“Don't go … don't go … you'll get killed.”
“I won't.” Nick had to fight back tears too, and Hillary turned away. For once their pain had touched her too. Nick squeezed the boy tight once more and then stood up. “Go on in now, son.” But he only stood there as Nick left, watching as he turned once more to wave good-bye, and then he was gone, running down the street to hail a cab, a tall blond man in uniform, with deep-green eyes swimming in tears.
He picked up his bags at his apartment then, and said good-bye to the maid. She cried too, and he hugged her once before he left, shook hands with Mike at the front door downstairs, and then he was off to catch his train, and as he took his seat with the other men, he was reminded of the last train he'd seen, the one carrying Liane to Washington as he'd stood on the platform and watched her go. How different their lives were now, or his at least. He hoped that for her nothing had changed, that Armand had survived the war thus far. And he knew now what they'd been through when she had left Toulon, the wrenching good-byes. All he could think of on the way west was his son, and his face as he'd looked up at his father and cried. He called him midway on the trip, but the boy was out and he'd had to board the train again quickly. He'd call him again from San Francisco when he arrived, but when he did, he never got to a phone at the right time. He was swamped with orders, assignments, and adjustments to the no-longer-familiar military regime. It was a relief when at last he got to his own room. The Marines had taken over several small hotels on Market Street, they had no more accommodations to house their men and it was the best they could do. And when Nick closed the door at last on Tuesday night, it was difficult to believe that he'd only been back in the military for a week. It seemed as though he'd been back for years, and he was already sick of it. But there was a war to fight. He hoped they'd ship him out soon. There was nothing for him in this town. There was a sea of uniforms everywhere. And all he wanted was a quiet place to sleep. He lay in the dark on the narrow bed in his hotel, and he was just drifting off to sleep when he heard a knock at the door. He muttered an expletive as he tripped on his way out of bed and stubbed his toe, and yanked the door open to see a nervous private standing there with a clipboard.
“Major Burnham?”
“Yes?”
“I'm sorry to disturb you but I was told to let everyone know …”At the very least Nick expected news of an enemy attack as he tensed to hear what the boy had to say. “There's a gathering tonight, given by the Red Cross. It's for all the new senior officers here. And because of Christmas and all …” Nick leaned against the doorway in his shorts and groaned.
“You woke me up for that? I've just come nearly three thousand miles and I haven't had a decent night's sleep in five days, and you banged on my door to invite me to a tea party given by the Red Cross?” He tried to glower, but he could only laugh. “Oh, for chrissake …”
“I'm sorry, sir … the CO's office thought—”
“Is the CO going to a tea party at the Red Cross?”
“It isn't a tea party, sir, it's cocktails.”
“How nice.” The absurdity of it all was too much for him, he sagged in the doorway and laughed until he cried. “What kind of cocktails? Kool-Aid and gin?”
“No, sir, I mean—I don't know, sir. It's just that the people here have been very nice to us, to the Marines, I mean, and the CO wants everyone to show up … to show our appreciation for—”
“For what?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“Good. Then you can borrow my uniform and you go.”
“I'll end up in the brig for impersonating an officer, sir.” The private had been standing ramrod straight since the recital began.
“Is this an order, Private, or an invitation?”
“Both, I think. An invitation from the Red Cross, and—”
Nick cut in. “An order from the CO. Christ. What time is this shindig?”
“Eighteen hundred hours, sir.” Nick glanced at his watch. It was almost that now.
“Shit. Well, there goes my nap. And thanks.” He started to close the door, and then suddenly pulled it open again. “Where is this thing anyway?”
“It's posted on the bulletin board downstairs.”
“Sir.” Nick was amused. Fortunately his sense of humor hadn't left him yet. The private blushed.
“I'm sorry, sir.”
“Where are you from?”
“New Orleans.”
“How do you like it here?”
“I don't know, sir. I haven't been out yet.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two weeks. I was in boot camp in Mississippi before that.”
“That must have been fun.” They exchanged a smile of camaraderie. “Anyway, Private, since you won't agree to wear my uniform tonight, I'd better get my ass in gear and get dressed.” Nick was one of the lucky few with a shower adjoining his room. He cleaned up from his trip, put on his dress uniform, and twenty minutes later he was downstairs, looking at the bulletin board. The address was clearly marked. Mrs. Fordham MacKenzie, on Jackson Street. He had no idea how to get there. He hadn't been in San Francisco in years, and he decided to call a cab. Three other officers had received the same “invitation” as he, and they shared the ride and stepped out in front of an impressive home with an iron gate and formal gardens. One of the officers whistled softly in his teeth as Nick paid the cab, and they stepped up to the iron gate to ring the bell. A butler led the way and Nick found himself wondering how many of these soirees Mrs. MacKenzie gave. The war had brought a host of new men to town. It was kind of her to throw her home open to the servicemen. Christmas was only two days away.
He had given Johnny his gifts before he left, but it certainly would be a lonely Christmas for them both. Nothing was the same this year. And now he was nearly three thousand miles away on the West Coast, walking down some strange woman's hall into a living room filled with uniforms and women in cocktail clothes as waiters passed trays of champagne. It was all a bit like a strange dream as he looked out at the Golden Gate, and then as his eyes strayed back he saw her there, standing quietly in a corner, holding a glass, speaking to a woman in a dark-red dress. And as he looked at her she turned her head, and their eyes met, as time stopped for him and the room spun for her. And slowly he walked toward her and she heard the voice she had remembered only in dreams for a year and a half. The voice was a caress and the crowds around them seemed to disappear as he spoke a single word. “Liane …” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with disbelief and amazement as he smiled slowly at her.
“I'm not sure.”
“I'm dreaming this.” She smiled in answer. “Aren't I?”
“Could be, Major. How have you been?” Her smile was warm but there was no invitation in her words. “It's been a long time.”
“What are you doing here?” He couldn't take his eyes off her face.
“I live here now. We've been here since last year.” He searched her eyes for all the things he ached to know, but there was nothing written there. They were as big and beautiful as before, but they were veiled now. She had seen pain and loss and it showed, and he wondered instantly about Armand, but when he looked, the plain gold band was still in place.
“I thought you were in Washington.”
“That didn't work out.” Her eyes met his, but she didn't say more, and then slowly he saw the old, familiar smile. He had dreamed of it for almost two years. He had seen that smile as she had lain in his arms. “It's good to see you, Nick.”