by Jan Moran
Abigail shook her head sadly. “As you know, he’s a tough old buzzard, but this war is really taking a toll on him.”
A sympathetic look crossed Steve’s face. “I’m awfully sorry about the ships he’s lost. We’ve all lost them,” he added. “Give him my best.”
“Thank you, I will,” Abigail said, remembering. German forces sank two fine Newell-Grey ships that had been put into His Majesty’s service, along with the H.M.S. Eagle and the H.M.S. Manchester. To the Japanese, they’d lost another ship, as well as the H.M.S. Prince of Wales and the H.M.S. Repulse. She hated to think of the waste incurred, and more than that, the lives lost.
“And your mother,” Steve asked, “is Harriet still in London?”
“Indeed, she won’t leave my father’s side, despite the Nazi air strikes. And you must remember the Leibowitzes. Their home was damaged in an air raid, but thank God, no one was injured.”
Lou added, “Since Allied forces have retaliated, bombing Germany, perhaps we’ll have an end to this soon.”
Steve nodded gravely. “I don’t see how the Nazis can manage their invasion of Russia. Spreading themselves too thin, if you ask me.”
“We hope,” Abigail said, nodding in agreement.
Steve went on. “And how is your brother Jon faring?”
“Helping to keep the Royal Navy afloat,” Abigail replied. “He’s been fortunate, more than I can say for many of our friends.”
Steve touched her arm in a compassionate gesture. “Some of ours, too, sad to say. Well, give your parents my regards. And congratulations again on your honor. Mighty fine work you’re doing.” He glanced overhead, then winked at her. “With any luck, we won’t have an air raid drill tonight.” He turned to Lou, shook his hand. “Let’s have lunch soon.”
“Call my office,” Lou replied. “Gladys will arrange it.”
As Abigail and Lou continued toward the tennis court she caught her breath in surprise. Sure enough, an enormous tent had been erected over the court like a draped pagoda. They walked inside, where the Asian theme continued, with pale celadon green fabric lining the interior, an enormous golden Buddha at the entryway, and gaily colored lanterns illuminating each table.
“How exquisite!” Abigail took in the scene. An orchestra played on a stage, and urns of exotic orchids and fragrant jasmine were dotted around. She broke into a smile when she saw her friends. “Danielle and Cameron, I’m so glad you could join us.”
“Hello, darling,” Danielle said, kissing her on each cheek. “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
Abigail hugged them both. “And look, here’s Clara.” They turned to greet her and Abigail said, “Clara, you look marvelous. You certainly dressed appropriately for the occasion.” Clara wore a sleek red cheongsam dress, with red enameled chopsticks in her platinum up-sweep.
“Actually, I can’t take credit for this outfit. Danielle designed it for me. It’s part of her Asian collection.”
Abigail turned to Danielle, who wore a similar tunic and pants outfit in emerald green. Quite daring, she thought, to wear pants to a formal event, but Danielle carried it off with great aplomb. She grinned at her. “Looks like you’re starting another trend tonight.”
Danielle laughed. “It’s good for business. Speaking of which, I believe you know my business partner, Harry Nelson. He’s Clara’s escort for the evening.”
“Of course, I’m happy to see you again, Harry. Danielle tells me you’ve done wonders with National Music. The first Duets album was on the chart for a year, wasn’t it?”
Harry nodded. “And the series is still selling well, as are his Christmas collections. But I must confess, Danielle was the brains behind it all.”
“Yeah, I jus’ sing,” Cameron cut in, slurring his words. “Shut up and sing, that’s all they say.”
Before Abigail could reply, Danielle shot a sharp glance to Harry, who grabbed Cameron by the arm, and guided him away.
Well-wishers quickly swept Abigail and Lou into the crowd, with gossip columnist Hedda Hopper among them.
Danielle frowned, fearing Hedda’s press coverage. At least Harry had been swift in his reaction. She didn’t want any more wild stories leaking to the press. Why can’t he behave, just once? Cameron’s new album was scheduled for a spring release. It was his first original material since before they’d married. And she’d hate for Cameron to spoil tonight’s special honor for Abigail.
Her heart sank as she watched Harry and Cameron. She’d really hoped Cameron would be on good behavior. She’d turned her back on him for just a few moments with the mayor, but that was all it took for Cameron to swallow several shots of vodka. Worse, Mayor Albright wanted Cameron to sing a few of his new songs after dinner. He’ll be in no shape to sing tonight, she thought ruefully, and sighed. All he has to do is sing and flash his million-dollar grin. Is that so much to ask?
Danielle returned her attention to the guests. Marie had come, too, and Danielle smiled as she watched her mother speaking animatedly, her lilting laugh filtering across the glittering crowd.
To Danielle’s relief, Marie had made tremendous strides, due in a large part to Dr. Genet, a French doctor living in Los Angeles who’d taken particular interest in Marie’s condition. Survivors of tragedy were his specialty. Furthermore, he and Marie enjoyed a common bond through their shared language and culture. He was incredibly good to Marie, and she’d blossomed under his care. Even her voice had regained its lovely harmonious quality.
Danielle never forgot that it was Cameron who’d made Marie’s initial treatment possible. Danielle checked her anger against her husband. For all his faults, he had been generous to her and Marie and the girls. Had it not been for Cameron.... She glanced at him again. She owed him a great deal. He had opened doors for her, and she would never forget it. But that didn’t excuse his behavior.
Abigail swept up behind Danielle. “Penny for your thoughts.”
“Oh, Abigail,” she replied with a jolt. “You surprised me.”
Abigail followed her gaze. “Will Cameron be all right?”
Danielle nodded. “He’s had a fair amount to drink, but Harry will see to him.”
“I just want to make sure everyone is having a good time.”
Danielle grasped her hands. “That’s exactly why we’re here. Because you care so much, and you do so much for others.”
Abigail flushed with modesty. “I couldn’t do it without financial support. You’ve been one of my most loyal and generous contributors, Danielle. We should honor you.”
Danielle shrugged. “It gives me great pleasure to help your children.” She lowered her eyes, grew pensive. “Imagine, Nicky could have been one of the children you’ve rescued.”
“His memory lives on through your efforts, Danielle.”
“It’s still hard for me to realize he’s gone, Abigail. He’s so real in my dreams. What if—” Danielle stopped, suddenly unable to voice her thought. What if Heinrich had lied?
“You’ll always find him, Danielle, in your dreams and in your heart.”
Danielle sighed. “You’re too good, Abigail. In fact, you’re the best person I know.” She glanced at Lou, who was deep in conversation with Dr. Genet. “You’ll make someone very happy some day. Some day soon, perhaps?”
Abigail’s smile faded, replaced by a wistful expression. “Lou? No, we’re just good friends. Marriage isn’t for me. I’m far too busy.”
One glance at Abigail’s face and Danielle quickly changed the subject. “Have you heard from your brother lately?”
“I received a letter from Jon just yesterday. He’s exhausted, of course, he hasn’t had leave in months. Besides which, poor fellow, he and Victoria have had such problems in their marriage.”
Danielle bit back regret. “Where is she now? Still in New York?”
“Last I heard, she’s visiting friends in Mexico City and Acapulco. Wherever the fashionable place to be is, that’s where Victoria can be found.”
“I am
truly sorry for him, Abigail. It’s no wonder you shy away from marriage. Jon and Victoria, Cameron and me. We don’t exactly inspire a sprint to the marriage alter.”
“I’m sure everyone has problems to work through,” Abigail said, sighing. “We were brought up believing in fairy tale marriages. But it’s not reality. Not in today’s world.”
“This is a crazy world.” Danielle hesitated before asking her next question. She and Jon had painfully reestablished their friendship and had been corresponding for the last several years. But there were some things, she knew, one only confided to family. “And Jon? What do you think he’ll do? About Victoria, I mean.”
Abigail drew a sharp breath. “I can’t say, I really mustn’t say, Danielle.” Her voice cracked.
Alarmed by her reaction, Danielle asked, “Abigail, what’s wrong? Is Jon all right?”
Abigail shook her head.
“Please tell me.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I promised Jon.”
Danielle’s heart raced. A thousand images rushed through her mind. Had something happened to him? “Abigail, you must tell me,” she whispered urgently.
Frowning, Abigail looked over her shoulder. “He made me promise not to tell you. Oh, Danielle, really, this isn’t the time or place.”
Danielle clutched her arm. “Has Jon been wounded?”
“No, nothing like that.” Abigail let out a deep sigh. “It’s just too awful. You can’t imagine.” She turned her head away, then spoke very quietly. “Victoria is pregnant.”
Danielle caught her breath. Had she heard right? Still, she’d known it was inevitable. The family wanted children more than anything, heirs to the family business and fortune. “I don’t understand, Abigail, what’s wrong with that?”
“Everything!” Abigail’s face was etched with anguish. “Jon hasn’t seen her in almost a year. It’s not his child!”
28
Danielle parked her Delahaye automobile in front of a modest red brick church. She paused for a moment, her hand on the key. This could be the day, she thought, then stepped out of the car. The attached playground was deserted as she made her way to the side door and went inside.
“Mornin’, Miz Bretancourt.”
As she passed the office, Danielle nodded to the pastor of the Prince of Peace congregation. “Good morning, Brother Anderson. What brings you here so early?”
“I could ask the same of you, my child,” drawled the portly pastor from behind his desk. “But I know your heart, and I wish you peace in your journey today.”
“Thank you, and good day to you.” Danielle turned, anxious to get on with her business.
“Oh, and Miz Bretancourt?”
She stopped. “Yes?”
“We appreciate your generous donation for the children.”
“It’s my pleasure, Brother Anderson,” she replied with a gracious nod.
The children of the Prince of Peace orphanage had breakfast from six to seven o’clock. On the next block, in the Temple Emmanuel orphanage, breakfast was served from six-thirty to seven-thirty. A quick walk through both to check on any new boys who might have arrived, and she could still be at her desk by seven o’clock.
Every month she visited all of the orphanages in Los Angeles County. Everyone knew her, and knew why she visited, and everyone left her alone, except for the occasional greeting.
Unfortunately, this morning was no different. Danielle swept through the dining hall, but she saw no child who even remotely resembled Nicky. She swallowed a pang of grief as she returned to her car. With a slightly trembling hand, she turned the ignition of the Delahaye and started for her office.
She’d never stopped dreaming of Nicky. In fact, her dreams had become increasingly vivid, even eerily realistic, leading her to reexamine the events surrounding his death. At the time of her dreadful encounter with Heinrich in Poland, she had no reason to disbelieve him when he told her he’d killed Nicky. But later, she realized she had no reason to believe him. Could Heinrich have lied to her? Could he have been so cruel?
Of course, she’d admitted with painful realization. In hindsight, she understood Heinrich was capable of anything.
What if Nicky still lived? Where would he be? And how could she find him? To return to Poland was impossible now.
And so she’d had a sketch artist make copies of Nicky’s photograph, aging him several years. She sent these copies to orphanages and relief agencies on the East Coast and in England, as well as to Philippe and his colleagues. She vowed to continue her search as long as there was a chance, however slim, that Nicky might still be alive.
She turned into the garage of her office building, parked, and hurried in, deliberately turning her focus to business.
Outside her office, seven melodic chimes from a neighboring church rang out in the clear spring morning air, marking the hour. She relished the early morning solitude that allowed her to work uninterrupted.
Opening the door to her second floor office, she went in. Her office was her cocoon, sumptuously decorated to her exacting standards, and organized for work and comfort. She walked to the window and drew back burgundy velvet draperies.
A coffee urn, ready to brew, stood on a red lacquered Chinese table in the corner. She flipped a switch and while coffee brewed, she freshened a floral arrangement that graced a low table in front of a brocade sofa and two coordinating chairs. Humming a soft tune, she snipped a few wilted red roses, and shook the petals into a wooden basket to dry for potpourri. After pouring coffee into a delicate bone china cup, she seated herself at her Louis XIV inlaid desk, eagerly anticipating a productive day. She took a sip of coffee, thinking.
With Allied forces pressing into Germany, and France’s recent liberation, she was already planning for postwar expansion to meet the needs and desires of returning veterans and their families. She smiled as she thought of the recent turn of events in the war. How she had loved seeing news reel images of French tanks passing under the Arc de Triomphe in Paris! Charles de Gaulle had organized the resistance fighters into the French Forces of the Interior, which rose up against the German garrison in Paris. The Free French Army of Liberation and the United States’ 4th Infantry Division had joined in, and now freedom was restored to her beloved homeland. And thankfully, to her immense relief, Philippe and Françoise had survived.
However, fighting still raged across Europe, and Poland was still occupied. She paused, holding her cup in mid-air, thinking of Nicky.
She glanced at the clock. She and Harry had a meeting with her banker after noon, and she had to complete her review of the financial statements. She forced her attention back to her work. By the time her secretary and staff arrived at nine o’clock, she would have completed reviewing projections for the next fiscal year for Bretancourt Holdings. As she reviewed the documents, she periodically took up her gold fountain pen to make changes and note items to discuss with Harry over lunch.
She thought of Harry, who was now a board member of Bretancourt Holdings. She knew he would think her projections aggressive, but every year they’d exceeded her numbers. Still, she welcomed his advice, as well as his ability to handle Cameron’s increasingly difficult spells.
Grimacing, she recalled her husband’s behavior at the mayor’s function honoring Abigail. Cameron had actually passed out on stage. The gossip columnists had gone wild with the story. She shuddered and pushed this last thought from her mind. She had important plans for the coming year, and thoughts of Cameron only depressed her.
She paused to review the revised projections. “Yes, this will do nicely,” she murmured, satisfied. She made a note for Harry, then her mind began to drift.
With a sigh, she put down her pen and opened her desk drawer, extracting a letter she’d received from Jon last week. She opened the letter; it was short, as his letters usually were now, and with no mention of Victoria’s pregnancy, the confidence Abigail had divulged to her. But from the tone of his letter, Danielle could tell Jon was deeply
troubled. Her heart ached for him. Most likely, he would claim Victoria’s child as his own. It was, after all, the honorable thing to do. How well she’d come to know him through their correspondence. She bit her lip. If only things were different.
Danielle rested her head against her leather chair. She folded his letter carefully, then rose from her desk and crossed to a tall safe that stood behind a Chinese lacquered wood screen. She spun the dial, opened the heavy door, and placed his letter on the top of a stack of his other letters. She let her hand linger on the envelopes for a moment, her fingers caressing the envelopes of cherished memories, then shut the door and returned to her desk.
With a heavy heart, she picked up her pen and returned to work. The rising sun glinted through the window, shimmering on her silver desk set and crystal perfume bottle collection. She glanced at an antique French bronze clock. It was almost eight o’clock. She still had an hour to herself.
Suddenly, she heard a bang and footsteps in the hall outside her door. She stiffened. No one else ever arrived this early.
The door burst open, slamming against the wall with such force that her prized French impressionist oil paintings rattled on their hooks. Cameron staggered in, his fine evening clothes wrinkled, his face blotched and unshaven. His eyes held a dark, wild expression.
Her heart pounding, she stood and squared her shoulders. “What do you want?”
“Knew I’d find you here,” he said, slurring his words. “Look at you,” he sneered, gesturing toward the financial statements on her desk. “Always countin’ your money. You never quit, do you?”
“It’s your living, too,” she said pointedly.
Cameron grinned. “We share the wealth, do we? Tha’s not the way I see it. You control the money, Dani, you wear the pants in this family. Hell, ever’body knows that. You don’t even want to give me a son, do ya, Dani?”
Danielle clenched her jaw. I can’t speak to him like this, she thought. “You have no business here, Cameron. Go home, sleep it off.”
