Summer’s End

36

It was nine o’clock on a February morning. Ben sat in his office, looking at his new ads. He pressed a buzzer on his desk and waited for Sally to come into the room. When she did, she had an armful of papers, and he looked at her with a scowl.

“What do you think of this stuff, Sally? Does it work or not?”

“Yes.” She hesitated as she looked. “But maybe it’s a little too showy?”

He nodded emphatically and tossed them back on his desk. “That’s exactly what I think. Get Kim Houghton on the phone. I have to see an artist in Sausalito at eleven. See if she’ll meet me at the Sea Urchin around twelve-fifteen.”

“In Sausalito?” Sally asked. He nodded distractedly, and she disappeared. It was almost ten o’clock when she popped her head in the door. “She’ll meet you at the Sea Urchin at twelve-thirty, and she said bring the ads. She’s got another bunch of possibilities to show you and she’ll bring those too.”

“Good.” He looked up at her with a vague smile and sighed at the work on his desk. Sometimes it seemed endless. He had added four new artists to their roster that winter, but he wasn’t really in love with their work. They had been the best of what he had seen, but they weren’t wonderful, they weren’t Deanna Duras. People still asked him about her, and he tried to explain. She had “retired.” Another sigh escaped him as he plunged himself back into his work. He had done that since September, and it had almost worked. Almost. Except late at night and early in the morning. Now he understood how she must feel about Pilar. That feeling that you’ll never touch someone again, or hold them, or hear them, never laugh with them, or be able to tell them a joke and see them smile. He stopped working for a moment and then chased the thoughts away. He was good at it now. He had had five months of practice.

He left the gallery at exactly ten-fifteen. That gave him time to cross the bridge, drive to Sausalito, and park. This at least was an artist he liked, a young man with a wonderful eye for color and a kind of magical flair, but his work was far more modern than Deanna’s, and not nearly as good. He had never made the young man an offer, but he had decided that he finally would. Until then the young artist had been represented by a gallery near where he lived, a small cozy gallery in Sausalito that handled a mountain of very diverse work. Ben had first noticed the artist’s paintings there, buried with some good and some bad, and he knew the young man was getting terrible payment for his work. A hundred and seventy-five was his top price. Ben would up the price to two thousand, right from the start. And he knew he could get it. The artist would be thrilled.

And he was. “Oh, my God. Wait till I tell Marie!” He grinned broadly and pumped Ben’s hand. “My God. We might even be able to afford to eat something decent for a change.” Ben laughed, amused, and they walked slowly to the door. It was a big airy studio in half of what had once been a barn. It was now surrounded by houses and ersatz Victoriana, but it was still a wonderful studio and a nice place to work. “By the way, whatever happened to that girl you handled last summer? Duras?”

“Handled.” It was an interesting choice of words. But he didn’t know. No one did. “We don’t show her work anymore.” Ben said it very calmly. He had said it a hundred times before.

“I know. But do you know who does?”

“No one. She retired.” Ben had the speech down pat. But this time the young man shook his head.

“I don’t think so. Are you sure?”

“Quite. She told me she was retiring when she withdrew her work.” But something in the man’s eyes bothered him. “Why?”

“I could swear I saw one of her pieces at the Seagull the other day. You know, the place that’s been showing my work? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t have time to ask, but it looked like it. It was a beautiful nude. And they were asking a ridiculous price for it.”

“How much?”

“I heard someone say a hundred and sixty bucks. It’s really a crime for a fine piece like that. You ought to take a look and see if it’s her.”

“I think I will.” He looked at his watch. It was only eleven-thirty. He had enough time before his lunch with Kim.

The two men shook hands again. There was a profusion of thank you’s and smiles. Ben slid into his car and drove a little too quickly down the narrow road. He knew exactly where the gallery was, and he left his car parked on the corner. He wanted to just stroll in and look around, but he didn’t have to. Her painting was prominently displayed near the door. He could see it from where he stood, rooted to the spot on the street. It was indeed her canvas. The young man had been right.

He stood there for a moment, wondering what to do, trying to decide if he should go inside. He was about to walk away, but something drew him into the gallery. He had to get closer to the still life. He had seen her paint it. She had done it on their terrace in early July. Suddenly he felt pulled back into the summer.

“Yes, sir? May I help you?” She was a pretty blonde in sandals and jeans. She wore the usual uniform, T-shirt and pierced ears, her hair held up in the back with a wide leather thong.

“I was just looking at the painting over there.” He pointed to Deanna’s piece.

“It’s a hundred and sixty. Done by a local artist.”

“Local? To San Francisco, I suppose you mean.”

“No. Sausalito.” She was obviously confused, but there was no point arguing.

“Do you have any more of her work?” He was sure that they didn’t. Much to his astonishment, the girl nodded.

“Yes, we do. I think we have two more.”

As it turned out, there were three. One more from the summer, and two of her earlier works, none of them priced over two hundred dollars.

“How did you get these?” He found himself wondering if they had been stolen. If there had only been one, he might have suspected that someone who had bought one from him had been desperate to sell it, but that seemed unlikely, and it was obviously not possible since they seemed to have so much of her work.

The little blonde girl looked surprised by his question. “We have them on consignment from the artist.”

“You do?” Now it was his turn to look stunned. “Why?”

“I’m sorry?” She didn’t understand.

“I mean why here?”

“This is a very reputable gallery!” She looked unhappy at his remark, and he tried to cover his confusion with a smile.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just… it’s just that I know the artist, and I was surprised to see her work here. I thought she was away… abroad.” He really didn’t know what to say. On the spur of the moment he looked at the blonde girl with another smile. “Never mind. I’ll take them.”

“Which ones?” He was obviously crazy. Or maybe just stoned.

“All of them.”

“All four?” Crazy, not stoned.

“Yes, that’ll be fine.”

“But that’ll be almost eight hundred dollars.”

“Fine. I’ll write a check.” The blonde girl nodded then and walked away. The manager checked with Ben’s bank, and the check was good. Ten minutes later he walked away, and Deanna and the gallery were each four hundred dollars richer. He still wasn’t sure why he’d bought them when he put them in his car. All he knew was that he had wanted to have her work. And the prices were insane. He didn’t understand it. He would sell the four pieces in his gallery and turn the far larger profit over to her. As if she cared… What was he trying to prove?

He was annoyed with himself as he parked in front of the Sea Urchin to meet Kim for their lunch. It had been a grandiose thing to do, buying all four of the paintings. When she found out, she’d probably be mad as hell. But something about the whole episode irked him. What did they mean, a “local” Sausalito artist?

Kim was waiting for him at a window table, enjoying the view of the city across the bay.

“Mind if I sit down?” She turned toward him, startled, then laughed.

“For a minute I thought you were a masher.” She grinned up at him, and he smiled. He looked as pleasant as ever, as nicely put together, as well dressed in blazer, slacks, and striped shirt, but she thought there was something troubled in his eyes.

“No such luck, Ms. Houghton, mashers are out of style. Or maybe they’re all women these days.”

“Now, now.”

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. She nodded, and they both ordered bloody marys. For a moment he looked out at the bay. “Kim?”

“Yes, I know. You’re going to tell me you hate the ads. I don’t love them either. But I’ve got some other ideas.”

He shook his head and dragged his eyes back to hers. “Never mind that, though as a matter of fact you’re right. We can talk about that later. I want to ask you something else.” He paused for a long moment, and Kim waited, suddenly wondering if this was what she had seen in his eyes.

“What is it?” He looked so troubled, she wanted to reach out a hand.

“Deanna.”

Kim’s heart almost stopped. “Have you seen her?”

But he only shook his head again. “No. Have you?” Kim nodded in answer. “Is something wrong? I just found four of her paintings in a local gallery, and I don’t understand. Why would she sell her work there? You know what they were selling them for? A hundred and sixty, one seventy-five. It’s crazy, it doesn’t make sense. And they said something about her being a local artist. Local to Sausalito. Now that really doesn’t make sense. What the hell is going on?”

Kim sat looking at him for a moment, saying nothing. She wasn’t sure what she could say. She had a date to visit Deanna that afternoon, right after lunch. She had been delighted with the excuse of having lunch in Sausalito. This way she could stop and see Deanna before heading back. But what could she say to Ben? How much could she tell him?

“Kim, please tell me. Do you know?” His eyes pleaded with her; they were filled with concern.

“Maybe someone else sold the paintings to the gallery after he bought them from her.” She had to ask Deanna before she said anything to him. She had to. She owed that to Deanna, but she wanted to tell him now.

“No, that’s not the case. The girl said they had them on consignment from her. But why? Why a gallery like that, and over here? Is she trying to sell them without her husband knowing? Is she in trouble? Does she need cash?” His eyes pleaded with Kim to speak, and she let out a long, troubled sigh.

“Oh, Ben. What can I say? A lot of things in Deanna’s life have changed.”

“But apparently not enough for her to call me.”

“Maybe she will. In time. She is still very shaken up about Pilar.” He nodded silently and they didn’t speak for a while. The last thing he wanted to discuss today was business. All he could think of was Deanna. He knew something was terribly wrong.

He looked up at Kim again, and she wanted to die from the look in his eyes. “Is she in some kind of trouble?” But Kim shook her head no.

“She’s all right, Ben. She is. I think in some ways she’s happy for the very first time.” She wanted to tear her tongue out for saying it. Deanna had been even happier during the previous summer, but Kim wasn’t sure how to alter what she had just said. “She’s painting a lot.”

“And she’s happy.” He looked at the bay and then at Kim. “With him…” But suddenly Kim couldn’t stand it anymore. She very slowly shook her head. “What do you mean?”

“He went back to France.” Deanna had told her that just last month. Marc had finally gone back to his home.

“Permanently?” Ben looked stunned. Kim merely nodded. “And she stayed?” Kim nodded again, and now there was despair in his eyes. She hadn’t called him. Marc was gone, and she hadn’t called. But as he looked down into his drink, he felt Kim’s hand gently touch his.

“Give her a chance, Ben. A lot of things have happened. I think it may take her a few more months to sort it all out.”

“And she’s living here? In Sausalito?” None of it made any sense. Why wasn’t she living in their house? Had he just run off and left her? “Do you mean to tell me they’re getting a divorce?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes. I do.”

“Was it his doing, or hers? Kim, you have to tell me. I have a right to know.”

“I’m the first person to agree with you, Ben.” But try telling her.… “It was her doing, but he agreed. He really had no choice.”

“How is she? Is she adjusting? Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. She’s living in a funny little house, working on some new paintings, getting ready-” And then she stopped; she had gone too far.

“Getting ready for what?” He was confused again, and Kimberly was driving him crazy. “For chrissake, Kim, is that lousy gallery giving her a show?” He was incensed. How dare they? Suddenly Kim laughed. She looked at him with a bright light in her eye.

“You know something? This is crazy. We’re sitting here playing twenty questions about how Deanna is, when the one thing she needs is you.” She pulled a pen out of her handbag and grabbed a piece of paper from among her ads. She jotted down the address and handed it to him. “Go. That’s the address.”

“Now?” He looked stunned as he took the piece of paper from her hand. “But what if… if she doesn’t want to see me?”

“She will. But from now on it’s up to you.” She laughed. “And if she gives you any trouble, just punch her in the mouth.” He grinned and looked at her again in confusion.

“What about our lunch?” All he wanted to do was get the hell out of there and go to find Deanna. He really didn’t want to sit there a moment longer with Kim, but she knew it, and she smiled.

“Screw our lunch. We can talk about the ads some other time. Go.” He bent to kiss her and squeezed her shoulder very hard.

“One day, Kim Houghton, I’ll thank you. But right now”-he finally smiled back-“I’ve got to run. Tell me, do I break the door down or just climb down the chimney?”

“Throw a chair through the window. It works every time.”

He was still smiling when he got to his car, and he was at the cul-de-sac five minutes after he left Kim. He glanced at the piece of paper again and quickly saw that it was the house hidden by the large daisy bushes and surrounded by the little picket fence. He wondered if she was at home. Maybe she wasn’t in. He was frightened now. What would he say to her? What if she was angry that he’d come? He couldn’t bear to have her do that to him now, after all the long months of dreams.

He got out of the car and walked slowly to the door. He could hear someone moving around inside, and there was a radio softly playing jazz. He rang the bell and then knocked. More quickly than he expected, her voice rang out from the back of the house.

“Hi, Kim, it’s open. Come on in!” He opened his mouth to tell her it wasn’t Kim, but he closed it as quickly. He didn’t want her to know the truth until he was inside, until he saw her, just once, even for a moment. Just once more. He pushed the door open with one hand. He was standing in the bright little front room, and there was no one there.

“Are you in?” she called out to him from the back. “I’m painting the other bedroom. I’ll be right out.”

He felt as though his guts were melting as he listened to her voice for the first time in five months. He simply stood in one spot and waited for her to come out. He wanted to say something to her, but he couldn’t. He almost felt as though he didn’t have the strength. But then she called out again. “Kim? Is that you?” This time he had to speak; he didn’t want her to be frightened.

“No, Deanna. It’s not.” There was silence then, and he heard something drop. He stood there, silent, immobile, waiting. But no one came. Nothing happened. No one moved. And slowly he began to walk toward the back of the house. He didn’t have far to go. A few steps and he was standing in the tiny bedroom doorway.

“Deanna?” She was standing there, one hand on a bassinet, leaning against the last unpainted wall. His eyes went to hers and he couldn’t repress a smile. “I’m sorry, I…” And then he saw, as her eyes grew wide and he saw her chin tremble. “My God, you’re… Deanna…” He didn’t want to ask her, he didn’t know what to say. When and how? And whose? And then not caring whose, he closed the gap between them and pulled her into his arms. That was why she was selling the paintings, why she was alone.

“It’s ours, isn’t it?” he asked. She nodded, tears spilling onto his shoulder. He held her tightly in his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call?” He pulled away just enough so that he could see her face. She was smiling.

“I couldn’t. I left you. I couldn’t go back to you like that. I thought that maybe… after the baby…”

“You’re nuts, but I love you. Why after the baby? I want to be there with you, I want to… oh, Deanna, it’s ours!” He pulled her back into his arms triumphantly, with laughter and tears.

“How the hell did you find me?” She laughed as she held him close and then sniffed. When he didn’t answer, she knew. “Kim.”

“Maybe so. Or maybe that atrocious little gallery that’s selling your work. Deanna, how could you…” His voice trailed off, and she grinned.

“I had to.”

“Not anymore.”

“We’ll see.”

“You prefer Seagull to me?” He laughed at the thought, and she vehemently shook her head.

“I’ve just managed to do it all for myself though. I’ve gotten independent. I’ve made it. Do you realize what that means?”

“It means that you’re wonderful and I adore you. Are you getting divorced?” He was holding her in his arms and gently touching her stomach. He jumped as the baby kicked. “Was that our kid?” The tears glazed his eyes again when she nodded yes.

“And yes, I’m also getting divorced. It will be final in May.”

“And the baby?”

“Will be final in April.”

“And in that case, you crazy, independent, mad woman, we will also be final in May.”

“What does that mean?” But she was laughing now and so was he.

“Just what you think. And”-he looked around the room with a quizzical air-“pack your stuff, madam, I’m taking you home.”

“Now? I haven’t finished painting the baby’s room. And-”

“And nothing, my darling. I’m taking you home.”

“Right now?” She put down her paintbrush and grinned.

“Right now.” He pulled her close to him again then and kissed her with all the longing of the past five months. “Deanna, I’ll never be without you again. Never. Do you understand?” But she only nodded, smiling, and kissed him, as his hand traveled slowly to their child.