The Promise (10 page)

Chapter 14

Much to Michael's surprise, Wendy was scheduled into the same meeting he was, ten minutes later. Ben had wanted her there. They were going to discuss the very early plans for the San Francisco Medical Center, and Interior Design would be a big factor. A lot of local art would be used to highlight the basic design. Ben was going to take care of finding that art himself, but Wendy would be doing a lot of the coordinating on the home front—more than usual, since Ben would be in San Francisco a lot of the time. The project was, of course, a long way away, but it was time to start working out the plans and the problems and the details.

It was a long, demanding, interesting meeting, run in great part by Marion, with George Calloway's assistance. But Michael took an almost equal part in the proceedings. This project was his; his mother had wanted it to be, from the first. Every major architectural firm in the country had been lusting after this job, and Marion intended to use it to establish Michael's name and reputation in the business.

It was almost six o'clock when the meeting ended, and Wendy was drained. She had presented her ideas well, stood up to Marion when she had to, and made a great deal of sense to Mike. Ben was proud of her and patted her on the shoulder as they left.

“Nice job, kid. Damn nice job.” He was called away by his secretary then, and Wendy continued down the corridor alone. She was surprised when Mike stopped her, too.

“I was very impressed with your work, Wendy. I think that together we're going to pull off a beautiful job out there.”

“So do I.” She virtually glowed with the praise, and from him of all people. “I … Michael, I… I'm really sorry if I said anything to offend you this afternoon. I really didn't mean to pry, and if it was an inappropriate question, I'm awfully …”

He felt a pang for her discomfiture and put up a hand to stop her as he smiled gently down at her. “I was rude and I apologize. I guess spring fever makes me crazy as well as dreamy. Can I make it up to you this evening with dinner?” He was as surprised as she was when the words tumbled out of his mouth. Dinner? He hadn't had dinner with a woman in a year. But she was a nice girl, she was doing a good job, and she meant well. And she was looking up at him, pink-cheeked and embarrassed.

“I … you don't have to …”

“I know, but I'd like to.” And this time he meant it. “Are you free?”

“Yes. And I'd love to.”

“Fine. Then I'll pick you up at your place in an hour.” He jotted the address on the back of his notepad and smiled as he hurried back to his office. It was a crazy thing to do, but why the hell not?

He arrived punctually at her apartment an hour later, and he liked what he saw. It was a neat little brownstone with a shiny black door and a large brass knocker. The house was divided into four apartments, and Wendy had the smallest one, but hers boasted a perfectly kept little garden in the back. Her apartment was a wonderful mesh of old and new, antique shop, thrift shop, and good modern; it was all done in soft warm colors with soft lighting, plants, and candles. She seemed to have a great fondness for old silver, all of which she had polished to mirror perfection. He looked around him with pleasure, and sat down to enjoy the hors d'oeuvres she had made. They drank Bloody Marys and exchanged absurdities about the various projects they had worked on. An hour flew by in easy conversation, and Michael hated to break it up and move on to dinner, but he had made reservations at a French restaurant nearby, and they never held latecomers' tables for more than five minutes.

“I'm afraid we'll have to run if we want to make it. Or do we really care?” He was startled to hear her voice his own thoughts, and he wasn't quite sure what the mischief in her eyes meant. It had been so long since he'd been out with anyone that he was afraid to misinterpret and make the wrong move.

“Just exactly what are you thinking, Miss Townsend? Is the thought as outrageous as the look on your face?”

“Worse. I was thinking we could put together a picnic and go watch the boats on the East River.” She looked like a little kid with a naughty idea. There they both were, dressed for dinner, he in a dark suit and she in a black silk dress, and she was proposing a picnic on the East River.

“It sounds terrific. Do you have any peanut butter?”

“Certainly not” She looked offended. “But I make my own pâté, Mr. Hillyard. And I have sourdough bread.” She looked very proud of herself, and Michael was suitably impressed.

“My God. I was thinking more in the line of peanut butter and jelly, or hot dogs.”

“Never.” With a grin, she disappeared into the kitchen, where in ten minutes she concocted the perfect picnic for two. Some leftover ratatouille, the promised pâté, a loaf of sourdough bread, a healthy hunk of Brie, three very ripe pears, some grapes, and a small bottle of wine. “Does that seem like enough?” She looked worried, and he laughed.

“Are you serious? I haven't eaten that well since I was twelve. I live mostly on leftover roast beef sandwiches and whatever my secretary feeds me when I'm not looking. Probably dog food, I never notice.”

“That's great. It's a wonder you don't die of starvation.” He wasn't starving, but he was certainly very thin. “Are we all set?” She looked around the living room and picked up a delicate beige shawl while Michael gathered up the picnic basket. Then they were off. They walked the few blocks to the East River, found a bench, and settled themselves happily to look at the boats. It was a beautiful warm night with a sky full of stars, and the river was well populated with tugs, cabin cruisers, and even a few sailboats from time to time, out for an evening excursion. Mike and Wendy weren't the only ones with spring fever.

“Is this your first job, Wendy?” His mouth was half-full of pâté, and he looked younger than he had in a year.

She nodded happily. “Yes. First one I applied for, too. I was really glad I got it. As soon as I graduated from Parsons I came straight to you.”

“That's nice. It's my first job, too.” He was dying to ask her how she liked his mother, but he didn't dare. It wouldn't have been fair. Besides, if the girl had any sense at all, she must hate her. Marion Hillyard was a monster to work for; even Michael knew that.

“You should do well there, Michael.” She was teasing him again, and he laughed.

“What are you going to do after this? Get married and have kids?”

“I don't know. Maybe. But if I do, it won't be for a long time yet. I want a career first. I can always have kids later, in my thirties.”

“Boy, things sure have changed. Used to be everyone was hot to get married.” He grinned at his new friend.

“Some girls still are hot to get married.” She smiled at him and took a little piece of the Brie with a slice of pear. It had been an excellent dinner. “You want to get married?” She glanced at him curiously, and he shook his head as he looked out at the boats. “Never?” He turned to face her and shook his head again, and something in his eyes cried out to her. She wasn't sure if she should get off the question or not. She decided to ask him. “Should I ask why, or should I let it be?”

“Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. I've been running away from it for a whole year. I even ran away from you today at lunch. I can't run forever.” He paused for a moment, looked down at his hands, then back up at her. “I was supposed to get married last year, and on the way to the wedding; Ben Avery, and … and … my fiancée and I … were in a car accident. The other driver was killed, and so was. She was, too.” He didn't cry, but he felt as though his insides had been shredded. Wendy was looking at him with wide, horrified eyes.

“Oh God, Michael, how awful. It sounds like a nightmare.”

“It was. I was in a coma for a couple of days, and when I came to, she was already gone. I … I …” He almost couldn't say the words, but now he had to. He had to tell someone. He had never even told Ben. “I went back to her apartment when I got out of the hospital two weeks later, but it was already empty. Someone had just called Goodwill, and her paintings had … had been stolen by a couple of nurses from the hospital. She was an artist.” They sat in silence for a long time, and then he said the words again, as though to understand them better himself. “There was nothing left. Of me either, I guess.” When he looked up he saw tears running down Wendy's face.

“I'm so sorry, Michael.”

He nodded, and then for the first time in a year, he cried, too. The tears just slid slowly down his face as he took her into his arms.

Chapter 15

“Mike, what do you think of that woman running the Kansas City office of … ” She looked over at him, sprawled out on a deck chair in her garden. He wasn't listening. “Mike.” He was staring at the Sunday paper as they sat in their bathing suits, in the hot New York sun, but Wendy knew he wasn't paying attention to the paper either. “Mike.”

“Hm? What?”

“I was asking you about that woman in the Kansas City office.” But she had already lost him. She stared at him in irritation. “Do you want another Bloody Mary?”

“Huh? Yeah. I think I'll go to the office in a while.” He gazed past her at an invisible spot just beyond her left shoulder.

“Wonderful.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He was watching her now, and he wasn't quite sure what he read in her face. If he'd tried a little harder, he would have understood instantly. But he never tried.

“Nothing.”

“Look, the medical center in San Francisco is going to have me working my ass off for the next two years. It's one of the biggest jobs in the country.”

“And if it weren't that it would be something else. You don't need an excuse. It's okay.”

“Then don't make it sound like I'm punching a time clock around here.” He shoved the paper away with his foot and glared at her as she started to steam.

“Time clock? You got here at twelve thirty last night. We were supposed to have dinner with the Thompsons, and you didn't even call me until nine forty-five, Michael. I should have gone out with them anyway.”

“Then why didn't you? You don't have to sit around waiting for me.”

“No, but I happen to be in love with you, so I do it anyway. But you don't even try to be considerate. What the hell is it with you? Are you afraid to be anywhere but at your desk, afraid someone will get their hooks into you? Are you afraid that maybe you'll fall in love with me, too? Would that be so awful?”

“Don't be ridiculous. You know what my work schedule is like. You should know better than anyone.”

“I do. Which is why I also know that half the hours you work aren't justified. You use your work as a place to hide, a way of life. You use it to avoid me. And yourself.” And Nancy. But she didn't say that.

“That's ridiculous.” He got up and strode around the narrow, well-tended garden, the flagstone walk warm under his feet It was September, but still hot in New York. After the first few happy weeks of their romance, he and Wendy had had an erratic summer. He had spent most of it working, but they managed one weekend away, on Long Island. “Besides, what the hell do you expect from me? I thought we cleared all that up in the beginning. I told you I didn't want to get—”

“You told me you didn't want to get too involved, that you were afraid to be hurt. You weren't sure you'd ever want to get married. You never told me you were afraid to be alive, for Chrissake, afraid to care at all, afraid to be a human being. Jesus, Michael, you spend more time with your dictaphone than you do with me. And you're probably nicer to it.”

“So?”

She felt a little shiver run up her spine as she watched his face. He really didn't care. She was crazy to stay with him. But there was something about him, a beauty, a strength, a wildness to him, a sorrow, that drew her like a magnet. And more than that, she sensed how great his pain was, his need. She wanted to reach out to him, to show him he was loved. But the bitch of it was, he didn't really give a damn. She wasn't Nancy. And they both knew it.

Wendy got up silently and walked into the living room so he wouldn't see the tears bright in her eyes. In the kitchen she poured herself a fresh Bloody Mary and stood there for a moment with her eyes closed, trembling, wishing she could reach out to him and find him there. But she was beginning to think he would never be “there” for her. He wouldn't let himself be there for anyone.

She drained the drink with long steady gulps and set the empty glass down on the counter as she felt his hands float softly over her satiny bronzed skin. She spent every weekend in her garden, getting a suntan, alone. She said nothing as he stood there now, just behind her. She could feel the heat from his body, and she wanted him desperately, but she was tired of his knowing that, and of his being able to have her whenever he liked. Damn it, it was time she made it harder for him.

“I want you, Wendy.” Her whole body ached for him at the words, but she wouldn't let herself. She kept her back to him, hating the gentleness of his hands as they traveled smoothly down her back and over her buttocks and then around and up toward her breasts.

“As you said earlier, 'So?”

“You know I can't deal with that kind of pressure.” His voice was as soft and smooth as her skin.

“It's not pressure, Michael. It's love. The sad thing is you don't know the difference. Is that what it was like with her, too?” She felt the hands stop and the arms grow stiff. But she couldn't stop herself. She wanted to hurt him, too. “Were you afraid to love her, too? Is it easier now that she's dead? Now you don't have to love anyone, and you can spend the rest of your life hiding behind the tragedy of how much you miss her. It certainly takes care of things, doesn't it?” She turned slowly to face him now, and there was hatred brewing in his eyes.

“How can you say a thing like that? How dare you?” For a moment he reminded her of his mother, almost as hard, almost as cold. But not quite. No one could equal Marion. “How dare you twist the things I've told you.”

“I'm not twisting, I'm asking. If I'm wrong, I'm sorry. But I'm beginning to wonder if I am wrong.” She leaned against the counter, staring at him, and then he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him. “Michael …”

But he said not a word, he only crushed his mouth down hard on hers, and at the same time tore away the top of her bikini, and then pulled hard at the bottom and it came away instantly in his hand. The little gold clasps at the sides had broken. But by the time Wendy reached the kitchen floor in his arms, she hated herself more than she hated him because she knew in her heart that she wanted to be there. At least he was alive, at least he was making love to her, whatever it took. But it took too much, and she knew it. It was costing a piece of her soul.

As they lay there panting and damp, ten minutes later, Wendy could hear the kitchen clock ticking in the silence. Michael said nothing. He only stared out at the garden, looking strangely sad.

“Are you all right?” He should have been asking her, but she was asking him. The whole affair was crazy, and she knew it, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. Sometimes she wondered what would happen when it was over. Maybe he'd have Ben Avery fire her. She almost expected it “Mike?”

“Hm? Yeah. I … I'm sorry, Wendy. Sometimes I'm really an incomparable ass.” There were tears glistening in his eyes.

“Well, I'm not sure I can argue with you on that one.” She looked up at him with a rueful smile and then kissed the tip of his chin. “But I seem to love you anyway.”

“You could do a lot better, you know.” For the first time in months he looked down at her and really seemed to see her. “Sometimes I hate myself for what I do to you. I just …” He couldn't go on, and she put her finger over his lips.

“I know.”

He nodded silently and stood up as she lay looking up at him from the kitchen floor.

“Michael?”

“Yeah?” His face was softer now than it had been half an hour before. She had done something for him after all.

“Do you still miss her all the time?”

He waited for a long moment, and then nodded, with a look of pain in his eyes. And then, without saying anything more, he went into the bedroom to dress. Wendy got up slowly. She didn't bother with the broken bikini. It had seen a good summer's use anyway, and the little gold clips probably couldn't be fixed. She perched naked on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter and thought about what she'd seen in his eyes. When he came back to the kitchen a few moments later, he found her still sitting there, lost in her own thoughts. She looked up in surprise, and then regret as she saw him wearing jeans and a white shirt open at the neck. He had his briefcase in one hand and a sweater in the other. The briefcase told her that he was going to the office after all, in spite of the fact that it was Sunday, and the sweater told her that he would be staying late. None of it was good news to Wendy.

“Will I see you later?” She hated herself for the question. She was asking… begging. Damn his hide. And worse yet, he was shaking his head.

“I'll probably work till two or three in the morning and then go back to my place. I have to dress there in the morning anyway.” The brief gentleness of a few moments before was gone. He was Michael again, running away. She had already lost him in the ten or fifteen minutes since they'd made love. The situation was hopeless, yet she hated to give up. That kind of rejection just made her want to try harder and give more.

“I'll see you in the office tomorrow then.” She tried not to sound miserable, even to smile as she walked him to the door, but she was glad when he left her quickly, with a vague peck on her forehead and without looking back, because when she closed the door she was already crying. Michael Hillyard was a lost cause.