“Welcome to San Francisco, little one.” Lily's cool hands ware replaced by his strong, graceful ones, and he kept a light hand on her shoulder all the way into the city. In an odd way, he made her feel as though she had come home.





Chapter 7




The ambulance doors swung open and they carried the stretcher expertly into the hotel. The manager was waiting to greet them, and the entire penthouse suite had been reserved for their use. They were only planning to stay for a day or two, but the hotel would provide a breather between hospital and home. Marion had business meetings in Boston, and besides, for some reason Michael had insisted on a few days in a hotel before going home. And his mother was ready to indulge his every whim.

The ambulance attendants set him down carefully on the bed, and he made a face. “For Chrissake, there's nothing wrong with me, Mother. They all said I was fine.”

“But there's no need to push.”

“Push?” He looked around the suite and groaned as she tipped the ambulance attendants, who promptly vanished. The room was filled with flowers, and there was a huge basket of fruit on the table near the bed. His mother owned the hotel. She had bought it years before as an investment.

“Now relax, darling. Don't get overexcited. Do you want anything to eat?” She had wanted to keep the nurse, but even the doctor had said that was unnecessary, and it would have driven Michael crazy. All he had to do now was take it easy for another couple of weeks, and then he could go to work. But he had something else to do first. “How about some lunch?” Marion asked.

“Sure. Escargots. Oysters Rockefeller. Champagne. Turtles' eggs and caviar.” He sat up in bed like a mischievous child.

“What a revolting combination, my love.” But she wasn't really listening to him. She was looking at her watch. “But do order yourself something. George should be here any minute. Our meeting downtown is at one.” She walked out of the room distractedly, to look for her briefcase, and Mike heard the doorbell at the front of the suite. A moment later, George Calloway walked into his room.

“Well, Michael, how are you feeling?”

“After two weeks in the hospital, doing absolutely nothing, I feel mostly embarrassed.” He tried to make light of his situation, but there was still a broken look around his eyes. His mother saw it too, but put it down to fatigue. She had closed any alternative explanation from her mind, and she and Michael never discussed it. They talked about the business, and the plans for the medical center in San Francisco. Never the accident.

“I stopped in at your office this morning. It looks very handsome indeed.” George smiled and sat down at the foot of the bed.

“I'm sure it does.” Michael watched his mother as she came into the room. She was wearing a light gray Chanel suit with a soft blue silk blouse, pearl earrings, and three strands of pearls around her neck. “Mother has excellent taste.”

“Yes, she does.” George smiled at her warmly, but she waved nervously at them both.

“Stop throwing roses; we're going to be late. George, do you have the papers we need?”

“Of course.”

“Then let's go.” She walked quickly toward Michael's bed and bent down to kiss the top of his head. “Rest, darling. And don't forget to order lunch.”

“Yes, ma'am. Good luck at the meeting.”

She raised her head and smiled with pure anticipation. “Luck has nothing to do with it.” The two men laughed, and Michael watched them go. And then he sat up.

He sat patiently and quietly, waiting and thinking. He knew exactly what he was going to do. He had planned it for two weeks. He had lived for this moment. It had been all he could think of. It was why he had suggested the hotel, insisted on it in fact, and urged her to attend the meetings herself for the new Boston library building. He needed the afternoon to himself. He just didn't want to spoil anything by having them catch him. He wanted to be sure they were gone. So he sat exactly where he was for exactly half an hour. And then he was sure. He had rehearsed it a hundred times in his head. He went quickly to the suitcase on the rack at the foot of his bed and took out what he needed. Gray slacks, blue shirt, loafers, socks, underwear. It seemed a thousand years since he had worn clothes, and he was surprised at how wobbly he felt as he got dressed. He had to sit down three or four times to catch his breath. It was ridiculous to feel that weak, and he wouldn't give in to it. He wasn't going to wait another day. He was going there now. It took him nearly half an hour to dress and comb his hair, and then he called the desk and asked for a cab. He was pale on his way down in the elevator, but the excitement of his plan made him feel better. Just the thought of it gave him life again, as nothing had done in two weeks. The cab was waiting for him at the curb.

He gave the driver the address, and sat back with a feeling of great exhilaration. It was as though they had a date, as though she were expecting him, as though she knew. He smiled to himself all the way over, and gave the driver a large tip. He didn't ask the man to wait. He didn't want anyone waiting for him. He would stay there alone, for as long as he wanted. He had even toyed with the idea of continuing to pay rent on the place, so that he could come there whenever he liked. It was only an hour's flight from New York, and that way he would always have their apartment. Their apartment. He looked up at the building with a familiar glow of warmth, and almost in spite of himself, he heard himself say the words he'd been thinking. “Hi, Nancy Fancypants, I'm home.” He had said the words a thousand times before, as he walked in the door and found her sitting at her easel, with paint splattered all over hands and arms and occasionally her face. If she was terribly involved in the work, she sometimes didn't hear him come in.

He walked slowly up the stairs, tired but buoyed by the feeling of homecoming. He just wanted to go upstairs and sit down, near her, with her … with her things…. All the same familiar smells pervaded the building, and there was the sound of running water, of a child, a cat meowing in a hallway below, and outside a horn honking. He could hear an Italian song on the radio, and for a strange moment he wondered if the radio was on in her studio. He had his key in his hand when he reached the landing, and he stopped for a long, long moment For the first time all day, he felt tears burn his eyes. He still knew the truth. She wouldn't be there. She was gone forever. She was dead.

He still tried the word out loud from time to time, just to make himself say it, to make himself know. He didn't want to be one of those crazy people who never faced the truth, who played games of pretend. She would have been scornful of that. But now and then he let the knowledge go, only to have it return with a slap. As it did now. He turned the key in the lock and waited, as though maybe someone would come to the door after all. But there was no one there. He opened the door slowly, and then he gasped.

“Oh, my God! Where is … where …” It was gone. All of it Every table, every chair, the plants, the paintings, her easel, her paints. Her clothes, … Jesus Christ, Nancy!” And then he heard himself crying as hot angry tears stung his face and he pulled open doors. Nothing. Even the refrigerator was gone. He stood there dumbly for a moment and then flew down the stairs two at a time until he reached the manager's apartment in the basement. He pounded on the door until the little old man opened it just the width of the protective chain and stared out with a look of fear in his eyes. But he recognized Michael and opened the door as he started to smile, until Michael grabbed him by the collar and began to shake him.

“Where is her stuff, Kowalski? Where the hell is it? What did you do with it? Did you take it? Who took it? Where are her things?”

“What things? Who … oh, my God … no, no, I didn't take anything. They came two weeks ago. They told me—” He was trembling with terror, and Michael with rage.

“Who the hell is ‘they’?”

“I don't know. Someone called me and said that the apartment would be vacant. That Miss McAllister was … had …” He saw the tears still wet on Michael's face and was afraid to go on. “You know. Well, they told me, and they said the apartment would be empty by the end of the week. Two nurses came and took a few things, and then the Goodwill truck came the next morning.”

“Nurses? What nurses?” Michael's mind was a blank. And Goodwill? Who had called them?

“I don't know who they were. They looked like nurses though—they were wearing white. They didn't take much. Just that little bag, and her paintings. Goodwill got the rest. I didn't take nothing. Honest. I wouldn't do that. Not to a nice girl like…” But Michael wasn't listening to him. He was already wandering up the stairs to the street, dazed, as the old man watched him, shaking his head. Poor guy. He had probably just heard. “Hey … hey.” Michael turned around, and the old man lowered his voice. “I'm sorry.” Michael only nodded and went out to the street. How did the nurses know? How could they have done it? They'd probably taken the little jewelry she had, a few trinkets, and the paintings. Maybe someone had said something to them at the hospital. Vultures, picking over what was left. God, if he'd seen them, he'd … His hands clenched at his sides, and then his arm shot out to hail a cab. At least … maybe … it was worth a try. He slid into the cab, ignoring the ache that was beginning to pound at the back of his head. “Where's the nearest Goodwill?”

“Goodwill what?” The driver was chewing a soggy cigar and was not particularly interested in Goodwill of any kind.

“Goodwill store. You know, used clothes, old furniture.”

“Oh yeah. Okay.” The kid didn't look like one of their customers, but a fare was a fare. It was a five-minute drive from Nancy's apartment, and the fresh air on his face helped revive Michael from the shock of the emptiness he had found. It was like looking for your pulse and finding that your heart had stopped beating. “Okay, this is it.”

Michael thanked him, absentmindedly paid twice the fare, and got out. He wasn't even sure he wanted to go inside. He had wanted to see her things in her apartment, where they belonged. Not in some stinking, musty old store, with price tags on them. And what would he do? Buy it all? And then what? He walked into the store feeling lonely and tired and confused. No one offered to help him, and he began to wander aimlessly up one aisle and down another, finding nothing he knew, seeing nothing familiar, and suddenly aching, not for the “things” that had seemed so important to him that morning, but for the girl who had owned them. She was gone, and nothing he found or didn't find would ever make any difference. The tears began to stream down his face as he walked slowly back out to the street.

This time he didn't hail a cab. He just walked. Blindly and alone, in a direction his feet seemed to know, but his head didn't. His head didn't know anything anymore. It felt like mush. His whole body felt like mush, but his heart was a stone. Suddenly, in that stinking old store, his life had come to an end He understood now what it all meant, and as he stood at a red light, waiting for it to change, not giving a damn if it did, he passed out.

He woke up a few moments later, with a crowd around him as he lay on a small patch of grass where someone had carried him. There was a policeman standing over him, looking sharply into his eyes.

“You okay, son?” He was certain the kid was neither drunk nor stoned, but he looked a terrible gray color. More likely he was sick. Or maybe just hungry or something. Looked like he had money though, couldn't have been a case of starvation.

“Yeah. I'm okay. I got out of the hospital this morning, and I guess I overdid it.” He smiled ruefully, but the faces around him did cartwheels when he tried to get up. The cop saw what was happening and urged the crowd to disperse. Then he looked back at Michael.

“I'll get a patrol car to give you a lift home.”

“No, really, I'm okay.”

“Never mind that. Would you rather go back to the hospital?”

“Hell, no!”

“All right, then we'll take you home.” He spoke into a small walkie-talkie and then squatted down near Michael. “They'll be here in a minute. Been sick for a long time?”

Michael shook his head silently, and then looked down at his hands. “Two weeks.” There was still a narrow scar near his temple, but too small for the policeman to notice.

“Well, you take it easy.” The patrol car slid up alongside them, and the policeman gave Michael a hand up. He was all right now. Pale, but steadier than he had been at first.