“Major Burnham?”
“Yes?”
“I'm sorry to disturb you but I was told to let everyone know …”At the very least Nick expected news of an enemy attack as he tensed to hear what the boy had to say. “There's a gathering tonight, given by the Red Cross. It's for all the new senior officers here. And because of Christmas and all …” Nick leaned against the doorway in his shorts and groaned.
“You woke me up for that? I've just come nearly three thousand miles and I haven't had a decent night's sleep in five days, and you banged on my door to invite me to a tea party given by the Red Cross?” He tried to glower, but he could only laugh. “Oh, for chrissake …”
“I'm sorry, sir … the CO's office thought—”
“Is the CO going to a tea party at the Red Cross?”
“It isn't a tea party, sir, it's cocktails.”
“How nice.” The absurdity of it all was too much for him, he sagged in the doorway and laughed until he cried. “What kind of cocktails? Kool-Aid and gin?”
“No, sir, I mean—I don't know, sir. It's just that the people here have been very nice to us, to the Marines, I mean, and the CO wants everyone to show up … to show our appreciation for—”
“For what?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“Good. Then you can borrow my uniform and you go.”
“I'll end up in the brig for impersonating an officer, sir.” The private had been standing ramrod straight since the recital began.
“Is this an order, Private, or an invitation?”
“Both, I think. An invitation from the Red Cross, and—”
Nick cut in. “An order from the CO. Christ. What time is this shindig?”
“Eighteen hundred hours, sir.” Nick glanced at his watch. It was almost that now.
“Shit. Well, there goes my nap. And thanks.” He started to close the door, and then suddenly pulled it open again. “Where is this thing anyway?”
“It's posted on the bulletin board downstairs.”
“Sir.” Nick was amused. Fortunately his sense of humor hadn't left him yet. The private blushed.
“I'm sorry, sir.”
“Where are you from?”
“New Orleans.”
“How do you like it here?”
“I don't know, sir. I haven't been out yet.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two weeks. I was in boot camp in Mississippi before that.”
“That must have been fun.” They exchanged a smile of camaraderie. “Anyway, Private, since you won't agree to wear my uniform tonight, I'd better get my ass in gear and get dressed.” Nick was one of the lucky few with a shower adjoining his room. He cleaned up from his trip, put on his dress uniform, and twenty minutes later he was downstairs, looking at the bulletin board. The address was clearly marked. Mrs. Fordham MacKenzie, on Jackson Street. He had no idea how to get there. He hadn't been in San Francisco in years, and he decided to call a cab. Three other officers had received the same “invitation” as he, and they shared the ride and stepped out in front of an impressive home with an iron gate and formal gardens. One of the officers whistled softly in his teeth as Nick paid the cab, and they stepped up to the iron gate to ring the bell. A butler led the way and Nick found himself wondering how many of these soirees Mrs. MacKenzie gave. The war had brought a host of new men to town. It was kind of her to throw her home open to the servicemen. Christmas was only two days away.
He had given Johnny his gifts before he left, but it certainly would be a lonely Christmas for them both. Nothing was the same this year. And now he was nearly three thousand miles away on the West Coast, walking down some strange woman's hall into a living room filled with uniforms and women in cocktail clothes as waiters passed trays of champagne. It was all a bit like a strange dream as he looked out at the Golden Gate, and then as his eyes strayed back he saw her there, standing quietly in a corner, holding a glass, speaking to a woman in a dark-red dress. And as he looked at her she turned her head, and their eyes met, as time stopped for him and the room spun for her. And slowly he walked toward her and she heard the voice she had remembered only in dreams for a year and a half. The voice was a caress and the crowds around them seemed to disappear as he spoke a single word. “Liane …” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with disbelief and amazement as he smiled slowly at her.
s that really you?” Nick looked deep into Liane's eyes, and at the expression on his face, the woman in the red dress who'd been talking to Liane disappeared quietly. Liane smiled at him, not sure what to say.
“I'm not sure.”
“I'm dreaming this.” She smiled in answer. “Aren't I?”
“Could be, Major. How have you been?” Her smile was warm but there was no invitation in her words. “It's been a long time.”
“What are you doing here?” He couldn't take his eyes off her face.
“I live here now. We've been here since last year.” He searched her eyes for all the things he ached to know, but there was nothing written there. They were as big and beautiful as before, but they were veiled now. She had seen pain and loss and it showed, and he wondered instantly about Armand, but when he looked, the plain gold band was still in place.
“I thought you were in Washington.”
“That didn't work out.” Her eyes met his, but she didn't say more, and then slowly he saw the old, familiar smile. He had dreamed of it for almost two years. He had seen that smile as she had lain in his arms. “It's good to see you, Nick.”
“Is it?” He wasn't so sure. She looked uncertain, almost frightened.
“Of course it is. How long have you been in town?”
“Just today. And what the hell are you doing here?” This didn't seem her kind of place, a cocktail party to meet military men. If she was wearing her wedding band, she couldn't be on the hunt, and that wasn't her style. Not the girl he'd left on the train in New York seventeen months before, unless everything had changed. Maybe her solitude had got to her.
“I work for the Red Cross. This is a command performance for us.”
He bent low and whispered in her ear. “It is for me too.”
She laughed at that, and then something gentle touched her face. She hadn't wanted to ask him at first, but she decided to now. “How's John?”
Nick took a quick breath and looked her. “He's fine. I don't know if you read about the trial out here, but Hillary and I got divorced about a year ago, and I fought her for custody and lost a few weeks ago. That was pretty rough on him.” And he glanced at his uniform. “And so was this.”
“It must have been rough on you too.” Her voice was smooth as silk, and she couldn't take her eyes from his, but she also knew that she had to keep the walls up. She could never let them down again. Especially not for him. She had done that once, and she was still fighting to keep that door closed. “And yes, I did read about the trial.” She spoke in the gentle voice he loved. “My heart ached for you.”
He nodded and took a sip of his drink. “The judge thought Johnny would be better off with her, since she's married now. And you know what that bastard did?” His face went taut as he told her about Markham and the gun. “I was going to file an appeal, but then Pearl Harbor was hit. I'll try again when I go back, by then she may be ready to give him up. My lawyer thinks she just wanted to get back at me.”
“For what?” Liane looked stunned. Had he told her about them?
“I guess for never loving me, crazy as that sounds. In her eyes, I kept her a prisoner for all those years.”
Liane remembered instantly the incident on the ship, as did he. “You were far more the prisoner than she.”
He nodded. “Well, that's all over now, for whatever it was worth. I got Johnny out of it, so I can't complain. Now all I have to do is get him back.”
“You will.” Her voice was quiet and strong. She was remembering his own words to her: “Strong people cannot be defeated.”
“I hope you're righ
t.” He finished his champagne and looked at her. She was even prettier than she'd been before, but there was something quieter about her now, and more severe. The rigors she forced on herself had taken their toll, and yet her face was as lovely as it had always been, her eyes seemed even more blue, and her hair was wound into a smooth bun. She looked very chic, he decided, and smiled at his own thoughts. “Where are you living here?”
“With my uncle George.”
“And the girls?”
“They're fine.” And then, with lowered eyes, “They still remember you.” And with that two more men in uniform suddenly joined the group, and a woman from the Red Cross, and a little while later Liane left. She didn't see Nick to say good-bye and she decided it was just as well. She drove home in the car she had borrowed from George and walked slowly inside. It had been strange to see Nick again. It opened wounds she'd hoped had healed. But there was nothing she could do about that. She had always wondered if they would meet again one day, and they had. Everything had changed for him since they had last met, but nothing had changed for her. Armand was still struggling to survive in France, and she was waiting for him here.
“Did you have a good time?” George was waiting for her when she got back.
“Very nice, thanks.” But she didn't look as though she had as she took off her coat.
“It sure doesn't look like you did.”
“Really, who?”
She smiled. “I met an old friend. From New York.”
“Nick Burnham.” She wasn't sure why she had told her uncle that, but it was something to say.
“Is he any relation to Burnham Steel?”
“He is. As a matter of fact, he is Burnham Steel.”
“Well, I'll be damned. I knew his father about thirty years ago. Fine man. A little crazy, now and then, but we all were in those days. What's the boy like?” Liane smiled at his choice of words.
“Nice. And a little crazy too. He's just reenlisted in the Marines, as a major, he got here earlier today.”
“You'll have to have him over some night before he ships out.” And then suddenly George had an idea. “How about tomorrow?”
“Uncle George, I really don't know….”
“It's Christmas, Liane. The man's alone. Do you have any idea what that's like in a strange town? Be decent to the man, for God's sake.”
“I don't even know how to get in touch with him.” And she wouldn't if she could, but she didn't tell that to him.
“Call the Marines. They'll know where he is.”
“I really don't think—”
“All right. All right. Never mind.” And then he muttered to himself, “If the man has any sense, he'll call you.”
And the man had a great deal of sense. He had gone back to his hotel, and sat in his room for a long time, staring down at Market Street and thinking of Liane, and the strange quirk of fate that had brought them back together again. If the little private from New Orleans hadn't knocked on his door that night … He grabbed a telephone book off the desk and began looking for George Crockett, and found the address on Broadway with ease, and then he sat staring at it. She lived there, at that phone number, in that house. He made a note of it, and the next morning he called, but she had already left for the Red Cross, and an obliging maid gave him the number there. He dialed the number once and she answered the line.
“You're already at work at this hour, Liane? You work too hard.”
“That's what my uncle says.” But her hand trembled at the sound of his voice. She wished he hadn't called her, but maybe her uncle was right. Maybe inviting him to dinner was the decent thing. And maybe by exposing herself to him as a friend, the old dreams would fade at last.
“What are you doing for lunch today?”
“I have to do an errand for Uncle George.” It was a lie, but she didn't want to be alone with him.
“Can it wait?”
“I'm afraid not.” He was puzzled by the tone of her voice, but maybe there were other people around. The walls were up, as they had been for almost two years, he reminded himself. There was no reason to pull them down because he had breezed into town, and he hadn't asked about Armand the night before. He knew how she felt about all that, but he had accepted that before. He just wanted to see her again.
“What about lunch on Friday?”
“I really can't, Nick.” And then she took a deep breath as she sat at her desk. “What about tonight? Dinner at my uncle's house? It's Christmas Eve, and we thought—”
“That's very nice. I'd like that very much.” He didn't want to give her a chance to change her mind. She gave him the address and he didn't tell her he'd already written it down. “What time?”
“Seven o'clock?”
“Great. I'll be there.” He hung up with a victorious grin and gave a whoop as he left the phone. He didn't feel forty anymore. He felt fifteen again. And happier than he'd been in seventeen months, or maybe ever.
ick arrived promptly at seven o'clock at the Broadway house, looking very dapper in his uniform, his arms laden with Christmas gifts for the girls. He had realized quickly what life in San Francisco was going to be like for him. There was virtually nothing for him to do. He had been assigned a desk and put in charge of some unimportant supplies, but basically, like the others, he was biding time until he shipped out, which gave him plenty of time to wander around and see friends. Now that he had found Liane and the girls, he was glad for the free time.
The butler led him down the long, stately hall and into the library, where the family had already gathered around the tree. It was their second Christmas with Uncle George, and the stockings, which they knew he would fill, were hung over the fireplace. The girls momentarily forgot about the stockings as they opened Nick's gifts eagerly, as George and Liane looked on. He had bought them beautiful toys. Each little girl hugged him warmly, and then he handed a package to George, which was obviously a book for the senior of the clan, and then he turned to Liane and handed a small box to her. He realized then that it was the first gift he'd ever given her. During their thirteen days on the ship there had been no time when he could have given anything to her, and from there they had gone straight to the train. He had thought about it often at first, with regret, that he'd never been able to give her anything, except his heart. But he would have liked to have known that she'd had something to remember him by. Little did he know that the memories he had left instead were far more durable than any gift, and she carried them deep inside her still.
“You shouldn't have.” She smiled, the small box still wrapped in her hand.
“I wanted to. Go on, open it. It won't bite.” George watched them with an interested eye. He had the feeling that they knew each other better than he'd realized, and perhaps better than they wanted him to know. And he watched Liane's eyes, as did Nick, as she opened the box, which held a single gold circlet for her arm, unbroken, without a catch, just a wide gold band. She slipped it over her arm now, but Nick reached out for it and spoke in a husky voice for no ears but hers. “Read what's inside.” She took it off again, and there was a single word. “Deauville.” And then she put it back on and looked at him, not sure if she should accept the gift, but she didn't have the heart to give it back to him.
“It's beautiful. You really shouldn't have, Nick …”
“Why not?” He tried to make light of what he felt, and said in a voice only she could hear, “I wanted to do that a long time ago; consider it a retroactive gift.” And then Uncle George opened his book, and exclaimed with delight. It was one he'd been anxious to read, and he shook Nick's hand. George regaled them all with tales of Nick's father, and how they'd met, and an outrageous caper they'd embarked on once, which had almost got them both arrested in New York. “Thank heavens he knew all the cops.” They had been speeding up Park Avenue and drinking champagne with two less-than-respectable women in the car, and he laughed at the memory, feeling young again, as Liane poured Nick a drink and another for herself. She sipped it as sh
e watched him talk to Uncle George and felt the bracelet on her arm. She felt the weight of the gold almost as much as the single word written inside. “Deauville.” She had to fight back the memories again as she sipped her drink, and force herself to listen to what was being said.
“You made a crossing together once, didn't you?”
“Twice, in fact.” Nick smiled at her and she caught his eye. She hadn't told George that Nick had been on the Deauville.
“Both times on the Normandie?” He looked confused and Nick shook his head. It was too late to lie and they had nothing to hide. Anymore.
“Once on the Normandie, in thirty-nine. And last year on the Deauville when we both came back. I'm afraid I stayed over there a little too long, and got caught. I had a hell of a time getting out. I sent my son back on the Aquitania when the war broke out, but I didn't leave Paris until after the fall.” It sounded innocent enough, and when George glanced at Liane, he saw nothing there.
“That must have been quite a trip, with the rescue at sea.”
“It was.” His face sobered as he remembered the men that had been brought on board. “We worked like dogs to keep them alive. Liane was absolutely extraordinary. She worked in the surgery all night, and made rounds for days after that.”
“Everyone pitched in and did more than their share,” Liane was quick to interject.
“That's not true.” Nick looked her in the eye. “You did more than anyone aboard, and a lot of those men wouldn't have lived if it weren't for you.” She didn't answer and her uncle smiled.
“She's got a lot of guts, my niece. Sometimes not as much sense as I would like”—he smiled gently at her—“but more guts than most men I know.” The two men looked at her and she blushed at their words.
“Enough of that. What about you, Nick? When are you shipping out?” It sounded as though she were anxious for that, and in a way she was, not to send him into danger overseas, but to get herself out of a danger she still sensed when he was nearby.
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