Finally he answered. “While you were out seeing your mother, you had a call from Mike. He wants you to phone him back. He’ll wait up for your call, he said.”
“Something’s wrong! What did he tell you?”
Jake sighed and his mouth drooped down at the sides. “It’s about Françoise. She went into labor yesterday. Prematurely. She lost the baby.”
“Oh, no! No, Jake! That’s so terrible for her.” I felt the sudden pinprick of tears behind my eyes, the rush of emotion in my throat. “Poor Françoise, oh, that poor girl, she’s suffered so much. Now she’s lost the child. . . .”
I shook my head and stared at Jake intently. “You should have told me when I first got back. This is much more important than my mother and my problems with her.”
“I wanted you to get everything off your chest, it’s troubled you for so long.” He leaned into me, kissed my cheek, and finally released my hand. “There’s not much you can do for Françoise from here, you’re too far away. And that’s why I let you rattle on about Lowell’s. But now you’d better go call Mike, honey. He’s waiting, and it’s late in Paris.”
II
“Jake just told me what happened, Mike,” I said to my boss in Paris once we had exchanged greetings. “I’m so very sorry.”
“Yeah, I know . . . it’s tough for her, Val, and thanks for calling back, I appreciate it.”
“So where is she? What hospital’s she in? And even more important, how’s she holding up?”
“She’s doing fine, she really is. . . .”
I waited for him to complete his sentence, but he did not. I said, “Mike, Mike, are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he answered, sounding down in the mouth. He sighed and added in the quietest voice, “There’s something I didn’t tell Jake . . . the baby was born dead . . . she’d probably been dead for a few days, maybe even longer. . . .”
“Oh my God, Mike! Françoise must be devastated, beside herself with grief.”
“She is pretty heartbroken about it, and she blames herself, because she says she should have left Olivier a long time ago. She’s convinced he damaged the baby when he pushed her down the steps in Marseilles. She believes the baby would’ve been all right if she’d left him. Who knows . . . I told her she shouldn’t castigate herself.” He let out another weary sigh. “Françoise is broken up about the loss of the baby girl.”
“I can imagine. Can I contact her? What hospital is she in?”
“I put her in a private clinic.”
“That was smart of you. Which one?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. There’s something else you should know. I’m pretty damn certain that son of a bitch Olivier has been sniffing around your apartment here. Certainly he came up to the Gemstar office looking for you—”
“You’re kidding!” I interrupted peremptorily, taken aback. “I’m glad I’m not in Paris. What’s he like?”
“Good-looking, but I suspect he’s one helluva thug. I don’t think he’d have any compunction . . . about doing anything. Adam Macklin saw him, I was in a meeting, but I caught a glimpse of him when he was leaving. Anyway, he doesn’t know you’re in the States. Adam had instructions from me to say you were in the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest in Uganda. On special assignment. I doubt very much that he’ll go looking for you there.”
“You think he put two and two together, then? Is that what you’re getting at, Mike?”
“More than likely. That’s why I didn’t take Françoise to the American Hospital here. Too obvious. And it would be the first place he’d look if he had any inkling or suspicion that she’d gone into labor prematurely.”
“Why do you think he seized on me, focused on me?”
“You’re a very obvious connection. Françoise told me that her mother had mentioned you when they went to Marseilles. Olivier heard your name that day. He knew you were staying at Les Roches Fleuries with Jake and were still there when Françoise came back to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat with her parents. It’s more than likely he checked the airlines, asked for the manifests when she disappeared. He saw your name and Jake’s and, of course, hers. I’m sure her parents haven’t given anything away. It’s all deduction on his part, and let’s not forget, he’s a homicide cop and he’s used to doing complicated investigations, tracking stuff down. And from what she’s told me, he’s an ace at it.”
“Can I get in touch with Françoise tomorrow, Mike?” I asked, not wanting to hear anything else about Olivier. He scared me.
“Sure. I put her in a private clinic in Saint-Germainen-Laye, just outside Paris. She’s pretty safe there until she’s feeling strong enough to come back to the city.”
“What’s going to happen to her, Mike? What are her plans now that she’s lost the baby?”
“I don’t think she has any plans. Not yet. And I honestly don’t know what she wants to do in the future. The main thing on her mind had been to carry the baby to full term . . . she’d been having acute pains, other physical problems, and to tell you the truth, I wasn’t too surprised when she suddenly went into labor. Nor am I surprised that she lost the baby . . . she’s been under such physical and mental stress.”
“She can’t go back to Olivier,” I announced. “She’d be sentencing herself to death if she did.”
“I agree, and she agrees, and let’s face it, he’s already started tracking her.”
“You and she must be careful, Mike, and I must too . . . because I’m a link to her—in his mind anyway. But she could come and stay here. When she can travel. He thinks I’m in Uganda, and he certainly doesn’t know about this apartment. Françoise could stay here and fully recuperate. And at the same time she could do some hard thinking, decide what she wants to do, make some plans for the next few months.”
There was a silence at the other end of the phone.
“Hello, Mike,” I said. “Hello . . .”
“Sorry, Val, to go silent on you, I was just thinking that one through. It’s not such a bad idea, having her come stateside. But I was hoping you’d be coming back to work soon. There are all kinds of assignments waiting for you.”
“I plan to, Mike. In fact, Jake and I don’t intend to stay here much longer. We’ve been pulling some of our pictures together this weekend, trying to get the presentation ready for the publisher. And once we’ve done our stuff, so to speak, we’re hightailing it back to France. But Françoise can stay here without me, that’s not a problem. It’s my grandfather’s old apartment, very roomy, comfortable, and there’s a maid who comes in several times a week. She’ll be fine here. Also, my best friend lives in New York. Muffie Potter Aston, and Muffie will be happy to keep an eye on Françoise. Look, she’ll be safe here, Mike, I’m sure of that.”
“I believe you, and it may be just the solution she needs. I’ll talk to her about it in a few days. She’s too troubled right now, honey, and as I told you, heartbroken about losing her baby.”
“Olivier’s a bastard . . .”
“That he is . . . you asked about her plans, the future. The thing is, I’d like her to be in my future, and so would my girls. They’ve really taken to her, as I told you before, and I have a strong suspicion Françoise wants that too. But, well . . . listen, she’s got that maniac of a husband to shed first, and that ain’t gonna be an easy task.”
“You’re right. Anyway, let’s think about my idea for a couple of days, and if you give me the number of the private clinic, I’ll call her.”
“Sure,” he said, and rattled it off.
III
While I was on the phone to Paris, Jake had been busy in the dining room. Earlier, we had spread out the piles of pictures on the table, trying to bring a semblance of order to them. Now he sat making notes on a yellow pad, and when he heard me come in, he turned around.
“Mike’s pretty upset, isn’t he?” he said.
Leaning against the doorjamb, I nodded and answered, “Yes, he’s very worried about Françoise. I guess he’s really become involved
with her in the last couple of weeks. I can’t say I blame him, she’s lovely looking and sweet natured. But that husband of hers presents a huge problem.”
“And how,” Jake agreed. “He’s a bully and—”
“Mike called him a thug,” I interjected.
“He more than likely is, and he could prove to be dangerous.”
“I suggested to Mike that Françoise come to stay here at the apartment when she’s up to traveling.”
Jake looked surprised and exclaimed, “I’m not so sure that was a good idea, Val.”
“We’ll be going back to Paris very shortly, and there’s no reason she can’t stay here. Aunt Isobel won’t mind, and Muffie will keep an eye on her.”
Jake let out a long sigh. “You seem to have adopted her.”
“Not really, but I do feel so sorry for her. From what she’s told me, her life with Olivier Bregone has been a nightmare.”
“And you probably saved her life that day at the villa, so you feel responsible for her now, no?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” I said.
“This guy Olivier Bregone is a nasty piece of work, from what we’ve heard about him, Val, and I think if he becomes too frustrated about finding her, he’ll lash out, and I don’t want you to be one of his targets. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I didn’t respond, merely stood staring at him from the doorway, and then I explained. “When Olivier showed up at Gemstar, looking for me, they told him I was in Uganda on assignment.”
“He’s been to Gemstar!” Jake cried. “Jesus! That spells trouble to me already. You can’t get so involved, Val. But tell me what happened?”
“Mike was in a meeting, but he instructed Adam Macklin to say I was out of the country, and there’s no way he could know I’m here in the States.”
“Want to bet?”
“Well, I guess cops can find out things if they really want to,” I muttered.
“I don’t think Françoise should come and stay here, Val, I really don’t. Please be sensible about this. She has to work out her problems with her husband, get a protection order, divorce him, do whatever’s necessary, and if you think Mike’s become emotionally involved, then he should be the one helping her. You hardly know her.”
“You’re right, I guess. . . .”
Jake jumped up, crossed the floor, grabbed hold of me, and pulled me into his arms. “You’re just too good for your own good sometimes, Valentine Denning! I’ve got to look out for you, and look after you, because you’re the most precious thing in my life.”
“Oh, Jake darling,” I said against his shoulder. “Thank you for that. I feel the same way about you . . . I love you.”
He held me away from him and looked into my eyes. “And I love you, Val. Very much.”
IV
Leading me into the dining room, he pulled out the chair next to his and said in a more matter-of-fact voice, “I’ve begun to get a theme going here with the first batch of photos. Look.” As he spoke, he began to spread them out a little more neatly.
After a moment of rearranging them, he continued. “Here are lots of your shots of children . . . children who haven’t been injured . . . see, children with little bunches of flowers, with pets, with their siblings. Look at this one, this little boy with a scrap of bread held so close to his chest, as if he’s afraid someone will take it away from him. It gets to you . . . in fact they all say so much, and they’re very poignant.”
“Yes, they are,” I agreed. I remembered where and when I had taken most of them; the faces of the children were very touching. They were so sorrowful, so pathetic, heart-rending even, and yet there was something about them that suggested hope . . . hope for the future. They brought a lump to my throat, made me choke up. And if they affected me in this way, then surely they would move others. I wanted the book to be a success, most especially for Jake.
Chapter 22
I
Having confronted my mother and found out nothing, I decided to take Jake’s advice and fling the family garbage out the window.
There was no point in attempting to talk to my mother again. As my grandfather used to say, there’s nothing to be gained from flogging a dead horse, and this was true. My mother was in denial about her treatment of me when I was a child, and she probably always would be.
I could think of no way to convince her she had done wrong by me, and so my only course of action was to do nothing. I had to put it out of my mind once and for all, and move on.
This I did by throwing myself wholeheartedly into the book project. Since Jake wanted me to write a great deal of it, I started by working on the captions for the photographs, intended for the presentation to the editor on Friday. “Practicing for the book itself,” I told Jake as daily I bent my head over my yellow pad and drafted the lines I thought would best convey the feeling behind each picture.
After a couple of days I discovered how much I enjoyed writing the rather lengthy captions, and I was extremely flattered to hear Jake’s words of praise when he read them at the end of each day.
While I wrote, he spent most of his time sorting and cataloguing his pictures, and also mine, which Mike had said we could take from the Gemstar archive in New York. “As long as you make a copy of each one and send back the original,” he had reminded me on the phone from Paris.
On Wednesday morning we were very busy working at the dining room table, when the phone rang. Jake answered, and after listening a moment, said, “Oh, hi, Marge. Yes, okay. Wait a minute, let me find a pen.”
Automatically I got up, handed him mine, and grabbed the yellow pad, placed it on the side table where the phone stood.
I went back to my chair and stared at the group of pictures I had spread out in front of me. I selected one and studied it for a moment. It was of a ragged-looking little boy, covered in grime, who was hunkered down next to his brother and his mother. They lay dead or dying on a dusty street in a Balkan village. Mounds of rubble surrounded them.
The images I had captured on film the previous year told their own story. What I wanted to do was use the back story, the story behind the photo for the caption. And I needed to do so in a cogent way, but also I had to choose exactly the right words. The whole idea was for the caption to have an emotional impact on the reader, and just as much as the images had.
“Okay, right. I’ll call now,” Jake was saying, and when he hung up, looked across at me and said, “You’ll never guess who’s in New York. Who just called me at the agency.” His eyes fastened on mine, and he stood there, slightly bemused.
Knowing it had to be someone we didn’t expect, or unlikely, I racked my brains. “Olivier,” I answered, because I couldn’t think of any other likely suspect.
“Don’t be ghoulish! No, not Olivier, thank God. It’s Fiona.”
“Fiona!” I repeated.
“Yes, Fiona Hampton.”
“I wonder what she’s doing here,” I muttered, frowning.
“I’m about to find out,” Jake replied, and before I could say another word, he was dialing.
“Hey, wait a minute, let’s not be rash here,” I exclaimed, but he was already asking for her.
The next thing I heard was his cheerful “Hello, Fiona! How are you? And what are you doing in New York?”
He leaned against the antique mahogany sideboard, the phone pressed to his ear, nodding from time to time, listening intently, apparently interested in every word she had to say.
“Just a second, let me ask Val,” he murmured into the phone, and looked across at me.
I sat up straighter in the chair and focused my attention on him. “What does she want?” I mouthed.
“Fiona would like us to have lunch or dinner with her. Which do you prefer, honey?” he asked.
“Are you talking about today?”
“Yep.”
“Then let’s make it dinner, since I’m really on a roll here with the captions. I’d like to keep working for a bit.”
N
odding to me, he said into the phone, “Dinner is much better for us, Fiona, and why don’t we meet at, let’s see . . .” He stared at me, lifting a brow questioningly.
“Le Périgord on East Fifty-second. At eight o’clock,” I suggested.
Jake repeated what I had just said to Fiona, adding, “Yes, it’ll be lovely to see you too. Until tonight, then.”
II
“So what is she doing in New York?” I asked Jake once he was off the phone.
“She’s here on a little holiday, she said. With a friend. Who she is bringing to dinner—”
“Male or female?” I interrupted.
“It’s a man.”
“Oh. So the grieving widow is no longer grieving.”
“I never thought she really was grieving,” Jake murmured, coming back to the dining room table, sitting down opposite me. “She was sad, yes, at the memorial, but looking back now, don’t you think she was oddly contained?”
I nodded. “You’re right, Jake, and there weren’t too many tears flowing either during the eulogies or the rest of the service. Mmmm. Well, we’ll see, won’t we?”
“We sure will.” He began to shuffle the photos.
I said, “By the way, how did she know you were in New York?”
“Don’t you remember, she was calling me when we were at Les Roches Fleuries? Calling the Paris office, I mean. I kept trying to reach her, first in Dublin and then London. But she always had a machine on in London. I finally left a message that I was going to New York. I guess she got it, and decided to phone the Photoreal office once she arrived.”
Once more I bent my head and began to write, trying to concentrate on the caption I’d been working on before Fiona’s call. But she kept intruding, popping into my mind, and in the most insistent way.
During the year I had been emotionally involved with Tony, he had brainwashed me into believing she was a harridan and a difficult woman. But then I had discovered she was quite the opposite when I finally met her. Ever since that day I had often wondered if she had known about me, but I’d inevitably dismissed this idea. Married men didn’t tell their wives about their mistresses. Or did they? Well, certainly not Tony Hampton, because there had been too many women in his life over the years. So many confessions would have surely caused a rift between them.