The Promise (17 page)

“Yes, my love, you do.” And then he kissed her, gently at first, and then hungrily. To hell with Michael and the girl and all of it. He wanted Marion, with her good and her bad, her genius and her outrageousness, all of it. “And now, you are going to forget about all this, and go to sleep, and tomorrow we are going to sit down and plan the wedding. Start thinking about sensible things like what kind of dress to order and who's to do the flowers. Is that clear?”

She looked up at him and laughed.

“George Calloway, I love you.”

“It's a good thing, because if you didn't, I'd marry you anyway. Nothing would stop me now. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” They were beaming at each other when the nurse finally stuck her head into the room. It was one in the morning. And special instructions from the doctor or no, he had to leave. George nodded that he understood, and with a gentle kiss, a touch on the hand, and a smile that nothing could have dimmed, he reluctantly left the room. And in her bed, Marion felt enormously relieved. He loved her anyway. And George had restored a little of her own faith in herself. And then with a look at the clock, she decided to give Michael a call. Maybe she could do something about all that right now. To hell with the time difference. She didn't have a moment to waste. None of them did. She turned to the phone in the darkened room and dialed his apartment in New York. It took him four rings to find the phone and answer groggily with a muffled 'llo?

“Darling, it's me.”

“Mother? Are you all right?” He quickly switched on the light and tried to force himself awake.

“I'm fine. I have something to tell you.”

“I know. I know. George told me.” He yawned and smiled at the phone and then blinked at the clock. Jesus. It was five o'clock in the morning in New York. Two in San Francisco. What the hell was she doing up, and where was her nurse? “Did you accept?”

“Of course. Both his proposals. I'm even going to retire. More or less.” Michael laughed at her last words. That sounded like her. George was going to have his hands full, but he was pleased for the two of them. “But I'm calling about something else.” She sounded very businesslike and firm, and he groaned. He knew the tone.

“Not business at this hour. Please!”

“Nonsense. There is no hour for business. I wanted to tell you that I saw that girl.”

“What girl?” His mind was a blank. It had been an incredible day. Three meetings, five appointments, and the news that his mother had had another seizure, alone in San Francisco.

“The photographer, Michael. Wake up.”

“Oh. Her. So?”

“We want her.”

“We do?”

“Absolutely. I can't pursue it now. George would have my head. But you can.”

“You must be kidding. I have too much to do. Let Ben handle it.”

“She already turned him down. And she's a young woman with style, intelligence, and character. She is not going to deal with underlings.”

“She sounds like a pain in the ass to me.”

“That's how you sound to me. Now listen to me. I don't care what you have to do to sign her, but do it. Woo her, win her, fly out to see her, take her to dinner. Be your best charming self. She's worth it. And I want her work in the center. Do it for me.” She was actually wheedling. She smiled to herself. This was new.

“You're crazy, and I don't have time.” He was lying in bed, grinning to himself. His mother was going nuts. “You do it.”

“I won't. And if you don't, I'll come back to the office full time and drive you round the bend.” She sounded as though she meant it, and he had to laugh.

“I'll do it, I'll do it.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

“Jesus. All right. Are you satisfied? Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Yes. But I want you to follow this up right away.”

“What's her name again?”

“Adamson. Marie Adamson.”

“Fine. I'll take care of it tomorrow.”

“Good, darling. And … thank you.”

“Good night, you crazy old bat. And by the way, congratulations. Can I give away the bride?”

“Of course. I wouldn't dream of having anyone else. Good night, darling.”

They each hung up, and at her end Marion Hillyard was finally at peace. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe work it was too late. The two years had taken a hard toll on both of them. But it was all she could do. No, that wasn't true. She could have told him the truth. But with a small sigh, as she drifted off to sleep, she admitted to herself that she wasn't quite that ready for sainthood yet. She'd help them along a little. But she wouldn't do more than that. She wouldn't tell Michael what she had done. He would probably find out eventually, but perhaps, by then, there would be enough happiness to cushion the blow.

Chapter 24

George kissed her tenderly on the mouth and the soft music began again. Marion had hired three musicians to play at the wedding in her apartment. There were roughly seventy guests, and the dining room had been cleared as a ballroom. The buffet had been set up in the library. And it was a perfect day. The very last day in February and a clear, cold, magnificent New York day. Marion was completely recovered from her little mishap in San Francisco, and George looked jubilant. Michael kissed her on both cheeks, and she posed between her husband and her son for the photographer from the
Times
. She was wearing champagne lace to the floor and both George and Michael were formally dressed in striped trousers and cutaways. George wore a white carnation as his boutonniere, Michael a red one, and the bride carried delicate beige orchids, specially flown in from California along with the lavish show of flowers around the apartment. Her decorator had seen to it himself.

“Mrs. Calloway?” It was Michael offering her his arm to the buffet as she laughed girlishly at the new name and then smiled at George. “Celebrate it,” as Nancy had said, and that was what they had done. Michael was pleased for them both. They deserved it. And they were spending two months in Europe to relax. He couldn't get over how sensible she had been about stepping out of the business. Maybe she had been ready to retire after all, or maybe her heart was finally frightening her after all this time, but she and George had been wonderful to work with as they transferred the power from their hands to his. He was the president of Cotter-Hillyard now, and he had to admit that he didn't mind the way it felt President … at twenty-seven. He had made the cover of
Time
. And that had felt good, too. He supposed his mother and George would make
People
with the wedding.

“You look very elegant, darling.” His mother beamed at him as they swept into the library. It was filled with flower trees and tables laden with food. And the walls seemed to be lined with additional servants.

“You look pretty snazzy yourself. And the house doesn't look bad either.”

“It's pretty, isn't it?” She seemed amazingly young as she flitted away from him to talk to some of the guests and give last-minute instructions to the servants. She was totally in her element, and as excited as a girl. His mother, the bride. He smiled to himself again at the thought.

“You're looking very pleased with yourself, Mr. Hillyard.” The voice was soft and familiar, and when he turned to find Wendy right at his elbow, he was no longer embarrassed to see her. She was wearing the diamond solitaire Ben had given her for Valentine's Day when they got engaged. They were getting married the following summer. And he was to be best man.

“She looks lovely, doesn't she?”

Wendy nodded and smiled at him again. For once he looked happy, too. She had never really figured him out; but at least it didn't bother her anymore, now that she had Ben. Ben made her happier than any other man ever had.

“But I'm sure you'll look lovely next summer too. I have a weakness for brides.” It seemed very unlike him and Wendy smiled again. She liked him much better, now that she shared his friendship with Ben.

“Trying to chase after my fiancée, old man?” It was Ben at their elbow, juggling three glasses of champagne. “Here, these are for you two. And by the way, Mike, I'm in love with your mother.”

“Too late. I gave her away this morning.” Ben snapped his fingers as though at a loss and all three laughed as the music began in the dining room. “Oops, I think that means me. The son gets the first dance, and then George cuts in on me. Emily Post says …” Ben laughed at him and gave him a shove as he disappeared toward the door to do his duties.

“He looks happy today,” Wendy said softly after Mike had left.

“I think he is, for once.” Pensively, he sipped his champagne, and a moment later smiled at Wendy again. “You look happy today, too.”

“I'm always happy, thanks to you. By the way, did you follow up on that girl in San Francisco, the photographer? I keep meaning to ask you, and I never have time.”

But Ben was shaking his head “No, Mike said he'd take care of it.”

“Does
he
have time?” Wendy looked surprised.

“No. But he'll probably manage anyway. You know Mike. He's going out there next week, for that and four thousand other reasons.”

No, Wendy thought to herself, I don't know Mike. No one does. Except maybe Ben. But sometimes she even wondered if Ben knew him as well as he liked to think he did. Used to maybe. But did he still?

“Care to dance, lady?” He set down his glass and put an arm around her to guide her to the next room.

“Love to.”

But they'd only been dancing for a moment, it seemed, when Michael cut in on them. “My turn.”

“The hell it is. We just got started. I thought you were dancing with your mother.”

“She ditched me for George.”

“Sensible of her.” The three of them had been shuffling around together on the dance floor and Wendy was starting to laugh. Seeing the two of them together this way was like getting a glimpse of the Ben and Michael of years gone by. This was the kind of occasion they had once thrived on. A good healthy dose of champagne, an occasion worth celebrating, and they were off.

“Listen, Avery, are you going to get lost, or aren't you? I want to dance with your fiancé.”

“And what if I don't want you to?”

“Then I dance with both of you, and my mother throws us out?” Wendy was grinning again. They were like two kids, dying to raise hell at a birthday party. They were just breaking into a song about “a girl in Rhode Island” that was beginning to worry her.

“Listen you two, this is supposed to be twice as much fun. Instead, I'm getting both my feet walked
on at once
. Why don't we all go have some wedding cake?”

“Shall we?” Ben and Michael eyed each other, nodded in unison, and each obligingly took one of Wendy's arms and led her off the floor, as Michael looked over her head and winked at Ben.

“Cute, but I think she's crocked. Did you notice the way she danced? My shoes are practically ruined.”

“You should see mine.” Ben spoke in a stage whisper, over her left shoulder, and Wendy sharply elbowed them both.

“Listen, you creeps, has anyone seen
my
shoes? Not to mention my poor aching feet, dancing with you two drunken louts.”

“Louts?” Ben looked at her, horrified, and Michael started to laugh as he accepted three plates of wedding cake from a uniformed maid, and then proceeded to juggle the plates, almost dropping two.

“Never mind her. The cake looks terrific. Here.” Michael handed a plate to each of the other two, and the three leaned against a convenient column and watched the action as they ate, eyeing dowagers in gray lace, young girls in pink chiffon, cascades of pearls, and a river of assorted gems.

“Jesus, just think what we could make if we held them up.” Michael looked enchanted with his idea.

“I never thought of that. We should have done it years ago. Up at school, when we were broke.” They nodded sagely at each other, as Wendy looked at them with a suspicious grin.

“I'm not sure I should trust you two alone while I go to powder my nose.”

“Not to worry. I'll keep an eye on him, Wendy.” Michael winked broadly and polished off another glass of champagne. Wendy had never seen him like this, but he amused her. Ben had been right. He was human after all. Seeing him that way, giddy and silly, was like meeting him five years before, or even two.

“I don't think either of you could uncross your eyes long enough to keep an eye on anything, let alone each other.”

“Bull… I mean… oh, go to the can, Wendy, we're in great shape.” He accepted two more glasses of champagne, handed one to Michael, and waved his fiancée off in the direction of the ladies' room. “She's a hell of a girl, Mike. I'm glad you didn't get mad when I told you about … about us.”

“How could I get mad? She's just right for you. Besides, I'm too busy for that stuff.”

“One of these days you won't be.”

“Maybe so. In the meantime, the rest of you can run off and get married. Me, I have a business to run.” But for once he didn't look grim when he said it. He looked over his glass of champagne with a grin, and toasted his friend. “To us.”

Chapter 25

The plane set down gently in San Francisco as Michael snapped shut his briefcase. He had a thousand things to do in the week to come. Doctors to see, meetings to attend, building sites to visit, architects to organize, and people, and plans and demands and conferences, and … damn … that photographer, too. He wondered how he'd find time for it all. But he would. He always did. He'd give up sleeping or eating or something. He took his raincoat out of the overhead rack where he had folded it, put it over his arm, and followed the other passengers out of first class. He felt the stewardesses eyes on him. He always did. He ignored them. They didn't interest him. Besides, he didn't have time. He looked at his watch. He knew there would be a car waiting for him at the terminal. It was two twenty in the afternoon. He had done a full day's work in half a day at the office in New York, and now he had time for at least four or five hours of meetings here. Tomorrow morning he had a breakfast conference scheduled for seven. That was the way he ran his life. That was the way he liked it. All he cared about was his work. That and a handful of people. Two of whom were happily off in Majorca by now, at the house of friends, and the other of whom was in Wendy's good hands in New York. They were all taken care of. And so was he. He had the medical center to pull together. And it was coming along beautifully. He smiled to himself as he walked into the terminal. This baby was his.

“Mr. Hillyard?” The driver recognized him immediately, and he nodded. “The car is over here.”

Michael settled back in the car while the driver retrieved his luggage from the chaos inside. It was certainly pleasant to be in San Francisco again. It had been a freezing cold March day when he left New York, and it was sixty-five in San Francisco that afternoon. All around him, the world was already green and lovely and lush. In New York, the trees were still barren and brittle and gray, and green would be a forgotten color for another month. It was hard waiting for spring in New York. It always seemed as though it would never come. And just when you gave up, and decided that nothing would ever be green again, the first buds would appear, bringing back hope. Michael had forgotten how pleasant spring was. He never noticed. He didn't have time.

The driver took him straight to his hotel, where some minor employee of the company had already checked him in and seen to it that his suite was in order for the first meeting. He had reserved two suites, one in which he could stay, the other for meetings. And if necessary there could be conferences held simultaneously in both. It was nine o'clock that night before he was through with his work, and tiredly he called room service and asked for a steak. It was mid-night in New York, and he was beat. But it had been a fruitful few hours, and he was pleased. He settled back on the couch, pulled off his tie, threw his feet up on the coffee table, and closed his eyes. And then it was as though he heard his mother's voice in the room. “Did you call that girl?” Oh, Christ. The words sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room, which still reeked of cigarette smoke, and the round of Scotches they'd ordered at the end. But the girl… well, why not? He had the time, while he waited for his steak. It might keep him from falling asleep. He reached for his briefcase, found the number in a file, and dialed from where he sat. The phone rang three or four times before she answered.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Miss Adamson, this is Michael Hillyard.”

She felt herself almost gasp and had to sharply control her breathing. “I see. Are you in San Francisco, Mr. Hillyard?” Her voice was clipped and brusque; she sounded almost angry. Maybe he had gotten her at a bad time, or maybe she didn't like to be called at home. He didn't really care.

“Yes, I am, Miss Adamson. And I was wondering if we might get together. We have a few things to discuss.”

“No. We have absolutely nothing to discuss. I thought I made that very clear to your mother.” She was trembling all over and clutching the phone.

“Then perhaps she forgot to relay the message.” He was beginning to sound as uptight as she. “She had a mild heart attack just after her meeting with you. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the meeting, but she didn't tell me a great deal about what either of you said. Understandably, given the circumstances.”

“Yes.” Marie seemed to pause. “I'm sorry to hear it. Is she all right now?”

“Very much so.” Michael smiled. “She got married last week. Right now she's in Majorca.”

How sweet. The bitch. She ruins my life and goes on a honeymoon. Marie wanted to grit her teeth, or slam down the phone.

“But that's neither here nor there. When can we meet?”

“I've already told you. We can't.” She almost spat the words through the phone, and he closed his eyes again. He was really too tired to be bothered.

“All right. I concede. For now. I'm at the Fairmont. If you change your mind, call.”

“I won't.”

“Fine.”

“Good night, Mr. Hillyard.”

“Good night, Miss Adamson.”

She was surprised at how quickly he ended the conversation. And he hadn't really sounded like Michael. He sounded worn out, as though he didn't really give a damn. Just what had happened to him in the last two years? She sat wondering for a long time after she hung up the phone.