Summer's End (20 page)

“You are sick!” It was an accusation filled with fear.

“I’m not, so stop it. I’m fine, I’m wonderful, I’m healthy, and I adore you.” She reached out her arms for him with a bright smile, and he held her close. He didn’t want anything to happen to her, he was suddenly terrified of losing her. He thought about it ten thousand times a day. She could get sick, have an accident, drown in the surf at Carmel; she could die in a fire….
She could go back to Marc.

“Who is this buyer we’re meeting with today?”

“His name is Junot. He’s either Swiss or French, I’m not sure which.”

French? Maybe he knew Marc. But before she could speak, Ben already had the answer.

“No. He just got to town this week, and he liked your work when he walked past the gallery. Nice and simple. O.K.?”

“Perfect, you mind reader.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you there at eleven.” He looked at her again, forcing a smile. He waved as he closed the door. They both had it now, and he knew it. The clutches. She had nightmares and held him desperately tight as they fell asleep, and now this exhaustion and malaise. They were both suffering the same terrors, wondering what the end of the summer would bring, and already fearing their loss. They had two more weeks. Maybe even three if Marc were delayed. He was bringing Pilar home with him. But what then? Neither of them had any of the answers. Not yet. And the miracle they both wanted had not yet occurred.

Deanna was at the gallery promptly at eleven, wearing a cream-colored silk suit with an ivory silk blouse. Her shoes and bag were in the same vanilla colors. She wore her mother’s pearls and the earrings Ben had given her just before her show. The prospective buyer, Monsieur Junot, looked awed. He made all the appropriate gestures, offers, and radiated charm. He bought not one of her paintings, but two of her best. She and Ben shook hands gleefully after he left. The sale had totaled almost eight thousand dollars, nearly half of which would, of course, go to Ben. He took the standard dealer’s forty percent. Some dealers even took fifty. But she had still done handsomely in the past weeks. Since the show she had made almost twelve thousand dollars.

“What’ll you do with it all?” Ben watched her in amusement. She was gazing happily at the check.

“Be independent,” she said suddenly, remembering what Marc had said before he left. That that was why she still painted, so she could be independent if she ever had to be again. Maybe he was right. It wasn’t the only reason, certainly, but the feeling that she now had something of her own made her feel brand new.

“Want to prove your independence and take me to lunch?” Ben was looking at her with an admiring gaze, but though she looked remarkably pretty, he could still see in her eyes that she was not quite herself. “How about it? Lunch?” He was dying to go out with her, to be with her, to take her home, to be alone with her, to enjoy every minute they still had. It was becoming an obsession. But she was shaking her head.

“I’d love to. But I can’t. I’m having lunch with Kim.”

“Damn. All right, I won’t ask you to break it. But when I leave here at five today, madam, you’re all mine.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked up at him with pleasure.

“Promise?”

“That’ll be an easy promise to keep.”

“All right, then.”

He walked her to the door of the gallery, bestowed a small gentlemanly kiss on her cheek, and watched as she crossed the street to the Jaguar. What an elegant woman she was. And she was his. He smiled with pride as he went back inside.

“So, how’s my favorite artist today? The new Mary Cassatt.” Kim had on a broad smile as Deanna slipped into her seat. They met, as usual, at Trader Vic’s. Deanna hadn’t been there in almost two months.

“Would you believe we just sold two more paintings this morning?”

“I believe it. Thank God Thompson knew when to push. I never thought I’d see the day you’d give in.” But she also knew that a lot of it had to do with Marc’s absence. Deanna would never have agreed to the show, if Marc had been there to squelch it. “Anyway, I’m delighted you did, and it’s about time.” Kim signaled to the waiter and ordered champagne, despite Deanna’s laughter and protests. “Why not? We’ve barely seen each other since Carmel for chrissake. And we have a lot to celebrate.”

Deanna laughed to herself. More than Kim knew.

“So, other than the fact that you’re now a famous artist, what’s new?” Kim’s eyes searched hers, but Deanna only smiled. “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Bull! I think that maybe
I
know why.” She had seen it that night at Deanna’s opening, but at first she hadn’t been sure. “Well, are you going to tell me, or am I going to die of suspense?”

“You mean I have a choice?”

“Never mind that. Come on, Deanna, be nice… tell me.”

Kim was playing but Deanna was suddenly serious. “It sounds as though you already know. Jesus, I hope it’s not that obvious.”

“It’s not. I just suddenly began to wonder, that night. At the opening. But I don’t think anyone else would have known.” Their eyes met at last, and Deanna was silent for a time.

“He’s incredibly special, Kim. And I love him. Very much.”

Kim let out a slow sigh and waited. “He seems like a very nice man. Is it serious?” she asked. Deanna nodded, and Kim sipped her champagne.

“I’d like to say I don’t know. But I do know.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I have to go back to Marc. Ben knows it too. I can’t start all over again, Kim. I can’t. I’m too old. I’m almost forty, and …” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I have a life with Marc. I’ve always loved him. And … and there’s Pilar….” But Deanna couldn’t go on. Her eyes were brimming, and she had to blow her nose.

Kim wanted to put her arms around her and come up with a magical solution. They both knew there was none.

“There’s no other way?” Deanna shook her head. “How does Ben feel?”

Deanna took a deep breath. “As panic-stricken as I. But I just can’t walk out and start all over again. I can’t …” She sounded desperate as she whispered at Kim. “I’m too old.”

“If that’s all that’s stopping you, you know damn well you’re not. Hell, women remake their lives at sixty when their husbands die. At thirty-seven, you’d be crazy to throw something away you really want.”

“But it’s not right. And I
am
too old, dammit, Kim. He wants children for God’s sake, and I have a daughter who’s almost grown.”

“All the more reason. Pilar will be gone. If you want more children, now’s the time.”

“You’re as crazy as he is.” Deanna tried to smile, but it was not an easy subject. She felt as though the next two weeks were already vanishing beneath her eyes.

“Are you happy with Ben, Deanna?”

“I’ve never been as happy in my life. And I can’t understand it. I’ve lived with Marc for almost twenty years; we know each other, and suddenly…. Oh, God, Kim, I can barely remember what Marc looks like, how he sounds. It’s as though my whole life is with Ben. At first I felt guilty; I thought I was horrible for doing what I did. Now I don’t even feel badly. I just love him.”

“And you think you’ll be able to give that up?” Kim looked at her with sorrow for what she knew was happening to her friend.

“I don’t know. Maybe we can still see each other. Maybe … Kim, I just don’t know.”

Neither did Kim, but she suspected that Ben Thompson wouldn’t put up with sharing her for very long. He didn’t seem like that kind of man.

“Will you tell Marc?”

Deanna shook her head. “Never. He would never understand. He’d be heartbroken. I—we’ll just have to see. Ben has to go to New York in September for a few weeks. That’ll give me time to see how things stand.”

“If I can do anything, Deanna … if you need a shoulder or a hand—I’m always there for you, babe. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

The two exchanged a smile and went on to other things, but long after Kim left her, she was haunted by Deanna’s face, and what she had seen.

And when she had left Kim, Deanna had slowly driven home. She had to check the mail and pay her bills. She wasn’t meeting Ben again till five. They’d go some place quiet for dinner, and then maybe for a walk, or to a movie, do the kind of things people did who didn’t have children, or pressures, or too little time. She wanted to spend these two weeks as they had spent the two months before, simply, quietly—together. It was what Ben wanted too.

“Mrs. Duras?” Margaret was waiting for her as she turned her key in the door. She was wearing a look of tension which, at first, Deanna did not understand.

“Margaret? Are you all right?” She thought the older woman looked pale. As she reached the hall table, she realized that the housekeeper was still staring. “Margaret? Is something wrong?” Her voice was more insistent this time, and she looked long and hard at the woman in the dark blue uniform. Could she know about Ben? Had she seen them? “What is it?”

“There have been two calls …” Margaret trailed off, not knowing what more to say. She wasn’t really sure. She had no right to worry Mrs. Duras but she had had a feeling.

“From Mister Duras?” Deanna stood up very straight.

“From Madame Duras, his mother.”

“What did she say?” There was a frown in Deanna’s eyes now. “Was anything wrong?”

“I don’t know. She only spoke to the operator in Paris. But she wants you to call back. Right away.”

“In Paris? You mean Antibes.” To Margaret, Deanna knew, it was one and the same. The housekeeper shook her head emphatically.

“No. It was Paris. They left a number.” Margaret ferreted the message from the pile and handed it to Deanna. She was right. It was Paris. It was the number of the house on the rue François Premier. Something was wrong. Perhaps the old lady was ill and wanted Pilar sent home early. Marc! Something had happened to Marc! A thousand catastrophes leaped into her head as she ran up the stairs to the bedroom phone. It would be just after midnight in Paris. Too late? Should she wait until morning?

The overseas operator put the call through quickly, and the familiar purring of the French phone was instantly in her ears. For years it had sounded to her like a busy signal, but now she was used to it and she knew. “It may take them a minute to answer, I’m awfully sorry.”

“That’s quite all right.” The operator sounded Californian and unhurried and Deanna smiled. Then she heard her mother-in-law’s voice on the line.

“Allo? Oui?”

“Mamie?”
The term of affection had never come easily to Deanna. After nearly twenty years she was still tempted to call her mother-in-law Madame Duras.
“Mamie?”
It was not a very good connection, but Deanna could hear, and she raised her own voice to make herself heard. Madame Duras sounded neither sleepy, nor pleasant. She never did. “It’s Deanna. I’m awfully sorry to call so late, but I thought that…”

“Deanna,
il faut que tu viennes.”
Oh, Jesus, not in French, with a connection like that! But the older woman went on in a rush of French. Deanna could barely hear.

“Wait, wait. I can’t hear you. I don’t understand. Please say it in English. Is something wrong?”

“Yes.” The word was a long mournful wail, and then there was silence while Deanna waited. What had happened? It was Marc. She knew it! “Pilar. … She had … an accident… on the
moto—”

Deanna felt her heart stop. “Pilar?” She was shouting into the phone now, and she didn’t hear Margaret come into the room. “Pilar?” The connection was fading, and she shouted louder.
“Mamie?
Can you hear me? What happened?”

“Her head … her legs …”

“Oh, God! Is she all right?” The tears were pouring down her face and she was desperately trying to control her voice.
“Mamie?
Is she all right?”

“Paralysées. Les jambes.
Her legs … paralyzed. And her head…. We don’t know.”

“Where is she?” Deanna was shrieking.

“At the American Hospital.” The old woman was sobbing now.

“Have you called Marc?”

“We can’t find him. He’s in Greece. His
société
is trying to locate him. They think he will be here tomorrow. Oh, please, Deanna … you will come?”

“Tonight. Right now.” Her whole arm was trembling as she looked at her watch. It was ten minutes to four. She knew there was a flight at seven-thirty. Marc took it all the time. With the time difference, she would be there at four-thirty Paris time, the next day. “I’ll be there … in the afternoon … I’ll go directly to the hospital. Who is her doctor?” She hastily scribbled his name. “How can I reach him?” Madame Duras gave her his home number.

“Oh, Deanna. The poor child…. I told Marc that the
moto
was too big for a child. Why didn’t he listen? I told him….”

So did I. “Mamie
, is anyone with her?” It was the first thing that had come to her mind. Her baby was alone in a hospital in Paris.