Her Own Rules

  “Thanks. But I told you, it’s Olivier’s wine. Not mine.”

  Vivienne drank a little more, pronounced it the best wine ever created at the château, and said, “I’d like to order some of it, if I may.”

  “Sure. I’ll give you a couple of cases. Tonight. Before you leave.”

  “I want to pay for them, Jack.”

  “No way. What’s mine is yours. You should know that by now.”

  “Thank you. That’s sweet of you. Anyway, don’t stand there, come and sit down with me.”

  I did as she asked. Groaning under my breath. I knew her so well. Better than I knew myself, at times. And I could tell from her expression what was on her mind. She was about to launch into a long recital. About her trip to New York. About Sebastian. About the damned profile.

  Wanting to get it over with, I broached the subject. “How’s the profile on Sebastian coming along?”

  “Very well, in certain respects. I talked to a lot of people at Locke Industries. To the president and his vice president.”

  “What did Jonas and Peter have to say?”

  “Only good things, of course. I spent a lot of time with Madge Hitchens at the foundation. In all the years she went to Africa with Sebastian she never met any women with him. And certainly not last year. At least none that he might have been romantically involved with.”

  “She actually said that?”

  Vivienne nodded. “Yes, she did, and, in fact, no one knows anything at all about a new woman in his life. Nor did they know he was planning to get married this spring.”

  “Except you.”

  “That’s right.”

  I laughed out loud.

  Vivienne stared at me. “Why’re you laughing like that?”

  “Maybe she didn’t exist. Doesn’t exist.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I laughed again. I knew I sounded cynical. I couldn’t help myself. I said slowly “Maybe this woman was an invention on his part.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Why would he invent a new woman, tell me he was in love, say he was getting married this spring?”

  “To light a fire under you, Viv. Get you going.”

  “Now why on earth would he want to do that?” she exclaimed.

  “To make you jealous. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “That’s preposterous. Very far-fetched indeed.”

  “Not necessarily. Not when I really think about it.” I gave her a knowing look. “Sebastian always cared about you the most. More than the other wives. You meant more to him than your mother ever did. Also—”

  “I really find that hard to believe,” Vivienne cut in. “He loved my mother very much.”

  Ignoring her comment, I said, “He could have wanted to start up with you again. Why not? Once you were very special to him. His favorite. Yep, that’s it.” I laughed more loudly than before. “He wanted to get you back. So he made himself look highly desirable. By inventing a new woman in his life.”

  “That’s a ridiculous premise on your part—”

  “I bet I’m right,” I interrupted. “He did make you jealous that day. Admit it.”

  “No, he didn’t,” she protested indignantly.

  “It’s me you’re talking to, Vivienne.”

  She was silent.

  I sat drinking my wine for a few minutes. Neither of us spoke. I realized that I had hit the mark. He had made her jealous. When they had lunch at Le Refuge. That was typical of him. He had always been very clever when it came to women. And at pushing the right buttons.

  After pouring more wine for us both, I murmured, “Why don’t you fly to Africa? Go to every place he visited without Madge. The last year of his life. You’ll discover he was there alone. I mean without a lover. Without a new woman. And of course Madge Hitchens was his only companion in the places he usually went to. Madge and some of the others from the charities.”

  Vivienne said, “During lunch at Le Refuge, when I asked Sebastian questions about his new girlfriend, his fiancée, because that’s what she was, he said she worked in Africa. That she was a doctor. A scientist. It’s more than likely that she was working in a laboratory somewhere. Maybe even somewhere isolated. I’m quite certain she didn’t travel around with him. Why would she when she had a job? And that is the explanation, in my opinion.”

  “So you do believe she existed?” I asserted.

  “Exists,” Vivienne corrected.

  I shrugged. “Who’s to know. I still think it’s odd that no one met this woman with him. It’s not at all in character.”

  “What do you mean exactly?”

  “Sebastian liked to show his women off. You should know that better than anyone. He loved a beautiful woman on his arm. Certainly, you were the prime example, Viv.”

  “If that’s a back-handed compliment, thank you,” she responded, and smiled at me.

  “You’re welcome, honey.”

  “Jack?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you trust me?

  “You know I do, Viv.”

  “And my judgment?”

  “Sometimes,” I hedged.

  “Look, you must trust me now. I know instinctively that Sebastian meant every word he said to me. He wasn’t trying to make me jealous, so that he could get me interested in him again. He knew me, and he certainly knew that would be the wrong way to go about it,” she explained quietly. “Let me put it to you very simply. He was telling me the truth that day over lunch. He had met a young woman in Africa, had fallen in love with her. He loved her in a way he had never loved before. He said that in those exact words. He was going back to Africa to meet her. They were traveling on to India together. They were going to spend Christmas in Connecticut. At the farm. And then he was bringing her to France. To Vieux Moulin. To meet me. And you, I’m sure. They were going to be married here in France. This spring. I honestly and truly believe that this is exactly the way it was.”

  I realized how serious Vivienne was. I said, “Okay. Let’s just say you’re right. But why does it matter? You don’t need this woman to write your profile. You knew him better than anyone. She can’t add anything.”

  “That’s true, yes. I could start writing the piece tomorrow. But you’ve forgotten something. I want to know why he killed himself.”

  “Oh, Viv, honey. You’re never going to know.”

  “I’m going to make a damned good try at finding out.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to find the woman.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure. But I will. Believe me, I will.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to her. Interview her.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  “Because in my opinion she’s got something to do with his death.”

  I stared at her. “You gotta be kidding.”

  “No, Jack, I’m not. I think that she’s somehow connected to his suicide. And before you say it, not because she might have jilted him either.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  “Why are you suddenly so focused on this woman?”

  “Because in his very predictable life she was the only thing that was different.”

  I nodded slowly “That’s true. But you’ll never find her,” I remarked. I meant this. I thought Viv was wasting her time.

  “We’ll see. In the meantime, wrack your brains for me, darling, and maybe you’ll remember something, even a small thing could be pertinent.”

  “I’ll try. But I already told you. I didn’t see much of him last year.”

  Vivienne finished her wine without further comment. A bit later she said, “I’m getting tiddily here. Drinking on an empty stomach. And I’ve got to drive back to Lourmarin.”

  “I’ll feed you,” I said. “Stay to dinner.”

  “Why not? And thanks, I’d love to see Catherine. How is she?”

  I cleared my throat. “She’s not here, Viv.”


  “Oh. Where’s she gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Vivienne frowned. “I’m not following you, Jack.”

  “She’s left me. Gone back to England. At least she went to Marseilles. Early this morning. To catch a plane home to London.”

  “Oh, Jack, darling, I am sorry,” Vivienne commiserated. “You two seemed so well suited. Perfect together. I thought you’d found the right woman at last. Whatever happened?”

  “She got pregnant.”

  “So?” Vivienne asked, raising a brow.

  “We disagreed. About the baby. She wanted it. I didn’t. She dug her heels in. We argued. She said she was going to have it. No matter what I thought or said. In the end we had a screaming row. She left.”

  “And you let her go?”

  “Yes.”

  “How could you be so stupid! So dense!” Vivienne cried, staring at me aghast. “How could you let that marvelous woman escape?”

  I flinched under her critical gaze. “Look, Viv, I don’t want to get married,” I said finally. “And I certainly don’t want to have kids. She fully intends to have this baby. Against my wishes. When she said she was leaving I didn’t stop her. Anyway, it’s for the best. It wouldn’t have worked. Not in the long run.”

  Vivienne regarded me for a prolonged moment. Then she said in a low but vehement voice, “You’re a damn fool, Jack Locke. You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.”

  PART THREE

  LUCIANA

  PRIDE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I once heard my brother Jack tell Vivienne I was fragile, and I was astonished to hear him say such a thing. How totally wrong he was in his assessment of me.

  I am not a fragile woman.

  On the contrary, I’m one of the strongest people I know, mentally and physically. Certainly my father always understood this; that’s why he called me a true Locke born and bred.

  Sebastian saw in me the personification of the Lyon Locke character, and even said I was a genuine throwback to Malcolm Lyon Locke, that great Scotsman who was the founding father of our dynasty.

  It is true, I have inherited many of the traits that made our family great. I have an iron will, determination, dedication, discipline, immense stamina, and a proclivity for hard work.

  I am also unrelenting and ruthless in business, and my husband Gerald says I’m a born trader with ice water in my veins when it comes to wheeling and dealing.

  My father called me an accomplished dissembler and one of the cleverest liars he had ever met. He assessed me as being rather better at prevarication than his father Cyrus. Sebastian had been laughing when he said this to me, and I know he had meant it as a compliment. Although when he told Vivienne I was a liar he probably made it sound derogatory, and there is no doubt in my mind that he did tell her. He had always confided everything in her, ever since she had come into our lives when she was twelve and I was only four.

  Nevertheless, he was proud of me, proud of my talents and skills, especially my negotiating skills. I had come to understand, early on, that he wished I had been born a boy. He would have much preferred to have had two sons to carry on in his footsteps, rather than just one.

  However, in the end, the fact that I was a girl did not deter him when it came to the family business. As soon as I was old enough he steered me into Locke Industries in New York.

  For several years now I have been running the British division of Locke in London, and the last time I spoke to my father, just before he died, he told me I had done a superlative job. He was very proud of me. “You’re a chip off the old block, Luce. Well done, darling!”

  In the course of this discussion, over dinner at his townhouse in Manhattan, he suggested that I might enjoy coming back to the New York office. It was there that I had started my business career after graduating from Yale. He said he had a special position for me: executive vice president in charge of all the women’s divisions of the company.

  I had been toying with the idea ever since. I still toyed with it. Certainly it was very tempting. All I had to do was tell Jack and he would arrange it. He had been at dinner that night, had noticed Sebastian’s enthusiasm and mine and had commented about it. My husband had no objection; in fact, Gerald rather fancied the idea of moving to New York where he would be able to work at the U.S. branch of his family’s investment bank.

  If the truth be known, I should be head of the company, not Jack. My brother was supervising the business long distance, as my father had done for many years of his life. It wasn’t very satisfactory, in my opinion, even though the CEO was competent, and had been handpicked by Sebastian ten years ago.

  I was a hands-on manager and therefore I believed I would be better for the company. I longed to run Locke Industries instead of Jack, and there was no doubt in my mind that he would welcome this change.

  My brother genuinely loved the château and the vineyards more than anything else in his life. Certainly he was good at running the estate. I was proud that he had made such a huge success of the winery, and that his label was now a superior appellation. He had done it by himself, with the help of Olivier Marchand, and chapeau to him.

  No one could convince me that Jack was really interested in Locke Industries. He was chairman and did what he did only because it had been drilled into him for years that this was his chief role in life. Duty, Duty, Duty had been the eternal cry from Sebastian and Cyrus. Deep down within himself I think he probably hated Locke Industries. I loved the company; I lived for it.

  An hour ago Jack had phoned from Aix-en-Provence. He had canceled the trip to London he had been planning to make this coming weekend. I was feeling somewhat put out with him because of this. I had been looking forward to talking to him about Locke Industries and business in general.

  Now our chat would have to wait until next month, when he had promised to come to the birthday party I was planning for Gerald.

  At this moment Gerald was in Hong Kong on business; he would be returning later this week. The thought of my husband prompted me to get up from my desk and walk across the office. I paused at the mirror hanging on the wall above a seating arrangement of sofa, chairs, and a coffee table.

  I stood in front of the looking glass for several moments, regarding myself, wondering what Gerald would think of my new image.

  At first he would be extremely angry because I had cut off all my blonde hair. He loved my long golden tresses. But he would eventually get used to this short, caplike cut that was more up to date. Also, the hairstyle made my head look neater, smaller, and therefore more balanced to my slender body.

  Even my figure had changed, if only slightly, in the three weeks Gerald had been away. I had put on weight. Not much, only four pounds, but it was enough to make me look less emaciated. The weight gain had played havoc with my clothes and most of them were too small. They would have to go. I had ordered several new suits for work and they would be delivered to me next week.

  I was pleased about my weight gain. Not only did I look better, I felt better. The pounds had started to come on quite naturally in December because unexpectedly I had started to eat properly again.

  It was not that I had consciously dieted over the years; I never had. Very simply, I had never had much of an appetite. Not since I was twenty, when I lost my taste for food. That was when Sebastian had teased me about my weight and told me I was fat. “A regular little butterball,” he had added a trifle scathingly, and the next day I had stopped eating correctly. In essence, I had brainwashed myself not to feel hunger, and in the process I had been starving myself for years.

  For a long time Gerald had wanted a child. Now so did I. I felt the timing was right. After all, I was twenty-eight and Gerald was thirty-three. We were both the perfect age to start a family.

  I wanted heirs. Sons and daughters who would rejuvenate the declining dynasty that the Locke family had become. I wanted my children to carry on, to lead the family into the twenty-first century, to expand
our fortune and carry on the tradition started generations ago.

  Turning away from the mirror, I hesitated, and then on an impulse I left my office and hurried down the corridor to the boardroom.

  I went in and closed the door behind me, switching on the lights as I did. On the walls hung the portraits of the men who had made our family great.

  In all truth, I did not need any reminders of my impressive heritage. This had been imprinted on my brain since I was a child, and I was filled with immense pride to be a Locke, to come from such a long line of brilliant entrepreneurs.

  My father had forever termed them robber barons, and in the most derisive way, but I never thought of them as such. They were my idols, whether they were robber barons or not.

  Occasionally I liked to study their portraits. These were copies of the originals that hung in the boardroom in New York. I had had them copied for the London boardroom by a prominent artist, who had, in my opinion, painted portraits much superior to the originals. Their likenesses invariably inspired me to greater heights.

  Viewing the images of my ancestors had now become something of a ritual with me. Each man fascinated me; I wished I had known them all.

  I always started out with the founding father, Malcolm Trevor Lyon Locke. As I stood gazing up at his face now, I wondered, as I so often did, what kind of man he had really been, my great-great-great-grandfather.

  Physically he looked like a nineteenth-century version of Sebastian. Or rather my father had resembled him, and it was easy to see where Sebastian’s good looks had come from, and Jack’s as well. Malcolm had the black hair, fresh complexion, and bright blue eyes of a typical Scotsman.

  I knew all about him. He was a legend in the family. Born in Arbroath, a small fishing village and seaport on the east coast of Scotland near Dundee, he had sailed for America in 1830. He had been nineteen years old when he set forth to seek his fortune.

  As the story goes, Malcolm soon discovered that the streets of New York were not paved with gold as he had been led to believe. And so he moved to Philadelphia.