the Promise (1978)

by Steel, Danielle

  Mr. Hillyard? The driver recognized him immediately, and he nodded. The car is over here.

  Michael settled back in the car while the driver retrieved his luggage from the chaos inside. It was certainly pleasant to be in San Francisco again. It had been a freezing cold March day when he left New York, and it was sixty-five in San Francisco that afternoon. All around him, the world was already green and lovely and lush. In New York, the trees were still barren and brittle and gray, and green would be a forgotten color for another month. It was hard waiting for spring in New York. It always seemed as though it would never come. And just when you gave up, and decided that nothing would ever be green again, the first buds would appear, bringing back hope. Michael had forgotten how pleasant spring was. He never noticed. He didn't have time.

  The driver took him straight to his hotel, where some minor employee of the company had already checked him in and seen to it that his suite was in order for the first meeting. He had reserved two suites, one in which he could stay, the other for meetings. And if necessary there could be conferences held simultaneously in both. It was nine o'clock that night before he was through with his work, and tiredly he called room service and asked for a steak. It was mid-night in New York, and he was beat. But it had been a fruitful few hours, and he was pleased. He settled back on the couch, pulled off his tie, threw his feet up on the coffee table, and closed his eyes. And then it was as though he heard his mother's voice in the room. Did you call that girl? Oh, Christ. The words sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room, which still reeked of cigarette smoke, and the round of Scotches they'd ordered at the end. But the girl' well, why not? He had the time, while he waited for his steak. It might keep him from falling asleep. He reached for his briefcase, found the number in a file, and dialed from where he sat. The phone rang three or four times before she answered.

  Hello?

  Good evening, Miss Adamson, this is Michael Hillyard.

  She felt herself almost gasp and had to sharply control her breathing. I see. Are you in San Francisco, Mr. Hillyard? Her voice was clipped and brusque; she sounded almost angry. Maybe he had gotten her at a bad time, or maybe she didn't like to be called at home. He didn't really care.

  Yes, I am, Miss Adamson. And I was wondering if we might get together. We have a few things to discuss.

  No. We have absolutely nothing to discuss. I thought I made that very clear to your mother. She was trembling all over and clutching the phone.

  Then perhaps she forgot to relay the message. He was beginning to sound as uptight as she. She had a mild heart attack just after her meeting with you. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the meeting, but she didn't tell me a great deal about what either of you said. Understandably, given the circumstances.

  Yes. Marie seemed to pause. I'm sorry to hear it. Is she all right now?

  Very much so. Michael smiled. She got married last week. Right now she's in Majorca.

  How sweet. The bitch. She ruins my life and goes on a honeymoon. Marie wanted to grit her teeth, or slam down the phone.

  But that's neither here nor there. When can we meet?

  I've already told you. We can't. She almost spat the words through the phone, and he closed his eyes again. He was really too tired to be bothered.

  All right. I concede. For now. I'm at the Fairmont. If you change your mind, call.

  I won't.

  Fine.

  Good night, Mr. Hillyard.

  Good night, Miss Adamson.

  She was surprised at how quickly he ended the conversation. And he hadn't really sounded like Michael. He sounded worn out, as though he didn't really give a damn. Just what had happened to him in the last two years? She sat wondering for a long time after she hung up the phone.

  Chapter 26

  Darling, you're so solemn-looking. Is anything wrong? Peter looked at her across the lunch table, and she shook her head, toying with her glass of wine.

  No. I'm just thinking of some new work. I want to start a new project tomorrow. That always keeps me preoccupied. But she was lying and they both knew it. Ever since Michael had called the night before, she had been catapulted back into the past. All she could think of was that last day. The bicycling, the fair, the gaudy blue beads, burying them at the beach, and then dressing in the white eyelet dress and blue satin cap to run off and marry Michael ' and then his mother's voice as she lay bandaged and unseeing in her hospital bed. It was like having a movie shown constantly before her eyes. She couldn't get away from it.

  Darling, are you all right?

  Fine. Really. I'm sorry I'm such bad company today. Maybe I'm just tired. But he had seen the haunted look, and there was a troubled little frown between her eyes.

  Have you seen Faye lately?

  No, I keep meaning to call her for lunch, and I never have time. Ever since the show, she smiled gratefully at him, I've spent half my time in the darkroom and the other half racing around town with my camera.

  I didn't mean socially. Have you seen her professionally?

  Of course not. I told you, we finished before Christmas.

  You never told me if that was her decision or yours, to finish the sessions.

  Mine, but she didn't disagree. Marie was hurt that he seemed to think she needed more work with the psychiatrist. I'm just tired, Peter. That's all.

  I'm not so sure. Sometimes I think you're still haunted by ' well, by events of two years ago. He said it carefully, watching her face. And he was dismayed when he saw her almost visibly cringe.

  Don't be ridiculous.

  It's perfectly normal, Marie. People have been tormented by things like that for ten and twenty years. That's a very traumatic thing to live through, and even if you were unconscious after the accident, some part of you way down deep will always remember what happened. If you can put it to rest, you'll be free of it.

  I have and I am.

  Only you can judge that. But I want you to be sure. Otherwise, subtly, it'll affect you for the rest of your life. It will limit your abilities, cripple your life.

  ' Anyway, there's no need to go on. Just think about it carefully. You may want to see Faye for a while longer. It wouldn't do any harm. He looked worried.

  I don't need to. Her mouth was set in a firm line, and he patted her hand. But he didn't apologize for bringing it up. He didn't like the way she looked.

  All right Shall we go then? He smiled at her more gently and she tried to return the smile, but he was right, of course. She was obsessed with having talked to Michael.

  Peter paid the check and helped her into the navy blue velvet blazer she had worn with the white Cacharel skirt, and delicate silk blouse. She was always impeccably dressed, and Peter loved being seen with her. Shall I take you home?

  No. I thought I'd stop at the gallery. I want to discuss some things with Jacques. I want to change around some of the pieces. Some of my earlier work is getting more play now than the recent work. I want to switch that around.

  That makes sense, He put an arm around her shoulders as they walked out into the spring sunshine. The morning fog had burned off and it was a beautiful warm day. The attendant brought around the black Porsche in a few moments, and Peter held open the door as Marie slipped inside. She smoothed down her skirt and smiled at him as he took his place behind the wheel. She knew now just how much she mattered to him. Sometimes she wondered, though, if he loved her because he had created her, or perhaps because she remained somewhat unattainable. Often it made her feel guilty that she wasn't freer with him. But de-spite the affection she felt for him, there was always a shadow of reserve between them. It was her fault, she knew it And maybe he was right. Maybe she would always be haunted and crippled by the accident. Maybe she should go back and see Faye.

  You're not very talkative today, my love. Still thinking of the new project?

  She nodded with an embarrassed smile and then ran a delicate hand over the back of his neck. Sometimes I wonder why you put up with me.

  Because I'm
lucky to have you. You're very special to me, Marie. I hope you truly know that.

  But why? Sometimes she wondered. Was she like the other woman he had loved? Had he made her that way? It was an eerie thought.

  She settled back in her seat for a moment and closed her eyes, trying to relax, but they flew open again as she felt Peter swerve in the bulletlike little car. As she opened her eyes, all she could see was a sleek red Jaguar hurtling toward her side of the car, head on, as its driver swooped around a double-parked truck. For some reason the driver of the Jaguar had overshot his mark, and was well into the opposite lane, until he was almost nose to with Marie. She stared wide-eyed in horror, too terrified to make a sound. But in an instant, the incident was over. Peter had avoided the car, and the delinquent Jaguar had sped off in the opposite direction, running a red light. But Marie sat frozen and terrified in her seat, clutching the dashboard, her eyes staring straight ahead, her jaw trembling, her eyes filled with unshed tears, her mind rooted to something it had seen twenty-two months before. Peter realized instantly what was happening, stopped the car, and reached out to take her in his arms, but she was too stiff to move, and as he touched her, the car was suddenly filled with her screams. She howled from the very bottom of her soul, and he had to shake her and pull her into his arms to subdue her.

  Shhh ' it's all right, darling. It's all right. Ssshhhh. It's all over now. Nothing like that will ever happen again. It's all over. She subsided into terrified sobs, the tears streaming down her face, her whole body trembling as she let herself fall against him while he held her. It was almost half an hour before she stopped, and lay back exhausted in her seat. He watched her silently for a time, stroking her face and her hair, holding her hand and letting her feel that she was indeed safe. But he was deeply troubled by what he had seen. It proved what he had thought all along. When at last she had stopped shaking and she rested, quiet, next to him, he spoke to her softly but firmly and she closed her eyes. You have to go back to Faye. It isn't over for you yet. And it won't be until you face it and heal it.

  But how much more could she face? And what was there to heal? Her love for Michael? How could she heal that? How could she tell Peter that she had spoken to him on the phone; and that it had made her want to hold him and kiss him and feel his hands on her again? How could she tell Peter that? Instead she looked at him with tired eyes and silently nodded.

  I'll give it some thought.

  Good. Shall I take you home? His voice was very soft, and she nodded. She didn't have the strength to go to the gallery now. And they didn't speak again until they reached her house. Do you want me to take you up? But she only shook her head and kissed him on the cheek.

  The only words she said to him as she got out of the car were, Thank you. And she didn't look back when she got out. She slowly climbed up the stairs, the burden of twenty-two lonely months heavy on her shoulders. If only Michael had never called. It had brought back all the pain. And for what? What was the point? He probably didn't give a damn anyway. He just wanted her photographs. Well, let him buy someone else's work, the bastard. Why the hell couldn't he leave her alone?

  She let herself into her apartment and went straight to the bed. Fred was leaping and jumping at her feet, and instantly joined her on the bed, but she wasn't in the mood. She pushed him to the floor, and lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she should call Faye, or if there was any point in that either. She was just beginning to doze in fitful exhaustion when the phone rang and she jumped up with a start. She didn't really want to answer it, but it was probably Peter wanting to know if she was all right, and she didn't have the right to worry him anymore than she already had that afternoon. Slowly, she reached for the phone.

  Hello. It was a soft broken word from her lips.

  Miss Adamson? Oh Jesus, it wasn't Peter, it was '

  She closed her eyes to fight back the tears as an endless sigh shook her entire body. For God's sake, Michael, leave me alone. She hung up the phone, and at the other end Michael stared at the receiver in total confusion. What the hell was this all about? And why had she called him Michael?

  Chapter 27

  Marie looked tired and drawn the next morning when she walked into the gallery with Fred. She was wearing a black pants suit with a brilliant green sweater that set off her coloring to perfection. But she looked unusually pale after a long, sleepless night, in which, at least ten thousand times, she had relived her last day with Michael and the accident that followed. She felt as though she would never get away from it if she lived to be a thousand years old. And she felt at least a hundred that morning.

  You look as though you've been working too hard, my love. Jacques smiled at her from behind the desk in his office. He was wearing his standard uniform. Impeccably tailored French blue jeans grafted to his body, black turtleneck sweater, and suede St. Laurent jacket. On him the combination looked perfect Or are you staying up too late with our favorite doctor? He was an old friend of Peter's, and he had already grown fond of Marie.

  She smiled in answer and sipped the coffee he had poured. It was strong and dark, a caf+! filtre, the only kind he ever served. He brought it over from France, along with countless other precious items without which he could not survive. She loved to tease him about his chauvinism and his expensive tastes. She had bought him toilet paper imprinted with the Gucci logo for his birthday. That and a briefcase from Herm+?s, which was slightly more his style. But he had liked the joke, too.

  No, I haven't been partying. Maybe too much time in the darkroom.

  Crazy girl. A woman like you should be out dancing.

  Later. After I do some more work. She started describing her new idea for a series on San Francisco street life, and he nodded in satisfaction.

  +ca me plait, Marie. I like it. Okay. Do it as soon as you can. He was about to go into the details with her when there was a knock on his office door. It was his secretary, making hushing gestures. Aha! Probably one of your girls. Marie loved to tease him, and he grinned and shrugged helplessly as he walked around the desk to confer with the secretary just beyond the door. He listened to her whispered words, and then nodded, looking exceedingly pleased. He gave one final affirmative sign, and then walked back in and sat down, looking at Marie as though he were about to bestow a wonderful gift.

  I have a surprise for you, Marie. And with that, she heard another knock on the door. Someone very important is interested in your work. The door swung open before she had time to fully understand the meaning of his words, or their implication, and suddenly she found herself turning around to face Michael. She almost gasped, and felt the cup of steaming dark coffee tremble in her hand. He was very handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark tie, and he looked every bit the magnate he was.

  Marie set down the coffee cup to take his out-stretched hand, and he was impressed with how poised she looked in Jacques's office. It hardly seemed possible that this was the girl who had answered the phone the night before, with agony in her voice, begging him to leave her alone. Maybe she had other problems, with men perhaps. Maybe she'd been drunk. You never knew with artists. But none of his thoughts showed on his face, nor did her discomfort show on hers.

  I'm awfully glad to meet you at last. You've led me a merry chase, Miss Adamson. But then, as talented as you are, I suppose you have that right. He gave her a benevolent smile, and she looked at Jacques, who was standing behind his desk extending a hand toward Michael. He was extremely impressed by Cotter-Hillyard's interest in Marie's work. Michael had made it quite clear to the secretary that his interest was professional, not for his own collection or even for his office. He wanted her work for one of the largest projects the company had ever done, and Jacques was overwhelmed. He could hardly wait until Marie heard. Even her cool reserve would be shattered over this. But she looked as unruffled as ever, at least for the moment. She sat very still in her chair, avoiding Michael's gaze, and with an icy little smile on her lips. May I get right to the
point and explain to you both what I have in mind?

  But of course. Jacques waved at the secretary to pour Michael some coffee, and sat back to listen as Michael went on to explain in full detail what he wanted to do with Marie's work. It was a project any artist would have fought for, but at the end of the discussion Marie seemed unmoved. She nodded very quietly and then turned to look at Michael.

  I'm afraid my answer is still the same, Mr. Hillyard.

  You've discussed this before? Jacques looked confused, and Michael was quick to explain.

  One of my associates, my mother, and I myself have all contacted Miss Adamson at her home. We've mentioned this project to her, though only briefly, and her answer has been a firm no. I was hoping to change her mind.

  Jacques looked at her in stupefaction. Marie was shaking her head.

  I'm sorry, but I can't do it.

  But why not? The words were Jacques's. He was almost frantic.

  Because I don't want to.