parties. When he did, she invariably wound up in a corner, flirting with someone new or even an old friend. “No, thanks. I brought some work home.”
She turned her back to him again. “Don't say I didn't ask you.”
“I won't.” He stood in the doorway, watching her sip her drink again. “Give them my best, and try to come home early.” She nodded. “And Hil …” He hesitated.
“Yes, Nick?”
He decided to go ahead and say it. “Try not to leave New York in flames when you go. And whatever you're up to, kiddo, remember, we set sail in two days. And one way or the other, you're coming with me.”
“What does that mean?” She stood up and turned to face him.
“It means that whether you leave some bleeding heart behind or not, you're coming. You're my wife, however much you may want to forget that.”
“I never do.” There was bitterness in her voice as she said it. She hated being married to him, more so because he had been so nice to her. It made her feel guilty toward him, and she didn't want to feel guilty. She wanted to be free.
“Have a good time.” He closed the door softly behind him and went downstairs to see his son. And as soon as he had left the room, Hillary dropped the dressing gown from her shoulders, revealing the little black silk halter dress she had bought at Bergdorf Goodman. She clipped diamond earrings into place and looked in the mirror. She knew she would see Philip Markham at the party, and she wondered as she finished the Scotch and water how Nick always knew. Nothing had happened with Phil yet, but he was leaving for Paris in August, and who knew what would happen then … who knew….
he vast, splendidly designed ship lay in her berth at Pier 88 on the Hudson River, and every inch of her looked the part of the elegant queen. As Armand stood for a moment outside the limousine, he glanced upward at the three graceful smokestacks silhouetted against the sky. She weighed eighty thousand tons, and yet was the swiftest, most sophisticated vessel on any sea. To look at her took your breath away, and there was an inevitable moment of reverent silence as one perused her beauty. She was still more beautiful under full steam, and yet even here, at rest in her berth, she was undeniably a queen.
“Papa! Papa! I want to see.” Elisabeth catapulted out of the Citroën first, and stood beside her father for a moment, her small hand clasped firmly in his. “Is that it?”
“No.” Armand smiled down at his youngest daughter. “It is she. La belle Normandie, mon trésor . You will never see another ship like this one, little one. No matter what they build in years to come, there will never be another Normandie.” It was a sentiment already echoed by many. In the seven years since she had been launched, she had been traveled by the great and elite, the rich, the spoiled, the elegant, lovers of beauty and of the sea, and there was not a soul among them who did not agree. The Normandie was an extraordinary vessel, and totally unique, the most beautiful, most elegant, swiftest. A floating island of luxury in every imaginable way.
Armand turned as he sensed his wife standing beside him. For a moment he had forgotten all of them. If he had allowed himself to, he might have cried. There was something about the Normandie that swelled the heart and made one particularly proud of France. What an accomplishment this ship was. What pride one had to feel just sensing the labor of love that had gone into her, from stem to stern, and hull to sky. She was a veritable beauty.
Liane sensed Armand's emotions and silently agreed as she watched her husband's face, and when he turned to her, she smiled.
“You look like a proud papa all over again,” Liane teased in a gentle voice as he laughed.
But he nodded agreement, without shame. “What a victory for France.”
By then Marie-Ange had joined her sister, and the two girls were hopping up and down with glee. “Can we go on board now, Papa?
She turned her back to him again. “Don't say I didn't ask you.”
“I won't.” He stood in the doorway, watching her sip her drink again. “Give them my best, and try to come home early.” She nodded. “And Hil …” He hesitated.
“Yes, Nick?”
He decided to go ahead and say it. “Try not to leave New York in flames when you go. And whatever you're up to, kiddo, remember, we set sail in two days. And one way or the other, you're coming with me.”
“What does that mean?” She stood up and turned to face him.
“It means that whether you leave some bleeding heart behind or not, you're coming. You're my wife, however much you may want to forget that.”
“I never do.” There was bitterness in her voice as she said it. She hated being married to him, more so because he had been so nice to her. It made her feel guilty toward him, and she didn't want to feel guilty. She wanted to be free.
“Have a good time.” He closed the door softly behind him and went downstairs to see his son. And as soon as he had left the room, Hillary dropped the dressing gown from her shoulders, revealing the little black silk halter dress she had bought at Bergdorf Goodman. She clipped diamond earrings into place and looked in the mirror. She knew she would see Philip Markham at the party, and she wondered as she finished the Scotch and water how Nick always knew. Nothing had happened with Phil yet, but he was leaving for Paris in August, and who knew what would happen then … who knew….
he vast, splendidly designed ship lay in her berth at Pier 88 on the Hudson River, and every inch of her looked the part of the elegant queen. As Armand stood for a moment outside the limousine, he glanced upward at the three graceful smokestacks silhouetted against the sky. She weighed eighty thousand tons, and yet was the swiftest, most sophisticated vessel on any sea. To look at her took your breath away, and there was an inevitable moment of reverent silence as one perused her beauty. She was still more beautiful under full steam, and yet even here, at rest in her berth, she was undeniably a queen.
“Papa! Papa! I want to see.” Elisabeth catapulted out of the Citroën first, and stood beside her father for a moment, her small hand clasped firmly in his. “Is that it?”
“No.” Armand smiled down at his youngest daughter. “It is she. La belle Normandie, mon trésor . You will never see another ship like this one, little one. No matter what they build in years to come, there will never be another Normandie.” It was a sentiment already echoed by many. In the seven years since she had been launched, she had been traveled by the great and elite, the rich, the spoiled, the elegant, lovers of beauty and of the sea, and there was not a soul among them who did not agree. The Normandie was an extraordinary vessel, and totally unique, the most beautiful, most elegant, swiftest. A floating island of luxury in every imaginable way.
Armand turned as he sensed his wife standing beside him. For a moment he had forgotten all of them. If he had allowed himself to, he might have cried. There was something about the Normandie that swelled the heart and made one particularly proud of France. What an accomplishment this ship was. What pride one had to feel just sensing the labor of love that had gone into her, from stem to stern, and hull to sky. She was a veritable beauty.
Liane sensed Armand's emotions and silently agreed as she watched her husband's face, and when he turned to her, she smiled.
“You look like a proud papa all over again,” Liane teased in a gentle voice as he laughed.
But he nodded agreement, without shame. “What a victory for France.”
By then Marie-Ange had joined her sister, and the two girls were hopping up and down with glee. “Can we go on board now, Papa?
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