The Promise (15 page)

“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.