Topaz - Leon Uris [12]
“Please Liz, don’t say anything.”
“I won’t, except I don’t believe there is a thing between André and Mollie Spearman.”
Nicole closed her front door behind her and leaned against it holding her throat until the sound of Liz’s motor faded. She walked upstairs listlessly and slumped on the edge of her chaise longue, then reclined slowly ... and wondered. André and Mollie Spearman? It hardly seemed likely. Why did it strike her so hard?
Her French liberalism notwithstanding, when she was young and vain and proud, she boasted that idle boast of young, vain, proud wives that she would not tolerate affairs by her husband.
But pride is a fool’s fortress.
The first time a woman learns what every wife must learn, that pride is forfeited with astonishing ease.
And, once the illusion is shattered, the further acceptances are in silence. But after that first terrible time, no matter how many one learns of or suspects, it never comes without deep hurt.
Once tolerated, there is a choice of looking into yourself and attempting to understand the failing that led to the husband’s straying. Or there is the ability to understand it for what it is and pass it off as meaningless. But few women are able to make these choices.
Instead, the path to destruction is followed: To build a store of bitterness and to inflict pain on your partner for his pain to you. To avenge ....
Nicole pulled to a halt before the chancellery just as André emerged with his usual bundle of late work in the attaché case she had come to detest. Tonight there were no receptions or social engagements so she knew he would work straight through after dinner until past midnight.
She slid over as André walked around to the driver’s side.
“Your car won’t be ready until tomorrow,” she said as he drove off.
André looked at his attaché case and sighed. “I have an idea,” he said impulsively. “Why don’t we drive to Baltimore now and catch an early film? There’s a western I want to see, and afterward we could have a nice seafood dinner at Miller Brothers.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
Nicole found herself sitting close to him, which she rarely did anymore, and she rubbed the back of his neck. He looked at her and smiled, and as they stopped for a red light he put his arm about her and kissed her.
And, for the moment, everything was fine.
9
A FEW MOMENTS PAST Washington brought Nordstrom and Devereaux into the Maryland countryside, now showing off its full springtime glory.
“It’s beautiful,” André said, “just beautiful. It reminds me of my own little province in France.”
Michael smiled to himself. Frenchmen always made modest reference to their home as “little,” be it a fifty-room manor.
They turned off the highway onto a secondary road. A lush pastureland broke on both sides of them. “Nicole and I should drive out here. We haven’t been to the country for such a long time. It would do us good.”
“Promises, promises. Why make them? We can never keep them. And our wives only make us feel guilty when we’re called away.”
Past Laurel they were among the dirt farms. In a while they drove on a remote, unpaved road that ran parallel to the Patuxent River and led them into the private confines of the ININ camp.
Nordstrom halted briefly before a camp gate marked with a freshly painted sign, long enough for the guard to recognize him and wave them through.
Nordstrom pulled up to the main building and pointed to the largest of the cottages. “I’ll wait for you in the office.”
As André crossed the assembly ground he was lured by the sound of piano music coming from the cottage. It was Chopin, and the player played it superbly.
As his foot touched the bottom step, making it creak, the music stopped abruptly and he could hear footsteps inside, beating a retreat.
“My daughter, Tamara,” a thickly