Jack took out a small black velvet case, showed me a pair of ruby cufflinks. “Would you like these?”
I shook my head. “But thanks anyway. However there is something I’d love to have .
“Anything, Viv.”
“His sapphire evening studs … if you don’t want them …”
I looked at him swiftly. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to part with them.”
“I don’t want them.” Jack began to open more of the small velvet boxes, finally found the studs, and handed them to me. “They’re yours.
There’s a pair of cufflinks. Somewhere. They match. An, here they are.”
“They’re beautiful, thank you, Jack. It’s so thoughtful of you to give me a few mementos in this way.”
“I told you, take whatever you want. That goes for the farm too.
It belongs to me now. Do you want his desk? Any furniture you had?
When you were married?”
“No, no, and thanks again. It’s lovely of you to offer, but the things you’ve given me are enough, and they really are so very meaningful to me.”
“Change your mind, let me know.”
We walked out of the bedroom through the main door, which led directly onto the upper landing. As we headed along the hall toward the staircase I paused, touched Jack’s arm. “I suppose you haven’t heard anything from the police, have you? About the autopsy, I mean?”
“You’d be the first to know.”
“I don’t understand it, Jack. Why is it taking so long to get the report?”
“The Chief Medical Examiner wants to make every possible test. To be absolutely sure. That’s why he’s taking his time. Nothing unusual.
It’s not even a week, Viv. Don’t forget that.”
“Believe me, Jack, I haven’t,” I said.
The following Wednesday morning, the memorial service for Sebastian was held at the Church of St. John the Divine in Manhattan.
The whole world came-statesmen, senators, representatives of foreign governments, and all those who had personally known and loved him or had admired him from afar.
Luciana had done her work well. The church was filled with flowers; the eulogies were moving, touched me deeply. Beautiful things were said about this man who had done so much for the world. I sat with Jack, Luciana, and her husband Gerald, who had flown in from London .
The moment the service was over, I took a cab to Kennedy Airport and caught the night plane to France.
.9
‘Whenever I returned to Provence I always felt a great sense of antici potion and excitement, and today was no exception. I could barely contain myself as I sat in the back of the chauffeur-driven car, watching the landscape slide by the windows.
We were traveling from Marseilles up through the Bouches du Rhone, heading for Lourmarin in the Vaucluse, and Vieux Moulin. I could hardly wait to get there.
I had arrived in Paris from New York this morning, and taken a flight to Marseilles, where the driver from the car company I used was waiting for me at the airport.
His name was Michel, and I had known him for several years.
Michel was a pleasant, friendly, and accommodating Provencal who was extremely well-informed about the whole area. He could be relied upon to supply accurate information about local towns, villages, ancient chateaux and churches, antique shops, stores, and restaurants, although he only volunteered the information when asked. This was one of the reasons I liked him as a driver; he was never overly familiar or chatty, and therefore not in the least bit intrusive. I preferred to be quiet, to relax and think when I was being driven. I couldn’t abide a constant stream of conversation.
I glanced out of the car window, thInking how extraordinary the -landscape looked on this sunny and mild October afternoon. It seemed to be aglow in the legendary light of Provence that dazzles the year long, and which has captivated artists for centuries.
So many painters have come here to paint, attracted by this most spectacular light and the vibrant colors of the earth
I shook my head. “But thanks anyway. However there is something I’d love to have .
“Anything, Viv.”
“His sapphire evening studs … if you don’t want them …”
I looked at him swiftly. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to part with them.”
“I don’t want them.” Jack began to open more of the small velvet boxes, finally found the studs, and handed them to me. “They’re yours.
There’s a pair of cufflinks. Somewhere. They match. An, here they are.”
“They’re beautiful, thank you, Jack. It’s so thoughtful of you to give me a few mementos in this way.”
“I told you, take whatever you want. That goes for the farm too.
It belongs to me now. Do you want his desk? Any furniture you had?
When you were married?”
“No, no, and thanks again. It’s lovely of you to offer, but the things you’ve given me are enough, and they really are so very meaningful to me.”
“Change your mind, let me know.”
We walked out of the bedroom through the main door, which led directly onto the upper landing. As we headed along the hall toward the staircase I paused, touched Jack’s arm. “I suppose you haven’t heard anything from the police, have you? About the autopsy, I mean?”
“You’d be the first to know.”
“I don’t understand it, Jack. Why is it taking so long to get the report?”
“The Chief Medical Examiner wants to make every possible test. To be absolutely sure. That’s why he’s taking his time. Nothing unusual.
It’s not even a week, Viv. Don’t forget that.”
“Believe me, Jack, I haven’t,” I said.
The following Wednesday morning, the memorial service for Sebastian was held at the Church of St. John the Divine in Manhattan.
The whole world came-statesmen, senators, representatives of foreign governments, and all those who had personally known and loved him or had admired him from afar.
Luciana had done her work well. The church was filled with flowers; the eulogies were moving, touched me deeply. Beautiful things were said about this man who had done so much for the world. I sat with Jack, Luciana, and her husband Gerald, who had flown in from London .
The moment the service was over, I took a cab to Kennedy Airport and caught the night plane to France.
.9
‘Whenever I returned to Provence I always felt a great sense of antici potion and excitement, and today was no exception. I could barely contain myself as I sat in the back of the chauffeur-driven car, watching the landscape slide by the windows.
We were traveling from Marseilles up through the Bouches du Rhone, heading for Lourmarin in the Vaucluse, and Vieux Moulin. I could hardly wait to get there.
I had arrived in Paris from New York this morning, and taken a flight to Marseilles, where the driver from the car company I used was waiting for me at the airport.
His name was Michel, and I had known him for several years.
Michel was a pleasant, friendly, and accommodating Provencal who was extremely well-informed about the whole area. He could be relied upon to supply accurate information about local towns, villages, ancient chateaux and churches, antique shops, stores, and restaurants, although he only volunteered the information when asked. This was one of the reasons I liked him as a driver; he was never overly familiar or chatty, and therefore not in the least bit intrusive. I preferred to be quiet, to relax and think when I was being driven. I couldn’t abide a constant stream of conversation.
I glanced out of the car window, thInking how extraordinary the -landscape looked on this sunny and mild October afternoon. It seemed to be aglow in the legendary light of Provence that dazzles the year long, and which has captivated artists for centuries.
So many painters have come here to paint, attracted by this most spectacular light and the vibrant colors of the earth
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