Summer’s End

4

“Where the hell have you been?” Kim was waiting for her in the lobby with a look of concern, when Deanna returned. She smoothed her tangled hair back from her face and smiled at her friend. Her cheeks were pink from the wind, her eyes shining. The word radiant flashed into Kim’s mind as Deanna began a rush of explanation.

“I’m sorry. I walked farther than I thought. It took me ages to get back.”

“It sure did. I was beginning to worry.”

“I’m sorry.” She looked remorseful, and Kim’s face softened into a smile.

“All right. But Jesus, let the kid loose on a beach and she vanishes. I thought maybe you’d run into a friend.”

“No.” She paused for a moment. “I just walked.” She had missed it. Her chance to tell Kim about Ben. But what was there to say? That she had met a stranger on the beach with whom she had discussed art? It sounded ridiculous. Childish. Or worse, stupid and improper. And she found that when she thought of it, she wanted to keep the moment to herself. She would never see him again anyway. Why bother to explain?

“Ready for dinner?”

“I certainly am.”

They walked the two blocks to the Pine Inn, glancing into shop windows, chatting about friends. Theirs was always an easy exchange, and the silence left Deanna to her own thoughts. She found herself wondering about the unknown Wyeth Ben had suggested he had. Did he really or was it only a poster? Did it matter? She told herself not.

“You’re mighty quiet tonight, Deanna,” Kim said as they finished their dinner. “Tired?”

“A little.”

“Thinking about Marc?”

“Yes.” It was the easiest answer.

“Will he call you from Athens?”

“When he can. The time difference makes it difficult.” And it made him seem terribly far away. In only two days he already seemed part of another lifetime. Or maybe that was just the effect of being in Carmel. When she was at home, with his clothes and his books or on his side of the bed, he felt much nearer. “What about your client tomorrow? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know. Never met him. He’s an art dealer. The Thompson Galleries. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to the meeting. You might like to see his house. I hear he has a fabulous collection in what he calls his ‘cottage.’ ”

“I don’t want to get in your way.”

“You won’t.” Kimberly looked at her reassuringly, and they paid the check. It was already eleven-thirty and Deanna was glad to climb into her bed.

When she slept, she dreamed of the stranger named Ben.

The phone rang beside her bed as she lay on her back, sleepily wondering if she should get up. She had promised to go with Kim, but she was tempted to go back to sleep. And then take another walk on the beach. The lure of that bothered her. She knew why she wanted to go back, and it was a strange, uncomfortable feeling the way he lingered in her mind. She would probably never see him again. And what if she did? What then? The phone rang again, and she reached over to answer it.

“Rise and shine.” It was Kim.

“What time is it?”

“Five after nine.”

“God. It feels more like seven or eight.”

“Well, it isn’t, and our meeting’s at ten. Get up, and I’ll bring you breakfast.”

“Can’t I order room service?” Deanna had grown used to traveling with Marc.

“The Ritz this ain’t. I’ll bring you coffee and a Danish.”

Deanna realized suddenly how spoiled she’d become. Not having Margaret and one of her perfect breakfasts was becoming a hardship. “All right. That’ll be fine. I’ll be ready in half an hour.”

She showered and did her hair and slipped into a cashmere sweater of a rich cornflower blue, which she pulled on over white slacks. She even managed to look fresh and alive by the time Kim knocked on her door.

“Jesus, you look gorgeous.” Kim handed her a steaming cup of coffee and a plate.

“So do you. Should I wear something more businesslike? You look awfully grown-up.” Kim was wearing a beige gabardine suit with a persimmon silk blouse and a very pretty straw hat, and a little straw bag clutched under her arm. “You look very chic.”

“Don’t look so surprised.” Kim smiled and collapsed in a chair. “I hope this guy is easy. I don’t feel like arguing business on a Saturday morning.” She yawned and watched Deanna finish the coffee in her cup.

“Who am I supposed to be by the way? Your secretary or your chaperon?” Deanna’s eyes sparkled over her cup.

“Neither, you jerk. Just my friend.”

“Won’t he think it a little strange that you bring along your friends?”

“Too bad if he does.” Kim yawned again and stood up. “We’d better go.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The drive took only five minutes, with Deanna reading the instructions to Kim. The address was on a pretty street, the houses all set back from the road and hidden by trees. But she saw when they got out of the car that it was a small, pleasant house. Not elaborate, and far from pretentious. It had a windswept, natural look to it. A small black foreign car was parked outside, something convenient, not handsome. None of the evidence suggested that the promised art collection would be impressive or rare. But the inside of the house told a different tale, as a small tidy woman in a housekeeper’s apron opened the door. She had the look of someone who came once or twice a week, efficient rather than warm.

“Mr. Thompson said to wait for him in his den. He’s upstairs on the phone. To London.” She added the last words with disapproval, as though she thought it a shocking expense. But not nearly as great an expense, Deanna thought, as the paintings on the walls. She looked at them with awe as they followed the housekeeper to the den. The man had a magnificent collection of English and Early American paintings. None of them were what Deanna would have collected herself, but they were a joy to behold. She wanted to linger so she could study each piece, but the woman in the apron marched them quickly and firmly into the den, glared at them long and hard, muttered, “Sit down,” then disappeared back to her chores.

“My God, Kim, did you see what he has on his walls?”

Kimberly grinned, readjusting her hat. “Beautiful stuff, isn’t it? Not my cup of tea, but he has some awfully good pieces. Though they’re not all really his.” Deanna raised an eyebrow in question. “He owns two galleries. One in San Francisco, and one in L.A. I suspect he borrows some of these from his galleries. But what the hell, it’s beautiful work.”

Deanna nodded in rapid agreement and continued to look around. They were seated in a room with a wide picture window that looked out at the sea. A simple pine desk, two couches, and a chair. Like the exterior of the house and the modest car, it was functional rather than impressive. But the art collection amply made up for that. Even here, he had hung two very fine, perfectly framed black-and-white sketches. She leaned closer to peer at the signatures then turned to look at a painting that hung behind her, the only ornament on a totally bare, white wall. Even as she turned to look, she felt herself gasp. It was the painting. The Wyeth. The woman on the dune, her face partially hidden as she rested it on her knees. And even Deanna could see that the woman was startlingly like her. The length and color of her hair, the shape of her shoulders, even the hint of a smile. She was surrounded by a bleak, damp-looking beach and accompanied only by the passing of one lonely gull.

“Good morning.” She heard his voice behind her before she could comment on the painting. Her eyes met his in surprise. “How do you do, I’m Ben Thompson. Miss Houghton?” There was an unspoken question in his eyes, but she quickly shook her head and pointed to Kim, who stepped forward with an extended hand and a smile.

“I’m Kimberly Houghton. And this is my friend, Deanna Duras. We heard so much about your collection that I had to bring her along. She’s an amazingly gifted artist herself, though she won’t admit it.”

“No, I’m not.”

“See!” Kim’s eyes danced as she took in the good-looking man who stood before them. He looked to be somewhere in his late thirties, and he had extraordinarily beautiful eyes.

Deanna was smiling at them both and shaking her head. “Really. I’m not.”

“How do you like my Wyeth?” He said it straight into Deanna’s eyes, and she felt a little pull at her heart.

“I… it’s a very, very fine piece. But you already know that.” She found herself blushing when she spoke to him. She wasn’t sure what to say. Should she admit having met him before? Should she pretend that there had been no meeting? Would he?

“Do you like it though?” His eyes held hers, and she felt herself grow warm under his gaze.

“Very much.” He nodded, pleased. And then she understood. He would say nothing about the night before on the beach. But she found herself smiling as they sat down. It was a strange feeling, having this secret between them, stranger still to know that she had met the “new client” before Kim.

“Ladies, some coffee?” They both nodded, and he stepped into the hall to call to the housekeeper. “One medium, two black.” As he came back into the room, he grinned at them. “They’ll either all be medium or all black. Mrs. Meacham doesn’t approve. Of anything. Coffee. Visitors. Or me. But I can trust her to clean the house when I’m gone. She thinks all this stuff is crap.” He waved airily around the room, a gesture encompassing the Wyeth and both sketches as well as the pieces they had seen on their way in. Kim and Deanna both laughed.

When the coffee arrived, all three cups were black. “Perfect. Thank you.” He smiled boyishly at the housekeeper as she left the room. “Miss Houghton…?”

“Kimberly, please.”

“Okay, Kimberly, you’ve seen the ads we ran last year?” She nodded. “What did you think?”

“Not enough style. Not the right look. Not aimed at the right marketplace for what you want.”

He nodded, but his glance kept wandering back to Deanna, who was still drinking in the Wyeth behind him. His eyes betrayed nothing as he watched her, and his words showed that he knew what he wanted from Kim. He was quick, funny, astute, and very businesslike, and their meeting was over in less than an hour. She promised to give him some fresh ideas within two weeks.

“Will Deanna be consulting on the account?” It was hard to tell if he was teasing. Deanna shook her head rapidly and held up a hand, laughing.

“Good God, no. I have no idea how Kim comes up with any of her wizardly ideas.”

“Blood, sweat, and a lot of black coffee.” Kimberly grinned.

“What do you paint?” He was looking again at Deanna, with the same gentle eyes she had seen on the beach the night before.

Her voice was very soft as she answered. “Still lifes, young girls. The usual Impressionist themes.”

“And mothers with young babies on their knees?” The eyes were always teasing, but unrelentingly kind.

“Only once.” She had done a portrait of herself and Pilar. Her mother-in-law had hung it in the Paris apartment and then ignored it for the next dozen years.

“I’d like to see some of your work. Do you show?” Again no betrayal of the night before, and she wondered why.

“No, I don’t. I haven’t shown in years. I’m not ready.”

“Now that’s crap, to use your housekeeper’s word.” Kimberly looked first at Ben Thompson and then at Deanna. “You should show him some of your work.”

“Don’t be silly.” Deanna felt awkward and looked away. No one had seen her work in too many years. Only Marc and Pilar, and now and then Kim. “One day, but not yet. Thank you anyway though.” Her smile thanked him for his silence as well as his kindness. It was strange that he too should wish to remain mute about their meeting on the beach.

The conversation drew to a close with the usual amenities and a brief tour of his collection, conducted beneath the buzzardlike gaze of the housekeeper as she swept. Kimberly promised to call him the following week.

There was nothing unusual in his farewell to Deanna. No inappropriate pressure of her hand, no message in his eyes, only the warmth that she had already seen, and the smile he left them as he closed the door.

“What a nice guy,” Kim said as she started the little MG. The engine grumbled, then came to life. “He’s going to be a pleasure to work with. Don’t you think?”

Deanna just nodded. She was lost in her own thoughts until Kim screeched to a halt outside their hotel.

“Why the hell don’t you let him see your work?” Deanna’s reticence always annoyed Kim. She had been the only one in art school who had really had a notable talent, and the only one who had buried her light under a bushel for almost twenty years. The others had all tried to make it and eventually failed.

“I told you. I’m not ready.”

“Bull! If you don’t call him yourself, I’m going to give him your number. It’s time you did something about that mountain of masterpieces you keep standing around in your studio, facing the wall. That’s a crime, Deanna. It just isn’t right. Jesus, when you think of the garbage I painted and busted my ass to sell-”

“It wasn’t garbage.” Deanna looked kindly at her. But they both knew it hadn’t been very good. Kim was much better at planning campaigns, headlines, and layouts than she had been at her art.

“It was garbage, and I don’t even care anymore. I like what I do. But what about you?”

“I like what I do, too.”

“And what’s that?” Kimberly was becoming frustrated now, and her voice betrayed her feelings. It always wound up that way when they talked about Deanna’s work. “What do you do?”

“You know what I do. I paint, I take care of Marc and Pilar, I run the house. I keep busy.”

“Yes, taking care of everyone else. What about you? Wouldn’t it do something for you to see your work shown in a gallery, hung somewhere other than your husband’s office?”

“It doesn’t matter where they’re hung.” She didn’t dare tell Kim that they weren’t even there anymore. Marc had hired a new decorator six months before, who had declared her works “weak and depressing” and taken them all down. Marc had brought the canvases home, including a small portrait of Pilar, which now hung in the hall. “What matters to me is painting it, not showing it.”

“That’s like playing a violin with no strings for chrissake. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.” She was gentle but firm, and Kim shook her head as they got out of the car.

“Well, I think you’re crazy, but I love you anyway.” Deanna smiled as they walked back inside the hotel.

The rest of their stay went by too quickly. They browsed in the shops, had dinner once more at the Pine Inn. On Sunday afternoon Deanna took one more walk on the beach. She knew where he lived now, knew it when she glimpsed the house hidden behind the trees. She knew how near she was to the Wyeth. She walked on. She did not see him again, and she was annoyed at herself for even wondering if he’d be on the beach. Why should he be? And what would she say if he were? Thank him for not letting Kimberly know they had met? So what? What did it matter? She knew she’d never see him again.