Free Dangerous to Know by Barbara Taylor Bradford

fair, and I was confident he would keep an open mind. But unburdening my worries to him was not a solution to my dilemma, and it would be a rank betrayal of Jack. Nor could I take anyone else into my confidence.
    Better to keep my own counsel.
    The night before the funeral I was restless. Sleep proved to be elusive.
    I tossed and turned for several hours before I finally got up in desperation and went downstairs.
    Glancing at the ball clock, I saw that it was already three in the morning. Nine o’clock in France, and for a split second I thought of calling Kit. Not to conlide my worries, since I had decided against doing that, but simply to hear a friendly voice.
    In a way, I was a bit surprised he had not called me. He must have heard of Sebastian’s death, and it struck me that the least he could have done was pick up the phone to say a few kind words to me.
    After all, Sebastian had not only been my husband for five years but my guardian as well, and surely it was obvious to my friends that his passing would have a distressing effect on me.
    Marie-Laure de Roussillon, my closest girl friend in France, had phoned me yesterday to express her sympathy and ask if there was anything she could do, as had several other good friends in Paris and Provence.
    On the other hand, to be fair and to give Kit the benefit of the doubt, perhaps he did not know.
    Right now he was painting day and night in preparation for his next show, to be held in Paris in November. The last time we talked, about ten days ago, he had been hell bent on finishing a huge canvas that was the last of his works for the current exhibition.
    When Kit painted in this single-minded and dedicated way, he did so in total isolation. The only people he saw were the French couple who looked after him and his house. He never read a newspaper, *watched television, or listened to the radio. He followed a simple but extremely disciplined routine: paint, eat, sleep; eat, paint, sleep, paint.
    Sometimes he painted eighteen hours a day, almost nonstop, and he continued like this for as long as it was necessary, until he had put the very last brushstroke on the canvas.
    I suppose I could have phoned, given him the news myself, but I was reluctant to interrupt him. I was also conscious of his mild dislike of the Lockes. I didn’t want to get a flea in my ear for intruding, disturbing his routine; nor did I wish to expose myself to some of his sarcastic remarks.
    For a moment I toyed with the idea of calling Marie-Laure, just to chat for a while, and then decided against it. She ran the family chateau and vast estate near Ansouis, and early mornings were generally excessively busy for her.
    Meandering through into the kitchen, I boiled a pan of hot milk, Iled a mug with it, added a spoonful of sugar, and went into the library.
    Turning on a lamp, I sat down on the sofa and slowly sipped the hot beverage. It had been Gran Rosalie’s cure-all for almost everything when I was growing up, and now I took great comfort from this child hood remedy. Perhaps it would help me fall asleep when I went back upstairs to bed.
    I knew why I was restless, filled with such unprecedented unease.
    It was the thought of tomorrow. I was dreading the funeral; dealing with Jack and Luciana was not going to be easy, nor did I look forward to coping with Cyrus Locke and Madeleine Connors.
    In my experience, families seemed to behave badly at large gatherings like funerals and weddings; I was absolutely certain Sebastian’s funeral was not going to be an exception to this rule.
    In an effort to relax I purposefully shIfted my thoughts away from -tomorrow, focused on my own immediate plans. And after only a few minutes I made a sudden decision. I was not going to hang around here any longer than was necessary. There was no real reason for me to do so. Once the memorial service had taken place in New York next Wednesday, I would leave. I would book myself a flight to Paris for that night.
    I longed to be