Crossings [calibre 2.37.1]

She sat back on the maroon velvet banquette as the girls squabbled over the assorted knobs and lights and levers, and she closed her eyes for a moment, seeing Nick's face before her, and longing with every ounce of her soul to touch him, just once more … for an instant … She saw herself back in the first mate's cabin, in Nick's arms, and felt a pain of loss almost beyond bearing, and then unable to stifle her sobs a moment longer, she said something to the girls and walked out into the hall, closing the door behind her.

“May I help you, ma'am?” a tall, immaculate, white-coated Negro porter asked her, but she was unable to speak as she shook her head and the tears flowed. “Ma'am?” He was startled by the agony he saw but she only shook her head again.

“It's all right.” But it wasn't. How could she tell him that in the last two weeks she had left her husband after the fall of Paris, and they had crossed the Atlantic on a freighter in defiance of German U-boats, watched a ship sink, and seen men lying dead in the water all around them, that she had nursed almost two hundred men suffering from wounds and burns … and fallen in love with a man she had just said good-bye to and may never see again … it defied words as she stood there, leaning against the window of the moving train with her heart breaking.

And in Grand Central Station, Nick walked slowly toward the exit, his head down, his eyes damp, looking as though his best friend had died in his arms that morning. He hailed a cab on the street and went home to find the apartment empty. Mrs. Burnham was in Cape Ann with friends, a new maid told him. And the train to Washington sped on.

iane and the girls checked into the Shoreham hotel at eight o'clock that night, and she felt as though she hadn't slept for days. They were exhausted and filthy and the girls were weepy. They had all been through too much in the last few weeks, and months before that, and now it was difficult to fathom that they were back in the United States. Everyone looked so happy and unconcerned and normal. There were none of the strained faces one had seen in Paris before the occupation, or the swastikas they had seen flying after the fall, there were no wounded as there had been on the ship. There was none of what had become familiar to them, and which was far from normal. And hour after hour, as Liane lay in bed in her hotel that night, she had to fight not to call Nick in New York, and reverse all the reasonable promises they'd made to each other based on their responsibilities to other people. Suddenly all she wanted was to be in his arms again. And in his bed in New York, Nick had to fight just as hard not to call her in Washington at the Shoreham.

The next morning, she sent a cable to Armand to tell him they had arrived safely. The story of the Deauville was all over the morning papers, including a photograph of her kissing the cheek of the young Canadian on the stretcher as he left the ship. And in the background she could see Nick, watching her with a look of sorrow as others smiled with tears running down their faces. She felt the same lead weight on her chest again as she stared at the photograph in the paper, and the girls found her suddenly very hard to get along with. So much had changed so quickly for all of them that the girls were whiny, Liane nervous. They had been through so much and suffered so many losses that the backlash from it all was taking its toll, and when she finally decided to call her uncle George in San Francisco, to tell him they were back in the States, Liane almost snapped at him. He made an endless series of tactless remarks about the fall of France, and how the French had literally given Paris to the Germans on a silver platter and deserved what they got as a result. And Liane had to fight not to scream at him.

“Well, thank God you're back. How long have you been here?”

“Since yesterday. We came back on a freighter.”

There was a pregnant silence. “The Deauville?” It was in the San Francisco papers that morning too, but without the picture.

“Yes.”

“What kind of crazy fool is your husband to put you on a ship like that? For God's sake, there must have been some other way to get you out of France. Were you part of that rescue at sea?”

“I was.” Her voice sounded exhausted and defeated. She didn't want to have to defend Armand to him. She didn't want to think, because all she could think about was Nick. “We saved a hundred and ninety men.”

“I read that. And there was only one woman on board, a nurse with two children.”

Liane smiled. “Not a nurse exactly, Uncle George, just me, and the girls.”

“For God's sake …” He spluttered on and asked her when she was coming back to San Francisco, and she said she wasn't. “What?”

“We came to Washington last night. I'm going to rent a house here.”

“I won't have it.” After what she had been through, fighting with him was too much.

“This was our home for five years, we have friends here, the girls like their school.”

“That's ridiculous. Why didn't Armand send you to me?”

“Because I told him I wanted to stay here.”

“Well, if you come to your senses, you're welcome here. A woman alone doesn't belong in a strange city. You could stay with me here at the house. It was your home before Washington ever was. What a lot of nonsense, Liane. I'm surprised you didn't try to go back to London or Vienna.”

She was not amused by his remarks and spoke in a quiet voice. “I wanted to stay with Armand in Paris.”

“At least he wasn't foolish enough to let you do that. And I imagine he won't be there long anyway. That fool De Gaulle is already headed for North Africa, and the rest of the government is scattered all over France, from what I hear. I'm surprised Armand is still in Paris. Did he retire?”

She spoke in a quiet voice. She was not going to tell him that Armand was with Pétain. “No, he didn't.”

“Well, he'll be on the run like the others, then. You were smart to come home with the girls. How are they?” His voice softened as he asked, and Liane gave him the latest report and then let them speak to their great-uncle, but it was a relief when the conversation ended. She and her uncle had never had anything in common. He in no way resembled her father. He had always disapproved of the way she had lived with her father, sharing his life and his concerns, and being informed of world affairs. He thought it no way to bring up a girl, and disapproved of her as a young woman. “By far, too modern for my taste.” He had made no secret of his disapproval. And he hadn't thought much of Armand when they had met. He thought him much too old for Liane and said so, and when she had married him and moved to Vienna, he had wished her luck and told her she'd need it. And in the ensuing years they had met seldom, and when they did, they found they disagreed on everything, above all, his policies for Crockett Shipping. But at least the firm had continued to flourish, and although she disagreed with him, she had no complaints on that score. Thanks to Uncle George, business was booming, and one day it would leave her all the more to will to the girls, and that pleased her. But not much else about Uncle George did. He was opinionated, overbearing, old-fashioned, and extremely dull.

She also called a real estate agent that morning, and arranged to see three furnished houses in Georgetown. She wanted something small and unpretentious, where she could wait out the war in peace with the girls, entertain a few friends from time to time, and lead a quiet life. Gone were the days of grandeur at the French Embassy and other places like it, but she knew she wouldn't miss it.