Dawn of a New Day (20 page)

Christie nodded with approval. There was an assurance in Prue, and when she and Mario left—after having bought a painting that Mario had liked—she said, “Prue's different. She's lost that awkward, half-scared look she had.”

“She was a homely little thing when she was growing up,” Mario said. “I remember at the reunions she always kept back. A strange girl, I thought, but she's a knockout now. It's a wonder she hasn't married.”

“I think she's still got a crush on Mark Stevens. She's always been sweet on him.”

“Too bad he had to go to Vietnam.”

“Yes, and I hope and pray God keeps him safe.”

Prue was sitting at her desk in her new apartment. Her diary was in front of her, and she looked around the spacious room with the enormous windows that looked down on Chicago. She still did not feel as comfortable in it as she had in her small apartment, but at Kent's insistence she had taken it. “You can afford it,” he said, “after selling eighteen pictures in your first show. I think that's a record.”

All the rooms in the apartment were large and were painted a pure, crisp white. The ceilings were white, also, and had little swirls etched into them and were adorned with sparkles that caught the glints of the sunlight coming through the large window beside her desk. The desk was made of wood, painted black, and had been placed in a corner behind the large dining area, and a black and brass desk lamp sat perched on the upper left corner. She glanced around the room and took in the black iron and glass dining table, the black chairs, the black-and-white tile floor, and the all-white kitchen, far too modernistic for her taste at first, but Prue had come to like the clean look and feel of the place. Looking to her left, her eyes took in the sunken living room area. It was covered with a red and black carpet and was furnished with red and black furniture. Huge plants in glossy black containers decorated the corners of the room, as well as the entrance to the long hallway leading to the bedroom and the bathroom. Along one wall was a built-in mirrored shelf unit that held Prue's small supply of books, and here she had placed some of her prized mementos from her home in the Ozarks. The walls had had abstract paintings hanging on them when she had moved into the apartment, but now the walls were filled with an array of pictures that she herself had painted.

She was writing a letter to Mark:

She wrote on page after page, pouring herself out. She hesitated, then wrote:

Her fingers grew tired, and finally she wrote:

She started to put “With warm regards,” and finally just signed it, “Love, Prue.” As she sealed the envelope, she thought about how many thousands of miles it had to go and wondered if it would ever catch up with Mark. A sense of sadness came to her as she thought of him and so many thousands of young Americans risking death and undergoing tremendous hardships. As she held the letter she breathed another prayer, “Oh, Lord, keep him safe. Bring him home again!”

Prue had not exaggerated the change in her lifestyle. She could no longer go down to the studio and work under the tutelage of Maxwell as before. Now that she had become a successful professional artist, the students all went out of their way to get closer to her. Somehow they seemed to feel that her success was transferable, that somehow she could make them successful too. Students who had never spoken to her before the show now showed every intention of becoming her good friend. Prue found this disgusting and finally had to stop going to the studio except after hours.

She had complained about this to Kent, who had said, “That's the way of the world. The crowd worships success, and you might as well get used to it.”

Prue felt she would never grow accustomed to it, and she threw herself into her work. Kent asked her, more than once, if she had changed her mind about marrying him, and she had difficulty answering him. The man had done so much for her, made her a new life practically, and Prue found it hard to hurt anyone.

In her diary she had written: “I wish I could love Kent, but I don't really, and I don't know how to tell him so. He's so lonely, and I'd give anything if he could find a woman he could share his life with—but I know in my heart it won't be me.”

The fruits of success had been great. She had a bank account now and had bought a car—not the sports car that Kent had urged her to buy but a rather sedate Chevrolet that she liked very much. She had never been one to like clothes very much, but now she enjoyed going shopping once in a while, although her tastes were simple, and she did not have to go to Saks or one of the other expensive stores.

She wrote home to her parents regularly and spent much time with Jake and his family and Christie and Mario. She had a great sense of family, Prue Deforge did, and sometimes the longing to go back home and find the peace and tranquillity of the mountains became overwhelming. She did go back once on a quick visit just for a few days and found that word of her success had preceded her. She was invited to homes that she had never even seen the inside of before, and everyone seemed eager to have her as a guest.

Finally she had said to her father, “Dad, I liked it better before. All these invitations. They don't really mean anything.”

“I'm glad you see it that way, Prue, and I'm glad to see that you haven't changed.” Dent's eyes twinkled and he said, “Except to become rich, healthy, and good-looking.”

“Oh, Dad, don't say that!”

“Well, it's better than being poor, sick, and ugly, isn't it?” He laughed. Then he came over and put his arm around her. His eyes were soft, and he said, “I can't tell you how proud I am of you, Prue. Your mother and I, it's all we can do to keep from crowing like roosters. As a matter of fact, I do quite a bit, and she has to keep me down.”

Prue hugged him. “Thank you, Dad. It's always so good to know I can come here, and you and Mom haven't changed.”

“Have you heard much from Mark?” Dent asked.

“I write him a lot, but his answers come pretty spaced out. I know that he doesn't have time to write, and I know he's not telling me the truth about how bad it is over there.”

Seeing the worry in his daughter's eyes, Dent said quietly, “Well, your mother and I are praying for him.” He hesitated, then said, “You love that fellow, don't you? I think you always have.”

“Yes, Dad. I guess I have.” She could not lie to her father, for the two were very close. She twisted her hands nervously and said, “I spend a lot of sleepless nights worrying about him.”

“We pray for him every day,” Dent said. “We'll just have to put him in God's hands.”

Bobby Stuart grinned broadly as Prue opened the door, and he stood there, his auburn hair long and his eyes sleepy. “Well, it's my famous relative, Prudence Deforge. The greatest artist since Michelangelo or anybody else.”

“Bobby! Come in,” Prue said. She took his hands, and he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“How have you been, Prue?”

The two sat down and talked for a long time. Bobby listened and kept his blue-green eyes fixed on the young woman's face. She was excited, and there was a difference in her.

“You're different, Prue,” he said, when she finally stopped.

Startled, Prue said, “You mean because I've had success?”

“I guess that's part of it. Success is a dangerous thing.” A frown clouded his eyes, and he passed a hand over his forehead. “In a way, I think it's different than drugs.”

Prue stared at him, knowing that he had had his troubles with drugs. It had been well enough publicized. She saw the unhappiness in his face and said quietly, “What's wrong, Bobby?”

“Same old thing. I'm on a merry-go-round, and I can't seem to get off. That's what success does,” he said glumly. He leaned back in the overstuffed chair and closed his eyes. “Everybody loves you. Everybody wants a piece of you, but they don't really. It's not you they want. It's something else.”

“I know,” Prue said quietly. “I've had a little taste of that.”

“You're going to get more. It's just beginning for you.” Stuart now was past his first youth. He was in his thirties, with years of success in concerts and films, and his records were selling by the millions. He had all that a man could want—but still there was an air of unhappiness and uncertainty. He never showed this, Prue understood, in public, but now in the quietness of her apartment she saw the lines on his face and the twitching of his mouth, which indicated unhappiness somehow.

Bobby sat up, and leaned over, and took her hand, holding it for a moment. “You're a special person, Prue. You're not like everyone else.” He hesitated, not mentioning the fact that he had run through dozens of young women and some not so young. They had been readily available, and now he said, “Women seem to lose their minds, or their hearts, or something. They go crazy over rock stars. I'd give anything to find one woman like you that's real. Prue, you're good-looking enough to tempt any man. I'm just trying to tell you that right now you're standing on the brink. You're going to be tested more than you know.”