Remember (19 page)

“Yes.” Arch began to laugh. “That was all very easy for Clee to say before you came into his life—at least, before you became his lover.

Because, in my opinion, he’d never really been head over heels in love before. But he is with you, Nick,” Arch pointed out. “Take my word for it. He loves you very deeply. I know this because I know the man so well. And I’ll tell you something else-Clee would turn his life upside down for you.”

Nicky had listened carefully and now she bit her lip. “Oh, I don’t know….” She let the sentence trail off. A second later she exclaimed, “In any case, Clee thinks of himself as a bachelor at heart!

You know, in the same way Robert Capa was.”

“It’s often struck me in the past that Clee has patterned his life on Bob Capa’s, but I’m not so certain of that anymore,” Arch answered.

“Oh sure, Capa’s been his idol since he was a kid, and he’s always striven to be as great a photographer as Capa, especially on a battlefield. But I think that’s where the identification stops, deep down inside himself.”

“Maybe .”

“Listen, Nick, Clee’s coming from a different place than Capa was, this is a different time, a different world we live in today, and we’re talking about a different man. I truly believe Clee will marry, but only someone he considers to be the right woman for him, the only woman, and in my opinion, that’s you.”

Nicky remained silent.

Arch said, “Tell me something, honey, what would you say and do, if he did ask you to marry him?”

“I’m not sure, and I’m being absolutely honest with you, Arch, I’m just not sure.”

“If you’re worrying about the network, don’t. We can work it out.

You’re contracted to make between two and four specials a year, and those you could easily plan from Paris, or anywhere else in the world, for that matter. If you think about it, that’s what you’ve been doing all along—coming up with ideas for specials while covering the news.

So, all you would have to do, once the planning stage was over, would be to fly in here for two or three weeks, a month at the most, to do the taping, or the live broadcast, depending on the type of special it was.”

“I know, Arch, I realize that. But I’m also this network’s war correspondent. How could I possibly be based in Paris?”

“I’m not sure, I’d have to give some thought to that, work something out with you, your agent, Larry Anderson and Joe Speight. The network doesn’t want to lose you, Nicky, I can assure you of that, so they’d be willing to be—well, accommodating, to say the least. Also, don’t lose sight of the fact that ATN has a big Paris bureau, and I don’t see why you couldn’t work out of that bureau, operate from there, if you had to, Nicky.”

“I guess it might be a viable proposition,” she agreed.

“You and Clee could cover wars together, you know. You certainly have an advantage over most women in that respect— Clee wouldn’t have to give up that side of his career for you.”

“That’s true, yes. But do you know something, Arch? There are days when I wonder if I want to go on being a war correspondent for the rest of my life.”

If Arch Leverson was startled by this statement, he did not show it.

He merely nodded, and said, “It gets to everybody one day.

You’ve certainly had you bellyful of wars and revolutions these past eight years or so. I also know that one day Clee will be turned off, too, even though he thinks otherwise right now.

Burnout is not uncommon when you’ve seen as much killing and death as we have. It’s deadly. But”—he eyed her carefully—“keep your options open for the moment, and don’t make any hasty decisions about your career.”

“No, I won’t … about anything.”

“I’d like to ask you something.” He raised a brow quizzically.

“Go ahead.”

“I know you don’t like to talk about Charles Devereaux, but if I remember correctly, you weren’t planning to give up your career after you’d married him. Nor were you going to move to London.

So, how were you intending to swing it?”

“Charles was eventually going to open a branch of his wine-importing company here in New York, and he was going to live here most of the time, except when he had to travel to Europe to buy wines. And, of course, he planned to keep his office and the flat in London. We were going to straddle the Atlantic, so to speak.”

“I see. I guess it’s a bit different with Clee, because of his photo news agency. Although, come to think of it, he could start an Image office here in New York, couldn’t he? Base himself here, perhaps?”

“Everything’s possible,” Nicky admitted, and then shrugged lightly.

“Maybe Clee doesn’t want to do that.”

Arch nodded. Several other questions were on the tip of his tongue, but he decided not to ask them at this time. They could wait.

Settling back in the corner of the sofa, he remarked, “Clee told me before he left for Paris that you’re going to be spending September with him at the farm. I’m glad about that, honey.

You’ve not taken enough time off in the past few years.”

Nicky reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for caring.”

“I worry about you,” he admitted with a wry smile. “A lot.” Then he glanced at his watch, and exclaimed, “It’s time for lunch!

I’ve booked a table at your favorite spot—the Four Seasons. So come on, let’s get going. And on my way out I’ll give the script to Hildy to be sent out for a retype.”

They both rose.

Nicky said, “I’ll give it to her, Arch. I’ve got to go back to my office to get my bag and some other stuff.” She picked up the script from his desk and said, “Ifyou don’t need me this afternoon for further discussions on the special, I’m going to take the rest of the day off.”

“I’m glad to hear it, you work far too hard.”

“So my parents keep telling me,” she responded and grinned at

him.

“Very conveniently they forget that they set an example for me years ago, and are still setting it, in fact.”

“Speaking of your parents, I hear on the ranevine that they’re as crazy about Clee as he is about you.”

“Grapevine! What grapevine? Surely you mean Clee told you.” Arch laughed.

Nicky said, “But yes, it’s true, they all got on very well when we were up in Connecticut working on the picture book. They think he’s—well, wonderful.”

Arch laughed again and said, “I told you once and I’ll say it again, Clee is everybody’s favorite, folks just love him.”

“You don’t have to tell the. My parents haven’t stopped raving about him.” Nicky hurried over to the door. “I’ll pick up my things, and alert Annette that I’m not coming back after lunch, then I’ll meet you at the elevators. Okay?”

“Okay, see you in five.”

After lunch at the Four Seasons, Nicky went shopping at Bergdorf Goodman. Here she bought several pairs of cotton pants, a selection of cotton shirts and three summer dresses, items she needed for her vacation in Provence in September.

Then she walked across town slowly, heading back to her apartment, which was located on Sutton Place, overlooking the East River and part of downtown Manhattan.

It was a stifling hot afternoon, somewhere around 100 degrees, and even though she was wearing a lightweight cotton suit she soon felt damp and sticky. She was glad when she finally arrived at her building and stepped inside the cool, dim lobby.

After picking up her mail, she took the elevator to the top floor, where she had a large and airy penthouse. Gertrude, her maid, who came every day whether Nicky was in town or not, had closed

all the blinds at the windows and turned up the airconditioning before leaving for the day. In consequence, the apartment was beautifully cool and shady, and it was a relief to Nicky to be inside after tramping through the boiling hot streets of Manhattan.

Nicky dumped the Bergdorf shopping bags on the floor of her bedroom with its sea-green walls, matching carpet and French country furnishings, and went back through the hall to the kitchen. She took out a bottle of carbonated water from the refrigerator, poured a glass, drank some of it thirstily and carried it back to the bedroom.

Shedding her smart little summer Trigere, she hung the black-and-white suit in the large walk-in closet, then slipped on one of the loose cotton caftans she had bought on a trip to Morocco some years before.

Several minutes later Nicky was seated behind her desk in her book-lined library-den. This had a magnificent view of the river, the Empire State and Chrysler buildings, and the other soaring skyscrapers that stretched from midtown down to the twin towers on the tip of Manhattan Island.

Taking a long swallow of the water, she glanced at the carriage clock on the English Victorian desk, and was surprised to see that it was almost six o’clock. The folder in front of her was marked Childf en of the Beiin,g Srin,g, she opened it and glanced at the first few pages of her introduction to Clee’s book. Annette, her secretary, had sent it to him by courier several days ago, and he had phoned her very early this morning from Paris to tell her that it was perfect, that he loved it. Nicky was delighted he had been so pleased, and that he had not minded the length. It was only fifty pages of typescript, and Clee had said she had told everything succinctly but movingly. “I’d rather have it short and brilliant than long and boring,” he had said before hanging up.

Nicky now put the folder away in one of the deep drawers of the desk, and began to sort through her mail, which she had brought in with her from the bedroom. There was nothing of consequence—a few bills, postcards from several friends away on summer vacations, and a letter from her lawyer about Nickwell, her own production company. But not even this was of any great importance, so she put the mail in the black lacquer Japanese tray on her desk to be dealt with another day.

On her way back to the kitchen, carrying the empty glass, she paused in the doorway of the living room, looking at it with a keen and critical eye. There was no question that it was beautiful, nobody could deny that. It was large, with a huge picture window that also looked downtown, and was furnished with English antique pieces and decorated throughout in light colors.

Primarily she had used varying shades of peach and apricot, pale greens and blues, and it was a room that was especially effective at night, warm and mellow and inviting.

Nicky loved her apartment floating high in the sky. Light-filled, airy and cheerful, it was a joy to be in, whatever the time of day or night, and whatever the weather was like outside. It was sunny and lighthearted when the weather was good, it was highly dramatic in a thunderstorm or blizzard. After dark it became part of the fairyland that was Manhattan when the lights came on and glittered brilliantly outside the apartment’s many windows.

Her parents had persuaded her to buy the apartment four years ago, and she was glad that she had. It was a real home, and something of a refuge for her between her travels and foreign assignments.

In the kitchen, which was white and blue, sleek and modern and convenient, Nicky poured herself another glass of water and returned to the library.

Flopping down on the sofa, she propped her feet on the coffee

table and focused her thoughts on Clee and their affair, ruminating on everything that Arch had said in the office and, later, over lunch.

Of course, he had made it sound easy, but in her opinion he had oversimplified the situation. She still wasn’t so sure she could handle Clee, marriage, living in Paris and her career in American television, which necessitated her being here in New York part of the time, at least.

Oh, yes, you can, a small voice inside her head told her.

Maybe I can at that, she thought, and laughed out loud. Like most other modern young women, she wanted it all. And then some. Was that possible?

Also, if she and Clee did marry, he might want to have a child.

Did she? Some days, the answer was yes. Others, it was no, and most especially when she reflected about the horrors she reported on, and on a daily basis. Who would want to bring a child into a terrible world like this? Only a madwoman, surely?

Her mother, the historian, kept saying that the world had always been a pretty lousy place—since time immemorial, in fact.

“You mustn’t, indeed you can’t have these attitudes,” her mother had recently said to her. “If over the centuries everyone had thought as you do and decided not to procreate because of the evil and horror in the world, then the human race today would be extinct.” Well, there was no denying her mother was a wise woman.

Still …

Nicky let these thoughts go, sighing heavily. Leaning her head against the chintz cushions on the sofa, she closed her eyes and drifted with her complex reflections about her life.

In a sense, what it finally boiled down to was her feelings for Clee.

She was emotionally involved with him, and her physical passion for him knew no bounds. But was she really in love with him? And sufficiently enough to make a life with him? Forever?

l Might she not be merely infatuated? She wasn’t sure. Anyway, although he had twice told her he loved her, once in bed and once at the restaurant at Les Baux, he had not said those words to her again.

Furthermore, he had never ever mentioned marriage. And did she want to marry Clee? I just don’t know, she answered herself.

Nicky sat up and opened her eyes, feeling suddenly irritated with herself. Why was she so ambivalent? She had no answer, at least not exactly. However, she was fully aware of the importance of her career.

It was her lifeblood, in all truth. Was that at the root of it? Was that the stumbling block? The fact was, Clee lived in Paris and liked living there, and obviously did not want to return to the States to take up residence. She lived in New York and needed to, because the network was here and she was a big number in American television.

Maybe that is the reason I’m so uncertain, she finally admitted, and grimaced wryly to herself.

She obviously wasn’t prepared to jeopardize her brilliant career.

A few minutes later Nicky automatically glanced at her watch. It was ten minutes to seven and time to put ATN on, to catch the evening news on her own network with anchorman Mike Fowler, to whom she was close.