Danielle Steel - Bittersweet

“I think I got some really great pictures.”

“How does it feel to be working again?” He smiled at the thought of her, tucked into her little room at Claridge's. He could almost see her. And knowing what it had taken to get there, he knew what a victory it was for her, and how much it meant to her. He was glad she had done it.

“It feels terrific. I love it.” She had also told him about the second story, and he was concerned about her, but figured she knew what she was doing, and the police would protect her. “How are you, Paul?” He was sounding a little better these days, though she knew Thanksgiving probably hadn't been easy for him, but he had avoided the issue by staying in Turkey. “Any interest in coming to London while I'm here?” She threw it out as a possibility, but she didn't really expect him to take her up on it, and knew instinctively that he wouldn't. He was still hiding from real life on the Sea Star.

“I don't think so,” he said honestly. “Though I'd really like to see you, India,” he said with a smile. “You're probably too busy anyway to hang around with old friends.” In the past five months, they had actually become that. She had shared all her terrors with him, and her disappointments with Doug, and he had cried on her shoulder more than once since he lost Serena. In a short time, and from great distances at times, they had been through a lot together. “I think I'm afraid to come back to civilization.” It was still too painful for him, and she knew it.

“You don't have to yet.” She knew he was handling most of his business by fax and phone, and his partners were managing the rest in his absence. It was better for him to stay on the Sea Star. The boat seemed like a healing place for him.

“How were the kids when you left?” He had thought a lot about her the previous morning.

“Fine. Better than Doug. We celebrated Thanksgiving the night before, and he hardly spoke to me. I don't think this is going to go down too smoothly. There are bound to be repercussions.”

“Just steel yourself for them. What can he do, after all?”

“Throw me out, for starters, figuratively speaking. He could leave me,” she said in a serious tone. It was obvious that she was worried about it.

“He'd be a fool if he did that.” But they both knew he was, although Paul saw it more clearly than she did. “I think he's just making noise to scare you.”

“Maybe.” But she had come anyway. And she was here now. “I guess I'd better get dressed, before I miss the next party.”

“What is it today?” he asked with interest.

“I have to check my itinerary. I think it's the lunch given by Prince Charles at Saint James's Palace.”

“That should be entertaining. Call me tonight and tell me all about it.”

“I'll probably be home pretty late. I have to go to another dinner tonight, before the wedding.”

“This sounds like a really tough story.” He was teasing her, but he felt like her guardian angel. He had seen her come through all the agony it had taken her to get there. And now he wanted to share the victory with her. “I'll be up late. You can call me, now that we're almost in the same time zone. I think we're going to head for Sicily tomorrow. I want to hang around Italy for a while, and Corsica. Eventually, I want to wind up in Venice.”

“You lead a tough life, Mr. Ward, with your little houseboat you can take everywhere with you. I really feel sorry for you.”

“You should,” he said, with more seriousness than he intended. But she knew how lonely he was from their previous conversations. He still missed Serena unbearably, and she suspected that he either drank or cried himself to sleep more often than he admitted. But it had only been three months since he lost her.

“I'll call you later,” she said cheerily, and after they hung up, she went to stand at the window, and looked down on Brook Street below. Everything looked very tidy and very familiar and very English. She was so happy to be here. And she reminded herself that she had to buy lots of postcards for the children. She had promised to do that, and she wanted to go to Hamley's, if she had time, and buy some toys or games for Sam, Aimee, and Jason. She had to find something more grown up for Jessica than for the others. If she had time between stories, India was thinking of going to Harvey Nichols. But first she had to get to work. And she was still thinking of Paul when she sank into the enormous bathtub. She loved talking to him, and she hoped that one of these days she would see him. He was a terrific friend to her, even long distance.

And for the rest of the afternoon, she was busy taking photographs of royals again. She had a great time, and she found that she knew one of the other photographers. They had done a story together once in Kenya. It had been nearly twenty years since she'd last seen him. He was Irish and very funny. His name was John O'Malley, and he invited her for a drink in a local pub after the party.

“Where the hell have you been? I figured someone finally shot you on one of those crazy stories,” he said, laughing, and obviously pleased to see her.

“No, I got married and had four kids, and I've been retired for the last fourteen years.”

“So what made you come back now?” he asked with a broad grin. He had taken all the pictures he needed and was sipping Irish whiskey.

“I missed it.”

“You're daft,” he said with absolute conviction. “I always knew that about you. I'd like nothing better than to retire with a wife and four kids. Of course, this isn't exactly a dangerous story like our old ones, unless the royals attack us. And they could, you know. If they start a fight over the hors d'oeuvres, you could start a war here. And then, of course, there's the IRA, lovely people that they are. Sometimes I'm ashamed to admit that I'm Irish.” They talked about the terrorist bombing in September then, and India told him a friend's wife had been on the plane.

“Damn shame. I hate stories like that. I always think about the children. Kill an army. Bomb a missile plant. But don't, for God's sake, kill the children. The bastards always do, though. Every damn country that gets pissed off, they kill the children.” He had spent time in Bosnia, and hated what he'd seen there. Croat children beheaded by the Serbs while their mothers held them. It had been the worst he'd seen since Rwanda. “Don't worry about me, my dear. Man's inhumanity to man is one of my favorite subjects on my second whiskey. On my third, I get romantic. Watch out then!” He hadn't changed in years and it was fun talking to him, and he introduced her to another journalist who joined them at their table. He was Australian, and not nearly as sympathetic as John O'Malley, although he had a dry sense of humor as he commented on the party. He said they'd worked together years before, in Beijing, but she no longer remembered, and he didn't look familiar. By the time they left the pub, O'Malley was pretty well oiled, and she had to get back to Claridge's to change again before she went on to the next party. She was grateful it was the last one before the wedding. It was held in someone's home, a spectacular affair on Saint James's Place, with liveried footmen, a ballroom, and chandeliers that blazed with candles. And when she got home at midnight, she called the children. They were just sitting down to dinner. She spoke to each of them, and they sounded fine. They said that they'd had fun in Greenwich the day before, and they missed her, and on Saturday their father was taking them skating. But when India asked to say hello to him, he told the children to say he was busy. He was cooking dinner. He could have come to the phone easily, she always did while she was cooking. And the phone had a long cord, which would have reached. But she got the message; he had told her he had nothing more to say to her, and apparently he meant it.