“Miss Adamson?”

“Yes.” Marie nodded with a small taut smile. “Mrs. Hillyard?” But she knew. She had not seen Marion that May night because her eyes had been bandaged, but she had seen enough photographs around Michael's apartment. She would have recognized his mother in a back alley in Tokyo. This was the woman who had haunted her dreams for two years. This was the woman she had once wanted as her mother and friend, but no more.

“How do you do?” Marion extended a cool, firm hand, and they shook hands ceremoniously just inside the door, before Marion made a gesture toward the suite. “Won't you come in?”

“Thank you.”

The two women eyed each other with interest and caution, and Marion seated herself easily in a chair near the table. She had had room service set up a tea service there and some soft drinks for her guest. It seemed a great deal of trouble to go to for a girl who had already cost her almost half a million dollars. If this was the girl. She eyed her carefully, but she could see nothing. There was no resemblance to any of the photographs she had seen over the years. This was not the same girl. At least she didn't seem to be. But Marion sat back to watch her, and listen. She would always remember that torn, broken voice as they had made the agreement.

“What may I offer you to drink? Tea? Soda? We can order a drink if you like.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hillyard. I'd really just prefer to …” But her voice trailed off as they watched each other, the pretext of their meeting almost forgotten as the older woman appraised the younger, watched her move, studied the shape and texture of her hair, and then glanced quickly at the overall picture again. She was a terribly pretty girl, in very expensive clothes. Marion found herself wondering if she were spending her living allowance on outfits like that one. Her wool dress bore the distinct mark of Paris, her suede handbag and shoes were Gucci, and her unassuming beige trench coat was lined in a dark fur that looked to Marion like possum.

“That's a very attractive coat, by the way. Must be a marvelous weight for this city. I envy you the easy climate. I left New York in two feet of snow. Or rather,” she smiled winningly at the girl, “two inches of snow, and twenty-two inches of slush. Do you know New York?”

It was a loaded question and Marie knew it, but she could answer it honestly. She had lived in New England, but spent little time in New York. Had she married Michael, she would have lived there. But she hadn't. Her face set and something hardened in her voice. “No, I don't know it very well. I'm not really a big-city person.” She was pure Marie now, there wasn't a trace of Nancy.

“I find that hard to believe. You look extremely “big-city' to me.” Marion smiled at her again, but it was the smile of a barracuda eying a small and tender minnow.

“Thank you.” And then without further ado, Marie reached toward her portfolio, put it on her lap as Marion watched her, and unzipped the case. She smilingly handed Marion a thick black book with copies of her work. The book was large and unwieldy, and the older woman seemed to falter as she took it. It was then that Marie noticed the violent trembling of her hands, and how weak she was when she tried to hold the book. Time had not been kind to Marion Hillyard after all. Was it possible that some of her own ugly prayers had been answered? She watched the woman intently, but Marion seemed to regain her composure as she silently turned the pages.

“I can see why Ben Avery was so anxious to sign you for our center. You do extraordinarily fine work. You must have been at this for years.” For once it was an innocent question, and Marie shook her head.

“No, photography is new to me. I was a painter before.”

“Ah yes, Ben mentioned that.” Yet Marion seemed surprised. She had actually forgotten this might be Nancy McAllister she was talking to, she was so engrossed in the beautiful work. “Are you as good as this at painting?”

“I thought I was.” Marie smiled at the woman. An almost eerie exchange was going on. She felt as though she were watching Marion Hillyard through a trick mirror: she could see Marion plainly, yet the person Marion saw was actually someone else. Marie thought that she alone knew the secret. “I like photography just as much now.”

“Why did you change?” Marion looked up, intrigued.

“Because everything in my life changed very suddenly, so much so that I became a new person. The painting was part of that old life, that old me. It hurt too much to bring it with me.” Marion almost winced at the words.

“I see. Well, the world hasn't suffered a loss, from what I can see anyway. You're a marvelous photographer. Who got you started? Undoubtedly one of the local greats. There are so many out here.”

But Marie only shook her head, with a small smile. It was strange. She had come here to hate this woman, and now she found that she couldn't. Not quite. She didn't like her. But she couldn't hate her, either. She looked so tired and frail beneath the bravado and the pearls. She wore a death mask carefully concealed with good makeup, but beneath the veneer lurked the sorrows of autumn, with winter already clutching at her heels. Marie forced herself back to the woman's question, trying to remember what that question was…. Oh, yes.

“No, actually, it was a friend who got me started. My doctor, in fact. He's been responsible for getting me launched as a photographer. He knows everyone in town.”

“Peter Gregson.” The words were soft and dreamy on Marion Hillyard's lips, as though she hadn't meant to speak them, and then they were both shocked into silence.

“Do you know him?” Why had the woman said that? Did she know? But she couldn't. Had Peter … No, he'd never do that.

“I… yes …” Marion hesitated for a long moment and then looked at her squarely. “Yes, Nancy, I do. He did a beautiful job on you.” It was a long shot. A wild guess. But she had to say it, even if she made a fool of herself. She had to know.

“There must be some misunderstanding. My name is Marie—” and then, like a rag doll, she crumpled. There were tears in her eyes as she stood up and walked away to stand at the window with her back to the room. “How did you know?” The voice was shattered and angry. The voice of two years before. Marion sat back in her chair, tired but relieved. Somehow it comforted her to know she had been right. She had not made this difficult trip for nothing. “Did someone tell you?” Marie demanded.

“No. I guessed. I don't even know why. But I had a feeling the first time Ben mentioned you to us. The details fit.”

“Did—” Goddamn. She wanted to ask her about him. She wanted to … Would this never leave her life? Would they never go away? “Why did you come here? To reconfirm our little deal?” Marie wheeled on her heels at the window, to stare at the woman who tormented her. “To make sure I'd stick with my promise?”

“You've already proven that.” Marion's voice was tired and gentle, and uncharacteristically old. “No, I'm not even sure I understand it myself, but I came to see you. To talk to you. To find out how you are, if indeed it was you.”

“Why now? Why should I be so interesting after two years?” Suddenly there was venom in Marie's voice, and hatred in her eyes. The she had dreamed of spewing for months. “Why now, Mrs. Hillyard, or were you just curious to take a look at Gregson's work? Was that it? Well, how do you like your four hundred-thousand-dollar baby? Was it worth it?”

“Why don't you answer that? Was it? Are you pleased?” She hoped so. She suddenly, desperately hoped so. They had all paid such a high price for that new face. It had been wrong. Suddenly she was sure of it. But it was too late. They were not the same people anymore. She could see that in the girl as much as she could in Michael. It was far, far too late, for either of them. They would have to find their dreams somewhere else. “You're a very beautiful girl now, Marie.”

“Thank you. Yes, I know Peter did a good job. But it was like making a deal with the devil. A face for a life.” With a ragged sigh Marie sank into a chair.

“And I'm the devil.” Marion's voice trembled as she looked at the girl. “I suppose it's an obscene thing to say to you now, but at the time I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“And now?” Marie looked at her squarely. “Is Michael happy? Was it worth getting rid of me, Mrs. Hillyard? Was the mission a success?” Christ, she wanted to hit her. Just haul off and demolish her, in her ladylike dress and her pearls.

“No, Marie, Michael isn't happy, anymore than you are. I always thought he'd pick up his life again. I assumed you'd do the same. Something tells me, though, that you haven't. Not that I have any right to ask.”

“No, you don't. And Michael? He's not married?” She hated herself for it, but she prayed for a no.

“Yes, he is.” Marie almost felt herself gasp and then catch her breath again. “To his work. He lives, eats, sleeps, and breathes it. As though he hopes to get lost in it forever. I hardly ever see him.”

Good, you bitch. Good! “Then would say you'd been wrong? I loved him, you know. More than anything in life.” Except my face … oh, God … except …

“I know. But I thought it would pass.”

“Has it?”

“Perhaps. He never mentions you.”

“Did he ever try to find me?”

Marion slowly shook her head. “No.” But she did not tell her the reason why. She did not tell Marie that Michael thought she was dead. The lie weighed on her even as she said the word, and saw the girl's face set in a fresh mask of hatred.

“All right then, why am I here? Just to satisfy your curiosity? To show you my work? Why?”

“I'm not sure, Nancy. I'm sorry … Marie. I simply had to see you. To know how it had gone with you. I… I suppose it's maudlin to say it, but I'm dying, you know.” She looked faintly sorry for herself as she faced the girl, and then she was annoyed for having told her. But Marie did not appear moved. She stared at the woman for a very long time and then in a soft; broken voice she spoke to her again.

“I'm sorry to hear it, Mrs. Hillyard. But I died two years ago. And it sounds to me as though your son did, too. That's two of us. On your hands, Mrs. Hillyard. To be honest with you, it's hard for me to feel a great deal of sympathy for you. I suppose I should be grateful to you. I suppose I should thank you from the bottom of my heart that men turn and stare at me every day, instead of running from me in horror. I suppose I should feel a lot of things, but I don't. I don't feel anything for you now except sorry for you, because you've ruined Michael's life, and you know it. Not to mention what you did to mine.”

Marion nodded silently, feeling the full weight of the girl's reproach. She knew it all herself. Secretly, she had known it for two years. About Michael anyway. She hadn't known about the girl. Maybe that was why she had to come. “I don't know what to say.”

“Good-bye will be fine.” Marie picked up her coat and her portfolio and walked to the door of the suite. She stopped for a moment at the door, her hand on the knob, her head bowed, and tears beginning to creep down her face. She turned slowly then, and saw tears running down Marion's face as well. The older woman was speechless with her private agony, but the young girl managed to catch her breath and speak again. “Good-bye, Mrs. Hillyard. Give … give Michael … my love.” She closed the door softly behind her, but Marion Hillyard didn't move. She felt her heart rip through her lungs with long searing pains. Gasping for air, she stumbled toward the buzzer that would summon a maid. She managed to press it once before passing out.





Chapter 23




His heels rapped hollowly in the hospital corridor as he almost ran to her room. Why had she insisted on coming out alone? Why did she always have to be so damned independent, still, after all these years? He knocked softly on the door, and a nurse opened it with a pointed look of inquisition.

“Is this Mrs. Hillyard's room? I'm George Calloway.” He looked nervous and tired and old, and he felt that way, too. He had really had enough of this nonsense. And he was going to tell her so as soon as he saw her. He had said as much to Michael before leaving New York.

The nurse smiled at the sound of his name. “Yes, Mr. Calloway, we've been expecting you.” Marion had only been in the hospital since six o'clock that evening. George had managed to arrive in San Francisco by eleven o'clock local time. It was now just after mid-night That was about as fast as anyone could make the trip. Marion's smile acknowledged that when the nurse opened the door to let George step inside, and slipped quietly past him into the hall.