Dangerous to Know. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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 crystal-clear 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 thrall.

      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, millions 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, tumble-down structure which I had captured so carefully on film. 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 Château d’Cose in Aix-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 château he had made a strenuous effort to learn French. And he had succeeded admirably.

      During our travels around the provençal 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 château life and the winery, his charity work taking precedence. More and more, he left the running of the château 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 château, its land and the winery to Jack that year as part of his inheritance. Jack had been thrilled, had spent every summer in Aix thereafter, and had moved permanently to France once he graduated from Yale.

      In these early photographs of mine, Vieux 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 photographs I’d wanted to see in the first place, the finished shots of Vieux 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.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      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 calm 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 hair 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.