Tidal Wave (3 page)

The tugboats surrounded the magnificent liner, giving it a dramatic water cannon display and a tugboat symphony of hoots, whistles, and bass foghorns.

“What a sight, what a send-off!” said Sophie.

“Oh, it’s thrilling!” said Libby, and turning to her husband, she added, “Now I bet you’re sorrry you’re such a snob about carrying a camera.”

“No, not at all. I’m not a snob — I’m a realist. I’m a retired furniture manufacturer, not a photographer. Don’t worry, Lib. We won’t miss a thing. Not on your life. You can be sure in an hour’s time we’ll be able to buy any one of a hundred professional photographs of what we’ve just seen. They’ll be up on the board next to the purser’s office. In fact, I’ll buy each of you ladies one!”

Libby gave her husband a playful punch on his shoulder and said, “You can never win with him. The worst thing is, I’m sure he’s right!”

“No, he’s not,” said Tessie.

Dead silence fell over the group.

“Well, maybe half right,” backed down Tessie.

More silence.

“What I mean is, you can be sure there’ll be no photographs of the mystery lady who landed in that helicopter. I’m sure she’s someone famous.”

Half an hour had gone by since the
S.S. Tatanya Annanovna
had sailed and not one of the West Hartford group had said a word about Arabella Crawford’s spectacular embarkation — each one all but biting her tongue not to be the first to say something. All were trying to be discreet and show indifference by their silence. But Tessie simply could hold back no longer.

Libby railed in defense of her husband. “Of course Izzy’s right! We can buy the photographs from the purser. As for the helicopter landing, well, you can be sure she paid plenty — or let me say,
someone
paid plenty — for that privilege, and privacy should go with it. I certainly hope they didn’t photograph the lady.”

They then resumed their promenade on the boat deck, walking four abreast. Sophie bent her head forward and looked across at her sister-in-law on the end.

“How did you like that coat, Libby?”

Libby walked a little bit taller and, pulling her soft belt a little bit tighter around her vicuña coat, raised her hands to the underpart of its Russian sable lapels, fluffing up the fur. She looked past her husband, across the faces of her two friends, and sighing heavily, said icily, “Sophie, that was no coat. That was the most exquisite Russian sable I have ever seen.”

They walked on.

“Wasn’t she beautiful?”

“Gorgeous.”

“She has some sense of style! Imagine wearing a silver silk jumpsuit with that blond and silver hair! Let’s have a man’s opinion. What did you think of her, Izz?”

“I thought she looked like a goddess. She shone like a silver dollar.”

The look on the three women’s faces intimated they might have been happier if Isador had been a little less enthusiastic about her.

“Granted,” said Sophie, grudgingly. “But a woman like that? All looks and no brains. In a way, I feel sorry for her, for all the women like her. When the looks go, where are they, the poor things?”

The first one to come to Arabella’s defense was Izzy.

“I don’t think she’s too dumb, Soph. She was smart enough to pilot that helicopter to a perfect landing. No mean feat!”

Libby added, “Girls that look like that are dumb like foxes.”

“Well, I think the whole thing was marvelous and she was beautiful, spectacular. I wonder if we’ll see her again.”

“Or her husband.”

“Husband, I doubt; sugar-daddy, maybe.”

“Maybe the Oriental is her husband,” said Tessie.

The three others said in dismay and unison, “Never!”

“Well, I wish her luck, whoever she is. Girls like that are a rare joy to see,” said Izzy.

“Are you kidding?” said Sophie. “In this day and age, girls like that are a dime a dozen.”

Izzy stretched his arms out across the women and said, “Stop!” in a serious and authoritative manner. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter and a nickel, handed them to Sophie, and said, “Okay, Soph, here’s thirty cents. Buy me three.”

They all laughed, and Izzy said, “Come on, my beauties, let’s have some champagne. Sugar-daddy’s buying!”

Chapter Three

Arabella, Xu, and Missy, after putting the dogs and birds in the ship’s kennels, went to Arabella’s staterooms. They stood on the private balcony at the bow of the deck and watched the water display. They heard the tugboat concert as the ship and her flotilla cut their way out of the harbor. Arabella had one of the few exquisite penthouse cabins on the ship. Each had an outside deck and a private, enclosed balcony offering protection from the damp chill of the North Atlantic but commanding a view of the sea from all angles.

After briefly enjoying the view, Missy and Xu excused themselves to perform their many duties.

A permanent smile was etched across Arabella’s face, a smile that came from within, involuntarily, just there. It was not unlike the feeling in her feet of wanting to dance, or in her heart, which felt as if it were singing instead of beating. Her whole mind and body were receivers for her sensations of joy, frivolity, and love. She could only remember one other time in her life when she felt such emotion. Anthony Quartermaine, the Earl of Heversham, walked back into Arabella’s mind and memory. She wondered how he would react when the news reached him about her extraordinary business coup and abrupt departure from Paris.

Leaning on the glossy mahogany rail, Arabella pulled her sable up around her face against the cold wind and watched the coastline of France disappear on the horizon. The flotilla of tugboats now looked nothing more than children’s toy boats as they sailed back to the shore. She could barely hear the melancholy foghorns blasting their final farewell.

It was a moment for nostalgia about places she had traveled
to in the past and might never return to, or, if she did, they would certainly never be the same. Could she ever return to Paris and be at home there again? It was a moment for reflection. And for Arabella, that always meant Anthony and their long, exquisite, strange love affair. It came as a shock to Arabella to realize that those eighteen years and the love affair might indeed be just that: the past. To her life had never been the ordinary chain of events that most women expect, and to her Anthony was always the symbol of the unexpected, a twist of fate, an inexplicable part of her soul. Where would he fit now?

She turned away from the coastline and looked out to the vast ocean that lay before her. She would look to the future now, the new, the fresh, the unknown. To being free, more free than she had ever been in her entire life. Rich, rich beyond measure. Her thoughts were of houses, gardens, and romance, yes, romance above all else. A life of leisure, fun, and romance.

She wanted to sing, dance, laugh, play, make love, wild, unbridled, passionate love. She sucked in great draughts of cold wind and her heart began to pound with excitement and expectation. She threw her head back, opened her arms, and laughed out loud. An icy wind wrapped around her body; it made her feel sensitized and alive all over. She pulled her coat about her and dashed into the warmth of her drawing room, where a fire was blazing in the fireplace, adding a glow to the soft creamy tone of the room.

Missy was opening telegrams and gathering cards from the flowers. It was the first chance Arabella had to take in the drawing room of her suite and she said, “Very lovely, Missy, isn’t it?” The carpets were plush, the drapes were silk, and the furnishings combined rare antiques with solid, seaworthy contemporary furniture of the highest quality. The walls were discreetly mirrored to take advantage of the ocean view. The lacquered surfaces reflected the light. She knew instantly that this was going to be a very special place.

She walked through and examined the other rooms. There was a pantry complete with Royal Doulton china, Baccarat
crystal, coffeemaker, tea kettle, ice bucket. She found tidbits and delicacies from Fauchon in Paris and Fortnum’s in London; a tin of assorted biscuits on the serving counter and, in the refrigerator, a bowl of fruit, champagne, and jugs of fresh fruit juices.

She walked down the hall to one bedroom designed as a sitting room with a marble table and chairs in the center. It was charming, more like a library or a breakfast room, a place where one might even dine
à deux
.

The master bedroom was large and lovely with a king-sized bed, a canopied four-poster draped in beautiful crewel work on beige silk. Leaves and flowers, exotic birds, and a Russian royal crest of silver threads were in the center of the upholstered headboard. The furniture was sixteenth-century French Provincial, the color of dark, sweet honey. The portholes were large and overlooked more of her private deck. The room was flooded with light. The
boiserie
, obviously original, was lovely with architectural wood carvings of flowers and birds over the door.

Arabella went through to the dressing room where Xu was unpacking and putting her things away. Then into the large bathroom of cream marble with a light vein of eucalyptus green running through it. She touched the thick towels, then walked back, dropping her coat on the bed as she passed.

She called, “Xu, come here a moment.”

In the drawing room again, she turned to Missy and said, “Stop fussing with all that, it can wait. I want to talk to you and Xu about this trip. Have you two seen your accommodations yet?”

“No, we haven’t,” said Xu.

“Well, go now and see that they’re to your liking. I want you both to enjoy this crossing. You are booked in second class and must take advantage of the service and luxury available there. That means, Missy, Xu, that until we have to get ready to dock in New York, I don’t want you working. I only ask you, Xu, to finish unpacking.”

Missy and Xu looked at each other quizzically.

“I really mean that. It’s unlikely I will need you since there is more than enough staff to take care of my needs for the next six days. I want you both to forget about me and have a grand time.”

Arabella’s two companions were reluctant to obey her orders but were clever enough to know that she meant it.

Missy and Xu spoke at once. “I will take care of the dogs and birds.”

Arabella said, “We all will. I hate leaving them in the kennels. If each of us spends some time every day with them, they won’t be lonely.

“I may invite you two to dine with me one evening or join me at the gaming tables, but that will be strictly social, and you must decline the invitation if you have something better to do. Understood?”

They both agreed. Just as Missy was about to leave and Xu return to the task of unpacking, there was a knock at the door.

It was Pete Peters, the purser they had all met at the time of their embarkation. He had come to check that Miss Crawford had everything she wanted and that she was comfortable in her suite. He passed on compliments from the captain and an invitation to dine with him and a few guests in his quarters that evening. It would not be formal, as it was the first night out.

Peters was a handsome man. Tall, dark, and slim, with a dimple in his chin and a twinkle in his eye. Arabella thought she detected a spark of something between him and Missy, a spark that made Missy no less efficient but more flirtatious than usual.

Peters had brought with him the cabin maid and steward who would attend to Arabella during her voyage. It gave her the opportunity to reassure her own servants that she would be well cared for. The maid went off with Xu to see where everything was and how Arabella liked things done. Missy left and Arabella talked to the purser, asking him to make sure that her guests, Xu and Missy, were well taken care of during the crossing.

Arabella was handed a massive package of brochures outlining everything happening aboard the
Tatanya Annanovna
. They included a detailed plan of the ship and a passenger list. When asked by Peters if she would like to join her fellow passengers now for tea, Arabella declined, saying she would rather have a late lunch in her cabin. She was famished. It was arranged and then everyone but Xu left.

Arabella went into the dressing room where he was putting the last of the empty suitcases away. He watched his mistress standing in front of the full-length mirror. She seemed to be studying herself. He remained where he was, silent, not wanting to disturb her thoughts.

Arabella came out of her reverie and saw Xu’s reflection. She smiled, turned, and said, “I think I’ll have a hot bath, Xu.”

“Would you like a massage first, madame?”

“No, thanks, but if you would lay out a clean chemise and robe, that silver one with the hint of peach in it, I think. I’ll go and pin up my hair, then you can do the back of my neck and shoulders.”

During the years she was building up her financial empire, Xu had looked after her and protected her so well. More than once he had rescued her from hate and intrusion, the unpleasant aspects of a position as powerful as hers. He had always been the perfect bodyguard. She feared nothing as long as he was at her side. Not only did Arabella want to see that Xu was cared for and happy, but she felt it essential that he be so.

She wondered what she had done to deserve such loyalty and devotion from Xu. He was the youngest son of one of the most important Chinese officials, one of those of a Chinese cadre like Lin Piao who is periodically in and out of favor. Xu was born into the new China. His father, Chao Zhao Shi, was an old man at the time of his youngest son’s birth. Before the revolution he had been a man of great wealth and stature. He was an educated, forward-thinking man, and they were a family of scholars, physicians, artists.

He had thrown in with Mao and Chou En Lai, had been one of the great financiers of the long march. He had proved himself time and time again in the fight for a new China. But the Zhao Shi family always carried the stigma of the Mandarin class.

Xu was the child of a reformed household whose father once had three wives, several concubines, and innumerable children. The surviving children were scholars of one sort or another, all working for Communist China.

At the time of the cultural revolution, Xu Zhao Shi had been in his last year of medical school at Peking University and was famous throughout China as one of their favorite and finest all-around athletes. He was engaged to marry a fellow student whom he had loved since childhood.

In 1966 Xu was in Paris on an exhibition tour with a group of Chinese athletes. He and his group were watching television in their hotel when the news flash of the cultural revolution broke. He watched pictures of the mobs rampaging through the streets of Peking. He saw his father and two of his brothers denounced, driven through the streets with hands and feet bound, placards hung around their necks, being beaten; excrement and garbage were being thrown at them. A picture of a group of his fellow students from the university being denounced, stripped, beaten, and humiliated flashed across the screen. Among them was his childhood sweetheart, his first and only love. He saw her head cracked open and her life flow away on French TV.

He had met Arabella on the very same night he saw his life destroyed.

Long before the troubles erupted, Xu’s father knew they were coming. In what form or how intense, he had no idea. He had tried to stem the tide of disaster, but he was ineffective. It was then he confided in Xu and only one other son — the two men in his family that he was sure stood with him politically. They agreed that if indeed there was a revolt and any of the three were abroad, they would ask for political asylum and remain abroad until they knew the fate of the
family. They felt that this was the only way to help those who might be denounced or incarcerated.

Xu had walked from the television set in the lobby of that Paris hotel to his room. There he found his address book with a list of every foreigner his father trusted. Arabella Crawford was the only Paris telephone number. Her connection with Chao Zhao Shi was through a sale of grain she had made with him to the Republic of China.

Xu had called her Place Vendôme office; she happened to be working late that night. Arabella answered the telephone. He declared who he was and that he needed help at once. She told him to leave the hotel immediately and to walk north, go into the first café, and take a table. She would find him. She did and brought him directly back to her rooms at the Ritz. They turned on the television and waited for the next news flash. The boy was shattered.

At nine o’clock the next morning, Arabella took him to the American embassy, where he was given political asylum. They had been together ever since.

Xu unconsciously made several vows during the night he saw his fiancée die on that TV screen: He would never marry, or become a doctor, or commit himself politically. It had something to do with the shock of seeing man’s inhumanity to man.

Ever since he and Arabella had been together, he had kept up his athletics, become a Zen Buddhist, learned four languages, become a master of all the martial arts, and kept up his studies of medicine.

He had chosen to stay with Arabella. He protected her, kept her physically fit, and more than once had a spiritual influence on her.

Arabella unzipped the jumpsuit, sat down on the chaise in her dressing room, and pulled off her silver kid ankle boots. She stretched, jumped up, and slipped out of the garment, leaving it on the chaise like a discarded skin.

At the dressing table in her bedroom, she reached out for the white jade hairpins, which were exactly in the place
she wanted them to be. Xu was a treasure: Her jewel case was open, her jewelry available to her; every pot of cream, every lipstick, shadow, brush in its place. How she loved everything in its place. Everything precise, everything perfect. Being precise, clean, and ordered came easily to her, and just as easily came her spontaneity.

She sat barefoot in her white silk chemise with its insets of ecru-colored lace, arranging tendrils of hair prettily among the mass piled up on top of her head. She laughed at herself; she looked anything but the hard-nosed executive she had been these past few years.

Arabella slowly cleansed her face and saw for a fleeting moment a beauty she had never recognized before. Caught up in the frivolity, she began to play with the pots of color and makeup on her dressing table. Suddenly she had the desire to make herself more beautiful than she had ever been. And now she had the time — and the money — to do it.