Summer’s End

by Danielle Steel

  “So do you.” Her voice was like a soft breeze in the room, and they were both reminded of their walk in Carmel.

  He said nothing for a while; he only sat silently, looking at her paintings. “You said that was your daughter. Is that really true?” He looked at her again, wanting to know more.

  “Yes. She’s almost sixteen. Her name is Pilar. And she is very, very pretty. Much more so than she looks in the painting. I’ve done several of her.” She thought wistfully of the one Marc’s decorator had rejected into the hall. “Some of them are quite good.” She felt free with him now, free to like her own work.

  “Where is she now? Is she here?”

  “No.” Deanna looked at him for a long moment. “In the South of France. Her … my husband is French.” She wanted to tell him that Marc was away too, that he was in Greece, but it seemed treasonous. Why would she tell him? What did she want of this man? He had already told her that he liked her work. What more could she ask? She wanted to ask him if he was married. But that seemed wrong too. What did those things matter? He was here for her work. No matter how kind those deep, sea-green eyes were.

  “You know”—he looked regretfully at his watch— “I hate to say this, but I have to get to work. I have a meeting at three in the office.”

  “Three?” Her eyes flew to the clock. It was already two forty-five. “Already? How did the time go so fast?” But they had looked at a great deal of her work. She stood up with a regretful look in her eyes.

  “You’ll come tomorrow night? To the vernissage?” His eyes told her that he wanted her to come. She wasn’t sure why.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Please, Deanna. I’d like that.” He touched her arm briefly, and then with a last appreciative smile around the room, he stepped outside the studio and loped down the stairs. “I’ll find my way out. See you tomorrow!” His words faded as she sank into the comfortable white chair and looked around the room. There were four or five canvases of Pilar, but none of Marc. For one totally frantic moment she couldn’t remember his face.

  6

  Deanna parked the dark blue Jaguar across from the gallery and slowly crossed the street. She still wasn’t sure if she should go, if it was wise. If it made sense. What if Kim were there? It would make her feel foolish. What if … but then she thought of his eyes and pushed open the heavy glass door.

  There were two black-jacketed bartenders standing nearby, alternately pouring Scotch and champagne, and a pretty young woman was greeting the guests, who all looked either well heeled or artistic. Deanna saw quickly that it was the show of an older man’s work. He stood surrounded by his friends, looking victorious and proud. The paintings were well displayed and had the flavor of Van Gogh. And then she saw Ben. He was standing at the far corner of the room, looking very handsome in a navy blue pin-striped suit. His eyes followed her inside and she saw him smile and gracefully extricate himself from the group where he stood. He was standing next to her in a moment.

  “So you came, did you? I’m glad.” They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, and she felt herself smile. It was a smile she couldn’t have repressed. She was happy to see him again. “Champagne?”

  “Thank you.” She accepted a glass from the extended hand of one of the bartenders, and Ben took her gently by the elbow.

  “There’s something I want to show you in my office.”

  “Etchings?” She felt herself blush. “How horrible, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why not?” He was laughing too. “But no, it’s a tiny Renoir I bought last night.”

  “My God, where did you get it?” She was following him down a long beige-carpeted hall.

  “I bought it from a private collection. A wonderful old man. He says he never liked it. Thank God. I got it at an incredible price.” He unlocked his office door and stepped rapidly inside. There, propped against the far wall, was a lovely delicate nude in the distinctive style that needed no glance at the signature. “Isn’t she pretty?” He eyed the painting like a new child of whom he was unbearably proud, and Deanna smiled at the light in his eyes.

  “She’s wonderful.”

  “Thank you.” He looked at Deanna very hard then, as though there was something more he wanted to say, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked around with a smile that invited her to do the same. There was another Andrew Wyeth above his desk, this one well known.

  “I like that one too. But not as well as the other.”

  “Neither do I.” Their thoughts went instantly back to Carmel. The silence was interrupted by a knock on the door. The young woman who had been greeting guests at the entrance was beckoning to Ben from the hall. “Hi, Sally. What’s up? Oh, this is Deanna Duras; she’s going to be one of our new artists.”

  Sally’s eyes instantly opened wide. She approached with a handshake and a smile. “What good news.”

  “Now wait a minute!” Deanna glanced at Ben with an embarrassed smile. “I never said that.”

  “No, but I’m hoping you will. Sally, tell her how wonderful we are, how we never cheat our artists, never hang paintings the wrong way ’round, never paint mustaches on nudes.”

  Deanna was laughing now and shaking her head. “In that case, this isn’t the gallery for me. I’ve always wanted to see a mustache on one of my nudes and haven’t had the courage to do it myself.”

  “Let us do it for you.” Ben was still smiling as he led them back into the hall and began to question Sally. There had already been three buyers at the show, and she had come back to discuss the price of one of the paintings with him. The artist wanted more.

  “I’ll tell him we’ll make it up on another piece. He already agreed to the price on that one. God bless Gustave—he’s given me all my gray hair.”

  “Not to mention mine.” Sally pointed at a virgin-blonde head and disappeared back into the crowd as Ben began to introduce Deanna to the guests. She felt surprisingly at home as she wandered through the gallery, meeting artists and collectors. And she was surprised that she didn’t see Kim. She mentioned it to Ben when he joined her.

  “Isn’t she here? I thought she would be.”

  “No. Apparently, she’s tearing her hair out over a new ad for yogurt. Frankly, I’d just as soon she not get us confused. Better she get the yogurt out of her head before she starts in on art. Wouldn’t you say?” Deanna laughed as he handed her another glass of champagne. “You know,” he continued, “I enjoyed yesterday enormously. Your work is extraordinarily good. And I’m not going to stop badgering you until you say yes.”

  Deanna smiled at him over the champagne. Before she could protest, they were interrupted by several more collectors who wanted Ben’s ear. He had his hands full with them until almost nine o’clock.

  Deanna drifted slowly around the gallery, watching prospective buyers and admiring Gustave’s work. She had stopped before one of his paintings when she heard a familiar voice just behind her. She turned in surprise.

  “Studying the technique, Deanna?”

  “Jim!” She looked into the laughing Irish eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t ask. Collecting culture, I guess.” He waved vaguely toward a group of people at the door. “They dragged me here. But only after several stiff drinks.”

  “An art lover to the core.” She wore her usual warm smile, but somewhere within her was an uncomfortable stirring. She hadn’t wanted to see Jim Sullivan here. She had come to see Ben … or had she? Was she here only to see the gallery? She wasn’t really sure, and perhaps Jim would know. Perhaps he’d see something different in her face, in her eyes, in her soul. Almost defensively, she reached for a familiar subject. “Have you heard from Marc?”

  He eyed her warily for a moment. “Have you?”

  She shook her head. “I got a telegram the day after he left that he hadn’t been able to call because it was the wrong time, and then I went to Carmel for the weekend. With Kim,” she added quickly and unnecessarily. “He might have tried to call me
then. I suppose he’s in Athens by now.”

  Sullivan nodded and gazed back toward his friends. Deanna followed his gaze, and her glance fell immediately on a stunning, chestnut-haired girl gowned in shimmery silver. Jim’s model—she had to be.

  “He must be,” Jim was saying. “Well, love, I’ve got to run.” Almost as an afterthought, as he kissed her cheek, he pulled away to look at her again. “Do you want to join us for dinner?”

  Instantly, she was shaking her head. “I—I can’t … I have to get home … really. But thank you.” Damn. Why did she feel so uncomfortable? She had nothing to hide. But he hadn’t seemed to notice anything different about her. And why should he? What was different?

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “All right. I’ll call you.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek and rejoined his friends. A moment later, they were gone. She stared absently after them. He hadn’t answered her about whether or not he’d heard from Marc. Instead, he had countered her question with his own, asking her if she had heard from him. She wondered why.

  “You look awfully serious, Deanna. Thinking of signing up with us?” There was teasing in Ben’s whispered tones, and she turned to him with a smile. She hadn’t noticed him come up to her.

  “No. But I was thinking that I ought to go home.”

  “Already? Don’t be silly. Besides, you haven’t eaten.” He looked at her for a moment. “Can I interest you in some dinner? Or would your husband object?”

  “Hardly. He’s in Greece for the summer.” Their eyes met and held. “And dinner would be lovely.” Why not? She smiled and forced Jim Sullivan from her mind.

  Ben signaled to Sally that he was leaving, and unnoticed by the last stragglers, they passed through the glass door and into the cool summer fog. “Sometimes this reminds me of London,” he said. “I used to visit my grandfather there as a child. He was English.”

  She laughed at the anonymity he assumed. “Yes, I know.”

  “Did you bring your own car?” Ben asked. She nodded at the dark blue Jaguar. “My, my. I’m impressed. I drive a little German car no one here has ever heard of. It runs on practically no gas and gets me where I want to go. Would you be ashamed to be seen in something so simple, or shall we take yours?” For a moment she was embarrassed to have come in Marc’s car, but she always drove it when she went out in the evening. It was a matter of habit.

  “I’d much rather go in yours.”

  “To L’Etoile?” He said it hesitantly, testing the waters.

  “I think I’d like some place more like your car. Quiet and simple.” He smiled his approval, and she laughed. “I suspect that you have a horror of ostentation, except in art.”

  “Exactly. Besides, my housekeeper would quit if I showed up one day in a Rolls. She already thinks all that ‘crap’ on the walls is an outrage. I once hung a beautiful French nude, and she took it down as soon as I left Carmel. I found it wrapped in a sheet when I got back. I had to take it back to the city.” She laughed as he unlocked his car and held the door for her.

  He took her to a little Italian restaurant tucked into a side street near the bay, and they talked about art through most of the evening. She told him of her years of floating around Europe and the States with her father, devouring the museums wherever they went, and he told her of learning about art from his grandfather and then his father, watching great auctions in London and Paris and New York. “But I never thought I’d go into the business.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wanted to do something more interesting. Like ride in rodeos or be a spy. I planned to be a spy at least until I was nine, but my grandfather insisted it wasn’t respectable. Sometimes I’m not so sure our business is either. Actually, when I went to college I wanted to be one of those men who detects fakes in art. I studied for a while, but the forgeries always fooled me. I hope I do better now.”

  Deanna smiled. From the look of the gallery and the house in Carmel, she felt sure he did.

  “Tell me,” he said abruptly, “how long have you been married?”

  She was surprised at the suddenly personal question. He had asked her none so far. “Eighteen years. I was nineteen.”

  “That makes you. …” He went through the ritual on his fingers, and she laughed.

  “A hundred and three, in November.”

  “No.” He frowned. “Isn’t it a hundred and two?”

  “At least. What about you? Have you ever been married?”

  “Once. Briefly.” His eyes retreated from hers for a moment. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very good at detecting fakes there either. She took me for a beautiful ride, and I had a wonderful time. And then it was over.” He smiled and met her glance again.

  “No children?”

  “None. That’s the only thing I’ve regretted. I would have liked to have had a son.”

  “So would I.”

  There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice that made him watch her as he said, “But you have a lovely daughter.”

  “I also had two boys. They both died right after they were born.” It was a weighty piece of information to pass across a dinner table to a relative stranger, but he only watched her eyes. He saw there what he needed to know.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So was I. And then, stupidly, it was a sort of blow when Pilar was born. In French families baby girls are not greeted with applause.”

  “You wanted applause?” He looked amused.

  “At least.” She smiled back at last. “And a brass band. And a parade.”

  “One can hardly blame you. She was the third?” he asked. Deanna nodded. “Are you very close?” He imagined they would be and was surprised to hear they were not.

  “Not just now, but we will be again. For the moment she is terribly torn between being American and French. That kind of thing can be hard.”

  “So can being fifteen.” He remembered with horror his sister at the same age. “Does she look like you?” He hadn’t been able to tell from the distant glimpses in Deanna’s paintings.

  “Not at all. She is the image of her father. She’s a very pretty girl.”

  “So is her mother.”

  For a moment Deanna said nothing, then she smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  The conversation drifted back then to art. He stayed away from painful and personal subjects, but sometimes she wondered if he was even listening. He seemed to be watching her all the time and saying other things with his eyes. It was midnight when at last they were encouraged to leave.

  “I had a marvelous evening.” She smiled at him happily as he drew up alongside the parked Jaguar.

  “So did I.” He said nothing more. As she started her car, he backed away with a wave. She saw him in her rearview mirror, walking back to his own car, his hands in his pockets and his head pensively bowed.

  * * *

  She was already in bed, with the lights out, when the telephone rang. But the rapid whir of the lines told her it was long distance.

  “Deanna?” It was Marc.

  “Hello, darling. Where are you?”

  “In Rome. At the Hassler, if you need me. Are you all right?” But the connection was poor. It was very hard to hear.

  “I’m fine. Why are you in Rome?”

  “What? I can’t hear you….”

  “I said why are you in Rome?”

  “I’m here on business. For Salco. But I’ll see Pilar this weekend.”

  “Give her my love.” She was sitting up in the dark and shouting to make herself heard.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  “I said give her my love.”

  “Good. Fine. I will. Do you need money?”

  “No, I’m fine.” For a moment all she heard was static and gibberish again. “I love you.” For some reason she needed to tell him that and to hear him say the same. She needed a bond to him, but he seemed an interminable distance away.

  “I love you, Marc!” And for no reason she could under
stand, she found that there were tears in her eyes. She wanted him to hear her, she wanted to hear herself. “I love you!”

  “What?”

  And then they were cut off.

  She quickly dialed the overseas operator and asked her for Rome. But it took another twenty-five minutes to put through her call. The operator at the Hassler answered with a rapid, “Pronto,” and Deanna asked for Signore Duras. They rang his room. No answer. In Rome, it was already ten o’clock in the morning. “We are sorry. Signore Duras has gone out.”

  She lay back in the dark and thought of her evening with Ben.

  7

  Marc-Edouard Duras walked along the Via Vèneto in Rome, glancing into shop windows and occasionally casting an admiring glance at a pretty girl wandering past. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and the women were wearing T-shirts with narrow straps, white skirts that clung to shapely legs, and sandals that bared red enameled toes. He smiled to himself as he walked, the briefcase under his arm. It didn’t make sense really, this brief sojourn in Italy, but after all, why not? And he had promised…. Promised. Sometimes he wondered how he could promise so easily. But he did.

  He paused for a moment, an aristocratic figure in an impeccably tailored gray suit, waiting for the machine-gun spurt of Roman traffic to hurtle past him, casting itself hurly-burly in all directions, sending pedestrians scurrying in flight. He smiled as he watched an old woman wave a parasol and then make an obscene gesture. Écco, signora. He bowed slightly to her from the opposite side of the street, and she made the same gesture to him. He laughed, glanced at his watch, and hurried to a table in a café. Beneath a brightly striped umbrella he could take refuge from the sun and continue to admire the energy and ecstasy that were the very essence of Rome. Roma—it was a magical city. Perhaps the promise had been worth keeping after all. For an instant, but only that, the abortive conversation with Deanna crept into his mind. It had been almost impossible to hear her, and he was relieved. There were times when he simply couldn’t deal with her, couldn’t reach out to her, couldn’t bear to imagine the pain in those eyes or hear the loneliness in her voice. He knew it was there, but it was sometimes more than he could handle. He could cope with it in San Francisco, in the context of his ordinary routine, but not when he was in the throes of a professional crisis abroad, or when he was at home in France, or … here, in Rome. He shook his head slowly, as though to brush away the memory of her voice, and found himself gazing longingly up the street. He couldn’t think of Deanna now. Couldn’t. No. Not now. His mind was already a thousand miles away from her as his eyes sifted through the crowd: a pretty blonde, a tall brunette, two very Roman-looking men in light linen suits with thick dark hair, a tall Florentine-looking woman, like something in a Renaissance painting, and then he saw her. Striding gaily down the street with her own inimitable gait, the endless legs seeming to dance across the sidewalk as a brilliant turquoise skirt caressed her thighs. She wore the palest mauve silk shirt, delicate sandals, and a huge straw hat that almost hid her eyes. Almost. But not quite. Nothing could hide those eyes, or the sapphire lights that seemed to change with her every mood. They changed from the brilliance of fire to the mystery of the deep blue sea. A rich chestnut mane swept her shoulders.