She smiled at him as she watched him finish dressing. “Yes, they put everything up exactly the way I wanted. Thanks to you. I get the feeling you told them to do it my way ‘or else.’ You or Jacques.” The gallery owner was one of Peter's oldest and closest friends. “I feel thoroughly spoiled. The complete ‘artiste.’”

“That's how you should feel. Your work is going to be very important, darling. You'll see.”

And indeed she did. The reviews in the paper the next day were spectacular. They sat around in her apartment over morning coffee, and grinned at what they read.

“Didn't I tell you?” He looked even more pleased with himself than she did. “You're a star.”

“You're crazy.” She plunked herself on his lap with a grin and rumpled the paper.

“You wait. You'll have every photographer's agent in the country calling you by next week.”

“Darling, you are out of your mind.” But he wasn't too far off. She was getting calls from Los Angeles and Chicago by the following Monday. She couldn't get over it, but she was thoroughly enjoying the whole thing. And she was amused by every phone call she got. Until the call from Ben Avery. It came on a Thursday afternoon, when she was developing some film. She heard the phone ring and she wiped her hands and walked into the kitchen to answer it. She assumed it was Peter. He had said he would call to let her know what time he could see her that evening. He had some kind of meeting scheduled for late afternoon. But she had plenty of darkroom work to keep her busy; there was a veritable avalanche of orders coming in as a result of the show.

“Hello?”

“Miss Adamson?”

“Yes.” She didn't recognize the voice, and the smile she had been wearing for Peter rapidly faded.

“I don't know whether we've met or not, but I met a Miss Adamson the last time I was here. At I. Magnin's. I was doing some Christmas shopping…. I bought some luggage, and …” He felt like a total ass, and for what seemed like an eternity she said nothing.

So it was Ben. Damn. How had he found her? And why had he bothered to?

“I … was that you?”

She was tempted to say no, but why lie? “I believe it might have been.”

“Good. Well, at least we've met. I'm actually calling you because I've just seen your work at the Montpelier Gallery on Post Street. I'm enormously impressed, as is my associate, Miss Townsend.”

Marie was suddenly curious. Was that the girl he had bought the luggage for? But she didn't feel she could ask. Instead she sighed and sat down. “I'm glad you liked it, Mr. Avery.”

“You remember my name!”

Oh, Jesus. “I have a memory for those things.”

“How fortunate for you. I have a memory like a sieve, and in my business that's no asset, believe me. In any case, I'd very much like to get together with you to discuss your work.”

“In what sense?” What the hell was there to discuss?

“We're doing a medical center here in San Francisco, Miss Adamson. It's going to be an enormous project, and we'd like to use your work in every building as the central theme of the decor. We're not quite sure how, but we know we want your pictures. We'd like to work it out with you. This could be the assignment of your career.” He said it with tremendous pride, and he was obviously waiting for a gasp at the other end of the line, a shriek of enthusiasm, anything but what he heard.

“I see. And what firm are you representing?” She waited, holding her breath, but she already knew the answer before he said the words.

“Catter-Hillyard, in New York.”

“Well, no thanks, Mr. Avery, it's just not my speed.”

“Why not?” He sounded stunned. “I don't understand.”

“I don't want to get into it with you, Mr. Avery, but I'm not interested.”

“Can we get together and discuss this?”

“No.”

“But I've already spoken to… I—”

“The answer is no. Thank you for your call.” And then, very quietly, she placed the receiver back into the cradle and walked back to the darkroom door. She wasn't going to do business with them. That was all she needed. She was through with Michael Hillyard. He didn't want her as his wife; she didn't want him as her employer. Or anything else.

The phone rang again before she had closed the darkroom door. She knew it would be Ben again, but she wanted to settle the matter once and for all. She strode back to the phone, picked it up, and almost shouted into it. “The answer is no. I already told you that.” But the voice on the other end was not Ben's, it was Peter's.

“Good God, what have I done?” He was half laughing, half stunned, and Marie felt herself relax at the sound of his voice.

“Oh Christ. I'm sorry, darling. I just had someone call me with an annoying request.”

“As a result of the show?”

“More or less.”

“The gallery shouldn't be giving out your number to crackpots. Why don't they take the messages there?” He sounded upset.

“I think I'll suggest that to Jacques.”

Peter was disturbed at the thought of some crazy calling her. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” But she sounded shaken, and he could hear it.

“Well, I'll be there in an hour. Don't answer the phone till I get there. I'll handle it if anyone calls after that.”

“Thank you, my love.”

They exchanged a few more words and then hung up, and she found herself feeling guilty for not telling him the truth about the call. Ben Avery was no crackpot, he just worked for Michael Hillyard. But she didn't want to tell Peter that that was what had unnerved her. He didn't need to know how shaky she still was on the subject of Michael But she was getting better every day. And fortunately Ben didn't call again that night. He waited until the next morning. And then surprised her again as she got ready to go to work.

“Hi, Miss Adamson. Ben Avery again.”

“Look. I thought we got this thing settled last night. I'm not interested.”

“But you don't even know what you're not interested in. Why not have lunch with my associate and me, we'll talk? It can't hurt, can it?”

Oh yes it can, Ben, oh yes it can. “I'm sorry, I'm busy.” She wasn't giving an inch, and sitting in his hotel room, Ben rolled his eyes at Wendy. It was hopeless. And he couldn't understand why. What the hell did she have against Cotter-Hillyard? It didn't make sense.

“How about tomorrow?”

“Look, Ben … Mr. Avery … I won't do it. I'm not interested. And I don't want to discuss it with you, your associate, or anyone else. Is that quite clear?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But I think you're making a huge professional mistake. If you had an agent, he'd tell you just that.”

“Well, I don't. So I don't have to listen to anyone but myself.”

“That's your mistake, Miss Adamson. But we'll keep in touch.”

“It's nice of you to be interested, but really, don't bother.”

“All right, all right. But I'll drop you a card. If you change your mind, call me. Here or in New York. I'll be at the Saint Francis till the end of the month, and then back at my office in New York. There's still plenty of time to discuss this.”

Maybe for you, but not for me. It's two years too late. “I'm afraid I don't agree.” And once again, she hung up. This time she left the phone off the hook when she went back to the darkroom.





Chapter 21




It was a freezing February day as Ben Avery huddled turtlelike in his coat, and ran all the way from the subway exit to his office on Park Avenue. There would be snow by the end of the day—he could feel it in the air—and it seemed as though daylight had barely emerged. It was not quite eight o'clock in the morning. But he had an enormous amount of work to do. This would be his first day back from the coast, and the big meeting with Marion was scheduled for ten thirty that morning. He had mostly good news for her.

There were already a number of people in the lobby of the building and the elevator was almost full as he rode upstairs. Even at that hour, the business world was bustling. After the slower pace of San Francisco, and even Los Angeles, it was a shock to be back in the mainstream again. In Mecca, people started early. But at least there seemed to be no one else at work on his floor when he walked down the long, beigecarpeted, wood-paneled hall to the office Marion had given him when he'd joined the firm. It was smaller and far less handsome than Mike's office, but it was well put together. Marion spared no expense on the offices of Cotter-Hillyard.

Ben looked at his watch as he shrugged out of his coat and rubbed his hands together for a moment to get warm. There was no getting used to the freezing winds and damp cold of New York. Some winters he wondered if he'd ever get warm, and why he put up with it when there were cities like San Francisco, where people lived in a temperate dream world all year long. Even his office felt icy cold. But he had no time to waste. He emptied the contents of his brief-case on his desk, and began to sort through the papers and reports. Everything had gone splendidly. With one minor exception. And maybe something could still be done about that. He looked at his watch again after a few moments, grew pensive, and then decided to give it a try. It would be a major coup if he could come into the meeting with that one last piece of good news.

Ben had brought home a few samples of Marie Adamson's work; he had had to buy them at the gallery. But he had been sure they were worth the investment; once Marion and Michael got a look at her style, and saw just how good she was, Marion herself would probably get into the act, and talk the girl into signing. He smiled at the thought that would have sent shivers up Marie's spine.

He dialed her number and waited. It was an insane thing to do. In San Francisco, it was five fifteen in the morning, but maybe if he could get her half asleep …

“Hello?” She sounded groggy when she answered the phone.

“Uh … Miss … Miss Adamson, I'm terribly sorry to do this to you, but this is Ben Avery in New York. I'm going into a meeting this morning with the head of our firm, and I want more than anything to tell her that you'll work with us on the medical center. I just thought that-—” But he already knew he had done the wrong thing. He could sense it in the silence that overwhelmed him from the other end, and then suddenly she came alive.

“At five o'clock in the morning? You called to tell me about your meeting with … for Chrissake, what kind of crazy business is this? I told you no, didn't I? What the hell do I have to do? Get an unlisted phone number?” As he listened to her, he closed his eyes, partially in embarrassment, and partially because of something else. The voice. It was strange. He didn't know why, but it sounded familiar. And it didn't sound like Marie Adamson. It was higher, younger, and different enough to strike a chord of memory that bothered him. Whom did she sound like? But he couldn't remember. “Haven't you gotten the message yet, for Chrissake?”

Her angry words brought him back to the present and the reality that he was indeed speaking to Marie Adamson, and she was far from pleased with his phone call. “I'm really sorry. I know this was an insane thing to do. I just hoped that—”

“I told you. No. I will not listen to, discuss, consider, ponder, or further speak to you about your lousy medical center. Now leave me alone.” And with that she hung up on him again, and he sat there with the dead phone in his hand, smiling sheepishly.

“Okay, guys. I blew it.” He said the words to himself, or thought he did. He hadn't seen Mike leaning easily in the doorway.

“Welcome home. What did you blow?" Mike didn't look particularly concerned. He looked very pleased to see his friend as he sauntered into the room and sat down in one of the large, comfortable leather chairs. “It's good to see you back, you know.”

“Nice to be back. But it's damn cold in this town. Jesus, after San Francisco, I may never readjust.”

“We'll be sure to keep you on the Southern route from now on, O delicate one.” He grinned at his friend. “And what was that phone call about?”

“The one and only hair in my soup on this trip.” He ran a hand through his hair in irritation and sat back in his chair. “Absolutely everything went the way we wanted. Your mother is going to be in ecstasy over the reports. With one exception. Granted it's a minor problem, but I wanted everything to be perfect.”

“Should I start worrying?”

“No. I'm just pissed. I found an artist. A girl. A marvelous photographer. I mean really a huge talent, Mike, not just some kid with a Brownie. She is brilliant. I saw her current show in San Francisco, and I wanted to sign her for the lobby decor in all the main buildings. You know, the photographic motif we all okayed at the last meeting before I left.”