Where You Belong by Barbara Taylor Bradford Read Free Book Online Page B

you’re out there in the streets. They make you feel more alive because they’re full of life, people, traffic, noise, activity. The streets are the world. Did I ever tell you about John Steinbeck and what he did when he heard that Robert Capa had been killed in Indochina?”
    I frowned. I wasn’t certain whether he’d told me or not, and yet at the back of my mind I thought that perhaps he had. Or was it Tony who had told me? Certainly we all revered Capa, the greatest war photographer who had ever lived. I said, “I’m not sure, you might have. But tell me again.”
    â€œCapa was killed in 1954, on May twenty-fifth, actually. And of course within hours, news of his death spread around the world. Steinbeck, who was a good friend of Capa’s, was in Paris when he heard. He was so shaken up, he went out and walked the streets for fourteen hours straight. I guess he just couldn’t believe it. And he couldn’t sit still. He had to be on the move. And you’re doing something very similar, but you’re doing it every day, Val.”
    â€œNo, I’m not, I don’t walk the streets for fourteen hours!”
    Jake sighed and said nothing, just gave me one of those penetrating looks of his that always made me reexamine everything I said to him. I shrugged, and finally admitted, “Okay, you’re right, I guess I am doing the same thing. And you did tell me the story. It was on one of those days when you were ticked off with Tony because you thought he was too reckless. You were comparing him to Capa.”
    â€œNo, I wasn’t.” Jake sat up straighter and gave me a hard stare. “Capa wasn’t reckless in the way that Tony was. Those who knew Capa always said he was very cautious. Don’t forget, he was an expert when it came to taking calculated risks. When he went to Indochina, it was his fifth war, and only a photojournalist of his great experience would know how to properly calculate when something was truly dangerous or not. From what I know about him, he measured the risks, especially when he had to walk across exposed areas, and he was always cautious, did not take risks unnecessarily. But if he saw the possibility of a great photograph and there was a calculated risk, then he took the risk. Tony just rushed in without—” He cut himself off and took a swallow of his wine, obviously feeling disloyal.
    â€œWithout thinking,” I finished for him, stood up, and headed toward the kitchen.
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œTo get the bottle of wine,” I answered. When I came back, I filled his goblet, and then mine, and put the bottle down on the glass coffee table. “What about the memorial service?” I said, getting right to the heart of the matter. “Do you know when it is?”
    â€œNext week. On Tuesday.”
    â€œI see. Where’s it being held?”
    â€œAt the Brompton Oratory at eleven o’clock.”
    I was silent, looked down at the drink in my hands.
    Jake said, “I’ve booked us in at the Milestone in Kensington. I know you like that hotel.”
    I nodded. He had surprised me with the information about the memorial. Events seemed to be moving more quickly than I’d anticipated, and I wasn’t prepared at all. Only four days away. And then I’d be sitting there among all of his friends and colleagues, many of them my colleagues, in fact, and listening to the world talk about the man I was still grieving. I was suddenly appalled at the idea, and I sat back jerkily.
    Jake was telling me something else, and I blinked and tried to concentrate on his words. He was saying, “I’ve spoken to Clee Donovan, and he’s definitely going to be there, and I’ve left messages for the Turnley brothers. I know they’ll come too if they’re able.”
    I gazed at him blankly. I was feeling overwhelmed, and the prospect of going to London frightened me, filled me