Chapter 24

I

A week after our remarkable dinner with Fiona and David, my newfound inner peace and contentment suddenly shattered, blown to smithereens by several unexpected and unwelcome phone calls.

The bad news came filtering into the Beekman Place apartment on a cold but sunny Wednesday morning, thereafter etched in my mind as Bad Day at Black Rock, to remind me that the good things didn’t last very long for little old Val.

The first call came from Mike Carter in Paris. My boss began by telling me that I had missed the boat with the famous artist, who’d retreated to his compound in Mexico to wield his magic brush in a more congenial environment than a SoHo loft. And then he had added in a dour voice that there was serious trouble developing with Olivier, the abusive husband. He had somehow discovered that Françoise was staying with Mike, and was apparently on the warpath, violent, threatening, and out to make mayhem.

Before I got into what I knew would be a difficult discussion about Françoise, I apologized for missing the great Alexander St. Just Stevens, who had never even had the courtesy to return my innumerable phone calls to him. Which was the reason I had never had a peek at his paintings before he had flown the coop for more exotic climes.

I then addressed the problem of Olivier, cop on the rampage.

“You’ve got to send Françoise here,” I pushed, only to be told by Mike that she did not want to come stateside, as he called it.

“New York is too far away, Val, and she says she won’t like it. Especially since you’re not going to be there. And you’re not, are you? You are coming back to work next week, aren’t you?”

After reassuring him that I was indeed returning to Paris and work, I decided to offer him a bit of good advice. “If you haven’t done it already, get her a lawyer. And make sure he’s not only tough but has vast power within the French legal system, you know, the right connections. That’s the only kind of legal eagle who’ll be able to handle Olivier. That flic obviously has pull somewhere. And tell me, how the hell did he find out she’s staying with you and the girls?”

“No idea. As for the lawyer, I have hired somebody, a powerhouse, a real shit, I’m told, and just the kind of guy she needs. Françoise is seeing him tomorrow. But I wish I knew where I could send her for a while . . . out of the country would be preferable. London would be great, but I don’t know anybody—”

“Pig on the Roof!” I practically shouted down the phone, clutching the receiver tighter as an amazing brainstorm hit me.

“What the hell does that mean, Val?” Mike said.

I had to laugh, even though I knew this wasn’t a laughing matter, and also that my laughter would annoy him. Taking a deep breath, adopting a more sober tone, I explained. “It’s a restaurant, Pig on the Roof is . . . and it is being opened imminently by Fiona Hampton, Tony’s widow. She also bought a house close by, and both are in Middleham. That’s in Yorkshire. She told me she was looking for an assistant to help her pull both places together, especially the decoration of the restaurant. It just occurred to me that Françoise might be ideal, since she works for a decorator in Marseilles, or at least used to work for one.”

“I don’t know,” Mike mumbled uncertainly.

“She would be safe there, I’m sure, Mike, and listen, Yorkshire’s not that far from Paris. Fiona invited Jake and me to go and stay with her for Christmas if we want, and she said we could fly from Paris to Leeds-Bradford Airport, which is in a place called Yeadon. Or fly into Manchester Airport and drive to Yorkshire from there. Françoise would be in easy reach if you wanted to see her, Mike.”

“It’s a possibility, yes,” Mike responded, suddenly sounding a bit brighter. “And could she live with Fiona Hampton?”

“I don’t know, but under the circumstances, I would think so, yes. Fiona’s one of the most understanding women I’ve ever met. Do you want me to call her? She went back to London yesterday.”

“I’d better talk to Françoise about it first.”

“It sounds to me as if you’re heavily involved there,” I ventured to say, and then stopped abruptly, deeming it wiser not to pry. Besides, as Jake kept telling me, the less we knew about that particular mess, the better off we were.

Mike was saying, “Well, yes, I am very involved. I’m in love with her and she with me . . . I want to marry her.” There was a pause before he added, “She’s the only woman I’ve loved since Sarah’s death.”

I wasn’t a bit surprised to hear this declaration, but the mere idea of this union made me excessively nervous, not the least because Olivier was definitely not someone to tango with by choice.

Taking a deep breath, I forced a cheerfulness I suddenly did not feel when I said, “I’m going to be brides-maid, I hope. Or should I say maid of honor?”

Mike chuckled, promised to call Françoise immediately, and get back to me pronto.

After cautioning him to be careful about Olivier, I hung up.

II

I had no sooner put the phone down, when it rang again.

“Hullo?” I said, and was startled when my brother returned my salutation.

“I’ve got to come and see you, Val,” Donald said in a rush of words and with no preamble whatsoever. “As soon as possible.”

“But it’s only seven-thirty in the morning! I haven’t even had coffee yet,” I protested, and wondered what had happened to Jake, who had gone out to the supermarket to buy milk.

“I don’t mean this minute,” Donald explained. “But later this morning. Please, Val, we’ve got to talk.”

“What about?”

“The will.”

“Oh, come on, Donald! We talked about that the other Sunday. You know how I feel. You can have everything, Lowell’s included. I don’t want her stuff or her business, and I explained that to you. And to her.”

“But she says you have to inherit the business, she won’t listen to me. I thought perhaps you could give it one more shot. Maybe work something out with her.”

“Oh, Donald,” I groaned, and sighed heavily. “She won’t listen to me. You’re her favorite. You used to be able to twist her around your little finger, so why don’t you try doing that again?”

“She’s stuck on this family thing, The Tradition, as she calls it, with two capital T’s.”

“Do you think that’s a binding legal document? Or is it simply a tradition within the family, something started by Amy-Anne Lowell a hundred years ago?”

“I just don’t know,” Donald answered, his voice glum.

“It didn’t occur to me to ask her the other day, but I wonder if it’s written into the articles of incorporation? Try to find that out if you can.”

“I will, but why do you want to know?”

The dumbness of this question took my breath away, but then, you didn’t have to be a genius to be duplicitous, which was Donald’s main claim to fame in the family. “Because if it’s written into the articles of incorporation of Lowell’s, then it has to be treated as a legal matter,” I replied patiently. “But if it’s just a wish, a suggestion, a desire put forward by Amy-Anne, then I guess it would be simple to break. Because it’s not legal.”

“She’d never let us break The Tradition.”

“What’s the matter with you this morning, Donald? Get with it! If there’s no legal document, then I can simply decline to accept Lowell’s. Or better still, I suppose I should accept it, then give it to you by drawing up the appropriate papers.”

“You keep saying you’ll do that. But will you give it to me?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Sure I do,” he muttered, sounding doubtful, I thought.

“Call up your mother, find out what you can, and meet me here at one o’clock,” I ordered tersely, resorting to my bullying of old. “I’ll take you to lunch at a local joint, and we can settle this damn thing once and for all. Okay?”

“Okay, sis.”

“Donald!” I shouted. “Don’t call me—”

He hung up on me.

Ungrateful little pig, I thought, and wondered why I bothered with him. Anyway, I didn’t want Lowell’s, that was the absolute truth, and he should have it as our mother’s son. There was no one else, except for those distant Lowell cousins who received annual checks for doing nothing.

Desperate now for a blast of caffeine, I padded into the kitchen and filled a mug with coffee, adding sweetener. I didn’t particularly like it black, but Jake hadn’t returned from his errand to buy milk.

I stood at the kitchen window, looking out, thinking that it appeared to be one of those clear, crisp fall days. The sky was a blameless blue and the sun was already edging out from behind foamy white clouds. I always enjoyed the change of seasons, which is why I had never wanted to live permanently in a hot climate.

The sudden shrilling of the wall phone made me jump, and I grabbed the receiver and said hello, wondering who it was this time.

“Is that you, Valentine?”

I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice, and said, “Yes, it is, who’s this?”

“Good morning, Val, it’s Lauren, Jacques Foucher’s wife.”

“Hello, Lauren! How’re you?”

“I’m fine, but I’m afraid Jacques has had a terrible accident. I was looking for Jake to tell him about it. Is he there?”

“No, he’s out on an errand. He’ll be back any minute, but please, tell me what happened.”

“Jacques is badly injured, but he will recover. Eventually. He’s in hospital, obviously, and he’s lucky to be alive. He was on his way home last night, when he had a heart attack. In the car. He was driving, Val, and he hit a parked van, empty, thank God! And then he careened across the street and slammed into a brick wall head-on.”

“Oh my God!” I said. “You’re right, he is lucky to be alive. How bad are his injuries?”

“He broke his nose and his collarbone, and an arm and a leg, and of course he has a lot of contusions, bruises, some minor internal injuries. But that’s about the extent of it.”

“It could have been worse, let’s face it.”

“Yes, he could be dead,” Lauren said. “Anyway, will you tell Jake I’m at the office now, and I’ll come in every day until you get back to Paris. When do you think that’ll be?”

“Next week, of that I’m absolutely sure. But Jake might want to leave earlier now.”

“It’s not necessary,” she replied. “Everything’s under control, and fortunately Jacques is in the best medical hands. Please tell Jake I can cope with the agency, not too much is going on at the moment anyway.”

“I know you can cope,” I said, remembering just how efficient Lauren Crane was. English born, she was a successful agent running the Paris office of a well-known American talent agency. Like me, she had lived in Paris for a number of years and was a dyed-in-the-wool Francophile. She was Jacques Foucher’s second wife, and he adored her and their four-year-old daughter, Jasmine.

“But how are you going to run your own office?” I now asked Lauren.

“I’m going to spend the mornings here at Photoreal,” she explained, “and the afternoons at my own office. Since I’m dealing with New York and Los Angeles, the time differences work in my favor.”

“I see,” I responded. “And I’ll have Jake call you the minute he gets back. It won’t be long. And give Jacques my love, and tell him I hope he’s feeling better soon.”

“I will, Val, and thanks.”

III

After we had both hung up, I stood drinking my coffee, continuing to gaze out across the East River, though a little absently now, I must admit. I was thinking of Jacques and trying to remember his age. I knew he was older than Jake, by about fourteen years I thought, which would make him around fifty-two. Still, that was relatively young to have a heart attack, wasn’t it? Luck was running with him, I thought, just as it was with me and Jake in Kosovo. Our time wasn’t up then, and neither was his last night. It’s all to do with destiny.

When the phone began to ring again, I cursed under my breath and reached for the receiver once more. “Yes,” I said somewhat sharply, which wasn’t like me at all. But this unexpected early morning activity was suddenly getting to me.

“Val, ’allo, it is me, Françoise.”

“Françoise, hello, how are you?” I asked, my voice instantly softening. “You must be glad to be out of the clinic and back with Mike.”

“Oui. Yes, I am very happy with him. He is wonderful. But, Val, it is Olivier, he will grab me any minute and take me back to Marseilles, I feel this.”

“Listen to me, Françoise,” I instructed, “and listen carefully. You must get out of Paris after you have seen that lawyer tomorrow. And I think I can arrange for you to stay with a friend in England. How do you feel about that?”

“I will go. Mike explained it to me. About the Pig on the Roof lady. I am so frightened of Olivier. And so are my parents now. He is going to see them at Les Roches Fleuries. All the time.”

“I’ll bet he is! And I also bet he’s got the phone tapped and the mail monitored. Stay away from them, Françoise, if you want to be safe.”

“Oui, oui. I know this must be the way. They are worried about me.”

“Things will turn out all right,” I reassured her. “I’m going to phone my friend in London, and I’ll get back to you. Or, rather, I’ll call Mike. That would be better. Just be careful, Françoise, and don’t take any chances.

“I understand. Merci, Val. Au revoir.”

“Bye, Françoise, keep your chin up.” As I put the phone back in the cradle, I wondered if she knew what that phrase meant. Too late to explain.

I walked out of the kitchen, now more baffled than ever by Jake’s prolonged absence; I was heading down the corridor to the living room, when I heard the key in the lock. Then the door slammed.

As I hurried into the entrance foyer, I saw Jake struggling with three large bags from the supermarket. He was dressed in a heavy white fisherman’s sweater, blue jeans, and a baseball cap worn backward. He looked a little flushed, or perhaps it was windburn.

“Hi, Kid,” he said, grinning at me over the top of the bags. “It’s bitchy out there, cold all of a sudden. Sorry I took so long, but I bought stuff for dinner tonight, to save time. I thought we could—”

“There’s bad news, Jake,” I interrupted, going forward to help him with the overflowing supermarket bags.

“What bad news? What’s wrong?”

IV

Jake went immediately into the study to call Lauren in Paris.

I retreated to the kitchen to make fresh coffee and toast the bagels Jake had bought.

While the coffee perked and the bagels browned, I set up a tray with milk, sweetener, butter, and apricot jam. I added mugs, plates, spoons, knives, and napkins, and then stood watching the bagels, not wanting them to burn.

Earlier, I had planned a cozy little domestic scene. A blissful breakfast with Jake, since our sojourn in New York was soon coming to an end. I craved intimacy with him. All kinds of intimacy, and most especially the domestic kind. I asked myself why I needed this; then it had occurred to me the other day that domesticity with Jake made me feel safe, secure, and nurtured. Things I’d never really known. But today, unfortunately, life had intruded.

Once the coffee was ready, I put the pot on the tray, then peered into the toaster oven to evaluate the bagels. They looked perfect, and I lifted them out with a clean kitchen towel and dropped them on one of the plates.

As I carried the tray into the study and put it down on the big coffee table, Jake hung up the phone after saying good-bye to Lauren.

“What a lousy thing to happen to Jacques,” he said, walking over, sitting down on the sofa, and pouring coffee for us both. “The funny thing is, there’s no history of heart trouble. Lauren says he had a checkup only two weeks ago and he was fine.”

“Thank God he’s alive,” I said, flopping down next to Jake. “He could have so easily been killed. He had a narrow escape.”

Jake nodded, buttered a bagel, and spread it with apricot jam. He bit into it and nodded his approval.

While he munched on it, I relayed the news about Françoise and the rampaging husband out to get her and Mike and his two daughters. And whoever else got in his way. Like little old Val, perhaps.

“Shit!” he exploded, almost choking on the bagel. “I knew that situation spelled trouble right from the beginning!”

“And then some,” I muttered, and rapidly told him about my idea of asking Fiona to take Françoise under her wing for a few weeks.

“But you’re doing it again, Val!” he exclaimed, impaling me with his blue eyes.

“Doing what?” I asked, feigning sudden innocence.

“Meddling, for God’s sake!” he almost shouted.

“Having meddled once, and created a problem called Love with a capital L, certainly not anticipated by me, I feel I have to help them overcome the newer problem. The problem which that love has brought upon them. In short, the fury of Olivier.”

“Mike’s a big boy,” Jake snapped. “He can take care of Françoise, and I don’t want you getting mixed up in this any more than you already are. A guy like Olivier can easily go berserk, and if you get in his way, he’ll think nothing about exterminating you.”

“What you say is true, but calm down, Jake—please. All I want to do is put a call in to Fiona, explain the situation, and ask her if Françoise can go and stay with her for a while. Surely there’s no harm in that?”

Jake let out a long, exasperated sigh, took off his baseball cap, flung it to the other side of the room, grabbed me, and pulled me into his arms. “You’re . . . you’re just . . . incorrigible, Valentine Denning, the most impossible, stubborn, interfering, meddling, beautiful, sexy—”

I stopped this flow of words by planting my lips on his. I gave him a long, soulful, passionate kiss, then slid my tongue in his mouth and let it linger there. Which was a big mistake on my part, because it only inflamed him, gave him all the wrong ideas.

Except that they were not so wrong, I decided as he slowly but deliberately began to make love to me on the overstuffed sofa.

What a lovely intimate breakfast it turned out to be after all, I thought, smiling to myself.