Leon Uris Read Online Free PDF Page B

OF the Senator from Kansas, sat before her committee with her Ben Franklin-style half-glasses attached to a silver chain that encircled her heavy neck and multitude of chins.
    The Chairwoman of the Annual Garden Party and Concert for Korean Orphans checked studiously down a roster listing possible candidates to sponsor the forthcoming event.
    “Nicole darling,” she said, “do you really think we should retain Mollie Spearman as a sponsor this year?”
    “Of course we should,” Nicole answered coldly. “The affair wouldn’t be complete without Mollie’s name.”
    “It’s just about impossible to have a function in Washington these days without Mollie Spearman. Perhaps we should be original.”
    “Or obvious by the omission,” Nicole countered.
    Henrietta Todd feigned a sigh of disappointment and put an okay after Mollie Spearman’s name. “Very well,” she said.
    The inference was again clear. This was the third subtle mention of Mollie Spearman’s name during the afternoon. The good ladies, led by Henrietta Todd, prodded their velvet barbs to convey the latest gossip that André was having an affair with the famous Washington hostess.
    Liz Nordstrom watched the scene from the opposite end of the table, wincing inwardly as the bitches clawed. She waited until the moment the meeting had dissolved into tea and gossip and went to Nicole. On closer look Liz saw that Nicole was shaken despite her outward composure.
    “I hate to pull you out of here, Nicole,” Liz said, “but I have to stand Little League duty. Shall I drop you off?”
    Nicole nodded weakly that she’d like to leave and they both intoned good-byes.
    “Good-bye, darlings,” Henrietta Todd said, smirking over her Ben Franklins.
    Liz backed the car out of the driveway and ground it into low gear angrily. “I hate women, particularly Henrietta Todd. If she hadn’t grown so grotesque and disgusting, her own husband might still sleep with her ... if he’s ever sober enough. She just can’t stand to have younger, beautiful women near her.”
    “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