. When she was angry it turned bright pink. In summer she got freckles on the bridge of her nose. I liked her freckles. They made her real, less ethereal.

  Antoinette was always very kind to me. She loved me a lot. As much as she loved Vivienne. I knew this because she told me, told me I was like the son she had never had.

  I wouldn’t allow Luciana to give Antoinette a nickname. Not unless it was flattering. We never did agree on that. And so she was never called anything behind her back. She was only ever referred to as Antoinette.

  But I had my own name for her. She was my Special Lady. And she was exactly that. Truly special. She worked wonders in my young life, turned it completely around. And she helped t
o make me feel whole.

  Then she went and fell down the cellar steps at Laurel Creek Farm. She broke her neck and died.

  I was twelve and it broke my heart. I’m not certain that I’ve ever recovered from her death. There has been a void in me since then. No one has been able to fill it.

  My twelfth year was hell.

  Antoinette died, and my father started to lecture me about Duty. It was my Duty to look after Luciana when he was away. It was my Duty to study hard. In order to go to Exeter and Yale. It was my Duty not to let the family down. It was my Duty to follow in his footsteps. My Duty to run Locke Industries and the Locke Foundation one day. And it was always Duty in a grand way. And with a capital D.

  I was still only twelve when Cyrus joined the act.

  Whenever we went to see him in Maine it was Duty Duty Duty. Not surprisingly, I began to hate that word. I determined that I would never do my Duty. Not ever. But of course I did. Like the Pavlov dog, I had been brainwashed. I submitted to their will. And I did their bidding. After a fashion.

  The Inheritance, as I called the château in those days, was deeded to me when I was only sixteen and attending Exeter Preparatory School. It was merely a small part of my vast inheritance, my grandfather and father being billionaires.

  I sometimes thought of the château as a consolation prize. My father had married Vivienne, the woman of my dreams. I had always planned on marrying her myself. Not unnaturally, I was devastated when they tied the knot.

  I suspect Sebastian realized this. Hence the château. Of course, giving it to me when he did saved inheritance taxes as well.

  Once the château was mine, I flew to France whenever Exeter broke for vacation. I was thrilled to be at d’Cose several times a year, instead of only in the summer months.

  Sebastian and Vivienne were also there a lot in 1980 and 1981. They got on my nerves. They were forever billing and cooing. Luciana and I christened them the Lovebirds.