Summer’s End

by Danielle Steel

  “Mr. Thompson said to wait for him in his den. He’s upstairs on the phone. To London.” She added the last words with disapproval, as though she thought it a shocking expense. But not nearly as great an expense, Deanna thought, as the paintings on the walls. She looked at them with awe as they followed the housekeeper to the den. The man had a magnificent collection of English and Early American paintings. None of them were what Deanna would have collected herself, but they were a joy to behold. She wanted to linger so she could study each piece, but the woman in the apron marched them quickly and firmly into the den, glared at them long and hard, muttered, “Sit down,” then disappeared back to her chores.

  “My God, Kim, did you see what he has on his walls?”

  Kimberly grinned, readjusting her hat. “Beautiful stuff, isn’t it? Not my cup of tea, but he has some awfully good pieces. Though they’re not all really his.” Deanna raised an eyebrow in question. “He owns two galleries. One in San Francisco, and one in L.A. I suspect he borrows some of these from his galleries. But what the hell, it’s beautiful work.”

  Deanna nodded in rapid agreement and continued to look around. They were seated in a room with a wide picture window that looked out at the sea. A simple pine desk, two couches, and a chair. Like the exterior of the house and the modest car, it was functional rather than impressive. But the art collection amply made up for that. Even here, he had hung two very fine, perfectly framed black-and-white sketches. She leaned closer to peer at the signatures then turned to look at a painting that hung behind her, the only ornament on a totally bare, white wall. Even as she turned to look, she felt herself gasp. It was the painting. The Wyeth. The woman on the dune, her face partially hidden as she rested it on her knees. And even Deanna could see that the woman was startlingly like her. The length and color of her hair, the shape of her shoulders, even the hint of a smile. She was surrounded by a bleak, damp-looking beach and accompanied only by the passing of one lonely gull.

  “Good morning.” She heard his voice behind her before she could comment on the painting. Her eyes met his in surprise. “How do you do, I’m Ben Thompson. Miss Houghton?” There was an unspoken question in his eyes, but she quickly shook her head and pointed to Kim, who stepped forward with an extended hand and a smile.

  “I’m Kimberly Houghton. And this is my friend, Deanna Duras. We heard so much about your collection that I had to bring her along. She’s an amazingly gifted artist herself, though she won’t admit it.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “See!” Kim’s eyes danced as she took in the good-looking man who stood before them. He looked to be somewhere in his late thirties, and he had extraordinarily beautiful eyes.

  Deanna was smiling at them both and shaking her head. “Really. I’m not.”

  “How do you like my Wyeth?” He said it straight into Deanna’s eyes, and she felt a little pull at her heart.

  “I… it’s a very, very fine piece. But you already know that.” She found herself blushing when she spoke to him. She wasn’t sure what to say. Should she admit having met him before? Should she pretend that there had been no meeting? Would he?

  “Do you like it though?” His eyes held hers, and she felt herself grow warm under his gaze.

  “Very much.” He nodded, pleased. And then she understood. He would say nothing about the night before on the beach. But she found herself smiling as they sat down. It was a strange feeling, having this secret between them, stranger still to know that she had met the “new client” before Kim.

  “Ladies, some coffee?” They both nodded, and he stepped into the hall to call to the housekeeper. “One medium, two black.” As he came back into the room, he grinned at them. “They’ll either all be medium or all black. Mrs. Meacham doesn’t approve. Of anything. Coffee. Visitors. Or me. But I can trust her to clean the house when I’m gone. She thinks all this stuff is crap.” He waved airily around the room, a gesture encompassing the Wyeth and both sketches as well as the pieces they had seen on their way in. Kim and Deanna both laughed.

  When the coffee arrived, all three cups were black. “Perfect. Thank you.” He smiled boyishly at the housekeeper as she left the room. “Miss Houghton…?”

  “Kimberly, please.”

  “Okay, Kimberly, you’ve seen the ads we ran last year?” She nodded. “What did you think?”

  “Not enough style. Not the right look. Not aimed at the right marketplace for what you want.”

  He nodded, but his glance kept wandering back to Deanna, who was still drinking in the Wyeth behind him. His eyes betrayed nothing as he watched her, and his words showed that he knew what he wanted from Kim. He was quick, funny, astute, and very businesslike, and their meeting was over in less than an hour. She promised to give him some fresh ideas within two weeks.

  “Will Deanna be consulting on the account?” It was hard to tell if he was teasing. Deanna shook her head rapidly and held up a hand, laughing.

  “Good God, no. I have no idea how Kim comes up with any of her wizardly ideas.”

  “Blood, sweat, and a lot of black coffee.” Kimberly grinned.

  “What do you paint?” He was looking again at Deanna, with the same gentle eyes she had seen on the beach the night before.

  Her voice was very soft as she answered. “Still lifes, young girls. The usual Impressionist themes.”

  “And mothers with young babies on their knees?” The eyes were always teasing, but unrelentingly kind.

  “Only once.” She had done a portrait of herself and Pilar. Her mother-in-law had hung it in the Paris apartment and then ignored it for the next dozen years.

  “I’d like to see some of your work. Do you show?” Again no betrayal of the night before, and she wondered why.

  “No, I don’t. I haven’t shown in years. I’m not ready.”

  “Now that’s crap, to use your housekeeper’s word.” Kimberly looked first at Ben Thompson and then at Deanna. “You should show him some of your work.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Deanna felt awkward and looked away. No one had seen her work in too many years. Only Marc and Pilar, and now and then Kim. “One day, but not yet. Thank you anyway though.” Her smile thanked him for his silence as well as his kindness. It was strange that he too should wish to remain mute about their meeting on the beach.

  The conversation drew to a close with the usual amenities and a brief tour of his collection, conducted beneath the buzzardlike gaze of the housekeeper as she swept. Kimberly promised to call him the following week.

  There was nothing unusual in his farewell to Deanna. No inappropriate pressure of her hand, no message in his eyes, only the warmth that she had already seen, and the smile he left them as he closed the door.

  “What a nice guy,” Kim said as she started the little MG. The engine grumbled, then came to life. “He’s going to be a pleasure to work with. Don’t you think?”

  Deanna just nodded. She was lost in her own thoughts until Kim screeched to a halt outside their hotel.

  “Why the hell don’t you let him see your work?” Deanna’s reticence always annoyed Kim. She had been the only one in art school who had really had a notable talent, and the only one who had buried her light under a bushel for almost twenty years. The others had all tried to make it and eventually failed.

  “I told you. I’m not ready.”

  “Bull! If you don’t call him yourself, I’m going to give him your number. It’s time you did something about that mountain of masterpieces you keep standing around in your studio, facing the wall. That’s a crime, Deanna. It just isn’t right. Jesus, when you think of the garbage I painted and busted my ass to sell—”

  “It wasn’t garbage.” Deanna looked kindly at her. But they both knew it hadn’t been very good. Kim was much better at planning campaigns, headlines, and layouts than she had been at her art.

  “It was garbage, and I don’t even care anymore. I like what I do. But what about you?”

  “I like what I do, too.”


  “And what’s that?” Kimberly was becoming frustrated now, and her voice betrayed her feelings. It always wound up that way when they talked about Deanna’s work. “What do you do?”

  “You know what I do. I paint, I take care of Marc and Pilar, I run the house. I keep busy.”

  “Yes, taking care of everyone else. What about you? Wouldn’t it do something for you to see your work shown in a gallery, hung somewhere other than your husband’s office?”

  “It doesn’t matter where they’re hung.” She didn’t dare tell Kim that they weren’t even there anymore. Marc had hired a new decorator six months before, who had declared her works “weak and depressing” and taken them all down. Marc had brought the canvases home, including a small portrait of Pilar, which now hung in the hall. “What matters to me is painting it, not showing it.”

  “That’s like playing a violin with no strings for chrissake. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does to me.” She was gentle but firm, and Kim shook her head as they got out of the car.

  “Well, I think you’re crazy, but I love you anyway.” Deanna smiled as they walked back inside the hotel.

  The rest of their stay went by too quickly. They browsed in the shops, had dinner once more at the Pine Inn. On Sunday afternoon Deanna took one more walk on the beach. She knew where he lived now, knew it when she glimpsed the house hidden behind the trees. She knew how near she was to the Wyeth. She walked on. She did not see him again, and she was annoyed at herself for even wondering if he’d be on the beach. Why should he be? And what would she say if he were? Thank him for not letting Kimberly know they had met? So what? What did it matter? She knew she’d never see him again.

  5

  When the phone rang, she was already in her studio, sitting back from the canvas trying to evaluate her morning’s work. It was a bowl of tulips dropping their petals on a mahogany table, against a background of blue sky, glimpsed through an open window.

  “Deanna?” She was stunned to hear his voice.

  “Ben? How did you get my number?” She felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks and was instantly angry at herself for the way she felt. “Kim?”

  “Of course. She said that if I didn’t show your work, she’d sabotage our account.”

  “She didn’t!” The blush deepened as she laughed.

  “No. She just said that you were very good. Tell you what, I’ll trade you my Wyeth for one of yours.”

  “You’re crazy. And so is Kim!”

  “Why don’t you let me judge for myself? Do you suppose I could come by around noon?”

  “Today? Now?” She glanced at the clock and shook her head. It was already after eleven. “No!”

  “I know. You’re not ready. Artists never are.” The voice was as gentle as it had been on the beach.

  She stared into the phone. “Really. I can’t.” It was almost a whisper.

  “Tomorrow?” Not pushy, but firm.

  “Ben, really … it’s not that. I …” She faltered and heard his laugh.

  “Please. I’d really love to see your work.”

  “Why?” She instantly felt stupid for the question.

  “Because I like you. And I’d like to see your work. It’s as simple as that. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  “More or less.” She didn’t know what more to say.

  “Are you busy for lunch?”

  “No, I’m not.” She sighed sadly again.

  “Don’t sound so forlorn. I promise not to throw darts at your canvases. Honest. Trust me.”

  Oddly, she did. She trusted him. It was something about the way he spoke, and the look she remembered in his eyes. “I think I do. All right then. Noon.”

  No one going to the guillotine had ever spoken as resolutely. Ben Thompson smiled to himself as he hung up.

  He was there promptly at noon. With a bag of French rolls, a sizable wedge of Brie, and half a dozen peaches, as well as a bottle of white wine.

  “Will this do?” he asked as he spread his riches out on her desk.

  “Very nicely. But you really shouldn’t have come.” She looked dismayed as she eyed him over the table. She was wearing jeans and a paint-splattered shirt, her hair tied in a loosely woven knot. “I really hate being put on the spot.” Her expression was troubled as she watched him, and for a moment he stopped arranging the fruit.

  “You’re not on the spot, Deanna. I really did want to see your work. But it doesn’t matter a damn what I think. Kim says you’re good. You know you’re good. You told me on the beach that painting was your life. No one can ever play with that. I wouldn’t try to.” He paused, then went on, more softly, “You saw some of the pieces I love in the cottage in Carmel. That’s something I care about. This is something you care about. If you like my Wyeth, it makes me happy, but if you don’t it doesn’t change a bit of its beauty for me. Nothing I see will change what you do, or how much it matters. No one can ever touch that.”

  She nodded silently, then slowly walked toward the wall where twenty paintings were propped, hidden and ignored. One by one, she turned them around, saying nothing and looking only at the oils as she turned them. She did not look at him until at last he said, “Stop.” She glanced up in surprise and saw him leaning against her desk with a look in his eyes she didn’t understand.

  “Did you feel anything when you saw the Wyeth?” He was searching her face and holding her eyes.

  She nodded. “I felt a great deal.”

  “What?”

  She smiled. “First, surprise, to realize that I was in your house. But then, a kind of awe, a joy at seeing the painting. I felt pulled by the woman, as though she were someone I knew. I felt everything I think Wyeth wanted to tell me. For a moment, I felt spellbound by his words.”

  “As I do by yours. Do you have any idea how much you’ve put in those paintings, or how really beautiful they are? Do you know what it means to be reached out to and pulled at time after time after time, as you turn them around? They’re incredible, Deanna. Don’t you know how good they are?” He was smiling at her. She felt her heart pound in her chest.

  “I love them. But that’s because they’re mine.” She was glowing now. He had given her the ultimate gift, and she knew he meant every word. It had been so long since anyone had seen what she painted—and cared.

  “They’re not only yours. They are you.” He walked closer to one of the canvases and silently stared. It was a painting of a young girl leaning over her bath—Pilar.

  “That one is my daughter.” She was enjoying it now. She wanted to share more.

  “It’s a beautiful piece of work. Show me more.”

  She showed him all of them. When it was over, she almost crowed with pleasure. He liked them, he loved them! He understood her work. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and laugh.

  He was opening the bottle of wine. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

  “What?” She was suddenly wary, but not very.

  “That I will hound you until you sign with the gallery. How about that?”

  She smiled broadly at him, but she shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “That’s not for me.” And Marc would have a fit. He would think it commercial and vulgar—though the Thompson gallery had a reputation for anything but vulgarity, and Ben’s family had been reputable in the art world for years. She had looked him up when she got back from Carmel. His grandfather had had one of the finest galleries in London, and his father in New York. Ben Thompson had carte blanche in the art world, even at thirty-eight years of age. She had read that too. “Really, Ben, I can’t.”

  “The hell you can’t. Listen, don’t be stubborn. Come to the gallery and look around. You’ll feel a lot better when you see what’s there.” He suddenly looked very young as he said it, and she laughed. She knew what was there. She had researched that, as well. Pissarro, Chagall, Cassatt, a very small Renoir, a splendid Monet, some Corots. Also a few carefully hidden Pollocks
, a Dali, and a de Kooning that he seldom showed. He had the best. As well as a few well-chosen, unknown, young artists, of whom he wanted her to be one. What more could she ask? But what would she tell Marc? I had to. He asked me. I wanted…

  “No.” He just wouldn’t understand. And neither would Pilar. She would think it an obnoxious, show-offy thing to do. “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re right there.” He held out a piece of French bread and Brie. Twenty-two paintings spread around the room. And he had loved them all. She beamed as she took the bread from him.

  “I’ve got thirty more in the attic. And five over at Kim’s.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  He handed her a peach. “Yes, you are. But I won’t hold it against you. How about coming to an opening we’re having tomorrow night? That won’t do any harm, will it? Or are you even afraid to do that?” He was goading her now, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  “Who said I was afraid?” She looked very young as she bit into the juicy peach, then smiled.

  “Who had to? Why else would you not want to show?”

  “Because it doesn’t make sense.”

  “You don’t make sense.” But by then they were both laughing and into their third glass of wine. “I like you anyway,” he announced. “I’m used to dealing with crazies like you.”

  “I’m not crazy. Just stubborn.”

  “And you look exactly like my Wyeth. Did you notice it too?” His eyes pulled at her again. He put down his glass. She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

  “I did.”

  “Only I can see your eyes.” He held them for a long moment, then glanced away. They were precisely the eyes he always knew the woman in the painting would have. “You have beautiful eyes.”