Danielle Steel - Crossings

“Good night, girls.” Liane kissed them in their beds in the house on Broadway. “Merry Christmas.”

“Mommy?” Marie-Ange picked up her head after the light was out, and Liane stopped in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“How long has it been since you heard from Papa?” She felt the familiar mixture of worry and longing slice through her.

“A little while.”

“Is he all right?”

“He's fine. And he misses you very much.”

“Can I see his letters sometime?”

Liane hesitated and then nodded. There was much in them that she didn't want to share, but the child had a right to some contact with her father. And he had precious little time and paper to write very often to the girls, he saved most of his energy and thoughts for Liane. “All right.”

“What does he say?”

“That he loves us, and he talks about the war, and things he sees.”

Marie-Ange nodded and, in the light from the hallway, looked relieved. “No one at school here says that he's a Nazi.”

“He's not.” Liane sounded desperately sad.

“I know.” And then after a pause, “Good night, Mommy. Merry Christmas.” And with that Liane walked back across the room to kiss her again. She was almost eleven now and growing up very quickly.

“I love you very much.” She swallowed to hold back tears. “And so does your papa.”

Liane saw that her daughter's eyes were damp. “I hope the war is over soon. I miss him so much.” She began to sob. “And I hated it—when—they called him—a Nazi—”

“Shh … darling … shh … we know the truth. That's all that matters.”

Marie-Ange nodded and held her mother close and then she lay back on her pillow with a sigh. “I want him to come home.”

“He will. We just have to pray that we can all be together again quickly. Now, go to sleep.”

“Good night, Mommy.”

“Good night, love.” She closed the door softly and went to her own room. It was eight o'clock at night, already five o'clock in the morning in Paris. And Armand lay in his bed in the Place du Palais-Bourbon, in a deep, exhausted sleep, dreaming of his wife and daughters.

n December Roosevelt took a two-week vacation and went fishing in the Caribbean, and when he returned, it was with a revolutionary new idea, the Lend-Lease program for England. It was a system by which America could supply Britain with a large stream of munitions, free of charge, in exchange for which the United States got leases on naval bases from Newfoundland to South America, and the program allowed the United States to maintain neutrality and at the same time help the English. On the whole, America had changed her tune by the end of 1940. Everyone acknowledged at last that Hitler was a deadly threat to the survival of Europe, and admiration for the British had reached its height. They were a brave, noble people fighting for their lives. And Churchill's pleas from London did not fall on deaf ears: “Give us the tools and we will finish the job. …” And on January 6, Roosevelt spoke before Congress. With his Lend-Lease program he wanted to give the British the “tools,” and a savage debate began that raged for two months. It was still raging when Hillary Burnham returned from Reno on February 8, a free woman.

She and Philip Markham had stayed at the Riverside Hotel for a little over six weeks, and like all the others, when she got her divorce, she threw the narrow gold wedding band Nick had given her into the Truckee River. The diamond ring he had given her along with it, she saved to sell when she got back to New York. But there were other things on her agenda first. She tried to see Johnny outside his school, but the bodyguard on duty wouldn't let her near him. Instead, she turned up at Nick's office without an appointment and forced her way in, despite his secretary's futile attempts to keep her out. She stood in the doorway in a new sable coat, wearing a new large pear-shaped diamond ring, which did not escape his notice.

“So, the great man is in. It's like trying to get in to see God.” She looked very confident, and very vicious, and terribly pretty. But he was immune to her now. He looked up from his desk as though he were in no way surprised to see her.

“Hello, Hillary. What do you want?”

“In a word, my son.”

“Try for something else. You'll have better luck.”

“So I notice. Who's the goon who stands over him like a mother hen?”

Nick's eyes glittered unpleasantly. “I gather you tried to see him.”

“That's right. He's my child too.”

“Not anymore. You should have thought of that a long time ago.”

“You can't wish me away, Nick, no matter how much you'd like to. I'm still Johnny's mother.” But there was something very ruthless in his face as he got up and crossed the room.

“You don't give a damn about that child.” But he was wrong. She did. She was getting married on the twelfth of March, and Mrs. Markham was already making comments about the scandalous legal proceedings between Hillary and Nick. She wanted Hillary to have custody so there would be no scandal. Philip and Hillary were creating enough of one by living together.

“I'm getting married in five weeks, and I want Johnny there.”

“Why? So people won't talk? Go to hell.”

“He belongs with me. Philip and I love him.”

“That's strange.” Nick leaned back against his desk. He didn't want to come any closer to her. It was as though she exuded poison. “I seem to recall that he's the man who held a gun to my child's head.”

“Oh, for chrissake, stop talking about that.”

“You came to see me. I didn't come to see you. If you don't like what I have to say, get out of my office.”

“Not until you agree to let me see my son. And if you don't”—her eyes were just as vicious as his—“I'll get a court order and you'll have to.” Philip had already taken her to see his attorneys, and she liked their style. They were a tough bunch of bastards.

“Is that right? Well, why don't you have your attorney call mine and they can discuss it. You can save the cab fare coming down here to see me.”

“I can afford it.”

“That's true.” He smiled. “But your fiancé can't. I hear he's gone through his money and he's on an allowance from his mommy.”

“You son of a bitch …” He had hit a nerve, and she walked to the door then and yanked it open. “You'll be hearing from my lawyers.”

“Have a nice wedding.” The door slammed, and he reached for the phone and called Ben Greer.

“I know you don't like it, Nick. But you have to let her see him. You have bodyguards for the boy, she can't do any harm.”

“He doesn't want to see her.”

“He's not old enough to make that decision.”

“Says who?”

“The State of New York.”

“Shit.”

“I think you'd be smart to let her see him. She may lose interest after she sees him a couple of times, and that would look good for us in court. I really want you to think it over.”

Nick did and he was still adamant when he met with Greer in the man's offices a few days later.

“You know, if you don't, she can get a court order and force you to let her see the boy.”

“So she said.”

“She happens to be right. By the way, who are her attorneys?”

“They must be Markham's men. Fulton and Matthews.” Greer frowned at the names. “Do you know them?”

He nodded. “They're very tough, Nick. Very tough.”

“Tougher than you?” Nick was smiling but he looked worried.