Crossings (20 page)

“I won't.” She walked to the bar and poured herself a double Scotch. “How was Berlin?”

“Do you care?”

“Not really.” They were remarkably honest with each other these days. In some ways it was a relief.

“How's Johnny?”

“Fine. I'm taking him to Cannes in a few days.”

“Are you? May I ask with whom?”

“I met some friends while you were gone, from Boston, and I'm leaving for Cannes this weekend.” Her eyes were defiant as she looked at him over her glass. If he wanted separate lives, he would have them, but he wouldn't stop her.

“May I ask for how long you plan to be there?”

“I don't know. It's too hot for me in Paris. I feel sick here.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. But I'd like some idea of how long you plan to be gone.” She scarcely recognized her husband in the tone of his voice. He had gotten immeasurably tougher in the past month, and she would almost suspect him of having a mistress, but she couldn't really believe he'd do that. He didn't have the balls, she would have said if he'd asked her, but he didn't, and she didn't volunteer. He sat now and waited for her answer as she tapped her foot and stared at her drink.

“A month. Maybe more. I'll come back in September,” she decided as she answered.

“Have a lovely time.” He smiled coolly. “But don't plan to take Johnny.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Because I'd like to see him, and I have no desire to travel to Cannes every week to see you.”

“That's good news at least. But you can't leave the child in the city.”

“I'll take him away myself.” She hesitated for a moment, about to answer him sharply, and then suddenly he could almost hear her thinking. She didn't really want to take the child and he knew it.

“All right. I'll leave him here.” That had been an easy battle, Nick thought to himself, and he'd have to give some thought now to where he'd take Johnny. He had wanted to take some time off anyway that summer, and this would be the perfect excuse. Despite the atmosphere of power and aggression one sensed building in Berlin, he still felt confident that war wouldn't come too quickly and it would be nice to take Johnny somewhere in France, particularly if they were going to be alone.

“When did you say you were leaving?” Nick stood up at the desk and walked around it, and she glared at him, every ounce of her hatred showing. It was a marriage gone so sour, they could both taste it, and the taste was exceedingly bitter.

“In two days. Is that soon enough?”

“I just wondered. Will you join me here for dinner tonight?”

“I have other plans.” He nodded and went out into the garden to see Johnny. The little boy squealed with delight as soon as he saw his father, and ran into his arms as Hillary watched from the window, and turned and walked out of the library and went upstairs.

As it turned out she left two days later then planned, but Nick scarcely saw her, he stayed late at the office every night, and he had to have dinner with some people from Chicago, and when he asked Hillary to join them, she refused.

She claimed that she was too busy packing for her trip, and Nick decided not to force her. He saw her the morning she left for Cannes, when a large limousine arrived to take her to the train. For a moment Nick wondered who she was going to Cannes with, and then he decided not to ask her any questions.

“Have a good time.” She had asked him for two thousand dollars for the trip and he had given it to her the night before without question. She had barely said thank you to him.

“See you in September,” she called out cheerily as she ran out the door in a red silk dress with white polka dots and a matching silk hat.

“You might call your son from time to time.” She nodded and hurried out to the car. It was the first time he had seen her look happy in a long time, and as he went back inside to get ready to go to the office, he was sorry in a way that he insisted on maintaining their marriage. If she was that unhappy with him, they both deserved better. And as he straightened his tie and put his jacket on, he found himself thinking of Liane and wondering how she was. He hadn't seen the De Villierses at any of the dinners he'd gone to, but he imagined that they were more likely to stick to diplomatic receptions, and he hadn't been to any of those. He knew that the Polish Embassy was planning to give an elaborate dinner in a few weeks, and assumed they would go to that, but he would be careful not to attend that one. It was important that no one learn of his recent charity to Poland. It could only do them harm if it was discovered that they were arming themselves too. The diplomatic sources he had used to make his offer had been astounded by the minute prices he charged them. But it was the only way he knew to help them at the eleventh hour.

The Germans had stepped up all their contracts recently, and he felt an increasing desire lately to wind them up and get his business with Germany over. He felt uncomfortable every time he went there, and no matter how profitable the deals were, he couldn't bring himself to feel right about dealing with them anymore. It was impossible not to know what was coming. Liane had been right. The time to choose sides was coming close. In fact, for him, it had come already.

When he left for the office, he kissed Johnny good-bye, and was pleased that he didn't seem upset about his mother going away. He had already promised him a trip to Deauville, and they were going to ride horses along the beach there. They were both excited about the trip, planned for the first of August. They were going to be away together for at least two weeks.

“Have a good day, tiger, I'll see you later.”

“Bye, Dad.” He was playing with his bat and a ball, which he had stowed in one of his trunks. And Nick saw just as his limousine turned the corner of the Avenue Foch that the ball had just sailed right through one of the living room windows. He laughed to himself, remembering his saying to the doorman in New York that one of these days that would happen, and the chauffeur turned at the sound of his voice.

“Oui, monsieur?”

“I said ‘That's baseball.’”

The chauffeur nodded with a blank stare and they drove to the office.

n the thirty-first of July, Liane and Armand's things arrived from Washington, D.C., and within the week they moved into the house Armand had found for them in April. It was a pretty little place on the Place du Palais-Bourbon, in the Septième. And for the next ten days Liane sweated and slaved and opened boxes. She did almost everything herself, knowing exactly where she wanted each item placed, and she only asked the servants to wash dishes and dust tables. The rest she enjoyed doing herself. If nothing else it gave her something to do, now that she scarcely saw Armand. The dream of walks in the Bois de Boulogne and the Tuileries never happened. With or without a war, the Bureau Central had devoured him. He had lunch with his colleagues or at various embassies around town and he didn't come home until eight o'clock at night, if he didn't have an important business dinner. And if he did, she didn't see him until well after that.

This wasn't like their Washington life, when as the Ambassadress she was an integral part of his social life, entertaining, playing hostess, giving small dances and black-tie dinners, standing in receiving lines at his side. Here, more often than not, he went alone, and it was more the exception than the rule that he took her with him. Her entire life centered around the girls now, and when she finally saw Armand at night, he was almost too tired to talk to her. He would eat dinner and go to bed, exhausted, and he was invariably asleep within seconds of his head touching the pillow. It was a lonely life for her now, and she longed for their days in Washington or London or Vienna. This was a whole new life, and she didn't like it, and despite her efforts not to complain, he sensed it. She was like a little wilting flower in an untended garden, and it made him feel desperately guilty, but things were beginning to happen. France was coming awake to the danger of Hitler, and although they were still certain that they were safe in France, there was a certain heightened sense of protection and preparation. He felt alive again as he participated in endless meetings. It was a good time for him, but a rough time for her, and he knew it, but there was very little he could do about it. He didn't even have time to take her out for an occasional dinner.

“I miss you, you know.” She smiled at him as he walked into the apartment one night to find her hanging a painting. As usual, she had created the effect of a home they had lived in for years and he was grateful to her. He came to kiss her now and helped her down from her perch, and he held her in his arms for a moment longer.

“I miss you, too, little one. I hope you know that.”

“Sometimes I do.” She sighed and set her hammer down on the desk, and then she looked up at him with a sad smile. “And sometimes I think you've forgotten I'm alive.”

“I could never do that, little one. I'm just very busy.” She knew that much already.

“Will we ever have a real life again?”

He nodded. “Hopefully soon. It's just that now there's such an increase in tension. We have to wait and see what happens … we must prepare. …”

There was such a bright light in his eyes as he spoke that her heart fell at his words. She felt that she had lost him to France, it was almost like losing him to another woman, only worse, because it was an opponent she couldn't fight. “What if there's a war, Armand? What then?”

“Then we'll see.” Always the cautious diplomat, even with her, but she wasn't asking about his homeland, she was asking him about her.

“I'll never see you then.” She sounded tired and mournful and tonight she didn't feel like putting up a cheerful front for him.

“These are unusual times, Liane, surely you understand.” He would be disappointed in her if she didn't, and she knew that. It was a heavy cross to bear. She had to be willing to make the same sacrifices as Armand, and sometimes that was too much to ask. If they'd just have a quiet night together, some time to talk, an evening when he wasn't too exhausted to make love … her eyes told their own tale.

“Never mind. Do you want something to eat?”

“I've eaten.” She didn't tell him that she had waited for him. “How are the girls?”

“Fine. I promised them I'd take them for a picnic in Neuilly next week, when I've finished the house.” It was lonely for them too. Once they were in school, they would make new friends. But for the moment all they had was their mother and their nurse.

“You're the only woman I know who can put a house together in a week.” He smiled at her as he sat down in a chair in the living room, almost afraid to tell her that all he wanted was to go to bed and sleep.

“I'm just happy to be out of the hotel.”

“So am I.” He looked around at their familiar things, and it felt like home to him at last. But he hadn't really noticed much of anything in the last month. He was so busy at the office, that he could have come home to a shanty or a tent and it wouldn't have mattered to him, and Liane suspected that as she followed him to their bedroom.

“Would you like a cup of chamomile?” She smiled gently at him, and he reached out and kissed her hand as he sat down on their bed.

“You're too good to me, little one.”

“I love you very much.” And there had been so many times when he had been good to her too. It wasn't his fault that he was so busy now, and it couldn't go on forever. Sooner or later the problems would be resolved. She just prayed that they wouldn't erupt in a war.

She went to the kitchen to make him the promised cup of tea, and when she returned with a delicate porcelain tray and the Limoges cup she'd unpacked that afternoon, she set it down gently on the bed table with a smile. But when she turned to hand it to Armand, she saw that he was already asleep on his pillow, without the assistance of the chamomile.