Crossings (14 page)

“Not at all.” She closed her book and slid over on the bench.

“Is the ambassador already at work?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “His assistant arrives every day at nine o'clock, with one of those big hooks they used to use in vaudeville, and whether Armand has finished his breakfast or not, Jacques drags him off.” Nick grinned at the image she conjured up.

“I saw him yesterday. I must admit, he doesn't look like much fun.”

“He isn't, but he'll make a good ambassador one day.” And then she smiled again. “Thank God Armand was never like that.”

“Where did you two meet?” It was a little bit impertinent to ask, but he was intrigued by them. It was obvious that they had a special bond, a deeply woven tie of love, despite the span of years that separated them, and the fact that Armand obviously worked very hard. But she seemed to understand and sympathize, and wait ever patiently for him. He wondered how one found a woman like that. Perhaps by being not quite so impetuously taken with a young debutante of eighteen. And yet Nick knew, from the age of their oldest child, that Liane must have married young as well. She couldn't have been more than thirty now, he thought. In fact, she was thirty-two, but she had always been mature well beyond her years, woman enough to marry—unlike Nick's wife, the spoiled child bride.

“We met in San Francisco when I was very young.”

“You still are.”

“Oh, no.” She laughed. “I was fifteen then, and …” She hesitated for a moment, but one said things to people on ships that one would not say at other times. She fell prey to that magic now, and turned to him with wide-open blue eyes. “Armand was married to someone else, a woman I loved very much. My mother died when I was born, and Odile, Armand's wife, was like a mother to me. He was the consul general in San Francisco then.”

“Did they divorce?” Nick was intrigued, Liane looked all innocence, not the harlot or the home wrecker, somehow she didn't figure in this plot, but Liane slowly shook her head.

“No. She died when I was eighteen, and Armand was almost destroyed. We all were, I think. I think I was numb for almost a year.”

“And he fell in love with you?” Now the story began to make sense.

Liane drifted back in memory, her eyes wearing a far-off look and her mouth a gentle smile. “Not as quickly as all that. It took a year or two before we realized how much we cared. I was twenty-one when we finally admitted it to ourselves and each other and we got engaged.”

“And got married and lived happily ever after.” He liked the story better still. They were fairy-tale people after all. But again Liane shook her head.

“No. Just after our engagement was announced, Armand got transferred. To Vienna. And my father insisted that I finish my last year at Mills.” She turned and smiled at Nick. “It was a very long year for us at the time, but we survived it. We wrote to each other every day, and as soon as I graduated he came back, and we were married, and off we went.” She was smiling broadly now. “Vienna was a wonderful spot. We were very happy there, and then London after that. Marie-Ange and Elisabeth were born in those two posts respectively, and then we came back to the States.”

“Your father must have been pleased.” And then suddenly he remembered the error of what he had just said, remembering that her father had probably been dead for nearly ten years.

“No, my father was already gone. He died right after Elisabeth was born.” She smiled gently at Nick then. “That seems a long time ago now.”

“Do you go back to San Francisco often?”

“No. It's really not my home anymore. I've been gone for too long and I only have my uncle now. We've never been very close and …” Her voice was very gentle as she spoke. “… my home is with Armand.”

“He's a very lucky man.”

“Not always.” She laughed. “Even fairy tales have their rocky spots. I'm as difficult as anyone else. He's a very good, very kind, wise man. I am fortunate to have known him for all these years. My father didn't think I'd get along as well with a younger man, and I think he was right. I lived alone with my father for too long.”

“Is your husband a great deal like him?” He was still curious about them, even more so now after hearing her tale.

“No, not at all. But my father had prepared me well. I ran his home, I listened to the business problems he and my uncle had. I wouldn't have been satisfied with much less.”

“Were you an only child?”

“Yes.”

“So is my wife. But she had less responsibility than you, less exposure to the real world. She grew up expecting Christmas every day, and birthday parties, and debutante balls. It's fun, but it's not exactly the essence of real life.”

“She's a very beautiful girl. It would be difficult for her not to be spoiled. Women who look like that often grow up expecting life to be something that it is not.” But as she said the words he found himself wanting to ask her “And you? Why aren't you like that?” Liane was lovely too, but in a different way. In a gentler, quieter, more womanly way than his wife. Instead, he thought of something else.

“You know, it's funny our paths never crossed, with our fathers doing business with each other, and we aren't that far apart in age.” And the elite from one end of the country to the other were a small group, as they both knew. Perhaps if she had gone to college in the East, he might have met her at some party or ball, but with her at Mills, and earlier he at Yale, their paths were never destined to cross, until now on the
Normandie
, on the high seas.

“My father was really a recluse for years. There were a lot of people I didn't meet, people my father knew or did business with. He never really recovered from my mother's death. It's a miracle I even met Armand and Odile, but I think he wanted me to meet them so I could show off my French.” She still remembered Odile's report of their first meeting with Harrison. She thought of it again now and had to pull her attention back to Nick. “Where is Mrs. Burnham, by the way?” It was not impertinent to ask, and yet when she saw the look in his eyes, she regretted the question almost at once. There was something smoldering quietly there.

“She wanted to have a massage. Which is why I came looking for you.” Liane seemed surprised at his words and put her book down on the bench. “I was wondering if I could talk you into that tennis game we talked about yesterday. Does that appeal to you right now? There's no one on the courts. I was just there. John wanted to take a look at the dogs. Anyway, could I tear you away from your book for a quick game?”

She hesitated for an instant and glanced at her watch. “I have to meet Armand for lunch at noon. He promised that today he'd break away.”

“That's fine. I'm meeting Hillary in the Grillroom at one.”

“Then let's.” She smiled at him. She hadn't had a male friend in years, not really since Armand. But it would be fun to have someone to play tennis with. “I'll hurry up and change and meet you there.”

“Ten minutes?” He looked at his watch, a handsome piece of black enamel and gold from Cartier.

“Fine.” They both rose and went up to the sun deck, where they lived, and met ten minutes later on the courts, she in a pleated tennis dress that exposed half of her slim thighs, and he in well-tailored white shorts and a tennis sweater over a shirt from Brooks Brothers. They played a relaxed, carefree game. He beat her twice, and she took him by surprise in the end, and beat him 6-2, with a whoop of victory and a handshake as he sailed across the net. Suddenly they both felt happy and free and young.

“You lied to me. You're very good.” She congratulated him, still out of breath from the three quick games, but it had been fun.

“I'm not. But you're not bad yourself.” It was just the outlet he had been longing for, and he felt better now. “Thanks. I needed something like that.”

She looked up at his considerable height with a smile. “You must feel awfully cooped up here. No matter how large the ship is, it's still a confining space. I'm lazy enough not to mind, but I suppose it's different for you.”

“Not really. I just get wound up sometimes. I have a lot of things on my mind.” She was reminded then of the contracts he had, both with Paris and Berlin, but she didn't mind as much now. He was a nice man, and there was something about him that suggested decency and integrity. Nick Burnham was a difficult man to dislike and she was growing comfortable with him. “Anyway, this helped a lot. Thank you again.”

“Any time.” She smiled. “Maybe this is the perfect antidote to all that food.”

He grinned. “Then let's play again. Tomorrow at the same time?”

“All right.” She glanced at her watch. “Now I really have to run, or I'll be late for Armand.”

“Give him my best,” he called out as she hurried back to the Trouville suite.

“I will. And enjoy your lunch.” She waved and disappeared and he stood for a long time looking out over the rail, thinking back on the things she had said. He liked the story of how they had met. And Armand was really the perfect man for her. She seemed to know it too, which was nice. Unlike Hillary, who watched him approach at one o'clock in the Grill with a sense of impending doom. He was wearing his blazer and slacks again and she had changed into a peacock-blue silk dress and high-heeled blue kid shoes.

“Have a nice massage?” He signaled the waiter and they both ordered a Scotch.

“Very nice.”

“Where did you say you get the massages?” He feigned innocence as he stirred his drink, his eyes boring into hers.

“Checking up on me, Nick?”

“I don't know, Hil. Do you think I should?”

“What difference does it make if I had a massage or not?” Her eyes drifted away from his, as though she were too bored to continue looking at him, but something inside her fluttered nervously. Now and then, dealing with Nick was truly like dealing with the man of steel.

“It makes a big difference to me if you tell me lies. And I told you before, what you do here will become common knowledge on the ship. I get the feeling that you're spending a lot of time in second class and I want it to stop.”

“Stupid snob. The average age of this group tallies up to Neanderthal man, for chrissake. At least downstairs there's a younger group, some people I can talk to. You forget, dear Nick, I'm not as old as you.”

“Or as smart. Keep that in mind. It would be embarrassing to have to lock you in your cabin.” His eyes were slowly beginning to blaze but she only laughed.

“Don't be an ass. All I'd have to do is ring for the maid. What do you want to do, tie me to the bed?”

“I get the feeling you've already taken care of that yourself. Who'd you meet on the ship, Hil? Some old friend from New York, or someone new?”

“No one at all. Just a bunch of young people traveling slightly less deluxe.”

“Well, do me a favor and kiss them good-bye. Don't make a laughing stock of yourself, playing poor little rich girl visiting the plebes.”

“That's not what they think.”

“Don't bet on it. That's an old, old game. I used to do it on the ships myself when I was young. But I was in college then, and I didn't have a wife. I hate to bore you, Hil, but you aren't single anymore, and you don't belong downstairs on A deck, you belong up here. Life could be worse, you know.”

“Not much.” She was looking like a spoiled little girl again. “I'm bored to tears.”

“So cry. We'll be in Paris in two days, you can survive up here till then.” But she didn't answer him. She ordered another Scotch, ate only half a club sandwich for lunch, and afterward he walked around the shops with her, hoping to keep her mind off her new friends. But when he went to check on John at the pool after that, she disappeared. He sat in their cabin until she came back to dress, and when she walked in the door, he felt himself lose control in total, impotent rage, and he was shocked to find his hand pulled back to slap her face. Thankfully just then he saw Johnny peeking through the door of his room, and he rapidly regained control and lowered his hand. Time and time again she pushed him to the brink, but this was the first time he'd ever felt the need to strike at her. He motioned her inside their room. He could see that she had had a lot to drink, and suddenly he felt as though he had been slapped. There was a bite mark on her neck, and he dragged her to the mirror to show her, trembling with rage.

“How dare you come back to me like that, you little whore. How dare you!” He was sure that Johnny could hear his voice through the wall but he was beyond caring. She pulled free of him.

“What did you want me to do? Stay downstairs?”

“Maybe you should.”

“Maybe I will.”

“For God's sake, Hillary, what's happening to you? Don't you have any decency at all? Do you climb in and out of any bed you find?” This time it was she who raised her hand and slapped him.

“I told you before. I'll do anything I goddamn want. You don't own me, you son of a bitch. All you care about anyway is your bloody steel mill, your contracts, your goddamn dynasty that you'll leave to Johnny one day. And what do I get out of that? What do I care about your empire? I don't give a shit. Do you know that? Not about your empire and not about you.” She fell silent then, knowing that she had said too much, and there were tears in Nick's eyes as he turned away. He said nothing at all to her. He went quietly out on their private deck, and she watched him for a long time, and then followed him outside. His back was turned as he leaned forward on the rail, and Hillary's voice was hoarse as she spoke to him.

“I'm sorry, Nick.”

“Leave me alone.” He sounded like a hurt little boy, and for a moment her heart ached, but in her eyes he was the greatest enemy she had. He wanted to keep her in chains, and she wanted to be free. He turned to face her then and there were tears in his eyes. “Go back inside.”

“You're crying.” She looked even more shocked.

“Yes, I am.” He didn't seem to be ashamed, which shocked her still more. Men didn't cry. Not strong men. Not the men she knew. But Nick Burnham did. He was stronger than them all, and deep inside he grieved, not for her, but for himself, for the foolishness that had led him to marry her at all. “The game is over between us, Hil.”