Tidal Wave (2 page)

Arabella leaned back again into the seat and was dazzled by the beauty of the Place de la Concorde. It was crystalline white, the wind had dropped, and the few flakes trying to fall were more like suspended polka dots. The scene could have been a glossy color postcard or a Surrealist painting of white confetti falling over a sprawling white frosted wedding cake entitled “Paris, Place de la Concorde in Winter.”

The traffic dispersed, as if in slow motion, in several directions. Just a few cars were going the way of the chocolate Rolls, over the Pont de la Concorde.

Arabella’s attention was caught by the river. The Seine — dark and cold. Several boats, covered in snow, were tied up to the quay.

The car was just approaching the center of the famous bridge when Arabella said, “Oskar, pull up here. I want to get out.”

The chauffeur opened the door and said, “Not too long, madame.”

“No, not too long, Oskar.”

She walked to the rail and looked down into the water. Paris, the empress of cities, was spread out before her. She knew the name of every building, park, and bridge in view. Le Petit Palais, Le Grand Palais, and beyond them, Le Rond Point des Champs Élysées on the Right Bank. The magnificent houses overlooking the Seine on the Quai d’Orsay. Beyond them, the exquisite Hôtel des Invalides on the Left Bank.

Arabella had been captivated by Paris on her first visit and had remained enchanted. It was not only the astounding physical beauty of the city but the spirit of the people and the rich history of art and style that overwhelmed her emotionally. She also knew it was the perfect location to headquarter her worldwide business interests.

In the early years, she found the creative environment challenging and inspirational. In recent years, it offered her an opportunity to retain her anonymity and remain protected and secluded from the public eye while living a satisfying private life.

She devoted most of her time to her work, but when she ventured out, she appreciated the many luxuries Paris had to offer. She enjoyed lavish meals at Maxims, where she was a recognized patron. She loved to attend the couture designer preview showings on the rue Faubourg St. Honoré, where she was a preferred client. She adored the opera and the theater and visiting the galleries. She developed an appreciation of art treasures and acquired a modest but valuable collection.

Most of all, she loved to walk alone or sit quietly in a café. She felt her energy renewed and her spirit replenished during these special private times. Regrettably, these times for culture, frivolity, and leisure were rare as most of her hours were spent in her office on the Place Vendôme overseeing and directing her business. In recent months her suite
at the Ritz functioned as a secondary office. There was no escape — until now!

She snuggled deep into her coat and watched the bow of a coal barge peep out from under the bridge. Black smoke curled from a stove-pipe chimney in the wheel house, where the barge family lived. Standing on top of the vast hills of coal all covered with snow and leaning against the cabin was a young girl with long, straight black hair hanging down from under a red wool cap. She was looking dreamily at Paris. She caught sight of Arabella and waved. Arabella waved back, smiling. The girl started trudging through the snow toward the stem of the barge, which was not yet in Arabella’s sight, signaling with both arms and smiling. Arabella impulsively pulled off her hat and waved it. The teenager pulled off her cap, mimicking the woman on the bridge.

Putting a great deal of power behind it, Arabella skimmed her hat down into the breeze. For a split second the two looked at it floating in the air toward the barge. The bird-of-paradise feathers were alive again, fluttering over the Seine in Paris. Their eyes met for that split second where a lifetime of friendship is made and lost forever. They smiled and then their attention was back to the fate of the hat.

“Run!” shouted Arabella, in French. “Go get it, to the left, the left! Catch it, oh, do catch it!”

The hat and the girl moved closer together. She jumped up and almost had it. But a gust of wind took it off to the right. She scampered over the coal and snow to the edge of the barge and, running toward the stern, bent over the side and caught it. She kept walking while calling to Arabella, “It is a bird, a beautiful bird, and I caught it!” She looked so happy with her prize and, never taking her eyes off Arabella, kept waving with both arms.

Arabella laughed and clapped, shouting “
Bon chance
, good luck!” as the barge chugged away.

She turned around and, with her back against the stone balustrade, ran her fingers through her long, ash-blond hair;
the lighter streaks were as white as the snow and sparkled like the diamonds on her wrist.

Hugging her luscious sable coat around her against the cold, she said aloud, still smiling, “Well, you change your life, you change your hat!” then hurried into the warmth of the waiting car.

Oskar caught a glimpse of his employer in the rearview mirror. He and Rupert had nothing but respect and admiration for the beautiful, successful woman for whom they worked. Their position as valued servants gave them a good deal of pride in their work. They had grown accustomed to her calm, self-assured manner, the efficient and organized way she dealt with her work as well as with her personal life. The joy she had for life and the courage she showed in living it were an example to them of a type of woman they had never previously thought existed.

She was one of those women who takes on the role of the dominant party. It was evident in every phase of her life, yet she had the ability to delegate what she knew could be handled better by others. That in itself made working for her easy and rewarding. Rupert and Oskar, Missy and Xu, worked as a team, caring for Arabella. They removed all the mundane problems of life, allowing her to work and play on a grand scale successfully.

Oskar and the chocolate-colored cars were a welcome sight on the streets of Paris, London, and New York. Arabella Crawford’s team was far better known than the beautiful and successful semireclusive female industrialist herself. She ventured out infrequently and managed to remain mysterious except for her business acumen — which was written about in the financial and business publications of the world.

The entire team thought of her as kind and considerate. They were amazed at her success in the hard world of business. It was Missy who constantly reminded them, “Madame Crawford needs our loyalty and protection. We must always be faithful and caring for her because she is a woman who deserves our respect and trust.” The men had always felt Missy to be instinctively right.

Oskar’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror again just at the moment Arabella gave a shiver of cold.

“I am afraid you got your feet wet, madame.”

“Oh, Oskar, you are so right. My feet are wet and freezing, that’s why I can’t seem to get warm. My shoes are ruined.” She kicked them off then reached for the gray fox car robe, threw it under her feet, and covered them over.

“May I suggest a little Courvoisier or Calvados, madame, to warm you up.”

“Quite right, Oskar. Whatever would I do without you to keep an eye on me? It was my lucky day when the Earl of Heversham was kind enough to convince you and Rupert to come and look after me.”

She reached for the crystal flask and poured a small amount into a tumbler.

“I hope you have never regretted leaving Heversham Park and his lordship for the life we have lived these past few years, Oskar.”

“No, madame, I assure you, my devotion to Lord Quartermaine and my affection for Heversham Park will never end. My family has been in service to his lordship and his family for over three hundred years. We are a part of the estate, and his lordship has made it clear that there is a cottage waiting for me any time I want to return. As long as I am in service to you, I am still in service to the Earl of Heversham.”

Arabella was touched, but for the first time that day her joy was not complete. The mention of her beloved Anthony Quartermaine, the Earl of Heversham, brought a lump to her throat, a reminder that all was not perfect after all. Not allowing herself the disquieting reverie, she pulled herself back to the conversation.

“Thank you, Oskar. There are going to be great changes in our lives and the way I live. Who knows, I may have a Heversham Park of my own soon.”

Arabella then fell silent again as she thought about Anthony. A belted earl, a man close to the Queen of England,
his home — Heversham Park — the finest estate in England, his heritage.

She owed so much to Anthony Quartermaine. Had it not been for his courage and love she would have become the obscure, devoted mistress in his life, involved in a love that could never become public because of his wife, four children, and other responsibilities. He would not allow her the humiliation of being second-best in his life, nor the loneliness and dependency on the scraps of a life with him she would have had to endure. Had it not been for Anthony forcing her out into the world to make a life for herself, what would her life have been? She often wondered. He supported her with love all these years but it was a silent love, a distant love given to her through discreet emissaries to help her through life. They met when he was forty and she was only twenty-two, and now, eighteen years later, he remained the most important person in her life.

If not for Anthony’s selfless love, Arabella might not be the happy, rich, successful woman she was today. Yes, she had known great love in the intervening years, but she had not yet met the man to take his place. Her smile returned; she never allowed herself unhappiness over what was not to be.

An unidentifiable nursery tune kept going through her head. She began to hum it but could not remember the words. The Rolls pulled into the heliport while Arabella was singing softly, “Where do we go from here, boys? Where do we go from here? Where do we go from here, boys? Where do we go from here?”

Chapter Two

The S.S.
Tatanya Annanovna
was the newest, finest, and most sublime luxury liner afloat. It lay on its Cherbourg berth, its smokestacks signaling that departure was imminent. The decks were busy and bubbling with the excitement of its passengers and the activity of its crew. The twenty-thousand-ton ship was over nine hundred feet long, with eight passenger decks accommodating more than one thousand people. The cool winter sunlight reflecting from the water enhanced her magnificent silver-and-blue exterior. She was truly a dazzling sight. Flowing down the side of the magnificent ship was a cascade of colored streamers. The gangway, with its arched canvas awning of red, white, and blue stripes, had not yet been removed. The ship’s officers, in full dress uniform, were standing guard on the dock.

The masses of well-wishers, visitors, television and radio reporters, and the hundred-piece band of the Scots Guards crowded the pier. A flotilla of thirty tugboats stood waiting to surround the famous ship, ready to escort her into the Channel with whistles hooting and hoses creating fountains of water in celebration of her maiden voyage across the Atlantic.

The
Tatanya Annanovna
, the jewel in the crown of the Anglo-French line, was the most widely acclaimed luxury ship in decades. Rumors were rife about the grand, exquisite ocean liner. There was an aura of mystery about her right from her very beginning.

There were many well-kept secrets about the
Tatanya
, starting with the source of the massive injection of money into her old shipping company said to have been arranged
by a woman merchant banker and a White Russian prince. Rumor had it that the investment had been made in gold through a Paris bank. The ingots had been stamped with the cartouche of the murdered Tsar Nicholas. The stories grew from there. Some said the hidden treasure, the vast fortune of the Romanovs, had been found at last. Anastasia had survived, was still alive, identified, and her identification confirmed. The banks had finally been satisfied and released the money to the rightful heir. The Communists had lost the treasure and the capitalist White Russians were now buying into the most privileged, capitalistic investments to be found. There were stories of oil money and underworld connections, of secrets embedded in the ship’s hull. These were only a few of the tales about the
Tatanya Annanovna
.

The ship had been having its final outfittings and decoration for two years. During that time the news media had not let up on the story, nor had the public relations department of the Anglo-French line. This ship was luxurious in the tradition of the great ships of the past — the
Normandie
, the
Grass
, the
Ilê de France
, the great
Queen Mary
, the two Elizabeths, and the tragic
Titanic
. The
Tatanya
could only be described as a glorious water palace. Her exquisite beauty, opulence, seaworthiness, and service were legendary before she was even launched. The public the world over had been satiated on everything about the
Tatanya
, from her uniquely designed ship’s stabilizers to her hundreds of handcut crystal chandeliers. Her lavish staterooms were a familiar sight to readers of design and fashion magazines and curious television viewers, long before she ever made her trial run. The world waited to hear who were the fortunate travelers who were able to obtain passage on her prestigious maiden voyage across the Atlantic.

A book had been written about her by a modern-day Agatha Christie. In every important city, the night before this, her maiden voyage, the film of the book
Farewell Voyager
, starring Nicholas Frayne, opened to rave reviews. The film crew and its galaxy of stars had lived and worked
on the ship. In their seven months on board they managed to add notoriety to the ship’s already interesting history and background. The gossip columns reported one attempted suicide, two divorces, one sex scandal, and endless profiles of the male lead, one of Hollywood’s great actors with two Academy Awards among his professional honors and a charm and kindness that eased the broken hearts he always left behind.

The world waited for the ship to sail and live up to her reputation. The passengers waited now. Some still on the open decks, wrapped in their furs and cashmere coats, leaned on the polished mahogany rails and looked down on the deserted dock, empty except for the men ready to cast off the ship. There were half a dozen customs men standing around in the cold, blowing on their hands to keep them warm. The single sentry stood guarding the gangway, making sure no one disembarked. For fifteen minutes now two helicopters had been hovering off the starboard side like great hummingbirds, ready to follow the ship, photographing her departure for the world’s television viewers to see.

Curiosity hummed through the passengers. Who were they waiting for? Was it a film star? Yes, of course it was a film star. No, it was not the President of France. It was Mrs. Reagan. No, that could not be, she was in Washington, someone had seen her on television in the cabin only a few minutes before. No, it had to be a movie star. All the secrecy, all the exclusivity. To hold up such a ship it had to be something political.

A woman in a pale-gray mink coat said, “It’s the CIA.”

Libby Katz said to her husband, Isador, “It’s the senator’s wife, I’m sure of it. When I met her in Israel the day before yesterday at the B’nai B’rith Dinner she was still trying to book passage.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Sophie Davis, Izzy’s widowed sister. “They don’t do this for senators and especially not for ex-senators, no matter how many terms they’ve had. It’s no good. You wait all your life and several ancestors to be counted as old money, remain a Democrat to show you’re
human and caring, and what happens — the Republicans, new money, and ‘flash’ are in. You can’t win.”

Sophie’s late husband’s sister, Tessie Tillman, said, “Not everything is political, Sophie. I say it’s a Greek millionaire; they always have connections in shipping.”

It was Libby who said, “Who cares who they’re waiting for? I’m warm, I’m happy, I have a deluxe outside cabin with private deck on the
Tatanya Annanovna
, which is equivalent to first class on the QE2. I’m on her maiden voyage, I’m with my husband and my friends. So who cares who they’re waiting for?”

“You’re right,” Izzy said, putting his arm around her. “And besides, who’s in a rush to get seasick?”

Two decks below, the third-class purser was looking over his flock, happy in the thought that he had the young students, the larger families, and the occasional young poet, painter, and aspiring ballet dancer. There was even a French jazz group going on their first tour of the States and a black pop singer. It was going to be an interesting and amusing crossing.

Just then the whir of helicopter blades echoed among the buildings, the empty dock, and the great ship. The passengers reacted to the sound by assembling rapidly at the railings. Suddenly, as if by magic, it was there. All eyes looked up, watching the chopper twirl down slowly to land on the dock only inches from the gangway.

The striped awning rippled in the wind as the custom officers bent their heads down and held their hats in place. The cascade of paper streamers hanging over the side of the ship began to dance around and come alive. At that moment there were three blasts of the ship’s horn. The crew took their stations.

All eyes were on the helicopter whose motor had been cut and whose blades were slowing down. The dockers took their posts, ready to heave the lines on the word from the bridge. Others went to the gangway and stood ready to roll it away after the mystery passenger had embarked.

The door to the customs shed opened and out poured
old, well-worn Louis Vuitton steamer trunks, suitcases in various shapes and sizes, hat boxes large and small. The baggage men lined them up near the gangway.

The helicopter blades had nearly stopped. The door was flung open and out jumped the pilot — Arabella Crawford, dressed in a shiny silver silk jumpsuit that showed every curve of her voluptuous body.

Nicholas Frayne was standing alone on his private balcony on the bow of the
Tatanya Annanovna
. He threw his head back and roared with laughter, exclaiming aloud, “What an entrance!”

He raised the high-powered binoculars hanging around his neck to his eyes and focused on the scene below. Distracted for a moment by the sound of the ratchets as they began to grind, pulling up the huge, heavy anchor, he focused again on Arabella, as she removed her silver lamé cap and a mass of long blond hair fell around her exquisite, sensuous face.

He examined her — the high cheekbones, the perfect oval face with its long, straight, perfectly chiseled nose. His eyes lingered longest over her lips, her mouth. What a mouth! He wanted to reach out with his fingers and trace the shape of her lips, feel the softness of them. It was the sexiest mouth he had ever seen. The shape was divine. He wanted that mouth. Erotic fantasies tripped through his mind. How delicious to be in that mouth. His body reacted to the very thought.

Arabella threw her arms around herself, jumped up and down several times as if to shake off the cold. He saw a man’s arm reach out and hand her a sable coat.

Nicholas Frayne spoke his thoughts out loud. “Oh no, fella, she’s going to be mine. No, she can’t possibly have a man with her.” He was surprised at his instant desire for the woman on the dock. He watched her every movement as she wiggled into the warmth of her furs. He focused the glasses on the pair of arms reaching out to her, handing over a dog, a silver-gray whippet. She kissed the sleek, elegant animal, petted it. Then out came another, mushroom
color, and another, dark beige, and yet another, the color of desert sand. She held them all on leads while they barked and danced around her ankles.

She spoke to a diminutive, pretty, black-haired young woman who advanced to greet her. She wore camel-hair trousers, an olive-green wrap-around coat, and carried a briefcase in one hand. They exchanged comments and the woman moved on quickly past the luggage, touching each piece as she counted aloud.

The man was out now, tall, six foot six inches, Oriental, with a kind, handsome face and the body of a weightlifter. Under one arm he carried a large rectangular box of black alligator trimmed in gold. Obviously the lady’s jewel case.

Nicholas was relieved when the Oriental hulk took the dogs’ leads and dutifully stepped back behind the woman. Nicholas watched her shake the co-pilot’s hand, then turn and walk with her small entourage toward the customs men and the line of luggage. Documents were handed to the men, duly checked, and accepted. One of the men touched the large jewel case and spoke to her briefly. The man marked the cases with chalk, she was cleared, and the luggage disappeared up the ramp.

It was all so quick. Before Nicholas realized it, she had vanished up the covered gangway. Just as quickly she reappeared running onto the dock and to the helicopter. The blades were just beginning to move slowly, gathering speed, then they were cut. She hurriedly opened the door and for a minute Nicholas gasped; he thought he had lost her.

She picked something up, turned, her face was all smiles and laughing. Her gold and silver hair blowing in the wind, her sable coat flying open, she shone like a silver sun as she ran with two blue and white Chinese porcelain bird cages, one in each hand.

Nicholas’s heart skipped a beat. He threw his head back again and started to laugh. Putting the binoculars to his eyes, he had just enough time to catch sight of the brilliant, exotic yellow birds before she was swallowed up again by the striped tunnel leading to the first-class boat deck. The
dogs, the Oriental man, and the small dark woman followed her.

Nicholas Frayne lowered the binoculars and suddenly the dock seemed gray and lifeless. The whole scene had taken no longer than ten minutes, and for that ten minutes a light had been turned on in his life. He didn’t even know her name, but he knew one thing for sure: He had seen the woman he would one day call the light of his life. He was filled with excitement, yet calm and very sure they were going to be together.

Nicholas reached into the inside pocket of his brown-and-beige tweed jacket and took out a long, slim cigar. He absentmindedly patted his beige cashmere turtleneck sweater, looking for a breast pocket, then reached into his worn blue jeans and found his old Ronson that was more like a flame thrower than a lighter. He lit the cigar, took some deep puffs, and watched the dockers move the gangway toward the customs shack. He watched the
Tatanya Annanovna
set sail but he saw nothing. He was too filled with the vision of his pursuit of this dazzling, elusive woman and his anticipation of the voyage ahead.

The West Hartford, Connecticut, contingent aboard gave a round of applause as the dockers threw the heavy lines into the water.

“Well, we’re off!” said Sophie.

“I think I’ll take a Dramamine,” Izzy said.

“Don’t be silly,” Libby said. “Go get one of those Band-Aids they put on your neck. It’s very modern.”

“I’m so excited,” said a flushed Tessie Tillman.

Dressed in full regalia — red coats, busbees, and all — the band of the Scots Guards reappeared at the end of the quay in the afternoon sunlight and struck up “Land of Hope and Glory” as the ship sidled away from the dock. Its mammoth engines drove the giant propellers and hundreds of thousands of gallons of water churned and swirled around the
Tatanya Annanovna
, driving her forward out into the port. A festive spirit provoked those passengers on the top
deck to throw confetti, which rained down on the flotilla of yachts and small sailing vessels sounding their horns in unison as the huge liner sailed out of the harbor. The sailors waved farewell and the passengers on the deck waved back.

Romanticism and intrigue are synonymous with crossing the Atlantic Ocean on a luxury liner. When almost a thousand people, strangers for the most part, come together in an isolated, floating hotel for six days, anything is possible. The ship becomes the world, the ocean the universe, and what waits beyond, irrelevant. Time zones are created at will, the only reference points being the planets, the stars, and the tides. Every person on board felt the thrill of adventure, the excitement of a voyage into the unknown.