Authors: Danielle Steel
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.