Summer's End (12 page)

“It’s an old army post from the last war. For some reason they hang on to it, though it’s empty now. There’s a beautiful beach down here at the end. I come here sometimes, just to think.” He looked over at her with a smile, and once again she was aware of how comfortable it was just to be with him. He had all the makings of a good friend. They fell into an easy silence as he drove the rest of the way.

“It’s eerie, isn’t it? It’s so pretty and there’s no one here.” His was the only car there when they stopped just before they reached the beach. She hadn’t seen another car since he’d turned off the main road.

“There never is. And I’ve never told a soul about it. I like coming here by myself.”

“Do you do that sort of thing often? Like walk on the beach in Carmel by yourself?” she asked. He nodded, reaching over for the basket in the backseat. He was looking very closely at her.

“I never thought I’d see you again after that night on the beach.”

“Neither did I. It was strange, walking along, talking to you about art. I felt as though we’d known each other for years.”

“So did I, but I thought it was because you looked so much like the Wyeth.” She smiled and lowered her eyes. “I wasn’t quite sure what to say the next day when I found you in my den. I didn’t know whether or not to acknowledge that we’d met.”

“What made you decide not to?” She looked back into his eyes with a very small smile.

“The ring on your left hand. I thought it might be awkward for you if I did.”

It was like him, Deanna realized, perceptive and thoughtful. She saw him frown a little, and sit back in his seat.

“Would it be awkward for you if people knew we were having lunch?” he asked.

“I don’t see why.” But there was more bravado than truth in her face, and he saw it.

“What would your husband say, Deanna?”

The words were unbearably soft, and she wanted to tell him that she didn’t give a damn, but she did. The bitch of it was that she did care. A lot.

“I don’t know. The question has never come up. I don’t have lunch with men very often.”

“What about art dealers who want to show your work?” Ben smiled at her. They had not moved from the car.

“No, least of all with art dealers. I never have lunch with them.”

“Why not?”

She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “My husband does not approve of my work. He thinks it’s a nice hobby, a pastime, but ‘artists are hippies and fools.’”

“Well, that certainly takes care of Gauguin and Manet.” He thought for a moment. When he spoke, she felt as though his eyes were burning straight into her soul. “Doesn’t that hurt? Doesn’t it force you to deny an essential part of yourself?”

“Not really. I still paint.” But they both knew that her denial was a lie. She had been forced to give up something she wanted very much. “I suppose marriage is a kind of exchange,” she went on. “Everyone compromises something.” But what did Marc compromise? What had he given up? She looked pensive and sad, and Ben looked away.

“Maybe that’s what I had all wrong when I got married. I forgot the compromises.”

“Were you very demanding?” Deanna watched him with surprise.

“Maybe I was. It was so long ago, it’s hard to be sure. I wanted her to be what I had always thought she was….” His voice drifted off.

“And what was that?”

“Oh”—he looked up with a wry little smile—“faithful, honest, pleasant, in love with me. The usual stuff.” They both laughed then, and he grabbed the picnic basket and helped Deanna out of the car. He had brought a blanket too and spread it out carefully for her on the sand.

“Good God, did you make this lunch?” She looked at the goodies he was pulling out of the basket. There was crab salad, pâté, French bread, a little box of pastries, and more wine. There was also a smaller basket filled with fruit and richly sprinkled with cherries. She reached for a cluster and hung it over her right ear.

“You look lovely in cherries, Deanna, but have you tried grapes?” He handed her a small bunch. She laughed and draped them over her left ear. “You look as though you should be climbing out of a horn of plenty … it’s all very
Fête Champêtre.”

“Isn’t it though?” She leaned back, looking up at the sky with a broad smile. She felt terribly young and irrepressibly happy. It was easy being with him.

“Ready to eat?” He looked down at her, a bowl of crab salad in one hand. She looked startlingly beautiful, reclining easily on the blanket with the fruit peeking through her dark hair. Seeing his smile, she remembered the cherries and the grapes. She pulled them away from her ears and sat up on one elbow.

“To tell you the truth, I’m ravenous.”

“Good. I like women with healthy appetites.”

“And what else? What else do you like?” It wasn’t an appropriate question, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be his friend. She wanted to know more, and to share.

“Oh, let’s see … I like women who dance … women who type … women who can read—and write! Women who paint … women with green eyes.” He stopped, staring down at her again. “And you?” His voice was barely audible.

“What kind of women do I like?” She laughed at him.

“Oh, shut up. Here, have something to eat.” He handed her the loaf of French bread and the pâté, and she broke off the heel and slathered it handsomely with the delicate meat.

It was a perfect afternoon; the sun was high in the sky and there was a gentle breeze as the water lapped softly at the beach. Now and then a bird would fly by. Behind them the deserted buildings stood staring sightlessly. It was a world of their own.

“You know”—she glanced around and then back at him—“sometimes I wish I painted things like this.”

“Why don’t you?”

“You mean like Wyeth?” She smiled at him. “It’s not me. We each do what we do, very differently.” He nodded, waiting for her to say more. “Ben, do you paint?”

He shook his head with a rueful grin. “Not really. I used to try. But I’m afraid it’s my lot in life to sell art and not to make it. I did create one piece of art though.” He looked dreamy again as he stared out at the bay. The summer wind played with his hair.

“What was it?”

“I built a house. A small one, but it was damn pretty. I built it myself with a friend.”

“How amazing!” She was impressed. “Where?”

“In New England. I was living in New York then. It was a surprise for my wife.”

“Did she love it?”

He shook his head and turned to look at the bay again. “No. She never saw it. She left three days before I was going to take her up to see it for the first time.” Deanna sat in silence for a moment, stunned. They had both had their disappointments in life.

“What did you do with it?”

“Sold it. I hung on to it for a while, but it was never much fun. It always hurt a little too much. And then I moved out here. And bought the house in Carmel.” He looked over at Deanna, his eyes soft and sad. “But it was nice to know I could do it. I don’t think I ever felt as good as the day I finished that house. What a feeling! It really was an accomplishment.”

She smiled softly, listening. “I know,” she said, after a moment. “I felt that way when I had Pilar. Even though she wasn’t a son.”

“Does that really matter so much?” He seemed annoyed.

“It did then. It meant a great deal to Marc, to have a boy. But I don’t think he really cares anymore. He adores her.”

“I think I’d rather have a daughter than a son,” Ben said.

Deanna looked surprised. “Why?”

“They’re easier to love. You don’t have to get hung up with images and macho and all that crap that doesn’t mean anything. You can just love them.” He looked as though he regretted not having a child, and she found herself wondering if he’d ever remarry.

“No, I won’t.” He wasn’t looking at her when he said it.

“Won’t what?” She was confused. He had a way of answering questions she hadn’t asked. Except in her own head.

“Get married again.”

“You’re incredible. Why not?” She was still amazed that he had known what she was thinking.

“There’s no point. I have what I need. And now I’m too busy with the galleries. It wouldn’t be fair, unless it were someone as involved in them as I. I was less entranced by my business ten years ago. Now I’m in it up to my neck.”

“But you want children. Don’t you?” She had understood that much.

“I also want an estate outside Vienna. I can live without that too. And what about you?”

“I already have a child. Do you mean do I want more?” She didn’t understand.

“No, or maybe that too, but do you think you’ll ever remarry?” He looked at her openly, with his deep, green eyes.

“But I am. Married, I mean.”

“Happily, Deanna?”

The question was painful and direct. She started to say yes, then stopped. “Sometimes. I accept what I’ve got.”

“Why?”

“Because he and I have a history behind us.” She found herself not wanting to say Marc’s name to Ben. “You can’t replace that, or deny it, or run out on it. We have a past.”

“A good one?”

“At times. Once I understood the rules of the game.” She was being brutally honest, even with herself.

“Which were?” His voice was so unbearably soft, it made her want to reach out to him and not talk about Marc. But Ben was her friend now. And she had a right to no more than that. Only his friendship. It was just as well that they were speaking of Marc. “What were the rules?”

She sighed and then shrugged. “A lot of ‘Thou shalt nots.’ Thou shalt not defy the wishes of thy husband, thou shalt not ask too many questions, thou shalt not want a life of your own, least of all as a painter…. But he was very good to me once. My father left me stranded and penniless and scared when he died. Marc bailed me out. I don’t think I wanted quite as much bailing as he gave me, but he did. He gave me comforts and a home, a family and stability, and eventually he gave me Pilar.” She had not mentioned love.

“Was it all worth it? Is it now?”

She tried to smile. “I guess so. I’ve stuck around; I like what I’ve got.”

“Do you love him?”

The smile faded slowly. She nodded.

“I’m sorry, Deanna. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why not? We’re friends.”

“Yes.” He smiled at her again. “We are. Want to go for a walk on the beach?” He was on his feet, his arm extended to help her up. Their hands touched briefly before he turned and made rapid strides toward the shore, beckoning to her to catch up. She walked slowly, thinking of what they had said. At least everything was clear, and she did love Marc. At least now she wouldn’t get into trouble with Ben. For a moment or two she had feared it; there was something about him that she liked very much.

He handed her seashells and walked in the water up to his knees, having discarded his sandals hours before. He looked like a tall, happy boy playing in the surf, and she smiled as she watched him.

“Want to race?” He looked at her mischievously as he came back to her side, and she accepted the challenge with amusement. If Pilar could see her mother now, racing with a man on the beach, as though they were children. But she felt like a girl, pounding along the damp sand, breathless and wind-tousled. She stopped at last, laughing and out of breath, shaking her head as he thundered past.

“Give up?” He shouted the words back to her. When she nodded, he loped back across the beach and came to a halt next to where she had sunk down on the sand. The sun had set off glints of red in her dark hair. He let himself down next to her, and they sat together, looking out to sea and catching their breath. After a moment she looked up at him, knowing what she would see: those sea-colored eyes, waiting for hers.

“Deanna….” He waited an interminable time, looking at her, and then leaned slowly toward her, whispering the words into the windswept darkness of her hair. “Oh, Deanna, I love you….”

As though he couldn’t stop himself, he felt his arms go around her and his mouth close gently on hers, but her arms were as quickly around him and her mouth as hungry as his own. They sat there for a long time, holding each other and touching each other’s faces, gazing into each other’s eyes, with no more words between them than those he had spoken first. They didn’t need words; they had each other in a world where time had stopped. It was Ben who pulled away at last, saying nothing, only standing up, quietly, slowly, reaching a hand out for hers. Together, hand in hand, they walked back down the beach.

They didn’t speak again until they were back in the car. Ben sat there for a time, looking troubled.

“I should tell you I’m sorry, Deanna, but I’m not.”

“Neither am I.” She sounded as though she were in shock. “But I don’t understand it.”