But how much more could she face? And what was there to heal? Her love for Michael? How could she heal that? How could she tell Peter that she had spoken to him on the phone; and that it had made her want to hold him and kiss him and feel his hands on her again? How could she tell Peter that? Instead she looked at him with tired eyes and silently nodded.

“I'll give it some thought.”

“Good. Shall I take you home?” His voice was very soft, and she nodded. She didn't have the strength to go to the gallery now. And they didn't speak again until they reached her house. “Do you want me to take you up?” But she only shook her head and kissed him on the cheek.

The only words she said to him as she got out of the car were, “Thank you.” And she didn't look back when she got out. She slowly climbed up the stairs, the burden of twenty-two lonely months heavy on her shoulders. If only Michael had never called. It had brought back all the pain. And for what? What was the point? He probably didn't give a damn anyway. He just wanted her photographs. Well, let him buy someone else's work, the bastard. Why the hell couldn't he leave her alone?

She let herself into her apartment and went straight to the bed. Fred was leaping and jumping at her feet, and instantly joined her on the bed, but she wasn't in the mood. She pushed him to the floor, and lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she should call Faye, or if there was any point in that either. She was just beginning to doze in fitful exhaustion when the phone rang and she jumped up with a start. She didn't really want to answer it, but it was probably Peter wanting to know if she was all right, and she didn't have the right to worry him anymore than she already had that afternoon. Slowly, she reached for the phone.

“Hello.” It was a soft broken word from her lips.

“Miss Adamson?” Oh Jesus, it wasn't Peter, it was …

She closed her eyes to fight back the tears as an endless sigh shook her entire body. “For God's sake, Michael, leave me alone.” She hung up the phone, and at the other end Michael stared at the receiver in total confusion. What the hell was this all about? And why had she called him Michael?





Chapter 27




Marie looked tired and drawn the next morning when she walked into the gallery with Fred. She was wearing a black pants suit with a brilliant green sweater that set off her coloring to perfection. But she looked unusually pale after a long, sleepless night, in which, at least ten thousand times, she had relived her last day with Michael and the accident that followed. She felt as though she would never get away from it if she lived to be a thousand years old. And she felt at least a hundred that morning.

“You look as though you've been working too hard, my love.” Jacques smiled at her from behind the desk in his office. He was wearing his standard uniform. Impeccably tailored French blue jeans grafted to his body, black turtleneck sweater, and suede St. Laurent jacket. On him the combination looked perfect “Or are you staying up too late with our favorite doctor?” He was an old friend of Peter's, and he had already grown fond of Marie.

She smiled in answer and sipped the coffee he had poured. It was strong and dark, a café filtre, the only kind he ever served. He brought it over from France, along with countless other precious items without which he could not survive. She loved to tease him about his chauvinism and his expensive tastes. She had bought him toilet paper imprinted with the Gucci logo for his birthday. That and a briefcase from Hermès, which was slightly more his style. But he had liked the joke, too.

“No, I haven't been partying. Maybe too much time in the darkroom.”

“Crazy girl. A woman like you should be out dancing.”

“Later. After I do some more work.” She started describing her new idea for a series on San Francisco street life, and he nodded in satisfaction.

“Ça me plait, Marie. I like it. Okay. Do it as soon as you can.” He was about to go into the details with her when there was a knock on his office door. It was his secretary, making hushing gestures. “Aha! Probably one of your girls.” Marie loved to tease him, and he grinned and shrugged “helplessly” as he walked around the desk to confer with the secretary just beyond the door. He listened to her whispered words, and then nodded, looking exceedingly pleased. He gave one final affirmative sign, and then walked back in and sat down, looking at Marie as though he were about to bestow a wonderful gift.

“I have a surprise for you, Marie.” And with that, she heard another knock on the door. “Someone very important is interested in your work.” The door swung open before she had time to fully understand the meaning of his words, or their implication, and suddenly she found herself turning around to face Michael. She almost gasped, and felt the cup of steaming dark coffee tremble in her hand. He was very handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark tie, and he looked every bit the magnate he was.

Marie set down the coffee cup to take his out-stretched hand, and he was impressed with how poised she looked in Jacques's office. It hardly seemed possible that this was the girl who had answered the phone the night before, with agony in her voice, begging him to leave her alone. Maybe she had other problems, with men perhaps. Maybe she'd been drunk. You never knew with artists. But none of his thoughts showed on his face, nor did her discomfort show on hers.

“I'm awfully glad to meet you at last. You've led me a merry chase, Miss Adamson. But then, as talented as you are, I suppose you have that right.” He gave her a benevolent smile, and she looked at Jacques, who was standing behind his desk extending a hand toward Michael. He was extremely impressed by Cotter-Hillyard's interest in Marie's work. Michael had made it quite clear to the secretary that his interest was professional, not for his own collection or even for his office. He wanted her work for one of the largest projects the company had ever done, and Jacques was overwhelmed. He could hardly wait until Marie heard. Even her cool reserve would be shattered over this. But she looked as unruffled as ever, at least for the moment. She sat very still in her chair, avoiding Michael's gaze, and with an icy little smile on her lips. “May I get right to the point and explain to you both what I have in mind?”

“But of course.” Jacques waved at the secretary to pour Michael some coffee, and sat back to listen as Michael went on to explain in full detail what he wanted to do with Marie's work. It was a project any artist would have fought for, but at the end of the discussion Marie seemed unmoved. She nodded very quietly and then turned to look at Michael.

“I'm afraid my answer is still the same, Mr. Hillyard.”

“You've discussed this before?” Jacques looked confused, and Michael was quick to explain.

“One of my associates, my mother, and I myself have all contacted Miss Adamson at her home. We've mentioned this project to her, though only briefly, and her answer has been a firm no. I was hoping to change her mind.”

Jacques looked at her in stupefaction. Marie was shaking her head.

“I'm sorry, but I can't do it.”

“But why not?” The words were Jacques's. He was almost frantic.

“Because I don't want to.”

“May we at least know your reasons?” Michael's voice was very smooth, and it held something new, the knowledge of his own power. Marie was irritated to find she liked this side of him. But it did nothing to change her mind.

“Call me a temperamental artist if you like. Whatever. The answer is still no. And it will stay no.” She put down her cup, looked at the two men, and stood up. She held out a hand to Michael and somberly shook his hand. “Thank you, though, for your interest. I'm sure you'll find the right person for your project. Maybe Jacques can recommend someone. There are several wonderful artists and photographers associated with this gallery.”

“But I'm afraid we only want you.” He sounded stubborn now, and Jacques looked apoplectic, but Marie was not going to lose this battle. She had already lost too much.

“That's unreasonable of you, Mr. Hillyard. And childish. You're going to have to find someone else. I won't work with you. It's as simple as that.”

“Will you work with someone else in the firm?”

She shook her head again and walked to the doorway.

“Will you at least give it some thought?”

Her back was to Michael as she paused for an instant in the doorway, but once again she only shook her head, and then they heard the word no as she disappeared with her little dog. Michael did not waste a moment with the stunned gallery owner, who remained seated at his desk. He ran out into the street after her, shouting “Wait?” He wasn't even sure why he was doing it, but he felt he had to. He got to her side as she began to walk hurriedly away. “May I walk with you for a moment?”

“If you'd like, but there isn't much point.” She was looking straight ahead, avoiding his eyes as he strode doggedly beside her.

“Why are you doing this? It Just doesn't make any sense. It is personal? Something you know about our firm? A bad experience you've had? Something about me?”

“It doesn't make any difference.”

“Yes it does, damn it. It does.” He stopped her and held fast to her arm. “I have a right to know.”

“Do you?” They both seemed to stand there for an eternity, and finally she softened. “All right. It's personal.”

“At least I know you're not crazy.”

She laughed and looked at him with amusement. “How do you know? Maybe I am.”

“Unfortunately, I don't think so. I just think you hate Cotter-Hillyard. Or me.” It was ridiculous though. Neither he nor the firm had had any bad press. They weren't involved in controversial projects, or with dubious governments. There was no reason for her to act like this. Maybe she'd had an affair with someone in the local office and had a grudge against him. It had to be something like that. Nothing else made sense.

“I don't hate you, Mr. Hillyard.” She had waited a long time to say it as they walked along.

“You sure do a good act.” He smiled, and for the first time he looked like a boy again. Like the kid who used to tease her with Ben in her apartment. That glimpse of the past tore at her heart and she looked away. “Can I invite you out somewhere for a cup of coffee?” She was going to refuse, but maybe it would be better to get it over with once and for all. Maybe then he'd leave her alone.

“All right.” She suggested a place across the street, and they walked there with Fred at their heels. They both ordered espressos, and without thinking she handed him the sugar. She knew he took two, but he only thanked her, helped himself, and set the bowl down. It didn't seem unusual to him that she had known.

“You know, I can't explain it, but there's something odd about your work. It haunts me. As though I've seen it before, as though I already know it, as though I understand what you meant and what you saw when you took the pictures. Does that make any sense?”

Yes. A great deal of sense. He had always had a wonderful understanding of her paintings. She sighed and nodded. “Yes, I guess it does. They're supposed to do something like that to you.”

“But they do something more. I can't explain it. It's as though I already know … well, your work. I don't know. It sounds crazy when I say it.”

But don't you know me? Don't you know these eyes? She found herself wanting to ask him those questions as they quietly drank their coffee and discussed her work.

“I get the terrible feeling you're not going to give in. You won't, will you?” Sadly, she shook her head. “Is it money?”

“Of course not.”

“I didn't think so.” He didn't even mention the enormous contract he had in his pocket. He knew it would do him no good, and perhaps make things worse. “I wish I knew what it was.”

“Just my eccentricities. My way of lashing out at the past.” She was shocked at her own honesty but he didn't seem to be.

“I thought it was something like that”. They were both at peace now as they sat in the little Italian restaurant. There was a sadness to the meeting too, a bittersweet quality Michael couldn't understand. “My mother was very taken with your work. And she's not easy to please.” Marie smiled at his choice of words.

“No, she isn't. Or so I've heard. She drives a very hard bargain.”

“Yes, but she made the business what it is today. It's a pleasure to take over from her. Like a perfectly run ship.”