Where You Belong (3 page)

IV

The phone was ringing loudly as I let myself into my apartment an hour later. I snatched it up and exclaimed, “Hullo?” only to hear the receiver clattering down at the other end.

Too late, I had gotten it on the last ring, and sticking out my good leg, I slammed the front door shut with my foot. Swinging around, I went into my tall, narrow kitchen, a place I'd always enjoyed but which I had not occupied very much of late. I like cooking, in fact, it's a sort of hobby of mine, a way to be creative, to relax when I'm back from covering wars and the like. But because of my grief and misery, I had abandoned the kitchen, having no desire to be in it to cook only for myself.

I had hardly eaten a thing these last few weeks, and I had lost weight. But suddenly, today, I felt really hungry and I opened the refrigerator, frowned at the contents, or, rather, the lack of them, and swiftly closed the door in frustration. Of course there was nothing worthwhile to eat in there, I hadn't been shopping. I would have to make do with a mug of green tea and a couple of cookies, and later I would go to the corner store and pick up a few things for dinner.

A moment or two after I'd put the kettle on, the phone began to shrill once again, and I lurched toward it, grabbed hold of it before the caller had a chance to hang up. As I spoke, I heard Jake's voice at the other end.

“Where've you been all day?” He sounded both put out and worried at the same time.

“Walking. I've been out walking, Jake.”

“Again. I can't believe it. I bet if someone locked you up in an empty room and told you to draw a detailed map of Paris and its environs, you could do so without batting an eyelid. And all from memory.”

“Yes, I guess I could. But you do a lot of walking too, so why are you picking on me?”

“I'm not. I called to invite you to dinner tonight. I haven't seen you for a week. Too long, Val.”

“True, and I'd love to have dinner. I'll cook for you,” I said. Hearing his voice had instantly cheered me up, and I'd missed him while he had been in the South; anyway, he was my biggest fan when it came to my culinary skills.

“That's a great offer, but I prefer to take you out . . . it's much more relaxing for you.”

“Okay, it's a deal.”

Jake cleared his throat several times, and his voice was a bit more subdued when he added, “I had a call from London today. From Tony's photo agency. About a memorial service for him. They've planned one and they want us to come.”

This news so startled me, so threw me off balance, I was rendered silent, and when I finally did speak, all I could manage was a weak “Oh.”

“We have to go, Val.”

“I'm not sure . . . I don't think I'm up to it,” I began, and faltered, unable to continue.

“We were his closest friends,” Jake countered. “His intimates. His comrades-in-arms, he called us.”

“We were, I know, but it's hard for me.”

Jake fell silent, then after a moment or two he said softly, “The whole world is aware that we were with him in Kosovo when he was killed . . . that we came out alive. How will it look if we don't show?”

I stood there, gripping the receiver, utterly mute, as if I'd been struck dumb, shaking like the proverbial leaf as I weighed the odds. Should I risk Jake's disapproval, everyone's disapproval, by not going? Or should I go and expose myself to a large amount of pain and heartache? And could I handle that? I just didn't know. For weeks I had tried very hard to get my turbulent feelings under control, and I was not so sure I could face a memorial service. Not now. It would open up so much and it would just . . . do me in emotionally.

“Are you still there, Val?” Jake asked, cutting into my swirling thoughts.

“Yes.”

“You seem reluctant to go.”

“I'm not . . . I'm just . . . thinking it through.”

He said nothing. I could hear him waiting at the other end of the line, could practically hear him breathing.

Finally, realizing he was waiting for me to say something, I muttered, “I couldn't bear to hear the world eulogizing him. . . . It would be so painful for me, I'd be in floods of tears through the entire service. I'm trying to come to grips with my grief.”

“I understand what you're saying. If you want to know the truth, I'm not so keen to live through it myself. But we don't have a choice. And Tony would want us to be present.”

“I guess he would . . .” My voice trailed off.

“We'll talk about it tonight.”

“All right,” I agreed, my heart sinking.

“Good girl. I'll be there about eight to pick you up. See ya, Kid.”

He had hung up before I could say another word, and for a second or two I stood there, clutching the receiver, chastising myself under my breath. I was so dumb. Absolutely stupid. I ought to have realized that Tony's agency would hold a memorial service for their fallen colleague, one who had been their biggest star—and their hero. If only I'd thought it through properly, and earlier, I would have been far better prepared.

I banged the receiver into the cradle and stared at the kettle absently, thinking it was taking a long time to boil. I turned up the gas automatically and let out a heavy sigh. I'd been caught off guard. And now there was no way out. I would have to go to the memorial service for appearance's sake. And I could easily come face-to-face with her.

That was it, of course. That was at the root of my discomfort and reluctance to go to the memorial. I didn't want to run into Fiona Hampton. Tony's ex-wife. It struck me then that it was unlikely she would be there, in view of their recent divorce and the searing bitterness that had existed between them. Of course she wouldn't go to hear him lovingly eulogized by his friends and colleagues. That would be out of character. She was a hard woman whose contentiousness had driven him away from her and the marriage, and sympathy and compassion did not exist in her makeup.

Remembering how unpleasant things had been between them convinced me I was right and eased my anxiety about going myself. I made the mug of green tea, took out a packet of cookies, and stood at the counter, munching on a couple and sipping the tea, suddenly feeling more relaxed.

Of course, I had no way of knowing that indeed Fiona would attend the memorial, and that encountering her would change my life irrevocably, and so profoundly, it would never be the same again.

I

After my long morning walks through the streets, I always felt tired in the afternoons and invariably had to rest. Today was no exception; in fact, I felt more fatigued than usual. I went into my bedroom, took off my cotton trousers and shirt, slipped into a dressing gown, and lay down on the bed.

My head had barely touched the pillow, when the phone next to my ear shrilled loudly. I reached for it and pushed myself up on the pillows as I said, “Hullo?”

“It's me, Val,” Mike Carter announced in his warm, affectionate midwestern voice. He was the head of the Paris bureau of Gemstar, one of the founders actually, and a very old, very dear friend. “How're you feeling, honey?”

“I'm fine, Mike, thanks. A lot better. Well, coping at least. What's happening?”

“Oh just the usual stuff . . . you know, wars, terrorist attacks, hijackings, serial murders, famine, earthquakes, floods. Disasters by the cartload, in other words.” He laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. “I guess one day the world will blow itself up, but in the meantime, what's happening is what I call the small stuff.” He chuckled again in that macabre way of his and asked, “Know what I mean?”

“I do,” I answered, laughing with him. Mike's black sense of humor appealed to me, as did his penchant for practical jokes. But these things aside, he had always been my strongest ally, a great supporter of mine ever since I'd joined the agency seven years ago. Over the years a close friendship had developed between us. My grandfather had been very taken with him, and Mike had been smitten in much the same way, and the two had remained good friends until the day Grandfather died.

Mike went on. “I'm not calling to lure you back into the fray, Val. Whenever you want, come on in. But take as much time as you need. It's your call. We all understand how you feel, me most especially.”

“I know that. Maybe in a couple of weeks,” I murmured, and surprised myself with this answer. Two weeks was not so far away; I'd actually planned on taking three months off, and here I was, shortening it. I was amazed at my unexpected response to him.

“Well, that's great!” Mike said. “You're sorely missed around here. But listen, sweetie, the reason I called is because Qemal, the brother of Ajet, got in touch with the agency today. He asked for you, so he was put through to me. He wanted you to know that Ajet's safe. In Macedonia.”

“I'm so glad to hear that!” I cried, genuinely relieved and pleased to have news of the young Kosovar at last. What had happened to him, what his fate had been, had troubled me and Jake for weeks. When we'd attempted to reach his brother, there was never any reply at his Paris apartment. “Jake and I thought Ajet had been killed, Mike,” I explained. “Where has he been all these weeks? Did his brother say?”

“Yes, he told me Ajet had been wounded the day he was with you outside Pe
. Apparently he left the wood where he was waiting for you with the jeep once the fighting started. He actually went looking for the three of you, but he was shot before he could make contact. After he was injured, he was left for dead in the streets, but later he was rescued by some of the locals. They went out into the countryside a couple of days later and found soldiers from the K.L.A. who were able to get medical help for Ajet. The Kosovar soldiers then took him to Albania, God help him, I've heard the hospital conditions there are primitive. Eventually Ajet got to Macedonia, although his brother didn't say how. You'd written the agency number on a bit of paper and given it to him, and the kid kept it. He asked Qemal to let us know he was safe. He especially wanted you to know that, Val.”

“I'm glad he's safe, and recovered. And it was a fluke he made it.”

“I know, I know. Everything's in the lap of the gods in the long run. That's my belief, at any rate. As Bogie once said, it's a cockeyed world we live in.” Mike half sighed, half coughed, and hurried on. “I gotta go, honey. Let's talk next week, or when you feel like it. I'm here if you need me, whenever you need me, day or night. Just give me a shout and I'll be there.”

“Thanks, Mike, for everything, and especially for caring about me, and for your friendship . . .” I found myself choking up and left the sentence unfinished.

“Feel better soon,” he murmured into the phone.

We hung up and I lay back against the pillows. Mike Carter was one of the good guys, and he'd seen it all. After knocking around the world as a photojournalist, he and several of his colleagues had founded Gemstar, an agency very similar to Magnum, which had been started years before, in the late 1940s, by Robert Capa.

When Mike's wife Sarah had been killed in a freak automobile accident outside Paris, he had given himself a desk job at Gemstar in order to stay put so that he could bring up his two young children himself, with the help of a nanny. He was no stranger to sudden death, to unspeakable loss. And grief and sorrow were old companions of his, as I well knew. But he somehow managed to hide his pain behind the gruff heartiness and a genuine warmth. Still, I knew how much he had suffered after Sarah's unexpected and untimely death ten years ago.

Now my thoughts turned to Ajet and that fateful day near Pe
, the memory of it still terribly vivid in my mind. Almost immediately, I pushed the violent images away, smothered them. I closed my eyes, needing desperately to sleep. That was the ultimate refuge from heartache. Very simply, I wanted to blot out everything, everyone, the whole damn world.

II

I must have dozed off and slept for a very long time, because when I awakened with a start, the room was no longer filled with the bright sunlight of early afternoon.

Gray shadows lurked everywhere, curled around the bookshelves and the big Provençal armoire, slid across the ceiling and spilled down onto the walls.

The overwhelming grayness gave my normally cheerful bedroom a gloomy look, and involuntarily I shivered. Someone walked over my grave, I thought, as gooseflesh speckled my arms, and then I couldn't help wondering why I'd thought of that particular and rather morbid analogy.

Glancing at the bedside clock, I saw that it was almost six. I couldn't believe I'd been asleep for over four hours. Slipping off the bed, I went and looked out the big bay window.

The beautiful Paris sky of earlier was cloud-filled now and darkening rapidly, the sunny blue entirely obscured. Rain threatened. Perhaps there would be a storm. I turned on the lamp that stood on the desk, and bright light flooded across the photograph of Tony in its silver frame. It had been taken by Jake the previous year, when we had been on vacation together in southern France. I stared down at it for a moment, and then I turned away, filled with sadness.

Sometimes I couldn't bear to look at it. He was so full of life in this particular shot, his hair blowing in the wind, his teeth very white and gleaming in his tanned face, those merry black eyes narrowed against the sunlight as he squinted back at the camera.

Tony stood on the deck of the sloop on which we were sailing that vacation, the white masts above him billowing out in the breeze. How carefree he looked, bare-chested in his white tennis shorts. A man in his prime, obviously loving that he was so virile. You could see this just by looking at the expression on his face, the wide, confident smile on his mouth.

I sighed under my breath and reached out to steady myself against the desk, and then I moved slowly across the floor, retreating from the window area.

His son Rory had taken possession of Tony's body once it had arrived in England, and the boy had taken it on to Ireland. To County Wicklow. There Tony had been buried next to his parents.

Rory would be at the memorial service, wouldn't he?

That question hovered around in my head for a moment. Of course he would, I eventually answered myself. And so perhaps I would finally get to meet the son Tony had had such pride in and loved so much.

I lay down on the bed again and curled up in a ball, thoughts of Tony uppermost once more. Absently, I twisted his ring on my finger, then glanced down at it. A wide gold band, Grecian in design, set with aquamarines.

“The color of your eyes,” he'd said the day he'd chosen it, not so long ago. “They're not blue, not gray, not green, but pale, pale turquoise. You have sea eyes, Val, eyes the color of the sea.”

Pushing my face in the pillow, I forced back the tears that were welling suddenly.

“Mavourneen mine,” I heard him whisper against my cheek, and I sighed again as I felt his hand touching my face, my neck, and then smoothing down over my breast. . . .

Snapping my eyes wide open, I sat up with a jolt, got off the bed, hurried into the bathroom. Pressing my face against the glass wall of the shower stall, I told myself I must pull myself together, must stop thinking about him in that way . . . stop thinking about him sexually. I've got to get over him, he's not coming back. He's dead. And buried. Gone from this life. But I knew I couldn't help myself. I knew that his memory would be always loitering in my mind, lingering in my heart.

III

I took off my dressing gown and the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower, let the hot water sluice down over my body, and then I dumped loads of shampoo on top of my head and thoroughly washed my hair.

After stepping out of the shower and toweling myself dry, I wrapped a smaller towel in a turban around my head. And then I examined my wound. I did this every day. There was a funny puckering around it, but that would go away eventually; that's what my doctor here in Paris had told me.

I'd been very fortunate, he'd explained when I'd first gone to see him, in that the bullet had missed muscle and bone and gone right through flesh. Where it had exited, it had left a gaping hole originally, and the main problem for the doctors in Belgrade had been picking out the bits of cloth from my clothes that had been blown into the open wound. They had apparently done an excellent job, according to Dr. Bitoun, and I had healed well.

There was no question about it in my mind, luck had been running with me that day. Just as it had with Jake. The two of us had somehow been protected.

IV

The storm broke as I finished dressing.

Thunder and lightning rampaged across the sky, and I turned on additional lights in my bedroom before going into the living room.

A master switch controlled all the lamps in there, and a second after I'd hit it with my finger, the room was bathed in a lambent glow. I glanced around, my eyes taking in everything.

Although I knew this room so well, it always gave me pleasure whenever I looked at it. My grandfather had put it together, created the decorative scheme, and his choices in furniture, all gifts from him to me, were superb. Even the lamps and paintings had been his selections, and the room had a cohesion and a quiet beauty that was very special.

Janine, the wonderfully efficient and motherly Frenchwoman who looked after the apartment—and me when I was in it—had been very visible all day yesterday. She had cleaned and polished and fussed around in general, and had even arrived bearing a lovely gift . . . the masses of pink roses that she had arranged in various bowls around the living room.

And tonight the room literally shone from her efforts. The antique wood pieces were warm and mellow in the lamplight, gleamed like dark ripe fruit; how beautifully they stood out against the dark pink walls, while the silk-shaded porcelain lamps threw pools of soft light onto their glistening surfaces.

Like the rest of the apartment, the floor in the living room was of highly polished wood and left bare, as the floors in the other rooms were. The latter were decorated more simply, since I'd done them myself; it was Grandfather's room, as I called it, that looked the best.

After admiring it from the doorway for a moment longer, I then stepped inside, went over and straightened a few cushions on the deep-rose linen-covered sofa near the fireplace before bending over to sniff Janine's flowers. For once they had a perfume, which was unusual these days. Most bought flowers had no scent at all.

I went into the kitchen, checked that there were bottles of white wine in the refrigerator, and returned to my bedroom. For a minute or two I studied myself in the long mirror on a side wall, thinking that I looked much better than I had for days. Healthy, in fact. But that was merely an illusion, one very cleverly created by my artifice with cosmetics; a golden-tinted foundation camouflaged my deathly pallor, hid the dark smudges under my eyes. The latter I'd enhanced with a touch of eye shadow and mascara, while a hint of pink blush and pink lipstick helped to bring a little additional life to my wan face.

The real truth was that I'd looked quite ill for the past week, haggard, white-faced, and red-eyed from crying, and I hadn't wanted Jake to see me looking that way tonight. He worried enough about me as it was.

I wasn't sure where we were going to dinner, so I'd chosen one of my basic outfits, composed of black gabardine pants, a white silk shirt, and a black blazer. My blond-streaked hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and, as I regarded myself objectively, I thought: plain Jane and then some.

Turning around, I went to the desk, opened the drawer, and took out a pair of small pearl earrings. I was putting them on, when the doorbell rang.

I hurried into the hall, eager to see Jake, who had been gone for the past week.

“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes,” he drawled when I flung open the door to let him in.

“Likewise,” I answered, and we stood there, staring at each other.

Then he reached out eagerly and pulled me into his arms, enveloping me in a tight bear hug. And he held me so close to him, I was momentarily startled.