Secrets From the Past (14 page)

I suddenly sat up straighter and glanced at the door as it opened.

My sister Jessica came in, exclaiming, ‘There you are, darling, I thought I’d find you up here.’ Her arched black eyebrows drew together in a frown as she walked towards me. ‘Are you all right, Pidge? You look troubled.’

‘I’m fine,’ I answered, smiling at her, thinking how smart she looked this morning, in narrow navy pants and white cotton shirt, her only jewellery a watch and gold hoop earrings. As she sat down, I explained, ‘I was daydreaming about Mom.’

‘What about her?’ Jessica asked, pushing her flowing black hair away from her face, looking at me questioningly.

‘Nothing of any great importance. But from the moment we got here last night, I’ve felt the love in this old place. And just now I was remembering Mom’s theory about atmospheres, and how she believed that the walls knew everything.’

A smile spread across Jessica’s face. ‘When I look back, and think about Mom, I realize how clever she was. But also somewhat quirky at times, I’ve got to admit that. The problem was her great beauty, Pidge. Nobody really got past her looks. They were just stunned by them. And yet there was quite a brain behind that gorgeous face.’

Jessica’s dark eyes were suddenly glistening, and I was aware she was remembering our mother with love in her heart, and I thought, for a split second, that she was going to start crying. But she didn’t, although she remained silent for a moment or two.

Before I could say anything, she continued in a steady voice, ‘She was priceless at times, wasn’t she? And she was mostly right about everything, including houses.’

‘Yes, she was,’ I answered, still thinking about Mom myself, and missing her. I suddenly felt as if she were here with us in the room. So strong was the feeling, I glanced around, fully expecting to see her.

Settling back in the chair, my sister changed the subject when she said, ‘Zac looks better than I expected, Serena, and he’s still quite the handsome son-of-a-gun! But I could see he was bone weary, and there’s a pinched look to his face. He was relaxed when you arrived, though.’

‘He was, and he still is. He was happy to go running with Cara. He needs the exercise, he says, and also to let off steam. It’ll do him good,’ I told her.

‘You didn’t confide much on the phone from Venice, but I suppose privacy was a bit of a problem in the confines of the bolthole, wasn’t it?’

‘It was. Although I knew he didn’t mind when I was talking to Harry about his health. Zac understood how worried Harry has been about him.’

‘And I’ve been worried about you!’ Jessica exclaimed. ‘I haven’t forgotten some of the problems Dad experienced. Does Zac have PTSD?’

‘I don’t know. But you shouldn’t be concerned. If Zac does have it, he would never hurt me. And it’s a pretty well-known fact that post-traumatic stress disorder doesn’t
usually
manifest itself in violence towards others, only violence against oneself. Although there have been exceptions to this rule, I guess.’

‘I think I probably knew that from Dad or Harry.’

‘Zac’s doing okay at the moment, Jess. He’s trying hard, striving to be as normal as possible. And I think that’s because he wants us to get back together.’ I paused. I always told Jessica how things were in my life; she empathized with me, and was never judgemental.

Jessica leaned forward, asked in an earnest voice, ‘Do you want to get back with him? If you did, where would it lead in the end?’

‘I don’t know where it would lead. And I’m not sure I want us to get back together. I couldn’t cope if he insisted on going back to the front line. I could only handle it if he led a normal life, like Dad and Harry did eventually.’ Shaking my head, I finished, ‘Frankly, I don’t know how our mother managed – all those years of worrying about Dad’s safety.’

‘And yours, I might add,’ Jessica pointed out. ‘Mom was always a bit agitated inside, when Dad and you were covering a war; at least that’s what I believed then, and I still do now. Mostly she kept it to herself, and never complained, but she
was
constantly worried.’

‘I’m sure she was,’ I replied. ‘But I wanted to be a war photographer so badly, and I was so driven about it, and you know how selfish the young can be.’

She nodded, obviously agreeing with me, and asked, ‘Are you still in love with Zac, Serena?’ As usual she got straight to the point in that very direct way she had.

‘I do have feelings for him, yes. After all, we were together for a long time. I do love him, care about his wellbeing—’

‘Don’t fudge it, Pidge. I’m talking about
being in love
,’ she interrupted, and repeated, ‘Are you in love with him or not?’ Her voice had become an octave higher.

‘One day I think I am, the next day I believe I’m not,’ I explained. ‘And what I was trying to say a moment ago is that I have loving feelings for him.’

‘Oh pooh to that! Come on, darling, it’s me you’re talking to, remember. In my opinion, you’re still in love with Zac, but you’re also angry with him. You just haven’t let go of the anger you felt when you broke up. He was pretty nasty verbally – volatile. Let’s not forget that I heard most of his rant.’

She paused, gave me a loving look, and added, ‘It’s all right to be in love with him, you know. I would never interfere in your private life, and neither would Cara.’

I slumped down in the chair. ‘I’ve got to admit I’ve done nothing but dither about him since I arrived in Venice. I guess I’m worried that he might want to continue being a combat photographer, and that would not sit well with me.’

‘I’m not surprised you feel that way. He came out of this last battlefield a very disturbed man, from what you’ve told me. Has he had any more of those flashbacks?’

‘No, only the one I told you about on the phone. He still hasn’t offered any details about that, nor has he confided what horrendous memories brought it on.’

Jessica nodded, rose, went across to the window, stood looking out at the gardens. After a few seconds she returned to the fireplace, and sat down next to me on the sofa. ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Serena – and Zac too. There is something healing about this house, just as Mom always claimed there was.’

‘Yes, I know that, and talking of healing, how’s Cara been lately? Is she still grieving for Jules?’

In a low voice, Jessica said, ‘A little, but the good thing is she’s not so depressed any more. So I think she’s finally making progress.’

‘She certainly seemed elated when we arrived last night.’

‘She was happy to see you, Pidge, and Zac. She’s always had a soft spot for him,’ Jess said.

‘I know.’ I gave my sister a pointed look, and went on carefully, ‘I wish Cara could meet someone, and you too. Aren’t there any nice men on your horizon?’

Jessica let out her marvellous, full-bodied laugh, and exclaimed, ‘Unfortunately not. But I’m okay with my lot in life, Pidge. I enjoy running the auction house, and I have a nice social life here, and in Paris, when I go there. And I’ll meet somebody one day. Mom always said that when you’re looking for a man there’s never one around. So I’m not looking. In the meantime, I’m thrilled you’re here, and I’m behind you all the way, whatever you choose to do about Zac. You can always count on me.’

‘I know that, and I always listen to you, take your advice,’ I replied, and this was the truth.

A smile flickered on her face, and she said softly, ‘In the last year of her life, Mom spoke about you often, Serena. I’ve not told you this before, but she asked me to always look after you. Because I was the eldest, and you were the youngest of her daughters, and it was my responsibility. That was the way she put it. I promised her I would, and that I would always have your back. That expression amused her a lot. She said I was using Dad’s military lingo, and she liked that.’

I was so touched I couldn’t speak for a moment. I felt tears pricking the back of my eyes, and I moved closer, put my arms around her, held her tightly.

She hugged me in return, and against my hair she said, ‘You were the child she had wanted for so long, and thought she’d never have. She used to say you were her little one, and the treasure of her life.’

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.

We held each other close for a long time.

A
fter Jessica went off to the market in Nice, I strolled into the gardens, heading for my father’s studio at the far end of what our grandmother persisted in calling ‘the front lawn’. We all knew what she meant. It was English terminology for a beautiful lawn at the front of a house. But in this instance ours was at the back, falling away from the long stone terrace. Nonetheless, Grandma insisted on calling it the front lawn despite our teasing.

It was only eight thirty, but it was already a lovely morning: soft, balmy, with a light breeze floating on the limpid air. The bouncy white clouds in the bright blue sky were highlighted by pale sunshine. I loved these pretty days in the south of France, so typical of late April, when it was not too hot.

I glanced around as I walked down the path, instantly aware of the glorious display of flowers everywhere. It was Cara’s handiwork. As hard as she slaved in her orchid business, workaholic that she was, she made time to team up with Raffi, our long-time gardener, who had adored my mother. It had been Mom who had created these gardens; Cara was following in her footsteps, and doing a great job. It was a labour of love, I could see that.

I hurried on, past the swimming pool, then veered right and approached my father’s studio. I smiled to myself as I paused at the pergola, which ran down one side of the stone building.

My father and Harry had built this structure. I held onto one of the supporting poles, closed my eyes, stood perfectly still. In my head I could hear the sound of their hammers, explosive bursts of laughter when they joked with each other, as I now recalled the scenes of them at work. My throat tightened with emotion and I swallowed hard, momentarily carried back in time.

The pergolas were of their own design: four sturdy poles securely planted deep in the earth, topped by a roof made of wooden lattice. When ivy grew up around the poles and onto the lattice, which it did in abundance, it eventually made a lovely, leafy green roof, and offered much shade.

Over the past twenty-odd years they had constructed three pergolas on the property, and my mother, good sport that she was, always smiled in delight when a new one unexpectedly appeared, exclaiming, ‘Oh, Tommy, angel, how lovely of you to do this. It’s perfect to keep me cool. Thank you. And thank you, too, Harry darling.’

This was always said with such conviction we all believed every word she uttered, forgetting she was the ultimate actress. But I noticed, over the years, that Mom hardly ever sat under any of the pergolas, preferring a large umbrella to protect herself from the sun. Occasionally, I wondered why no one else noticed, but perhaps they did and simply kept quiet.

Moving on, I took the key from my pocket, unlocked the door, and went into the studio. It had four big windows, and light streamed into the large room. It was exactly the same as it had been in September, when I had last been here.

I walked around, touching certain items lovingly, looking at the many photographs, drifting down to the long built-in credenza where all of Dad’s light boxes stood in a row. Six of them lined up, so that he could easily view a quantity of photographs at the same time, making sequences that worked for his picture stories.

Yes, everything was in its given place. My sisters had not touched a thing, nor would they ever. Neither would I. His studio looked as it always had … as if he had just walked out, gone up to the main house for lunch or dinner. If only that were true.

I went and sat in his chair, a chair I had loved as a child. Because it was an office chair it was on casters, and with a slight push it easily rolled across the floor. It also pivoted around.

I used to sit on Dad’s knee and he would give me ‘a whirl’ as he called it. Now I did the same, for old times’ sake, swinging around in the seat, then rolling over to the window and back.

The chair was teamed with a large Parsons table, which he used as a desk, and it was loaded with Dad’s favourite mementos and objects. Also there were four of his favourite photographs of Mom, Jessica, Cara and me lined up next to each other, which he himself had taken.

I leaned back in the chair and stared at them. The pictures had been shot in the garden here, the summer before Mom had died. Five years ago. I felt a rush of sadness, a longing for her. I stood up, walked across to look at the table full of awards that Dad had won for his dramatic and evocative photographs. Then my eyes lifted to the wall above, where he had hung pictures of himself and Harry in danger zones, and also in Paris: there were some of me and Zac with him. And alongside were photographs of Mom in all her movie-stardom glamour, and other celebrities and actors, writers and journalists of some repute.

And a thought struck me: he’d had a good life.
A grand life
. Tommy Stone had had it all, no doubt about that. This made me feel happy, and I was also glad he had died here at Jardin des Fleurs, as Mom had, and not on a battlefield far away.

Under one of the windows my sisters had set up two folding card tables. A large cardboard box stood on each. On one lid a label told me that this contained Dad’s unfinished book. It was called
Courage
; the other box was marked
Miscellaneous
, telling me nothing. A smaller box was labelled
Venice
, and that was all.

I stood for a moment with my hand on the box containing Dad’s book, thinking about the contents, and I was going to lift the lid and look inside. But I changed my mind. There was no point getting involved with it until after Easter. Today was Wednesday; Harry would be arriving tomorrow, and the day after was Good Friday. It was also the anniversary of my father’s death – in two days’ time he would have been dead for one year.

Sighing, I turned around and walked towards the door, swallowing hard once more, fighting back the emotions rising up in me. Then I closed the door on Dad’s private domain. Locked it.