Danielle Steel - Crossings

“Madame?” There was a soft knock at the door and an unfamiliar voice, and she opened it to see a swarthy-looking sailor of the French merchant marine, holding out a steaming mug to her. “Du café?”

“Merci.” She took a careful sip of the steaming brew after she had sat down again, and was touched at the thoughtfulness. As the only woman on board, she was liable to earn courtesies that no one else would share. But that didn't seem quite fair to her. They were all in the same boat. She grinned to herself at the bad joke. And as much as she didn't want to leave France and Armand, she was grateful for the escape. She vowed to herself to do anything she could to help on the ship, but when she and the girls stepped into the dining room, she saw that everything was very much under control. Breakfast was being served in shifts to the passengers on board, and people were quick to eat and give up their seats. The atmosphere was one of camaraderie and helpfulness, and she was aware of no impertinent stares. A number of men spoke kindly to the girls. Most of them were Americans who, for one reason or another, hadn't been able to get home since the outbreak of the war. She discovered quickly that at least a dozen or so of the men were journalists, the two Canadians were doctors, and the rest were for the most part businessmen who for whatever reason had held on in France until the end. There was much talk of Hitler now, and the fall of France, how easily Paris had opened up its doors … De Gaulle's recent speech … Churchill … The room was ablaze with interpretations of the news, bits of gossip were passed around, and then suddenly she saw a familiar form across the room. She couldn't believe it could be him. He was a tall blond man in sailor's garb that didn't seem to fit quite right, his shoulders were straining at the seams, and when she looked down, she saw that the pants were more than a little short. But when he turned to help himself to more coffee from the pot, their eyes met, almost as though he sensed her glance, and he stared at her in equal disbelief until his face broke into a broad smile, and he abandoned his chair at once and came to shake her hand and hug the girls.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nick Burnham stared down at Liane with a broad grin and then glanced down at the pants he wore. “My luggage fell overboard when I arrived. Damn, it's good to see you all. Where's Armand?” He looked around and then realized the answer, as Liane's face fell.

Her voice was husky as she answered. “He stayed in France.”

“Will he be going to North Africa?” He lowered his voice, but she only shook her head. She didn't have the heart to tell him that he was staying in Paris with Pétain.

She turned her eyes up to Nick's then and shook her head. “Isn't it amazing, Nick? A year ago we were all on the Normandie . And now look at us.” She smiled at his pants, and they both looked sadly around the room. “France has fallen into German hands … we're all running for our lives … who would have believed …” And then she looked at Nick again. “I thought you left long ago.”

“I wasn't that smart. Things were so quiet then, I decided to stick around for another month, and then all hell broke loose, and it was too late to get out. I could have gone back on the Queen Mary in March. But instead”—he grinned— “well, at least we'll get home. Not as elegantly as we arrived perhaps, but what the hell.”

“What news do you have of John?”

“He's fine. I'm going home to rescue him. He's been with his grandmother since he left.” Something unhappy crossed Nick's eyes, they all had such complicated lives, such painful histories they brought along. And then he gestured to three empty seats. “Why don't you three sit down and eat. I'll catch you later and we can talk.”

“No tennis courts this time?” She grinned. It was so strange to see him here, and a relief too. Suddenly the sorrow of fleeing the war was reduced to an absurd adventure. And she could see the same thoughts in his eyes too.

“It's crazy, isn't it? Crazier yet to see you here.” He had been fascinated during the entire day before to learn of how the others had heard of the ship, but somehow, remarkably, they had. It was indeed an interesting assortment on board. Crockett Shipping, via Liane, Burnham Steel, thanks to him, two Harvard professors who had finished a stint at Cambridge the month before and were anxious to get out … the tales went on and on. He went back to his seat to grab his coffee cup, and came back to Liane's table to chat for a moment before he moved on. They would have plenty of time to talk on the trip.

They had no idea how long it would take them to get to New York. It depended on how far they had to wander off course to avoid any dangers the captain feared. Nick had been told the captain's instincts were good—he was sure to keep them out of danger—and he passed the cheering information on to Liane, on the upper deck later on.

“So, old friend, how have you been?” The girls were playing with their dolls in the sun, and Liane sat propped against a ladder, while Nick leaned against a rail. “We seem to meet in the oddest spots. …”

His thoughts drifted back to the year before as he glanced out to sea and then back at Liane. “Do you realize that the name of my suite on the Normandie was the Deauville suite? It must have been prophetic.” He shook his head.

“And do you remember how we talked about the war, as though it would never come?”

“Armand thought it would. I was the fool then.” He shrugged. “And you told me that one of these days I'd have to make a choice about who I sold my contracts to. And you were right.”

“You made the right choices in the end.” It made her think of Armand again. How could she explain to anyone that he was now working for Pétain?

He looked intently at Liane then. “Doesn't all of that seem terribly unreal? I don't know … I feel like I've been on another planet for the past year.”

She nodded, feeling the same way. “We've all been so engrossed in what's happening here.”

“It's going to be very strange to go back, you know. They aren't going to want to hear about what we know, what we've seen.”

“Do you think that's true?” That seemed shocking to her now. The war in Europe was so real. How could the United States go on ignoring that, yet she recognized that in the States everyone felt that they were safe, Europe was so far away. She shook her head. “I suppose it is.”

“Where are you and the girls going to live, Liane?”

It was a question she had debated at great length with Armand on the way to Toulon. He wanted her to go back to San Francisco—to her uncle George, but she was adamant about that. Washington felt more like home. “Back to Washington. We have friends there. The girls can go back to their old school.” She was going to stay at the Shoreham hotel if she could get a room, and then she'd try to rent some sort of furnished house in Georgetown, where they could wait out the war. She wasn't even sure she was going to tell her uncle that she was back in the States at first but undoubtedly he would find out from her bank, and she knew that she owed it to him to tell him. But she had never felt close to the man, and she didn't want him pressing her to come home. The only home she had recognized for years was wherever she was living with Armand.

Liane glanced at Nick now, thinking of his life. There had been several questions she'd been wondering about. “You're going back to New York, to pick up the threads of your old life?” It was the only way she could think of to ask him about his wife. And he nodded slowly.

“I'm going to bring Johnny back from Boston.” And then he looked at Liane with honest eyes. He had been honest with her before, and there was no reason not to be now. “I don't really know what Hillary's been up to since she left. I wrote to her, I cabled her a number of times. But ever since her cable in September, telling me that they had arrived safely in New York, I haven't heard a word. I suspect she's seen damn little of Johnny.” The green eyes began to burn, and he wanted to tell her now that he had seen Philip Markham's name on the manifest of the Aquitania . He had told no one since it had happened.