Where You Belong (10 page)

I

Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, September
The house hung on a hillside in Cap-Ferrat, overlooking gardens filled with an abundance of flowers, and beyond, stretching to the horizon, was the glittering deep-blue Mediterranean.

I sat on the terrace of the house, looking out toward the sea, content to drift along with my thoughts, enjoying the perfect stillness, unbroken except for the occasional trilling of the birds, the faint buzzing of a bee. It was a glorious morning, and even though it was sunny and warm, a light breeze blew up intermittently. It rippled through the trees, making the leaves dance, and gave the morning air its freshness.

Called Les Roches Fleuries, the villa was aptly named, since so many flowers spilled down over the rocks upon which the house had been built. It was long and rambling, made of a local stone washed pale pink, with a typical Provençal roof of red-slate tiles and green-painted shutters at the many windows.

On the plane to Nice on Thursday, Jake had told me all about the villa. Even so, I hadn't expected anything quite like this. And although he had described it well, I'd teased him and said, “Well, it's true what they say, you know, about a picture being worth a thousand words. Better stick to snapping the old Polaroid.”

“Only too true, Val,” he'd laughed as he had taken me on a grand tour. I had at once been captivated by the house, which pleased Jake, since he loved it himself; he felt lucky and privileged to be able to use it whenever he wished. It belonged to his old friend Peter Guiseborn, who had moved from Paris to work in New York for a year, and Peter had told Jake to take advantage of his absence. Jake was also flattered and touched because Peter had not extended this invitation to any of his other friends.

The interiors were cool and restful. All of the rooms had white walls, wood-beamed ceilings, and terra-cotta tile floors, and they were furnished with wonderful Provençal antiques made of polished dark woods. There was very little clutter in the rooms, which added to the feeling of restfulness.

Color, bright rafts of it, was introduced in the vibrant paintings hanging on the walls and in the huge bunches of flowers arranged in large stone pots and placed in almost every room.

“I could move in and live here forever,” I'd enthused. “And so could I,” he'd agreed.

When we arrived we had received a warm welcome from Simone and Armand Roget, the caretakers, who lived in a small house on the property. It was Simone who kept the place so immaculate and sparkling, and the pantry well stocked with her delicious food.

Her husband, Armand, was responsible for the upkeep of the property and the gardens, which were filled to overflowing with bougainvillea, frangipani, honeysuckle, night-blooming jasmine, azaleas, geraniums, and many different species of roses. The flower gardens were set off by velvety green lawns, while a long line of twenty-five stately cypress trees stood guard in the background, dark sentinels silhouetted against the azure sky.

Over dinner on our first night here, Jake had told me the story of the house, at least what little he knew about it. Les Roches Fleuries had been built in the 1930s by a French duke for his English mistress, a beautiful opera singer called Adelia Roland. After her retirement from the stage she had made it her permanent home, had lived there until she died at the age of ninety in 1990. In her will she had left the villa and almost everything else she owned to her great-nephew Peter, Jake's pal from his Oxford days.

I was intrigued by the story of Adelia and the duke, but Jake didn't know much more than he'd already told me. Neither did the Rogets have a great deal to impart to me when I quizzed them about her. They had been at Les Roches Fleuries for twenty years; for eight of these they had worked for Peter, once he had inherited the property. The preceding twelve years had been spent in the employment of Adelia Roland, but by that time she was already an old lady, and the duke had long been dead. They said she had been charming but cool and reserved. And very mysterious.

Earlier that morning, when I'd strolled outside holding a cup of coffee in my hand, I had spotted Armand working in the garden. Walking over, I had started to chat to him about the house and about Adelia. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he had turned garrulous, and he confided that it had been Adelia herself who had been the brains and driving force behind the planning and execution of these most extraordinary gardens.

Apparently, she had toiled on them herself, and religiously so, had thought nothing of working alongside the various gardeners who had helped her fulfill her plans over the years. The gardens had been ruined during the German Occupation of France, in the Second World War, but she had restored them later, once the war had ended; now they were an exotic paradise.

II

I glanced around when I heard footsteps, and I saw Jake walking along the terrace. I waved to him and he waved back, and a moment later he was standing over the chaise where I lay shaded by an umbrella, looking down at me, smiling broadly.

“This is what I like to see!” he exclaimed.

“And what's that?”

“You lying here like this, relaxing, taking it easy, and looking so contented.” He lowered himself onto the edge of the chaise next to mine as he spoke.

“I certainly feel relaxed, Jake. It's just so beautiful here, and the tranquillity's hard to beat, isn't it?”

He merely nodded, and smiled again.

I went on. “I feel . . . well, I feel really peaceful inside . . . for the first time in many weeks.” I genuinely meant every word I said. I did feel so much better, and after only a couple of days.

There was a moment's silence before he remarked, “So do I, Val. This house has always had a restorative effect on me in the past . . . it's a benign house, full of love and good vibes. The only other one I've known with exactly the same atmosphere was my grandparents' house in Georgia. I always looked forward to going there as a child, I felt enveloped by love, so safe and secure. I still derive pleasure from going there, in fact.”

How I envied Jake. The truth was, I'd never felt safe or secure in my life except when I was with my grandparents.

“How is your grandmother doing, Jake?” I now asked, knowing how much he loved the old lady. Actually, I think he loved her in much the same way I had loved Andrew Denning.

“Still going strong. She's really quite amazing. Very bright, not a bit senile, and in great health.”

“She's living there alone at the house?”

“Oh, yes. Well, there's help living there with her. A couple of old retainers who've been devoted to her for forty years or more. It would be hard to get her to leave, practically her whole life has been lived out there. It's an old plantation house, not that big really, but beautiful. An antebellum house, redolent of the Old South that once was. You don't see much of that anymore, except in a few remote places. Anyway, her place is not too far from Atlanta, and my parents now go there almost every weekend. They worry about her . . . but they shouldn't, in my opinion.”

“Why not?”

“She makes everybody else I know look decrepit!”

I smiled. “But she's quite old, isn't she?”

“Eighty-eight. Going on thirty-five though! And she's independent, opinionated, and very, very feisty. You'd love her.”

Jake started to laugh again, and his bright blue eyes sparkled with sudden merriment.

“What is it?”

“I was wondering how to describe her physically, and I can say only this . . . she reminds me of an old movie actress from the 1930s and '40s by the name of Maria Ouspenskaya. Do you know who I mean?” He went on chuckling and then added, “You're looking mystified, Val.”

“I am, I'm afraid I don't know her.”

“Ouspenskaya was petite, fragile looking, white-haired, and she spoke with the slightest of accents, more than likely Russian with a name like hers. Granmutti Hedy, as we call her, had a bit of a German accent, but it's very slight now. Here's something that might just jog your memory about Ouspenskaya. Did you ever see an old movie called Love Affair?”

I shook my head.

“Well, Ouspenskaya was in it, playing an old lady, of course, and the stars were Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne, and it was about—”

“Wait a minute, I have seen it!” I exclaimed, cutting in as I suddenly recalled the film. “And I do know what Ouspenskaya looked like. Incidentally, wasn't that the original version of a later movie called An Affair to Remember with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr?”

“Exactly! And so if you think of Ouspenskaya, you'll know what my grandmother Hedy looks like. She's an extraordinary woman, and she was so strong and vital when she was younger. A marvel, even though I say so myself. She is also very cultured, well read, full of knowledge about art and music. And she was a very, very wonderful grandmother to a little boy and his two sisters.”

III

As Jake had been speaking so lovingly about his grandmother, I'd noticed a change in his voice. It was ever so slight, but it was there nonetheless; a soft southern drawl had crept in to diffuse the transatlantic accent he had acquired from years of living in Paris and, before that, Oxford.

Now he was saying, “Don't you think that's a great idea, Val? We'll watch some old movies tonight. Peter has stacks of them, there's quite a wide video selection in his library and there are lots of choices.”

“I wonder if he has Love Affair?” I said, thinking out loud.

“He might. I know he's got Casablanca and many of the other classics from the thirties, forties, and fifties. He's even got Gone With the Wind. I wouldn't mind watching that again.”

I started to laugh.

“What's the matter?” he asked, raising a brow quizzically.

Continuing to laugh, I said, “Are you feeling homesick for Atlanta, Jake?”

Laughing with me, he nodded. “I'm always homesick for Georgia in one way or another, but it just happens to be a really fabulous movie. Let's watch it, okay?”

“Anything you want,” I answered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Simone coming toward us. “I guess lunch is ready,” I murmured to Jake, and glanced at my watch. I couldn't believe it was already past one-thirty. Time seemed to fly at Les Roches Fleuries with Jake. The last couple of days had gone by in the blink of an eye.

Pushing himself to his feet, Jake stretched out his hand to me. I took it and he pulled me up from the chaise, led me down the terrace.

“We're coming, Simone,” he called out, and she smiled at us, turned on her heel, and went back to the arbor at the far end of the terrace. This little shaded area was just a stone's throw from the kitchen, and it was there she stood, waiting for us.

Within seconds Jake and I were seated opposite each other under the vine-covered arbor, and Simone was saying to us, “Mademoiselle Denning, Monsieur Jake, I found a beautiful rouget at the fish market this morning. I've grilled it for you, and I shall bring it now with a dish of vegetables.”

“Thanks, Simone, it sounds delicious,” Jake replied.

She inclined her head, hurried off to fetch the fish, and Jake lifted the bottle of chilled vin rosé, which he loved to drink with lunch, and poured it into the large glasses.

“I'm not planning to go back to Paris on Tuesday after all,” he suddenly said, glancing at me across the table. “It's so restful here, the weather's wonderful, and I'm seriously thinking of spending next week at the house. Won't you stay on too, Val?”

“Yes, I'd love to,” I answered immediately without even having to think about it. “Why not? I don't have anything pressing to do,” I added.

“That's great. I'm glad you'll stay and keep me company.”

“What are best friends for?” I asked, returning his smile.