The Promise

CRITICAL RAVES FOR

DANIELLE STEEL

“STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST.”—Los Angeles Times“THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES UNFOLD TO THE THRILL AND DELIGHT OF HER ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC.”—United Press International“A LITERARY PHENOMENON … ambitious … prolific … and not to be pigeonholed as one who produces a predictable kind of book.”—The Detroit News“There is a smooth reading style to her writings which makes it easy to forget the time and to keep flipping the pages.”—The Pittsburgh Press“Ms. Steel excels at pacing her narrative, which races forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled here; men and women swept up in bewildering change, seeking solutions to problems never before faced.”—Nashville Banner

Also by Danielle Steel

THE HOUSE ON HOPE STREET DADDY THE WEDDING STAR IRRESISTIBLE FORCES ZOYA GRANNY DAN KALEIDOSCOPE BITTERSWEET FINE THINGS MIRROR IMAGE WANDERLUST HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: THE SECRETS STORY OF NICK TRAINA FAMILY ALBUM THE KLONE AND I FULL CIRCLE THE LONG ROAD HOME CHANGES THE GHOST THURSTON HOUSE SPECIAL DELIVERY CROSSINGS THE RANCH ONCE IN A LIFETIME SILENT HONOR A PERFECT STRANGER MALICE REMEMBRANCE FIVE DAYS IN PARIS PALOMINO LIGHTNING LOVE: POEMS WINGS THE RING THE GIFT LOVING ACCIDENT TO LOVE AGAIN VANISHED SUMMER'S END MIXED BLESSINGS SEASON OF PASSION JEWELS NOW AND FOREVER NO GREATER LOVE PASSION'S PROMISE HEARTBEAT GOING HOME MESSAGE FROM NAM Visit the Danielle Steel Web Site at:

www.daniellesteel.com

DELL PUBLISHING

To Nicholas

with all my love

a cognizant original v5 release october 15 2010

Chapter 1

The early morning sun streamed across their backs as they unhooked their bicycles in front of Eliot House on the Harvard campus. They stopped for a moment to smile at each other. It was May and they were very young. Her short hair shone in the sunshine, and her eyes found his as she began to laugh.

“Well, Doctor of Architecture, how do you feel?”

“Ask me that in two weeks after I get my doctorate.” He smiled back at her, shaking a lock of blond hair off his forehead.

“To hell with your diploma, I meant after last night.” She grinned at him again, and he rapidly swatted her behind.

“Smartass. How do you feel, Miss McAllister? Can you still walk?” They were hitching their legs over the bicycles now and she looked back at him teasingly in answer.

“Can you?” And with that, she was off, pulling ahead of him on the pretty little bike he had bought her for her birthday only a few months before. He was in love with her. He had always been in love with her. He had dreamed of her all his life. And he had known her for two years.

It had been a lonely time at Harvard before that, and well into his second year of graduate school he was resigned to more of the same. He didn't want what the others wanted. He didn't want Radcliffe or Vassar or Wellesley in bed with him. He had known too many of those girls during his undergraduate days, and for Michael there was always something missing. He wanted something more. Texture, substance, soul. He had solved the problem for himself very nicely the summer before, with an affair with one of his mother's friends. Not that his mother had known. But it had been fun. She was a damned attractive woman in her late thirties, years younger than his mother, of course, and she was an editor at Vogue. But that had been merely sport. For both of them. Nancy was different.

He had known from the first moment he had seen her in the Boston gallery that showed her paintings. There was a haunting loneliness about her country-sides, a solitary tenderness about her people that filled him with compassion and made him want to reach out to them and to the artist who painted them. She had been sitting there that day in a red beret and an old raccoon coat, her delicate skin still glowing from her walk to the Charles Street gallery, her eyes shining, her face alive. He had never wanted any woman as he wanted her. He had bought two of her paintings, and taken her to dinner at Lockober's. But the rest had taken longer. Nancy McAllister wasn't quick to give her body or her heart She had been too lonely for too long to give herself easily. At nineteen she was already wise and well versed in pain. The pain of being alone. The pain of being left. It had plagued her since she had been put in the orphanage as a child. She could no longer remember the day her mother had left her there shortly before she died. But she remembered the chill of the halls. The smells of the strange people. The sounds in the morning as she lay in her bed fighting back tears. She would remember those things for the rest of her life. For a long time she had thought nothing could fill the emptiness inside her. But now she had Michael.

Theirs wasn't always an easy relationship, but it was a strong one, built on love and respect; they had meshed her world and his, and come up with something beautiful and rare. And Michael was no fool either. He knew the dangers of falling in love with someone “different,” as his mother put it—when she got the chance. But there was nothing “different” about Nancy. The only thing different was that she was an artist, not just a student She wasn't still searching, she already was what she wanted to be. And unlike the other women he knew, she wasn't auditioning candidates, she had chosen the man she loved. In two years he had never let her down. She was certain he never would: they knew each other too well. What could there possibly be that she hadn't already learned? She knew it all The funny stuff, the silly secrets, childhood dreams, the desperate fears. And through him she had come to respect his family. Even his mother.

Michael had been born into a tradition, groomed since childhood to inherit a throne. It wasn't something he took lightly, or even joked about. Sometimes it actually frightened him. Would he live up to the legend? But Nancy knew he would. His grandfather, Richard Cotter, had been an architect, and his father as well. It was Michael's grandfather who had founded an empire. But it was the merging of the Cotter business with the Hillyard fortune, through the marriage of Michael's parents, that had created the Cotter-Hillyard of today. Richard Cotter had known how to make money, but it was the Hillyard money—old money— that had brought with it the rites and traditions of power. It was, at times, a heavy mantle to wear, but not one Michael disliked. And Nancy respected it too. She knew that one day Michael would be at the helm of Cotter-Hillyard. In the beginning they had talked about it incessantly, and then again later, when they realized how serious their affair really was. But Michael knew that he had found a woman who could handle it, the family responsibilities as well as the business duties. The orphanage had done nothing to prepare Nancy for the role Michael knew she would fill, but the groundwork seemed to be laid in her very soul.

He watched her now with almost unbearable pride as she sped ahead of him, so sure of herself, so strong, the lithe legs pedaling deftly, her chin tucked over her shoulder now and then to look at him and laugh. He wanted to speed ahead and take her off the bike … there … on the grass … the way they had the night before … the way … He swept the thought from his mind and raced after her.

“Hey, wait for me, you little twerp!” He was abreast of her in a few moments, and as they rode along, more quietly now, he held out a hand across the narrow gap between them. “You look beautiful today, Nancy.” His voice was a caress in the spring air, and around them the world was fresh and green. “Do you know how much I love you?”

“Oh, maybe half as much as I love you, Mr. Hillyard?”

“That shows what you know, Miss Nancy Fancypants.” She laughed, as always, at the nickname. Michael always made her happy. He did wonderful things. She had thought so from the first moment he walked into the gallery and threatened to take off all his clothes if she didn't sell him all her paintings. “I happen to love you at least seven times as much as you love me.”

“Nope.” She grinned at him again, put her nose in the air, and sped ahead again. “I love you more, Michael.”

“How do you know?” He was pressing to catch up.

“Santa Claus told me.” And with that she sped ahead again, and this time he let her move out on the narrow path. They were in a festive mood and he liked watching her. The slim shape of her hips in jeans, the narrow waist, the trim shoulders with the red sweater loosely tied about them, and that wonderful swing of dark hair. He could watch her for years. In fact, he was planning to do just that. Which reminded him … he had been meaning to talk to her about that all morning. He narrowed the gap between them again, and tapped her gently on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Hillyard.” She jumped a little at the words, and then smiled shyly at him as the sun shone across her face. He could see tiny freckles there, almost like gold dust left by elves on the creamy surface of her skin. “I said … Mrs. Hillyard…” He mouthed the words with infinite pleasure. He had waited for two years.

“Aren't you rushing things a little, Michael?” She sounded hesitant, almost afraid. He hadn't spoken to Marion yet. No matter what he and Nancy had agreed to between themselves.

“I don't think I'm rushing anything. And I was thinking about doing it two weeks from now. Right after graduation.” They had long since agreed on a small, intimate wedding. Nancy had no family, and Michael wanted to share the moment with Nancy, not a cast of thousands or an army of society photographers. “In fact, I was planning to go down to New York to talk to Marion about it tonight.”

“Tonight?” There was an echo of fear in the word, and she let the bicycle come to a slow stop. He nodded in answer, and she grew pensive as she looked out at the lush hills around them. “What do you think she'll say?” She was afraid to look at him. Afraid to hear.

“Yes, of course. Are you really worried about it?” But it was a stupid question and they both knew it. They had plenty to worry about. Marion was no flower girl. She was Michael's mother, and she had all the tenderness of the Titanic. She was a woman of power, of determination, of concrete and steel. She had carried on the family business after her father died and again with renewed determination after her husband's death. Nothing stopped Marion Hillyard. Nothing. Certainly not a chit of a girl, or her only son. If she didn't want them to get married, nothing would make her grant that “yes” Michael pretended to be so sure of. And Nancy knew exactly what Marion Hillyard thought of her.

Marion had never made any secret of her feelings, or at least, not from the moment she decided that Michael's “fling” with “that artist” might be for real. She had called Michael down to New York and cooed, soothed, and charmed, after which she had stormed, threatened, and baited. And then she had resigned herself or seemed to. Michael had taken it as an encouraging sign, but Nancy wasn't so sure. She had a feeling that Marion knew what she was doing; for the present she had clearly decided to ignore “the situation.” Invitations were not extended, accusations were not made, apologies for things said to Michael in the past were never forthcoming, but no fresh problems had sprung up either. For her, Nancy simply did not exist And oddly, Nancy was always surprised to find just how much that hurt. Having no family of her own, she had always had odd dreams about Marion. That they might be friends, that Marion would like her, that she and Marion would go shopping for Michael …, that Marion would be … the mother she had never had or known. But Marion was not easily cast in that role. In two years, Nancy had had ample opportunity to understand that. Only Michael obstinately held to the position that his mother would come around, that once she had accepted the inevitable, they would be great friends. But Nancy was never that sure. She had even forced Michael to discuss the possibility of Marion's never accepting her, never agreeing to the marriage. Then what?… “Then we hop in the car and head for the nearest justice of the peace. We're both of age now, you know.” Nancy had smiled at the simplicity of his solution. She knew it would never be as easy as that. But what did it matter? After two years together, they felt married anyway.

They stood in silence for a long moment, looking at the view, and then Michael took Nancy's hand. “I love you, babe.”

“I love you too.” She looked at him worriedly and he silenced her eyes with a kiss. But nothing could still the questions that either of them had. Nothing except the interview with Marion. Nancy let her bike fall, and with a sigh, slipped slowly into Michael's arms. “I wish it were easier, Michael.”

“It will be. You'll see. Now come on. Are we going to ride, or just stand here all day?” He swatted her behind again and she smiled as he picked up her bike for her. And in a moment they were off again, laughing and playing and singing, pretending that Marion didn't exist. But she did. She always would. Marion was more an institution than a woman. Marion was forever. In Michael's life anyway. And now in Nanc's.

The sun rose higher in the sky as they pedaled through the countryside, alternately riding ahead of each other or side by side, at one moment raucously teasing, at the next growing silent and thoughtful. It was almost noon when they reached Revere Beach and saw the familiar face riding toward them. It was Ben Avery, with a new girl at his side. Another leggy blonde. They all looked like homecoming queens, and most of them were.

“Hi, you two. Going to the fair?” Ben grinned at them, and then with a vague wave of his hand introduced Jeannette. They all exchanged a round of hellos, and Nancy shielded her eyes to glance ahead at the fair. It was still several blocks away.

“Is it worth stopping for?”

“Hell, yes. We won a pink dog”—he pointed at the ugly little creature in Jeannette's basket—“a green turtle, which somehow got lost; and two cans of beer. Besides, they have corn on the cob and it's terrific.”

“You just sold me.” Michael looked over at Nancy and smiled. “Shall we?”

“Sure. You guys going back already?” But she could see that they were. Ben had a recognizable gleam in his eyes, and Jeannette seemed to be in agreement. Nancy smiled to herself as she watched them.

“Yeah, we've been out since about six this morning. I'm beat. What are you two doing for dinner tonight, by the way? Want to stop in for a pizza?” Ben's room was only a few doors down from Mike's.

“What are we doing for dinner, señor?” Nancy looked at Michael with a broad smile, but he was shaking his head.

“I have some business to attend to tonight. Maybe another time.” It was a rapid reminder of the meeting with Marion.

“Okay. See ya.” Ben and Jeannette waved and were off, as Nancy stared at Michael.

“You're really going down to see her tonight?”

“Yes. And stop worrying about it. Everything is going to be just fine. By the way, Mother says he's got the Job.”

“Ben?” Nancy looked up questioningly as they started pedaling toward the fair.

“Yes, We start at the same time. Different areas, but we start the same day.” Mike looked pleased. He had known Ben since prep school, and they were like brothers.

“Does Ben know yet?”

Michael shook his head with a secretive smile. “I thought I'd let him get the thrill of hearing the news officially. I didn't want to spoil it for him.”

Nancy smiled back at him. “You're a nice guy and I love you, Hillyard.”

“Thank you, Mrs. H.”

“Stop that, Michael.” She wanted the name too much to hear it bandied about, even by Michael.

“I won't stop it. And you'd better get used to it” He suddenly looked serious.

“I will. When the time is right. But until then, Miss McAllister will do Just fine.”

“For about two more weeks, to be exact. Come on, I'll race ya.”

They sped ahead, side by side, panting and laughing, and Michael reached the entrance to the fair a full thirty seconds before she did. But they both looked tanned and healthy and carefree.

“Well, sir, what's first?” But she had already guessed, and she was right.

“Corn, of course. Need you ask?”

“Not really.” They parked their bikes next to a tree, knowing that in that sleepy countryside no one would steal them, and they walked off arm in aim. Ten minutes later they stood happily dripping butter as they ate their corn, and then they gobbled hot dogs and sipped ice-cold beer. Nancy followed it all up with a huge stick of cotton candy.

“How can you eat that stuff?”

“Easy. It's delicious.” The words were garbled through the sticky pink stuff, but she wore the delighted face of a five-year-old.

“Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” She grinned at him, wearing a faceful of pink candy, and he took out a handkerchief and wiped her chin. “If you'd clean up a little we could have our picture taken.”

“Yeah? Where?” As she gobbled another pink cloud, her nose disappeared again.

“You're impossible. Over there.” He pointed to a booth where they could stick their heads through round holes and have their photographs taken over outlandish outfits. They wandered over and chose Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara. And strangely enough, they didn't even look foolish in the picture. Nancy looked beautiful over the elaborately painted costume. The delicate beauty of her face and the precision of its features were perfect with the immensely feminine costume of the Southern belle. And Michael looked like a young rake. The photographer handed them their photograph and collected his dollar.

“I ought to keep that, you two look so good.”

“Thank you.” Nancy was touched by the compliment, but Mike only smiled. He was always so damned proud of her. Just another two weeks and. … but Nancy's frantic tugging on his sleeve distracted him from his daydreams. “Look, over there! A ring toss!” She had always wanted to play that at the fair when she was a little girl, but the nuns from the orphanage always said it was too expensive. “Can we?”

“But of course, my dear.” He swept her a low bow, offered her his arm, and attempted to stroll toward the ring toss, but Nancy was far too excited to stroll. She was almost leaping like a child, and her excitement delighted him.

“Can we do it now?”

“Sure, sweetheart” He put down a dollar and the man at the counter handed her four times the usual allotment of rings. Most customers only paid a quarter. But she was inexperienced at the game, and all her tries fell wide. Michael was watching her with amusement “Just exactly which prize are you trying for?”

“The beads.” Her eyes shone like a child's and her words were barely more than a whisper. “I've never had a gaudy necklace before.” It was the one thing she had always wanted as a child. Something bright and shiny and frivolous.

“You're certainly easy to please, my love. You sure you wouldn't rather have the pink doggie?” It was just like the one Jeannette had had in her basket, but Nancy shook her head determinedly.

“The beads.”

“Your wish is my command” And he landed all three tosses perfectly on target. With a smile, the man behind the counter handed him the beads, and Michael quickly put them around Nancy's neck. “Voilà, made-moiselle. All yours. Do you suppose we should insure them?”

“Will you stop making fun of my beads? I think they're gorgeous.” She touched them softly, enchanted to know they were sparkling at her neck.

“I think you're gorgeous. Anything else your heart desires?”

She grinned at him. “More cotton candy.”

He bought her another stick of cotton candy, and they slowly wended their way back to the bikes.

“Tired?”

“Not really.”

“Want to go on a little further? There's a lovely spot up ahead. We could sit for a while and watch the surf.”

“It sounds perfect.”

They rode off again, but this time more quietly. The carnival atmosphere was gone, and they were both lost in their own thoughts, mostly of each other. Michael was beginning to wish they were back in bed, and Nancy wouldn't have disagreed. They were nearing Nahant when she saw the spot he had chosen at the tip of a land spit, under a lovely old tree, and she was glad they had come this last leg of the trip.

“Oh Michael, it's beautiful.”

“It is, isn't it?” They sat down on a soft patch of grass, just before the narrow lip of sand began, and in the distance they watched long smooth waves break over a reef that lay just beneath the surface of the water. “I've always wanted to bring you here.”

“I'm glad you did.” They sat silently, holding hands, and then Nancy suddenly stood up.

“What's up?”

“I want to do something.”

“Over there, behind the bushes.”

“No, you creep. Not that.” She was already running toward a spot on the beach, and slowly he followed her, wondering what she had in mind. She stopped at a large rock and tried earnestly to move it, with no success.

“Here, silly, let me help you with that. What do you want to do with it?” He was puzzled.

“I just want to move it for a second … there.” It had given way under Michael's firm prodding, and it rolled back to show a damp indentation in the sand. Quickly, she took off the bright blue beads, held them for a moment, her eyes closed, and dropped them into the sand beneath the rock. “Okay, put it back.”

“On top of the beads?”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving the sparkle of blue glass. “These beads will be our bond, a physical bond, buried fast for as long as this rock, and this beach, and these trees stand here. All right?”

“All right” He smiled softly. “We're being very romantic.”

“Why not? If you're lucky enough to have love, celebrate it! Give it a home!”

“You're right. You're absolutely right. Okay, here's its home.”

“Now let's make a promise. I promise never to forget what is here, or to forget what they stand for. Now you.” She touched his hand, and he smiled down at her again. He had never loved her more.

“And I promise … I promise never to say good-bye to you …” And then, for no reason in particular, they laughed. Because it felt good to be young, to be romantic, even to be corny. The whole day had felt good. “Shall we go back now?” She nodded assent, and hand in hand they wandered back to where they had left the bikes. And two hours later, they were back at Nancy's tiny apartment on Spark Street, near the campus. Mike looked around as he let himself fall sleepily onto the couch and realized once again how much he enjoyed her apartment, how much like home it was to him. The only real home he had ever known. His mother's mammoth apartment had never really felt like home, but this place did. It had all Nancy's wonderful warm touches in it. The paintings she had done over the years, the warm earth colors she had chosen for the place, a soft brown velvet couch, and a fur rug she had bought from a friend. There were always flowers everywhere, and the plants she took such good care of. The spotless little white marble table where they ate, and the brass bed which creaked with pleasure when they made love.

“Do you know how much I love this place, Nancy?”

“Yeah, I know.” She looked around nostalgically. “Me, too. What are we going to do when we get married?”

“Take all these beautiful things of yours to New York and find a cozy little home for them there.” And then something caught his eye. “What's that? Something new?” He was looking at her easel, which held a painting still in its early stages but already with a haunting quality to it. It was a landscape of trees and fields, but as he walked toward it, he saw a small boy, hiding in a tree, dangling his legs. “Will he still show once you put the leaves on the tree?”

“Probably. But we'll know he's there in any case. Do you like it?” Her eyes shone as she watched his approval. He had always understood her work perfectly.

“I love it.”

“Then it'll be your wedding present—when it's finished.”

“You've got a deal. And speaking of wedding presents—” He looked at his watch. It was already five o'clock, and he wanted to be at the airport by six. “I should get going.”

“Do you really have to go tonight?”

“Yes. I'll important I'll come back in a few hours. I should be at Marion's place by seven thirty or eight, depending on the traffic in New York. I can catch the last shuttle back, at eleven, and be home by midnight Okay, little worrywart?”

“Okay.” But she was hesitant She was bothered by his going. She didn't want him to, and yet she didn't know why. “I hope it goes all right.”

“I know it will” But they both knew that Marion did only what she wanted to do, listened only to what she wanted to hear, and understood only what suited her. Somehow he knew they'd win her over though.

They had to. He had to have Nancy. No matter what. He took her in his arms one last time before slipping a tie around the collar of the sport shirt he was wearing and grabbing a lightweight jacket on the back of a chair. He had left it there that morning. He knew it would be hot in New York, but he knew, too, that he had to appear at Marion's apartment in coat and tie. That was essential. Marion had no tolerance for “hippies,” or for nobodies … like Nancy. They both knew what he was facing when they kissed good-bye at the door.

“Good luck.”

“I love you.”

For a long time Nancy sat in the silent apartment looking at the photograph of them at the fair. Rhett and Scarlet, immortal lovers, in their silly wooden costumes, poking their faces through the holes. But they didn't look silly. They looked happy. She wondered if Marion would understand that, if she knew the difference between happy and silly, between real and imaginary. She wondered if Marion would understand at all.

Chapter 2

The dining room table shone like the surface of a lake. Its sparkling perfection was disturbed only on the edge of the shore, where a single place setting of creamy Irish linen lay, adorned by delicate blue and gold china. There was a silver coffee service next to the plate, and an ornate little silver bell. Marion Hillyard sat back in her chair with a small sigh as she exhaled the smoke from the cigarette she had just lit. She was tired today. Sundays always tired her. Sometimes she thought she did more work at home than she did at the office. She always spent Sundays answering her personal correspondence, looking over the books kept by the cook and the housekeeper, making lists of what she had noticed needed to be repaired around the apartment and of items needed to complete her wardrobe, and planning the menus for the week. It was tedious work, but she had done it for years, even before she'd begun to run the business. And once she'd taken over for her husband, she still spent her Sundays attending to the household and taking care of Michael on the nurse's day off. The memory made her smile, and for a moment she closed her eyes. Those Sundays had been precious, a few hours with him without anyone interfering, anyone taking him away. Her Sundays weren't like that anymore; they hadn't been in too many years. A tiny bright tear crept into her lashes as she sat very still in her chair, seeing him as he had been eighteen years before, a little boy of six, and all hers. How she loved that child. She would have done anything for him. And she had. She had maintained an empire for him, carried the legacy from one generation to the next. It was her most valuable gift for Michael. Cotter-Hillyard. And she had come to love the business almost as much as she loved her son.

“You're looking beautiful, Mother.” Her eyes flew open in surprise as she saw him standing there in the arched doorway of the richly paneled dining room. The sight of him now almost made her cry. She wanted to hug him as she had all those years ago, and instead she smiled slowly at her son.

“I didn't hear you come in.” There was no invitation to approach, no sign of what she'd been feeling. No one ever knew, with Marion, what went on inside.

“I used my key. May I come in?”

“Of course. Would you like some dessert?”

Michael walked slowly into the room, a small nervous smile playing over his mouth, and then like a small boy he peered at her plate. “Hm … what was it? Looks like it must have been chocolate, huh?”

She chuckled and shook her head. He would never grow up. In some ways anyway. “Profiteroles. Care for some? Mattie is still out there in the pantry.”

“Probably eating what's left.” They both laughed at what they knew was most likely true, but Marion reached for the bell.

Mattie appeared in an instant, black-uniformed and lace-trimmed, pale-faced and large-beamed. She had spent a lifetime running and fetching and doing for others, with only a brief Sunday here and there to call her own, and nothing to do with it once she had the much coveted “day.” “Yes, madam?”

“Some coffee for Mr. Hillyard, Mattie. And … darling, dessert?” He shook his head. “Just coffee then.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

For a moment Michael wondered, as he often had, why his mother never said thank you to the servants. As though they had been born to do her bidding. But he knew that was what his mother thought. She had always lived surrounded by servants and secretaries and every possible kind of help. She had had a lonely upbringing but a comfortable one. Her mother had died when she was three, in an accident with Marion's only brother, the heir to the Cotter architectural throne. The accident had left only Marion to become a substitute son. She had done so very effectively.

“And how is school?”

“Almost over, thank God. Two more weeks.”

“I know. I'm very proud of you, you know. A doctorate is a wonderful thing to have, particularly in architecture.” For some reason the words made him want to say, “Oh, Mother!” as he had when he was nine. “We'll be contacting young Avery this week, about his job. You haven't said anything to him, have you?” She looked more curious than stern; she didn't really care. She had thought it a little childish that Michael thought it so important to surprise Ben.

“No, I haven't. He'll be very pleased.”

“As well he should be. It's an excellent job.”

“He deserves it.”

“I hope so.” She never gave an inch. “And you? Ready for work? Your office will be finished next week.” Her eyes shone at the thought. It was a beautiful office, wood-paneled the way his father's had been, with etchings that had belonged to her own father, an impressive leather couch and chairs, and a roomful of Georgian furniture. She had bought it all in London over the holidays. “It really looks splendid, darling.”

“Good.” He smiled at his mother for a moment “I have some things I want to get framed, but I'll wait till I take a look at the decor.”

“You won't even need to do that. I have everything you'll need for the walls.”

So did he. Nancy's drawings. There was sudden fire in his eyes now, and an air of watchfulness in hers. She had seen something in his face.

“Mother—” He sat down next to her with a small sigh and stretched his legs as Mattie arrived with the coffee. “Thank you, Mattie.”

“You're welcome, Mr. Hillyard.” She smiled at him as warmly as she always did. He was always so pleasant to her, as though he hated to bother her, not like … “Will there be anything else, madam?”

“No. As a matter of fact … Michael, do you want to take that into the library?”

“All right.” Maybe it would be easier to talk in there. His mother's dining room had always reminded him of ballrooms he had seen in ancestral homes. It was not conducive to intimate conversation, and certainly not to gentle persuasion. He stood up and followed his mother out of the room, down three thickly carpeted steps, and into the library immediately to their left. There was a splendid view of Fifth Avenue and a comfortable chunk of Central Park, but there was also a warm fireplace and two walls lined with books. The fourth wall was dominated by a portrait of Michael's father, but it was one he liked, one in which his father looked warm—like someone you'd want to know. As a small boy he had come to look at that portrait at times, and to “talk” aloud to his father. His mother had found him that way once, and told him it was an absurd thing to do. But later he had seen her crying in that room, and staring at the portrait as he had.

His mother ensconced herself in her usual place, in a Louis XV chair covered in beige damask and facing the fireplace. Tonight her dress was almost the same color, and for a moment, as the firelight glowed, Michael thought her almost beautiful. She had been once, and not so long ago. Now she was fifty-seven. Michael had been born when she was thirty-three. She hadn't had time for children before that. And she had been very beautiful then. She had had the same rich honey-blonde hair that Michael had, but now it was graying, and the life in her face had faded. It had been replaced by other things. Mostly the business. And the once cornflower-blue eyes looked almost gray now. As though winter had finally come.

“I have the feeling that you came down here tonight to speak to me about something important, Michael. Is anything the matter?” Had he gotten someone pregnant? Smashed up his car? Hurt someone? Nothing was irreparable, of course, as long as he told her. She was glad he had come down.

“No, nothing's the matter. But there is something I want to discuss with you.” Wrong. He cringed almost visibly at his own words. “Discuss.” He should have said there was something he wanted to tell her, not discuss with her. Damn. “I thought it was about time we were honest with each other.”

“You make it sound as though we usually aren't.”

“About some things we aren't” His whole body was tense now, and he was leaning forward in his chair, conscious of his father looking over his shoulder. “We aren't honest about Nancy, Mother.”

“Nancy?” She sounded blank, and suddenly he wanted to jump up and slap her. He hated the way she said her name. Like one of the servants.

“Nancy McAllister. My friend.”

“Oh, yes.” There was an interminable pause as she shifted the tiny vermeil and enamel spoon on the saucer of her demitasse cup. “And in what way are we not honest about Nancy?” Her eyes were veiled by a sheet of gray ice.

“You try to pretend that she doesn't exist. And I try not to get you upset about it. But the fact is, Mother … I'm going to marry her.” He took another breath and sat back in his chair. “In two weeks.”

“I see.” Marion Hillyard was perfectly still. Her eyes did not move, nor her hands, nor her face. Nothing. “And may I ask why? Is she pregnant?”

“Of course not.”

“How fortunate. Then why, may I ask; are you marrying her? And why in two weeks?”

“Because I graduate then, because I'm moving to New York then, because I start work then. Because it makes sense.”

“To whom?” The ice was hardening, and one leg crossed carefully over the other with the slippery sound of silk. Michael felt uncomfortable under the constancy of her gaze. She hadn't shifted her eyes once. As in business, she was ruthless. She could make any man squirm, and eventually break.

“It makes sense to us, Mother.”

“Well, not to me. We've been asked to build a medical center in San Francisco, by the same group who were behind the Hartford Center. You won't have time for a wife. I'm going to be counting on you very heavily for the next year or two. Frankly, darling, I wish you'd wait.” It was the first softening he'd seen, and it almost made him wonder if there was hope.

“Nancy will be an asset to both of us, Mother. Not a distraction to me, or a nuisance to you. She's a wonderful girl.”

“Maybe so, but as for being an asset … have you thought of the scandal?” There was victory in her eyes now. She was going in for the kill, and suddenly Michael held his breath, a helpless prey, not knowing where she would strike, or how.

“What scandal?”

“She's told you who she is, of course?”

Oh, Jesus. Now what? “What do you mean, who she is?”

“Precisely that. I'll be quite specific.” And in one smooth, feline gesture, she set down the demitasse and glided to her desk. From a bottom drawer she removed a file, and silently handed it to Michael. He held it for an instant, afraid to look inside.

“What is this?”

“A report I had a private investigator look into your artistic little friend. I was not very pleased.” An understatement. She had been livid. “Please sit down and read it” He did not sit down, but unwillingly he opened the folder and began to read. It told him in the first twelve lines that Nancy's father had been killed in prison when she was still a baby, and her mother had died an alcoholic two years later. It explained as well that her father had been serving a seven-year sentence for armed robbery. “Charming people, weren't they, darling?” Her voice was lightly contemptuous, and suddenly Michael threw the folder on the desk, from which its contents slid rapidly to the floor.

“I won't read that garbage.”

“No, but you'll marry it.”

“What difference does it make who her parents were? Is that her Goddamn fault?”

“No. Her misfortune. And yours, if you marry her.

Michael, be sensible. You're going into a business where millions of dollars are involved in every deal. You can no longer afford the risk of scandal. You'll ruin us. Your grandfather founded this business over fifty years ago, and you're going to destroy it now for a love affair? Don't be insane. It's time you grew up, my boy. High time. Your salad days are over. In exactly two weeks.” She burned as she looked at him now. She was not going to lose this battle, no matter what she had to do. “I won't discuss this with you, Michael You have no choice.” She had always told him that Goddammit, she had always …

“The hell I don't!” It was a sudden roar as he paced across the room. “I'm not going to bow and scrape before you and your rules for the rest of my life, Mother! I won't! What exactly do you think, that you're going to pull me into the business, groom me until you retire, and then run me as a puppet from a chaise longue in your room? Well, to hell with that. I'm coming to work for you. But that's all. You don't own my life, now or ever, and I have a right to marry anybody I bloody well please!”

“Michael!”

They were interrupted by the sudden peal of the doorbell, and they stood eying each other like two jaguars in a cage. The old cat and the young one, each slightly afraid of the other, each hungry for victory, each fighting for his survival. They were still standing at opposite ends of the room, trembling with rage, when George Calloway walked in, and instantly sensed that he had stepped into a scene of great passion. He was a gentle, elegant man in his late fifties who had been Marion's right hand man for years. More than that, he was much of the power behind Cotter-Hillyard. But unlike Marion, he was seldom in the forefront; he preferred to wield his strength from the shadows. He had long since learned the merits of quiet strength. It had won him Marion's trust and admiration years ago, when she first took her husband's place in the business. She had been only a figurehead then, and it had been George who actually ran Cotter-Hillyard for the first year, while he determinedly and conscientiously taught her the ropes. And he had done his job well. Marion had learned all he had taught, and more. She was a power in her own right now, but she still relied on George on every major deal. That meant everything to him. Knowing that she still needed him after all these years. Knowing that she always would. He understood that now. They were a team, silent, inseparable, each one stronger because of the other. He sometimes wondered if Michael knew just how close they were. He doubted it. Michael had always been the hub of his mother's life. Why would he ever have noticed just how much George cared? In some ways, even Marion didn't understand that. But George accepted that. He lavished his warmth and energies on the business. And perhaps, one day … George looked at Marion now with instant concern. He had learned to recognize the tightness around the mouth and the strange pallor beneath the carefully applied powder and rouge.

“Marion, are you all right?” He knew more about her health than anyone did. She had confided in him years before. Someone had to know, for the business. She had appallingly high blood pressure, and a serious problem with her heart.

For a moment there was no answer, and then she pulled her eyes away from her son to look at her longtime associate and friend. “Yes … yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry. Good evening, George. Come in.”

“I think I've come at a bad time.”

“Not at all, George, I was just leaving.” Michael turned to look at him and couldn't even pretend to smile. Then he looked at his mother again, but made no move to approach her. “Good night, Mother.”

“I'll call you tomorrow, Michael. We can discuss this over the phone.”

He wanted to say something hateful to her, to frighten her, but he couldn't, he didn't know how. And what was the point?

“Michael…”

He didn't answer her; he merely shook hands solemnly with George and walked out of the library without looking back. He never saw the look in his mother's eyes, or the concern in George's as she sank slowly back into her chair and brought her trembling hands to her face. There were tears in her eyes which she hid even from George.

“What on earth happened?”

“He's going to do something insane.”

“Maybe not. We all threaten mad things now and then.”

“At our age we threaten, at his age they do.” All her efforts for nothing. The investigators' reports, the phone calls, the … She sighed and slowly sat back against the delicate chair.

“Have you taken your medicine today?” She shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Where is it?”

“In my bag. Behind the desk.” He walked to the desk, saying nothing of the pages of die report scattered there and on the floor, and found the black alligator handbag with the eighteen-karat-gold clasp. He knew it well; he had given it to her three Christmases before. He found the medicine and returned to her side, holding the two white pills in his hand. She heard the rattle of the demitasse cup and opened her eyes. This time she smiled at him. “What would I do without you, George?”

“What would I do without you?” He couldn't even bear the thought “Shall I leave now? You should get some rest.”

“I'd just get upset thinking about Michael.”

“Is he still coming to work for the firm?”

“Yes, it was something else.”

The girl then. George knew about that too, but he didn't want to press Marion now. She was distressed enough, but at least the color was coming back to her face, and after swallowing the pills she took a cigarette out of her case. He lit it for her as he watched her face. She was a beautiful woman. He had always thought so. Even now, as she grew tired and increasingly ill. He wondered if Michael knew how ill. He couldn't possibly or he wouldn't upset her like this.

What George did not know was that Michael was equally distressed at that moment. Hot tears burned his eyes as he sat in the back of a cab on his way to the airport.

He called Nancy as soon as he got to the terminal. His flight would leave in twenty minutes.

“How did it go?” She couldn't tell much from his voice when he said hello.

“Fine. Now I want you to get busy. I want you to pack a bag, get dressed, and be ready in an hour and a half when I get there.”

“Ready for what?” She was puzzled as she sat curled up on the couch, holding the phone.

He paused for a moment and then smiled. It was his first smile in two hours. “An adventure, my love. You'll see.”

“You're crazy.” She was laughing her wonderful soft laugh.

“Yeah, crazy about you.” He felt like himself again. Once more it was all beginning to make sense: he was back with Nancy. No one could ever take that away from him, not his mother, not a report, no one and nothing. He had vowed that day, on the beach where they had buried the beads, never to say good-bye to her, and he had meant it. “Okay, Nancy Fancypants, get moving. Oh, and wear something old, something new …” He wasn't just smiling now, he was grinning.

“You mean …” Her voice trailed off in astonishment.

“I mean we're getting married tonight Okay with you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing, lady. Get your ass in gear and make like a bride.”

“But why tonight?”

“Instinct. Trust me. Besides, it's a full moon.”

“It must be.” She was smiling now, too. She was going to be married. She and Michael were going to be married!

“I'll see you in an hour, babe. And … Nancy?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” He hung up the phone and ran toward the gate. He was the last passenger to board the plane to Boston. Nothing could stop him now.

Chapter 3

He had been pounding on the door for almost ten minutes, but he wasn't going to give up. He knew Ben was in there.

“Ben! Come on, you … Ben! I … For Chrissake, man …” Another rash of pounding and then at last the sound of footsteps and a sudden crash. The door opened to reveal a sleepy Ben, standing confusedly in his underwear and rubbing his shin. “Christ, it's only eleven o'clock. What are you doing asleep at this hour?” But the grin on Ben's face told him with a second glance. “Jesus. You're smashed.”

“To the very tips of my toes.” Ben looked down at his feet with an elfin smile and an unsteady wobbling of the legs.

“Well, you're going to sober up real quick, podner. I need you.”

“The hell you do. Six Beefeaters and tonic and you think I'm gonna waste it? Bullsh—”

“Never mind that Get dressed.”

“I am dressed.” He squinted unhappily as Mike turned on the lights. “Hey, what the hell are you doing?” But Mike only smiled as he headed toward the tiny, disheveled kitchen.

“What'd you do in here? Detonate a hand grenade?”

“Yeah. And I'm gonna shove one up your—”

“Now, now, this is a special occasion.” Mike turned to smile at him from the kitchen doorway, and for a moment there was hope in Ben's eyes.

“Can we drink to it?”

“All you want But later.”

“Crap.” He let himself fall into a chair, and let his head loll back against the soft cushions.

“Don't you want to know what the occasion is?”

“Not if I can't drink to it I'm graduating from graduate school. That I can drink to.”

“And I'm getting married.”

“That's nice.” And then he sat up straight, and the eyes came open. “You're what?”

“You heard me. Nancy and I are getting married.” Mike said it with the quiet pride of a man who knows his mind.

“This is an engagement party?” Ben sat up with a look of delight. Hell, that was worth at least another six Beefeaters. Maybe even seven or eight.

“Not an engagement party, Avery. I told you. It's a wedding.”

“Now?” Confusion again. Hillyard was a real pain in the ass. “Why now?”

“Because we want to. Besides, you're too loaded to understand anyway. Can you get it together enough to be our best man?”

“Sure. Son of a bitch, you're actually going to—”

He leapt out of his chair, lurched horribly and stubbed his toe on the coffee table. “Goddamn—”

“Go put some clothes on without killing yourself. I'll make you some coffee.”

“Yeah …” He was still muttering to himself when he disappeared into the bedroom, but he looked slightly more composed when he returned. He was even wearing a tie, with a blue and red striped T-shirt. Mike looked at him and shook his head with a grin.

“You could've at least picked a tie that went with the shirt.” The tie was a dark maroon with a beige and black design.

“Do I need a tie?” He suddenly looked worried. “I couldn't find one that matched.”

“Just zip up your fly and we're all set. You might want to find the other shoe, too.” Ben looked down to see only one loafer, and then he started to laugh.

“Okay, so I'm gassed. But did I know you'd need me tonight? You could've at least told me this morning.”

“I didn't know this morning.”

That brought a look of sudden seriousness to Ben's eyes. “You didn't?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Very much so. And look, don't make me speeches. I've had enough of those tonight. Just get yourself decent so we can pick up Nancy.” He handed his friend a mug of steaming coffee, and Ben took a long hard swallow, then grimaced.

“What a waste of good gin.”

“We'll buy you another round after the wedding.”

“Where are you doing this, by the way?”

“You'll see. It's a beautiful little town I've been in love with for years. I spent a summer there once as a kid. It's only about an hour from here. It's the perfect place.”

“You've got a license?”

“Don't need one. It's one of those crazy towns where you do it all in one shot. You ready?”

Ben downed the last of the coffee and nodded. “I think so. Jesus, I'm getting nervous. Aren't you scared?” He looked at Mike more soberly now, but Mike looked strangely calm.

“Not a bit.”

“Maybe you know what you're doing. I don't know … it's just that … marriage … ” He shook his head again and stared at his feet. It reminded him that he had another loafer to find. “Nancy's a hell of a nice girl though.”

“Better than that.” Mike spotted the other loafer under the couch and handed it to him. “She's everything I've always wanted.”

“Then I hope the marriage brings you both everything you want, Mike. Always.” There was a bright glaze of tenderness in his eyes, and for a moment Mike held him by both arms.

“Thanks.” And then they both looked away, anxious to get going, to laugh again, to taste the moment with glee instead of solemnity.

“Do I look all right?” Ben checked his pants for his wallet, then searched for his keys.

“You look gorgeous.”

“Oh shove it … damn … where're my keys?” He looked around helplessly as Mike laughed at him. The keys were attached to one of the belt loops on his trousers.

“Come on, Avery. Let's get you out of here.” The two left, arm in arm and singing the beer hall songs of summers before. The entire building could hear them but no one really cared; the whole place was populated by students living off campus, and two weeks before the end of school everyone was raising hell.

They pulled up outside Nancy's place on Spark Street ten minutes later, and she waved nervously from the window as Mike honked. She felt as though she'd been ready for hours. A moment later she was standing beside the car, and for a few seconds both young men fell silent. It was Mike who spoke first.

“My God, Nance … you look beautiful. Where did you get that?”

“I had it” They exchanged a long smile, and none of them moved. She suddenly felt every bit a bride, despite the late hour and the unorthodox circumstances. She was wearing a long white eyelet dress and there was a little blue satin cap on her shiny black hair. She had worn the dress as a bridesmaid at a friend's wedding three years before, but Mike had never seen it. She was wearing white sandals and carrying a very old, very beautiful lace handkerchief. “See, something old, something new … the handkerchief was my grandmothers.” And the cap was blue. She looked so beautiful that for a moment Mike didn't know what to say. Even Ben seemed totally sobered as he looked at her.

“You look like a princess, Nancy.”

“Thanks, Ben.”

“Hey, listen, you got something borrowed?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know … something old, something new … something borrowed …” She laughed and shook her head. “Okay, here.” He bent his head forward and began to fumble with something at his neck. A moment later he held out a narrow, handsome gold chain. “Now, this is just a loan. My sister gave it to me for graduation, but I opened it early. You can borrow it for the wedding.” He leaned out of the car to fasten it around her throat and it fell just above the delicate neckline of the dress.

“It's perfect.”

“So are you.” Mike said it as he got out of the car and held the door for her. He had been so stunned by the way she looked that he hadn't been able to move. “Get in the back, Avery. Darling, you sit in front.”

“Can't she sit on my lap?” Ben made a feeble protest as he scrambled toward the back, and Mike gave him the finger. “Okay, man, okay, don't get excited. I just thought maybe since I was the best man, and—”

“You'll be the dead man if you don't watch it.” But the mood was strictly a teasing one as Nancy settled herself on the front seat and beamed at the man she was about to marry. She felt a moment's queasiness about Marion, but she pushed it from her mind. This was the time to think only of herself, and Michael.

“What a crazy night … but I love it.”

They alternately joked and fell silent on the road to the tiny town Mike had in mind, and at last none of them spoke. They had a lot on their minds. Michael was thinking back to his interview with his mother, and Nancy was thinking of all that this day meant to her.

“Is it much farther, love?” Nancy was getting fidgety and her grandmother's handkerchief was beginning to look crumpled as it passed through her hands.

“Only about five more miles, guys. We're almost there.” Michael reached briefly for Nancy's hand. “Just a few more minutes, babe, and we'll be married.”

“Then speed it up, mister, before I get cold feet,” Ben sang out from the back, and all three of them laughed. Mike put his foot on the gas and swerved around the next curve, but the laughter rapidly shrank to a gasp as Michael veered helplessly to avoid a diesel truck occupying both lanes as it plowed mercilessly toward them, going too fast, and almost out of control. The driver must have been half-asleep, and the only sounds Nancy remembered hearing were Ben's anguished “Oh no!” and her own voice screaming in her ears. Then there was endless shattering of glass … shattering … breaking … metal grinding, crunching, roaring, engines meeting and locking and arms flying and leather tearing and plastic cracking as everything was covered with a blanket of glass. And then at last everything stopped, and the world was black.

It seemed years later when Ben woke up, lying with his head jammed into the dashboard and a horrible pounding in his ears. Everything was dark around him and there seemed to be a handful of sand in his mouth. It felt like hours before he could open his eyes, and the effort it took made him feel sick. At first he couldn't understand what he saw. Nothing seemed to make sense, and then he realized that he was looking into Michael's right eye. He was in the front seat with him, but all he could see was Michael, and there was a thin river of blood trickling slowly down the side of Mike's face, onto his neck. It was strange to watch it, but for a while that was all Ben did … watch … Mike … bleeding … Jesus. It dawned on him what was happening. Accident … there had been an accident … he and Mike had been driving and … he lifted his head from where it had lain and tried to look up but a blow as if from iron forced him back down. It was minutes before he caught his breath and could open his eyes again. Mike was still lying there, bleeding, but now Ben could see that he was breathing, and this time when he stirred nothing happened. He could lift his head, and what he saw just beyond Mike was the truck that had hit them, lying flipped over the side of the road. What he did not see was the driver, lying dead beneath the cab of the truck. It would be a long time before anyone saw that. And then Ben realized something more, that he was seeing it all through open windows. There was no more glass left anywhere in the car, they were wearing it all, crushed into tiny particles all around them. And on Mike's side there was also no door. And then he remembered something more. Somebody else had been in the car … Nancy was … and where were they going? It was all so hard to hold onto, and his head hurt so badly, and as he moved a horrible pain shot though his leg, into his side. He moved to get away from the pain, and then he saw her. Nancy … Jesus it was Nancy in some kind of red and white dress, lying face down on the hood … Nancy … she had to be dead … he didn't even care about the pain in his leg now, he dragged himself over the dashboard and to her side. He had to turn her over … get to her … help her … Nancy … And then he saw the fine powder that dusted Nancy's hair. She was wearing the windshield all over her dress, all over the back of her head, all over … My God. With the last of his strength he rolled her slowly to her side and then pitifully, like a terrified little boy, he began to whimper.

“Oh, my God …” There was no face left beneath the blood-soaked blue satin cap. He couldn't tell if she were dead or alive, but for one horrible instant, he hoped she was dead, because there was simply no more Nancy. There was no one there at all, not even a remnant of the once beautiful face. And then mercifully, in her blood and his tears, he passed out.

Chapter 4

He looked so painfully pale as his mother sat there watching him. Marion Hillyard sat in a corner of the room with a bleak expression on her face. She had been there before, in that room, on that day, watching that face … not really that face, or that room, but she felt as though nothing had changed. It was just like when Frederick had the massive coronary that had killed him within hours. She had sat there, just as still, just as frightened, just as alone. And he had … Frederick … she felt a sob catch in her throat again and she took a deep, sharp breath. She couldn't cry. She couldn't let herself think those thoughts. Her husband was gone. Michael wasn't Nothing was going to happen to Michael. She wouldn't let anything happen. She was holding on to him now with every ounce of strength she could give.

For a moment she turned her gaze to the nurse's face. The woman was watching Michael intently, but with no sign of alarm. He had been in a coma all that day, since the accident the night before. Marion had gotten there at five in the morning. She had called a twenty-four-hour limousine service and been driven up from New York. But she would have walked if she'd had to. Nothing would have kept her from Michael's side; she had to be there to keep him alive. He was all she had now. Michael, and the business … and the business was for him. She had done it all for him … well, not all for him, but for the most part. It was the greatest gift she could give him. The gift of power, of success. He couldn't throw that away on that little bitch … he couldn't throw it away by dying. Jesus. It was all her fault, that damned girl. She had probably talked him into this. She had …

The nurse got up quickly and pulled at Michael's eyelids, as Marion went tense and forgot what she had been thinking. She stood up silently and quickly and walked to the nurse's side. Whatever there was to see, she wanted to see it. But there was nothing. No change. The expressionless woman in white held his wrist for a moment and then mouthed the same words again. “No change.” She motioned toward the corridor then and Marion followed her outside. This time the woman's concern was not for Michael, but for his mother.

“Dr. Wickfield told me to ask you to leave by five o'clock, Mrs. Hillyard. And I'm afraid …” She looked menacingly at her watch, and then smiled apologetically. It was five fifteen. Marion had been at Michael's side for exactly twelve hours. She had sat there uninterrupted all day, with only two cups of coffee to keep her going. But she wasn't tired, she wasn't hungry, she wasn't anything. And she wasn't leaving.

“Thank you for the thought I'll just walk down the hall for a moment and come back.” She wasn't leaving him. Not ever. She had left Frederick. Only for an hour, to have dinner. They had insisted that she eat something, and it had happened then. He had died while she was gone. That wasn't going to happen this time. She knew that as long as she sat there, Michael wouldn't die. The damage was mostly internal, but even Wickfield felt he'd come out of the coma soon. Still, she wasn't taking any chances. They had thought Frederick would make it, too. There were tears in her eyes now as she stood staring blankly at the pale blue wall behind the nurse.

“Mrs. Hillyard? The woman gently touched her arm, and Marion started. “You ought to get some rest. Dr. Wickfield set aside a room for you on the third floor.”

“There's no need.” She smiled blankly at the nurse and walked away toward the far end of the hall. The sun was still bright in the window there, and she sat carefully on the ledge, to smoke her first cigarette in hours and watch the sun set over a white church in the pretty New England town. Thank God the town only looked remote, and was actually less than an hour from Boston. They had had no trouble bringing in the best doctors to consult, and as soon as he could stand it, Michael would be moved to a hospital in New York. But at least she knew that in the meantime he was in good hands. Medically, Michael had taken the worst of it. The Avery boy was pretty badly broken up, but he was awake and alive, and his father had had him taken to Boston by ambulance that afternoon. He had broken an arm, a thigh, a foot, and a collar-bone, but he'd be all right And the girl … well, it was her fault, there was no reason why she should … Marion stubbed out the cigarette with a quick crushing motion of her foot The girl would be all right too. She'd live anyway. The only thing she had lost was her face. And maybe that was just as well. For a fraction of a second Marion wanted to fight the anger, wanted to make herself sorry for the girl—just in case all that crap about Christian charity was true, just in case her feelings made some difference for Michael… just in case there was a God who would punish her by taking him. But she couldn't do it. She hated the girl with every ounce of her being.

“I thought I left orders for you to get some rest.” Marion turned toward the voice with a start, and then smiled tiredly when she saw her own Dr. Wickfield. Wicky. “Don't you ever listen to anyone, Marion?”

“Not if I can help it. How's Michael?” Her brow furrowed and she reached for another cigarette.

“I just looked in on him. He's stable. I told you, he'll come out of it. Give him time. His entire system received one hell of a shock.”

“So did mine when I got the news.” He nodded sympathetically. “You're sure there won't be permanent damage from this?” She paused for a moment and then said the dread words. “Brain damage?”

Wickfield patted her arm and sat next to her on the window ledge. Behind them the little town made a scene pretty enough for a postcard. “I told you, Marion. As best we can tell, he'll be fine. A lot depends of course on how long he stays under. But I'm not frightened yet.”

“I am.” They were two tiny words in the mouth of a very strong woman, and they surprised her doctor, as he looked at her closely. There were sides to Marion Hillyard that no one even guessed at. “What about the girl?” she went on. Now she was the Marion he knew again, eyes narrowed behind the smoke from her cigarette, face hardened, fear gone.

“Not much is going to change for her. Not for the time being anyway. She's been in stable condition all day, but there's not a damn thing we can do for her. For one thing, It's much too soon, and for another, there are only one or two men in the country who can cope with that kind of total reconstruction. There is simply nothing left of her face, not a single bone intact, not a nerve, not a muscle. The only thing not totally wiped out are her eyes.”

“The better to see herself with.” Dr. Wickfield jumped at the tone of Marion's voice.

“Michael was driving, Marion. She wasn't” But Marion only nodded in answer. There was no point in going over it with him. She knew whose fault it was. It was the girl's.

“What happens to someone like that if there's no repair work done? Will she live?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But she'll lead a tragic life. You can't take a twenty-two-year-old girl and turn her into a horror like that and expect her to adjust. No one could. Was she … was she pretty before?”

“I suppose so. I don't know. We'd never met.” Her tone was rock hard, and her eyes equally so.

“I see. In any case, she's in for some tough realities. They'll do what they can here at the hospital when she's a little more recovered, but it won't be much. Does she have money?”

“None.” Marion spoke the word like a death sentence. It was the worst thing she could say of anyone.

“Then she won't have many alternatives. I'm afraid the men who do this kind of thing don't do it for charity.”

“Do you have anyone particular in mind?”

“Well, I know some of the names. Two, actually. The best one is out in San Francisco.” A little fire kindled in Dr. Wickfield's heart With all her money, Marion Hillyard could … if only … “His name is Peter Gregson. We met several years ago. He's really an amazing guy.”

“Could he do this?”

Wickfield felt a rush of admiration for the woman. He almost wanted to hug her, but he didn't dare. “He may well be the only man who could. Shall I… do you want me to call him?” He hesitated to say the words, and then she looked at him with those cold, calculating eyes and he wondered what she had in mind. The wave of admiration almost turned to fear.

“I'll let you know.”

“Fine.” He looked at his watch then, and stood up.

“I'd like you to go downstairs and rest now. I really mean that.”

“I know.” She favored him with a wintry smile. “But I'm not going to. You know that too. I have to be with Michael.”

“Even if you kill yourself doing it?”

“I won't. I'm too mean to die, Wicky. Besides, I still have a lot of work to do.”

“Is it worth it?” He looked at her curiously for a moment. If he had had one tenth of her ambition, he would have been a great surgeon, but he didn't and he wasn't. And he wasn't even sure that he envied her. “Is it worth it?” He said it more softly the second time, and she nodded.

“Absolutely. Don't ever doubt it for a second. It's given me everything I want out of life.” Unless I lose Michael. She closed her eyes and pushed away the thought.

“Well, I'll give you another hour with him, and then I'm coming back up here. And I don't care if I have to shoot you with Nembutal and drag you away myself, you're going. Is that dear?”

“Very.” She stood up, dropped another cigarette to the floor where she crushed it, and patted his cheek. “And Wicky—” She looked up at him from under long chestnut lashes, and for a moment she was all softness and elegant beauty. “—thank you.” He gently kissed her cheek, squeezed her arm, and stood back for a moment.

“He'll be all right, Marion, you'll see.” He didn't dare mention the girl again. They could talk about that later. He only smiled and walked away, as she stood there looking vulnerable and alone. He was glad he had called George Calloway a few hours before. Marion needed someone with her. He thought about her all the way down the corridor, as she stood watching him go. She hadn't moved from the spot where he had left her, and then slowly, she began the lonely walk up the hall, back towards Michael's room, past open doors and closed ones, heartbreaks to come and hopes never to be known again. And a few who would make it. This was a floor set aside for the critically ill, and there was no sound from any of the rooms as she walked slowly by, until she was halfway down the hall, where she heard little jerking sobs come from an open door. The sounds were so soft that at first she wasn't sure what she was hearing. And then she saw the room number, and she knew. She stopped as though she had come to a wall, staring at the door, and the darkness beyond.

She could see the bed dimly outlined in the comer, but the room was dark; all blinds and curtains had been drawn, as though the patient could not be touched by light. Marion stood there for a long moment, afraid to go in, but knowing that she had to; and then slowly, one foot after the other, softly, gliding, she walked a few feet into the room and stopped again. The sobs were a little louder now, and coming at quicker intervals, with little panicky gasps.

“Is someone there?” The girl's entire head was covered with bandages, and the voice was muffled and strange. “Is someone …” She cried harder now. “I can't see.”

“Your eyes are Just covered with bandages. There's nothing wrong with your eyes.” But the words were met by fresh sobs. “Why are you awake?” Marion spoke to her in a monotone. They were not words of reassurance, they were devoid of all feeling, and Marion herself felt as though she were standing in a dream. But she knew that she had to be there. Had to. For Michael's sake. “Didn't they give you something to make you sleep?”

“It doesn't work. I keep waking up.”

“Is the pain very bad?”

“No, everything is numb. Who … who are you?”

She was afraid to tell her. Instead, she moved toward the bed and sat down in the narrow blue vinyl chair the nurse must have pulled up next to it. The girl's hands were wrapped in bandages, too, and lay useless at her sides. Marion remembered Wicky telling her that the girl had naturally used her hands to try to shield her face. The damage to them was almost as great as to her face, which would be devastating to her as an artist. In essence, her whole life was over. Her youth, her beauty, her work. And her romance. But now Marion knew what she had to say.

“Nancy—” It was the first time she had said the name, but now it didn't matter. She had no choice. “Did they …” Her voice was smooth and silky as she sat next to the broken girl. “Did they tell you about your face?” There was total silence in the room for an endless amount of time, and then a small broken sob freed itself from the bandages. “Did they tell you how bad it was?” Her stomach turned over as she said the words, but she could not stop now. She had to free Michael. If she freed him, he would live. She felt that in her guts. “Did they tell you how impossible it would be to put you back together?”

The sobs were angry now. “They lied to me. They said …”

“There's only one man who can do it, Nancy, and it would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. You can't afford it. And neither can Michael.'”

“I'd never let him do that.” She was angry at the voice now, as well as at fate. “I'd never let him … ”

“Then what will you do?”

“I don't know.” And the sobs began again.

“Could you face him like that?” It took minutes for the stifled “no” to emerge. “Do you think he would love you like that? Even if he tried, because he felt some bond of loyalty, some obligation, how long could it last? How long could you bear knowing what you looked like and what you were doing to him?” The sounds Nancy made now were frightening. She sounded as though she were going to be sick, and Marion wondered if she herself would be as well. “Nancy, there's nothing left of you. Nothing. There's nothing left of the life you had before today.” They sat in interminable silence, and Marion thought she would hear those sobs forever. But it had to be painful or it would never work. “You've already lost him. You couldn't do this to him. And he … he deserves better than that. If you love him, you know that. And … and so do you. But you could have a new life, Nancy.” The girl didn't even bother to answer as her sobs went on. “You could have a new life. A whole new world.” She waited until the sobs grew angrier again and then stopped. “A whole new face.”

“How?”

“There's a man in San Francisco who could make you beautiful again. Who could make you able to paint again. It would take a long time, and a lot of money, but it would be worth it, Nancy … wouldn't it?” There was the tiniest of smiles at the corners of Marion's mouth. Now she was on familiar ground. It was just like making a multimillion-dollar deal. A hundred-million-dollar deal. They were all the same.

A small jagged sigh emerged from the faceless bandages. “We can't afford it.” Marion almost shuddered at the “we.” They were not a “we” anymore. They never had been. She and Michael were the “we.” Not this… this … She took a deep breath and composed herself. She had work to do. That was the only way she could think of it. She couldn't think of the girl. Only of Michael.

“You can't, Nancy. But I can. You do know who I am, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“You do understand that you've already lost Michael? That he could never survive the pressure and tragedy of what has happened to you, if he survives at all. You understand that, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“And you know that it would be a vicious thing to do, to try to put him through it, to make him prove his loyalty to you?” She wouldn't say the word “love.” The girl wasn't worthy of it. Marion had to believe that “Do you understand that, Nancy?” There was a silent pause. “Do you?”

This time it was a very tired little word. She was sounding spent. “Yes.”

“Then you've already lost everything you can lose, haven't you?”

“Yes.” The word had no tone, no life to it. It was as though life itself were seeping away from the girl.

“Nancy, I'd like to propose a little deal to you.” It was Marion Hillyard at her best. If her son had heard her, he would have wanted to kill her. “I'd like you to think about that new face. About a new life, a new Nancy. Think about it. About what it would mean. You'd be beautiful again, you could have friends again, you could go places—to restaurants, to movies, to stores—you could wear pretty clothes and go out with men. The other way … people would shriek when you walked near them. You couldn't go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. Children would cry if they saw you. Can you imagine what that would be like? But you have a choice.” She let the words sink in.

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do. I want to give you that choice. I will give you that new life. A new face, a new world. An apartment in another city while the work is being done—anything you need, anything you want to do. There'll be no struggle, Nancy, and in a year or so, the nightmare will be over.”

“And then?”

“You're free. The new life is yours.” There was an endless pause as Marion prepared to lower the boom Nancy was waiting for. “As long as you never contact Michael again. The new face is yours only if you give up Michael. But if you don't accept my … my gift, you know that you've already lost him, anyway. So why live the rest of your life as a freak if you don't have to?”

“What if Michael doesn't honor the agreement? What if I stay away from him, but he doesn't stay away from me?”

“All I want from you is the promise that you'll stay away from him. What Michael does is up to him.”

“And you'll honor that? If he wants me … anyway … if he comes after me, then it's up to him?”

“I'll honor that.”

Nancy felt victorious as she lay there. She knew Michael infinitely better than his mother did. Michael would never give up on her. He'd find her, and want to help her through the ordeal, but by then she'd already be on her way to becoming herself again. His mother couldn't win this one, no matter how hard she tried. Accepting the deal would make Nancy a cheat, because she knew what the outcome would be. But she had to do it She to. There was no other way.

“Will you do it?” Marion almost held her breath as she waited for the one word she prayed for, the word that would free Michael, and at last it came.

But it would be a word of victory, not of defeat. It would be filled with all Nancy's faith in Michael. She remembered the words he had said to her at the rode where they'd hidden the beads the morning before. “I promise never to say good-bye to you.” She knew he never would.

“Your answer, Nancy?” Marion couldn't wait any longer. Her heart wouldn't bear it.

“Yes.”

Chapter 5

Marion Hillyard stood in the doorway of the hospital in a black wool dress and black Cardin coat watching them load the girl into an ambulance. It was six o'clock in the morning, and she had never spoken to her again. They had made their agreement the night before, and Marion had immediately asked Wicky to call the man he knew in San Francisco. Wickfield had been overjoyed. He had kissed Marion on the cheek and gotten hold of Peter Gregson at his home. Gregson would do it. He wanted Nancy out west immediately, and Marion had arranged for a special compartment and two nurses in first class on a jet heading for San Francisco at eight o'clock that morning. She was sparing no expense. “She's a lucky girl, Marion.” Wickfield looked at her in admiration as she crushed out another cigarette.

“I think so. And I don't want Michael to know, Wicky. Is that clear?” It was, and so was the “or else” in her voice. “If someone does tell him, I cancel her treatment.”

“But why? He has a right to know what you've done for the girl.”

“It's between the two of us. The four of us, including you and Gregson. Michael doesn't need to know anything. When he comes out of the coma, you're not to mention the girl to him at all. It will only agitate him.”

If he ever came out of the coma. Marion had dozed in the chair at his side all night long despite Wicky's protests. But she had felt strangely revived after her talk with the girl. She had freed Michael at last. Now he could live. In a way, she had given them both life. She knew she had been right to do what she'd done. “You won't say anything then, will you, Robert?” She never called him that, except to remind him what the Hillyard money had done for his hospital.

“Of course not, if that's what you want.”

“It is.”

There was the dull clank of the ambulance door closing, and the last of the blue blankets swathing the girl disappeared with the two nurses' backs. The nurses would be with her for the first six or eight months in San Francisco. After that, Gregson had said, she wouldn't need them. But for those six or eight months, she would spend much of her time with her eyes bandaged, as he worked on her lids and her nose, her brow and her cheekbones. He had a whole face to reconstruct. There would be other expenses involved, too. Nancy would need almost constant care by a psychiatrist as she underwent the emotional shock of becoming a new person. There was no way Gregson could give her back the self she had been. He had to create a whole new woman. And Marion liked that idea just fine: the girl would be that much more removed from Michael. It took away the possibility of an accident, a chance meeting in an airport five years later. Marion didn't want that to happen. Her mind ran over the list of arrangements she had made with Gregson on the phone at four o'clock that morning, one o'clock San Francisco time. He had sounded bright and alive and dynamic, a man in his forties with an extraordinary international reputation in his field. She was a damn lucky girl. He said he'd have his secretary work it all out. The apartment, the clothes. They had quickly run over the cost of eighteen months of surgery, and the additional expense of psychiatric help, constant nurses for a while, and even general support. They had settled on four hundred thousand dollars as a reasonable figure. Marion would call the bank at nine and have it transferred to Gregson's account on the coast. It would be there when his own bank opened at nine. Not that he was worried. He knew who Marion Hillyard was. Who didn't?

“Why don't you come inside and have some breakfast, Marion?” Wickfield was losing hope of having any influence on her at all, and Calloway had said that he couldn't leave New York until that morning. Wickfield didn't know that Marion had told him not to. She had wanted to be alone to work out her “business” arrangements. And everything had worked out just perfectly. “Marion?”

“Hm?”

“Breakfast?”

“Later, Wicky. Later. I want to see Michael.”

“I'll go up and take a look at him now.”

Marion stopped in the ladies' room for a moment, while Wickfield went ahead to see Michael. But he didn't expect any immediate change; he had checked him only an hour before.

But there was a strange stillness when Marion came into the room five minutes later. Wicky was standing back from the bed with a look of solemnity, and the nurse had left the room. The New England sun was streaming across the bed, and from somewhere there was the steady sound of water dripping into a sink. Everything was much too still, and suddenly her heart flew to her mouth. It was like when Frederick … oh God… her hand went unwillingly to her heart and she stood frozen in the doorway looking from Wicky to the bed. And then she saw him, and her eyes filled with tears. He was smiling at her … her boy. It wasn't like Frederick at all. A sob caught in her throat and she walked to the bed with trembling legs, and then she bent down and touched his face with her hands.

“Hi, Mom.” They were the most beautiful words she had ever heard, and the tears poured down her face as she smiled.

“I love you, Michael.”

“I love you, too.” Even Wickfield had tears in his eyes as he watched them. The boy, so young and handsome and alive again, and the woman who had given so much in the past two days. He slipped quietly from the room, and they never heard him go.

She held her son gently in her arms for a long moment as he ran a hand over her hair. “Take it easy, Mom. Everything's okay. Christ, I'm hungry.” Marion laughed. He sounded so good. He was alive again. And all hers.

“We will get you the biggest, bestest, superest breakfast you've ever seen, if Wicky says it's all right.”

“To hell with Wicky. I'm starving.”

“Michael!” She couldn't be angry at him, though. She could only love him. But then as she looked at him, she saw his face cloud over as though he were suddenly remembering why he was there. Before that, he had acted as if he had just awakened from having his tonsils out. All he wanted was ice cream and his mom. But now there was a great deal more in his face, and he tried to sit up. He didn't know how to say the words, but he had to ask. He searched her face, and she kept her eyes on his and his hand tightly held in hers. “Take it easy, darling.”

“Mom … the others … the other night … I remember …”

“Ben has already gone back to Boston with his father. He's pretty badly banged up but he's all right. A lot more all right than you were.” She said it with a sigh and tightened her grip on his hand. She knew what was coming next. But she was prepared for it.

“And … Nancy?” His face was ivory white as he said her name. “Nancy, Mom?” The tears already stood out in his eyes. He could see the answer in his mother's face as she sat down carefully in the chair next to him and ran a gentle hand along the outline of his face.

“She didn't make it, darling. They did all they could. But the damage was just too great.” She paused for only the slightest of seconds and then went on. “She died early this morning.”

“Did you see her?” He was still searching her face for something more.

“I sat with her for a while last night.”

“Oh, God … and I wasn't there. Oh, Nancy… ” He turned his head into the pillow and cried like a child as Marion held his shoulders. He said her name over and over and over again, until at last he could cry no more. And when he turned to look at his mother again, she saw something in his face that she had never seen there before. It was as though he had lost something of himself in those moments when he said Nancy's name. As though part of him had bled away and died.

Chapter 6

Nancy heard the landing gear grind out of the plane's belly, and for the hundredth time since the flight began she felt the touch of the hand that had touched her aim before. It was strangely comforting to feel the nurse's hand, and it pleased her that she could already tell the difference between them. One woman had thin, delicate hands with long narrow fingers; her hands were always cold but there was great strength in the way she held on to Nancy. It made Nancy feel brave again just to touch her. The other nurse had warm, chubby soft hands that made one feel safe and loved. She patted Nancy's arm a lot, and it was she who had given Nancy the two shots for the pain. She had a soft soothing voice. The first woman had a slight accent. Nancy had already come to like them both.

“It won't be much longer now, dear. We can see the bay now. We'll be there in no time at all.”

Actually, it would be another twenty minutes. And Peter Gregson was counting on that as he raced along the freeway in the black Porsche. The ambulance was meeting him there. He could have one of the girls from his office pick his car up later that morning. He wanted to ride into the city with the girl. He was intrigued by her. She had to be Someone for Marion Hillyard to be so concerned about her. Four hundred thousand dollars was quite a sum, and only three of that was going to him. The other hundred was to keep the girl comfortable in the next year and a half. And she would be. He had promised Marion Hillyard that. But he would have seen to that anyway. It was part of what he did. He would get to know the girl's very soul. They would become more than friends; he would mean everything to her and she to him. It had to be that way, because by the time that new face was born, she would be the person she looked like. Peter Gregson was going to give birth to Nancy McAllister, after a pregnancy of eighteen long months. She was going to have to be a very brave girl. But she would be. He would see to that. They would face it together. The very idea excited him. He loved what he did, and in an odd way he already loved Nancy. What he would make of her. What she would be. He would give her all that he had to give.

He looked at his watch and stepped on the gas. The car was one of his favorite releases. He also flew his own plane, went scuba diving whenever he had time, skied, and had climbed several mountains in Europe. He was a man who liked to scale heights, in every possible way. To defy the impossible and win. It was why he loved his work. People accused him of playing God. But it wasn't really that. It was the thrill of insuperable odds that stimulated him. And he had never yet been defeated. Not by women or mountains or sky, not even by a patient. At forty-seven he had won at everything he touched, and he was going to win now. He and Nancy were going to win together. His dark hair blew softly in the breeze and his eyes almost crackled with life. He still had a tan from his recent week in Tahiti, and he was wearing gray slacks and a soft blue cashmere sweater that was just the color of his eyes. He was always impeccably dressed, perfectly put together. He was an exceptionally good-looking man, but there was more to him than that. It was his vitality, his electricity, that caught one's attention even more than his looks did.

He pulled up to the curb at the airport precisely at the moment Nancy's plane was touching down. He showed a special pass to a policeman, who nodded and promised to keep an eye on the car. Even the policeman smiled at Gregson. Peter was a man no one could ignore. He had an almost irresistible charm, and a strength that showed through everything he did. It made people want to be near him.

He wove his way expertly into the airport lobby and spoke rapidly to a ground supervisor. The man picked up a phone, and within moments Peter was ushered through a door, down a flight of stairs, and into a tiny airport vehicle, then rushed out to the run-way, where he saw the ambulance standing by, the attendants waiting for the patient to be taken off the plane. He thanked his driver and hurried to the ambulance, where he quickly checked inside to see that his orders had been carried out. They had been, to the letter. Everything was there that he needed. It was hard to tell what kind of shape she might be in after the flight, but he had wanted her in San Francisco immediately, so he could keep a close eye on things. He had a lot of planning to do, and work would begin in just a few days.

The other passengers were held back a few more minutes while Nancy was carried out through the forward hatch. The stewardesses hung back, looking grave, averting their gazes from the bottles and transfusions that hung over the bandaged girl, but the nurses seemed to be speaking to her as she was carried out. He liked the look of the nurses, young but competent, and they seemed to work well as a team. That was what he wanted. They were all going to be part of a team for the next year and a half, and everyone was important. There was no room for reluctance or incompetence. Everyone had to be the very best they could be, including Nancy. But he would see to that. She was going to be the star of this show. He watched her being carried toward him and waited until the stretcher had been gently set down inside the ambulance. He smiled at the nurses but said nothing, and held up a hand gesturing them to wait as he eased in beside Nancy and sat down on a seat next to her. He reached for her hand and held it.

“Hello, Nancy. I'm Peter. How was the trip?” As though she were for real. As though she were still someone, not just a faceless blob. She could feel relief wash over her at the sound of his voice.

“It was okay. You're Dr. Gregson?” She sounded tired but interested.

“Yes. But Peter sounds a little less formal between two people who're going to be working together.” She liked the way he said it, and if she could have, she would have smiled.

“You came out to meet me?”

“Wouldn't you have come out to meet me?”

“Yes.” She wanted to nod, but she couldn't. “Thank you.”

“I'm glad I did. Have you ever been to San Francisco before, Nancy?”

“No.”

“You're going to love it. And we're going to find you an apartment you like so much you'll never want to leave here. Most people don't, you know. Once they dig in their heels, they want to stay here forever. I came out here from Chicago about fifteen years ago, and you couldn't get me back there on a bet.” She laughed at the way he said it, and he smiled down at her. “Are you from Boston?” He was treating her as though they had been introduced by friends. But he wanted her to relax after the long flight. And a few minutes without movement would do her good. The nurses were also glad of the opportunity to stretch as they chatted with the two ambulance attendants. Now and then they glanced in to see Dr. Gregson still talking to Nancy, and they liked him already. He exuded warmth.

“No, I was from New Hampshire. That's where I grew up anyway. In an orphanage. I moved to Boston when I was eighteen.”

“It sounds very romantic. Or was the orphanage straight out of Dickens?” He gave everything a light touch, a happy note. Nancy laughed at the question about Dickens.

“Hardly. The nuns were wonderful. So much so that I wanted to be one.”

“Oh, God. Now listen, you—” And she laughed at the tone of his voice. “When we're through with our project, young lady, you're going to be ready for Hollywood. If you go hide in a convent somewhere I'll … I'll … why, I'll head off the bridge, damn it. You'd better promise me you won't go off and become a nun somewhere.” That was easy. She had Michael to get ready for. Her dreams of being Sister Agnes Marie had faded years ago, but die wanted to tease Gregson a little. She already liked him.

“Oh, all right.” She said it begrudgingly but with laughter in her voice.

“Is that a promise? Come on, say it … I promise.” “I promise.”

“What do you promise?” They were both laughing now.

“I promise not to be a nun.”

“Whew. That's better.” He signaled to the two nurses to join them, and the attendants moved toward the front. She was ready to go now, and he didn't want to tire her with too much patter. “Why don't you introduce me to your friends.”

“Well, let's see, the cold hands are Lily, and the warm ones are Gretchen.” All four of them laughed.

“Thanks a lot, Nancy.” Lily laughed benevolently as Nancy smiled to herself. She felt safe with her new-found friends, and all she could think of now was what she would look like for Michael after it was all over. She liked Peter Gregson, and suddenly she knew that he was going to make her someone very special, because he cared.

“Welcome to San Francisco, little one.” Lily's cool hands ware replaced by his strong, graceful ones, and he kept a light hand on her shoulder all the way into the city. In an odd way, he made her feel as though she had come home.

Chapter 7

The ambulance doors swung open and they carried the stretcher expertly into the hotel. The manager was waiting to greet them, and the entire penthouse suite had been reserved for their use. They were only planning to stay for a day or two, but the hotel would provide a breather between hospital and home. Marion had business meetings in Boston, and besides, for some reason Michael had insisted on a few days in a hotel before going home. And his mother was ready to indulge his every whim.

The ambulance attendants set him down carefully on the bed, and he made a face. “For Chrissake, there's nothing wrong with me, Mother. They all said I was fine.”

“But there's no need to push.”

“Push?” He looked around the suite and groaned as she tipped the ambulance attendants, who promptly vanished. The room was filled with flowers, and there was a huge basket of fruit on the table near the bed. His mother owned the hotel. She had bought it years before as an investment.

“Now relax, darling. Don't get overexcited. Do you want anything to eat?” She had wanted to keep the nurse, but even the doctor had said that was unnecessary, and it would have driven Michael crazy. All he had to do now was take it easy for another couple of weeks, and then he could go to work. But he had something else to do first. “How about some lunch?” Marion asked.

“Sure. Escargots. Oysters Rockefeller. Champagne. Turtles' eggs and caviar.” He sat up in bed like a mischievous child.

“What a revolting combination, my love.” But she wasn't really listening to him. She was looking at her watch. “But do order yourself something. George should be here any minute. Our meeting downtown is at one.” She walked out of the room distractedly, to look for her briefcase, and Mike heard the doorbell at the front of the suite. A moment later, George Calloway walked into his room.

“Well, Michael, how are you feeling?”

“After two weeks in the hospital, doing absolutely nothing, I feel mostly embarrassed.” He tried to make light of his situation, but there was still a broken look around his eyes. His mother saw it too, but put it down to fatigue. She had closed any alternative explanation from her mind, and she and Michael never discussed it. They talked about the business, and the plans for the medical center in San Francisco. Never the accident.

“I stopped in at your office this morning. It looks very handsome indeed.” George smiled and sat down at the foot of the bed.

“I'm sure it does.” Michael watched his mother as she came into the room. She was wearing a light gray Chanel suit with a soft blue silk blouse, pearl earrings, and three strands of pearls around her neck. “Mother has excellent taste.”

“Yes, she does.” George smiled at her warmly, but she waved nervously at them both.

“Stop throwing roses; we're going to be late. George, do you have the papers we need?”

“Of course.”

“Then let's go.” She walked quickly toward Michael's bed and bent down to kiss the top of his head. “Rest, darling. And don't forget to order lunch.”

“Yes, ma'am. Good luck at the meeting.”

She raised her head and smiled with pure anticipation. “Luck has nothing to do with it.” The two men laughed, and Michael watched them go. And then he sat up.

He sat patiently and quietly, waiting and thinking. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He had planned it for two weeks. He had lived for this moment. It had been all he could think of. It was why he had suggested the hotel, insisted on it in fact, and urged her to attend the meetings herself for the new Boston library building. He needed the afternoon to himself. He just didn't want to spoil anything by having them catch him. He wanted to be sure they were gone. So he sat exactly where he was for exactly half an hour. And then he was sure. He had rehearsed it a hundred times in his head. He went quickly to the suitcase on the rack at the foot of his bed and took out what he needed. Gray slacks, blue shirt, loafers, socks, underwear. It seemed a thousand years since he had worn clothes, and he was surprised at how wobbly he felt as he got dressed. He had to sit down three or four times to catch his breath. It was ridiculous to feel that weak, and he wouldn't give in to it. He wasn't going to wait another day. He was going there now. It took him nearly half an hour to dress and comb his hair, and then he called the desk and asked for a cab. He was pale on his way down in the elevator, but the excitement of his plan made him feel better. Just the thought of it gave him life again, as nothing had done in two weeks. The cab was waiting for him at the curb.

He gave the driver the address, and sat back with a feeling of great exhilaration. It was as though they had a date, as though she were expecting him, as though she knew. He smiled to himself all the way over, and gave the driver a large tip. He didn't ask the man to wait. He didn't want anyone waiting for him. He would stay there alone, for as long as he wanted. He had even toyed with the idea of continuing to pay rent on the place, so that he could come there whenever he liked. It was only an hour's flight from New York, and that way he would always have their apartment. Their apartment. He looked up at the building with a familiar glow of warmth, and almost in spite of himself, he heard himself say the words he'd been thinking. “Hi, Nancy Fancypants, I'm home.” He had said the words a thousand times before, as he walked in the door and found her sitting at her easel, with paint splattered all over hands and arms and occasionally her face. If she was terribly involved in the work, she sometimes didn't hear him come in.

He walked slowly up the stairs, tired but buoyed by the feeling of homecoming. He just wanted to go upstairs and sit down, near her, with her … with her things…. All the same familiar smells pervaded the building, and there was the sound of running water, of a child, a cat meowing in a hallway below, and outside a horn honking. He could hear an Italian song on the radio, and for a strange moment he wondered if the radio was on in her studio. He had his key in his hand when he reached the landing, and he stopped for a long, long moment For the first time all day, he felt tears burn his eyes. He still knew the truth. She wouldn't be there. She was gone forever. She was dead.

He still tried the word out loud from time to time, just to make himself say it, to make himself know. He didn't want to be one of those crazy people who never faced the truth, who played games of pretend. She would have been scornful of that. But now and then he let the knowledge go, only to have it return with a slap. As it did now. He turned the key in the lock and waited, as though maybe someone would come to the door after all. But there was no one there. He opened the door slowly, and then he gasped.

“Oh, my God! Where is … where …” It was gone. All of it Every table, every chair, the plants, the paintings, her easel, her paints. Her clothes, … Jesus Christ, Nancy!” And then he heard himself crying as hot angry tears stung his face and he pulled open doors. Nothing. Even the refrigerator was gone. He stood there dumbly for a moment and then flew down the stairs two at a time until he reached the manager's apartment in the basement. He pounded on the door until the little old man opened it just the width of the protective chain and stared out with a look of fear in his eyes. But he recognized Michael and opened the door as he started to smile, until Michael grabbed him by the collar and began to shake him.

“Where is her stuff, Kowalski? Where the hell is it? What did you do with it? Did you take it? Who took it? Where are her things?”

“What things? Who … oh, my God … no, no, I didn't take anything. They came two weeks ago. They told me—” He was trembling with terror, and Michael with rage.

“Who the hell is ‘they’?”

“I don't know. Someone called me and said that the apartment would be vacant. That Miss McAllister was … had …” He saw the tears still wet on Michael's face and was afraid to go on. “You know. Well, they told me, and they said the apartment would be empty by the end of the week. Two nurses came and took a few things, and then the Goodwill truck came the next morning.”

“Nurses? What nurses?” Michael's mind was a blank. And Goodwill? Who had called them?

“I don't know who they were. They looked like nurses though—they were wearing white. They didn't take much. Just that little bag, and her paintings. Goodwill got the rest. I didn't take nothing. Honest. I wouldn't do that. Not to a nice girl like…” But Michael wasn't listening to him. He was already wandering up the stairs to the street, dazed, as the old man watched him, shaking his head. Poor guy. He had probably just heard. “Hey … hey.” Michael turned around, and the old man lowered his voice. “I'm sorry.” Michael only nodded and went out to the street. How did the nurses know? How could they have done it? They'd probably taken the little jewelry she had, a few trinkets, and the paintings. Maybe someone had said something to them at the hospital. Vultures, picking over what was left. God, if he'd seen them, he'd … His hands clenched at his sides, and then his arm shot out to hail a cab. At least … maybe … it was worth a try. He slid into the cab, ignoring the ache that was beginning to pound at the back of his head. “Where's the nearest Goodwill?”

“Goodwill what?” The driver was chewing a soggy cigar and was not particularly interested in Goodwill of any kind.

“Goodwill store. You know, used clothes, old furniture.”

“Oh yeah. Okay.” The kid didn't look like one of their customers, but a fare was a fare. It was a five-minute drive from Nancy's apartment, and the fresh air on his face helped revive Michael from the shock of the emptiness he had found. It was like looking for your pulse and finding that your heart had stopped beating. “Okay, this is it.”

Michael thanked him, absentmindedly paid twice the fare, and got out. He wasn't even sure he wanted to go inside. He had wanted to see her things in her apartment, where they belonged. Not in some stinking, musty old store, with price tags on them. And what would he do? Buy it all? And then what? He walked into the store feeling lonely and tired and confused. No one offered to help him, and he began to wander aimlessly up one aisle and down another, finding nothing he knew, seeing nothing familiar, and suddenly aching, not for the “things” that had seemed so important to him that morning, but for the girl who had owned them. She was gone, and nothing he found or didn't find would ever make any difference. The tears began to stream down his face as he walked slowly back out to the street.

This time he didn't hail a cab. He just walked. Blindly and alone, in a direction his feet seemed to know, but his head didn't. His head didn't know anything anymore. It felt like mush. His whole body felt like mush, but his heart was a stone. Suddenly, in that stinking old store, his life had come to an end He understood now what it all meant, and as he stood at a red light, waiting for it to change, not giving a damn if it did, he passed out.

He woke up a few moments later, with a crowd around him as he lay on a small patch of grass where someone had carried him. There was a policeman standing over him, looking sharply into his eyes.

“You okay, son?” He was certain the kid was neither drunk nor stoned, but he looked a terrible gray color. More likely he was sick. Or maybe just hungry or something. Looked like he had money though, couldn't have been a case of starvation.

“Yeah. I'm okay. I got out of the hospital this morning, and I guess I overdid it.” He smiled ruefully, but the faces around him did cartwheels when he tried to get up. The cop saw what was happening and urged the crowd to disperse. Then he looked back at Michael.

“I'll get a patrol car to give you a lift home.”

“No, really, I'm okay.”

“Never mind that. Would you rather go back to the hospital?”

“Hell, no!”

“All right, then we'll take you home.” He spoke into a small walkie-talkie and then squatted down near Michael. “They'll be here in a minute. Been sick for a long time?”

Michael shook his head silently, and then looked down at his hands. “Two weeks.” There was still a narrow scar near his temple, but too small for the policeman to notice.

“Well, you take it easy.” The patrol car slid up alongside them, and the policeman gave Michael a hand up. He was all right now. Pale, but steadier than he had been at first.

Michael looked over his shoulder and tried to smile at the cop. “Thanks.” But the attempted smile only made the cop wonder what was wrong. There was a kind of despair in the kid's eyes.

He gave the men in the patrol car an address a block from the hotel, and thanked them when he got out. And then he walked the last block. The suite was still empty when he got there, and for a moment he thought about taking off his clothes and going back to bed, but there was no point in playing that game anymore. He had done what he'd wanted to do. It had gotten him nowhere, but at least he'd gone through with it. What he'd been looking for was Nancy. He should have known that he wouldn't find her there, or anywhere else. He would only find her in the one place she still lived, in his heart.

The door to the suite opened as he stood looking out the window, and for a moment he didn't turn around. He didn't really want to see them, or hear about the meeting, or have to pretend that he was all right. He wasn't all right. And maybe he never would be again.

“What are you doing up, Michael?” His mother made it sound as though be were going to be seven in a few days, instead of twenty-five. He turned around slowly and said nothing at first, and then tiredly he smiled at George.

“It's time for me to get up, Mother. I can't stay in bed forever. In fact, I'm going to New York tonight.”

“You're what?”

“Going to New York.”

“But why? You wanted to stay here.” She looked totally confused.

“You had your meeting.” And I had mine. “We have no reason to hang around here anymore. And I want to be in the office tomorrow. Right, George?”

George looked at him nervously, frightened by the pain and grief he saw in the boy's eyes. Maybe it would do him good to get busy. He didn't look terribly strong yet, but lying about bad to be difficult for him. It gave him too much time to think. “You might be right, Michael. And you can always work half days at first.”

“I think you're both crazy. He just got out of the hospital this morning.”

“And you, of course, are famous for taking such good care of yourself. Right, Mother?” He cocked his head at her, and she sank down slowly on the couch.

“All right, all rigft,” she said with a slow smile.

“How was the meeting?” Michael sat down across from her and tried to look as though he cared. He was going to have to do a lot of that, because that afternoon he had made a decision. From now on he was going to live for one thing and one thing only. His work. There was nothing else left.

Chapter 8

“Ready?”

“I guess so.” She couldn't feel anything above her shoulders; it was as though her head had been cut off. And the bright lights of the operating room made Nancy want to squint, but she couldn't even do that. All she could see clearly was Peter's face as he bent over her, his neatly trimmed beard covered by a blue surgical mask, and his eyes dancing. He had spent almost three weeks studying the X-rays, measuring, sketching, drawing, planning, preparing, and talking to her. The only photograph of Nancy he had was the one taken the day of the accident, at the fair. But her face had been partially obscured by the silly board-walk facade she and Michael had stuck their heads through to have their picture taken. It gave him an idea though, a starting point, but he was going much farther than that. She was going to be a different girl when he was through, a person anyone would dream of being. He smiled down at her again as he saw her eyelids grow heavy.

“You're going to have to stay awake now, and keep talking to me. You can get drowsy but you can't go to sleep.” Otherwise she might choke on her own blood, but she didn't need to know that. Instead he kept her amused with stories and jokes, asked her questions, made her think of things, dig up answers, remember the names of all the nuns she knew when she was a child. “And you're sure you don't still want to be Sister Agnes Marie?”

“Uh uh. I promised.” They teased back and forth during the whole three hours that the procedure took, and his hands never stopped moving. For Nancy it was like watching a ballet.

“And just think, in another couple of weeks we'll get you your own apartment, maybe something with a view, and then … Hey, sleepyhead, what do you think of the view? Do you want to see the bay from the bedroom?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Just 'sure’? You know, I think you're getting spoiled by the view from your room here at the hospital, Nancy.”

“That's not true. I love it.”

“Okay, then we'll go out together and find you something even better. Deal?”

“Deal.” Even with the sleepy voice, she sounded pleased. “Can't I go to sleep yet?”

“You know what, Princess, you just about can. Just a few more minutes and we'll whisk you back to your room and you can sleep all you want.”

“Good.”

“Have I been boring you then!” She giggled at his mock hurt. “There, love … all … set.” He looked up at his assistant with a nod, stood back for a moment, and a nurse gave Nancy a quick shot in the thigh. Then Peter stepped back to her side and smiled down at the eyes he already knew so well. He didn't even see the rest. Not yet. But he saw the eyes. And knew them intimately. Just as she knew his. “Did you know that today is a special day?”

“Yes.”

“You did? How did you know?”

Because it was Michael's birthday, but she didn't want to tell him that He was going to be twenty-five years old today. She wondered what he was doing.

“I just knew, that's all.”

“Well, it's special to me because this is the beginning. Our first surgery together, our first step on a wonderful road toward a new you. How about that?” He smiled at her then, and she quietly closed her eyes and fell asleep. The shot had taken effect.

“Happy birthday, boss.”

“Don't call me that, you jerk. Christ, you look lousy, Ben.”

“Thanks a lot.” Ben looked over at his friend as he hobbled into the office with crutches and the assistance of a secretary. She eased him into a chair and withdrew from Michael's overstuffed and much paneled office. “This is some place they fixed up for you. Is mine gonna look like this?”

“If not, you can have this one. I hate it.”

“That's nice. So what's new?” The talk between them was still strained. They had seen each other twice since Ben arrived from Boston, but the effort of staying off the subject of Nancy was almost too much for them. It was all either of them could think of. “The doctor says I can start work next week.”

Michael laughed and shook his head. “You're stark staring crazy, Ben.”

“And you're not?”

A cloud passed over Mike's eyes. “I didn't break anything.” Nothing you could see anyway. “I told you, you've got a month. Two if you need it. Why don't you go to Europe with your sister?”

“And do what? Sit in a wheelchair and dream about bikinis? I want to come to work. How about two weeks?”

“We'll see.” There was a long silence and then suddenly Mike looked at his friend with an expression of bitterness Ben had never seen before. “And then what?”

“What do you mean, Mike, ‘and then what?’”

“Just that. We work our asses off for the next fifty years, screw as many people as we can, make as much money as we can, and so what? So Goddamn what?”

“You're in a wonderful mood. What happened? Slam your finger in your desk this morning?”

“Oh for Chrissake, be serious for a change, will you? I mean it. Don't you ever think of that? What the hell does it all mean?” Ben knew what he meant, and there was no avoiding the questions now.

“I don't know, Mike. The accident made me think of that, too. It made me ask myself what's important in my life, what I believe in.”

“And what did you come up with?”

“I'm not sure. I think I'm just grateful to be here. Maybe it taught me how important life is, how good it is while you have it.” There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. “I still don't understand why it happened the way it did. I wish … I wish ….” His voice broke on the words. “I wish it had been me.”

Mike closed his eyes on the tears in his own eyes and then came slowly around the desk to his friend. They stood there for a moment, the two of them, tears running slowly down their faces, holding tight to each other, and feeling the friendship of ten years comfort them as little else could. “Thanks, Ben.”

“Hey, listen.” Ben wiped the tears from his cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket. “You want to go out and get smashed? Hell, it's your birthday, why not?” For a minute Mike laughed, and then like a small boy drawn into a conspiracy, he nodded.

“Hell, it's almost five o'clock. I don't have any more meetings I'm supposed to be at. We'll go to the Oak Room and tie one on.” He assisted Ben from the room, and then into a cab, and half an hour later they were well on their way to a major blow-out. Mike didn't get back to his mother's apartment until after midnight, and when he did he required a considerable amount of help from the doorman to get upstairs. The next morning when the maid came in, she found him asleep on the floor of his room. But at least he had gotten through the birthday.

He could hardly see when he got to the breakfast table the next morning. His mother was already there, in a black dress, reading The New York Times.

He wanted to throw up when he smelled the sweet rolls and coffee.

“You must have had an interesting time last night.” Her tone was glacial.

“I was out with Ben.”

“So your secretary told me. I hope you won't make a habit of this.”

Oh, Jesus. Why not? “What? Getting smashed?”

“No. Leaving early. And actually, the other, too. You must have looked charming when you came home.”

“I can't remember.” He was trying desperately not to gag on his coffee.

“There's something else you didn't remember.” She put the paper down on the table and glared at him. “We had a dinner date last night, at Twenty-one. I waited for you for two hours. With nine other people. Your birthday—remember?”

Christ. That would have been all he needed. “You never told me about nine people. You just asked me to dinner. I thought it would have been just the two of us.” It was a moot point now, of course.

“And it was all right to stand up just me, is that it?”

“No, I just forgot, for Chrissake. This wasn't exactly my favorite birthday.”

“I'm sorry.” But she didn't sound as though she remembered why this birthday was different, or as though she really cared. She sounded miffed.

“And that brings up another point, Mother. I'm going to move out and get my own place.”

She looked up, surprised “Why?”

“Because I'm twenty-five years old. I work for you, Mother. I don't have to live with you, too.”

“You don't ‘have’ to do anything.” She was beginning to wonder about the Avery boy and just what kind of influence he was. This sounded like his idea.

“Mother, let's not get into this now. I have an incredible headache.”

“Hangover.” She looked at her watch and stood up. “I'll see you at the office in half an hour. Don't forget the meeting with the people from Houston. Are you up to it?”

“I will be. And Mom … I'm sorry about the apartment, but I think it's time.”

She looked at him sternly for a moment and then let out a small sigh. “Maybe it is, Michael. Maybe it is. Happy birthday, by the way.” She bent down to kiss him, and he even smiled despite the terrible ache in his head. “I left you a little present on your desk.”

“You shouldn't have.” There was no present that mattered anymore. Ben had understood that. He had given him nothing.

“Birthdays are birthdays after all, Michael. See you at the office.”

After she left he sat for a long time in the dining room, looking at the view. He knew just the apartment he wanted. Only it was in Boston. But he was going to do his damnedest to find one just like it in New York. In some ways he still hadn't given up the dream. Even though he knew he was crazy to cling to it.

Chapter 9

“Hi, Sue. Is Mr. Hillyard in?” Ben had the look of five o'clock as he arrived at Mike's office door: not quite disheveled, but relieved that the day was almost over. He'd barely had time to sit down all day long, let alone relax.

“He is. Shall I let him know you're here?” She smiled at him, and he felt his eyes drawn to the carefully concealed figure. Marion Hillyard did not approve of sexy secretaries, even for her son … or was it especially for her son? Ben wondered as he shook his head.

“No, thanks. I'll announce myself.” He strode past her desk, carrying the files that had been his excuse, and knocked on the heavy oak door. “Anybody home?” There was no answer so he knocked again. And still got no reply. He turned questioningly to the secretary. “You're sure he's in there?”

“Positive.”

“Okay.” Ben tried again and this time a hoarse croak from the other side urged him in. Ben cautiously opened the door and looked around “You asleep or something?” Michael looked up and grinned at his friend.

“I wish. Look at this mess.” He sat surrounded by folders, mock-ups, drawings, designs, reports. It was enough to keep ten men busy for a year. “Sit down, Ben.”

“Thanks, boss.” Ben couldn't resist teasing him.

“Oh, shut up. What's with the files you brought me?” He ran a hand through his hair and sat back in the heavy leather desk chair he had grown accustomed to. He had even gotten used to the impersonal prints on the walls. It didn't matter anymore. He didn't give a damn. He never looked at the walls, or his office, or his secretary … or his life. He looked at the work on his desk and very little else. It had been four months. “Please don't tell me you've brought me another set of problems with that damn shopping center in Kansas City. They're driving me nuts.”

“And you love it. Tell me, Mike, what was the last movie you saw? Bridge on the River Kwai, or Fantasia? Don't you ever get the hell out of here?”

“When I get the chance.” Michael looked at some papers as he answered. “So what's with the files?”

“They're a decoy. I just wanted to come and talk to you.”

“And you can't do that without an excuse?” Michael grinned up at him. It was like being Kids again, visiting each other's study halls with fake homework to consult on.

“I keep forgetting your mother isn't old Sanders up at St Jude's.”

“Thank God.” Actually they both knew she was worse, but neither of them could afford to admit it. She detested seeing people “float around” the halls, as she put it, and she was usually quick to glance at whatever files they were carrying. “So what's up, Ben? How were the Hamptons this summer?”

Ben sat very still for a moment, watching him, before he answered. “Do you really care?”

“About you, or the Hamptons?” Michael's smile looked pasted on, and he had the ghostly pallor of December, not September. It was obvious he had gone nowhere all summer. “I care a lot about you, Ben.”

“But not about yourself. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You'd scare Frankenstein's mother.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Don't mention it. Anyway, that's why I'm here.”

“On behalf of Frankenstein's mother?”

“No, mine. We want you to come up to the Cape this weekend. They do. I do. We all do. And listen, if you say no, I'll come across that desk and drag you out of here. You need to get out of here, damn it.” Ben wasn't smiling anymore. He was dead serious, and Mike knew it. But he shook his head.

“I'd love to, Ben. But I can't I've got Kansas City to worry about, and forty-seven thousand problems with it that we just can't seem to solve. You know. You were in that meeting yesterday.”

“So were twenty-three other people. Let them handle it. For a weekend at least. Or is your ego such that you can't let anyone else touch your work?”

But they both knew it wasn't that Work had become his drug. It numbed him to everything else. And he had been abusing the job since the day he walked into the office.

“Come on, Mike. Be good to yourself. Just this once.”

“I just can't, Ben.”

“Goddamn it, man, what do I have to say to you? Look at yourself. Don't you care? You're killing yourself, and for what?” His voice roared across the office and hit Michael with an almost physical force as he watched his friend's face convulse with emotion. “What the hell's the use, Mite? If you kill yourself, it won't bring her back. You're alive, damn it. Twenty-five years old and alive—and wasting your life, driving yourself like your Goddamn mother. Is that what you want? To be like her? To live, eat; sleep, drink, and die this Goddamn business? Is that it for you now? Is that who you are? Well, I don't believe it. I know someone else in that skin of yours, mister, and I love that other person. But you happen to be treating him like a dog, and I won't let you do it. You know what you should be doing? You should be out there, living. You should be out there making it with that good-looking secretary who sits outside your office, or ten other broads you meet at the best parties in town. Get off your ass and get out of your casket, Mike, before—”

But Mike cut him off before he could finish. He was leaning halfway across the desk at him, shaking, and even paler than he had been before. “Get the hell out of my office, Ben, before I kill you. Get out!!” It was the roar of an injured lion, and for a moment the two men stood staring at each other, shaken and frightened by what they had felt and said. “I'm sorry.” Mike sat down again and dropped his head into his hands. “Why don't we just let this go for today?” He never looked up at Ben, who walked slowly across the room, squeezed his shoulder, and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. There was nothing left to say.

Michael's secretary looked at Ben questioningly as he walked past, but said nothing. She had heard Mike's roar at the very end. The whole floor could have, if they'd been listening. Ben passed Marion in the hall on the way back to his office, but she was busy with something Calloway was showing her and Ben wasn't in the mood for the usual pleasantries. He was sick of her, and what she was letting Mike do to himself. It served her purposes to have him work like that; it was good for the business, for the empire, for the dynasty … and it made Ben Avery sick.

He left the office at six thirty that night, and when he looked up from the street, he could still see the lights burning in Mike's office. He knew they would still be lit at eleven or twelve that night. And why not? What the hell did he have to go home to? The empty apartment he had rented three months before? He had found an attractive little apartment on Central Park South, and something about the layout had reminded Ben of Nancy's place in Boston. He was sure Mike had noticed that, too. Maybe that was why he had taken it. But then something had happened. What little life had been left had gone out of him. He had begun this insane work thing, a marathon of madness. So he never bothered to do anything with the apartment. It just sat there, cold and empty and lonely. The only furniture he had put in it were two folding chairs, a bed, and an ugly old lamp which stayed on the floor. The whole place rang with empty echoes; it looked as though the tenant had been evicted that morning. Ben got depressed just thinking about coming home to such a place, and he could imagine what it did to Mike—if he even noticed his surroundings anymore, which Ben was beginning to doubt. He had given him three plants for the place in early July, and all of them had been dead by the end of the month. Like the ugly lamp, they just sat there, unloved and forgotten.

Ben didn't like what was happening, but there was nothing anyone could do. No one except Nancy, and she was dead. Thinking about her still gave Ben an almost physical pang, like the twinge he felt in his ankle and his hip when he got tired. But the breaks had repaired quickly; youth had served him well. He only hoped it did the same for Mike. But Mike's breaks were compound fractures of parts of him that didn't even show. Except in his eyes. Or his face at the end of a day … or the set of his mouth in an unguarded moment as he sat at his desk and looked into the distance, at the endless stretch of the view.

Chapter 10

“Well, young lady? Did I keep my promise? Do you have the most spectacular view in town?” Peter Gregson sat on the terrace with Nancy, and they exchanged a glowing look. Her face was still heavily bandaged, but her eyes danced through the bandages and her hands were free now. They looked different, but they were lovely as she made a sweeping gesture around her. From where they sat, they could see the entire bay, with the Golden Gate Bridge at their left, Alcatraz to their right, Marin County directly across from them, and from the other side of the terrace, an equally spectacular city view toward the south and east. The wraparound terrace also gave her an equal share of sunrises and sunsets, and boundless pleasure as she sat there all day. The weather had been glorious since she'd gotten the apartment. Peter had found the place for her, as promised.

“You know, I'm getting horribly spoiled.”

“You deserve to be. Which reminds me, I brought you something.”

She clapped her hands like a little girl. He always brought her something. A silly thought, a pile of magazines, a stack of books, a funny hat, a beautiful scarf to drape over the bandages, wonderful clattery bracelets to celebrate her new hands. It was a constant flow of gifts, but today's was the largest of all. With a mysterious look of pleasure, he left his seat on the terrace and went inside. The box he brought back was fairly large and looked as though it might be quite heavy. When he dropped it on her lap, she found her guess had been correct.

“What is it, Peter? It feels like a rock.” She smiled through the bandages and he laughed.

“Yes, the largest emerald I could find in the dime store.”

“Perfect!” But the gift was even more perfect than she suspected. The contents of the mysterious box proved to be a very expensive and highly elaborate camera. “Peter! My God, what a gift! I can't—”

“You most certainly can. And I expect to see some serious work done with it.”

They both knew how disturbed she was that she didn't seem to want to paint anymore. And now she no longer had the excuse of bandaged hands. But she couldn't. Something in her stopped every time she even thought of it. The paintings the nurses had brought from her Boston apartment were still enclosed in the large black artist's portfolio shoved to the back of a storage closet. She didn't want to see them, let alone work on them. But a camera might be different. Peter saw the spark in her eyes and prayed that he had opened a new door. She needed new doors. None of the old ones were going to reveal what she wanted them to. It would be better for her to start fresh.

“There is a fabulously complicated instruction booklet, which ten years of medical school never prepared me for. Maybe you can figure it out.”

“Hell, yes.” She glanced into the thick booklet and sat lost in concentration for a few moments, holding the camera and forgetting her friend, and then waved the booklet absently. “It's fantastic, Peter. Look … this thing over here, if you flick that…”

She was gone, totally enthralled, and Peter sat back with a comfortable smile. It was half an hour later before she noticed him again. She looked up suddenly with delight in her eyes, and they told him how grateful she was. “It's the most beautiful gift I've ever had.” Except for Michael's blue beads at the fair … but she forced them quickly from her mind. Peter was used to the sudden clouds which flitted across her eyes as old thoughts came to haunt her. He knew they would leave her in time. “Did you bring film?”

“Of course.” He pulled another, smaller box out of the wrappings and plonked it in her lap. “Would I forget film?”

“No. You never forget anything.” She was quick to load the camera and begin shooting photographs of him, and then of the view, and then a quick series of a bird as it flew past the terrace. “They'll probably be awful, but it's a start.” He watched her silently for a long time, and then he put an aim around her shoulders and they went inside.

“You know, I have another gift for you today, Nancy.”

“A Mercedes. See, I always guess.”

“No. This one's serious.” He looked down at her with a gentle, cautious smile. “I'm going to share a friend with you. A very special lady.” For an insane moment, Nancy felt a ripple of jealousy course down her spine, but something in Peter's face told her that she didn't need to feel that way. He sensed her watching him closely, though, as he went on. “Her name is Faye Allison, and we went to medical school together. She is, without a doubt, one of the most competent psychiatrists in the West, maybe in the country, and she's a very good friend and a very special person. I think you're going to like her.”

“And?” Nancy waited, tense but curious.

“And … I think it might be a good idea for you to see her for a while. You know that. We've talked about it before.”

“You don't think I'm adjusting well?” She sounded hurt, and put the camera down to look at him more seriously.

“I think you're doing remarkably well, Nancy, but if nothing else, you need another person to talk to. You have Lily and Gretchen and me, and that's it. Don't you want someone else to talk to?”

Yes. Michael. He had been her best friend for so long. But for the moment, Peter was enough. “I'm not sure.”

“I think you will be once you meet Faye. She is incredibly warm and kind. And she's been very sympathetic to your case from the beginning.”

“She knows about me?”

“From the first” She had been there the night Marion Hillyard and Dr. Wickfield had called, but Nancy didn't need to know that. He and Faye had been lovers on and off for years, more as a matter of companionship and convenience than as a result of any great passion. They were friends most of all “She's coining to join us for coffee this afternoon. All right with you?”

But she knew she had little choice. “I suppose so.” She grew pensive as she settled herself in the living room. She wasn't at all sure she liked this addition to her scene, particularly a woman. She felt an instant sense of competition and distrust.

Until she met Faye Allison. Nothing Peter had said had prepared her for the warmth she felt from the other woman. She was tall, thin, blonde, and angular, but all the lines of her face were soft. Her eyes were warm and alert; there was an instant Joke, an instant answer, an instant burst of laughter always ready in those eyes. Yet one sensed, too, that she was always ready to be serious and compassionate. Peter left them alone after the first hour, and Nancy was actually glad.

They talked about a thousand things, and none of them the accident Boston, painting, San Francisco, children, people, medical school. Faye shared chunks of her life with Nancy, and Nancy gave her glimpses of herself that she hadn't given anyone for a long time, not since she had first gotten to know Michael. Views of the orphanage, real views, not the amusing ones she gave Peter. The loneliness of it, the questions about who she really was, why she had been left there, what it meant to be totally alone. And then for no reason she could think of, she told Faye about her arrangement with Marion Hillyard. There was no shock, no reproach, there was nothing but warmth and understanding in the way Faye Allison listened, and Nancy found herself sharing feelings which covered years, not just the past four months. But the relief of telling her about Marion Hillyard was enormous.

“I don't know, it sounds so strange to say it, but—” She hesitated, feeling foolish, and looking childlike as she glanced up at her new friend. “But I … I had never had any kind of family, growing up in the orphanage. The mother superior was the closest I had to a mother, and she was more like a maiden aunt. But despite what I knew about Marion, from Michael, from his friend Ben, just from what I sensed—despite all that, I always had these crazy dreams, fantasies, that she would like me, that we would be friends.” Her eyes filled with unexpected tears and she looked away.

“Did you think that maybe she'd become your mother?”

Nancy nodded silently and then blinked away the tears with a terse laugh, “Isn't that insane?”

“Not at all. It was a normal assumption. You were in love with Michael. You have no family of your own. It's normal that you should want to adopt his. Is that why your deal with her hurt so much?” But she already knew the answer, as did Nancy.

“Yes. It was proof of just how much she hated me.”

“I wouldn't go that far, Nancy. From the look of things, she's done an awful lot for you. She did send you out to Peter for a new face.” Not to mention the extremely comfortable lifestyle she had provided during the process.

“As long as I gave up Michael. She was rejecting me, for him—and for herself. I knew then that I had never had a chance with her. It was a horrible moment.” She sighed, and her voice became more gentle. “But I guess I've lost before and survived it.”

“Do you remember losing your parents?”

“Not in any real way. I was too little to remember anything when my father died, and not much older when my mother left me at the home. I remember the day they told me she had died. I cried, but I'm not really even sure why I cried. I don't think I remembered her. Maybe I just felt abandoned.”

“The way you do now!" It was a guess, but a good one.

“Maybe. That bottomless feeling of ”but who will take care of me now?' I think of that sometimes. Back then I knew the home would take care of me until I grew up. Now I know Peter will, and Marion's money will, until I'm all patched up. But then what?”

“What about Michael? Do you think he'll come back to you?”

“Sometimes I do. A lot of the time I do.” There was a long pause.

“And the rest of the time?”

“I'm beginning to wonder. At first I thought that maybe he was afraid of the way I'd look, the way that would make him feel about me. But by now lie knows about the surgery, and he must figure there's some improvement. So how come he's not here yet?” She turned to face Faye squarely. “That's what I wonder.”

“Do you come up with any answers to that question?”

“Nothing very pretty. Sometimes I think she's gotten to him, and convinced him that a girl from my 'unsavory background' will harm him professionally. Marion Hillyard has helped build an empire, and she's counting on Michael to carry on in the best family traditions. That doesn't include marrying a nameless nobody out of an orphange, an artist yet. She wants him to marry some debutante heiress who can do him some good.”

“Do you think that matters to him?”

“It didn't used to matter, but now … I don't know.”

“What if you lose him?”

Nancy flinched but she didn't answer. Her eyes said everything though.

“What if he didn't feel able to cope with all that you're going through? That's possible, Nancy. Some men aren't as brave as we like to think they are.”

I don't know. “Maybe he's waiting till it's all over.”

“Wouldn't you resent him then? For not being here when you need him?”

Nancy let out a long sigh in answer. “Maybe. I don't really know. I think about it all a lot, but I don't have many answers.”

“Only time has the answers. All you need to know is how you feel. That's all. How do you feel about you? The new you? Are you excited? Scared? Angry that you'll look different? Relieved?”

“All of the above.” They both laughed at her honesty. “To tell you the truth, it terrifies me. Can you imagine looking in the mirror after twenty-two years and seeing someone else there? Christ, talk about freaking out!" She laughed but there was real fear in the laughter.

“Are you freaked out?”

“Sometimes. A lot of the time I don't think about it.”

“What do you think about?”

“Honestly?”

“Sure.”

“Michael. Peter sometimes. But mostly Michael.”

“Are you falling in love with Peter?” There was no hesitation in the question. This was Dr. Allison speaking now, not Faye. She was thinking only of Nancy.

“No, I couldn't fall in love with Peter. He's a nice man, a good friend. He's sort of like the wonderful father I never had. He brings me presents all the time. But … I'm in love with Michael.”

“Well, we'll just have to see what happens.” Faye Allison looked at her watch and was amazed. The two of them had been talking for almost three hours. It was after seven o'clock. “Good Lord, do you know what time it is?” Nancy looked at her watch, too, and her eyes widened in surprise.

“Wow! How did we do that?” And then she smiled. “Will you come back and see me again sometime, Faye? Peter was right. You're a very special lady.”

“Thank you. I'd love to. In fact… Peter was thinking that we might do it on a regular basis. What do you think?”

“I think it would be wonderful to have someone to talk to, like we did today.”

“I can't always promise you three hours.” They both laughed as Nancy walked her to the door. “How about three times a week for an hour, professionally? And we can get together separately, as friends. Sound okay to you?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

They shook hands on it at the door, and Nancy was amazed to find herself already impatient for their first official session, only two days away.

Chapter 11

Nancy settled herself comfortably in the easy chair near the fire and sighed as she leaned her head back. She was five minutes early today, and anxious to talk to Faye. She heard the click-clack of her high heels coming across the hall to the study she used for seeing patients, and Nancy smiled and sat up straight in her chair. She wanted to give Faye the full benefit.

“Good morning, early bird. Don't you look pretty in red today.” And then she stopped in the doorway and smiled. “Never mind the red. Let me see the new chin.” Faye advanced on her slowly, looking at the lower part of Nancy's face, and at last, with a victorious smile, she found Nancy's eyes.

“Well, how do you like it?” But she could see the answer in Faye's face. Admiration for Peter's work, and pleasure for the girl.

“Nancy, you look beautiful. Just beautiful.” Now one could see the lovely young neck, arching gracefully away from the slim shoulders, the delicate chin and gentle, sensuous mouth. What one could see was exquisite and perfectly suited the girl's personality.

Peter's endless sketches and sculptures had not been in vain. “My God, I want one like that too!”

Nancy chortled with glee, and sat back in the chair, hiding the rest of her face, which was still concealed by bandages, behind the dark brown felt hat she had bought a few weeks before at I. Magnin. It went well with the new brown wool coat and brown boots she was wearing with the red knit dress. Her figure had always been excellent, and with the striking new face she was going to be a very dazzling girl. She was even beginning to feel beautiful, now that she could see something of what was to come. Peter was keeping his promises.

“It's embarrassing, Faye. I feel so good I could squeak. And the weird thing is, it doesn't even look like me, but I love it.”

“I'm glad But what about it not looking like you? Does that bother you, Nancy?”

“Not as much as I thought it would. But maybe I still expect the rest to look like me. This is just one isolated part, and I never much liked my mouth before anyway. Maybe it'll seem stranger when the rest looks like someone else too. I don't know.”

“You know something, Nancy? Maybe you ought to just sit back and enjoy it. Maybe you ought to play with this a little. Go with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you're working on being Nancy, and we've been trying to adjust to giving up pieces of that Nancy as we go along. Maybe you ought to just stand back and look at the whole canvas. For instance, did you like your walk before?”

Nancy looked puzzled as she thought about it. This was a whole new idea, and something they had never discussed in the four months she'd been seeing Faye. “I don't know, Faye. I never thought about my walk.”

“Well, let's think about it. What about your voice? Have you ever considered a voice coach? You have a marvelous voice, smooth and soft Maybe with a little coaching you could make more of it. Why don't we play with what you've got and really make the most of it? Peter is. Why don't you?”

Nancy's face lit up at the idea, and she began to catch some of Faye's excitement. “I could develop all kinds of new sides to myself, couldn't I? Play the piano … a new walk …. I could even change my name.”

“Well, let's not leap into any of this. You don't want to feel you've lost yourself. You want to feel you've added to yourself. But let's think about all this. I have a feeling it's going to take us in some very interesting directions.”

“I want a new voice.” Nancy sat back and giggled. “Like this.” She lowered her voice by several octaves, and Faye laughed.

“If you do enough of that, Peter may have to give you a beard.”

“Terrific.” They were suddenly in a holiday mood, and Nancy got up and began to prance around the room. At times like that, Faye remembered how young she really was. Twenty-three now. Her birthday had come and gone, and she was growing up in ways many people never had to. But beneath the surface, she was still a very young girl.

“You know, I do want you to be aware of one thing though, Nancy.” She sounded more serious now.

“And what's that?”

“I think you should understand why you're so willing to try out a new you. It's not unusual for orphans, as you were, to feel unsure of their identities. You're not certain what your parents were like, and as a result, you feel as though a piece of you is missing, a link to reality. So it's a lot easier for you to give up parts of the person you once were than it would be for someone who retained very dear images of her parents—and all the responsibilities that entails. In some ways it may make things simpler for you.”

Nancy was silent, and Faye smiled at her as she sank back into the cozy chair near the fire. It was a wonderful room to see patients in: it set everyone instantly at ease. She had put her grandmother's Persian carpets to good use in the room, which also boasted splendid paneling and old brass sconces. The fireplace was also trimmed in brass, the curtains were old and lacy, there were walls of books, tiny paintings tucked away in unexpected corners, and everywhere was a profusion of leafy ferns. It looked like the home of an interesting woman, and that was exactly the effect Faye wanted. “Okay, it's take you some time to think about that. For the moment, there's another serious subject we have to get into. What about the holidays?”

“What about them?” Nancy's eyes closed like two doors, and the laughter of moments before was now completely gone. Faye had known it would be this way, which was why the subject had to be broached.

“How do you feel about the holidays? Are you scared?”

“No.” Nancy's face was immobile, as Faye watched.

“Sad?”

“No.”

“Okay, no more guessing games, Nancy. Suppose you tell me. What do you feel?”

“You want to know what I feel?” Nancy suddenly looked straight back at her, dead in the eye. “You want to know?” She stood up and strode across the room and then back again. “I feel pissed.”

“Pissed?”

“Very pissed. Superpissed. Royally pissed.”

“At whom?”

Nancy sank into the chair again and looked into the fire. This time when she spoke her voice was soft and sad. “At Michael. I thought he'd have found me by now. It's been over seven months. I thought he'd have been here.” She closed her eyes to keep back the tears.

“Who else are you mad at? Yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For making the deal with Marion Hillyard in the first place. I hate her guts, but I hate mine worse. I sold out.”

“Did you?”

“I think so. And all for a new chin.” She spoke with contempt where moments before there had been pride. But they were delving deeper now.

“I don't agree with you, Nancy. You didn't do it for a new chin. You did it for a new life. Is that so wrong at your age? What would you think of someone else who did the same thing?”

“I don't know. Maybe I'd think they were stupid. Maybe I'd understand.”

“You know, a few minutes ago we were talking about a new life. New voice, new walk, new face, new name. Everything is new, except one thing.” Nancy waited, not wanting to hear her say it. “Michael. What about thinking of a new life without him? Do you ever think about that?”

“No.” But her eyes filled with tears, and they both knew she was lying.

“Never?”

“I never think of other men. But sometimes I think about not having Michael.”

“And how do you feel?”

“Like I wish I were dead.” But she didn't really mean that, and they both knew it.

“But you don't have Michael now. And it's not so bad, is it?” Nancy only shrugged in answer, and then Faye spoke again, her voice infinitely soft “Maybe you need to do some real thinking about all that, Nancy.”

“You don't think he's coming back to me, do you?” She was angry again. This time at Faye, because there was no one else to be angry at.

“I don't know, Nancy. No one knows the answer to that except Michael.”

“Yeah. The son of a bitch.” She got up and paced the room again, and then like a windup toy winding down, the fury of her pacing slowed, until she finally stood in front of the fire, with tears rolling down her face and her hands clenched on the screen in front of the fire. “Oh Faye, I'm so scared.”

“Of what?” The voice was soft behind her.

“Of being alone. Of not being me anymore. Of … I wonder if I've done a terrible thing that I'll be punished for. I gave up love for my face.”

“But you thought you'd already lost everything. You can't blame yourself for the choice you made, and in the end you may be glad.”

“Yeah … maybe …” There were fresh sobs from the fireplace, and Faye watched the slim shoulders shake. “You know, I'm scared of the holidays too. It's worse than being back at the orphanage. This time there's no one. Lily and Gretchen left last month, and you're going skiing. Peter's going to Europe for a week, and …” She couldn't stop the tears. But these were the realities of her life now. She had to face them. Faye shouldn't be made to feel guilty for leaving, nor should Peter: they had their own lives, as well as their time with her.

“Maybe it's time you got out and made some friends.”

“Like this?” She turned to face Faye again and pulled off the soft brown hat, revealing a great deal of bandaging. “How can I go out and meet anyone like this? I'd scare them to death. Look guys, it's Dracula!”

“It isn't frightening looking, Nancy, and in time it'll be gone. It's not permanent. They're only bandages. People would understand.”

“Maybe so.” But she wasn't ready to believe that. Anyway, I don't need friends. I keep busy with my camera.” Peter's gift had been a godsend.

“I know. I saw your last batch of prints at Peter's the other day. He's so proud of them he shows them to everyone. It's beautiful work, Nancy.”

“Thank you.” Some of the anger drained out of her with the talk of her work. “Oh Faye…” She sat back in the chair again and stretched her legs. “What am I going to do with my life?”

That's what we're working on figuring out, isn't it? And in the meantime, why don't you think about some of what we talked about today? The voice coach, music lessons—something to amuse you, and all part of the person you'll become.”

“Yeah, I guess I will give it some thought. When are you coming back from skiing, by the way?”

“In two weeks. But I'll leave a number where you can reach me in an emergency.” Faye was more worried about Nancy's getting through the holidays than she was willing to admit. Holidays were prime time for depression, even suicide, but Nancy seemed solid for the moment. She just didn't want her to become hysterical in her loneliness. It was rotten luck that she and Peter were going away at the same time, but on the other hand Nancy had to learn not to depend on them too much. “Why don't we make an appointment for two weeks from today. And I want to see a mountain of beautiful prints you made over the holidays.”

“That reminds me.” Nancy Jumped up again and vanished into the hallway, where she had left a flat package wrapped in brown paper. When she returned with it, she smilingly held it out to Faye. “Merry Christmas.”

Faye opened it with a look of pleasure and then of awe. The gift was a photograph of herself that looked as though she had sat for it for hours, to allow the photographer to capture just the right look, the right mood It had a dreamy, impressionistic quality; she had been standing on Nancy's terrace with the wind in her hair, wearing a pale pink silk shirt; and the sun had been setting in red and pink tones behind her. She remembered the day, but couldn't remember Nancy taking the picture. “When did you take it?” She looked stunned.

“When you weren't looking.” Nancy looked pleased with herself, and she had every right to be. The photograph was magnificent She had printed it herself and enlarged it, and then had it handsomely framed. It was as expressive as a painting.

“You're incredible, Nancy. What a beautiful, beautiful gift.”

“I had a good subject.”

The two women exchanged a hug, and Nancy regretfully shrugged back into her coat “Have a wonderful ski trip.”

“I will. I'll bring you some snow.”

“Smartass.” Nancy hugged her again and they wished each other a Merry Christmas as she left There was a tug at Faye's heart after she was gone. Nancy was a beautiful girl. Inside. Where it mattered.

Chapter 12

“Mr. Calloway's on the line for you, Mr. Hillyard.” The snow had been falling for five or six hours on the already slush-ridden streets of New York, but Michael had noticed nothing. He had been at his desk since six that morning, and it was after five o'clock now. He grabbed for the phone while signing a stack of letters for his secretary to mail. At least the job in Kansas City was off his back. Now he had Houston to worry about, and in the spring he'd be getting ulcers over the medical center in San Francisco. His job was a never-ending stream of headaches and demands, contracts and problems and meetings. Thank God.

“George? Mike. What's up?”

“Your mother's in a meeting, but she asked me to call and tell you that we'll be back from Boston tonight, if the snow lets up. Tomorrow if it doesn't.”

“Is it snowing there?” Michael sounded surprised, as though it were June and snow was preposterous.

“No.” George sounded momentarily confused. “They said there was a blizzard in New York … isn't there?”

Mike looked out his window and grinned. “Yeah, there is. I just hadn't looked. Sorry.”

The boy was killing himself, just as his mother always bad. George wondered for a moment what it was about the breed that made them so hard on themselves, and on the people who loved them. “Anyway, now that we've gotten that settled.” George chuckled for a moment “She wanted me to call you and make sure you're home for Christmas dinner tomorrow night. She has a few friends coming and of course she wants you there.”

Michael took a deep breath as he listened. A few friends. That meant twenty or thirty, all of them people he either disliked or didn't know, and the inevitable single girl, from a good family, for him. It sounded like a stinking way to spend Christmas. Or any other day. “I'm sorry, George. I'm afraid I owe Mother an apology. I've got a prior commitment.”

“You do?” He sounded stunned.

“I meant to tell her last week and I totally forgot. I was so busy with the Houston center that I just never got to it. I'm sure she'll understand.” He'd been working miracles with the Houston client so she'd damn well better understand. Michael knew he had her on that one.

“Well, she'll be disappointed of course, but she'll be pleased to know that you have plans. Something … uh … something exciting, I hope.”

“Yeah, George. A real knockout.”

“Anything serious?” Now George sounded worried. Christ; there was no satisfying them.

“No, nothing to worry about. Just some good clean fun.”

“Excellent Well, Merry Christmas and all that.”

“Same to you, and give Mother my love. I'll call her tomorrow.”

“I'll tell her.” George was wreathed in smiles when he hung up, pleased that the boy was finally recovering. Michael had been leading a very strange life for a while there. Marion would be relieved, too, though undoubtedly she'd be mad as hell for a few minutes that he wouldn't be home for dinner with her friends. But he was young after all. He had a right to a little fun. George grinned to himself as he took a sip of his Scotch and remembered a Christmas in Vienna Twenty-five years before. And then, as always, his thoughts wandered back to Michael's mother.

In Michael's office, the phone continued to ring. Ben wanted to be sure he had plans. Michael assured him that he would be at his mother's, boring but expected, and assorted clients called, alternately to complain, congratulate, and wish him a Merry Christmas. As he hung up after the last one he muttered to himself, “Ah go to hell,” and then looked up in surprise when he heard unfamiliar laughter from the doorway. It was that new interior designer Ben had hired. A pretty girl, too, with rich auburn hair that fell in thick waves to her shoulders and set off creamy skin and blue eyes. Mike never noticed, of course. He never noticed anything anymore, unless it was lying on his desk and needed a signature.

“Do you always wish people Merry Christmas that way?”

“Only the people I truly enjoy hearing from.” He smiled at her and wondered what she was doing there. He hadn't asked to see her, and she had no direct business with him, not that he knew of anyway. “Is there anything I can do for you, Miss …” Damn. He couldn't remember her name. What the hell was it?

“Wendy Townsend. I just came to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Ah. An apple polisher. Michael was amused and waved her to a chair. “Didn't they tell you I'm the original Scrooge?”

“I gathered that when you didn't show up at either the office party or the Christmas dinner last night. They also say you work too hard.”

“It's good for my complexion.”

“So are other things.” She crossed one pretty leg over the other, and Michael checked it out. It did as little for him as anything else had since last May. “I also wanted to thank you for the raise I just got.” She flashed a set of perfect teeth at him, and he returned the smile. He was beginning to wonder what she really wanted. A bonus? Another raise?

“You'll have to thank Ben Avery for that. I'm afraid I had nothing to do with it.”

“I see.” It was a pointless conversation, and she knew it. Regretfully, she stood up, and then glanced at the window. There were seven or eight inches of snow piled up on the window ledge. “Looks like it's going to be a white Christmas after all. It's also going to be practically impossible to get home tonight.”

“I think you may be right I probably won't even try.” He pointed at the leather couch with a grin. “I think that's why they put that there, to keep me chained to my office.” No, mister, you do that to yourself. But she only smiled and wished him a Merry Christmas. Michael went back to signing letters, and true to his word, he spent the night on the couch. And the next night as well. It suited him perfectly. Christmas fell over a weekend this year, so no one knew where he was. Even the janitor and the maids had been given the holiday. Only the night watchman realized that Michael never left the office from Friday until late Sunday night, and by then Christmas was over. And when he got back to his empty apartment, he had nothing more to fear. Christmas, with all its memories and ghosts, was already a thing of the past. There was a large, ostentatious poinsettia wilting outside his door, sent to him by his mother. He put it near the trash can.

In San Francisco, Nancy had spent the holiday more comfortably than Michael, but in equal solitude. She had cooked a small capon, sung Christmas carols alone on the terrace on Christmas Eve, after she came home from church, and slept late on Christmas Day. She'd hoped to keep the day from coming, but there was no escaping it. It was relentless with its tinsel and trees, its promises and lies. At least in San Francisco the weather reminded her less of Christmases she had known in the East. It was almost as though these people were pretending it was Christmas, when she knew it actually wasn't. The unfamiliarity made it a trifle easier to bear. And she had two presents this year, a beautiful Gucci handbag from Peter and a funny book from Faye. She curled up in a chair with it in the afternoon after she had eaten her capon and stuffing and cranberry sauce. It was all rather like celebrating Christmas at Schrafft's, with all the old ladies, and all your life's hopes stashed in a shopping bag. She had always wondered what they carried in those bags. Old letters maybe, or photographs, trinkets or trophies or dreams.

It was after six o'clock when she finally put down the book and stretched her legs. A walk would be nice; she needed to get some air. She slipped into her coat, reached for her hat and camera, and smiled at herself in the mirror. She still liked the new smile. It was a great smile. It made her wonder what the rest of her face would look like, when Peter was through. It was a little bit like becoming his dream woman. And once he had told her that he was making her his “ideal.” It was an uncomfortable feeling, but still, she liked that smile. She slipped the camera over her shoulder and took the elevator downstairs.

It was a crisp breezy evening, with no fog—she knew it would be a good night for taking pictures— and she headed slowly down toward the wharf. The streets were mostly deserted. Everyone was recovering from Christmas dinner, recuperating in easy chairs and on couches, or snoring softly in front of the TV. The vision she created in her own head made Nancy smile, and then suddenly she tripped, making a little shrieking noise as she stumbled. Peter had warned her to be careful of falling. She couldn't indulge yet in any active sports because of that danger, and now she'd almost fallen on the street. Her arms had gone out to save her and she had regained her balance before hitting the pavement. And then she realized that she wasn't the only one who had shrieked. She had stumbled over a small shaggy dog, who looked greatly offended. Now he sat down, waved a paw at Nancy, and yipped. He was a tangled little fur ball of beige and brown. He stared at her and barked again.

“Okay, okay. I'm sorry. You scared me, too, you know.” She bent to pat him and he wagged his tail and barked once more. He was a comical little dog, barely older than a puppy. She was sorry she had nothing to give him to eat. He looked hungry. She patted him again, smiled, and stood up, grateful that she hadn't dropped her camera. He barked at her again and she grinned. “Okay. Bye-bye.” She started to walk away, but he immediately followed, trotting along at her side until she stopped and looked down at him again.

“Now listen you, go on home. Go on …” But each time she took a step, he did, too, and when she stopped he sat down, waiting happily for her to go on. She stood there and laughed at him. He was really a ridiculous little dog, but such a cute one. She stopped down to pat him again and felt his neck for a collar, but there was none. A totally naked dog. And then suddenly, in amusement, she decided to snap some pictures of him. He proved to be a natural, prancing, posing, waving, and having a marvelous time. Nancy had made a new friend, and at the end of half an hour he still showed no sign of deserting her. “All right, you, come on.” So off they went, to the wharf, where she shot pictures of crab stalls and shrimp vendors, tourists and drunken Santa Clauses, boats and birds and a few more of the dog. She had a good time, and never succeeded in losing her friend. He remained at her side until at last she stopped for coffee. She had gotten quite good at going into coffee shops and fast food places, lowering her head so she concealed most of her face beneath her hat, and ordering whatever she wanted. Now she even had a smile to go with the thank you, and it wasn't as hard to pull off as she once had thought. This time she ordered black coffee for herself, and a hamburger for the dog. She put the red paper plate on the sidewalk next to him, and he gobbled it up and then barked his thanks.

“Does that mean thank you, or more?” He barked again and she laughed, and someone stopped to pat him and ask his name. “I don't know. He just adopted me.”

“Did you report him?”

“I guess I should.” The man told her how and she thanked him. She would call from her apartment if the dog stuck with her that far. And he did. He stopped at the door of her building as though he lived there, too. So she took him upstairs and called the ASPCA, but no one had reported losing a dog that looked like him, and they suggested she either resign herself to having a new dog, or drop him off at the shelter and have him put to sleep. She was outraged at the thought and put a protective arm around him as they sat side by side on the floor. “You look a mess, you know, kid. How about a bath?” He wagged tongue and tail simultaneously, and she scooped him up in her arms and deposited him in the bathtub. She had to be careful not to get splashed, so as not to get her face bandages wet, but he submitted to the bath with no resistance. And as they progressed, she discovered that he was not beige and brown, but brown and white. His brown was the color of milk chocolate, and his white was the color of snow. He was really an adorable dog, and Nancy hoped no one called to report him missing. She had never had a dog before, and she had already fallen in love with this one. It hadn't been possible to have a dog at the orphanage, and pets weren't allowed at her apartment building in Boston. But this building's management had no objection to pets. Nancy sat back on her heels and rubbed him again with the towel as he rolled over on his back, waving all four feet. And then she thought of a name. It was the name of a dog Michael had told her about the first puppy he'd had as a child, and somehow it seemed the perfect name for this independent little dog. “How do you feel about Fred, little guy? Sound okay to you?” He barked twice, and Nancy took that to mean yes.

Chapter 13

Nancy peeked her head around the door to grin at Faye, already cozily settled near the fire.

“And what do you have up your sleeve today, young lady?” Faye smiled at her, relieved that she looked so well.

“I brought a friend.”

“You did? I'm gone for two weeks and you already have a new friend? Well, how do you like that?” And with that, Fred bounced into the room, obviously proud of his new red collar and leash. No one had reported losing him, and as of that morning he officially belonged to Nancy. He had a license, a bed, a bowl, and about seventeen toys. Nancy was lavishing him with love.

“Faye, I'd like you to meet Fred.” She smiled down at him with motherly pride, and Faye laughed.

“He's adorable, Nancy. Where'd you get him?”

“He adopted me on Christmas night. Actually, I should probably have called him Noel, but Fred seemed more appropriate.” For once, she was embarrassed to tell Faye why. She was beginning to feel like a fool for clinging to Michael. “I also brought you a stack of my work to look at.”

“My, haven't you been busy. Maybe I should go away more often.”

“Do me a favor, don't.” A glimpse into Nancy's eyes told Faye just how lonely she'd been. But at least she had made it through Christmas, and alone. That was no small accomplishment for anyone. “And …” She drew the word out with pride “… I've made arrangements for a voice coach. Peter says It's all part of the package. I start tomorrow at three. I can't do dance class yet, because my face isn't finished, but I can do that next summer.”

“I'm proud of you, Nancy.”

“So am I.”

They had a good session that day, and for the first time in eight months, they didn't talk about Michael. Much to Faye's astonishment, it was spring again before Nancy mentioned his name. It was almost as though she were determined not to. All she talked about now was her plans. Her voice lessons. Her photography. The work she wanted to do with the photography when her techniques became more sophisticated. And in the spring she and Fred went for long walks in the park, through the rose gardens and along the remoter paths near the beach. She sometimes went on drives with Peter to out-of-the-way beaches where her bandages didn't matter. But little by little her face was emerging, and so was her personality. It was as though by remolding her cheek-bones and her forehead and her nose, he was also revealing more of the soul that had been hidden by youth. She had matured a great deal in the year since the accident.

“Has it already been a year?” Faye was astonished as she looked at Nancy one afternoon. Peter was working on the area around her eyes just then, and she was wearing huge dark glasses which hid her cheekbones as well as her eyes.

“Yes. It happened last May. And I've been seeing you for eight months, Faye. Do you really think I'm making progress?” She sounded discouraged. But she was still tired from her last surgery three days before.

“Do you doubt your progress?”

“Sometimes. When I think of Michael too much.” It was a heavy confession for her to make. She was still clinging to the last shreds of hope—that he would finally find her, and the deal with his mother would be off. “I don't know why I still do that to myself, but I do.”

“Wait till you get out in the world a little more, Nancy. You have nothing to do now but look back at things you remember, or ahead at things you don't yet know. It's natural that you'd spend a fair amount of time looking back. You have no other people in your life just now, but you will. In time. Be patient.”

Nancy sighed a long tired sigh. “I'm so sick of being patient, Faye, and I feel like this work on my face will go on forever. Sometimes I hate Peter for it, and I know It's not his fault. He's doing it as fast as he can.”

“It'll be worth the time you invested in it. It already is.” She smiled, and Nancy smiled back. The delicate shape of the girl's face had already emerged, and each week there seemed to be changes. The voice coach had done her work well, too. Nancy's voice was pitched a little lower now, beautifully modulated, and she had far greater control over the smoothness of her voice than anyone without training could have. It gave Faye an idea. “Have you ever thought of acting when this is all over? The experience might give you an incredible amount of insight.”

Nancy smiled at her and shook her head. “Making films maybe, acting in them, no. It's so plastic. I'd rather be at my end of the camera.”

“Okay, it was just a thought. So what's on your agenda for this week?”

“I told Peter I'd take some pictures for him, we're flying down to Santa Barbara for the day on Sunday. He wants to see some people there, and he offered to take me along for the ride.”

“I should lead such a life. Well, kiddo …” She looked at her watch. “See you on Wednesday.”

“Yes ma'am.” Nancy saluted with a smile, and Fred bounced out of the room with his leash in his mouth. He was used to the sessions in Faye's office. Nancy never left him behind.

When she left Faye's office, she decided to walk a few blocks toward a little park nearby, to see if there were any children to photograph in the playground. She hadn't taken any shots of kids in a while. When she got there, there was an ample supply of subjects, climbing and pushing and shoving and running. Nancy sat down on a bench for a while to watch them and get a feeling for who they were and what they were up to. It was a beautiful day, and she felt good about life.

“Do you come here often?”

Michael looked up in surprise from the bench where he sat. He had escaped to the park for an hour, Just to get away from the office and see something green. There was always something magical about those first spring days, when New York turns from gray to lush green, bushes and trees and flowers exploding into life. But he had felt sure he would be alone in the secluded little spot where he had found an empty bench. The sudden voice surprised him. When he looked up he saw Wendy Townsend, the designer from his office.

“No… I… as a matter of fact, almost never. But I was having a rare case of spring fever today.”

“So was I.” She looked embarrassed as she held her dripping ice cream stick and then took a quick lick to keep from losing a big slice of chocolate.

“That looks delicious.” He smiled at her in the warm spring air.

“Want some?” She held it out like a friendly third grader, but he shook his head.

“But thanks for the offer. Would you like to sit down?” He felt a little silly being caught in the park, but it was such a nice day he didn't mind sharing it, and she was a pleasant girl. Their paths had crossed a number of times since she'd walked into his office five months before, to wish him a Merry Christmas. She sat down next to him and ate the last of her ice cream. “What are you working on these days?” he asked.

“Houston and Kansas City. My work is always five or six months behind yours. It's kind of interesting to follow on your heels that way.”

“I'm not quite sure how to take that.” But he wasn't particularly worried about it.

“As a compliment.” She smiled at him from under long auburn lashes.

“Thank you. Is Ben treating you decently or is he the slave driver I tell him to be?”

“He wouldn't know how.”

“I know.” Mike smiled at the thought. “We've known each other for half our lives. He's like my brother.”

“He's a hell of a nice man.”

Mike nodded silently, thinking how little he had seen of Ben in the past year. He never had time. He never made time. He didn't even know what was happening in Ben's life. It had been months since he'd taken the time to find out. It made him feel guilty as he sat next to the girl, lost in his own thoughts. But a lot had changed for him in the past year. He had changed.

“You're a long way away, Mr. Hillyard. Someplace pleasant, I hope.”

He shrugged. “Spring does strange things to me. It kind of makes me stop from year to year and take stock. I think that's what I was doing today.”

“That's a nice idea. For some reason, I always do that in September. I think the idea of the ‘school year’ marked me forever. A lot of other people take stock in January. But spring makes the most sense. Everything is starting again, so why wouldn't we start our lives again each spring?” They exchanged a smile and Michael looked out over the little lake, still except for a few contented-looking ducks. There were no other people in sight. “What were you doing this time last year?” She went on. It was an innocent question, but it cut through him like a knife. A year ago on that day …

“Nothing very different from what I'm doing now.” He furrowed his brow, looked at his watch, and stood up. “I'm afraid I have a meeting in ten minutes. I'd better be getting back. But it was nice chatting with you.” He barely smiled at her before striding away, and she sat there wondering what she had said. She'd have to ask Ben sometime what was wrong with the guy. You couldn't get within a thousand miles of him.

Chapter 14

Much to Michael's surprise, Wendy was scheduled into the same meeting he was, ten minutes later. Ben had wanted her there. They were going to discuss the very early plans for the San Francisco Medical Center, and Interior Design would be a big factor. A lot of local art would be used to highlight the basic design. Ben was going to take care of finding that art himself, but Wendy would be doing a lot of the coordinating on the home front—more than usual, since Ben would be in San Francisco a lot of the time. The project was, of course, a long way away, but it was time to start working out the plans and the problems and the details.

It was a long, demanding, interesting meeting, run in great part by Marion, with George Calloway's assistance. But Michael took an almost equal part in the proceedings. This project was his; his mother had wanted it to be, from the first. Every major architectural firm in the country had been lusting after this job, and Marion intended to use it to establish Michael's name and reputation in the business.

It was almost six o'clock when the meeting ended, and Wendy was drained. She had presented her ideas well, stood up to Marion when she had to, and made a great deal of sense to Mike. Ben was proud of her and patted her on the shoulder as they left.

“Nice job, kid. Damn nice job.” He was called away by his secretary then, and Wendy continued down the corridor alone. She was surprised when Mike stopped her, too.

“I was very impressed with your work, Wendy. I think that together we're going to pull off a beautiful job out there.”

“So do I.” She virtually glowed with the praise, and from him of all people. “I … Michael, I… I'm really sorry if I said anything to offend you this afternoon. I really didn't mean to pry, and if it was an inappropriate question, I'm awfully …”

He felt a pang for her discomfiture and put up a hand to stop her as he smiled gently down at her. “I was rude and I apologize. I guess spring fever makes me crazy as well as dreamy. Can I make it up to you this evening with dinner?” He was as surprised as she was when the words tumbled out of his mouth. Dinner? He hadn't had dinner with a woman in a year. But she was a nice girl, she was doing a good job, and she meant well. And she was looking up at him, pink-cheeked and embarrassed.

“I … you don't have to …”

“I know, but I'd like to.” And this time he meant it. “Are you free?”

“Yes. And I'd love to.”

“Fine. Then I'll pick you up at your place in an hour.” He jotted the address on the back of his notepad and smiled as he hurried back to his office. It was a crazy thing to do, but why the hell not?

He arrived punctually at her apartment an hour later, and he liked what he saw. It was a neat little brownstone with a shiny black door and a large brass knocker. The house was divided into four apartments, and Wendy had the smallest one, but hers boasted a perfectly kept little garden in the back. Her apartment was a wonderful mesh of old and new, antique shop, thrift shop, and good modern; it was all done in soft warm colors with soft lighting, plants, and candles. She seemed to have a great fondness for old silver, all of which she had polished to mirror perfection. He looked around him with pleasure, and sat down to enjoy the hors d'oeuvres she had made. They drank Bloody Marys and exchanged absurdities about the various projects they had worked on. An hour flew by in easy conversation, and Michael hated to break it up and move on to dinner, but he had made reservations at a French restaurant nearby, and they never held latecomers' tables for more than five minutes.

“I'm afraid we'll have to run if we want to make it. Or do we really care?” He was startled to hear her voice his own thoughts, and he wasn't quite sure what the mischief in her eyes meant. It had been so long since he'd been out with anyone that he was afraid to misinterpret and make the wrong move.

“Just exactly what are you thinking, Miss Townsend? Is the thought as outrageous as the look on your face?”

“Worse. I was thinking we could put together a picnic and go watch the boats on the East River.” She looked like a little kid with a naughty idea. There they both were, dressed for dinner, he in a dark suit and she in a black silk dress, and she was proposing a picnic on the East River.

“It sounds terrific. Do you have any peanut butter?”

“Certainly not” She looked offended. “But I make my own pâté, Mr. Hillyard. And I have sourdough bread.” She looked very proud of herself, and Michael was suitably impressed.

“My God. I was thinking more in the line of peanut butter and jelly, or hot dogs.”

“Never.” With a grin, she disappeared into the kitchen, where in ten minutes she concocted the perfect picnic for two. Some leftover ratatouille, the promised pâté, a loaf of sourdough bread, a healthy hunk of Brie, three very ripe pears, some grapes, and a small bottle of wine. “Does that seem like enough?” She looked worried, and he laughed.

“Are you serious? I haven't eaten that well since I was twelve. I live mostly on leftover roast beef sandwiches and whatever my secretary feeds me when I'm not looking. Probably dog food, I never notice.”

“That's great. It's a wonder you don't die of starvation.” He wasn't starving, but he was certainly very thin. “Are we all set?” She looked around the living room and picked up a delicate beige shawl while Michael gathered up the picnic basket. Then they were off. They walked the few blocks to the East River, found a bench, and settled themselves happily to look at the boats. It was a beautiful warm night with a sky full of stars, and the river was well populated with tugs, cabin cruisers, and even a few sailboats from time to time, out for an evening excursion. Mike and Wendy weren't the only ones with spring fever.

“Is this your first job, Wendy?” His mouth was half-full of pâté, and he looked younger than he had in a year.

She nodded happily. “Yes. First one I applied for, too. I was really glad I got it. As soon as I graduated from Parsons I came straight to you.”

“That's nice. It's my first job, too.” He was dying to ask her how she liked his mother, but he didn't dare. It wouldn't have been fair. Besides, if the girl had any sense at all, she must hate her. Marion Hillyard was a monster to work for; even Michael knew that.

“You should do well there, Michael.” She was teasing him again, and he laughed.

“What are you going to do after this? Get married and have kids?”

“I don't know. Maybe. But if I do, it won't be for a long time yet. I want a career first. I can always have kids later, in my thirties.”

“Boy, things sure have changed. Used to be everyone was hot to get married.” He grinned at his new friend.

“Some girls still are hot to get married.” She smiled at him and took a little piece of the Brie with a slice of pear. It had been an excellent dinner. “You want to get married?” She glanced at him curiously, and he shook his head as he looked out at the boats. “Never?” He turned to face her and shook his head again, and something in his eyes cried out to her. She wasn't sure if she should get off the question or not. She decided to ask him. “Should I ask why, or should I let it be?”

“Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. I've been running away from it for a whole year. I even ran away from you today at lunch. I can't run forever.” He paused for a moment, looked down at his hands, then back up at her. “I was supposed to get married last year, and on the way to the wedding; Ben Avery, and … and … my fiancée and I … were in a car accident. The other driver was killed, and so was. She was, too.” He didn't cry, but he felt as though his insides had been shredded. Wendy was looking at him with wide, horrified eyes.

“Oh God, Michael, how awful. It sounds like a nightmare.”

“It was. I was in a coma for a couple of days, and when I came to, she was already gone. I … I …” He almost couldn't say the words, but now he had to. He had to tell someone. He had never even told Ben. “I went back to her apartment when I got out of the hospital two weeks later, but it was already empty. Someone had just called Goodwill, and her paintings had … had been stolen by a couple of nurses from the hospital. She was an artist.” They sat in silence for a long time, and then he said the words again, as though to understand them better himself. “There was nothing left. Of me either, I guess.” When he looked up he saw tears running down Wendy's face.

“I'm so sorry, Michael.”

He nodded, and then for the first time in a year, he cried, too. The tears just slid slowly down his face as he took her into his arms.

Chapter 15

“Mike, what do you think of that woman running the Kansas City office of … ” She looked over at him, sprawled out on a deck chair in her garden. He wasn't listening. “Mike.” He was staring at the Sunday paper as they sat in their bathing suits, in the hot New York sun, but Wendy knew he wasn't paying attention to the paper either. “Mike.”

“Hm? What?”

“I was asking you about that woman in the Kansas City office.” But she had already lost him. She stared at him in irritation. “Do you want another Bloody Mary?”

“Huh? Yeah. I think I'll go to the office in a while.” He gazed past her at an invisible spot just beyond her left shoulder.

“Wonderful.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He was watching her now, and he wasn't quite sure what he read in her face. If he'd tried a little harder, he would have understood instantly. But he never tried.

“Nothing.”

“Look, the medical center in San Francisco is going to have me working my ass off for the next two years. It's one of the biggest jobs in the country.”

“And if it weren't that it would be something else. You don't need an excuse. It's okay.”

“Then don't make it sound like I'm punching a time clock around here.” He shoved the paper away with his foot and glared at her as she started to steam.

“Time clock? You got here at twelve thirty last night. We were supposed to have dinner with the Thompsons, and you didn't even call me until nine forty-five, Michael. I should have gone out with them anyway.”

“Then why didn't you? You don't have to sit around waiting for me.”

“No, but I happen to be in love with you, so I do it anyway. But you don't even try to be considerate. What the hell is it with you? Are you afraid to be anywhere but at your desk, afraid someone will get their hooks into you? Are you afraid that maybe you'll fall in love with me, too? Would that be so awful?”

“Don't be ridiculous. You know what my work schedule is like. You should know better than anyone.”

“I do. Which is why I also know that half the hours you work aren't justified. You use your work as a place to hide, a way of life. You use it to avoid me. And yourself.” And Nancy. But she didn't say that.

“That's ridiculous.” He got up and strode around the narrow, well-tended garden, the flagstone walk warm under his feet It was September, but still hot in New York. After the first few happy weeks of their romance, he and Wendy had had an erratic summer. He had spent most of it working, but they managed one weekend away, on Long Island. “Besides, what the hell do you expect from me? I thought we cleared all that up in the beginning. I told you I didn't want to get—”

“You told me you didn't want to get too involved, that you were afraid to be hurt. You weren't sure you'd ever want to get married. You never told me you were afraid to be alive, for Chrissake, afraid to care at all, afraid to be a human being. Jesus, Michael, you spend more time with your dictaphone than you do with me. And you're probably nicer to it.”

“So?”

She felt a little shiver run up her spine as she watched his face. He really didn't care. She was crazy to stay with him. But there was something about him, a beauty, a strength, a wildness to him, a sorrow, that drew her like a magnet. And more than that, she sensed how great his pain was, his need. She wanted to reach out to him, to show him he was loved. But the bitch of it was, he didn't really give a damn. She wasn't Nancy. And they both knew it.

Wendy got up silently and walked into the living room so he wouldn't see the tears bright in her eyes. In the kitchen she poured herself a fresh Bloody Mary and stood there for a moment with her eyes closed, trembling, wishing she could reach out to him and find him there. But she was beginning to think he would never be “there” for her. He wouldn't let himself be there for anyone.

She drained the drink with long steady gulps and set the empty glass down on the counter as she felt his hands float softly over her satiny bronzed skin. She spent every weekend in her garden, getting a suntan, alone. She said nothing as he stood there now, just behind her. She could feel the heat from his body, and she wanted him desperately, but she was tired of his knowing that, and of his being able to have her whenever he liked. Damn it, it was time she made it harder for him.

“I want you, Wendy.” Her whole body ached for him at the words, but she wouldn't let herself. She kept her back to him, hating the gentleness of his hands as they traveled smoothly down her back and over her buttocks and then around and up toward her breasts.

“As you said earlier, 'So?”

“You know I can't deal with that kind of pressure.” His voice was as soft and smooth as her skin.

“It's not pressure, Michael. It's love. The sad thing is you don't know the difference. Is that what it was like with her, too?” She felt the hands stop and the arms grow stiff. But she couldn't stop herself. She wanted to hurt him, too. “Were you afraid to love her, too? Is it easier now that she's dead? Now you don't have to love anyone, and you can spend the rest of your life hiding behind the tragedy of how much you miss her. It certainly takes care of things, doesn't it?” She turned slowly to face him now, and there was hatred brewing in his eyes.

“How can you say a thing like that? How dare you?” For a moment he reminded her of his mother, almost as hard, almost as cold. But not quite. No one could equal Marion. “How dare you twist the things I've told you.”

“I'm not twisting, I'm asking. If I'm wrong, I'm sorry. But I'm beginning to wonder if I am wrong.” She leaned against the counter, staring at him, and then he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him. “Michael …”

But he said not a word, he only crushed his mouth down hard on hers, and at the same time tore away the top of her bikini, and then pulled hard at the bottom and it came away instantly in his hand. The little gold clasps at the sides had broken. But by the time Wendy reached the kitchen floor in his arms, she hated herself more than she hated him because she knew in her heart that she wanted to be there. At least he was alive, at least he was making love to her, whatever it took. But it took too much, and she knew it. It was costing a piece of her soul.

As they lay there panting and damp, ten minutes later, Wendy could hear the kitchen clock ticking in the silence. Michael said nothing. He only stared out at the garden, looking strangely sad.

“Are you all right?” He should have been asking her, but she was asking him. The whole affair was crazy, and she knew it, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. Sometimes she wondered what would happen when it was over. Maybe he'd have Ben Avery fire her. She almost expected it “Mike?”

“Hm? Yeah. I … I'm sorry, Wendy. Sometimes I'm really an incomparable ass.” There were tears glistening in his eyes.

“Well, I'm not sure I can argue with you on that one.” She looked up at him with a rueful smile and then kissed the tip of his chin. “But I seem to love you anyway.”

“You could do a lot better, you know.” For the first time in months he looked down at her and really seemed to see her. “Sometimes I hate myself for what I do to you. I just …” He couldn't go on, and she put her finger over his lips.