Betrayals

6

J anet had forgotten the aching loneliness and when it immediately returned, that positive physical feeling she’d never wanted to know, ever again, she was surprised-and vaguely embarrassed-how easy it had been to put from her mind. The first echoing night she came close to embarking on one of her private conversations but quickly and determinedly stopped herself. That indulgence-that need-was over, she thought, gazing down at the new engagement ring. It was John now, not Hank; wrong then to talk about one to the other, even secretly when no one else would ever know. Everything was different now: like the loss was different. With Hank, when she’d eventually confronted reality, it had been absolute. Final. Finish. But not this time. This time it was only a separation-an unwanted, intrusive, resented, irritating separation-but no more than that. A separation. John could come back: would come back. A lot of women temporarily lost their men in situations like this, although perhaps not in places as dangerous as Beirut. She had to be logical about it: logical and sensible. She had to stop behaving like a spoiled child.

Janet tried hard. Work was still the obvious blanket and she wrapped herself in it beyond her customary dedication. And studied beyond that dedication, reading everything and watching everything and listening to everything connected with the Lebanon as a whole and Beirut in particular. Her assessment was that it was as lawless and as ungoverned and dangerous as she’d declared it to be, the night of Sheridan’s announcement that he was going there, but Janet consciously opposed the depression. Separation, nothing more.

Before he’d left Sheridan had explained the correspondence procedure, providing her with the specific State Department address in Washington through which their letters could be channeled in the embassy’s diplomatic bag, which resulted always in an unusually quick and reassuring exchange, better than any normal mail service. His letters touched upon the destruction of the city and the difficulty of civil control but never in detail, an attempt not to avoid the obvious but not to worry her, either. Janet out-wrote Sheridan, sometimes despatching as many as three letters a week. She related a great deal from what she was studying with increased interest about the Lebanon and she recounted the gossip of Washington and she gave practically an hour-by-hour account of what she did and how she felt, every day. Always, repeatedly, she told Sheridan how much she loved him. There was never a letter from Sheridan without the same assurance.

Apart from her Sunday brunches with Harriet, househunting occupied much of her weekends and provided more material for the letters. After two months Janet was shown a brick colonial she instantly adored, just over the D.C. border into Maryland, with a Chevy Chase address. It had only been on the agent’s books for three days and Janet was frightened of losing it so she took a chance and on the spot handed over a nonreturnable deposit. That night she sent Sheridan all the photographs and the brochure together with her own excited plea that it was the best house she had ever seen in her entire life and could they have it, please. Because of the diplomatic routing, his reply came within the week. Sheridan thought the agent’s house looked great and was sure that if she liked it he would too and said he wanted her to go ahead and secure the property, contingent on the sale of his apartment, and included an authorization notarized by an embassy lawyer giving her similar attorney power to take to his bank, for the mortgage to be arranged.

Janet at once secured the contract. The sellers were a charming, Pentagon-retiring colonel and his wife, fleeing the East Coast winters to California, who said she could come in any time, irrespective of the legal exchanges, to measure and to plan her own fittings. Two couples were interested in Sheridan’s apartment; she asked the agent to put pressure on them to act.

Janet made two visits to the Chevy Chase house, on each of which Harriet accompanied her. Janet did not intend any major structural alterations, not even in the kitchen, so there was no need for any extensive measuring, but at Harriet’s urging Janet decided upon color changes in practically every room, which meant some tape measure work where she decided to recarpet and again at the windows where she was going to hang new drapes. The activity occupied Janet-an inner lining to the work blanket-and her late shopping evenings and weekends were filled with visits to furnishing departments and making comparisons between the best deals that each offered. Although it was never demanded-never hinted at-by Sheridan, Janet determined to get the best for the least, to prove to him that she was not profligate, despite her reaction to the too-expensive sapphire and diamond ring.

Sheridan’s apartment was sold. Then lawyers at Sheridan’s bank wanted to check directly with Sheridan about his power of attorney for the house purchase, despite already having the legally sworn deposition from the Lebanon. Janet said of course, and by using the diplomatic channel the confirmation came back from Beirut in five days.

“I’m sorry,” the bank executive said. “We want always to be sure.”

“I understand,” assured Janet.

That night, in the third letter of that week, Janet wrote that everything had been finalized and that the purchase was expected to be completed in six weeks, which was perfect timing for the carpet fitters and curtain hangers to move in to get everything ready. Sheridan’s letter by return-just four days-was the one for which Janet had been waiting, from the moment of his going to the Middle East. It began beguilingly, responding to what she had written and saying that he was delighted and that he was sure the house was going to be wonderful. He could hardly wait, Sheridan said. And then wrote that he was not going to have to wait much longer-neither of them were-because he’d been officially notified that the date of his return was May 24. Which was just three and a half months away: or put another way, not more than six weeks beyond the originally chosen wedding date. Why didn’t she, Sheridan demanded, start sending out the invitations and warn her parents to rearrange the wedding for some convenient date after the twenty-fourth?

Janet called Harriet and then her parents in London, and that night sat with a celebration glass of brandy in one hand, cradling George with her other, watching the evening news, which it had become her unthinking habit to do since Sheridan’s assignment.

“There is a top-of-the-hour development which we will update during the course of this program,” announced anchorman Tom Brokaw. “There has been another American embassy kidnap in Beirut. The victim has been confirmed as John Patrick Sheridan, aged 38…” The screen was filled with a stilted, full-faced photograph. “Tonight NBC has confirmed through Washington sources that Sheridan was the CIA officer in charge…”

“Oh no!” said Janet. “Dear God no!”