Danielle Steel: Vanished

“How can I tell him I saw you, when he doesn't know you exist in my life anyway?” Her eyes were very calm, and her face very lovely. She seemed at peace, and that was something.

“Do you love him?” He didn't believe she did, and he wanted to hear it.

“Of course. I'm his wife.” But the truth was she respected him, she admired him, she owed him. She had never loved him as she loved Charles, and she never would. What's more, she didn't want to. A love like that caused too much pain, and she no longer had the courage. She glanced at her watch and then back at Charles. “I have to go.”

“Why? What will happen if you don't go home, if you come home with me instead?” He looked as though he meant it.

“You haven't changed. You're still the man who convinced me to elope with him in Paris.” She smiled at the memory, and so did he.

“You were easier to convince in those days.”

“Everything was easier then, we were young.”

“You still are.” But in her heart, she knew she wasn't.

She pulled her coat more tightly around her, and slipped on her other glove, and he began to walk her slowly toward the main door of the cathedral.

“I want to see you again before I go.”

She sighed, and stopped to look up at him. “Charles, how can we do that?”

“If you don't, I'll come to your house and ring your doorbell.”

“You probably would.” She laughed in spite of the sorrow of the day that had brought them together.

“You'll have a hell of a time explaining that.” Just thinking about it almost brought on one of her migraines. “You know where I am. I'm at my father's. Call. Or I will.”

After seven years, here he was threatening her, and looking so damn handsome while he did it.

“And if I don't call?”

“I'll find you.”

“I don't want to be found.” She looked serious, and so did he when he answered.

“I'm not sure I believe that. And after all these years, we can't just … I can't just let go, Marielle …I can't …I'm sorry.” He looked so forlorn, and in an odd way, almost broken.

“I know.” She slipped a hand into his arm, and they walked through the door, just as Malcolm's chauffeur darted through a side door. He had spent an interesting hour watching them. It was a side to Marielle he hadn't seen before, but in some ways it didn't surprise him. Malcolm had his own life too, and she was a beautiful young woman. Beautiful, and frightened, he knew. She was intimidated by everyone, especially her husband. And he wondered who would pay more for the intelligence of what he'd just seen, in time …Mrs. Patterson herself? Or her husband?

Charles and Marielle were walking slowly down the steps arm in arm, and he held her close to him as they reached the bottom. “I won't press it if you don't want me to, but I'd like to see you before I go.” But he really looked as though he meant it.

“Why?” She looked straight at him, and he gave her the only answer he could have.

“I still love you.”

Tears filled her eyes as she looked away from him. She didn't want to love him anymore, or be loved by him, didn't want the memories, the pain, the anguish. She looked up at him again. “I can't call you.”

“You can do anything you want. And whatever you do, I'll still … is it just as hard for you …” He glanced back at the church, thinking of the day that had brought them here, and then he looked down at her, his eyes filled with tears, as hers overflowed in answer, and she nodded.

“Yes, it's just as hard. It doesn't go away.” And it never would. She understood that now. She had to live with it, like constant pain. She looked up at him again. “I'm so sorry …” She had wanted to say those words to him for years, and now she had, but nothing was different.

He shook his head, pulled her tight against his chest, and then let her go. And with a last look at her, he walked away, up Fifth Avenue, without saying good-bye to her. But the truth was, he couldn't. She watched him for a long time, and then she slipped into Malcolm's car. As the chauffeur drove her home, she was thinking about Charles …a life long lost, never to be found again …and Andre.

Patrick, the driver, took Marielle home, driving north up Fifth Avenue, but she didn't see Charles there. And finally, they drove east on Sixty-fourth Street, to the house where she had lived for six years with Malcolm. The house was between Madison and Fifth, just around the corner from the park, and it was a beautiful home, but it had never been hers. It was Malcolm's. She had felt ill at ease there from the first. It was an awesome establishment, with a huge staff, and it had once belonged to Malcolm's parents. He had maintained it almost as a memorial to them, with priceless collections everywhere, added to only by the rare objects he collected on his travels, or sometimes by curators of museums. Sometimes Marielle felt like a precious object there, something to be displayed, but never played with. A doll to be admired on a shelf and never handled. His servants treated her politely, for the most part, but they had always made it clear that they worked not for her, but for her husband. Many of them had been there for years, and after six years, she still felt she scarcely knew them. Malcolm always urged her to keep her distance. She had, and so had they. There was no warmth in their exchanges with her. And from the first, Malcolm had let her make no changes. It was still his home, everything was done his way, and if her orders differed from his at all, they were politely ignored, and the matter never mentioned. He hired the staff himself, and most of them were Irish or English or German. Malcolm had an enormous fondness for all things German. He had gone to Heidelberg University in his youth, and he spoke the language to perfection.

Marielle wondered sometimes if the reason the staff resented her, albeit secretly, was because she had worked for Malcolm. It had been impossible for her to get a job when she came back from Europe in 1932. The Depression was in full swing, even men with college degrees were unemployed, and she had absolutely no training. She had never worked for anyone before, and her parents had left her nothing. Her father lost everything in the crash of '29, which basically had killed him. He'd been too old to survive the strain, to start over again. In the end, his heart had given out, but before it, his spirit. And there was nothing left but a few hundred dollars when his wife died six months later. Marielle had still been in Europe then, and Charles had arranged for their house to be sold in order to pay their debts. She'd been too ill to take care of it herself, and when she went back to New York eventually, she was left with nothing and had no home to go to. She stayed in a hotel on the East Side, and started looking for a job the week she'd arrived. She had two thousand dollars she'd borrowed from Charles. It was all she'd let him give her. She was totally alone. And in many ways, Malcolm had saved her. She was grateful to him for that still, and she always would be.

She had appeared in his office on a wintry February day, and the face that smiled at her across the desk was like a ray of sunshine. She had gone to him because she knew he was one of her father's friends, and she hoped that somehow he might know of a job, or someone who needed a companion who spoke French. It was all she knew other than her graceful drawings, but she hadn't drawn now in years. She had no secretarial skills at all, but after speaking to her for an hour, he hired her, and until she found a place of her own, he even paid for her hotel bill. She had tried to repay him afterward, but he wouldn't hear of it. He knew what dire straits she was in, and he was happy to help her.