New York, October If anyone had told me that I would be sitting in the middle of Manhattan a week after that conversation with Donald, I would have laughed in their face.
But here I was, at my grandfather’s old desk, staring out across the East River at the giant Pepsi-Cola sign anchored in Long Island City, on the other side of the water.
It had been a lovely October day. Now, in the late afternoon, I was whiling away the time, waiting for Jake to come back from a meeting with the publisher. An editor at this well-established house was interested in publishing Flowers of War, the tentative title of the coffee table book. That it would be a joint venture between the two of us was now a foregone conclusion: I would write some of the text as well as provide a selection of my pictures.
Earlier today he had asked me to go to the meeting with him and Harvey, but I had declined. It had always been Jake’s deal, not mine, and he was much more famous than I. Also, I wanted time to catch my breath and relax for a day. I was really praying they would agree on the terms, since I knew the book was dear to his heart. Also, it would anchor Jake in one place, keep him from rushing off to Kosovo or other dangerous parts of the world, and this thought continued to please me no end.
As I sat gazing across the river, which gleamed in the fading afternoon sunlight, I realized how much had happened in the past eight days.
Following my revelations about Françoise to Jake, we had had a long talk with her, during which I had invited her to stay with me in Paris. She was at first rather shy, had been hesitant about this, but when Jake had suggested we take her parents into our confidence, she had instantly agreed, surprising us both. Simone and Armand had been somewhat taken aback by my invitation, then they had quickly seen the wisdom of such a move and had convinced their daughter to accept. And so the next day we flew back to Paris, taking Françoise along with us.
Before we left Les Roches Fleuries, Jake had had a serious talk with the Rogets, explaining to them that they must not phone Françoise in Paris, either from their own home or the villa. “As a cop, Olivier might be able to get the phone records for both places and trace the number in Paris to an address,” he had pointed out. “It is much safer and wiser for Françoise to call you.” And they had been in agreement with him, seeing the sense of this. But when we left Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, I was suddenly worried about Simone and Armand; Jake had been extremely reassuring though, reminding me several times how strong they both were, also tough-minded and not easily pushed around.
Jake and I had been back in Paris for only one day when Harvey Robinson had called from New York, to tell him that the editor was eager to meet with him to discuss the book. And as soon as possible. Harvey had had another surprise in store for Jake. A well-known SoHo art gallery wanted to have an exhibition of his pictures of war, and they wished to talk to him in person as well.
“Let’s go, Val. Next week,” he had said to me that evening, obviously excited by these prospects. But I had not been very enthusiastic about flying to New York so unexpectedly, at the drop of a hat. “Anyway, if I’m there, I’ll probably feel obligated to see Donald, and I don’t want to do that,” I’d muttered, realizing that I’d sounded sullen, which was not like me.
“Why don’t you see him? Why don’t you see your mother as well?” Jake had suggested. “Get to the bottom of this last will and testament business. And you should have it out with her, Val. Confront her, find the reason for this attitude of hers, find out why she’s treated you the way she has all these years. Get it over with once and for all. You’ll probably feel heaps better for it. It would be liberating, I think, Kid.”
I was ambivalent about doing this, and I just couldn’t make my mind up about going to New York. I was also a bit concerned about leaving Françoise alone—and unprotected so to speak. I mentioned this to Mike Carter the following morning, when I’d gone into Gemstar for the first time since late August, and he had solved the problem for me. Out of the blue, he had volunteered to keep an eye on her, and had convinced me to call her at the apartment and invite her to lunch with us. “So we can become acquainted,” he had said.
Mike had been his usual warm and easygoing self over lunch, and Françoise had relaxed in his presence. In fact, I was surprised the way the two of them got along so well. She became positively gay in the restaurant, and for once that sad and sorrowful look had left her lovely gray eyes. At least for a short while.
That night, when I saw Jake for dinner, he announced that he had bought our tickets, and that we were leaving in a couple of days. He was taking charge as usual, in that macho way of his. I found myself being swept along by his charm and enthusiasm; I also realized that he was determined to go and make these deals no matter what, and I wanted to be with him. We had become very close in the South of France, and I didn’t want absence and distance to break the euphoric mood that existed between us.
II
Jake and I were staying at my aunt’s apartment in mid-town Manhattan, a traditional, spacious place just off First Avenue in the fifties, and I knew it well.
Aunt Isobel had inherited it from my grandfather, and one day it would be mine, a stipulation written into his will. If I survived her, that is.
My grandfather had wanted to do the correct thing by his daughter, but he had also wanted me to have a home in New York, even if I rarely used it, and my aunt had concurred with this. Grandfather had called it my safety net, a place of refuge if I ever got tired of wielding my camera on the front lines.
My aunt was my grandparents’ only daughter, my father’s older sister, although she and he had never been close. Her main home was about two and a half hours away, in the upper reaches of Connecticut, which is where she lived most of the time. She only occasionally stayed at the apartment, about once or twice a month for a night or two, and she had repeatedly told me to make use of it whenever I wished. In the meantime, she paid for its upkeep.
Isobel Denning Cox was a renowned interior designer with offices in Greenwich and New York and clients all over the world. Grandfather used to describe her as the Floral Queen, because she favored so much chintz in many of the interiors she designed. English antiques of the Georgian period were a specialty of hers, and together with the floral fabrics, she created the popular cozy, cluttered English country house look. She had made this her own, as had Mario Buatta, another great designer who had also perfected this style.
But she was an expert on eighteenth-century French furniture and works of art as well, and some of her settings looked as if they had been transported lock, stock, and barrel from several châteaux in the Loire Valley. I had always admired her for her brilliance and talent, her ability to produce such diverse, beautiful, and tasteful homes for her clients.
Her husband, James Mallard Cox, was a retired banker, and something of an invalid these days. Sadly, their only child, Johnny, a playboy who had never married, had been tragically killed eight years before, when the small plane he was piloting himself had crashed in the French Alps in a thunderstorm.
She and I did not see each other very often unless she came to Paris on a buying trip and I was there and not shooting photographs of a war somewhere. Then we would get together for lunch or dinner.
We liked each other a lot, and had always been friendly. Aunt Isobel had been forever exasperated with my mother and had mostly taken Grandfather’s side against her.
Opinionated and outspoken, my aunt was the most self-confident person I had ever met. Colorful phrases were never far from her lips, and she had once described my father as “a spineless twerp who needs his brains washed, preferably in disinfectant, and then hung out to dry in a sharp wind.”
Whenever I thought of Aunt Isobel, I laughed to myself, remembering this description, which had forever endeared her to me; certainly it had made my grandfather chuckle, and for days on end.
My aunt had had white hair, sleek and thick, for as long as I could recall, and she was a tall, imposing woman, good-looking and elegant, with the finest
taste in clothes as well as in antiques and art. She had a marvelous sense of humor and great wit; but she was also down to earth and genuinely kind of heart, all of which made her a very special woman in my eyes. Certainly a woman to look up to and admire, as I did.
Once I had decided to come to New York with Jake, I had telephoned my aunt at her Greenwich office, which is where she worked most of the time.
I had been put through to her secretary, who told me she was in New York, and that I would find her at the Beekman Place apartment. It was there that I had reached her a few minutes later, and she had been thrilled to hear that I wanted to stay at the flat.
“I’m not likely to be here again for several weeks, Val, so do please come and make yourself at home.” She had burst into laughter. “What am I saying? It is your home.” She had gone on to add, “And if I do have to come in for a night, there’s plenty of room for us all. You do have your key, don’t you?”
I had assured her that I did. And she had explained that she would tell Molly, her housekeeper, to come in three times a week instead of twice, for as long as we were staying at the apartment.
When we had arrived the night before, it was obvious that Molly had been there in the morning. Everything sparkled, cushions were plumped up, and flowers graced the many vases. There was even a fresh supply of milk and other staples in the refrigerator.
Jake had walked around, whistling under his breath, looking impressed. He had said he felt as though he had just strolled into an English country house in the Cotswolds, and then announced that that was all right by him though.
“It’s Aunt Isobel’s trademark look,” I had explained, laughing with him, and we had both agreed it was comfortable as well as charming, and a pleasant place to be.
“And certainly much nicer than staying in a hotel,” Jake had murmured as he had lowered himself into an overstuffed sofa covered with a red-rose-green-leaf print, one my aunt often favored in her decorating schemes.
Leaping up suddenly, he had dashed to the big bay window, exclaiming about the panoramic view and the life on the river. For at that moment there were a number of barges and boats moving slowly along the water-way. “It’s a very busy thoroughfare,” I told him. “I remember it well from my childhood.”
III
Naturally, it was full of nostalgic memories for me, and since my grandparents had owned this apartment for over forty years before their deaths, I had spent some very happy childhood times here. They were the only really happy days I could actually recall from those miserable years when I had been growing up in New York.
Once Jake and I had unpacked last night, we had gone out for a walk, needing to breathe some fresh air after being cooped up in the plane. And Jake had remarked about the charm of Beekman Place, a quiet, tree-lined enclave I had always been partial to, and which I knew so well from those long-ago days of my youth.
Later, we had wandered up First Avenue, had gone to Neary’s pub on East Fifty-seventh Street, where Jimmy Neary, the owner and host, had greeted me like a long-lost daughter. Having three of his own, he was a very fatherly type, and he welcomed me with a huge smile that was warm, genuine, and very sincere.
After his retirement from the architectural firm he had founded, my grandfather had gone to Neary’s several times a week for lunch, and he often took my grandmother there for supper. And so Jimmy had known them for many years, and known them quite well. After a drink at the bar, Jimmy gave us a cozy table for two in a corner, where we had had our dinner.
“Just like old home week for you, I reckon,” Jake said as we walked down First Avenue after a hearty supper of homemade Irish stew and a bottle of good red wine. Arms around each other, we were happy to be together on this balmy night, sheltered by a high-flung dark-velvet sky littered with stars twinkling like diamond chips. “Lucy in the sky with diamonds,” Jake warbled softly as we ambled along, making for Beekman Place. It was the loveliest return to New York I had ever experienced, and most especially later that night, when we had climbed into my grandparents’ big old four-poster and made love.
IV
The phone jangled, interrupting my train of thought, and I jumped, startled out of my reverie, as I reached for it swiftly. “Hello?”
“It’s Françoise,” she said in the soft, lilting voice I had come to know.
“Hello, Françoise, hello!” I exclaimed, thinking how close she sounded. “Is everything all right? And how are you feeling?”
“It is all okay, Mademoiselle,” she answered. “I am feeling well. But it is Olivier, he has been to see my parents at Les Roches Fleuries—”
“Oh my God, are they all right?” I cut in worriedly. “Has he been pestering them?”
“Oui . . . but they are strong. They will not tell him where I am . . .”
Suddenly, abruptly, Françoise stopped speaking, and I heard muttered asides, another voice at her end of the phone. I assumed she was calling from my apartment, since it was now about ten-thirty at night in Paris. I couldn’t help wondering who was with her.
“Françoise, Françoise,” I said loudly into the receiver. “Are you there? Are you all right?”
Still she did not respond.
I was about to say her name again, when Mike Carter exclaimed, “Hi, Val, it’s me, honey.”
“Mike, is Françoise upset? Is everything okay with her parents? I’m sure Olivier’s being a pest, and I’m being kind when I call him that.”
Mike chuckled. “You’re right, pest is too mild a word to describe that son of a bitch. Let’s just say he’s been pretty difficult with them, but they’re holding up okay. All of this blew up yesterday afternoon when her husband showed up at the villa in Cap-Ferrat. You were flying over the Atlantic by that time. I think the parents have things pretty much under control. They’ve assured Françoise they’re fine, and I brought her over to stay at my place this afternoon.” He laughed. “My girls think she’s pretty neat, and they’re good friends already.”
“It’s a relief to know she’s safe, Mike, thanks so much for being her . . . guardian angel, shall we say?”
“I’m happy to help her, poor kid,” Mike replied. “I feel sorry for her. She’s not had an easy time of it.”
“I know that. Anyway, I feel better knowing she’s actually staying with you and the girls. To be honest, I was a bit worried about leaving her alone at my place.”
“I don’t blame you, honey. I doubt that her parents would tell him where she is, but even if they did, under duress of some kind, she’s no longer there now.” His deep chuckle rumbled down the wire before he added, “Gone like a puff of smoke.”
“Do her parents know she’s with you? They’ll worry if there’s no answer to my phone.”
“She’s told them she’s moving in with a friend, but she didn’t say she was coming to my place. We thought it wiser her parents were kept in the dark . . . what they don’t know they can’t spill.”
“That’s smart of you.”
“I thought we’d better phone you though, Val, to let you know where Françoise is, just in case you phoned her and there was no reply.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“And how’s little old New York?” he asked, sounding suddenly wistful. New York was his favorite city; he’d told me that so many times.
“Great, just great, and it’s wonderful weather . . . Indian summer sort of weather.”
“Enjoy. I’ll call you later in the week. Meantime, here’s Françoise,” he finished, sounding brisk, businesslike once more.
“Mademoiselle Denning, please don’t worry,” Françoise said.
“I won’t. But I told you to call me Val.”
There was a small laugh, and she said, “Oui . . . Val. I feel safe with Mike’s family. Olivier will never find me here. Because no one knows where I am . . . except you, Mademoiselle, I mean . . . Val.”
“I’m not going to tell anybody.”
“It will be better if you do not telephone Maman, I think.”
r /> “I understand, Françoise, and I won’t. But you can call me anytime you wish. I’m going to be in New York for a good week, perhaps even two.”
“Okay. Thank you for everything, and do not worry about me, Mademoiselle Denning.”
“It’s Val,” I half shouted down the phone, and we both laughed.
“Au revoir, Val,” she said softly.
“Good night, Françoise, and be well. I’ll phone later in the week.”
V
After replacing the receiver, I leaned forward, my elbows on the desk, my head in my hands, thinking. The call from Françoise had brought me back to reality, my reverie about Jake and our lovemaking interrupted by her. My own life was suddenly rather sharply in focus, and I contemplated Jake’s advice of earlier.
Before he had left for the meeting, he had suggested that I call my brother Donald. “Get it over with, once and for all,” he had said, and there had been a stern look in his blue eyes. “Wipe that slate clean and forget it.”
I knew he was right, and yet I hadn’t been able to make the call. At least, not so far; but after all, I had been here for only a day. On the plane I had asked myself if I was really coming to see Donald and my mother . . . and not flying to New York simply because I wanted to be with Jake, as I believed.
Examining this thought now, I was able to answer myself; a resounding albeit silent no reverberated in my head. I was here in the city of my birth because of Jake, and that was the truth.
VI
Donald and my mother meant very little to me, and for all the obvious reasons. Nothing, nada, zilch, I muttered under my breath. And they had given me nothing, nada, zilch, and I had no intention of being at their beck and call at this stage of my life.
From this standpoint, Jake was right. I should get rid of all that old baggage, discard it, and start afresh without the burden of my past. But to do so I would have to confront them, my mother especially, and I had vowed long ago, and to her face, that I would never speak to her or see her ever again. And I hadn’t. And I didn’t want to now. I wasn’t even remotely curious to know what these sudden overtures were all about.