The Promise

“I know.”

He nodded silently and stood up as she lay looking up at him from the kitchen floor.

“Michael?”

“Yeah?” His face was softer now than it had been half an hour before. She had done something for him after all.

“Do you still miss her all the time?”

He waited for a long moment, and then nodded, with a look of pain in his eyes. And then, without saying anything more, he went into the bedroom to dress. Wendy got up slowly. She didn't bother with the broken bikini. It had seen a good summer's use anyway, and the little gold clips probably couldn't be fixed. She perched naked on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter and thought about what she'd seen in his eyes. When he came back to the kitchen a few moments later, he found her still sitting there, lost in her own thoughts. She looked up in surprise, and then regret as she saw him wearing jeans and a white shirt open at the neck. He had his briefcase in one hand and a sweater in the other. The briefcase told her that he was going to the office after all, in spite of the fact that it was Sunday, and the sweater told her that he would be staying late. None of it was good news to Wendy.

“Will I see you later?” She hated herself for the question. She was asking… begging. Damn his hide. And worse yet, he was shaking his head.

“I'll probably work till two or three in the morning and then go back to my place. I have to dress there in the morning anyway.” The brief gentleness of a few moments before was gone. He was Michael again, running away. She had already lost him in the ten or fifteen minutes since they'd made love. The situation was hopeless, yet she hated to give up. That kind of rejection just made her want to try harder and give more.

“I'll see you in the office tomorrow then.” She tried not to sound miserable, even to smile as she walked him to the door, but she was glad when he left her quickly, with a vague peck on her forehead and without looking back, because when she closed the door she was already crying. Michael Hillyard was a lost cause.

Chapter 16

The countryside flew past them as he floored the accelerator of the black Porsche. It was a delicious feeling, almost like flying, and there was no one else on the road. They took a drive almost every Sunday now. Peter picked her up around eleven, and they drove south as far as they wanted. Eventually they would stop somewhere for lunch, and then walk for a while hand in hand, laugh at each other's stories of the past, and eventually drift back toward home. It was a ritual she had come to love. And in an odd way she was coming to love him. Peter was very special in her life now. He was giving her back all her dreams, along with some new ones.

Today they had stopped near Santa Cruz at a little country restaurant decorated like a French inn. They had had quiche and salade niçoise for lunch, with a very dry white wine. Nancy was getting used to meals like this. It was a long way from New England and county fairs and blue beads. Peter Gregson was a man of considerable sophistication. It was one of the things Nancy liked about him. He made her feel wonderfully worldly, even in her bandages and funny hats. But one could see more of her face now. The whole lower half of her face had been finished. Only the area around the eyes was still heavily taped, and the dark glasses covered most of it Her forehead, too, was for the most part obscured. Yet from what one could see, he had not only wrought a miracle, he had done an exquisite job. Nancy herself was aware of it, and just knowing how she was beginning to look had given her an air of greater self-confidence. She wore her hats at a jauntier angle now and bought more striking clothes, of a more sophisticated cut, than she had worn before. She had lost another five pounds and looked long and sleek, like a beautiful jungle cat. She even played with her new voice now. She liked the new person she was becoming.

“You know, Peter, I've been thinking of changing my name.” She said it with a sheepish little smile over the last of their wine. Somehow it had sounded less foolish when she'd discussed it with Faye. Now she was sorry she'd brought it up. But Peter instantly put her at ease.

“That doesn't surprise me. You're a whole new girl, Nancy. Why not a new name? Has anything special come to mind?” He looked at her fondly as he lit a Don Diego from Dunhil's. She had grown fond of their aroma, particularly after a good meal. Peter was introducing her to all the better things in life. It was a delightful way to grow up. “So, who's my new friend? What's her name?”

“I'm not sure yet, but I've been thinking of Marie Adamson. How does it sound to you?”

He thought for a moment and then nodded. “Not bad … in fact, I like it. I like it very much. How did you come to it?”

“My mother's maiden name, and my favorite nun.”

“My, what an exotic combination.” They both laughed and Nancy sat back with a small, satisfied smile. Marie Adamson. She liked it a lot “When were you thinking of changing it?” He watched her through the thin veil of blue smoke.

“I don't know. I hadn't decided.”

“Why not start using it right away? See how you like it. You know, you could use it on your work.” He looked excited at the idea. He was always excited when he spoke of her work or his. And much to her astonishment and pleasure, he viewed her work and his in the same light, as though they were equally important. He had come to respect her talent a great deal. “Seriously, Nancy, why don't you?”

“What? Sign Marie Adamson on the prints I give you?” She was amused at how seriously he was taking her. He and Faye were the only ones who saw her work.

“You might broaden your horizons a little.”

This was not a new subject between them, and she put up a hand and shook her head with a firm little smile. “Now don't start that again.”

“I'm going to keep at it until you get sensible on the subject, Nancy. You can't hide your light under a bushel forever. You're an artist, whether you work in paints or on film. It's a crime to hide your work the way you've been doing. You have to have a show.”

“No.” She took another swallow of wine and looked out at the view. “I've had all the shows I want to have.”

“Wonderful. I put you back together so you can hide in an apartment for the rest of your life, taking photographs for me.”

“Is that such a terrible fate?”

“For me, no.” He smiled gently at her and took her hand in his. “But for you, yes. You have so much talent, don't be stingy with it. Don't hide it. Don't do this to yourself. Why not have a show as Marie Adamson? There's anonymity in that. If you don't like the show or what it brings you, you scratch the name of Marie Adamson, and go back to taking pictures for me. But at least give it a try. Even Garbo was a success before she became a recluse. Give yourself a chance at least.” There was a pleading note in his voice that pulled at her. And he had a good point about the anonymity of her new name. Maybe that would make a difference. But she felt as though they'd been over this ground a thousand times before. Something froze in her at the thought of being a professional artist again. It made her feel vulnerable. It made her … think of Michael.

“I'll think about it.” It was the most positive response he'd ever gotten on the subject, and he was pleased.

“See that you do … Marie.” He looked at her with a broad smile, and she giggled.

“It feels funny to have a new name.”

“Why? You have a new face. Does that feel funny too?”

“Not really. Not anymore. Thanks to Faye, and to you. I've gotten used to it.” Most women would have given their right arms to get used to that face, and she knew it.

“Should I start calling you Marie?” He was only teasing, until he saw a new light in her eyes. They were mischievous and wonderful and alive.

“As a matter of fact… yes. I think I'll try it on for size.”

“Perfect Marie. If I slip, step on my foot.”

“No problem. I'll just hit you with my camera.”

He signaled for the check and they exchanged a long, tender smile. After lunch they walked through the small beach town, peeking into shops, poking into narrow alleys, and wandering into galleries when something looked interesting. And everywhere they went Fred ran along behind them, equally accustomed to his Sunday ritual. He always waited in the car when they had lunch, and then shared their walks with them afterwards.

“Tired?” He looked at her carefully after they had meandered for an hour. Although she was gradually building up her endurance, Peter, more than anyone, was aware of how easily she tired. But in the seventeen months since the accident, she had had fourteen operations. It would be another year before she felt fully her old self, although anyone who didn't know her well would never suspect her occasional fatigue.

She always looked vivacious, but an hour's walk still required an effort. “Ready to go back?”

“Much as I hate to admit it, yes.” She nodded ruefully, and he tucked her hand in his.

“A year from now, Marie, you'll outrun me in any race.”

She laughed at both the idea and his easy use of her new name. “I'll accept that as a challenge.”

“I'm afraid you'll win. You have one great advantage on your side.”

“And what's that?”

“Youth.”

“So do you.” She said it earnestly, and he laughed with a shake of his handsome head.

“May you always see me through such kindly eyes, my dear.” But as he looked away there was a sad shadow lurking in his eyes. She caught only a glimpse of it, but she knew. There was no denying the age difference between them. No matter how much they enjoyed each other, how close they became, one could not deny the twenty-three-year gap. But she found that she didn't mind it; she liked it. She had told him that before, and sometimes he even believed her; it depended on his mood. But he never admitted just how much it bothered him. She was the first girl who had made him want to be young again, to throw away a decade or perhaps two, decades he had cherished but now found a burden in the face of her youth. “Nancy—” The new name was suddenly forgotten as he looked at her with great seriousness, a question in his eyes.

“Yes?”

“Do you … do you still miss him?” There was such pain in Peter's eyes when he asked that she wanted to put her arms around him and tell him it was all right. But she couldn't lie to him either. She was surprised to find that the question brought tears to her eyes as she shrugged and then nodded.

“Sometimes. Not always.” It was an honest answer.

“Do you still love him?”

She looked very hard into his eyes before answering. “I don't know. I remember him as he was, and us as we were, but none of that is real anymore. I'm not the same person, and he can't be either. The accident must have left a mark on him. Maybe if we saw each other again we'd both find that we had nothing left together. Like this, it's hard to say. You're left with only dreams of the past. Sometimes I wish I could see him just to get it over with. But I … I've come to understand that I never will … see him again.” She said it with difficulty but finality. “So I just have to put the dreams away.”

“That's not so easily done.” There was pain in his own eyes as he spoke to her. And suddenly she began to wonder if he had been through something similar. Perhaps that was why he always understood what she felt.

“Peter, how come you've never married?” They walked slowly toward the beach, with Fred at their heels, all but forgotten now. “Or shouldn't I ask?”

“No, you can ask. A lot of sensible reasons, I suppose. I'm too selfish. I've been too busy. My work has swallowed up my life. All of that. Also, I move too fast, I'm not really the sort to settle down.”

“Somehow I don't believe that.” She looked at him closely, and he smiled.

“Neither do I. But there's some truth in all those reasons.” He seemed to pause for a long time, and then he sighed. “There are other reasons too. I was in love with someone for twelve years. She was a patient when we met, and I was very taken with her, but I avoided getting involved. She never knew how I felt until … until much later. We seemed destined to be constantly thrown together. At every party, every dinner, every social or professional function. Her husband was a doctor, too. You see, she was married. I resisted 'temptation,' as it were, for a year. And then I couldn't anymore. We fell in love, and we had a beautiful time together.

“We talked about getting married, running off together, having a child. But we never did. We simply went on as we were—for twelve years. I can't understand how we did it for so long, but I suppose things happen that way. They just go on and on and on, and one day you wake up and ten years have gone by, or eleven, or twelve. We kept finding reasons not to get married, for her not to get divorced—because of her husband, my career, her family. There were always reasons. Perhaps we preferred it the way it was. I don't know.” He had never admitted that before, and Nancy watched him as he spoke. He was looking out at the horizon, and he seemed a thousand miles away even as he talked to her.

“Why did you stop seeing each other? Or—” Maybe they hadn't. As the thought came to her, she blushed. Maybe she was prying. It was possible that there was a great deal about Peter's life that she didn't know, and had no right to know. She had never thought of that before. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” His eyes and his thoughts came back to her with their usual gentleness. “There's nothing you can't ask me. No, she died. Four years ago, of cancer. I was with her most of the time, except on the last day. I think …. I Richard knew at the end. It didn't matter anymore. We had both lost her, and I think he was grateful that she didn't leave him in the years before. We mourned her together. She was an incredible woman. She was … very much like you.” There were tears in his eyes when he looked at her, and Nancy felt tears come to her own eyes. Without thinking, she reached up with a careful hand and wiped the tears softly from his cheeks, and then without taking her hand away from his cheek she moved gently toward him and kissed him, softly, on the lips. They stood there for a long, silent moment, very close, with their eyes closed, and then she felt Peter's arms go around her, and she felt more at peace than she had in over a year. She felt safe. He held her that way for what seemed like a very long time, and then he bent his face down to hers and kissed her with the pent-up passion of four years. He had had other women since Livia had died, but there had been no one he had loved. Not until Nancy. “Do you know that I love you?” He stepped back and looked down at her with a smile she had never seen before. It made her feel at once happy and sad, because she wasn't sure she was ready yet to give him all that he was giving her. She loved him, but not … not the way his eyes told her he loved her.

“I love you, too, Peter. In my own peculiar way.”

“That'll do for now.” livia had told him that at first, too. It was frightening, sometimes, how much alike they were. “You know, Faye helped me a great deal when she died. That was why I thought she'd be good for you.” She had also helped him in other ways, but that didn't matter, not now.

“You were right. She's been wonderful. You both have.” She took his hand then, and they began to walk back up the beach. “Peter … I… I don't know how to say this, but … I don't want to hurt you. I do love you, but I'm still packing up my past. Piece by piece, bit by bit. It may still take me a little time.”

“I'm in no hurry. I'm a man of great patience.”

“Good. Because I want you to be there when I'm ready.”

“I'll be there. Don't worry.” And the way he said it made her feel happy and warm. She wondered if perhaps she did love him more than she knew. And then as they walked along, she had a sudden thought. It frightened her and excited her, but she knew that she wanted to do it. He caught the sparkle in her eye when she looked up at him as they got back to the car. “And just what exactly do you have up your sleeve?”

“Never mind.”

“Oh, God. Now what?” Several weeks before she had phoned him one morning at dawn, to tell him he had to get up to watch the sensational sunrise. “Nancy … no, Marie. From now on, it's Marie, and only Marie. But tell me, is Marie as outrageous as Nancy?”

“More so. She has all kinds of new ideas.”

“Oh, no, spare me.” But he didn't look as though he wanted to be spared. Not for a moment. “A little hint maybe? Just a small one?” But she was shaking her head and laughing at him as Fred hopped onto her lap and Peter started the car. “Well, I have an idea for you myself. The work on your face will be done by the end of the year. How about starting the new year with a show of the photographic artwork of Marie Adamson? Will you agree to that?”

“I might.” She was actually beginning to like the idea, and something had happened that afternoon to make her feel brave again. Maybe telling him how she felt about Michael, hearing about the woman he had loved … being in his arms, being kissed by a man again. “I'll think about the show.”

“No. Promise me. In fact—” He took the key out of the ignition, slipped it under him on the seat, and turned to smile at her. “I won't take you home until you agree to a show, and I hope you're too much of a lady to wrestle me for the key.”

“Okay. You win.” She ruffled Fred's fur and laughed. “I give up. I'll have a show.”

“As easy as that?” He was stunned.

“As easy as that. But just how do you propose I go about getting myself shown?”

“Leave that to me. Is that a deal?”

“Yes, sir, it is.” She trusted him with her work as much as she had with her face and her life.

“Darling, you won't regret it.” He gently took her face in his hands, kissed her, and started the car again. It had been a beautiful day.

They drove home slowly along the coast, and Peter regretfully stopped the car in front of her house at six o'clock. He hated to see the day end. But he wanted her to rest.

“Okay, young lady. Get a good night's sleep. I want to see you in the office bright and early tomorrow.” He was removing more of the bandages the nest day, and two more operations were scheduled for the next two months. But by December she would be through with surgery, and in January she would be 'unveiled.'

“Do you want to come up?” She wasn't really sure she wanted him to, and was slightly relieved when he said no.

“We'll have dinner sometime this week. I'll have some news by then about the show.”

“I won't be disappointed if you don't.”

He smiled as she and Fred got out of the car, and she waved as she walked into the building. But she was already thinking of something else. She had thought of it on the beach as they walked back to the car, and now she knew it was something she had to do. Something she wanted to do. She walked straight to the closet without taking off her coat, and reached behind her clothes until she found it. She pulled it out into the hallway and looked at it for a long time before opening it. It was dusty, and she was almost afraid to open it, but she had to. Slowly, she pulled at the zipper, and the large black artist's portfolio opened at her feet, revealing sketches, a few small paintings, and some unfinished work. But at the top of the pile was what she was looking for. She sank down onto the floor and looked at it thoughtfully. She had intended it to be Michael's wedding present, a year and a half ago. The landscape with the boy hidden in the tree. She sat there holding it, and slowly the tears slid down her face. It had taken eighteen months to face that again. But she had now, and she was going to finish it. For Peter.

Chapter 17

It was a brisk, chilly day as Marie pulled down the brim of her white fedora, raised the collar of her bright red wool coat, and walked the last few blocks to Faye Allison's office. Fred was at her side, as always, and his collar and leash were exactly the same red as her coat. Nancy smiled down at him as they turned the last corner. She was in high spirits, which even the fog couldn't dampen. She ran up the steps to Faye's office, and let herself in.

“Hello! I'm here!” Her voice sang out in the warm, cozy house, and a moment later there was a quick answer from upstairs. Marie slipped out of her coat. She was wearing a simple white wool dress with a gold pin Peter had given her a few months before. Almost absentmindedly, she glanced in the mirror and pulled her hat to a jauntier angle and then smiled at what she saw. The glasses were at last gone, and she could finally see eyes when she looked in the mirror. Only a few narrow bands of tape remained, high on her fore-head. And in a few weeks they would be gone, too. Finished. The job was done.

“Pleased with what you see, Nancy?” She suddenly noticed Faye standing behind her, an affectionate smile on her face, and she nodded.

“Yes, I guess I am. I'm even used to myself now. But you're not!" There was mischief in her eyes as she turned and grinned impishly at her friend.

“What do you mean?”

“You keep calling me ‘Nancy.’ It's Marie now, remember? It's official.”

“I'm sorry.” Faye shook her head and led the way into the cozy room where they always talked. “I keep slipping.”

“You certainly do.” But Marie didn't look upset as she slid into her favorite chair. “I guess old habits are hard to break.” Her face grew somber as she said the words, and Faye waited for the rest of her thoughts. “I've been thinking of that a lot lately. But I think I'm finally over him.” She said it quietly, looking into the fire.

“Michael?” Marie only nodded and then finally looked up with great seriousness in her face. “What makes you think you're over him?”

“I think I decided to be. I don't have much choice. The fact of it is, Faye, it's been almost two years since the accident. Nineteen months to be exact. He hasn't found me. He didn't tell his mother to go to hell, that he had to be with me no matter what. Instead he just let it go.” Her eyes looked for Faye's and then held fast. “He let me go. Now I have to let him go.”

“That's not easy. You've expected a lot of him for a long time.”

“Too long. And he let me down.”

“How does that make you feel about yourself?”

“Okay, I guess. I'm mad at him, not at me.”

“You're not angry at yourself anymore for your deal with his mother?” Faye was pressing a tender area and she knew it, but the ground had to be covered.

“I had no choice.” The voice was cool and hard.

“But you don't reproach yourself?”

“Why should I? Do you suppose Michael reproaches himself that he let me down? That he never bothered to come to me after the accident? Do you think it's given him sleepless nights?”

“Is it still giving you sleepless nights, Nancy? That's what interests me.”

“Marie, damn it. And no, it's not. I decided to put the dreams away. I've lived with this nonsense for too long.” She sounded convincing, but Faye was still not entirely sure how the girl felt.

“So now what?” What would take Michael's place? Or who? Peter?

“Now I work. First, I take a vacation in the South-west, over the Christmas holiday. There are some beautiful areas I want to photograph. I've already made my plans. Arizona, New Mexico. I might fly into Mexico for a couple of days.” She looked pleased as she said it, but there was still something hard in her face, masking something sad. She had had another loss. She had finally let herself lose Michael. It had taken a very long time. “I'll be gone for about three weeks. That ought to take care of the holidays pretty nicely.”

“And then what?”

“Work, work, and more work. That's all I care about right now. Peter got the show all set up for me. It's going to be in January. And you'd better be there!”

Faye smiled. “You don't think I'd miss it, do you?”

“I hope not. I've picked out some work for the show that I really love. You haven't seen most of it, nor has Peter. I hope he likes it too.”

“He will. He loves everything you do. Which brings up a question, Nan … sorry, Marie. What about Peter? How do you feel about all that?”

Marie sighed and then looked back into the fire. “Ifeel a lot of different things about Peter.”

“Do you love him?”

“In a way.”

“Could he ever replace Michael in your life?”

“Maybe. I keep trying to let him take Michael's place, but something stops me. I'm not ready. I don't know, Faye … I feel guilty not to be giving him more. He does so much for me. And … I know how much he cares.”

“He's a very patient man.”

“Maybe too patient. I'm afraid to hurt him.” She looked into Faye's eyes again, and her own were troubled. “I care about him a great deal.”

“Then you'll just have to see what happens. Maybe you'll feel freer now that you've decided to let Michael go out of your life.” Faye saw the muscles tighten around Marie's mouth as she heard the words. “Marie? You're not giving up on people are you? Giving up on love?”

“No. Why should I?” But the answer was too quick and too glib.

“You shouldn't. Michael failed you. He's one man, not all men. Don't forget that. There's someone out there for you. Maybe Peter, maybe someone else. But there's someone. You're a beautiful girl, and you're twenty-three years old. You have a whole life ahead of you.”

“That's what Peter says, too.” But she didn't look as though she believed it. And then she looked up at Faye with a nervous little smile that masked both fear and sorrow. “I made another decision, too.”

“And what's that?”

“About us. I think I've about done it, Faye. I've said all I want to for a while. I'm ready to go out there, work my ass off, and beat the world.”

“Why not just enjoy it?” There was something about the girl that still worried her. She had given up on something. There was something she no longer believed in. She had been betrayed, and in a sense she was quitting. She was ready to fight for her work, but not for herself. “You've been given a wonderful gift, Marie. The gift of beauty. Don't just hide that behind a camera.”

But Marie was looking at her with marble-hard eyes. “It wasn't a gift, Faye. I paid for it with everything I had.”

They exchanged Merry Christmases as she left, but there was a tinselly echo to the words, an emptiness that still bothered Faye as Marie Adamson pulled at her white fedora and walked off with a jaunty wave back at her friend of two years. It was almost as though she were saying good-bye to those two years and walking into a new life, leaving behind everything she had once loved.

Chapter 18

When Marie left Faye's office she caught a cab and headed straight to Union Square. She had already made the reservation; all she had to do now was stop off and pay for the ticket. It would be the first trip she had taken in years, the first since the weekend she and Michael had spent in Bermuda. It had been Easter and… She forced the thought from her mind as the cab headed down Post Street into the down-town traffic. Fred sat on her lap staring at the cars passing by and occasionally turning to look at his mistress. He sensed something different; there was an electricity about her that even the little dog could feel as she pulled a cigarette out of her handbag and lit it.

“Right here, miss?” The driver had stopped on the corner of Powell and Post, next to the Saint Francis Hotel, and Marie quickly nodded.

“This will be fine.” She paid the fare, opened the door of the cab, and let Fred hop out onto the pavement. She quickly followed, stubbed out the cigarette, and looked around. The ticket office was only a few steps away, and she was rapidly inside. For once, there wasn't even a line, but it was still early in the day. Her appointments with Faye were always at eight forty-five. Were… had been … She suddenly realized again that she was through now. Free. Finished. Done. She was no longer seeing a psychiatrist. The thought frightened her a little. She felt both liberated and lonely, like celebrating and crying all at once.

“May I help you?” The girl behind the counter looked at her with a smile, and Marie smiled back. “Are you picking up tickets?”

“Yes, I am. I made reservations last week. Adams … McAllister.” It was strange using the old name again; she hadn't in two months. But even the trip was symbolic. Legally, her name would be changed on January first. When she returned she would no longer be Nancy McAllister, she would be Marie Adamson, for good. But when she left she would still be Nancy. It was almost like a wedding trip, all by herself. It was the final step in the endless process that had taken almost two years. Marie Adamson was finally, officially going to be born. And Nancy Mc-Allister could be forgotten forever. Hell, Michael had forgotten her; now she could forget her too. There was no one left to remember. Peter had seen to that. No one who had ever known her before would recognize her now. The delicate, perfectly etched face was someone other women dreamed of being, but no one she had known for the past twenty-four years. She wasn't a stranger anymore, but neither was she Nancy McAllister. And the voice was different, too, smoother, deeper, more controlled. It was a subtle voice with sexual overtones, and she liked the way people listened to her now, as though she had more to say now that she had a different way of saying it. Her hands were graceful and delicate, her movements smoother and more mature after the ballet classes Peter had finally let her take once his work was far enough along. Yoga had added to the whole. And all of it completed the picture of Marie Adamson.

“That'll be a hundred and ninety-six dollars.” The girl glanced at the computer and then the customer standing before her. She couldn't take her eyes off her—the perfect features, dazzling smile, and a grace when she moved that held everyone's attention. Everything about her made you want to ask, “who is she?” Marie wrote out her check, received her ticket, and walked back out into the December sunlight of Union Square. She held Fred in her arms so he wouldn't get stepped on, and smiled to herself as she wandered across the square. It was a beautiful day and she had a beautiful life. She was going away over the holidays; she was through with all those endless operations; she was starting a new life, a new career; she had an apartment she loved, a man who loved her. She couldn't ask for much more. She strolled into I. Magnin with a smile on her face and a bounce in her step, and decided to buy herself something pretty. An early Christmas present for herself, or maybe for the trip. She wandered from floor to floor, trying on hats, bracelets, scarves, jackets, handbags, a pair of boots, and a funny pair of gold lamé shoes. She finally settled on a soft white cashmere sweater, which with her silken skin and rich, dark hair made her look almost like Snow White. The thought amused her. And Peter would like it. The sweater molded her figure in a pleasing sort of way. Even her shape had changed in the last year, with the ballet and yoga; her body seemed to have hardened and stretched until she looked long and lean and wonderfully lithe.

She made her way to the main floor again, looking at the displays, watching the people, and finally she stopped to buy a box of chocolates for Faye. They were a suitably festive gift for the last day of therapy. She wrote on the card only, “Thank you. Love, Marie.” What more could she say? Thank you for helping me forget Michael? Thank you for helping me survive? Thank you … As she played with the thoughts, she suddenly stopped. She looked as though she had seen a ghost, and when the saleswoman handed her back her charge card, she only continued to stare. Ben Avery stood just a few feet away, looking over some very expensive women's luggage. Marie remained where she was for what seemed like an eternity, and then edged closer. She had to see him, touch him, hear what he was saying. For an insane moment, she wondered if he would recognize her; she prayed that he would, and then she knew that he wouldn't and forced herself to be glad. This way she could watch him, stand near him, for as long as she wanted. She wondered how long it had been since he'd seen Michael, if he'd taken the job with the firm. She sidled up next to him and began fingering the suede attaché cases next to the pieces he was examining. Her eyes never left his face, and then suddenly he turned to look at her and smiled his old easy smile in her direction. But there wasn't even a glimmer of recognition; instead he looked her over admiringly and then reached out a hand to Fred.

“Hi there, little fella.” The voice was so familiar that it made her feel almost weak, but she only stood there, feeling the warmth of his hand near hers as he patted the dog. She never would have imagined that just seeing a friend of Michael's would do this to hen. But this was the first link she'd had with him since … She blinked back the tears and looked at the bags Ben had been looking over. Without thinking her hand went to the chain around her neck that he had given her on her wedding night. She still wore it.

“Buying Christmas gifts?” She felt foolish making chitchat with him, but she wanted to talk to him, and once again wondered if he'd recognize her, this time by her voice. But even she knew how different she sounded now. And again he looked at her with the blank easy smile passed between two strangers.

“Yes, for a young lady, and I can't decide what to get.”

“What's she like?”

“Terrific.”

Marie laughed. It was so like Ben. She almost wanted to ask him if it was serious this time, but she couldn't.

“She's got sort of red hair, and she's … about your height.” He was looking Marie over again, and his eyes roamed over her figure almost hungrily. She didn't know whether to laugh or be upset, it was all so typically Ben.

“Are you sure she wants luggage?” It seemed a dull gift to Marie. She was hoping for something more exciting from Peter. Like maybe a new lens.

“We're going to be taking a trip together, so I thought … And the trip is kind of a surprise. I want to hide the tickets in the luggage.”

Five hundred dollars on imported luggage to hide some tickets? Benjamin Avery, such extravagance! The last two years must have been good to him. “She's a lucky girl.”

“No, I'm the lucky guy.”

“Is this a honeymoon?” Marie was embarrassed at her own nosiness, but it was wonderful getting all this news of him, and maybe … maybe he'd … She kept her smile cool, pleasant, and detached as he shook his head.

“No. Just a business trip. But she doesn't know about it yet. Well, what do you think? The brown suede, or the dark green?”

“The brown suede with the red stripe. I think it's gorgeous.”

“So do I.” He nodded happily at Marie's choice and signaled to the salesgirl. He was taking three pieces, and asked her to ship them airmail to New York. Then he did live there. She had wondered. “Thank you for your help, er … uh … Miss …”

“Adamson. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and I apologize if I asked too many questions. The holidays always have a strange effect on me.”

“Me too. But it's such a nice time of year. Even in New York, and that's saying a lot.”

“Is that where you live?”

“When I'm home. I travel a great deal for my job.”

That still didn't tell her if he was working for Michael, but she knew she couldn't ask. And suddenly, it made her ache, just standing there, being so near him, wanting to know about someone who no longer existed for her anyway—or shouldn't have. And then he looked at her again, as though something about her had bothered him. For a moment she felt her heart stop, but his smile told her that he had no idea who she was. She pulled at her hat a little to assure that he couldn't see the last of the tape and held Fred a little closer in her arms as Ben continued to stare at her.

“I know this is a crazy thing to ask,” he said, “but … could I invite you somewhere for a drink? I'm leaving on a plane in a few hours, but we could hop over to the St. Francis, if ….”

She returned the smile, but she was already shaking her head. “I'm afraid I have a plane to catch too. But thank you for the offer, Mr. Avery.”

And then his smile faded slowly. “How did you know my name?”

“I heard the salesgirl say it.”

She was quick with the response, and he shrugged and then looked at her with regret. She was an incredibly beautiful girl. And no matter how much he had come to love Wendy in the three months since their affair began, he could still have a drink with a pretty girl. It was too bad she was leaving town, too. And then he had a thought. “Where's your plane to, Miss Adamson?”

“Santa Fe, New Mexico.”

He looked as disappointed as a schoolboy, and she laughed at the look on his face. “Damn. I was hoping you were going to New York. We could at least have enjoyed the flight together.”

“I'm sure the young lady with the luggage would have appreciated that.” Her eyes scolded him, but only a little, and they both laughed this time.

“Touché. Well, maybe next time.”

“Do you come to San Francisco often?” She was intrigued again.

“No, but I will.” And then with a look at the luggage and a smile, he added, “We will. My firm is doing a big project here. I'll probably be spending more time here than in New York.”

“Then perhaps we'll meet again.” But her voice sounded almost sad. It was only Ben after all. It didn't matter how often she saw him, he still wasn't Michael. The salesgirl broke into her reverie, and she realized it was time to go. She only looked at him for a long moment as he wrote out the check for the amount the salesgirl had tallied up, and then silently she squeezed his arm. He looked up in surprise, and she barely whispered, “Merry Christmas,” before disappearing from where they had stood chatting for almost half an hour. He looked around when he had finished the check and was disappointed to find her gone. She had left so abruptly. He looked around the store as best he could through the throngs of Christmas shoppers, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had left by the side entrance, and was just then hailing a cab. She felt tired and heavyhearted. It had been a long morning.

She gave the driver the vet's address, dropped Fred off there, and jumped back in the cab to go home. She was already packed. All she had to do was pick up her bags and head for the airport. She felt a little unkind leaving Fred behind, but she didn't really want him with her this time, she was making too many stops in the three weeks she'd be gone. It was a trip she had to make alone. Her last moments as Nancy McAllister, the end of an old life, the beginning of a new. She took a last look around her apartment before she left, as though she expected never again to see it in quite the same way; and as she closed the door softly behind her, she whispered one word. She said it to herself, and to Ben, and Michael, and to all those she had once loved or known or been … good-bye. There were tears in her eyes as she walked swiftly down the stairs with her camera bag and her suitcase tightly held in one hand.

Chapter 19

She wouldn't let Peter come to the airport. Just as she had left alone, now she wanted to return alone. There had been something magical about the trip. It was a time of peace and hard work. She had spoken to almost no one as she traveled; she had merely observed, and gotten lost in her own thoughts. But as the days went by, her thoughts were lighter than they had been on the day she left San Francisco. Seeing Ben Avery again had been a blow. It had revived too many memories. But that was over now. She knew it. She could live with it. Her new life had begun.

Christmas day got lost among the others, as she took photographs in the snow around Taos. She was tempted to ski, but she didn't. She had promised Peter to avoid the risk of an accident, or too much sun. And she had kept her word. So had he. She had told him when she was getting in but asked him not to be there, and he wasn't. She looked around the airport with relief. She was alone in an army of strangers. It was comforting to be lost in the crowd. It made her feel invisible and safe. She had spent a lot of time learning to be invisible in the last year and a half. Heavily bandaged most of the time, she had felt it important not to be seen. Now she attracted more attention than she had swathed in bandages: the very way she moved, the clothes she wore, the black stetson she had bought on her trip to hide the last bandages on her forehead, the black Levis and sheepskin coat, all contributed to her visibility simply because it was difficult to hide the kind of looks she had. But she was not yet aware of just how striking she was.

She got a cab just outside the terminal, gave the driver her address, and settled back, with a sigh, against the seat. She was tired. It was almost eleven o'clock, and she had gotten up at five that morning to take pictures. She looked at her watch and promised herself to be in bed by twelve. She had to. Tomorrow was another big day. She had stayed away right up to the last moment. At nine the next morning, Peter would remove the last of the tape. No one else had been aware that she was still wearing tape. But she knew. And now even that would be gone. She was going to spend the morning alone after she left his office, and then they were meeting again for a celebration lunch. No more operations, no more stitches, no more tape. She was just like everyone else now. Her new name had even become legal. Marie Adamson had been born.

The driver let her out in front of her building, and she walked slowly up the stairs, as though expecting to find a different apartment than the one she had left. But it was the same, and she was surprised to feel a sense of anticlimax. Then she laughed at herself. What did she want? She had told Peter not to meet her. Did she expect a brass band hiding in her bedroom? Peter under the bed? Something. She wasn't sure what. She peeled off her clothes and stretched out on the bed thinking of what she had come home to. She had a lot on her mind. What would it mean now that Peter's work on her face would be finished? What if she never saw him again? But that was crazy and she knew it. He had arranged the exhibition of her work, which opened the day after the final “unveiling” of her face. He cared about her as a person, not just as a reconstruction job. She knew that. But she felt oddly insecure as she lay there in the dark, wanting someone to tell her that everything was all right, that she wasn't alone, that she'd make it as Marie Adamson.

“Oh damn. What does it matter if I'm alone?” She stood up briskly and stared at herself in the mirror as she said the words, and then in irritation she picked up her camera and almost caressed it. That was all she needed. She was just tired from the trip. It was stupid to worry about being lonely, about her future, about Peter.… With a sharp sigh, she climbed into bed. She had better things to think about, like her work.

She woke up shortly after six the next morning and was dressed and out of the house by seven thirty. When she arrived at Peter's office at nine, she had already been to the produce market and then the flower market to take pictures. She had added another shot to her series on Chinatown. And she had picked up Fred at the vet.

“My, don't you look chipper this morning—and beautiful. That's a marvelous coat.” Peter looked admiringly at the full-length coyote she had bought at a bargain price on a reservation in New Mexico. She wore it over jeans with a black turtleneck sweater and boots. And she had worn the black stetson until she got to his office. Now she held it in her hand for a moment, smiled at him in a way he had never seen before, and then poised over the wastebasket for only a fraction of a second, before crushing the hat into the bottom.

“And that, Dr. Gregson, is the last time I will ever wear a hat.”

He nodded. He understood just how important the gesture was. “You won't ever have to again.”

“Thanks to you.” She wanted to kiss him, but her eyes told him what he needed to know, and as she looked at him she realized that she had missed him on her trip. He was someone different to her now. He would no longer be her doctor after that morning. He would be her friend, and whatever else she let him become. They had not yet resolved that, no matter how often he told her he loved her. She had not yet taken the last step, and he had never pushed her. “I missed you, Peter.” She touched his arm softly as she sat down in the all too familiar chair, closed her eyes, and waited.

He watched her for a moment as he stood there, and then he took his usual seat on the little swivel stool in front of her. “You're in a hurry this morning.”

“After twenty months, wouldn't you be too?”

“I know, darling, I know.” She heard the clink of the delicate instruments in the little metal pan, and she felt the tape being pulled slowly from her forehead and her hairline. With every millimeter of skin it freed, she felt that much freer, until at last she felt nothing more, and she heard the little stool whoosh softly away from her. “You can open your eyes now, Marie. And go look in the mirror.” She had made that trip a thousand times. At first only to see a tiny glimpse, a hint, a promise, and then bigger pieces of the puzzle. But she had never seen Marie Adamson's face free of tape, or stitches, or some reminder of what was being done. She had not seen her face completely bare since it had been the face of Nancy McAllister nearly two years before. “Go on. Take a look.”

It was crazy. She almost afraid to. But silently, she stood up and walked slowly to the mirror, and then she stood there with a broad smile, and a narrow river of tears gleaming on her face. He stood behind her, at a good distance. He wanted to leave her alone. This was her moment.

“Oh God, Peter, it's beautiful.”

He laughed softly. “Not ‘it's’ beautiful, silly girl. You're beautiful. It is you, you know.”

She could only nod and then turn to look at him. It wasn't so much that her face had changed without the few strips of tape on her forehead, but that it was over. She was entirely Marie now. “Oh Peter …” Without saying more, she walked into his arms and held him tight. They stood there that way in his office for a long time, and then he pulled away and gently wiped her tears. “Look, I can even get wet and I don't melt.”

“And you can take the sun, though not excessively. And you can do anything you want to for the rest of your life. What's first on the agenda?”

“Work.” She chuckled and sat down on the little swivel stool he had abandoned, and with her legs tucked up under her chin she spun herself around.

“God, she's going to break a leg in my office. That's all I need.”

“If I do, I'm walking out of here anyway, love. I have a life to celebrate this morning.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” And apparently Fred was, too. He jumped up, wagged his tail, and barked, as though he had understood what she had said. They both laughed and Peter stooped to pat his head. “Are we still having lunch?”

There was an anxious look in his eyes and she was touched. She understood what he was feeling, too. Abandonment Anxiety. Would she still want him in her life when she didn't need him anymore? He looked very vulnerable to her as he stood there, and she held out a hand to him. “Of course we're having lunch, silly. Peter …” Her eyes held fast to his. “There will always be time in my life for you. Always. I hope you know that You're the only reason I have a life.”

“No. Someone else is responsible for that.” Marion Hillyard. But he knew how much she hated to hear the older woman's name, so he didn't say it. He never understood why Marie reacted that way, but he humored her on that point. “I'm glad I was around to help. I always will be, if you need me… for… for other things.”

“Good. Then see that you feed me at twelve thirty.” The conversation had been serious enough. She stood up and shrugged her way into the new coyote coat. “Where shall we meet?”

He suggested a new restaurant down at the docks, where they could watch the tugboats and ferries and tankers cruising by on the bay, and the hills of Berkeley beyond. “Does that sound all right to you?”

“It sounds perfect. I may just hang around down there all morning and do some shooting.”

“I'd be disappointed if you did anything else.” He swept open the examining room door with a bow, and she winked as she left, but she did not go straight to the docks as she had said. Instead, went downtown to shop. Suddenly, she wanted to buy something fabulous to wear to lunch with Peter. It was the most special day of her life, and she wanted to enjoy every bit of it. In the cab, she glanced at her check-book and was grateful for the money she had made before Christmas on some of her work. It would allow her to be extravagant for herself, and to buy Peter something as well.

She found a pale fawn cashmere dress which molded her figure breathtakingly beneath the fur coat, and she stopped at the hairdresser and let him do her hair. It was the first time in years that she had worn it back, revealing her whole face. She bought big wonderful gold earrings at the costume jewelry bar, and a beige satin rope with a gold seashell on it. Beige suede shoes and a bag, and the perfume she had always loved best, and she definitely looked ready for lunch with Dr. Peter Gregson. Or just about anyone else. She was a woman who would have stopped any man's heart.

Her last stop was at Shreve's where, as though by prearranged plan, she found precisely what she had wanted but hadn't known she would ever find. It was a little gold face made up as a watch fob, and she knew that Peter had a pocket watch he was fond of and occasionally wore. She would have the date engraved in it for him later, but for the moment this would have to do. She had it gift wrapped, hailed a cab, and arrived at the restaurant just as he was sitting down. She thought she might explode with joy as watched his face while she approached. There were a number of others in the restaurant who watched her appreciatively too, but none with the tenderness of Peter Gregson.

“Is it really you?”

“Cinderella at your service. Do you approve?”

“Approve? I'm overwhelmed. What did you do all morning? Run around shopping?”

“But of course. This is a special day.”

She did things to his feelings that he had thought couldn't be done. He wanted to kiss her there, in the restaurant. Instead he held tightly to her hand, and smiled a long happy smile. “I'm so glad you're happy, darling.”

“I am. But not just because of the face. There's the show tomorrow, and … and my work, and my life … and … you.” She said the last word very softly.

The moment meant so much to him that he could only make light of it. “I come after all those things, eh? What about Fred?”

They both laughed and he ordered Bloody Marys for the two of them, and then he thought better of it and changed the order to champagne.

“Champagne? Good heavens!”

“Why not? And I closed the office for the afternoon. I'm as free as can be—unless, of course—” He hadn't even thought of it—“you have other plans.”

“Doing what for God's sake?”

“Working?” He felt sheepish for even asking.

“Don't be ridiculous. Let's go do something fun today.”

He laughed at her answer. “Like what? What would you like to do most?”

She tried to think and couldn't come up with anything, and then she looked at him with a broad smile.

“Go to the beach.”

“In January?”

“Sure. This is California after all, not Vermont. We could drive over to Stinson, and go for a walk.”

“All right. You're certainly easy to please.” But beach walks with him had become special to her and she wanted a special place to give him her gift. She wasn't sure if she could hold out till then. But she did. She waited until late that afternoon, when they were walking hand in hand along the windswept beach. The furcoat protected her from the stiff breeze that was coming in with the fog.

“I have something for you, Peter.” He looked at her in surprise as she stopped walking, as though he didn't quite understand, and then she pulled out the little gift-wrapped box. “I'll have it engraved, if you like it.”

“Marie, that's outrageous. You shouldn't … I didn't want.…” He was touched and embarrassed as he opened the little box, and delighted when he saw the beautiful fob. He put an arm tightly around her shoulders. “Why did you do a thing like that?” he scolded softly.

“Because you're such a creep and you never do anything for me.” He laughed at the mischievous look in her eyes and this time took her in his arms for a long, tender kiss that told her all that he felt. And this time, she kissed him as she never had before, with her body as well as her heart. It made him hungry for her in a way he could barely control.

“You'd better watch that, young lady, or I'll rape you here on the beach.”

She swept open the coat with a teasing smile and laughed. “So?”

He only laughed back and pulled her into his arms again. What an extraordinary girl she was, and how well worth the wait she had been. He could let his feelings soar now: she was no longer his patient. “Darling … Marie….” She silenced him with a long hungry kiss, and he pulled away for a moment, wondering if he was reading into her response the feelings he wanted to be there. But a current of desire was running between them that he knew he wasn't imagining. “Shall we … maybe we'd better go back.”

She nodded quietly and followed him back to the car, but her expression wasn't as somber as his, and when they reached her apartment, she turned and looked at him with a smile. “I have something else for you, Peter. I'd like you to come upstairs if you have time.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She walked up the stairs ahead of him in silence, and when she opened the door of the apartment, she didn't turn on the lights. She walked straight across the living room, turned her easel away from the window, and then turned on the light. What he saw was her landscape with the boy sitting partially hidden in the foliage of a tree. She had finished it for him before she left on her vacation, but she had been saving it for this day, if not for this moment. He looked at her now as though he didn't understand.

“It's for you, Peter. I started it a long time ago. And I … I finished it for you.”

“Oh darling—” He walked toward it with bright eyes and a gentle look on his face, as though he couldn't believe what she'd done for him. It had been a day filled with emotion and surprises. For both of them. “I can't take that I already have so much of your work. You give it all to me, and then you have nothing left to exhibit.”

“You have photographs, Peter. This is different. This is a sign of my rebirth. It's the first time I've painted again. And… this painting used to mean a great deal to me. I want you to have it. Please.” There were tears in her eyes now, and he walked toward her and took her into his arms.

“It's exquisite. Thank you. I don't know what to say. You've been so good to me.”

“You don't have to say anything.” And then she kissed him in a way that said it all, and this time he was sure, too. He didn't need to ask. He simply walked into the bedroom with her and, trembling with desire, slowly slipped off her clothes. And in the soft light of twilight, with the music of the foghorns bleating softly in the distance, they made love.

Chapter 20

“Darling, can you zip me up?” She turned her graceful ivory back to him, and he kissed her shoulder.

“I would much rather zip you down than up.”

“Now, now, Peter, we don't have time.” Marie looked at him warningly and they both laughed. He was wearing a dinner jacket, and she had just put on a beautifully cut black dress with soft dolman sleeves and a narrow waist in a fabric that allowed one to see her silhouette but nothing more. It was a striking dress, and Peter was suitably dazzled.

“I hate to tell you this, my love, but no one is going to be looking at your work. They're all going to be looking at you.”

“Oh yeah?”

He laughed at her obvious disbelief and straightened the tie he wore with a soft blue shirt and his dinner jacket Together they made a very striking couple.

“Did they hang everything the way you wanted them to? I never got time to ask you.” When he had awakened at eight that morning, she was already gone. But late that afternoon he had arrived at her apartment, and an hour in bed had shown them that they had only begun to feed their hunger for each other. Then they had shared a half hour in the bath, catching up on each other's day. It was almost as though they had lived this way for years.

She smiled at him as she watched him finish dressing. “Yes, they put everything up exactly the way I wanted. Thanks to you. I get the feeling you told them to do it my way ‘or else.’ You or Jacques.” The gallery owner was one of Peter's oldest and closest friends. “I feel thoroughly spoiled. The complete ‘artiste.’”

“That's how you should feel. Your work is going to be very important, darling. You'll see.”

And indeed she did. The reviews in the paper the next day were spectacular. They sat around in her apartment over morning coffee, and grinned at what they read.

“Didn't I tell you?” He looked even more pleased with himself than she did. “You're a star.”

“You're crazy.” She plunked herself on his lap with a grin and rumpled the paper.

“You wait. You'll have every photographer's agent in the country calling you by next week.”

“Darling, you are out of your mind.” But he wasn't too far off. She was getting calls from Los Angeles and Chicago by the following Monday. She couldn't get over it, but she was thoroughly enjoying the whole thing. And she was amused by every phone call she got. Until the call from Ben Avery. It came on a Thursday afternoon, when she was developing some film. She heard the phone ring and she wiped her hands and walked into the kitchen to answer it. She assumed it was Peter. He had said he would call to let her know what time he could see her that evening. He had some kind of meeting scheduled for late afternoon. But she had plenty of darkroom work to keep her busy; there was a veritable avalanche of orders coming in as a result of the show.

“Hello?”

“Miss Adamson?”

“Yes.” She didn't recognize the voice, and the smile she had been wearing for Peter rapidly faded.

“I don't know whether we've met or not, but I met a Miss Adamson the last time I was here. At I. Magnin's. I was doing some Christmas shopping…. I bought some luggage, and …” He felt like a total ass, and for what seemed like an eternity she said nothing.

So it was Ben. Damn. How had he found her? And why had he bothered to?

“I … was that you?”

She was tempted to say no, but why lie? “I believe it might have been.”

“Good. Well, at least we've met. I'm actually calling you because I've just seen your work at the Montpelier Gallery on Post Street. I'm enormously impressed, as is my associate, Miss Townsend.”

Marie was suddenly curious. Was that the girl he had bought the luggage for? But she didn't feel she could ask. Instead she sighed and sat down. “I'm glad you liked it, Mr. Avery.”

“You remember my name!”

Oh, Jesus. “I have a memory for those things.”

“How fortunate for you. I have a memory like a sieve, and in my business that's no asset, believe me. In any case, I'd very much like to get together with you to discuss your work.”

“In what sense?” What the hell was there to discuss?

“We're doing a medical center here in San Francisco, Miss Adamson. It's going to be an enormous project, and we'd like to use your work in every building as the central theme of the decor. We're not quite sure how, but we know we want your pictures. We'd like to work it out with you. This could be the assignment of your career.” He said it with tremendous pride, and he was obviously waiting for a gasp at the other end of the line, a shriek of enthusiasm, anything but what he heard.

“I see. And what firm are you representing?” She waited, holding her breath, but she already knew the answer before he said the words.

“Catter-Hillyard, in New York.”

“Well, no thanks, Mr. Avery, it's just not my speed.”

“Why not?” He sounded stunned. “I don't understand.”

“I don't want to get into it with you, Mr. Avery, but I'm not interested.”

“Can we get together and discuss this?”

“No.”

“But I've already spoken to… I—”

“The answer is no. Thank you for your call.” And then, very quietly, she placed the receiver back into the cradle and walked back to the darkroom door. She wasn't going to do business with them. That was all she needed. She was through with Michael Hillyard. He didn't want her as his wife; she didn't want him as her employer. Or anything else.

The phone rang again before she had closed the darkroom door. She knew it would be Ben again, but she wanted to settle the matter once and for all. She strode back to the phone, picked it up, and almost shouted into it. “The answer is no. I already told you that.” But the voice on the other end was not Ben's, it was Peter's.

“Good God, what have I done?” He was half laughing, half stunned, and Marie felt herself relax at the sound of his voice.

“Oh Christ. I'm sorry, darling. I just had someone call me with an annoying request.”

“As a result of the show?”

“More or less.”

“The gallery shouldn't be giving out your number to crackpots. Why don't they take the messages there?” He sounded upset.

“I think I'll suggest that to Jacques.”

Peter was disturbed at the thought of some crazy calling her. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” But she sounded shaken, and he could hear it.

“Well, I'll be there in an hour. Don't answer the phone till I get there. I'll handle it if anyone calls after that.”

“Thank you, my love.”

They exchanged a few more words and then hung up, and she found herself feeling guilty for not telling him the truth about the call. Ben Avery was no crackpot, he just worked for Michael Hillyard. But she didn't want to tell Peter that that was what had unnerved her. He didn't need to know how shaky she still was on the subject of Michael But she was getting better every day. And fortunately Ben didn't call again that night. He waited until the next morning. And then surprised her again as she got ready to go to work.

“Hi, Miss Adamson. Ben Avery again.”

“Look. I thought we got this thing settled last night. I'm not interested.”

“But you don't even know what you're not interested in. Why not have lunch with my associate and me, we'll talk? It can't hurt, can it?”

Oh yes it can, Ben, oh yes it can. “I'm sorry, I'm busy.” She wasn't giving an inch, and sitting in his hotel room, Ben rolled his eyes at Wendy. It was hopeless. And he couldn't understand why. What the hell did she have against Cotter-Hillyard? It didn't make sense.

“How about tomorrow?”

“Look, Ben … Mr. Avery … I won't do it. I'm not interested. And I don't want to discuss it with you, your associate, or anyone else. Is that quite clear?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But I think you're making a huge professional mistake. If you had an agent, he'd tell you just that.”

“Well, I don't. So I don't have to listen to anyone but myself.”

“That's your mistake, Miss Adamson. But we'll keep in touch.”

“It's nice of you to be interested, but really, don't bother.”

“All right, all right. But I'll drop you a card. If you change your mind, call me. Here or in New York. I'll be at the Saint Francis till the end of the month, and then back at my office in New York. There's still plenty of time to discuss this.”

Maybe for you, but not for me. It's two years too late. “I'm afraid I don't agree.” And once again, she hung up. This time she left the phone off the hook when she went back to the darkroom.

Chapter 21

It was a freezing February day as Ben Avery huddled turtlelike in his coat, and ran all the way from the subway exit to his office on Park Avenue. There would be snow by the end of the day—he could feel it in the air—and it seemed as though daylight had barely emerged. It was not quite eight o'clock in the morning. But he had an enormous amount of work to do. This would be his first day back from the coast, and the big meeting with Marion was scheduled for ten thirty that morning. He had mostly good news for her.

There were already a number of people in the lobby of the building and the elevator was almost full as he rode upstairs. Even at that hour, the business world was bustling. After the slower pace of San Francisco, and even Los Angeles, it was a shock to be back in the mainstream again. In Mecca, people started early. But at least there seemed to be no one else at work on his floor when he walked down the long, beigecarpeted, wood-paneled hall to the office Marion had given him when he'd joined the firm. It was smaller and far less handsome than Mike's office, but it was well put together. Marion spared no expense on the offices of Cotter-Hillyard.

Ben looked at his watch as he shrugged out of his coat and rubbed his hands together for a moment to get warm. There was no getting used to the freezing winds and damp cold of New York. Some winters he wondered if he'd ever get warm, and why he put up with it when there were cities like San Francisco, where people lived in a temperate dream world all year long. Even his office felt icy cold. But he had no time to waste. He emptied the contents of his brief-case on his desk, and began to sort through the papers and reports. Everything had gone splendidly. With one minor exception. And maybe something could still be done about that. He looked at his watch again after a few moments, grew pensive, and then decided to give it a try. It would be a major coup if he could come into the meeting with that one last piece of good news.

Ben had brought home a few samples of Marie Adamson's work; he had had to buy them at the gallery. But he had been sure they were worth the investment; once Marion and Michael got a look at her style, and saw just how good she was, Marion herself would probably get into the act, and talk the girl into signing. He smiled at the thought that would have sent shivers up Marie's spine.

He dialed her number and waited. It was an insane thing to do. In San Francisco, it was five fifteen in the morning, but maybe if he could get her half asleep …

“Hello?” She sounded groggy when she answered the phone.

“Uh … Miss … Miss Adamson, I'm terribly sorry to do this to you, but this is Ben Avery in New York. I'm going into a meeting this morning with the head of our firm, and I want more than anything to tell her that you'll work with us on the medical center. I just thought that-—” But he already knew he had done the wrong thing. He could sense it in the silence that overwhelmed him from the other end, and then suddenly she came alive.

“At five o'clock in the morning? You called to tell me about your meeting with … for Chrissake, what kind of crazy business is this? I told you no, didn't I? What the hell do I have to do? Get an unlisted phone number?” As he listened to her, he closed his eyes, partially in embarrassment, and partially because of something else. The voice. It was strange. He didn't know why, but it sounded familiar. And it didn't sound like Marie Adamson. It was higher, younger, and different enough to strike a chord of memory that bothered him. Whom did she sound like? But he couldn't remember. “Haven't you gotten the message yet, for Chrissake?”

Her angry words brought him back to the present and the reality that he was indeed speaking to Marie Adamson, and she was far from pleased with his phone call. “I'm really sorry. I know this was an insane thing to do. I just hoped that—”

“I told you. No. I will not listen to, discuss, consider, ponder, or further speak to you about your lousy medical center. Now leave me alone.” And with that she hung up on him again, and he sat there with the dead phone in his hand, smiling sheepishly.

“Okay, guys. I blew it.” He said the words to himself, or thought he did. He hadn't seen Mike leaning easily in the doorway.

“Welcome home. What did you blow?" Mike didn't look particularly concerned. He looked very pleased to see his friend as he sauntered into the room and sat down in one of the large, comfortable leather chairs. “It's good to see you back, you know.”

“Nice to be back. But it's damn cold in this town. Jesus, after San Francisco, I may never readjust.”

“We'll be sure to keep you on the Southern route from now on, O delicate one.” He grinned at his friend. “And what was that phone call about?”

“The one and only hair in my soup on this trip.” He ran a hand through his hair in irritation and sat back in his chair. “Absolutely everything went the way we wanted. Your mother is going to be in ecstasy over the reports. With one exception. Granted it's a minor problem, but I wanted everything to be perfect.”

“Should I start worrying?”

“No. I'm just pissed. I found an artist. A girl. A marvelous photographer. I mean really a huge talent, Mike, not just some kid with a Brownie. She is brilliant. I saw her current show in San Francisco, and I wanted to sign her for the lobby decor in all the main buildings. You know, the photographic motif we all okayed at the last meeting before I left.”

“And?”

“And she told me to drop dead. She won't even discuss it.” He looked beaten as he said it.

“Why? Too commercial for her?” Mike looked unimpressed.

“I don't even know why. She went into a tailspin from the first time I called her. It just doesn't make any sense.”

But Mike was smiling at him with an expression of cynical amusement. “Of course it makes sense, my naive friend. She's just holding out for big money. She knows who we are, so she figures she'll play hard to get and hit us up for a fat contract. Is she really that good?”

“The best. I brought you some samples of her work. You'll love them.”

“Then maybe she'll get what she wants. Show me later. First, there's something I want to ask you.” Mike looked momentarily serious. This was a subject he'd been meaning to bring up for weeks.

“Anything wrong?” Ben was quick to pick up on his mood.

“No, in fact I feel like a horse's ass even asking you. It shows how out of touch I've been. But… well… is there something between you and Wendy?”

Ben searched his face for a moment before answering. Mike looked curious, but not hurt. Of course, Ben had known about Wendy's affair with Mike. But it was no secret that Mike had never cared about her. Still, Ben found it a little odd picking up his old friend's castoff. This had been the first time it had happened, and he had never been quite sure how Mike would take it when he found out. And the truth was, he and Wendy were in love. They had spent an incredible month together on the business trip to the coast. Wendy had teasingly called it their honeymoon.

“Well, Avery, what's up? You haven't answered my question.” But now there was a small smile playing around Mike's mouth. He already knew.

“I feel like a jerk for not telling you sooner. But the answer is yes. Does it bother you, Mike?”

“Why should it? I'm embarrassed to admit that I … well, I haven't exactly kept up with things. I'm sure Wendy told you how wonderfully attentive I was.” He sounded bitter at the last words, but Ben's tone was gentle in reply.

“She never said anything, except that she thought you weren't a very happy man. That doesn't exactly come as a shock to either of us, pal, does it?” Mike nodded silently. “I didn't move in on your scene with her, Mike. I want you to know that You two had stopped going out for a while. And to tell you the truth, I always did have kind of a soft spot for her.”

“I suspected that when you hired her. She's a hell of a nice girl. Better than I deserved.” And then he smiled again. “And probably better than you deserve too. Hey, wait a minute.” There was pure mischief in his eyes now. “Is this serious by any chance?”

Ben grinned at his friend and then nodded. “I think so.”

“Jesus. You mean it? You're thinking of getting married?” He was stunned. Where had he been? Why hadn't he noticed? Of course, Ben had been away for a month, but still … he hadn't paid attention to things like that in two years. “I'll be goddamned. Married, Avery. Jesus. Are you sure?”

“I didn't say that. But we're thinking about it. I'd say the odds are all for it. Do you have any objections?” But they both knew he was only teasing. The awkward moment was already past.

“No objections whatsoever.” He sat there shaking his head, with a grin on his face. “I feel like I missed a page here and there. Or have you been particularly discreet?”

“No, not at all. You've just been particularly busy. All work and no play. It will make you rich and celebrated in your field, but totally out of touch with office gossip.” Ben was only half teasing, and Mike knew it.

“You could have told me, you jerk.”

“You're right and I'm sorry, and when there's big news to report, I will. Speaking of which, will you be my—” And then he could have bitten off his tongue for what he had started to ask. He had been acting as Mike's best man the night of the accident, and now he had almost asked Mike to be his. “Never mind. There's plenty of time.” Mike stood up, nodded, and went to shake hands with his friend, but there was something dark and hidden in his eyes again. He knew only too well what Ben had been about to say.

“Congratulations, old man.” The smile was genuine, but so was the pain. “And don't worry about the photographer in San Francisco. If she's really as good as you say we'll hit her with a fat contract and a good deal, and she'll give in. She's just playing games.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Trust me. I am.” Mike saluted smartly and then disappeared as Ben mused over what they had said. He felt better now that Mike knew. He was only sorry for his own stupid tactlessness. Even after all this time, any reference to Nancy caused explosions of agony in his friend's eyes. He hated himself for bringing it up, but it had seemed a natural question to ask and he hadn't thought first. He shook his head with regret and then went back to the work on his desk. He had barely an hour before the big meeting with Marion. And it seemed like only moments later when Wendy knocked on the open door and beckoned him with a smile.

“Come on, Ben. We have to be in Marion's office in five minutes.”

“Already?” He looked up nervously from his desk, and then smiled as he looked at her. She was just exactly what he had always wanted. “By the way, I told Mike this morning.” He looked pleased with himself.

“Told him what?” Her mind was on the medical center in San Francisco and the meeting with Marion. Meetings with the great white goddess of architecture always scared the hell out of her.

“I told him about us, silly. I think he was actually pleased.”

“I'm glad.” She didn't really care, but she knew it meant something to Ben. She really didn't give a damn about Mike anymore, one way or the other. He had been unkind and unfeeling, absent from every moment they had ever spent together. It was almost as though nothing had ever happened between them. “Ready for the meeting?”

“More or less. I tried the Adamson girl again this morning. She told me to go to hell.”

“That's a shame.” They talked about it quietly as they walked down the hall to the private elevator that led to Marion's ivory tower in the penthouse. Everything on that floor was the color of sand, even the elevator, which was entirely carpeted, floor, ceiling, and walls. It was like traveling upward in a soundless, plush, creamy-beige womb, until suddenly you reached the floor which housed Marion's office with its spectacular view. Wendy could feel her palms grow moist on the file she was carrying. Marion Hillyard always made her feel like that, no matter how pleasant she was: Wendy had seen what lay beneath the poise and the charm.

“Nervous?” Ben whispered it softly as they walked around a bend to the chrome and glass door to Marion's conference room.

“You bet.” They laughed with each other and then quietly took their seats in the long, plant-filled room. There was a Mary Cassatt on one wall, an early Picasso on another, and ahead of them lay all of New York, a magnificent view that always made Wendy feel almost dizzy as she sat there on the sixty-fifth floor. It was like taking off in a plane, except for the silence. Marion always seemed to move surrounded by a hush.

There were twenty-two people seated at the long smoked-glass conference table when Marion finally walked into the room flanked by George, Michael, and her secretary Ruth. Ruth carried an armful of files and George and Michael were engaged in an earnest conversation. Little by little George had been turning over the reins over to Michael, and was surprised to find it a relief. Only Marion seemed interested in the group, and she looked around at the faces, making sure everyone was there. She looked the same sandy color as her decor today, but Wendy assumed it was simply New York pallor. She had grown so accustomed to seeing tanned faces on the West Coast that it was a bit of a shock to come back to New York and realize how pale everyone still was in the dead of the Eastern winter.

But Marion looked as chic as ever in a dress that appeared to be Givenchy or Dior, of simple, heavy black wool, relieved by four rows of very large, perfectly matched pearls. Her nail polish was dark, and she seemed to be wearing very little makeup. Even Michael thought she looked unusually pale and was probably working too hard on this project, and ten other projects as well. His mother had her finger in every pie baked by the firm. That was just the way she was. And Michael was following in her footsteps. She admired the total dedication of his work for the past two years. That was how successful empires were kept healthy, infused by the life's blood of those who nurtured them. Sacred guardians. Keepers of the holy grail.

Marion was the first to speak. She reached over for the first folder in front of Ruth and began questioning the group, department by department, discussing the various problems that had come up in the last meeting, and checking up on their solutions. All went well until she got to Ben, and even there she was immensely pleased with what he and Wendy had to say. They explained their progress in San Francisco, the results of their meetings, all the new developments, and she checked off a list in front of her and looked over at Michael with pleasure. The San Francisco job was taking shape splendidly.

“We only had one problem.” Ben said it a little too softly and her eyes were instantly on him again.

“Oh? And what was that?”

“A young photographer. We saw her work and liked it very much. We wanted to discuss the possibility of signing her for the lobby art in all the major buildings. But she wouldn't talk to us.”

“What does that mean?” Marion did not look pleased.

“Just that. When she found out why I called her, she almost hung up on me.” Marion raised an eyebrow in query.

“Did she know whom you represent?” As though that would change everything. Michael concealed a smile, as did Ben. Marion had such overwhelming pride in the firm, she expected everyone to want to do business with them.

“Yes. I'm afraid that didn't sway her. If anything, it seemed to anger her more.”

“Anger her?” For the first time all morning there was color in Marion's face, but her expression was grim. Who did she think she was, this young woman who turned up her nose at Cotter-Hillyard?

“Well, maybe anger is the wrong word. Maybe scared her off would be more appropriate.” It wouldn't, but it suited the need of the moment. To pacify Marion. The two bright red spots in her cheeks began to fade, to everyone's relief, especially Ben's.

“Is she worth pursuing?”

“I think so. And we brought back some samples of her work to show you. I hope you'll agree.”

“How did you get samples of her work if she wouldn't agree to discuss the job with you?”

“We bought them from her gallery. It was an extravagance, but if there's any problem with it, I'd be happy to buy tham from the firm myself. She does beautiful work.” And with that, Wendy quietly went to a table near the back wall and came back with a good-sized portfolio from which she took three very handsome color photographs Marie had shot in San Francisco. One was a park scenes, its composition simple; it showed an old man seated on a bench, watching some small children at play. The picture could have been sentimental, but wasn't: it was compassionate. The second was a wharf scene, the vitality of its crowds not detracting from the grinning shrimp vendor who dominated the foreground. And finally, a shimmering view of San Francisco at dusk—the city as tourists and residents alike loved to see it. Ben said nothing. He merely propped up the photographs and stood back. They were enlarged so that everyone could see clearly how fine the work was. Even Marion sat in silence for a long time, before finally nodding.

“You're right. She is worth pursuing.”

“I'm glad you agree.”

“Mike?” She turned to her son, but he seemed lost in thought as he looked at the work. There was something haunting and familiar about the quality of the art, the nature of the subjects. He wasn't sure what it was, but it instantly put him in a pensive mood that he fought to shake off. He wasn't sure why the photographs bothered him as they did, but even he had to agree that they were remarkably good work and would enhance any building with the Cotter-Hillyard name on it.

“Do you like them as much as I do?” Marion persisted. He looked at his mother with a silent, sober nod. “Ben, how do we get her?” Marion wasted no time.

“I wish I knew.”

“Money, obviously. What sort of girl is she? Did you meet her at all?”

“Oddly enough, I met her the last time I was in San Francisco. She's a strikingly beautiful girl. In an almost unreal way. She's almost too perfect. All you can do is stare at her. She's poised, pleasant—when she wants to be—and obviously gifted. Used to be an artist, before she took up photography. She looked expensively dressed so I don't suppose she's starving. In fact, the gallery owner said that she has some sort of sponsor. An older man. A doctor I think he said, a famous plastic surgeon. At any rate, she doesn't need the money. And that's really all I know.”

“Then maybe money isn't the answer.” But suddenly Marion looked as pensive as her son. She had had a mad, unreasonable thought. It would be an outrageous coincidence, but what if … “How old is this girl?”

“Hard to say. She was wearing kind of a big hat the first time I met her; it sort of hid her face. But I'd say she's … I don't know, twenty-four, twenty-five maybe. At the most twenty-six. Why?” He didn't understand that question at all.

“I was just curious. I'll tell you what, Ben. I'm sure you and Wendy did your best, and it's quite possible that there's no getting to this girl at all, but I'd like to give it a try. Leave me the information, and I'll get in touch with her myself. I have to be in San Francisco anyway, sometime in the next few weeks. Maybe she'll feel more awkward turning down an old woman than a young man.”

Ben smiled at the reference to an “old woman.” Marion Hillyard looked anything but the part. A tough middle-aged dynamo perhaps, but a withered grandmama she would never be. But his smile grew serious as he watched her face. She was growing paler by the moment, and he suddenly wondered if she were ill. But she never gave him or anyone else time to inquire. She stood up, expressed her satisfaction with the meeting, got the information she needed from Ben, and thanked everyone for coming upstairs. When she left the room the meeting was over. The brass-bordered door to her office closed softly behind Ruth a moment later, and the rest of them flowed slowly toward the elevator, commenting on progress of the job. Everyone seemed pleased, and relieved that Marion had been too. Usually someone set her off, but today she had been almost uncharacteristically mellow, and once again Ben found himself wondering if she were ill. He was among the last to leave the conference room, and Wendy had already gone downstairs when Ruth came rushing out of the inner sanctum and signaled for Michael. She looked terribly frightened.

“Mr. Hillyard! Your mother… she's…”

But it was George who reacted first, literally running to her office, with a thunderstruck Michael and Ben at his heels. And once there, it was again George who knew what to do. Where to find the pills, which he rapidly gave her with a small glass of water, supporting her, with her son's help, from her desk chair to the couch. She was a pale grayish-green, and she seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty breathing. For a terrified moment; Mike found himself wondering if she was dying, and he felt tears spring to his eyes. He rushed to the phone to call Dr. Wickfield, but she waved weakly from the couch, and then spoke in a barely audible whisper.

“No, Michael … don't call … Wick. Happens … all… the time.” Michael looked instantly at George. This was news to him, but it couldn't be to George, or he wouldn't have known where to find the pills, what to do. Jesus. How much of the world around him had he grown totally oblivious to in recent months? As he looked at his mother, pale and trembling on the couch, he began to wonder just how sick she was. He knew that she saw rather a lot of Dr. Wickfield, but he had always assumed that was to make sure she was fit, not because she had any major problems. And this certainly appeared to be major. And a glance at the little bottle of pills George had left on the desk confirmed Michael's fears. They were nitroglycerin, standard treatment for heart trouble.

“Mother—” Michael sat down in a chair next to her, and took her hand. “Does this happen often?” He was almost as pale as she, but she opened her eyes and smiled at him, then at George. George knew.

“Don't worry about it.” The voice was still soft, but stronger now. “I'm fine.”

“You're not fine. And I want to know more about this.” Michael spoke, and Ben found himself wondering if he were intruding, but he didn't want to leave, either. He was too stunned by what he had seen. The great Marion Hillyard was human after all. And she looked terribly vulnerable and frail as she lay there in the expensive black dress which only made her look paler. She was the color of very fine parchment as she talked to her son, but her eyes were more alive than they had been a moment before.

“Mother …” Michael was going to press until she told him.

“All right, darling, all right.” She took a little breath and slowly sat up on the couch, swinging her feet back to the floor and looking straight into the eyes of her only child. “It's my heart. You know I've had the problem for years.”

“But it was never serious.”

“Well, now it is.” She was matter of fact. “I may live to be a very nasty old woman, or then again I may not. Only time will tell. In the meantime, the little pills keep me going, and I manage. That's all there is to say.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A while. Wicky started worrying about it two years ago, but it's gotten quite a lot worse this year.”

“Then I want you to retire.” He looked like a stubborn child as he sat staring worriedly at his mother. “Immediately.”

She only laughed and smiled up at George. But this time her ally's face told her ha was worried, too. “Not a chance, darling. I'll be here till I drop. There's too much to do. Besides, I'd go crazy at home. What would I do all day? Watch soap operas and read movie magazines?”

“It sounds perfect for you.” They all laughed. “Or—” He looked at his mother and then at George. “You could both retire, get married, and go enjoy yourselves for a change.” It was the first time Michael had openly acknowledged George's attentions of the past twenty years, and George blushed crimson. But he did not look displeased.

“Michael!” His mother almost sounded like herself again. “You're embarrassing George.” But oddly enough, she too looked neither shocked nor appalled at the idea. “In any case, my retirement is out. I'm too young, sick or not. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid, for the duration.”

Michael already knew he had lost the battle. But he was going to give up by inches. “Then at least be sensible for God's sake, and stop traveling. You don't have to go to San Francisco. I can do all that myself. Don't be such a busybody. Stay home and take care of yourself.”

She only laughed at him and got up and walked to her desk. She looked rattled and tired and pale as she sank into her desk chair while they all watched her with terrible concern in their faces.

“I do wish you'd go away and stop looking so maudlin. All of you. I have work to do. Even if you apparently don't.”

“Mother, I'm taking you home. Today at least.” Michael looked belligerent as he watched her, but she only shook her head.

“I'm not going. Now go away, Michael, or I'll have George throw you out.” George only looked amused at the idea. “I may leave early, but I'm not leaving now. So thank you for your concern and ta ta. Ruth.” She pointed to the door, which her secretary obediently opened, and one by they helplessly filed out. She was stronger than all of them, and she knew it.

“Marion?” George stopped in the doorway with a worried look in his eyes.

“Yes?” Her face softened as she looked at him, and he smiled.

“Won't you go home now?”

“In a little while.”

He nodded. “I'll be back in half an hour.”

She smiled, but she could hardly wait for the door to close behind him. There was no doubt in her mind about what had caused the attack. She couldn't afford to get excited about anything anymore. It was really becoming a terrible nuisance. She looked at her watch as she dialed the number Ben had given her and listened to the phone ring three or four times. She didn't know why she was so certain, but she was. Had been from the moment Ben started to describe Marie Adamson. She would try to see the girl when she went to San Francisco; maybe then she'd know for sure. Or maybe not. Maybe the changes would be too great. She wondered if she'd realty know. And then, as she wondered, the girl answered the phone. Marion took a breath, closed her eyes, and spoke smoothly into the receiver. No one would have known she'd had an attack half an hour before. Marion Hillyard was, as ever, totally in control.

“Miss Adamson? This is Marion Hillyard, in New York.”

The conversation was brief, cold, and awkward, and Marion knew nothing more when she hung up than she had when she dialed But she would know. In exactly three weeks. They had an appointment at four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon in three weeks. Marion marked it on her calendar, and then sat back and closed her eyes. The meeting might tell her nothing, and yet… there were some things she had to say. She only hoped she lived another three weeks.

Chapter 22

The clock seemed to tick interminably as she sat in the living room of her suite at the Fairmont. It offered an impressive view of the bay and Marin County beyond, but Marion Hillyard was not interested in the view. She was thinking about the girl. What had become of her? What did she look like? Had Gregson really wrought the wonders he had promised two years before? Ben Avery had seen a stranger when he met Marie Adamson. But what about Michael— would he still recognize her? And was she in love with someone else now, or, like Michael, had she become bitter and withdrawn? It made Marion think of her son again as she waited for this stranger who might indeed turn out to be the girl Michael had once loved But what if she wasn't? She could be just anyone, a local photographer who had caught Ben Avery's eye. Maybe her theory was all wrong. Maybe…

She crossed and uncrossed her legs, and then reached into her handbag again for her cigarette case. It was a new one. George had given it to her for Christmas, with her initials set in lovely sapphires along the side of the handsome gold case. She lit her cigarette with the matching lighter, took a long quiet drag, and sat back in her chair for a moment with her eyes closed. She was exhausted. It had been a long flight that morning, and she should have given herself a day to rest before seeing the girl. But she was too anxious to put the meeting off for another day. She had to know.

She looked up at the mantel clock again. It was four fifteen. Seven fifteen in New York. Michael would still be at his desk. Avery would already be off gallivanting with that girl from the design department. Her mouth pursed as she thought of them. He wasn't a serious boy, like Michael But then again … She sighed. He wasn't unhappy like Michael, either. Had she done the wrong thing? Had she been totally mad two years before? Had she asked too much of the girl? No. Probably not. She had been the wrong girl for Michael. And in time, perhaps, he'd find someone. There was no reason why he shouldn't. He certainly had everything it took: looks, money, position. He was going to be president of one of the leading companies in America. He was a man with power and talent, gentleness and charm.

Her face softened again as she thought of him. How good and strong he was … and how lonely. She sensed that, too. He even maintained a certain distance from her. It was as though some part of him had never bounced back. At least the drinking and brooding had stopped, but only to be replaced by a bleak, jagged determination that showed in his eyes. Like a man who has struggled through the desert for too long, determined to make it, but no longer quite sure why. And yet he had so much to be happy about; such a good life to enjoy. But he never took time to enjoy anything. She wasn't even entirely sure he enjoyed his work, not the way she did. Not the way his father and grandfather had. She thought of her own husband with tenderness again, and then slowly her thoughts drifted to George. How good he had been to her in these recent years. It would have been impossible to continue her work without him. He took the burdens from her shoulders as often as possible, and left her only the interesting decisions, the creative work, and the glory. She knew how often he did that for her. He was a man of great strength, and at the same time great humility. She wondered why she hadn't paid closer attention to all his virtues a dozen or so years before. But there had never been time. For him, or anyone. Not since Michael's father. Maybe the boy wasn't so unlike her after all.

She was smiling to herself when the buzzer at the door of the suite suddenly interrupted her thoughts. She started, as though far a moment she had forgotten where she was. It was four twenty-five. The girl was twenty-five minutes late. But secretly, she was glad for the time alone.

She set her face in a dignified mask and walked sedately to the door. Her navy blue silk dress and four rows of pearls suited her perfectly, as did the smooth coif, the perfect manicure, the artful makeup that made her look more like forty-five than her nearly sixty years. She would still be a beautiful woman in twenty years, if she lived that long. Nothing defeated Marion Hillyard, not even time. She congratulated herself on that as she opened the door to the elegant young woman with the artist's portfolio in her hand.

“Miss Adamson?”

“Yes.” Marie nodded with a small taut smile. “Mrs. Hillyard?” But she knew. She had not seen Marion that May night because her eyes had been bandaged, but she had seen enough photographs around Michael's apartment. She would have recognized his mother in a back alley in Tokyo. This was the woman who had haunted her dreams for two years. This was the woman she had once wanted as her mother and friend, but no more.

“How do you do?” Marion extended a cool, firm hand, and they shook hands ceremoniously just inside the door, before Marion made a gesture toward the suite. “Won't you come in?”

“Thank you.”

The two women eyed each other with interest and caution, and Marion seated herself easily in a chair near the table. She had had room service set up a tea service there and some soft drinks for her guest. It seemed a great deal of trouble to go to for a girl who had already cost her almost half a million dollars. If this was the girl. She eyed her carefully, but she could see nothing. There was no resemblance to any of the photographs she had seen over the years. This was not the same girl. At least she didn't seem to be. But Marion sat back to watch her, and listen. She would always remember that torn, broken voice as they had made the agreement.

“What may I offer you to drink? Tea? Soda? We can order a drink if you like.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hillyard. I'd really just prefer to …” But her voice trailed off as they watched each other, the pretext of their meeting almost forgotten as the older woman appraised the younger, watched her move, studied the shape and texture of her hair, and then glanced quickly at the overall picture again. She was a terribly pretty girl, in very expensive clothes. Marion found herself wondering if she were spending her living allowance on outfits like that one. Her wool dress bore the distinct mark of Paris, her suede handbag and shoes were Gucci, and her unassuming beige trench coat was lined in a dark fur that looked to Marion like possum.

“That's a very attractive coat, by the way. Must be a marvelous weight for this city. I envy you the easy climate. I left New York in two feet of snow. Or rather,” she smiled winningly at the girl, “two inches of snow, and twenty-two inches of slush. Do you know New York?”

It was a loaded question and Marie knew it, but she could answer it honestly. She had lived in New England, but spent little time in New York. Had she married Michael, she would have lived there. But she hadn't. Her face set and something hardened in her voice. “No, I don't know it very well. I'm not really a big-city person.” She was pure Marie now, there wasn't a trace of Nancy.

“I find that hard to believe. You look extremely “big-city' to me.” Marion smiled at her again, but it was the smile of a barracuda eying a small and tender minnow.

“Thank you.” And then without further ado, Marie reached toward her portfolio, put it on her lap as Marion watched her, and unzipped the case. She smilingly handed Marion a thick black book with copies of her work. The book was large and unwieldy, and the older woman seemed to falter as she took it. It was then that Marie noticed the violent trembling of her hands, and how weak she was when she tried to hold the book. Time had not been kind to Marion Hillyard after all. Was it possible that some of her own ugly prayers had been answered? She watched the woman intently, but Marion seemed to regain her composure as she silently turned the pages.

“I can see why Ben Avery was so anxious to sign you for our center. You do extraordinarily fine work. You must have been at this for years.” For once it was an innocent question, and Marie shook her head.

“No, photography is new to me. I was a painter before.”

“Ah yes, Ben mentioned that.” Yet Marion seemed surprised. She had actually forgotten this might be Nancy McAllister she was talking to, she was so engrossed in the beautiful work. “Are you as good as this at painting?”

“I thought I was.” Marie smiled at the woman. An almost eerie exchange was going on. She felt as though she were watching Marion Hillyard through a trick mirror: she could see Marion plainly, yet the person Marion saw was actually someone else. Marie thought that she alone knew the secret. “I like photography just as much now.”

“Why did you change?” Marion looked up, intrigued.

“Because everything in my life changed very suddenly, so much so that I became a new person. The painting was part of that old life, that old me. It hurt too much to bring it with me.” Marion almost winced at the words.

“I see. Well, the world hasn't suffered a loss, from what I can see anyway. You're a marvelous photographer. Who got you started? Undoubtedly one of the local greats. There are so many out here.”

But Marie only shook her head, with a small smile. It was strange. She had come here to hate this woman, and now she found that she couldn't. Not quite. She didn't like her. But she couldn't hate her, either. She looked so tired and frail beneath the bravado and the pearls. She wore a death mask carefully concealed with good makeup, but beneath the veneer lurked the sorrows of autumn, with winter already clutching at her heels. Marie forced herself back to the woman's question, trying to remember what that question was…. Oh, yes.

“No, actually, it was a friend who got me started. My doctor, in fact. He's been responsible for getting me launched as a photographer. He knows everyone in town.”

“Peter Gregson.” The words were soft and dreamy on Marion Hillyard's lips, as though she hadn't meant to speak them, and then they were both shocked into silence.

“Do you know him?” Why had the woman said that? Did she know? But she couldn't. Had Peter … No, he'd never do that.

“I… yes …” Marion hesitated for a long moment and then looked at her squarely. “Yes, Nancy, I do. He did a beautiful job on you.” It was a long shot. A wild guess. But she had to say it, even if she made a fool of herself. She had to know.

“There must be some misunderstanding. My name is Marie—” and then, like a rag doll, she crumpled. There were tears in her eyes as she stood up and walked away to stand at the window with her back to the room. “How did you know?” The voice was shattered and angry. The voice of two years before. Marion sat back in her chair, tired but relieved. Somehow it comforted her to know she had been right. She had not made this difficult trip for nothing. “Did someone tell you?” Marie demanded.

“No. I guessed. I don't even know why. But I had a feeling the first time Ben mentioned you to us. The details fit.”

“Did—” Goddamn. She wanted to ask her about him. She wanted to … Would this never leave her life? Would they never go away? “Why did you come here? To reconfirm our little deal?” Marie wheeled on her heels at the window, to stare at the woman who tormented her. “To make sure I'd stick with my promise?”

“You've already proven that.” Marion's voice was tired and gentle, and uncharacteristically old. “No, I'm not even sure I understand it myself, but I came to see you. To talk to you. To find out how you are, if indeed it was you.”

“Why now? Why should I be so interesting after two years?” Suddenly there was venom in Marie's voice, and hatred in her eyes. The she had dreamed of spewing for months. “Why now, Mrs. Hillyard, or were you just curious to take a look at Gregson's work? Was that it? Well, how do you like your four hundred-thousand-dollar baby? Was it worth it?”

“Why don't you answer that? Was it? Are you pleased?” She hoped so. She suddenly, desperately hoped so. They had all paid such a high price for that new face. It had been wrong. Suddenly she was sure of it. But it was too late. They were not the same people anymore. She could see that in the girl as much as she could in Michael. It was far, far too late, for either of them. They would have to find their dreams somewhere else. “You're a very beautiful girl now, Marie.”

“Thank you. Yes, I know Peter did a good job. But it was like making a deal with the devil. A face for a life.” With a ragged sigh Marie sank into a chair.

“And I'm the devil.” Marion's voice trembled as she looked at the girl. “I suppose it's an obscene thing to say to you now, but at the time I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“And now?” Marie looked at her squarely. “Is Michael happy? Was it worth getting rid of me, Mrs. Hillyard? Was the mission a success?” Christ, she wanted to hit her. Just haul off and demolish her, in her ladylike dress and her pearls.

“No, Marie, Michael isn't happy, anymore than you are. I always thought he'd pick up his life again. I assumed you'd do the same. Something tells me, though, that you haven't. Not that I have any right to ask.”

“No, you don't. And Michael? He's not married?” She hated herself for it, but she prayed for a no.

“Yes, he is.” Marie almost felt herself gasp and then catch her breath again. “To his work. He lives, eats, sleeps, and breathes it. As though he hopes to get lost in it forever. I hardly ever see him.”

Good, you bitch. Good! “Then would say you'd been wrong? I loved him, you know. More than anything in life.” Except my face … oh, God … except …

“I know. But I thought it would pass.”

“Has it?”

“Perhaps. He never mentions you.”

“Did he ever try to find me?”

Marion slowly shook her head. “No.” But she did not tell her the reason why. She did not tell Marie that Michael thought she was dead. The lie weighed on her even as she said the word, and saw the girl's face set in a fresh mask of hatred.

“All right then, why am I here? Just to satisfy your curiosity? To show you my work? Why?”

“I'm not sure, Nancy. I'm sorry … Marie. I simply had to see you. To know how it had gone with you. I… I suppose it's maudlin to say it, but I'm dying, you know.” She looked faintly sorry for herself as she faced the girl, and then she was annoyed for having told her. But Marie did not appear moved. She stared at the woman for a very long time and then in a soft; broken voice she spoke to her again.

“I'm sorry to hear it, Mrs. Hillyard. But I died two years ago. And it sounds to me as though your son did, too. That's two of us. On your hands, Mrs. Hillyard. To be honest with you, it's hard for me to feel a great deal of sympathy for you. I suppose I should be grateful to you. I suppose I should thank you from the bottom of my heart that men turn and stare at me every day, instead of running from me in horror. I suppose I should feel a lot of things, but I don't. I don't feel anything for you now except sorry for you, because you've ruined Michael's life, and you know it. Not to mention what you did to mine.”

Marion nodded silently, feeling the full weight of the girl's reproach. She knew it all herself. Secretly, she had known it for two years. About Michael anyway. She hadn't known about the girl. Maybe that was why she had to come. “I don't know what to say.”

“Good-bye will be fine.” Marie picked up her coat and her portfolio and walked to the door of the suite. She stopped for a moment at the door, her hand on the knob, her head bowed, and tears beginning to creep down her face. She turned slowly then, and saw tears running down Marion's face as well. The older woman was speechless with her private agony, but the young girl managed to catch her breath and speak again. “Good-bye, Mrs. Hillyard. Give … give Michael … my love.” She closed the door softly behind her, but Marion Hillyard didn't move. She felt her heart rip through her lungs with long searing pains. Gasping for air, she stumbled toward the buzzer that would summon a maid. She managed to press it once before passing out.

Chapter 23

His heels rapped hollowly in the hospital corridor as he almost ran to her room. Why had she insisted on coming out alone? Why did she always have to be so damned independent, still, after all these years? He knocked softly on the door, and a nurse opened it with a pointed look of inquisition.

“Is this Mrs. Hillyard's room? I'm George Calloway.” He looked nervous and tired and old, and he felt that way, too. He had really had enough of this nonsense. And he was going to tell her so as soon as he saw her. He had said as much to Michael before leaving New York.

The nurse smiled at the sound of his name. “Yes, Mr. Calloway, we've been expecting you.” Marion had only been in the hospital since six o'clock that evening. George had managed to arrive in San Francisco by eleven o'clock local time. It was now just after mid-night That was about as fast as anyone could make the trip. Marion's smile acknowledged that when the nurse opened the door to let George step inside, and slipped quietly past him into the hall.

“Hello, George.”

“Hello, Marion. How do you feel?”

“Tired, but I'll live. At least that's what they tell me. It was only a small seizure.”

“This time. But what about next time?” He looked leonine as he paced the room, glaring at her. He hadn't even stopped to kiss her, as he usually did. He had too much to say.

“We'll worry about next time when it gets here. Now sit down and relax, you're making me nervous. Do you want something to eat? I had the nurse save you a sandwich.”

“I couldn't eat.”

“Now stop that. I've never seen you like this, George. It wasn't serious, for heaven's sake. Don't be like that.”

“Don't tell me how to be, Marion Hillyard. I've been watching you destroy yourself for far too long, and I'm not going to tolerate it anymore.”

“You're quitting?” She grinned at him from the bed. “Why don't you just retire?” She was suddenly amused at the whole scene, but she was less amused in a moment when he returned to face her with something immovable in his face.

“That's exactly what I'm going to do, Marion. Retire.”

She could see that he was serious. This was all she needed. “Don't be ridiculous.” But she wasn't so sure she could jolly him out of this one. She sat up in bed with a nervous smile.

“I'm not. It's the first intelligent decision I've made in twenty years. And do you know who else is retiring, Marion? You are. We're both retiring. With no notice at all. I discussed it with Michael on the way to the airport. He was good enough to drive me out, and he said to tell you that he's sorry he couldn't come but he's just too tied up at the moment. He thinks our retiring is a fine idea. And so do I. In fact, no one is interested in what you think of it, Marion. The decision is made.”

“Are you crazy?” She sat up in bed and glared at him in the dim room. “And just exactly what do you think I'll do with myself if I retire? Knit?”

“I think that's a fine idea. But the first thing you'll do is marry me. After that, you may do anything you like. Except”—his voice rose menacingly on the word —“work. Is that clear, Mrs. Hillyard?”

“Aren't you at least going to ask me to marry you? Or are you just telling me? Or is this an order from Michael, too?” But she wasn't angry. She was touched. And relieved. She'd had enough. She'd done enough, in the best and worst senses of the word. And she knew it, too. The meeting with Marie had driven the point home that afternoon.

“We have Michael's blessing, if that makes any difference.” And then his voice softened as he approached her bed and reached for her hand, which he held gently in his. “Will you marry me, Marion?” He was almost afraid to ask after all this time, but he had finally spoken to Michael about it in the anxious moments before his flight, and Michael had said something strange to him about “celebrating their love.” George had not really understood, but he had been grateful for the encouragement. “Will you?” He held her hand a little tighter as he waited.

She nodded slowly, with a warm, tired smile, and a look of near regret. “We should have thought of this years ago, George.” But she wanted to say something else too… that she wasn't sure if she had the right … not after….

“I thought of it years ago, but I never thought you'd accept.”

“I probably wouldn't have. Fool that I am. Oh George,” she sighed and fell back against the pillows, “I've done such stupid things in my life.” Her face suddenly showed the agony of the afternoon, and he watched her, puzzled by the torment he saw mixed with the fatigue.

“What a silly thing to say. I can't think of a single foolish thing you've done in all the years I've known you.” He kept a gentle hold on her hand and stroked it lovingly. He had wanted to do that for years, in just that way. “Don't torment yourself with nonsense from the past.”

But Marion was sitting up very straight, and she looked at him from the bed, her hand cold and taut in his.

“What if the 'nonsense,' as you call it, destroyed people's lives? Do I have a right to forget that, George?”

“Why, Marion, what could you have done to destroy someone's life?” He suddenly wondered if the doctor had given her some powerful drug. Or perhaps this last attack had affected her mentally. She wasn't making sense.

But she settled back among her pillows and closed her eyes. “You don't understand.”

“Should I?” His voice was gentle in the dimly lit room.

“Perhaps. Maybe, if you knew, you wouldn't be so anxious to marry me.”

“Don't be absurd. But if that's how you feel, then I think I have a right to know what's bothering you. What is it?” He never let go of her hand, and at last she opened her eyes. She stared at him for a long time before she spoke.

“I don't know if I can tell you.”

“Why not? I can't think of anything that would shock me. And I can't imagine anything about you that I don't know.” They had had no secrets from each other for years. “I'm beginning to think the seizure this afternoon just rocked you a bit.”

“The truth I had to face did that.” Her tone was one he had never heard from her, and when he looked at her again there were tears in her eyes. He wanted to put his arms around her and make it all better, but he understood now that she really did have something very important to tell him. Could she have been having an affair with someone for all these years? The idea suddenly shocked him. But he could even have accepted that. He loved her. He had always loved her. He had waited too long for this moment to let anything spoil it.

“Did something special happen this afternoon?” He watched her very closely, waiting for the answer, but her eyes only closed as the tears poured silently down her cheeks, and at last she nodded and whispered “Yes.”

“I see. Well, relax now. Let's not get all excited about it.” She was beginning to worry him. He didn't want her to have another seizure.

“I saw the girl.”

“What girl?” What in God's name was she talking about?

“The girl Michael was in love with.” The tears stopped for a moment, and she sat up very straight and looked at him. “Do you remember the night of Michael's accident, when he came down to the city to see me? You came in, and he stalked out. He was furious. He had come down to tell me that he was going to many that girl. And I showed him that… that report I'd had done on her …”

Her voice drifted off for a moment as she remembered, and George's brow furrowed deeper. She must be confused by some drug. That was the only explanation. That girl had died in the accident.

“Marion dear, you couldn't have seen the girl. As I recall, she … she uh … passed on in the—”

But Marion shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. “No, George. She didn't. I said she did, and Wicky kept his mouth shut, but the girl lived. Her face was destroyed, though. Everything but her eyes.” George watched her silently but he was listening. This was a distraught Marion, an agonized Marion, but it wasn't a crazy Marion. He knew she was telling the truth. “I went into her room that night and offered her a deal.” He waited, silently. She closed her eyes as though in pain, and he squeezed her hand tighten.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded quietly and opened her eyes again. “Yes. Maybe I'll feel better once I tell you. I offered her a deal. Her face in exchange for Michael. There are a lot of prettier ways to say it, but that's what it boils down to. Wicky said he knew of one man in the country who could restore her face. It would cost a fortune, but he could do it. I told her about it, offered to pay for it and anything else she needed until all the operations were over. I offered her a whole new life, a life she'd never had, as long as she agreed not to seek out Michael again.”

“And she agreed?”

“Yes.” It was a small, rocklike word.

“Then she couldn't have loved him very much anyway. And you did a damn nice thing offering to pay for the surgery. Hell, if they'd loved each other so much, neither one of them would have accepted that.”

“You don't understand, George.” Her tone was icy now. But her anger was against herself, not George. “I wasn't honest with either of them. I told Michael she was dead, for God's sake, and I knew damn well that she never expected Michael to honor the agreement That's probably why she agreed to it. That and the fact that she had no choice. She had nothing left. Except me—offering her a deal with the devil, as she herself put it today. George, you know Michael never would have accepted that agreement either, if he'd known the truth. He'd have gone back to her in a moment.”

“He hasn't suffered in the interim. He's recovered. Maybe they wouldn't even like each other now.” He was desperately looking for balm for her wounds, but he had to admit that it was a pretty nasty wound, and it must have been damned hard to live with. He knew Marion had thought she was acting in Michael's best interests, but she had played a very serious game with his life. “That's true, you know, they've probably grown to be quite different. They might not even want each other now.”

“I realize that.” She leaned back, with a sigh. “Michael is obsessed with his work. He has no love, no gentleness, no time, nothing. There's nothing left, and I know it better than anyone. And she.…” She thought back painfully to that afternoon, “She's exquisite. Elegant. Beautiful. And bitter, angry, filled with hate. They'd make a charming couple.”

“And you think you did all that?”

“Knowing what you know now, don't you agree?” In spite of herself, her eyes filled with tears again. “I was wrong to come between them, George, I know that now.”

“Maybe the damage can be repaired. And in the meantime, you've given the girl her life back. A better life, in some ways.”

“And she hates me for it.”

“Then she's a fool.”

Marion shook her head. “No. She's right. I had no right to do what I did. And if I had any courage at all, I'd tell Michael.” But in spite of himself, George hoped she would not do that. Michael's anger would destroy her. Her son would never feel the same about her again.

“Don't tell him, darling. There's no point now.”

Marion saw the fear in his eyes, and she smiled.

“Don't worry. I'm not that brave. But he'll find out. In time. I'll see to that. He has a right to know. But I hope he'll hear it from her, if she takes him back. Maybe then he'll forgive me.”

“Do you think there's a chance of that? That she'll take him back, I mean?”

“Not really. But I must do what I can.”

“Oh God—”

“I started this. Now I owe it to both of them to do something. Maybe nothing will come of it, but I can try.”

“And you've kept in touch with her during all this time?”

“No. I saw her again for the first time today.”

“Now I understand. And how did that happen?”

“I arranged a meeting. I wasn't even sure it was she, but I suspected. And I was right.” She sounded pleased with herself, and he smiled for the first time in half an hour.

“It must have been quite a meeting.” Now he understood the fresh seizure. It was a wonder it hadn't killed her.

“It could have been worse.” Her voice grew gentle, and her eyes filled with tears again. “It could have been much worse. All it really did was show me how wrong I'd been, that I'd destroyed her life as well as his.”

“Stop that. You didn't destroy either one of them. You've given Michael a career any man would give his life for, and you've given her something no one else could have.”

“What? Heartbreak? Disillusionment? Despair?”

“If that's how she feels she's an ingrate. What about a new face? A new life? A new world?”

“I suspect it's a very empty world, except for her work. In that sense, she's very much like Michael.”

“Then maybe they'll build something together again. But in the meantime, what's done is done. You can't punish yourself forever over this. You did what you must have thought right at the time. And they're young, darling. They have full lives ahead of them. If they waste them, it's their own doing. What we mustn't do is waste ours.” He wanted to say “we have so little time left,” but he didn't. He leaned closer to her as she lay on the bed, and she raised her arms to him. He held her very tight and felt the warmth of her body in his arms. “I love you, darling. I'm sorry you went through all that alone, without telling me. You should have told me two years ago.”

“You'd have hated me for it.” Her voice was muffled by his shoulder and her sobs.

“Never. Not then and not now. I could never do anything but love you. And I respect you for telling me about this now. You didn't have to. You could have hidden it. I would never have known.”

“No, but I would. And I had to know what you thought.”

“I think the whole thing has been an agony for everyone. Now, do what you can about it, and then let it go. Drop it from your thoughts, your heart, your conscience. It's over. And we have a new life to begin. We have a right to that life. You've paid dearly for everything you've had. You don't have to punish yourself for anything. We're going to get married, and go away, and live our life. Let them work out their own.”

“Do I really have a right to that?” She looked younger again when he looked into her face.

“Yes, my love, you do.” And then he kissed her, gently at first, and then hungrily. To hell with Michael and the girl and all of it. He wanted Marion, with her good and her bad, her genius and her outrageousness, all of it. “And now, you are going to forget about all this, and go to sleep, and tomorrow we are going to sit down and plan the wedding. Start thinking about sensible things like what kind of dress to order and who's to do the flowers. Is that clear?”

She looked up at him and laughed.

“George Calloway, I love you.”

“It's a good thing, because if you didn't, I'd marry you anyway. Nothing would stop me now. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” They were beaming at each other when the nurse finally stuck her head into the room. It was one in the morning. And special instructions from the doctor or no, he had to leave. George nodded that he understood, and with a gentle kiss, a touch on the hand, and a smile that nothing could have dimmed, he reluctantly left the room. And in her bed, Marion felt enormously relieved. He loved her anyway. And George had restored a little of her own faith in herself. And then with a look at the clock, she decided to give Michael a call. Maybe she could do something about all that right now. To hell with the time difference. She didn't have a moment to waste. None of them did. She turned to the phone in the darkened room and dialed his apartment in New York. It took him four rings to find the phone and answer groggily with a muffled 'llo?

“Darling, it's me.”

“Mother? Are you all right?” He quickly switched on the light and tried to force himself awake.

“I'm fine. I have something to tell you.”

“I know. I know. George told me.” He yawned and smiled at the phone and then blinked at the clock. Jesus. It was five o'clock in the morning in New York. Two in San Francisco. What the hell was she doing up, and where was her nurse? “Did you accept?”

“Of course. Both his proposals. I'm even going to retire. More or less.” Michael laughed at her last words. That sounded like her. George was going to have his hands full, but he was pleased for the two of them. “But I'm calling about something else.” She sounded very businesslike and firm, and he groaned. He knew the tone.

“Not business at this hour. Please!”

“Nonsense. There is no hour for business. I wanted to tell you that I saw that girl.”

“What girl?” His mind was a blank. It had been an incredible day. Three meetings, five appointments, and the news that his mother had had another seizure, alone in San Francisco.

“The photographer, Michael. Wake up.”

“Oh. Her. So?”

“We want her.”

“We do?”

“Absolutely. I can't pursue it now. George would have my head. But you can.”

“You must be kidding. I have too much to do. Let Ben handle it.”

“She already turned him down. And she's a young woman with style, intelligence, and character. She is not going to deal with underlings.”

“She sounds like a pain in the ass to me.”

“That's how you sound to me. Now listen to me. I don't care what you have to do to sign her, but do it. Woo her, win her, fly out to see her, take her to dinner. Be your best charming self. She's worth it. And I want her work in the center. Do it for me.” She was actually wheedling. She smiled to herself. This was new.

“You're crazy, and I don't have time.” He was lying in bed, grinning to himself. His mother was going nuts. “You do it.”

“I won't. And if you don't, I'll come back to the office full time and drive you round the bend.” She sounded as though she meant it, and he had to laugh.

“I'll do it, I'll do it.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

“Jesus. All right. Are you satisfied? Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Yes. But I want you to follow this up right away.”

“What's her name again?”

“Adamson. Marie Adamson.”

“Fine. I'll take care of it tomorrow.”

“Good, darling. And … thank you.”

“Good night, you crazy old bat. And by the way, congratulations. Can I give away the bride?”

“Of course. I wouldn't dream of having anyone else. Good night, darling.”

They each hung up, and at her end Marion Hillyard was finally at peace. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe work it was too late. The two years had taken a hard toll on both of them. But it was all she could do. No, that wasn't true. She could have told him the truth. But with a small sigh, as she drifted off to sleep, she admitted to herself that she wasn't quite that ready for sainthood yet. She'd help them along a little. But she wouldn't do more than that. She wouldn't tell Michael what she had done. He would probably find out eventually, but perhaps, by then, there would be enough happiness to cushion the blow.

Chapter 24

George kissed her tenderly on the mouth and the soft music began again. Marion had hired three musicians to play at the wedding in her apartment. There were roughly seventy guests, and the dining room had been cleared as a ballroom. The buffet had been set up in the library. And it was a perfect day. The very last day in February and a clear, cold, magnificent New York day. Marion was completely recovered from her little mishap in San Francisco, and George looked jubilant. Michael kissed her on both cheeks, and she posed between her husband and her son for the photographer from the Times. She was wearing champagne lace to the floor and both George and Michael were formally dressed in striped trousers and cutaways. George wore a white carnation as his boutonniere, Michael a red one, and the bride carried delicate beige orchids, specially flown in from California along with the lavish show of flowers around the apartment. Her decorator had seen to it himself.

“Mrs. Calloway?” It was Michael offering her his arm to the buffet as she laughed girlishly at the new name and then smiled at George. “Celebrate it,” as Nancy had said, and that was what they had done. Michael was pleased for them both. They deserved it. And they were spending two months in Europe to relax. He couldn't get over how sensible she had been about stepping out of the business. Maybe she had been ready to retire after all, or maybe her heart was finally frightening her after all this time, but she and George had been wonderful to work with as they transferred the power from their hands to his. He was the president of Cotter-Hillyard now, and he had to admit that he didn't mind the way it felt President … at twenty-seven. He had made the cover of Time. And that had felt good, too. He supposed his mother and George would make People with the wedding.

“You look very elegant, darling.” His mother beamed at him as they swept into the library. It was filled with flower trees and tables laden with food. And the walls seemed to be lined with additional servants.

“You look pretty snazzy yourself. And the house doesn't look bad either.”

“It's pretty, isn't it?” She seemed amazingly young as she flitted away from him to talk to some of the guests and give last-minute instructions to the servants. She was totally in her element, and as excited as a girl. His mother, the bride. He smiled to himself again at the thought.

“You're looking very pleased with yourself, Mr. Hillyard.” The voice was soft and familiar, and when he turned to find Wendy right at his elbow, he was no longer embarrassed to see her. She was wearing the diamond solitaire Ben had given her for Valentine's Day when they got engaged. They were getting married the following summer. And he was to be best man.

“She looks lovely, doesn't she?”

Wendy nodded and smiled at him again. For once he looked happy, too. She had never really figured him out; but at least it didn't bother her anymore, now that she had Ben. Ben made her happier than any other man ever had.

“But I'm sure you'll look lovely next summer too. I have a weakness for brides.” It seemed very unlike him and Wendy smiled again. She liked him much better, now that she shared his friendship with Ben.

“Trying to chase after my fiancée, old man?” It was Ben at their elbow, juggling three glasses of champagne. “Here, these are for you two. And by the way, Mike, I'm in love with your mother.”

“Too late. I gave her away this morning.” Ben snapped his fingers as though at a loss and all three laughed as the music began in the dining room. “Oops, I think that means me. The son gets the first dance, and then George cuts in on me. Emily Post says …” Ben laughed at him and gave him a shove as he disappeared toward the door to do his duties.

“He looks happy today,” Wendy said softly after Mike had left.

“I think he is, for once.” Pensively, he sipped his champagne, and a moment later smiled at Wendy again. “You look happy today, too.”

“I'm always happy, thanks to you. By the way, did you follow up on that girl in San Francisco, the photographer? I keep meaning to ask you, and I never have time.”

But Ben was shaking his head “No, Mike said he'd take care of it.”

“Does he have time?” Wendy looked surprised.

“No. But he'll probably manage anyway. You know Mike. He's going out there next week, for that and four thousand other reasons.”

No, Wendy thought to herself, I don't know Mike. No one does. Except maybe Ben. But sometimes she even wondered if Ben knew him as well as he liked to think he did. Used to maybe. But did he still?

“Care to dance, lady?” He set down his glass and put an arm around her to guide her to the next room.

“Love to.”

But they'd only been dancing for a moment, it seemed, when Michael cut in on them. “My turn.”

“The hell it is. We just got started. I thought you were dancing with your mother.”

“She ditched me for George.”

“Sensible of her.” The three of them had been shuffling around together on the dance floor and Wendy was starting to laugh. Seeing the two of them together this way was like getting a glimpse of the Ben and Michael of years gone by. This was the kind of occasion they had once thrived on. A good healthy dose of champagne, an occasion worth celebrating, and they were off.

“Listen, Avery, are you going to get lost, or aren't you? I want to dance with your fiancé.”

“And what if I don't want you to?”

“Then I dance with both of you, and my mother throws us out?” Wendy was grinning again. They were like two kids, dying to raise hell at a birthday party. They were just breaking into a song about “a girl in Rhode Island” that was beginning to worry her.

“Listen you two, this is supposed to be twice as much fun. Instead, I'm getting both my feet walked on at once. Why don't we all go have some wedding cake?”

“Shall we?” Ben and Michael eyed each other, nodded in unison, and each obligingly took one of Wendy's arms and led her off the floor, as Michael looked over her head and winked at Ben.

“Cute, but I think she's crocked. Did you notice the way she danced? My shoes are practically ruined.”

“You should see mine.” Ben spoke in a stage whisper, over her left shoulder, and Wendy sharply elbowed them both.

“Listen, you creeps, has anyone seen my shoes? Not to mention my poor aching feet, dancing with you two drunken louts.”

“Louts?” Ben looked at her, horrified, and Michael started to laugh as he accepted three plates of wedding cake from a uniformed maid, and then proceeded to juggle the plates, almost dropping two.

“Never mind her. The cake looks terrific. Here.” Michael handed a plate to each of the other two, and the three leaned against a convenient column and watched the action as they ate, eyeing dowagers in gray lace, young girls in pink chiffon, cascades of pearls, and a river of assorted gems.

“Jesus, just think what we could make if we held them up.” Michael looked enchanted with his idea.

“I never thought of that. We should have done it years ago. Up at school, when we were broke.” They nodded sagely at each other, as Wendy looked at them with a suspicious grin.

“I'm not sure I should trust you two alone while I go to powder my nose.”

“Not to worry. I'll keep an eye on him, Wendy.” Michael winked broadly and polished off another glass of champagne. Wendy had never seen him like this, but he amused her. Ben had been right. He was human after all. Seeing him that way, giddy and silly, was like meeting him five years before, or even two.

“I don't think either of you could uncross your eyes long enough to keep an eye on anything, let alone each other.”

“Bull… I mean… oh, go to the can, Wendy, we're in great shape.” He accepted two more glasses of champagne, handed one to Michael, and waved his fiancée off in the direction of the ladies' room. “She's a hell of a girl, Mike. I'm glad you didn't get mad when I told you about … about us.”

“How could I get mad? She's just right for you. Besides, I'm too busy for that stuff.”

“One of these days you won't be.”

“Maybe so. In the meantime, the rest of you can run off and get married. Me, I have a business to run.” But for once he didn't look grim when he said it. He looked over his glass of champagne with a grin, and toasted his friend. “To us.”

Chapter 25

The plane set down gently in San Francisco as Michael snapped shut his briefcase. He had a thousand things to do in the week to come. Doctors to see, meetings to attend, building sites to visit, architects to organize, and people, and plans and demands and conferences, and … damn … that photographer, too. He wondered how he'd find time for it all. But he would. He always did. He'd give up sleeping or eating or something. He took his raincoat out of the overhead rack where he had folded it, put it over his arm, and followed the other passengers out of first class. He felt the stewardesses eyes on him. He always did. He ignored them. They didn't interest him. Besides, he didn't have time. He looked at his watch. He knew there would be a car waiting for him at the terminal. It was two twenty in the afternoon. He had done a full day's work in half a day at the office in New York, and now he had time for at least four or five hours of meetings here. Tomorrow morning he had a breakfast conference scheduled for seven. That was the way he ran his life. That was the way he liked it. All he cared about was his work. That and a handful of people. Two of whom were happily off in Majorca by now, at the house of friends, and the other of whom was in Wendy's good hands in New York. They were all taken care of. And so was he. He had the medical center to pull together. And it was coming along beautifully. He smiled to himself as he walked into the terminal. This baby was his.

“Mr. Hillyard?” The driver recognized him immediately, and he nodded. “The car is over here.”

Michael settled back in the car while the driver retrieved his luggage from the chaos inside. It was certainly pleasant to be in San Francisco again. It had been a freezing cold March day when he left New York, and it was sixty-five in San Francisco that afternoon. All around him, the world was already green and lovely and lush. In New York, the trees were still barren and brittle and gray, and green would be a forgotten color for another month. It was hard waiting for spring in New York. It always seemed as though it would never come. And just when you gave up, and decided that nothing would ever be green again, the first buds would appear, bringing back hope. Michael had forgotten how pleasant spring was. He never noticed. He didn't have time.

The driver took him straight to his hotel, where some minor employee of the company had already checked him in and seen to it that his suite was in order for the first meeting. He had reserved two suites, one in which he could stay, the other for meetings. And if necessary there could be conferences held simultaneously in both. It was nine o'clock that night before he was through with his work, and tiredly he called room service and asked for a steak. It was mid-night in New York, and he was beat. But it had been a fruitful few hours, and he was pleased. He settled back on the couch, pulled off his tie, threw his feet up on the coffee table, and closed his eyes. And then it was as though he heard his mother's voice in the room. “Did you call that girl?” Oh, Christ. The words sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room, which still reeked of cigarette smoke, and the round of Scotches they'd ordered at the end. But the girl… well, why not? He had the time, while he waited for his steak. It might keep him from falling asleep. He reached for his briefcase, found the number in a file, and dialed from where he sat. The phone rang three or four times before she answered.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Miss Adamson, this is Michael Hillyard.”

She felt herself almost gasp and had to sharply control her breathing. “I see. Are you in San Francisco, Mr. Hillyard?” Her voice was clipped and brusque; she sounded almost angry. Maybe he had gotten her at a bad time, or maybe she didn't like to be called at home. He didn't really care.

“Yes, I am, Miss Adamson. And I was wondering if we might get together. We have a few things to discuss.”

“No. We have absolutely nothing to discuss. I thought I made that very clear to your mother.” She was trembling all over and clutching the phone.

“Then perhaps she forgot to relay the message.” He was beginning to sound as uptight as she. “She had a mild heart attack just after her meeting with you. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the meeting, but she didn't tell me a great deal about what either of you said. Understandably, given the circumstances.”

“Yes.” Marie seemed to pause. “I'm sorry to hear it. Is she all right now?”

“Very much so.” Michael smiled. “She got married last week. Right now she's in Majorca.”

How sweet. The bitch. She ruins my life and goes on a honeymoon. Marie wanted to grit her teeth, or slam down the phone.

“But that's neither here nor there. When can we meet?”

“I've already told you. We can't.” She almost spat the words through the phone, and he closed his eyes again. He was really too tired to be bothered.

“All right. I concede. For now. I'm at the Fairmont. If you change your mind, call.”

“I won't.”

“Fine.”

“Good night, Mr. Hillyard.”

“Good night, Miss Adamson.”

She was surprised at how quickly he ended the conversation. And he hadn't really sounded like Michael. He sounded worn out, as though he didn't really give a damn. Just what had happened to him in the last two years? She sat wondering for a long time after she hung up the phone.

Chapter 26

“Darling, you're so solemn-looking. Is anything wrong?” Peter looked at her across the lunch table, and she shook her head, toying with her glass of wine.

“No. I'm just thinking of some new work. I want to start a new project tomorrow. That always keeps me preoccupied.” But she was lying and they both knew it. Ever since Michael had called the night before, she had been catapulted back into the past. All she could think of was that last day. The bicycling, the fair, the gaudy blue beads, burying them at the beach, and then dressing in the white eyelet dress and blue satin cap to run off and marry Michael … and then his mother's voice as she lay bandaged and unseeing in her hospital bed. It was like having a movie shown constantly before her eyes. She couldn't get away from it.

“Darling, are you all right?”

“Fine. Really. I'm sorry I'm such bad company today. Maybe I'm just tired.” But he had seen the haunted look, and there was a troubled little frown between her eyes.

“Have you seen Faye lately?”

“No, I keep meaning to call her for lunch, and I never have time. Ever since the show,” she smiled gratefully at him, “I've spent half my time in the darkroom and the other half racing around town with my camera.”

“I didn't mean socially. Have you seen her professionally?”

“Of course not. I told you, we finished before Christmas.”

“You never told me if that was her decision or yours, to finish the sessions.”

“Mine, but she didn't disagree.” Marie was hurt that he seemed to think she needed more work with the psychiatrist. “I'm just tired, Peter. That's all.”

“I'm not so sure. Sometimes I think you're still haunted by … well, by events of two years ago.” He said it carefully, watching her face. And he was dismayed when he saw her almost visibly cringe.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“It's perfectly normal, Marie. People have been tormented by things like that for ten and twenty years. That's a very traumatic thing to live through, and even if you were unconscious after the accident, some part of you way down deep will always remember what happened. If you can put it to rest, you'll be free of it.”

“I have and I am.”

“Only you can judge that. But I want you to be sure. Otherwise, subtly, it'll affect you for the rest of your life. It will limit your abilities, cripple your life.

… Anyway, there's no need to go on. Just think about it carefully. You may want to see Faye for a while longer. It wouldn't do any harm.” He looked worried.

“I don't need to.” Her mouth was set in a firm line, and he patted her hand. But he didn't apologize for bringing it up. He didn't like the way she looked.

“All right Shall we go then?” He smiled at her more gently and she tried to return the smile, but he was right, of course. She was obsessed with having talked to Michael.

Peter paid the check and helped her into the navy blue velvet blazer she had worn with the white Cacharel skirt, and delicate silk blouse. She was always impeccably dressed, and Peter loved being seen with her. “Shall I take you home?”

“No. I thought I'd stop at the gallery. I want to discuss some things with Jacques. I want to change around some of the pieces. Some of my earlier work is getting more play now than the recent work. I want to switch that around.”

“That makes sense,” He put an arm around her shoulders as they walked out into the spring sunshine. The morning fog had burned off and it was a beautiful warm day. The attendant brought around the black Porsche in a few moments, and Peter held open the door as Marie slipped inside. She smoothed down her skirt and smiled at him as he took his place behind the wheel. She knew now just how much she mattered to him. Sometimes she wondered, though, if he loved her because he had created her, or perhaps because she remained somewhat unattainable. Often it made her feel guilty that she wasn't freer with him. But de-spite the affection she felt for him, there was always a shadow of reserve between them. It was her fault, she knew it And maybe he was right. Maybe she would always be haunted and crippled by the accident. Maybe she should go back and see Faye.

“You're not very talkative today, my love. Still thinking of the new project?”

She nodded with an embarrassed smile and then ran a delicate hand over the back of his neck. “Sometimes I wonder why you put up with me.”

“Because I'm lucky to have you. You're very special to me, Marie. I hope you truly know that.”

But why? Sometimes she wondered. Was she like the other woman he had loved? Had he made her that way? It was an eerie thought.

She settled back in her seat for a moment and closed her eyes, trying to relax, but they flew open again as she felt Peter swerve in the bulletlike little car. As she opened her eyes, all she could see was a sleek red Jaguar hurtling toward her side of the car, head on, as its driver swooped around a double-parked truck. For some reason the driver of the Jaguar had overshot his mark, and was well into the opposite lane, until he was almost nose to with Marie. She stared wide-eyed in horror, too terrified to make a sound. But in an instant, the incident was over. Peter had avoided the car, and the delinquent Jaguar had sped off in the opposite direction, running a red light. But Marie sat frozen and terrified in her seat, clutching the dashboard, her eyes staring straight ahead, her jaw trembling, her eyes filled with unshed tears, her mind rooted to something it had seen twenty-two months before. Peter realized instantly what was happening, stopped the car, and reached out to take her in his arms, but she was too stiff to move, and as he touched her, the car was suddenly filled with her screams. She howled from the very bottom of her soul, and he had to shake her and pull her into his arms to subdue her.

“Shhh … it's all right, darling. It's all right. Ssshhhh. It's all over now. Nothing like that will ever happen again. It's all over.” She subsided into terrified sobs, the tears streaming down her face, her whole body trembling as she let herself fall against him while he held her. It was almost half an hour before she stopped, and lay back exhausted in her seat. He watched her silently for a time, stroking her face and her hair, holding her hand and letting her feel that she was indeed safe. But he was deeply troubled by what he had seen. It proved what he had thought all along. When at last she had stopped shaking and she rested, quiet, next to him, he spoke to her softly but firmly and she closed her eyes. “You have to go back to Faye. It isn't over for you yet. And it won't be until you face it and heal it.”

But how much more could she face? And what was there to heal? Her love for Michael? How could she heal that? How could she tell Peter that she had spoken to him on the phone; and that it had made her want to hold him and kiss him and feel his hands on her again? How could she tell Peter that? Instead she looked at him with tired eyes and silently nodded.

“I'll give it some thought.”

“Good. Shall I take you home?” His voice was very soft, and she nodded. She didn't have the strength to go to the gallery now. And they didn't speak again until they reached her house. “Do you want me to take you up?” But she only shook her head and kissed him on the cheek.

The only words she said to him as she got out of the car were, “Thank you.” And she didn't look back when she got out. She slowly climbed up the stairs, the burden of twenty-two lonely months heavy on her shoulders. If only Michael had never called. It had brought back all the pain. And for what? What was the point? He probably didn't give a damn anyway. He just wanted her photographs. Well, let him buy someone else's work, the bastard. Why the hell couldn't he leave her alone?

She let herself into her apartment and went straight to the bed. Fred was leaping and jumping at her feet, and instantly joined her on the bed, but she wasn't in the mood. She pushed him to the floor, and lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she should call Faye, or if there was any point in that either. She was just beginning to doze in fitful exhaustion when the phone rang and she jumped up with a start. She didn't really want to answer it, but it was probably Peter wanting to know if she was all right, and she didn't have the right to worry him anymore than she already had that afternoon. Slowly, she reached for the phone.

“Hello.” It was a soft broken word from her lips.

“Miss Adamson?” Oh Jesus, it wasn't Peter, it was …

She closed her eyes to fight back the tears as an endless sigh shook her entire body. “For God's sake, Michael, leave me alone.” She hung up the phone, and at the other end Michael stared at the receiver in total confusion. What the hell was this all about? And why had she called him Michael?

Chapter 27

Marie looked tired and drawn the next morning when she walked into the gallery with Fred. She was wearing a black pants suit with a brilliant green sweater that set off her coloring to perfection. But she looked unusually pale after a long, sleepless night, in which, at least ten thousand times, she had relived her last day with Michael and the accident that followed. She felt as though she would never get away from it if she lived to be a thousand years old. And she felt at least a hundred that morning.

“You look as though you've been working too hard, my love.” Jacques smiled at her from behind the desk in his office. He was wearing his standard uniform. Impeccably tailored French blue jeans grafted to his body, black turtleneck sweater, and suede St. Laurent jacket. On him the combination looked perfect “Or are you staying up too late with our favorite doctor?” He was an old friend of Peter's, and he had already grown fond of Marie.

She smiled in answer and sipped the coffee he had poured. It was strong and dark, a café filtre, the only kind he ever served. He brought it over from France, along with countless other precious items without which he could not survive. She loved to tease him about his chauvinism and his expensive tastes. She had bought him toilet paper imprinted with the Gucci logo for his birthday. That and a briefcase from Hermès, which was slightly more his style. But he had liked the joke, too.

“No, I haven't been partying. Maybe too much time in the darkroom.”

“Crazy girl. A woman like you should be out dancing.”

“Later. After I do some more work.” She started describing her new idea for a series on San Francisco street life, and he nodded in satisfaction.

“Ça me plait, Marie. I like it. Okay. Do it as soon as you can.” He was about to go into the details with her when there was a knock on his office door. It was his secretary, making hushing gestures. “Aha! Probably one of your girls.” Marie loved to tease him, and he grinned and shrugged “helplessly” as he walked around the desk to confer with the secretary just beyond the door. He listened to her whispered words, and then nodded, looking exceedingly pleased. He gave one final affirmative sign, and then walked back in and sat down, looking at Marie as though he were about to bestow a wonderful gift.

“I have a surprise for you, Marie.” And with that, she heard another knock on the door. “Someone very important is interested in your work.” The door swung open before she had time to fully understand the meaning of his words, or their implication, and suddenly she found herself turning around to face Michael. She almost gasped, and felt the cup of steaming dark coffee tremble in her hand. He was very handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark tie, and he looked every bit the magnate he was.

Marie set down the coffee cup to take his out-stretched hand, and he was impressed with how poised she looked in Jacques's office. It hardly seemed possible that this was the girl who had answered the phone the night before, with agony in her voice, begging him to leave her alone. Maybe she had other problems, with men perhaps. Maybe she'd been drunk. You never knew with artists. But none of his thoughts showed on his face, nor did her discomfort show on hers.

“I'm awfully glad to meet you at last. You've led me a merry chase, Miss Adamson. But then, as talented as you are, I suppose you have that right.” He gave her a benevolent smile, and she looked at Jacques, who was standing behind his desk extending a hand toward Michael. He was extremely impressed by Cotter-Hillyard's interest in Marie's work. Michael had made it quite clear to the secretary that his interest was professional, not for his own collection or even for his office. He wanted her work for one of the largest projects the company had ever done, and Jacques was overwhelmed. He could hardly wait until Marie heard. Even her cool reserve would be shattered over this. But she looked as unruffled as ever, at least for the moment. She sat very still in her chair, avoiding Michael's gaze, and with an icy little smile on her lips. “May I get right to the point and explain to you both what I have in mind?”

“But of course.” Jacques waved at the secretary to pour Michael some coffee, and sat back to listen as Michael went on to explain in full detail what he wanted to do with Marie's work. It was a project any artist would have fought for, but at the end of the discussion Marie seemed unmoved. She nodded very quietly and then turned to look at Michael.

“I'm afraid my answer is still the same, Mr. Hillyard.”

“You've discussed this before?” Jacques looked confused, and Michael was quick to explain.

“One of my associates, my mother, and I myself have all contacted Miss Adamson at her home. We've mentioned this project to her, though only briefly, and her answer has been a firm no. I was hoping to change her mind.”

Jacques looked at her in stupefaction. Marie was shaking her head.

“I'm sorry, but I can't do it.”

“But why not?” The words were Jacques's. He was almost frantic.

“Because I don't want to.”

“May we at least know your reasons?” Michael's voice was very smooth, and it held something new, the knowledge of his own power. Marie was irritated to find she liked this side of him. But it did nothing to change her mind.

“Call me a temperamental artist if you like. Whatever. The answer is still no. And it will stay no.” She put down her cup, looked at the two men, and stood up. She held out a hand to Michael and somberly shook his hand. “Thank you, though, for your interest. I'm sure you'll find the right person for your project. Maybe Jacques can recommend someone. There are several wonderful artists and photographers associated with this gallery.”

“But I'm afraid we only want you.” He sounded stubborn now, and Jacques looked apoplectic, but Marie was not going to lose this battle. She had already lost too much.

“That's unreasonable of you, Mr. Hillyard. And childish. You're going to have to find someone else. I won't work with you. It's as simple as that.”

“Will you work with someone else in the firm?”

She shook her head again and walked to the doorway.

“Will you at least give it some thought?”

Her back was to Michael as she paused for an instant in the doorway, but once again she only shook her head, and then they heard the word no as she disappeared with her little dog. Michael did not waste a moment with the stunned gallery owner, who remained seated at his desk. He ran out into the street after her, shouting “Wait?” He wasn't even sure why he was doing it, but he felt he had to. He got to her side as she began to walk hurriedly away. “May I walk with you for a moment?”

“If you'd like, but there isn't much point.” She was looking straight ahead, avoiding his eyes as he strode doggedly beside her.

“Why are you doing this? It Just doesn't make any sense. It is personal? Something you know about our firm? A bad experience you've had? Something about me?”

“It doesn't make any difference.”

“Yes it does, damn it. It does.” He stopped her and held fast to her arm. “I have a right to know.”

“Do you?” They both seemed to stand there for an eternity, and finally she softened. “All right. It's personal.”

“At least I know you're not crazy.”

She laughed and looked at him with amusement. “How do you know? Maybe I am.”

“Unfortunately, I don't think so. I just think you hate Cotter-Hillyard. Or me.” It was ridiculous though. Neither he nor the firm had had any bad press. They weren't involved in controversial projects, or with dubious governments. There was no reason for her to act like this. Maybe she'd had an affair with someone in the local office and had a grudge against him. It had to be something like that. Nothing else made sense.

“I don't hate you, Mr. Hillyard.” She had waited a long time to say it as they walked along.

“You sure do a good act.” He smiled, and for the first time he looked like a boy again. Like the kid who used to tease her with Ben in her apartment. That glimpse of the past tore at her heart and she looked away. “Can I invite you out somewhere for a cup of coffee?” She was going to refuse, but maybe it would be better to get it over with once and for all. Maybe then he'd leave her alone.

“All right.” She suggested a place across the street, and they walked there with Fred at their heels. They both ordered espressos, and without thinking she handed him the sugar. She knew he took two, but he only thanked her, helped himself, and set the bowl down. It didn't seem unusual to him that she had known.

“You know, I can't explain it, but there's something odd about your work. It haunts me. As though I've seen it before, as though I already know it, as though I understand what you meant and what you saw when you took the pictures. Does that make any sense?”

Yes. A great deal of sense. He had always had a wonderful understanding of her paintings. She sighed and nodded. “Yes, I guess it does. They're supposed to do something like that to you.”

“But they do something more. I can't explain it. It's as though I already know … well, your work. I don't know. It sounds crazy when I say it.”

But don't you know me? Don't you know these eyes? She found herself wanting to ask him those questions as they quietly drank their coffee and discussed her work.

“I get the terrible feeling you're not going to give in. You won't, will you?” Sadly, she shook her head. “Is it money?”

“Of course not.”

“I didn't think so.” He didn't even mention the enormous contract he had in his pocket. He knew it would do him no good, and perhaps make things worse. “I wish I knew what it was.”

“Just my eccentricities. My way of lashing out at the past.” She was shocked at her own honesty but he didn't seem to be.

“I thought it was something like that”. They were both at peace now as they sat in the little Italian restaurant. There was a sadness to the meeting too, a bittersweet quality Michael couldn't understand. “My mother was very taken with your work. And she's not easy to please.” Marie smiled at his choice of words.

“No, she isn't. Or so I've heard. She drives a very hard bargain.”

“Yes, but she made the business what it is today. It's a pleasure to take over from her. Like a perfectly run ship.”

“How fortunate for you.” She sounded bitter again, and once more Michael didn't understand. In a little nervous gesture he ran his hand across a tiny scar on his temple, and abruptly Marie set down her coffee cup and watched him. “What's that?”

“What?”

“That scar.” She couldn't take her eyes from it. She knew exactly what it was. It had to be from …

“It's nothing. I've had it for a while.”

“It doesn't look very old.”

“A couple of years.” He looked embarrassed. “Really. It was nothing. A minor accident with some friends.”

He tried to brush it off, and Marie wanted to throw her coffee in his face. Son of a bitch. A minor accident. Thanks, baby. Now I know everything I need to know. She picked up her handbag, looked down at him icily for a moment, and held out her hand.

“Thanks for a lovely time, Mr. Hillyard. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“You're leaving? Did I say something wrong?” Jesus. She was impossible. What the hell was wrong with her now? What had he said? And then he found himself shocked at the look in her eyes.

“As a matter of fact, you did.” She in turn was shocked at her own words. “I read about that accident of yours, and I don't think it was what anyone would call minor. Those two friends of yours were pretty well banged up, from what I understand. Don't you give a damn about anything, Michael? Don't you care anymore about anything but your bloody business?”

“What the hell is wrong with you? And what business is it of yours?”

“I'm a human being, and you're not. That's what I hate about you.”

“You are crazy”.

“No, mister. Not anymore.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Michael to stare at her. And then, as though pushed by an invisible force, he found himself on his feet and running after her. He had dropped a five-dollar bill on the little marble table and fled in her wake. He had to tell her. He had to … No, it hadn't been a minor accident. The woman he loved had been killed. But what right did she have to know that? He didn't get a chance to tell her, though, because when he reached the street, she had just slipped into a cab.

Chapter 28

She had just gotten to the beach and was setting up her tripod when she suddenly saw the figure approach. His determined step puzzled her until she realized who it was. Michael, damn it He walked down the beach and over the small dune, until he stood in front of her, blocking her view.

“I have something to say to you.”

“I don't want to hear it.”

“That's tough. Because I'm going to tell you anyway. You have no right to pry into my private life and tell me what kind of human being I am. You don't even know me.” Her words had tormented him all through the night. And he had found out from her answering service where she was. He wasn't even sure why he had come here, but he had known he had to. “What right do you have to make judgments about me, damn you?”

“None at all. But I don't like what I see.” She was cool and removed as she changed lenses.

“And just exactly what do you see?”

“An empty shell. A man who cares about nothing but his work. A man who cares about no one, loves nothing, gives nothing, is nothing.”

“You bitch, what the hell do you know about what I am and do and feel? What makes you think you're so almighty together?” She stepped around him and focused on the next dune. “Damn you, listen to me!” He reached for her camera and she dodged him, turning on him in fury.

“Why don't you get the hell out of my life?” Like you have for the last two years, you bastard…

“I'm not in your life. I'm trying to buy some work from you. That's all I want. I don't want your pronouncements about my personality, or my life, or anything else. I just want to buy some stinking photographs.” He was almost trembling, he was so angry, and all she did was walk past him to the portfolio that lay on a blanket on the beach. She unzipped it, looked into a file, and pulled out a photograph. Then she stood up and handed it to him.

“Here. It's yours. Do whatever the hell you want with it. Then leave me alone.”

Without saying a word he turned on his heel and walked back to the car he'd left parked in the road.

She never turned to look at him, but went back to work until the light began to dim and she could work no longer. Thai she drove back to her apartment, scrambled some eggs, heated some coffee, and headed for the dark room. She went to bed at two in the morning, and when the phone rang, she didn't answer it. Even if it was Peter, she didn't care. She didn't want to speak to anyone. And she was going back to the beach at nine the next morning. She set her alarm for eight and fell asleep the moment she hit the bed. She had freed herself of something back there on the beach. And she had to be honest with herself: even if she hated him, at least she had seen him. In an odd way, it was a relief.

She showered and dressed in less than half an hour the next morning. She was wearing well-worn work clothes, and she sipped her coffee as she read the paper. She left the apartment on schedule, a few minutes before nine, and she was already thinking of her work as she hurried down the steps with Fred. It was only when she reached the foot of the steps that she looked up and gasped. Across the street was an enormous billboard mounted on a truck, driven by Michael Hillyard. He was smiling as he watched her, and she sat down on the last step and started to laugh. He was really crazy. He had taken the photograph she had given him, had it blown up and mounted, and then driven it to her door. He was grinning as he left the truck and walked toward her. And she was still laughing when he sat down next to her on the step.

“How do you like it?”

“I think you're a scream.”

“Yeah, but doesn't it look good? Just think how your other stuff would look blown up and mounted in the medical center buildings. Wouldn't that be a thrill?” He was a thrill, but she couldn't tell him that. “Come on, let's go have breakfast and talk.” This morning he wasn't taking no for an answer. He had cleared his morning schedule just for her. And she found his determination touching as well as amusing. She just wasn't in the mood for another fight.

“I should say no, but I won't.”

“That's better. Can I give you a ride?”

“In that?” She pointed to the track and started laughing again.

“Sure. Why not?”

So they hopped into the cab of the truck and headed down to Fisherman's Wharf for breakfast. Trucks were a familiar sight there, and no one was going to walk off with a photograph that size.

Surprisingly, it was a very pleasant breakfast. They both put aside the war, at least until the coffee.

“Well, have I convinced you?” He looked very sure of himself as he smiled at her over his cup.

“No. But I've had a very nice time.”

“I suppose I should be grateful for small favors, but that's not my style.”

“What is your style? In your own words.”

“You mean you're giving me a chance to explain myself, instead of your telling me what I am?” He was teasing, but there was an edge to his voice. She had come too close to home with some of her comments the day before. “All right, I'll tell you. In some ways you're right. I live for my work.”

“Why? Don't you have anything else in your life?”

“Not really. Most successful people probably don't. There just isn't room.”

“That's stupid. You don't have to exchange your life for success. Some people have both.”

“Do you?”

“Not entirely. But maybe one day I will. I know it's possible anyway.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe my incentive isn't what it used to be.” Her eyes grew soft at the words. “My life has changed a great deal in the last few years. I didn't wind up doing any of the things I once planned to. But … I've had some damn nice compensations.” Like becoming president of Cotter-Hillyard, but he was embarrassed to say it.

“I see. I take it you're not married.”

“Nope. No time. No interest.” How lovely. Then it was probably just as well they hadn't married after all.

“You make it sound very cut-and-dried.”

“For the moment it is. And you?”

“I'm not married either.”

“You know, for all your condemnation of my way of life, I can't see that yours is all that different from mine. You're just as obsessed with your work as I am with mine, just as lonely, just as locked away in your own little world. So why are you so hard on me? It's not very fair.” His voice was soft but reproachful.

“I'm sorry. Maybe you're right.” It was hard to argue the point. And then, as she thought over what he had said, she felt his hand on hers, and it was like a knife in her heart. She pulled it away with a stricken look in her eyes. And he looked unhappy again.

“You're a very difficult woman to understand.”

“I suppose I am. There's a lot that would be impossible to explain.”

“You ought to try me sometime. I'm not the monster you seem to think I am.”

“I'm sure you aren't.” As she looked at him, all she wanted to do was cry. This was like saying good-bye to him. It was knowing, all over again, what she could never have. But maybe she would understand it better now. Maybe she would finally be able to let go. With a small sigh she looked at her watch. “I really should get to work.”

“Have I gotten any closer to a yes in answer to our proposal?”

“I'm afraid not.”

He hated to admit it, but he would have to give up. He knew now that she would never change her mind. All his efforts had been for nothing. She was one very tough woman. But he liked her. He was surprised just how much, when she let down her guard. There was a softness and a kindness that drew him to her in a way that he hadn't been drawn to anyone in years. “Do you suppose that I could talk you into having dinner with me, Marie? Sort of a consolation prize, since I don't get my deal?” She laughed softly at the look on his face and patted his hand.

“I'd like that sometime. But not just now. I'm afraid I'll be going out of town.” Damn. He had really lost this one, round after round.

“Where are you going?”

“Back east. To take care of some personal business.” She had made the decision in the last half hour. But now she knew what she had to do. It was not a question of burying the past, but unburying it. In a way, Peter had been right. And now she was sure. She had to “heal it” as he had said.

“I'll call the next time I'm in San Francisco. I hope I'll have better luck.”

Maybe. And maybe by then I'll be Mrs. Peter Gregson. Maybe by then I'll be healed. And it won't matter anymore. Not at all.

They walked quietly back to the truck, and he dropped her off at her apartment She said very little when she left him. She thanked him for breakfast, shook his hand, and walked back up the steps. He had lost. And as he watched her go he felt an overwhelming sadness. It was as though he had lost something very special. He wasn't quite sure what. A business deal, a woman, a friend? Something. For the first time in a long time, he felt unbearably alone. He shoved the truck into gear, and drove grimly through Pacific Heights and up the hill back to his hotel.

Marie was already on the phone to Peter Gregson.

“Tonight? Darling, I have a meeting.” He sounded flustered, and he was in a hurry between patients.

“Then come after the meeting. It's important. I'm leaving tomorrow.”

“For where? For how long?” He sounded worried.

“I'll tell you when I see you. Tonight?”

“All right, all right. Around eleven. But that's really foolish, Marie. Can't this thing wait?”

“No.” It had waited two years, and she had been crazy to let it sit for that long.

“All right. I'll see you tonight.” He had hung up in a hurry, and she called the airline to make a reservation, and the vet to make arrangements for Fred.

Chapter 29

Marie had been lucky. There had been a cancellation that afternoon, so now she found herself sitting in the familiar, comfortable room she had not visited in months. She sat back against the couch and stretched her legs toward the unlit fireplace, as though by habit, staring absently at her feet in delicate sandals. Her thoughts were so far away that she didn't hear Faye come in.

“Are you meditating or just falling asleep?”

Marie looked up with a smile as Faye sat down in the seat across from her. “Just thinking. It's good to see you.” Actually, she was surprised how good it felt to be back. There was a feeling of homecoming in just being there, an ease about fitting back into an old and happy groove. She had had some good moments in that room, as well as some difficult ones.

“Should I tell you that you look marvelous, or are you already tired of hearing it?” Faye beamed at the girl, and Marie laughed.

“I never get tired of hearing it.” Only with Faye would she dare to be that honest. “I guess you want to know why I'm here.” Her face sobered as she looked into the other woman's eyes.

“The question certainly crossed my mind.” They exchanged another rapid smile, and then Marie seemed to get lost in her own thoughts again.

“I've seen Michael.”

“He found you?” Faye sounded stunned, and more than a little impressed.

“Yes, and no. He found Marie Adamson. That's all he knows. One of his underlings has been hounding me about my work. Cotter-Hillyard is doing a medical center out here, and they seem to want my photographs blown up to enormous proportions as part of the decor.”

“That's very flattering, Marie.”

“Who gives a damn, Faye? What do I care what he thinks of my work?” But that wasn't entirely true either. She had always basked in the warmth of his praise, and even now there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that she had caught his attention again, with her work. “Anyway, his mother was out here a while back, and I told her the same thing I'd been telling them. No. I'm not interested. I won't sell to them. I won't work with them. Period.”

“And they've pursued it?”

“Ardently.”

“That must feel good. Do any of them realize who you are?”

“Ben didn't But Michael's mother did. I think that's why she set up the meeting.” Nancy fell silent and stared at her feet. She was a long way away, back in that hotel room, the day she had seen Marion.

“What did it feel like when you saw her?”

“Terrible. It reminded me of everything she'd done to me. I hate her.” But there was more in her voice, and Faye heard it.

“And?”

“All right.” Marie looked up with a sigh. “It made everything hurt all over again. It reminded me of how much I had once wanted her to like me, to love me even, to accept me as Michael's wife.”

“And she still rejected you?”

“I'm not sure. I guess so. She's sick now. She seems different. She seemed almost sorry about what she'd done. I gather Michael hasn't been particularly happy in the last two years.”

“And how did you feel about that?”

“Relieved.” She said it with a soft, tired sigh. “And then I realized that it doesn't make any difference how he's been. It's all over for us, Faye. All of that was years ago. We're different people now. And the fact is that he never came back to me. He probably wouldn't even be running after me for my work now, if he knew who I really was—who I used to be. But I'm not Nancy McAllister anymore, Faye. And he's not the Michael I knew.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw him. He's callous, hard, driven, cold. Oh I don't know, maybe there's something there. But there's a lot of new stuff too.”

“How about pain? Loss? Disappointment? Grief?”

“No, Faye, how about betrayal, abandonment, desertion, cowardice? Those are the real issues, aren't they?”

“I don't know. Are they? Is that how you still feel when you see him?”

“Yes.” Her voice was hard again now. “I hate him.”

“Then you must still care for him a great deal.” Marie started to deny it, but then she shook her head as tears sprang to her eyes. She looked at Faye for a long time without speaking. “Nancy, do you still love him?” She had purposely used the old name.

The girl sighed deeply and let her head fall back against the couch before answering, and when she did, she looked at the ceiling and spoke in a monotone. “Maybe Nancy still loves him, what little bit of her is left. But Marie doesn't. I have a new life now. I can't afford to love him anymore.” She looked up at Faye with sorrow.

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn't love me. Because that's not real. I have to let it go now. Totally, completely. I know that. That isn't why I came here today, to cry on your shoulder about still being in love with Michael. But I needed to tell someone how I ful. I can't really talk to Peter about it; it would upset him too much, and I needed to get some of this off my chest.”

“I'm glad you did come, Marie. But I'm not sure you can just decide to let something go as simply as that, and have it fall away from you from one moment to another.”

“In truth, it fell away from me two years ago, I just didn't let go until now. I told myself I had, but I hadn't. So …” She sat up straight again and looked squarely at Faye. “I'm leaving for Boston tomorrow to attend to some business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Letting-go business.” She smiled for the first time in an hour. “There are some things I left unfinished back there, some things that Michael and I shared. I've let them stand as a monument to us, because I always thought he'd be back. Now I have to go back there and take care of it.”

“Do you really think you're ready to handle that?”

“Yes.” She sounded sure of herself, even to Faye.

“Is that what you really want to do?”

“Yes.”

“You don't want to tell Michael who you are, or rather who you were, and see what happens?”

Marie almost shuddered. “Never. That's over. Forever. And besides,” she sighed again, and looked down at her hands, “that wouldn't be fair to Peter.”

“You have to think about being fair to Marie.”

“That's why I'm going to Boston tomorrow. But I keep thinking, too, that maybe after this I'll be free to make some kind of real commitment to Peter. He's such a nice man, Faye. He's done so much for me.”

“But you don't love him.”

It was frightening to hear someone else say the words, and Marie instantly shook her head. “No, no, I do!”

“Then why the problem making a commitment?”

“Michael always stood between us.”

“That's too easy, Marie. That's a cop out.”

“I don't know.” She paused for a long time. “Something always stopped me. Something isn't … there. I guess I haven't really let myself be there. In some ways I was waiting for Michael, and in some ways it just hasn't felt… I don't know, it just doesn't feel right, Faye. Maybe it's me.”

“Why do you think it doesn't feel right?”

“Well, I'm not sure, but sometimes I get the feeling that he doesn't know me. He knows me, Marie Adamson, because that's the person he helped create. He doesn't know the person I was or the things I cared about before the accident.”

“Could you teach him about that, Marie?”

“Maybe. But I'm not sure he wants to know. He makes me feel loved, but not for myself.”

“Well, there are a lot of other fish out there, you know.”

“Yes, but he's a good man, and there's no reason why it shouldn't work.”

“No. Unless you don't love him.”

“But I do love him.” She was getting agitated as they spoke.

“Then relax, and let that problem take care of itself. You can come back here and discuss it with me, if you like. First, let's deal with your feelings about Michael.”

“I just want to get this trip east over with. Then I'll be free.”

“All right, then do that, but come and see me when you get back. Sound okay to you?”

“Very okay.” In a way, she was glad to be back. It was a relief.

With that, Faye looked at her watch regretfully and stood up. It had already been an hour and a half, and she had to teach at the university in an hour. “Will you call for an appointment when you get back?”

“The minute I do.”

“All right then, and be good to yourself when you go back there. Don't torment yourself about the past. And if you have any problems, call me.”

It was comforting to know that she could do that, and as she left, her mood felt lighter than it had all afternoon. Their conversation was going to make it easier for her to explain her decision to Peter.

Chapter 30

“Boston? But why, Marie? I don't understand.” Peter looked tired and irritable, which was rare. But it had been a long day and a tiresome meeting. All this non-sense about the new medical center. And he had to meet with the architects in the morning. Why did he have to be on the committee? He had better things to do with his time. “I think you're crazy to make the trip.”

“No, I'm not. I have to. And I'm ready. The past is over for me. Completely.”

“So completely over that when we almost had an accident in the car the other day you had hysterics for an hour. It's not over.”

“Darling, you have to trust me. I'm going to do the only thing I've left unfinished, and then I'll be free. I'll be back the day after tomorrow.”

“It's insane.”

“No. It's not.” Her voice was so quiet and firm that it stopped him, and he sat back on the couch with a tired sigh. Maybe she knew what she was doing after all.

“All right. I don't understand. But I have to hope that you know what you're doing. Will be okay back there?”

“I'll be fine. Trust me.”

“I do, darling. It's not that I don't trust you. It's that … oh, I don't know. I don't want you to get hurt. May I ask you a totally crazy question?”

Oh Jesus. She hoped it wasn't that one. Not yet. But that wasn't what he had on his mind as he watched her carefully from the couch. “Go ahead.” She waited, as though for surgery.

“Do you know that Michael Hillyard is in town?”

“I do.” She was strangely calm.

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes. He came to the gallery. He wants me to do some work for a new project of his out here. I turned him down.”

“Did he know who you were?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you tell him?”

Now was the time for her to tell him about the deal with Michael's mother, but it was too late. It didn't matter anymore. “It didn't make any difference. The past is over.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. That's why I'm going to Boston.”

“Then I'm glad.” And then he looked momentarily worried. “Does the trip have anything to do with Hillyard?” But he knew it couldn't. He was seeing Michael Hillyard in the morning.

Marie firmly shook her head. “No. Not the way you mean. It has to do with my past, Peter. And it has to do with only me. I don't want to say any more about it than that.”

“Then I'll respect that.”

“Thank you.”

He wanted to make love to her that night, but he didn't. Instead, he left quietly, with a gentle kiss. He sensed that she needed to be alone.

It was a peaceful night, and she still felt that way when she dropped off Fred at the vet the next morning. She knew exactly what she was doing, and why, and she knew it was right.

She caught the plane with plenty of time to spare, and she arrived in Boston at nine P.M. local time. She thought about driving out that night, but that was asking too much of lady luck. So she put it off until the following morning. She had already rented the car. All she had to do was drive there, and then drive back. She was taking the last plane home.

She felt like a woman with a sacred mission as she went to bed in the motel that night. She had no desire to see the city, to call anyone, or go anywhere. She wasn't really there. It was all like a dream, a two-year-old dream, and she would relive it only one last time.

Chapter 31

“Dr. Gregson?”

“Yes?” He was still distracted when his secretary came into the room. He had just spoken to Marie at the airport. He still had a queasy feeling about the trip, but he had to respect her feelings about something as personal as this. Still, he would feel better when she got back the next day. He looked up and tried to pay attention to his nurse. “Yes?”

“A Mr. Hillyard here to see you. He says you're expecting him. And there are three of his associates with him.”

“Fine. Send him in.” Christ. That was all he needed now. But why not? At least he'd get a look at the boy. He was actually young enough to be his son. What a miserable thought. He wondered if Marie ever thought of that.

The four men came in and shook hands with the doctor, and the meeting got under way. They wanted to enlist his support to make their new medical center a success. They already had fifteen of the more illustrious doctors on their “team,” and there was no doubt that the buildings would be ideally located and magnificently appointed. It was an easy choice to make. Gregson agreed to take new offices there, and was willing to talk to some of his colleagues. But even though his responses were mechanical, he watched Michael with fascination throughout the meeting. So this was Michael Hillyard. He didn't look like a formidable opponent. But he looked young, and handsome, and very sure of himself. And in an unsettling way, Peter began to realize how much like Marie he was. There was a similarity of energy, of determination, and even of humor. The realization made Peter feel shut out, and suddenly, too, he understood. He sat very quietly for a long time, watching Michael and saying nothing at all. He wasn't even listening to the meeting anymore; he was adjusting to the reality he had avoided for so long. It made him wonder, too, exactly why Marie had gone east that morning. Was it really to destroy the last shreds of the past, or to honor them?

For the first time, Peter wondered if he had a right to interfere. Just watching Michael, he felt as though he were seeing another side of Marie, a side he had no knowledge of. This man represented a part of her life that he didn't even understand, a part he had never wanted to know. He had wanted her to be Marie Adamson. She had never been Nancy to him. She had been someone new, someone who had been born in his hands. But now he recognized there was someone else. All the pieces of the puzzle began to fit, and he felt a sense of resignation as well as loss. He had been fighting an unfightable war, and he had been trying to recapture his own past. Marie was indeed someone new, but there were glimpses in her of the woman he had once loved, the woman who had died…. He had cherished those glimpses of Livia as well as the reality of the girl he had brought to life. Maybe he had no right to do that. He had never before had such free rein with a patient, because Marie had had no one to rely on but him. It allowed him to be everything to her … everything except what he wanted to be now. Watching Michael, he realized that his own role in Marie's life had been very like a father's. She didn't realize it yet, but one day she would.

The meeting was over when they stood up to shake hands, and Michael's three associates were already out of the office, waiting for him in the anteroom beyond. Gregson and Michael were exchanging pleasantries, when suddenly everything stopped, and Michael stared fixedly at something over the older man's shoulder. It was the painting she had been doing two years before … it was to have been his wedding present … it had been stolen from her apartment by those nurses after she died. And now it was in this man's office, and it was finished. Mesmerized, Michael walked toward it before Gregson could stop him. But nothing would have stopped him. He stood there, staring, looking for the signature, as though he already knew what he would see. There, in tiny letters in the corner, were the words. Marie Adamson.

“Oh, my God … oh, my God …” It was all he could say as Gregson watched him. “But how? It isn't … oh, Jesus … God … why didn't someone tell me? What in …” But he understood now. They had lied to him. She was alive. Different. But alive. No wonder she had hated him. He hadn't even suspected. But he had been haunted by something in her, and in her photographs, all that time. There were tears in his eyes as he turned to look at Gregson.

Peter looked at him sorrowfully, afraid of what would come. “Leave her alone, Hillyard. It's all over for her now. She's been through enough.” But even as he said it, the words lacked conviction. Just looking at Michael that morning, he wasn't sure that Michael should stay away from her at all. And something deep inside him wanted to tell him where she was.

But Michael was still staring at him with a look of astonishment. “They lied to me, Gregson. Did you know that? They lied to me. They told me she was dead.” His eyes were brimming with tears. “I've spent two years like a dead man, working like a robot, wishing I had died instead of her, and all this time—” For a moment he couldn't go on, and Gregson looked away. “And when I saw her this week, I never knew. I… it must have killed her… no wonder she hates me. She does, doesn't she?” Michael sank into a chair, stating at the painting.

“No. She doesn't hate you. She just wants to put it behind her. She has a right to do that.” And I have a right to her. He wanted to say the words, but he couldn't bring himself to. But suddenly it was as though Michael had heard his thoughts. Michael had just remembered what he'd heard about Marie having a sponsor, a plastic surgeon. The words suddenly rang in his ears, and just as suddenly the anger and pain of two years was upon him. He jumped to his feet and grabbed Gregson's lapels.

“Wait a minute, damn it. What right do you have to tell me that she wants to ‘put it behind her’? How the hell do you know? How can you even begin to understand what we had together? How can you know what any of that meant to her, or to me? If I get out of her life without saying a word, then you have it all your way, is that it, Gregson? Is that what you want? Well, to hell with you! This is my life you're playing with, mister, and it seems to me that enough people have played with it already. The only person who can tell me she wants this thing finished is Nancy.”