Read Online Where You Belong by Barbara Taylor Bradford - Free Book Online

And so I preferred to grieve for Tony in my own way, in the quiet of my home, not in a public place like the Brompton Oratory, although it was apparently a very beautiful Roman Catholic church—the Vatican of London, was the way someone had once described it to me years ago.
    After a few minutes of staring out at the rain-sodden streets, as the car plowed its way through the heavy London traffic, I turned away from the window. Taking a cue from Jake, who was huddled in the corner of the seat with his eyes closed, I did the same thing. And I did not open them until the car slid to a standstill outside the church.
    I sat up, smoothed one hand over my hair, which I’d sleeked back into a neat chignon, and straightened the jacket of my black suit. Then I took a deep breath and made up my mind to get through the service with quiet dignity, and as much composure as I could muster.
    II
    There was such a crowd of people going into the Brompton Oratory, it was hard to pick out friends and colleagues, or recognize anyone at a quick glance, for that matter. Everyone was dressed in black or other somber colors, and faces were etched with solemnity or sorrow, or both.
    I had wisely clamped on a pair of sunglasses before exiting the car, and these made me feel as if I were incognito, and also protected, if not actually invisible. Nonetheless, despite the concealing dark glasses, I clutched Jake’s arm as we mingled with the others filing sedately into the church.
    We had just entered, when I felt someone behind me tap me lightly on the shoulder. I glanced around to find myself staring into the lovely face of Nicky Wells, the Paris bureau chief of ATN, the most successful of all the American cable news networks.
    She and I had been together in Tiananmen Square in Beijing when the students had demonstrated against the Chinese government. That had been in 1989, and Nicky had been very helpful to me, since I was a beginner at the time. Fifteen years older than I, she had frequently taken me under her wing when I was such a novice.
    We had remained friends ever since those early days and would occasionally socialize in Paris. Standing next to Nicky was her husband Clee Donovan, another renowned war photographer, who had founded the agency Image some years ago. After the birth of their first child, Nicky had left the field as a war correspondent, deeming it wiser and safer to remain in Paris, covering local stories.
    Jake and Clee had been good friends for many years, bonded as American expats, war photographers, and also as winners of the Robert Capa Award. This prize had been established in 1955, just after Capa’s death, by Life magazine and the Overseas Press Club of America, and was awarded for “the best photographic reporting from abroad requiring exceptional courage and enterprise.”
    I knew that both men treasured this particular award as their proudest possession, Capa being a god to them, indeed to all of us in the business of being photo-journalists covering wars.
    The four of us hung back and spoke for a few moments about Tony and the sadness of the occasion, and then we arranged to make a date for dinner once we were all in Paris at the same time and for more than a couple of days.
    As we began to move again, it was Clee who said, “We can’t go to the wake afterward, Jake. Nicky and I have to head back to Paris immediately after the service ends. Are you going?” He looked from Jake to me.
    I was so taken aback, I couldn’t speak.
    Jake cleared his throat, rather nervously I thought, and muttered something I didn’t quite catch. Then he added, “We’re in the same situation as you, Clee, we’ve got to get back too. Commitments to meet. But we might drop in for a few minutes, just to pay our respects.”
    Nothing else was said, since the four of us were suddenly being edged forward by the throngs pressing in behind us. I held on to Jake’s hand, but in the crush we