“Not bad, sir.” It was not entirely true, as his feet, raw, hot, and swollen, were killing him, but suddenly they didn't seem so bad. “And you?”

“It was pretty hot downtown.” Nick Burnham's office was on Wall Street, and Mike knew that he was big in steel, the most important young industrialist in the nation, The New York Times had called him once. And he was only thirty-eight years old. The difference in their stations in life and their incomes never bothered Mike. He accepted things like that, and Nick always gave him handsome tips and generous gifts at Christmas time. Besides, Mike knew that in some ways Nick didn't have an easy row to hoe. Not in this house anyway. As much as Mike liked Nick, he hated his wife, Hillary. A highfalutin, fancy bitch, she was. Never a kind word, never a smile, just a lot of fancy jewels and furs she'd soaked her husband for. When Mike saw them go out at night, more often than not she was saying something nasty to Nick, about one of the maids, or that he was late, or that she hated the people giving the party they were going to. A rotten little bitch she was, Mike always said, but a pretty one, not that that was enough. He wondered how Nick managed to stay such a pleasant man, married to a girl like that.

“I saw Master John today, with his new baseball bat.” The two men exchanged a smile, and Nick broke into a big grin.

“You may hear the sound of breaking windows one of these days, my friend.”

“Not to worry. I'll catch the ball if it sails down here.”

“Thanks, Mike.” He patted the old man's arm and disappeared inside the house as Mike smiled to himself. Forty-five minutes to go, and maybe tomorrow it won't be quite so hot. And if it is, well … that's the way things are. Two more men came in, and Mike touched his hat, thinking of Nick's son, John. He was a handsome little tyke, looked just like his old man, except that he had his mother's jet-black hair.

“I'm home!” Nick's voice rang out in the hall as it did every night, and as he put his straw hat on a table in the hall, he listened for familiar sounds, of John running down the hall to greet him perhaps. But tonight there were none. A maid in a black uniform and a white lace apron and cap came out of the pantry instead, and he smiled at her. “Good evening, Joan.”

“Evening, sir. Mrs. Burnham is upstairs.”

“And my son?”

“I believe he's in his room.”

“Thank you.” He nodded and walked down a long, thickly carpeted hall. The apartment had been entirely redone the year before, and everything was done in white and beige and cream. It managed to look both soothing and expensive at the same time, and had cost him an arm and a leg, particularly after the three decorators and two architects Hillary had hired and fired one by one, but the end result was one that he could live with and that he imagined had pleased her. It wasn't exactly the kind of place where one would expect to find a little boy, nor the kind of home where he could run his fingers along the wall or bounce a ball, but at least in the child's room, Nick had prevailed. There, everything was done in reds and blues, the furniture was comfortable old oak, the children's paintings on the wall were still a little overdone for Nick's taste, but at least he knew that these were rooms where John could have a little fun. There was a bedroom for his nurse, a large room for him, a little sitting room with a desk, which had been Nick's when he was a boy, and a large playroom filled with toys, where he could entertain his friends.

Nick knocked softly on the door of the hall that led to John's rooms, and instead of an answer, the door was instantly yanked open, and he found himself looking down into the smiling face of his only child. He swept him up in his arms with a happy smile, and a gurgle of laughter greeted his ears, as it did every night.

“You're crushing me, Dad!” But he didn't really seem to mind.

“Good. How's my favorite little boy?” He set him back on his feet, and John grinned up at him.

“I'm fine and my new bat is great.”

“That's good. Break any windows yet?”

“Of course not.” John looked offended as his father rumpled the blue-black hair. He was an interesting cross between Hillary and Nick, her creamy skin, Nick's green eyes, her hair. The two looked as entirely different as two people could, Hillary dark and small and delicate, Nick powerful and blond and strong, and yet the boy combined the best of both, or so everyone said. “Can I take my bat on the ship?”

“I'm not so sure about that, young man. Maybe if you promise to leave it in your trunk.”

“But I have to take it, Dad! They don't have baseball bats in France.”

“Probably not,” Nick agreed. They were going over for a year, or six months, if things got too tense. Nick had so many contracts over there this year, that he had decided to run the Paris office himself, and leave his right-hand man in charge in New York. And of course he was taking Hillary and John. He wouldn't consider staying there for that long without them, and it was important that he go. At first Hillary had wailed and moaned and complained to him every day, but for the last month she had seemed resigned, and John had decided that it would be fun. They were putting him in an American school just off the Champs-Élysées, and Nick had rented them a handsome house on the Avenue Foch. It belonged to a French count and his wife, who had moved to Switzerland the year before, during the panic before the Munich Accord, and now they were happy in Lausanne and in no hurry to return. It was a perfect arrangement for Nick, Hillary, and the boy.

“Want to come to dinner with me, Dad?” The nurse had just signaled John that it was time to go, and he turned hopeful eyes up to Nick.

“I think I'd better go upstairs to see your mom.”

“Okay.”

“I'll come down after you eat, and we can talk for a while. How's that?”

“That's good.” John smiled at his father again and left with the nurse as Nick stood for a quiet moment in the room, looking at his old desk. His father had given it to him when he was twelve, and almost ready for boarding school, but he had given it to John long before that. And if he had his way, his son would never be sent away to school. He had hated his years away, feeling banished from his home. John would never know the agony of that, Nick had told himself long before besides, he was far too crazy about the boy to let him go.

He closed the door behind him then and walked back down the long beige hall until he reached the grand piano in the central hall, and then walked slowly up the carpeted stairs to their rooms.

As he approached the landing he saw that the door to their suite of rooms was ajar, and he could hear Hillary's voice beyond, calling shrilly to the maid, who ran in from Hillary's dressing room, carrying an armload of furs.

“Not those, dammit! For chrissake …” He could only see her from the back, her shining black hair hanging like silk to the shoulders of her white satin dressing gown, but he could see just from the way she was standing that she was annoyed. “You fool, I told you the sables, the mink coat, and the silver fox. …” She turned then and glanced at Nick, her dark eyes meeting his green ones for a long moment as everything stood still. He had told her often not to shout at the help, but it was something she had done all her life, and she had never adapted well to change. She was only twenty-eight years old, but she looked every inch a woman of the world, with her well-coiffed hair, her carefully made-up face, her long red nails, her stance, her style. Even in her dressing gown she was the epitome of chic. “Hello, Nick.” The eyes and the words were cool, but she stood still as he approached, held up her cheek for him to kiss, and then turned her attention back to the maid. But this time she didn't raise her voice. “Would you please go back and get me the right furs.” But even at that, her tone cut like a knife as Nick watched.

“You're awfully hard on that girl.” It was a tone of gentle reproach, one she had heard ten thousand times before, and she didn't give a damn. He was always nice to everyone, except her, of course. He had ruined her life, but he'd got what he wanted out of it. Nick Burnham always got his way, but not with her. Not anymore, she told herself again and again. Once was enough. And she'd made him pay for it for the last nine years. If it hadn't been for Nick, she'd still be in Boston, maybe even married to that Spanish count who was so nuts about her the year she came out…. Countess … she liked the ring of that…. Countess…. “You look tired, Hil.” He gently stroked her hair and looked into her eyes, but he met no answering warmth there.

“I am. How do you think everything in this house has got packed?” By the maids, he almost said, but he bit his tongue. He knew that in her mind she'd done it all. “Christ, I have to pack everything for you, for John, table linens, sheets, blankets, plates, your things …” Her voice grew high-pitched as she spoke, and he walked away and sat down on a Louis XV chaise longue.

“I can pack for myself, you know that. And I told you, the house in Paris has everything we need. You don't have to take your own bed linens and plates.”

“Don't be an ass. God only knows who's slept in those beds.” And for an instant, just an instant, he almost said that they couldn't have been any worse than the people who had slept in hers. But he said nothing, he only watched as the nervous little maid returned, hopefully with the right furs this time: two sable coats, one mink, and the silver fox jacket she had received at Christmas, in a large handsome box, from God knew who. One thing was certain, it was not from Nick. The sables were, the mink, the chinchilla coat she was leaving behind, but the fox was an enigma, more or less, although he assumed it was from Ryan Halloway, the son of a bitch.

“What are you staring at?” Without intending them to, his eyes had strayed to the fox. They had fought about it several times before, and he did not intend to discuss it with her again. “Don't start that. I don't have to go to Paris, you know.”

Oh, Christ, he thought to himself, not that. It had been such a long day, and he was so hot. He didn't want to fight with her today. “Do we really have to go through all this, Hil?”

“No, we don't. We could stay here, you know.”

“No, we couldn't. I want to run my Paris office for the next year. I have important contracts over there, and you know it. So we're all going. Somehow, I've never thought of Paris as a rough place to live.” But she did. For some reason, she was bound and determined to stay in New York. “Come on, Hil, you've always loved it over there.”

“Sure, for a few weeks. Why the hell can't you fly back and forth?”

“Because I'll wind up never seeing you or John. For crissake.” He stood up all at once, and the maid scurried out of the room. She knew the pattern of their fights. Eventually he blew his top and began to shout, and more often than not she threw something at him. “Can't we just let this thing lie? Can't you just accept that we're going? For chrissake, the ship is sailing in two days.”

“So let it, or go by yourself.” Her voice was like ice as she sat down on the bed, stroking the silver fox and looking up at him. “You don't need me over there.”

“Is that right? Or is it that you'd like to get rid of me for a year, then you could run back and forth to Boston to visit that little son of a bitch.” He knew how promiscuous she was, he had known for years. But he believed in preserving his marriage, for John's sake, for his own. His own parents had been divorced, and he had led a lonely, unhappy life as a child and had vowed never to do that to his own son. All he wanted was to be married and to stay that way, and he would, no matter what, no matter what Hillary did. But still the angry words slipped out more often than he wanted them to. “Aren't you ever afraid you'll get pregnant, Hil?” They both knew he meant by someone else.

“Apparently you've never heard of abortion … if what you say is true, of course, that I play around, which I do not. But babies are not exactly my thing, dear Nick, or don't you recall?” They always aimed their blows below the belt. They had for years.

“Oh, yes, I do.” The muscles in his jaw tensed as he clenched one hand, but his voice was oddly soft. She had never forgiven him for what had happened nine years before. She had been the most beautiful debutante in Boston. He remembered well her raven hair in sharp contrast to the white gowns her parents had had sent from Paris. There were many men who wanted her. Her father was in his fifties when she was born, her mother thirty-nine, and they had long since given up hope of having a baby, when suddenly Hillary appeared. She had been spoiled from the beginning, adored by her father, pampered by her mother, grandparents, and nurse. She had had everything she wanted, and she intended to go on living that way forever, until suddenly, on the night of her debut, she saw Nick. He was tall, blond, and handsome, with one of Boston's prettiest girls on his arm. And everyone had whispered from the moment he walked in … Nick Burnham … Nick Burnham … a fortune in steel … sole heir of his father … At twenty-nine, he was one of the richest young men on Wall Street, handsome as hell, and single. Hillary had almost floated out of the arms of the man she was dancing with, and had gone to meet Nick. They were introduced by one of her father's friends, and she had done everything she could to sweep him off his feet. And with surprisingly little effort, she had succeeded. Nick had gone to Boston often after that, and then Newport the following summer, and it was there that it had happened. Hillary had wanted him to want her more than any other woman he had ever known, and she had given her virginity to him, because she thought she loved him, and because she wanted to own him.