The Promise (11 page)

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?”