“Then maybe money isn't the answer.” But suddenly Marion looked as pensive as her son. She had had a mad, unreasonable thought. It would be an outrageous coincidence, but what if … “How old is this girl?”

“Hard to say. She was wearing kind of a big hat the first time I met her; it sort of hid her face. But I'd say she's … I don't know, twenty-four, twenty-five maybe. At the most twenty-six. Why?” He didn't understand that question at all.

“I was just curious. I'll tell you what, Ben. I'm sure you and Wendy did your best, and it's quite possible that there's no getting to this girl at all, but I'd like to give it a try. Leave me the information, and I'll get in touch with her myself. I have to be in San Francisco anyway, sometime in the next few weeks. Maybe she'll feel more awkward turning down an old woman than a young man.”

Ben smiled at the reference to an “old woman.” Marion Hillyard looked anything but the part. A tough middle-aged dynamo perhaps, but a withered grandmama she would never be. But his smile grew serious as he watched her face. She was growing paler by the moment, and he suddenly wondered if she were ill. But she never gave him or anyone else time to inquire. She stood up, expressed her satisfaction with the meeting, got the information she needed from Ben, and thanked everyone for coming upstairs. When she left the room the meeting was over. The brass-bordered door to her office closed softly behind Ruth a moment later, and the rest of them flowed slowly toward the elevator, commenting on progress of the job. Everyone seemed pleased, and relieved that Marion had been too. Usually someone set her off, but today she had been almost uncharacteristically mellow, and once again Ben found himself wondering if she were ill. He was among the last to leave the conference room, and Wendy had already gone downstairs when Ruth came rushing out of the inner sanctum and signaled for Michael. She looked terribly frightened.

“Mr. Hillyard! Your mother… she's…”

But it was George who reacted first, literally running to her office, with a thunderstruck Michael and Ben at his heels. And once there, it was again George who knew what to do. Where to find the pills, which he rapidly gave her with a small glass of water, supporting her, with her son's help, from her desk chair to the couch. She was a pale grayish-green, and she seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty breathing. For a terrified moment; Mike found himself wondering if she was dying, and he felt tears spring to his eyes. He rushed to the phone to call Dr. Wickfield, but she waved weakly from the couch, and then spoke in a barely audible whisper.

“No, Michael … don't call … Wick. Happens … all… the time.” Michael looked instantly at George. This was news to him, but it couldn't be to George, or he wouldn't have known where to find the pills, what to do. Jesus. How much of the world around him had he grown totally oblivious to in recent months? As he looked at his mother, pale and trembling on the couch, he began to wonder just how sick she was. He knew that she saw rather a lot of Dr. Wickfield, but he had always assumed that was to make sure she was fit, not because she had any major problems. And this certainly appeared to be major. And a glance at the little bottle of pills George had left on the desk confirmed Michael's fears. They were nitroglycerin, standard treatment for heart trouble.

“Mother—” Michael sat down in a chair next to her, and took her hand. “Does this happen often?” He was almost as pale as she, but she opened her eyes and smiled at him, then at George. George knew.

“Don't worry about it.” The voice was still soft, but stronger now. “I'm fine.”

“You're not fine. And I want to know more about this.” Michael spoke, and Ben found himself wondering if he were intruding, but he didn't want to leave, either. He was too stunned by what he had seen. The great Marion Hillyard was human after all. And she looked terribly vulnerable and frail as she lay there in the expensive black dress which only made her look paler. She was the color of very fine parchment as she talked to her son, but her eyes were more alive than they had been a moment before.

“Mother …” Michael was going to press until she told him.

“All right, darling, all right.” She took a little breath and slowly sat up on the couch, swinging her feet back to the floor and looking straight into the eyes of her only child. “It's my heart. You know I've had the problem for years.”

“But it was never serious.”

“Well, now it is.” She was matter of fact. “I may live to be a very nasty old woman, or then again I may not. Only time will tell. In the meantime, the little pills keep me going, and I manage. That's all there is to say.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A while. Wicky started worrying about it two years ago, but it's gotten quite a lot worse this year.”

“Then I want you to retire.” He looked like a stubborn child as he sat staring worriedly at his mother. “Immediately.”

She only laughed and smiled up at George. But this time her ally's face told her ha was worried, too. “Not a chance, darling. I'll be here till I drop. There's too much to do. Besides, I'd go crazy at home. What would I do all day? Watch soap operas and read movie magazines?”

“It sounds perfect for you.” They all laughed. “Or—” He looked at his mother and then at George. “You could both retire, get married, and go enjoy yourselves for a change.” It was the first time Michael had openly acknowledged George's attentions of the past twenty years, and George blushed crimson. But he did not look displeased.

“Michael!” His mother almost sounded like herself again. “You're embarrassing George.” But oddly enough, she too looked neither shocked nor appalled at the idea. “In any case, my retirement is out. I'm too young, sick or not. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid, for the duration.”

Michael already knew he had lost the battle. But he was going to give up by inches. “Then at least be sensible for God's sake, and stop traveling. You don't have to go to San Francisco. I can do all that myself. Don't be such a busybody. Stay home and take care of yourself.”

She only laughed at him and got up and walked to her desk. She looked rattled and tired and pale as she sank into her desk chair while they all watched her with terrible concern in their faces.

“I do wish you'd go away and stop looking so maudlin. All of you. I have work to do. Even if you apparently don't.”

“Mother, I'm taking you home. Today at least.” Michael looked belligerent as he watched her, but she only shook her head.

“I'm not going. Now go away, Michael, or I'll have George throw you out.” George only looked amused at the idea. “I may leave early, but I'm not leaving now. So thank you for your concern and ta ta. Ruth.” She pointed to the door, which her secretary obediently opened, and one by they helplessly filed out. She was stronger than all of them, and she knew it.

“Marion?” George stopped in the doorway with a worried look in his eyes.

“Yes?” Her face softened as she looked at him, and he smiled.

“Won't you go home now?”

“In a little while.”

He nodded. “I'll be back in half an hour.”

She smiled, but she could hardly wait for the door to close behind him. There was no doubt in her mind about what had caused the attack. She couldn't afford to get excited about anything anymore. It was really becoming a terrible nuisance. She looked at her watch as she dialed the number Ben had given her and listened to the phone ring three or four times. She didn't know why she was so certain, but she was. Had been from the moment Ben started to describe Marie Adamson. She would try to see the girl when she went to San Francisco; maybe then she'd know for sure. Or maybe not. Maybe the changes would be too great. She wondered if she'd realty know. And then, as she wondered, the girl answered the phone. Marion took a breath, closed her eyes, and spoke smoothly into the receiver. No one would have known she'd had an attack half an hour before. Marion Hillyard was, as ever, totally in control.

“Miss Adamson? This is Marion Hillyard, in New York.”

The conversation was brief, cold, and awkward, and Marion knew nothing more when she hung up than she had when she dialed But she would know. In exactly three weeks. They had an appointment at four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon in three weeks. Marion marked it on her calendar, and then sat back and closed her eyes. The meeting might tell her nothing, and yet… there were some things she had to say. She only hoped she lived another three weeks.





Chapter 22




The clock seemed to tick interminably as she sat in the living room of her suite at the Fairmont. It offered an impressive view of the bay and Marin County beyond, but Marion Hillyard was not interested in the view. She was thinking about the girl. What had become of her? What did she look like? Had Gregson really wrought the wonders he had promised two years before? Ben Avery had seen a stranger when he met Marie Adamson. But what about Michael— would he still recognize her? And was she in love with someone else now, or, like Michael, had she become bitter and withdrawn? It made Marion think of her son again as she waited for this stranger who might indeed turn out to be the girl Michael had once loved But what if she wasn't? She could be just anyone, a local photographer who had caught Ben Avery's eye. Maybe her theory was all wrong. Maybe…

She crossed and uncrossed her legs, and then reached into her handbag again for her cigarette case. It was a new one. George had given it to her for Christmas, with her initials set in lovely sapphires along the side of the handsome gold case. She lit her cigarette with the matching lighter, took a long quiet drag, and sat back in her chair for a moment with her eyes closed. She was exhausted. It had been a long flight that morning, and she should have given herself a day to rest before seeing the girl. But she was too anxious to put the meeting off for another day. She had to know.

She looked up at the mantel clock again. It was four fifteen. Seven fifteen in New York. Michael would still be at his desk. Avery would already be off gallivanting with that girl from the design department. Her mouth pursed as she thought of them. He wasn't a serious boy, like Michael But then again … She sighed. He wasn't unhappy like Michael, either. Had she done the wrong thing? Had she been totally mad two years before? Had she asked too much of the girl? No. Probably not. She had been the wrong girl for Michael. And in time, perhaps, he'd find someone. There was no reason why he shouldn't. He certainly had everything it took: looks, money, position. He was going to be president of one of the leading companies in America. He was a man with power and talent, gentleness and charm.

Her face softened again as she thought of him. How good and strong he was … and how lonely. She sensed that, too. He even maintained a certain distance from her. It was as though some part of him had never bounced back. At least the drinking and brooding had stopped, but only to be replaced by a bleak, jagged determination that showed in his eyes. Like a man who has struggled through the desert for too long, determined to make it, but no longer quite sure why. And yet he had so much to be happy about; such a good life to enjoy. But he never took time to enjoy anything. She wasn't even entirely sure he enjoyed his work, not the way she did. Not the way his father and grandfather had. She thought of her own husband with tenderness again, and then slowly her thoughts drifted to George. How good he had been to her in these recent years. It would have been impossible to continue her work without him. He took the burdens from her shoulders as often as possible, and left her only the interesting decisions, the creative work, and the glory. She knew how often he did that for her. He was a man of great strength, and at the same time great humility. She wondered why she hadn't paid closer attention to all his virtues a dozen or so years before. But there had never been time. For him, or anyone. Not since Michael's father. Maybe the boy wasn't so unlike her after all.

She was smiling to herself when the buzzer at the door of the suite suddenly interrupted her thoughts. She started, as though far a moment she had forgotten where she was. It was four twenty-five. The girl was twenty-five minutes late. But secretly, she was glad for the time alone.

She set her face in a dignified mask and walked sedately to the door. Her navy blue silk dress and four rows of pearls suited her perfectly, as did the smooth coif, the perfect manicure, the artful makeup that made her look more like forty-five than her nearly sixty years. She would still be a beautiful woman in twenty years, if she lived that long. Nothing defeated Marion Hillyard, not even time. She congratulated herself on that as she opened the door to the elegant young woman with the artist's portfolio in her hand.