Danielle Steel: Crossings

iane's train reached San Diego at eleven o'clock the next night, and she didn't reach the hotel until midnight. She knew that it was too late for Nick to call, and she waited breathlessly by the phone the next day, until finally he called just after noon. She had been awake and tense since seven o'clock that morning.

“I'm sorry, love. I couldn't call. I've got meetings and briefings and God knows what else.”

She panicked at his words. “Can I see you?” She glanced out at the Pacific as she spoke, trying to imagine where he was. Her room had a view of the base and the port in the distance.

“I can't see you until tonight. And Liane …” He hated to do it, but he knew he had to tell her. “That'll be it. I have to report to the base at six o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“When do you sail?” Her heart was pounding in her ears.

“I don't know. All I know is that I have to be on the ship at six o'clock tomorrow morning. I assume we sail the next day. But they won't tell us.” That was standard military procedure, because of the war. “Look, I've got to go. I'll see you tonight. As soon as I can.”

“I'll be here.” She spent the day in her room, terrified that he would come early and she would miss him. And at ten minutes to six there was a knock on her door. It was Nick and she flew into his arms, crying and laughing and desperately happy to see him. For these few moments they could pretend that he would never leave.

“God, you look so good to me, love.”

“So do you.” But they were both exhausted from the strain of the past two days. It was a time she knew she would never forget. It was worse than when she had left Paris.

They talked frantically for half an hour, and then he took her in his arms and took her to bed, and after that, things seemed to slow down. They never left the room to go to dinner that night, and they never slept. They lay there and they talked and made love. And Liane trembled as she saw the sun come up. She knew that their last night was over.

At five thirty he got out of bed, and he looked at her soberly as she watched him. “Babe … I've got to go….”

“I know.” She sat up, wanting to pull him to her, wanting to turn the clock back.

And then he asked her something he had wanted to ask her for two days. “Will you write to me, or would you rather not?” They had agreed four months before that when he left it would be over.

“I'll write.” She smiled sadly. She was already writing to Armand, and now she had lost two men to the war, for the time being at least. She didn't know what she would do when he came back. For weeks she had been asking herself that question. Things were different than they had been on the Deauville , she and Nick had had four months, not thirteen days, and she couldn't give him up so easily now. Once or twice she had thought of leaving Armand after the war, but she didn't think she could. Nor could she give up Nick Burnham.

“I'll write to you too. But it may take forever for you to get my letters.”

“I'll be waiting.”

He didn't shower before he put on his clothes. He didn't want to waste a single minute of their time together, he could shower on the ship, he had a lifetime to do that. And all he had now were a few moments left with Liane. “Remember what I said about Johnny.” He had given her Hillary's address, but she had insisted again that she wouldn't need it. He'd come back to see to Johnny himself, and he had answered “Just in case.” She had taken it to make him feel better.

Their last moments ticked by like the last seconds before a bomb explodes, and in the end they stood in her room and he held her tight. “I'm going to leave you here.”

Panic struck her again. “Can't I take you back to the base?”

He shook his head. “It'll just make it harder.” She nodded, tears already flooding her face, and he kissed her one last time and looked into her eyes. “I'll be back.”

“I know.” And neither of them asked the other what would happen then. It was too late to think of that. All they had was the present, and whatever fate dealt them later. “Nick … take care. …” She grabbed at him once as he left the room, and he held her again, and then with a last wave he ran down the stairs, and she went back into their room and closed the door, and she sat, feeling as though the last bit of life had been drained out of her. She was still sitting in the room two hours later, thinking of him, when she happened to glance out the window, and the whole Pacific Ocean seemed to have disappeared and in its place was an enormous ship, moving slowly out to sea. Her heart pounded as she watched. It was an aircraft carrier, and she knew as she watched that it was the Lexington and Nick was on it. She flung open the window of her room as though that would bring her a little closer, and she watched until it had left the harbor. And then she turned slowly and packed her bag, and two hours later she was back on the train, sitting silent and still as she returned to San Francisco.

hen Liane got back to San Francisco, she let herself into the house, and climbed slowly up the stairs to her room. It was late and the house was dark, and she jumped as though a bomb had exploded near her when she heard a voice. It was Uncle George. He was sitting quietly in her room, in the dark, waiting for her.

“Is something wrong? … The girls?”

“They're fine.” He looked at her searchingly as she turned on the light. She looked ravaged. “Are you all right, Liane?”

“I'm fine.” But she began to cry as she said it, and she turned away so he wouldn't see. “Really … I'm all right….”

“No, you're not. And it's nothing to be ashamed of. I didn't expect you to be. That's why I'm here.”

And then, like a little child, she flew into his arms. “Oh, Uncle George …”

“I know … I know … he'll be back …” But so would Armand. And all the way home on the train she had thought about both men. She was torn between the two now. And then her uncle poured her a glass of brandy. He had brought a bottle and two glasses to her room, and she smiled at him through her tears.

“What did I ever do to deserve a nice uncle like you?”

“You're a good woman, Liane.” He said it without a smile.

“And you deserve a good man. And God willing, you'll have one.”

She took a sip of the brandy and sat down with a nervous smile. “The trouble is, Uncle George, I have two of them.” But he didn't answer. He left her a little while after that, and she went to bed, and in the morning she felt a little better.

She had a letter from Armand that day and he sounded a little better too. He seemed cheered by “recent events,” as he told her, but he didn't say what they were. And the weather had warmed up and his legs weren't as painful.

In the next few days the news from London was cheering too. The British had received their first shipment of United States food, averting a drastic food shortage in London.

And on April 18, everyone read in the American press of the Doolittle raid on Tokyo, led by Lt. Colonel James H. Doolittle, the aeronautical scientist and pilot. He had modified sixteen B-25 bombers, and the team had headed for Japan, knowing full well that they couldn't return, with the intention of landing in unoccupied China, after they bombed Tokyo. And all but one of the planes made it, with the result of an enormous improvement in morale among the troops. Revenge had been served. Tokyo had been bombed. It was a thank-you for Pearl Harbor.