Summer's End (5 page)

“Deanna?”

“Hm?” She looked up to find him standing next to her, his briefcase in his hand and the familiar smile of victory in his eyes. He was off to the wars now, gone again, free. “Is it time to go?”
Already? So soon?
He nodded, and she stood up, dwarfed by his considerable size, but the perfect companion beside him. They were a strikingly good-looking couple. They always had been. Even Madame Duras, his cold-eyed mother, had acknowledged it —once.

“You needn’t walk me to the gate.” He already seemed distracted.

“No, but I’d like to. Is that all right?”

“Of course.” He held the door for her, and they stepped back into the bustle of the terminal, instantly lost among an army of travelers burdened with suitcases, gifts, and guitars. They arrived too soon at the gate, and he turned to look down at her with a smile. “I’ll call you tonight.”

“I love you.”

He didn’t answer but bent to kiss the top of her head, then strode into the passageway to the plane, without a backward look or a wave. She watched until he disappeared, then slowly turned and walked away.
I love you
. Her own words echoed in her head. But he hadn’t answered. He was already gone.

She slid into the car waiting at the curb, and with a sigh turned the key and drove home.

She went quickly upstairs to change her clothes, and was buried deep in her own thoughts in the studio all afternoon. She sketched absently, and had just gone out on the terrace at last for some air, when Margaret knocked softly on the studio door. Deanna turned in surprise, as the housekeeper hesitantly entered the room.

“Mrs. Duras … I—I’m sorry….” She knew how Deanna hated to be disturbed there, but now and then she had no choice. Deanna had disconnected the studio phone.

“Is something wrong?” Deanna looked distracted, standing there with her hair loose over her shoulders and hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans.

“No. Mr. Sullivan is downstairs to see you.”

“Jim?” And then she remembered Marc-Edouard’s promise that Jim would look in on her. He certainly hadn’t lost any time. Always devoted to his associate’s subtle commands. “I’ll be right down.”

Margaret nodded. She had done the right thing. She knew that Deanna wouldn’t have wanted him upstairs in the studio. She had shown him into the icelike green living room and offered him a cup of tea, which he’d declined with a grin. He was as different from Marc-Edouard as two men could be, and Margaret had always liked him. He was rugged, American, and easygoing, and somewhere in his eyes was always the promise of a rich Irish smile.

Deanna found him standing at the window, looking out at the summer fog drifting in slowly over the bay. It looked like puffs of white cotton being pulled by an invisible string, floating between the spires of the bridge, and hanging in midair over the sailboats.

“Hello, Jim.”

“Madam.” He executed a small bow and made as though to kiss her hand. But she waved the gesture away with a gurgle of laughter and offered her cheek, which he unceremoniously kissed. “I must admit I prefer that. Kissing hands is an art I’ve never quite mastered. You never know if they’re going to shake with you, or expect to be kissed. Couple of times I damn near got my nose broken by the ones who planned to shake.”

She laughed at him and sat down. “You’ll have to get Marc to give you lessons. He’s a genius at it. It’s either the Frenchman in him or a sixth sense. How about a drink?”

“Love it.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Margaret seemed to think I should have tea.”

“How awful.”

She was laughing again, and he watched her appreciatively as she opened a small inlaid cabinet and withdrew two glasses and a bottle of Scotch.

“Drinking, Deanna?” He said it casually but he was surprised. He had never seen her drink Scotch. Maybe Marc-Edouard had had a good reason after all for suggesting he come by. But she was already shaking her head.

“I thought I’d have some ice water. Were you worried?” She looked at him with amusement as she returned with his glass.

“A little.”

“Don’t worry, love. I haven’t hit the bottle yet.” Her eyes seemed suddenly wistful as she took a sip from her own glass and set it down carefully on a marble table. “But it’s going to be a mighty long summer.” She sighed and looked up at him with a smile. Gently, he reached over and patted her hand.

“I know. Maybe we can go to the movies sometime.”

“You’re a sweetheart, but don’t you have anything better to do?” She knew he did. He had been divorced for four years and was living with a model who had moved out from New York a few months ago. He adored that type, and they always loved him. Tall, handsome, athletic, with Irish-blue eyes and ebony black hair, barely salted with gray. He was the perfect contrast to Marc-Edouard in every possible way, easygoing when Marc was formal; All-American, unlike Marc’s totally European manner; and surprisingly unassuming, in contrast to Marc-Edouard’s barely concealed arrogance. It had always struck Deanna as odd that Marc had chosen Jim as his partner, but it had been a wise choice. Marc’s own special brilliance was matched by Jim’s; their stars just shone differently, and they moved in their own very separate orbits. The Durases rarely saw Jim socially. He was busy with his own life, and his collection of models, now dwindled to one—for the moment. Jim never stayed with one woman long.

“What are you up to these days?”

He smiled at her. “Work, play, the usual. You?”

“Fiddling around in my studio, also the usual.” She played it down as she always did.

“What about this summer? Have you made any plans?”

“Not yet, but I will. Maybe I’ll go see some friends in Santa Barbara or something.”

“God.” He made a horrible face, and she laughed.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You’d have to be eighty years old to enjoy that. Why don’t you go down to Beverly Hills? Pretend you’re a movie star, have lunch at the Polo Lounge, have yourself paged.”

“Is that what you do?” She laughed at the idea.

“Of course. Every weekend.” He chuckled and set down his empty glass, glancing at his watch. “Never mind. I’ll get you organized in no time, but now” —he looked regretful— “I have to run.”

“Thank you for stopping by. It was kind of a long afternoon. It’s strange with both of them gone.”

He nodded appreciatively, suddenly sobered. He remembered the feeling from the time when his wife and their two boys had first moved out. He had thought he’d go nuts, just from the silence.

“I’ll call you.”

“Good. And Jim”—she looked at him for a long moment—“thanks.”

He rumpled her long dark hair, kissed her forehead, and departed, waving at her as he slid into his black Porsche, thinking that Marc was crazy. Deanna Duras was one woman he’d have given almost anything to get his hands on. Of course he was too smart to play with that kind of fire, but he still thought Duras was nuts. Christ, he never even realized what a little beauty she was. Or did he? Jim Sullivan wondered to himself as he drove away, and Deanna softly closed the door.

She glanced at her watch, thinking that it was nice of Jim to come by and wondering how soon Marc would call her. He had promised to call her that night.

But he never did. Instead, there was a telegram in the morning:

Off to Athens. Wrong time to call. All well. Pilar fine.

Marc

Brief and to the point. But why hadn’t he called? “Wrong time to call,” she read again.
Wrong time. Wrong time….

The telephone broke into Deanna’s thoughts as she read Marc’s telegram again. She already knew it by heart.

“Deanna?” The bright voice jarred her out of her reverie. It was Kim Houghton. She lived only a few blocks away, but her life couldn’t have been more different. Twice married, twice divorced, eternally independent and merry and free. She had gone to art school with Deanna, but she was a major creative force in advertising now, because she had never been a very good artist. And she was Deanna’s only close woman friend.

“Hi, Kim. What’s new in your life?”

“Not much. I was in L.A. being nice to one of our new clients. The bastard is already talking about pulling the account. And it’s one of mine.” She mentioned the name of a national chain of hotels, for which she handled the advertising. “Want to have lunch?”

“I can’t. I’m tied up.”

“Doing what?” Suspicion crept into her voice. She always knew when Deanna was lying.

“A charity luncheon. I have to go.”

“Dump it. I’ll be your charity. I need some advice, I’m depressed.” Deanna laughed. Kimberly Houghton was never depressed. Even her divorces —two of them—hadn’t depressed her. She had rapidly moved on to more fertile terrain. Usually in less than a week. “Come on, love, let’s go somewhere for lunch. I need a breather from this place.”

“So do I.” Deanna looked around the blue silk-and-velvet splendor of her bedroom, trying to fight off a feeling of gloom. For an unguarded moment her voice sagged into the phone.

“What does that mean?” Kim asked.

“It means, you nosy pain in the ass, that Marc is away. Pilar left two days ago, and Marc left yesterday morning.”

“Jesus, can’t you enjoy it? You don’t often get a breather like that, with both of them gone. If I were you I’d run around the living room stark naked and call in all my friends.”

“While I was still naked, or after I got dressed?” Deanna threw her legs over the side of the chair and laughed.

“Either way. Listen, in that case, forget about lunch. How about dinner tonight?”

“That’s a deal. That way I can do some work in the studio this afternoon.”

“I thought you were going to a charity lunch.” Deanna could almost see Kim grinning. “Gotcha.”

“Go to hell.”

“Thank you. Dinner at seven at Trader Vic’s?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“See ya.” She hung up, leaving Deanna with a smile. Thank God for Kim.

“You look gorgeous. New dress?” Kimberly Houghton looked up from her drink when Deanna arrived, and the two women exchanged the smile of old friends. Deanna was indeed looking lovely in a white cashmere dress that clung to all the right places and set off her dark hair and enormous green eyes.

“You don’t look so bad either.” Kim had the kind of body men loved, rich and generous and full of promise. Her blue eyes danced, and her smile dazzled everyone it took in. She still wore her hair in the short cap of blonde curls she had worn for the last twenty years. She didn’t have the startling elegance of Deanna, but she had irresistible warmth and a certain way with clothes. She always looked as though she ought to have ten men at her heels, and she usually did. Or at least one or two. Tonight she was wearing a blue velvet blazer and slacks with red silk shirt, unbuttoned dangerously low to reveal ample cleavage and a single diamond dangling enticingly on a narrow gold chain that fell neatly between her full breasts. An “eye catcher”—as though she needed any help.

Deanna ordered a drink and settled onto the seat, dropping her mink coat on a chair. Kim was neither interested in it nor impressed. She had grown up in that world and had no desires for money or mink, only for independence and good times. She always made sure she had a great deal of both.

“So what’s new? Enjoying your freedom?”

“More or less. Actually, this time I’m finding it a little hard to get used to.” Deanna sighed and took a sip of her drink.

“Jesus, as much as Marc travels, I’d think you’d be used to it by now. Besides, a little independence is good for you.”

“Probably. But he’ll be gone for three months. That seems like forever.”

“Three months? How did that happen?” Kim’s voice suddenly lost its champagne brightness, and a question appeared in her eyes.

“He has a big case going between Paris and Athens. It doesn’t make sense for him to come home in between.”

“Or for you to go over?”

“Apparently not.”

“What does that mean? Did you ask?” It was like answering to a mother. Deanna smiled as she looked at her friend.

“More or less. He’s going to be busy, and if I go over I’ll be stuck with Madame Duras.”

“Screw that.” Kim had heard all the early stories of Marc-Edouard’s indomitable mother.

“Precisely, though I didn’t put it quite that way to Marc. So,
voilà
, I’m by myself for the summer.”

“And hating every minute of it after only two days. Right? Right.” She answered her own question. “Why don’t you go somewhere?”

“Where?”

“Jesus, Deanna, anywhere. I’m sure Marc wouldn’t mind.”

“Probably not, but I don’t like to travel alone.” She had never had to. She had always traveled with her father, and then with Pilar and Marc. “Besides, where would I go? Jim Sullivan said Santa Barbara would be a bore.” She looked forlorn as she said it, and Kimberly laughed.