the Promise (1978)

by Steel, Danielle

  May we at least know your reasons? Michael's voice was very smooth, and it held something new, the knowledge of his own power. Marie was irritated to find she liked this side of him. But it did nothing to change her mind.

  Call me a temperamental artist if you like. Whatever. The answer is still no. And it will stay no. She put down her cup, looked at the two men, and stood up. She held out a hand to Michael and somberly shook his hand. Thank you, though, for your interest. I'm sure you'll find the right person for your project. Maybe Jacques can recommend someone. There are several wonderful artists and photographers associated with this gallery.

  But I'm afraid we only want you. He sounded stubborn now, and Jacques looked apoplectic, but Marie was not going to lose this battle. She had already lost too much.

  That's unreasonable of you, Mr. Hillyard. And childish. You're going to have to find someone else. I won't work with you. It's as simple as that.

  Will you work with someone else in the firm?

  She shook her head again and walked to the doorway.

  Will you at least give it some thought?

  Her back was to Michael as she paused for an instant in the doorway, but once again she only shook her head, and then they heard the word no as she disappeared with her little dog. Michael did not waste a moment with the stunned gallery owner, who remained seated at his desk. He ran out into the street after her, shouting Wait? He wasn't even sure why he was doing it, but he felt he had to. He got to her side as she began to walk hurriedly away. May I walk with you for a moment?

  If you'd like, but there isn't much point. She was looking straight ahead, avoiding his eyes as he strode doggedly beside her.

  Why are you doing this? It Just doesn't make any sense. It is personal? Something you know about our firm? A bad experience you've had? Something about me?

  It doesn't make any difference.

  Yes it does, damn it. It does. He stopped her and held fast to her arm. I have a right to know.

  Do you? They both seemed to stand there for an eternity, and finally she softened. All right. It's personal.

  At least I know you're not crazy.

  She laughed and looked at him with amusement. How do you know? Maybe I am.

  Unfortunately, I don't think so. I just think you hate Cotter-Hillyard. Or me. It was ridiculous though. Neither he nor the firm had had any bad press. They weren't involved in controversial projects, or with dubious governments. There was no reason for her to act like this. Maybe she'd had an affair with someone in the local office and had a grudge against him. It had to be something like that. Nothing else made sense.

  I don't hate you, Mr. Hillyard. She had waited a long time to say it as they walked along.

  You sure do a good act. He smiled, and for the first time he looked like a boy again. Like the kid who used to tease her with Ben in her apartment. That glimpse of the past tore at her heart and she looked away. Can I invite you out somewhere for a cup of coffee? She was going to refuse, but maybe it would be better to get it over with once and for all. Maybe then he'd leave her alone.

  All right. She suggested a place across the street, and they walked there with Fred at their heels. They both ordered espressos, and without thinking she handed him the sugar. She knew he took two, but he only thanked her, helped himself, and set the bowl down. It didn't seem unusual to him that she had known.

  You know, I can't explain it, but there's something odd about your work. It haunts me. As though I've seen it before, as though I already know it, as though I understand what you meant and what you saw when you took the pictures. Does that make any sense?

  Yes. A great deal of sense. He had always had a wonderful understanding of her paintings. She sighed and nodded. Yes, I guess it does. They're supposed to do something like that to you.

  But they do something more. I can't explain it. It's as though I already know ' well, your work. I don't know. It sounds crazy when I say it.

  But don't you know me? Don't you know these eyes? She found herself wanting to ask him those questions as they quietly drank their coffee and discussed her work.

  I get the terrible feeling you're not going to give in. You won't, will you? Sadly, she shook her head. Is it money?

  Of course not.

  I didn't think so. He didn't even mention the enormous contract he had in his pocket. He knew it would do him no good, and perhaps make things worse. I wish I knew what it was.

  Just my eccentricities. My way of lashing out at the past. She was shocked at her own honesty but he didn't seem to be.

  I thought it was something like that . They were both at peace now as they sat in the little Italian restaurant. There was a sadness to the meeting too, a bittersweet quality Michael couldn't understand. My mother was very taken with your work. And she's not easy to please. Marie smiled at his choice of words.

  No, she isn't. Or so I've heard. She drives a very hard bargain.

  Yes, but she made the business what it is today. It's a pleasure to take over from her. Like a perfectly run ship.

  How fortunate for you. She sounded bitter again, and once more Michael didn't understand. In a little nervous gesture he ran his hand across a tiny scar on his temple, and abruptly Marie set down her coffee cup and watched him. What's that?

  What?

  That scar. She couldn't take her eyes from it. She knew exactly what it was. It had to be from '

  It's nothing. I've had it for a while.

  It doesn't look very old.

  A couple of years. He looked embarrassed. Really. It was nothing. A minor accident with some friends.

  He tried to brush it off, and Marie wanted to throw her coffee in his face. Son of a bitch. A minor accident. Thanks, baby. Now I know everything I need to know. She picked up her handbag, looked down at him icily for a moment, and held out her hand.

  Thanks for a lovely time, Mr. Hillyard. I hope you enjoy your stay.

  You're leaving? Did I say something wrong? Jesus. She was impossible. What the hell was wrong with her now? What had he said? And then he found himself shocked at the look in her eyes.

  As a matter of fact, you did. She in turn was shocked at her own words. I read about that accident of yours, and I don't think it was what anyone would call minor. Those two friends of yours were pretty well banged up, from what I understand. Don't you give a damn about anything, Michael? Don't you care anymore about anything but your bloody business?

  What the hell is wrong with you? And what business is it of yours?

  I'm a human being, and you're not. That's what I hate about you.

  You are crazy .

  No, mister. Not anymore. And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Michael to stare at her. And then, as though pushed by an invisible force, he found himself on his feet and running after her. He had dropped a five-dollar bill on the little marble table and fled in her wake. He had to tell her. He had to ' No, it hadn't been a minor accident. The woman he loved had been killed. But what right did she have to know that? He didn't get a chance to tell her, though, because when he reached the street, she had just slipped into a cab.

  Chapter 28

  She had just gotten to the beach and was setting up her tripod when she suddenly saw the figure approach. His determined step puzzled her until she realized who it was. Michael, damn it He walked down the beach and over the small dune, until he stood in front of her, blocking her view.

  I have something to say to you.

  I don't want to hear it.

  That's tough. Because I'm going to tell you anyway. You have no right to pry into my private life and tell me what kind of human being I am. You don't even know me. Her words had tormented him all through the night. And he had found out from her answering service where she was. He wasn't even sure why he had come here, but he had known he had to. What right do you have to make judgments about me, damn you?

  None at all. But I don't like what I see. She was cool and removed as she changed lenses.

  An
d just exactly what do you see?

  An empty shell. A man who cares about nothing but his work. A man who cares about no one, loves nothing, gives nothing, is nothing.

  You bitch, what the hell do you know about what I am and do and feel? What makes you think you're so almighty together? She stepped around him and focused on the next dune. Damn you, listen to me! He reached for her camera and she dodged him, turning on him in fury.

  Why don't you get the hell out of my life? Like you have for the last two years, you bastard'

  I'm not in your life. I'm trying to buy some work from you. That's all I want. I don't want your pronouncements about my personality, or my life, or anything else. I just want to buy some stinking photographs. He was almost trembling, he was so angry, and all she did was walk past him to the portfolio that lay on a blanket on the beach. She unzipped it, looked into a file, and pulled out a photograph. Then she stood up and handed it to him.

  Here. It's yours. Do whatever the hell you want with it. Then leave me alone.

  Without saying a word he turned on his heel and walked back to the car he'd left parked in the road.

  She never turned to look at him, but went back to work until the light began to dim and she could work no longer. Thai she drove back to her apartment, scrambled some eggs, heated some coffee, and headed for the dark room. She went to bed at two in the morning, and when the phone rang, she didn't answer it. Even if it was Peter, she didn't care. She didn't want to speak to anyone. And she was going back to the beach at nine the next morning. She set her alarm for eight and fell asleep the moment she hit the bed. She had freed herself of something back there on the beach. And she had to be honest with herself: even if she hated him, at least she had seen him. In an odd way, it was a relief.

  She showered and dressed in less than half an hour the next morning. She was wearing well-worn work clothes, and she sipped her coffee as she read the paper. She left the apartment on schedule, a few minutes before nine, and she was already thinking of her work as she hurried down the steps with Fred. It was only when she reached the foot of the steps that she looked up and gasped. Across the street was an enormous billboard mounted on a truck, driven by Michael Hillyard. He was smiling as he watched her, and she sat down on the last step and started to laugh. He was really crazy. He had taken the photograph she had given him, had it blown up and mounted, and then driven it to her door. He was grinning as he left the truck and walked toward her. And she was still laughing when he sat down next to her on the step.

  How do you like it?

  I think you're a scream.

  Yeah, but doesn't it look good? Just think how your other stuff would look blown up and mounted in the medical center buildings. Wouldn't that be a thrill? He was a thrill, but she couldn't tell him that. Come on, let's go have breakfast and talk. This morning he wasn't taking no for an answer. He had cleared his morning schedule just for her. And she found his determination touching as well as amusing. She just wasn't in the mood for another fight.

  I should say no, but I won't.

  That's better. Can I give you a ride?

  In that? She pointed to the track and started laughing again.

  Sure. Why not?

  So they hopped into the cab of the truck and headed down to Fisherman's Wharf for breakfast. Trucks were a familiar sight there, and no one was going to walk off with a photograph that size.

  Surprisingly, it was a very pleasant breakfast. They both put aside the war, at least until the coffee.

  Well, have I convinced you? He looked very sure of himself as he smiled at her over his cup.

  No. But I've had a very nice time.

  I suppose I should be grateful for small favors, but that's not my style.

  What is your style? In your own words.

  You mean you're giving me a chance to explain myself, instead of your telling me what I am? He was teasing, but there was an edge to his voice. She had come too close to home with some of her comments the day before. All right, I'll tell you. In some ways you're right. I live for my work.

  Why? Don't you have anything else in your life?

  Not really. Most successful people probably don't. There just isn't room.

  That's stupid. You don't have to exchange your life for success. Some people have both.

  Do you?

  Not entirely. But maybe one day I will. I know it's possible anyway.

  Maybe it is. Maybe my incentive isn't what it used to be. Her eyes grew soft at the words. My life has changed a great deal in the last few years. I didn't wind up doing any of the things I once planned to. But ' I've had some damn nice compensations. Like becoming president of Cotter-Hillyard, but he was embarrassed to say it.

  I see. I take it you're not married.

  Nope. No time. No interest. How lovely. Then it was probably just as well they hadn't married after all.

  You make it sound very cut-and-dried.

  For the moment it is. And you?

  I'm not married either.

  You know, for all your condemnation of my way of life, I can't see that yours is all that different from mine. You're just as obsessed with your work as I am with mine, just as lonely, just as locked away in your own little world. So why are you so hard on me? It's not very fair. His voice was soft but reproachful.

  I'm sorry. Maybe you're right. It was hard to argue the point. And then, as she thought over what he had said, she felt his hand on hers, and it was like a knife in her heart. She pulled it away with a stricken look in her eyes. And he looked unhappy again.

  You're a very difficult woman to understand.

  I suppose I am. There's a lot that would be impossible to explain.

  You ought to try me sometime. I'm not the monster you seem to think I am.

  I'm sure you aren't. As she looked at him, all she wanted to do was cry. This was like saying good-bye to him. It was knowing, all over again, what she could never have. But maybe she would understand it better now. Maybe she would finally be able to let go. With a small sigh she looked at her watch. I really should get to work.

  Have I gotten any closer to a yes in answer to our proposal?

  I'm afraid not.

  He hated to admit it, but he would have to give up. He knew now that she would never change her mind. All his efforts had been for nothing. She was one very tough woman. But he liked her. He was surprised just how much, when she let down her guard. There was a softness and a kindness that drew him to her in a way that he hadn't been drawn to anyone in years. Do you suppose that I could talk you into having dinner with me, Marie? Sort of a consolation prize, since I don't get my deal? She laughed softly at the look on his face and patted his hand.

  I'd like that sometime. But not just now. I'm afraid I'll be going out of town. Damn. He had really lost this one, round after round.

  Where are you going?

  Back east. To take care of some personal business. She had made the decision in the last half hour. But now she knew what she had to do. It was not a question of burying the past, but unburying it. In a way, Peter had been right. And now she was sure. She had to heal it as he had said.

  I'll call the next time I'm in San Francisco. I hope I'll have better luck.

  Maybe. And maybe by then I'll be Mrs. Peter Gregson. Maybe by then I'll be healed. And it won't matter anymore. Not at all.

  They walked quietly back to the truck, and he dropped her off at her apartment She said very little when she left him. She thanked him for breakfast, shook his hand, and walked back up the steps. He had lost. And as he watched her go he felt an overwhelming sadness. It was as though he had lost something very special. He wasn't quite sure what. A business deal, a woman, a friend? Something. For the first time in a long time, he felt unbearably alone. He shoved the truck into gear, and drove grimly through Pacific Heights and up the hill back to his hotel.

  Marie was already on the phone to Peter Gregson.

  Tonight? Darling, I have a meeting. He sounded flustered, and he was in a hurry
between patients.

  Then come after the meeting. It's important. I'm leaving tomorrow.

  For where? For how long? He sounded worried.

  I'll tell you when I see you. Tonight?

  All right, all right. Around eleven. But that's really foolish, Marie. Can't this thing wait?

  No. It had waited two years, and she had been crazy to let it sit for that long.

  All right. I'll see you tonight. He had hung up in a hurry, and she called the airline to make a reservation, and the vet to make arrangements for Fred.

  Chapter 29

  Marie had been lucky. There had been a cancellation that afternoon, so now she found herself sitting in the familiar, comfortable room she had not visited in months. She sat back against the couch and stretched her legs toward the unlit fireplace, as though by habit, staring absently at her feet in delicate sandals. Her thoughts were so far away that she didn't hear Faye come in.

  Are you meditating or just falling asleep?

  Marie looked up with a smile as Faye sat down in the seat across from her. Just thinking. It's good to see you. Actually, she was surprised how good it felt to be back. There was a feeling of homecoming in just being there, an ease about fitting back into an old and happy groove. She had had some good moments in that room, as well as some difficult ones.

  Should I tell you that you look marvelous, or are you already tired of hearing it? Faye beamed at the girl, and Marie laughed.

  I never get tired of hearing it. Only with Faye would she dare to be that honest. I guess you want to know why I'm here. Her face sobered as she looked into the other woman's eyes.

  The question certainly crossed my mind. They exchanged another rapid smile, and then Marie seemed to get lost in her own thoughts again.

  I've seen Michael.

  He found you? Faye sounded stunned, and more than a little impressed.

  Yes, and no. He found Marie Adamson. That's all he knows. One of his underlings has been hounding me about my work. Cotter-Hillyard is doing a medical center out here, and they seem to want my photographs blown up to enormous proportions as part of the decor.

  That's very flattering, Marie.