Dangerous to Know Read online

  Nor had he looked fifty-six at lunch last week.

  I had told him this at one point during the meal, and he had laughed delightedly, obviously pleased and flattered by my comment.

  And then he had told me I didn’t look my age either, going on to remark that I appeared to be ten years younger.

  A bit of a mutual admiration society it had been that day. And I had reached out, squeezed his hand resting on top of the table, told him -that we both seemed to be defying time.

  My comment had amused him even more. “You’ve always been my favorite, Vivi. I suddenly realized how much I’ve missed you. We’ve got to see each other more often, my darling girl. Life’s too short not to spend some time with those one genuinely cares about.”

  I had reminded him that he was the one who was constantly traveling the world nonstop, whilst I was either sitting in New Preston or Lourmarin, and was therefore extremely easy to find. “Don’t worry, Vivi, I’ll come and find you,” he had promised, smiling into my eyes.

  And I knew he meant it. But that could never be. Not now. It was too -late.

  Sighing sadly, I moved on, turning the pages, skipping over our winter holiday in Sun Valley, Idaho, that same year, ignoring the photographs of my graduation from Wellesley the following summer.

  But I did pause for a second when I came to the section I had filled with our wedding photographs. Here I was in all my young glory, the sweet little bride in a short, white-silk dress holding a posy of white roses, gazing up at her handsome groom through eyes that saw no one but him.

  My adoration of Sebastian was so patently obvious, and so touching, I felt my throat tighten with the remembrance of our years together as husband and wife.

  I leaned back, staring into space, thinking.

  We were married in July of 1980. The summer of my twenty-second year.

  This was just after I had graduated from Wellesley.

  Once Sebastian and I had become lovers the previous year, I had not wanted to go back to college. Instead I had wished to stay with him, to travel with him, to be at his side all the time.

  He would not hear of my dropping out. In no uncertain terms, he had told me I must complete my education and graduate. That was when we had had our first really major row. Naturally, we had patched things up in no time, since neither of us ever harbored a grudge.

  Still, I have no trouble recollecting the way we had locked horns about that particular issue, and with such ferocity we had both been shaken by my headstrong stubbornness, forceful manner, and dogged determination to get my own way. He won. I lost. But Sebastian con ceded that he had met his match. As for me, I was astounded at myself.

  I had not known I could be such a hellion.

  Ever since our affair had started I had hoped he would ask me to marry him. Nonetheless, I was caught off guard and surprised when he did so.

  He had always gone on so alarmingly about the age difference of twenty years. This was something which had never bothered me in the slightest; he was young and boyish in so many different ways, I never thought of him as being older than I.

  “Who are we going to get to give you away?” he had asked a few weeks before the wedding.

  In the end we had decided that Jack should do it. We had grown up together, he and I, and he was the next best thing I had to a brother.

  The marriage took place at Laurel Creek Farm, in front of a local judge who was a long-standing acquaintance of Sebastian’s. The cere many was held in the beautiful walled rose garden. It was simple and short, and once it was over there was a luncheon in the marquee on the lawn for the friends and family who had attended. Later that afternoon Sebastian and I had driven into New York City for dinner, glad to escape, to be alone, and married at last.

  The following morning we set out for Africa, where we were to spend most of our honeymoon.

  Our first stop was London and Claridge’s Hotel. Sebastian had booked a suite for us there, and we were staying for two weeks. He had certain business matters to attend to, and he had also wanted to get me rigged-out properly for our impending African sojourn. “You must have the right clothes, Vivi, you must be comfortable. We have to combat the heat, the sun, the constant travel, and the cold at night,” he had explained to me.

  I had only been to London twice, both times with my mother and Gran Rosalie, and it was a special treat for me to be back there again with my husband.

  I met many of Sebastian’s friends; we went to smart luncheons and elegant dinners; we attended the opera in Covent Garden, and saw several plays in the West End. I relished every minute of it. I was madly in love, and so it seemed was he. We spent a lot of time in bed giving pleasure to each other. He made love to me most expertly, spoiled me outrageously, dressed me fashionably, and showed me off proudly.

  At one point, during the first week of our stay, Sebastian took me on our special shopping expedition for the appropriate clothing for East Africa, our next destination. He bought me light-weight cotton pants, cotton safari jackets, short-sleeved cotton shirts, as well as four pairs of really good soft leather boots and several large-brimmed felt bush hats for protection against the sun.

  At the end of the two weeks in London we flew to Nairobi. This was to be our base for the three or four months Sebastian had planned for us to stay. And as long as I live I will never forget those months in Kenya.

  I was besotted with my husband, thrilled to be his wife, to share so many things with him, but I was also captivated by Africa the moment I set foot there. It was one of the most spectacularly beautiful places I had ever been to in my life, and I was awestruck.

  Sebastian knew Kenya extremely well, and it gave him a great deal of pleasure to show me his favorite spots, the areas he loved the most, and which had enticed him back time after time. And how truly magical they were.

  Piloting a small plane owned by a friend in Nairobi, he flew me over the vast expanse of land that was the Great Rift Valley. This ran from the north to the south of the country, and was bounded by soaring escarpments so high and formidable they defied description. At times the Great Rift Valley, arid and desolate in parts, seemed to resemble a giant moonscape to me, and when I mentioned this to Sebastian he agreed and said he found it an apt description.

  In contrast were the lush and verdant savannahs where we went on safari.

  It was here thusly, dressed me fashionably, and showed me off proudly.

  At one point, during the first week of our stay, Sebastian took me on our special shopping expedition for the appropriate clothing for East Africa, our next destination. He bought me light-weight cotton pants, cotton safari jackets, short-sleeved cotton shirts, as well as four pairs of really good soft leather boots and several large-brimmed felt bush hats for protection against the sun.

  At the end of the two weeks in London we flew to Nairobi. This was to be our base for the three or four months Sebastian had planned for us to stay. And as long as I live I will never forget those months in Kenya.

  I was besotted with my husband, thrilled to be his wife, to share so many things with him, but I was also captivated by Africa the moment I set foot there. It was one of the most spectacularly beautiful places I had ever been to in my life, and I was awestruck.

  Sebastian knew Kenya extremely well, and it gave him a great deal of pleasure to show me his favorite spots, the areas he loved the most, and which had enticed him back time after time. And how truly magical they were.

  Piloting a small plane owned by a friend in Nairobi, he flew me over the vast expanse of land that was the Great Rift Valley. This ran from the north to the south of the country, and was bounded by soaring escarpments so high and formidable they defied description. At times the Great Rift Valley, arid and desolate in parts, seemed to resemble a giant moonscape to me, and when I mentioned this to Sebastian he agreed and said he found it an apt description.

  In contrast were the lush and verdant savannahs where we went on safari.

  It was here that we either drove or
trekked, photographing the extraordinary wildlife-leopard, lion, elephant, buffalo, rhino, cheetahi, gazelle, zebra, wildebeest, and giraffes.

  It was from the savannahs that Sebastian took me into the Maasai Mara Reserve, and once more I was stunned and overwhelmed by the beauty of the land and the big game animals roaming across their natural habitat.

  I felt transported back to the beginning of time, when the earth was young.

  Moving on, we drove down to Lake Victoria at a leisurely pace, spent a week relaxing on its fertile shores. When we were rested and refreshed we struck out again, heading south toward the Tanzania border and Mount KIlimanjaro.

  What an awesome sight that massive volcanic mountain was, and its elevation was so high its twin peaks were lost in clouds and mists, only visible if one dared to venture upward, upward, and farther upward.

  Neither of us were mountain climbers, and so we hiked only a short distance up its easier, and much lower, slopes.

  We camped in the foothills of Kilimanjaro, and explored the surrounding area, and at night we made love under its giant shadow.

  The night skies were incredible. We would lie beneath a sky so clear, so smooth it looked like a high-flung canopy of perfect, untouched black velvet.

  “A sheltering sky,” Sebastian would say to me time and again. One night, as we lay entwined in each-other’s arms, listening to the night sounds, staring up at the crystallear stars, he had explained: “It was here in this land, under this same sky, that human life began eons and eons ago.

  This is the Cradle of Mankind, Vivi.” I listened attentively when he talked to me about Africa; I learned so much from him about that land, and about so many other things.

  Following the sketchy, somewhat loose triangle Sebastian had mapped out, we moved slowly back up to Nairobi from Kilimanjaro, in order for him to show me the lakes and highlands of that particular area which he loved and knew intimately. Here too the land was extravagantly lush and spectacular, and I was more spellbound than ever.

  Oh those green hills of Africa . . . how they captured my imagination and my heart. I was forever in their thiall.

  Poring over the album, my eyes settled on some snaps that had been taken of us on safari. Here were Sebastian and I, standing with our arms around one another, underneath a vivid flame tree in Thika. I thought I looked rather smart in my safari jacket, pants, and riding boots, my bush hat set at a jaunty angle.

  Next to this I had placed an enlarged shot of the two of us flanking a Maasai herdsman. He was so proud and dignified, regal in his colorful, exotic tribal dress. The Maasai were tall and slender, a nomadic tribe who mostly herded cattle but were also renowned as fierce warriors.

  And finally here we were, posing on the edge of Lake Nakura, one of the many soda lakes in Kenya, where the flamingo live. I stared hard at the pictures, marveling once more, thinking how amazing that scene was. The flamingos were a moving, tidal wave of pink and flame, mil lions of wings spread across the vast dark waters of the lake. It was the most astonishing sight.

  I have never forgotten those months in Africa with Sebastian . .

  the memories are as fresh and vivid now as if I had been there only yesterday. In fact, it had been fourteen years ago.

  Flipping the pages rapidly, not particularly interested in our other trips to other places at different times, I came at last to the old mill in Provence.

  For a moment, I was quite startled at the images of the dilapidated, tumbledown structure which I had captured so carefully on ifim. I had completely forgotten what a dreadful ruin it had been, truly an eyesore when we first came across it by accident.

  After leaving Kenya, Sebastian and I had made our way to France.

  We had spent several months at the Chateau d’Case in Air-en-Provence , which he had owned for a number of years. We had all gone there for the summers in the years when I was growing up, when my mother was still alive, and they had been memorable holidays. It was Jack’s favorite place; he felt at home there and because of his love for the chAteau he had made a strenuous effort to learn French. And he had succeeded admirably.

  During our travels around the provenal countryside, Sebastian and I had stumbled upon the old mill. It was situated near an olive grove amidst rolling fields, just outside the centuries-old village of Lourmarin. It was secluded enough to be absolutely private, protected by plenty of acreage, yet it was not too isolated from village life to -make it boring.

  Initially Sebastian purchased it for me as a wedding gift, because I had fallen in love with it and the surrounding land, as well as with the picturesque village. However, once we started work on the reconstruction he began to recognize its great potential. He decided it would make a perfect home for the two of us in Europe, and he made the decision that we would live there for part of every year.

  For some time Sebastian had been losing interest in chAteau life and the winery, his charity work taking precedence. More and more, he left the running of the chAteau and the land to an estate manager, and paid only short annual visits. Since he was as enamored of the mill as I was, he gave the chAteau, its land, and winery to Jack that year as part of his inheritance. Jack had been thrilled, had spent every summer in Air thereafter, and had moved permanently to France once he graduated fromYale.

  In these early photographs of mine, vieur Moulin did resemble a heap of old gray stones, a formless relic that would defeat anyone, even the most stoical, who was hoping to resurrect it, to bring it back to life.

  As things turned out the project had gone well. Rebuilding and remodeling the original structure and adding two new wings had been one of the most satisfying endeavors I had ever undertaken. Sebastian had enjoyed it too, and we had spent some happy years there together until our divorce. And even afterward he occasionally came back to stay with me when he wanted to escape the world.

  Moving through the album quickly, I came at last to the photo graphs I’d wanted to see in the first place, the finished shots of vieur Moulin.

  How splendid it was, its pink and beige stones turned to gold, gleaming in the sunlight under a pale-blue summer sky swept with recumbent white clouds. My favorite shot was of the house from a distance, viewed across the purple lavender fields at that hour in late afternoon when the sun is just about to set. It had an unearthly golden glow about it that was captivating. And next week, all being well, I would be going back there.

  Holding this thought I closed the album and went upstairs to bed.

  Sebastian’s funeral was a distressing ordeal for me in a variety of ways, and I was sorrowful and forlorn as I sat in the front pew of the little church in Cornwall.

  Jack and Luciana were on one side of me, Cyrus Locke and Madeleine Connors on the other, and I felt wedged in amongst alien beings, even though they were the nearest thing to family I had.

  It was not that any of them had said anything unpleasant to me or behaved badly. Rather, it was their attitude that disturbed me. I detected a singular lack of grief in all of them and this made me angry inside. But I bit down on that anger, kept a cairn demeanor, presented an inscrutable face to the world.

  I sat perfectly still in the pew, my hands folded in my lap, wishing this day had never come into being. We all had to die at some time or other, none of us were immortal, but Sebastian had died too young, too soon. And how had he died? That was the thing that worried me.

  Surreptitiously, I stole a look at Jack, who was seated next to me. He was pale, had dark rings under his eyes, and his expression was as inscrutable as mine. Only his hands betrayed his nervousness.

  I closed my eyes, tried to concentrate on the service; after a moment I realized I was only half listening to the current president of Locke Industries who was giving one of the eulogies. My thoughts were on Sebastian’s father who was sitting on my other side.

  I had expected Cyrus to resemble a cadaver, to be at death’s door.

  After all, he was ninety years old, but he looked surprisingly fit to me.

  His white h
air was sparse, thinly combed across his mottled bald pate, -and the skin of his face was almost transparent, stretched so tightly over his bones they were unusually prominent. Yet his eyes were bright, not a bit rheumy or vacant, and I’d noticed a spring in his step when he went up the path ahead of me earlier. A tall thin man with a mind like a steel trap, that’s how I remembered him, and he didn’t seem much different to me today. Older yes, and frail, but not quite as frail as Madeleine had made out to Jack.

  When he had spoken to me outside the church a short while ago he had sounded lively and sharp.

  It wouldn’t surprise me if Cyrus Locke lived to be a hundred.

  It was Luciana who had startled me the most when we had greeted each other as we had alighted from our cars. I had not seen her for a couple of years and her appearance was appalling. She was so bone thin she looked ill, and yet I was certain she had no real ailments. Her extreme thinness came from excessive dieting, I was convinced of that.

  If Luciana ever did get pregnant she would probably have a hard time carrying the child. This was unlikely; pregnancy was not a priority with her, she had constantly proclaimed to the world that she did not want children.

  The sad thing was she had lost her looks, lost the lusciousness that had sat so well on her when she was young, and had made her so pretty and appealing. Her head appeared to be too big for her wasted body and her legs were spindly. It didn’t seem possible she was only twenty eight.

  She looked much older.

  At least she was wearing black, thank God. She was so contrary, so determined to be different, to flout the rules, I had half expected her to show up in a bright red ensemble. One thing was certain, she had obviously not managed to persuade her husband to come to the funeral ; or maybe she had not invited him. Gerald Kamper was notice ably absent.

  Jack coughed behind his hand, and began to fidget; I roused myself from my thoughts and focused my attention on the person speaking. It was Allan Farrell who had been Sebastian’s assistant at the Locke Foundation. He spoke beautifully about Sebastian and with enormous sincerity. I was touched by his eloquence about a man he had been devoted to and with whom he had worked so closely for so many years.