Crossings (38 page)

“So do I.” He looked her squarely in the eyes. “I think it's time you looked around and thought this thing through. That man is nearly six thousand miles away, doing God knows what, which we won't discuss, since you don't want to discuss it. But you know what I think about that. And I think there's a lot better out here for you.”

“I don't agree with you.” And as she said it she found herself thinking of Nick Burnham. She forced thoughts of him from her head and faced her uncle. “I'm a married woman, Uncle George. And I intend to stay that way. I also intend to remain faithful to my husband.” Again her single indiscretion flashed into her mind and she pushed it from her. She couldn't allow herself to think of him anymore. Dreaming of Nick led nowhere.

“Whether you're faithful or not is entirely your affair. I just thought it might do you good to meet a few San Franciscans.”

“And that was a very nice thought. But trying to break up my marriage isn't.”

“You don't have a marriage, Liane.” The force with which he said it took her by surprise.

“Yes, I do.”

“But you shouldn't.”

“You have no right to make that decision for me.”

“I have every right to try to bring you to your senses. You're wasting your youth on an old fool who must be blind to what he's doing.” Liane clamped her mouth shut and he went on. “And you're a damn fool if you don't do something about it.”

“Thank you.” She got up very quietly and left the room, feeling guilty and ungrateful. He had meant well, but he had no idea what he was doing. She would never betray Armand again. Never. She was not a debutante to be auditioning at dinner dances. And she felt suddenly foolish for having unwittingly played her uncle's game.

She felt even more so when Lyman Lawson called her that afternoon at the Red Cross. He invited her to dinner the following night, but she said that she was busy. He wasn't the only one who called, the stockbroker who had been sitting on her other side called her too, and she felt extremely uncomfortable about the impression her uncle was obviously creating, that she was a single woman. But if she told them that she was not, she would make a liar of her uncle. Matters got even worse when an item appeared in the paper a few days later about George Crockett's attractive niece from Washington, D.C., who was separated from her husband and had come back to San Francisco to live. The item even inferred that in the near future she would be making a six-week visit to Reno.

“Uncle George, how could you?” She stood in the library that night and waved the newspaper at him.

“I didn't tell them a thing!” He didn't even look embarrassed. He was convinced that he was right.

“You must have. And Lyman Lawson called me again this afternoon. What in hell can I tell these men?”

“That you'd like to have dinner with them sometime.”

“But I wouldn't!”

“It would do you good.”

“I am married. Married! M-a-r-r-i-e-d. Married. Don't you understand?”

“You know how I feel about it, Liane.”

“And you know how I feel about it too. How exactly would you explain my cheating on my husband to my children? Do you expect them to simply forget that their father ever existed? Do you think I can?”

“I hope so in time.”

It was a campaign she had no idea how to deal with. He brought people home at night, showed up with them for drinks, picked her up at the Red Cross for lunch with friends. By Christmas she felt as though she had met every single man in town, and not one of them understood that she was very seriously married. It was almost funny, except that it was driving her crazy. She sought refuge in her work and with the girls, and she dodged every single invitation.

“When are you going to get out of this house, Liane?” He roared it at her one night over their domino game and she threw up her hands with exasperation.

“Tomorrow, when I go to work.”

“I mean at night.”

“When the war ends and my husband comes back. Is that soon enough, or do you want me to move out now?” She was shouting at him and he was an old man and she felt very bad about it. “Please, Uncle George, for God's sake, leave me alone. This is a very difficult time for us all. Don't make it any harder for me. I know you mean well. But I don't want to go out with your friends' sons.”

“You should be grateful they want to go out with you.”

“Why should I? All I am to them is Crockett Shipping.”

“Is that what's bothering you, Liane? They see more than that in you. You're a very pretty girl and damn bright.”

“All right, all right. That's not the point. The point is that I'm married.” And eventually the girls overheard them.

“Why does Uncle George want you to go out with other men?”

“Because he's crazy,” she snapped as she dressed for work.

“He is?” Marie-Ange looked intrigued. “You mean senile?”

“No, I mean—damn it, you leave me alone too. For God's sake …” But the real problem was that she hadn't had a letter from Armand in two weeks and she was sick with worry that something had happened to him. But that wasn't a fear she could share with her daughters. “Look, Uncle George means well, and it's too complicated to explain. Just forget about it.”

“Are you going to go out with other men?” She looked worried.

“Of course not, silly. I'm married to Papa.” It seemed as though that was all she said these days.

“I think Mr. Burnham liked you when we came back on the ship. I saw him looking at you sometimes as though he thought you were very special.” Out of the mouths of babes. Liane stopped what she was doing for a moment to look at her daughter.

“He's a very nice man, Marie-Ange. And I think he's special too. We're very good friends, but that's all. And he's married too.”

“No, he isn't.”

“Of course he is.” Liane was already tired before she began her day, and she could hardly wait to leave the house as she pulled on her stockings. “You met his wife on the
Normandie
last year, and his son, John.”

“I know. But it said in the newspaper yesterday that he was getting a divorce.”

“It did?” Liane felt her heart stop. “Where?”

“In New York.”

“I mean where in the paper.” She had only read the front page, for news of the war, and she had been late for work.

“I don't know. It said that they were having a big fight, and he's suing her for divorce, and he wants to keep their son and she won't let him.”

Liane was numb. The maid helped her locate the paper in the pantry. Marie-Ange had been right. There it was. An article on page three. Nicholas Burnham was allegedly pitted against his wife in an ardent dispute. She and Philip Markham had created a scandal in New York, and Nick was suing her for divorce, naming Markham as the co-respondent. And in addition he was demanding custody of his son, but there was no way of telling if he'd win.

When Liane got to the Red Cross office, she was tempted to call him. But as always in the past, she hung up the phone before she dialed. Even if he was getting divorced, she was not. Nothing had changed for her, including her feelings for Nick. And Armand.

he week before Christmas Nick Burnham strode into his lawyer's office.

“Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Greer, sir?”

“No, I don't.”

“I'm afraid he's with a client, and after that he's going to court.”

“Then I'll wait.”

“But I can't—” She began to give him the party line, but when he looked into her eyes, she almost took a step backward. He was a good-looking man, but he looked as though, with very little provocation, he would be willing to kill. She had never seen such total fury in any man. “May I tell him who you are?”

“Nicholas Burnham.” She knew the name and disappeared instantly. And ten minutes later, when the client left, Nick was ushered in to see Ben Greer.

“Hello, Nick. How've you been?”

“I've been fine. More or less.”

“Oh, boy.” He took one look at Nick's face and knew that things were rough. There were circles under Nick's eyes, and his jaw was so tense that Greer could almost see him choking back rage. “Would you like a drink?”

“Do I look that bad?” Nick began to relax a little and sat back in the chair, producing a tired grin. “I guess things haven't been so hot after all.”

“I guess not, or you wouldn't be here. What can I do to help?”

“Kill my wife.” He said it as though it were a joke, but Ben Greer wasn't entirely sure. He'd seen that look on men's faces before, and at least once in his career, he'd ended up defending a man for murder instead of getting him a divorce. But Nick took a deep breath, sat back, and ran a hand through his hair. And then he looked sadly at Ben Greer. “You know, I've tried to make this thing work for ten years, but it just never has.” It was no secret in New York, and Greer knew it too. “And when I came back from Europe in July, I tried to impress on her that I wanted to keep the ship afloat. By then it was”—he groped for the words—”a marriage of convenience at best, but I wanted to stay married for the sake of the child.” Greer nodded. He'd heard the same tale ten thousand times before. “She was involved with Philip Markham by then. It had been going on for about a year. And I let her know, as best I could, that she could have free rein with him, but I wouldn't agree to a divorce. And do you know what the son of a bitch did yesterday?”

“I'm dying to hear.”

But Nick didn't smile. “He put a gun to my son's head. When I came home from work, there he sat in my living room, cool as hell. And he pointed the gun at John and said that if I didn't let Hillary go, he'd kill my kid.” Nick grew pale as he told the tale, and the attorney frowned. Things were desperate after all.

“Was the gun loaded, Nick?”

“No. But I didn't know that then. I agreed to the divorce, he put the gun down …”He thought back to the moment and clenched his teeth and his fists.

“And then what did you do?”

“I kicked his ass all over the room. He's got three broken ribs, a broken arm, and two chipped teeth. Hillary moved out last night and she tried to take Johnny with her. I told her that if she ever laid a hand on him again or showed up in my house, I'd kill her and Markham. And by God, I mean it.”

“Well, you've got grounds for divorce.” But that was hardly news. “Do you think you can prove adultery?”

“With ease.”

“But what grounds do you have to win custody of the boy?”

“Do I need more than that? He pulled a gun on my child.”

“The gun wasn't loaded. And Markham did that. Your wife didn't.”

“But she was a party to it. She just sat there and let him do it.”

“She probably knew it wasn't loaded. I'll admit, it was a cheap trick, but it's not grounds to get custody of the boy.”

“Everything else is. She's a rotten mother, she doesn't give a damn about John, and she never did. She wanted an abortion before he was born, and she's never given him a second glance. When I was stuck in Europe after war was declared, she dumped him with her mother for ten months and almost never saw him until I got home. She's a rotten mother to him! Rotten, do you hear?” Nick was frantic, and he began to pace the room. He should never have listened to Liane. He should have left Hillary six months before and fought for custody of the child then. But he hadn't. And now he had lost her too. If he had been free, who knew what would have happened. It was a loss that he still felt, as he had for nearly half a year.

“Is she willing to give up custody of the child?”

Nick forced his thoughts back to Hillary again and shook his head. “She's afraid of what people will think if she gives him up. She's afraid they'll think she's a drunk and a whore, which she is, but she doesn't want to admit it to the whole town. She might as well, she's slept with them all, for chrissake.” But not lately, he had to admit. She had been faithful to Markham, as she had never been to him.

“You're going to have a tough fight, Nick. Very tough. The divorce will be a snap, on these grounds, and she wants out, but custody cases are a bitch. The court almost always rules with the mother, unless she's a mental case locked up somewhere. Even if she's a drunk, as you put it, or a whore, most of the time that isn't enough. The courts believe that mothers should have the kids, not men.”