The Promise (2 page)

They sped ahead, side by side, panting and laughing, and Michael reached the entrance to the fair a full thirty seconds before she did. But they both looked tanned and healthy and carefree.

“Well, sir, what's first?” But she had already guessed, and she was right.

“Corn, of course. Need you ask?”

“Not really.” They parked their bikes next to a tree, knowing that in that sleepy countryside no one would steal them, and they walked off arm in aim. Ten minutes later they stood happily dripping butter as they ate their corn, and then they gobbled hot dogs and sipped ice-cold beer. Nancy followed it all up with a huge stick of cotton candy.

“How can you eat that stuff?”

“Easy. It's delicious.” The words were garbled through the sticky pink stuff, but she wore the delighted face of a five-year-old.

“Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” She grinned at him, wearing a faceful of pink candy, and he took out a handkerchief and wiped her chin. “If you'd clean up a little we could have our picture taken.”

“Yeah? Where?” As she gobbled another pink cloud, her nose disappeared again.

“You're impossible. Over there.” He pointed to a booth where they could stick their heads through round holes and have their photographs taken over outlandish outfits. They wandered over and chose Rhett Butler and Scarlett O'Hara. And strangely enough, they didn't even look foolish in the picture. Nancy looked beautiful over the elaborately painted costume. The delicate beauty of her face and the precision of its features were perfect with the immensely feminine costume of the Southern belle. And Michael looked like a young rake. The photographer handed them their photograph and collected his dollar.

“I ought to keep that, you two look so good.”

“Thank you.” Nancy was touched by the compliment, but Mike only smiled. He was always so damned proud of her. Just another two weeks and. … but Nancy's frantic tugging on his sleeve distracted him from his daydreams. “Look, over there! A ring toss!” She had always wanted to play that at the fair when she was a little girl, but the nuns from the orphanage always said it was too expensive. “Can we?”

“But of course, my dear.” He swept her a low bow, offered her his arm, and attempted to stroll toward the ring toss, but Nancy was far too excited to stroll. She was almost leaping like a child, and her excitement delighted him.

“Can we do it now?”

“Sure, sweetheart” He put down a dollar and the man at the counter handed her four times the usual allotment of rings. Most customers only paid a quarter. But she was inexperienced at the game, and all her tries fell wide. Michael was watching her with amusement “Just exactly which prize are you trying for?”

“The beads.” Her eyes shone like a child's and her words were barely more than a whisper. “I've never had a gaudy necklace before.” It was the one thing she had always wanted as a child. Something bright and shiny and frivolous.

“You're certainly easy to please, my love. You sure you wouldn't rather have the pink doggie?” It was just like the one Jeannette had had in her basket, but Nancy shook her head determinedly.

“The beads.”

“Your wish is my command” And he landed all three tosses perfectly on target. With a smile, the man behind the counter handed him the beads, and Michael quickly put them around Nancy's neck. “Voilà, made-moiselle. All yours. Do you suppose we should insure them?”

“Will you stop making fun of my beads? I think they're gorgeous.” She touched them softly, enchanted to know they were sparkling at her neck.

“I think
you're
gorgeous. Anything else your heart desires?”

She grinned at him. “More cotton candy.”

He bought her another stick of cotton candy, and they slowly wended their way back to the bikes.

“Tired?”

“Not really.”

“Want to go on a little further? There's a lovely spot up ahead. We could sit for a while and watch the surf.”

“It sounds perfect.”

They rode off again, but this time more quietly. The carnival atmosphere was gone, and they were both lost in their own thoughts, mostly of each other. Michael was beginning to wish they were back in bed, and Nancy wouldn't have disagreed. They were nearing Nahant when she saw the spot he had chosen at the tip of a land spit, under a lovely old tree, and she was glad they had come this last leg of the trip.

“Oh Michael, it's beautiful.”

“It is, isn't it?” They sat down on a soft patch of grass, just before the narrow lip of sand began, and in the distance they watched long smooth waves break over a reef that lay just beneath the surface of the water. “I've always wanted to bring you here.”

“I'm glad you did.” They sat silently, holding hands, and then Nancy suddenly stood up.

“What's up?”

“I want to do something.”

“Over there, behind the bushes.”

“No, you creep. Not that.” She was already running toward a spot on the beach, and slowly he followed her, wondering what she had in mind. She stopped at a large rock and tried earnestly to move it, with no success.

“Here, silly, let me help you with that. What do you want to do with it?” He was puzzled.

“I just want to move it for a second … there.” It had given way under Michael's firm prodding, and it rolled back to show a damp indentation in the sand. Quickly, she took off the bright blue beads, held them for a moment, her eyes closed, and dropped them into the sand beneath the rock. “Okay, put it back.”

“On top of the beads?”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving the sparkle of blue glass. “These beads will be our bond, a physical bond, buried fast for as long as this rock, and this beach, and these trees stand here. All right?”

“All right” He smiled softly. “We're being very romantic.”

“Why not? If you're lucky enough to have love, celebrate it! Give it a home!”

“You're right. You're absolutely right. Okay, here's its home.”

“Now let's make a promise. I promise never to forget what is here, or to forget what they stand for. Now you.” She touched his hand, and he smiled down at her again. He had never loved her more.

“And I promise … I promise never to say good-bye to you …” And then, for no reason in particular, they laughed. Because it felt good to be young, to be romantic, even to be corny. The whole day had felt good. “Shall we go back now?” She nodded assent, and hand in hand they wandered back to where they had left the bikes. And two hours later, they were back at Nancy's tiny apartment on Spark Street, near the campus. Mike looked around as he let himself fall sleepily onto the couch and realized once again how much he enjoyed her apartment, how much like home it was to him. The only real home he had ever known. His mother's mammoth apartment had never really felt like home, but this place did. It had all Nancy's wonderful warm touches in it. The paintings she had done over the years, the warm earth colors she had chosen for the place, a soft brown velvet couch, and a fur rug she had bought from a friend. There were always flowers everywhere, and the plants she took such good care of. The spotless little white marble table where they ate, and the brass bed which creaked with pleasure when they made love.

“Do you know how much I love this place, Nancy?”

“Yeah, I know.” She looked around nostalgically. “Me, too. What are we going to do when we get married?”

“Take all these beautiful things of yours to New York and find a cozy little home for them there.” And then something caught his eye. “What's that? Something new?” He was looking at her easel, which held a painting still in its early stages but already with a haunting quality to it. It was a landscape of trees and fields, but as he walked toward it, he saw a small boy, hiding in a tree, dangling his legs. “Will he still show once you put the leaves on the tree?”

“Probably. But we'll know he's there in any case. Do you like it?” Her eyes shone as she watched his approval. He had always understood her work perfectly.

“I love it.”

“Then it'll be your wedding present—when it's finished.”

“You've got a deal. And speaking of wedding presents—” He looked at his watch. It was already five o'clock, and he wanted to be at the airport by six. “I should get going.”

“Do you really have to go tonight?”

“Yes. I'll important I'll come back in a few hours. I should be at Marion's place by seven thirty or eight, depending on the traffic in New York. I can catch the last shuttle back, at eleven, and be home by midnight Okay, little worrywart?”

“Okay.” But she was hesitant She was bothered by his going. She didn't want him to, and yet she didn't know why. “I hope it goes all right.”

“I know it will” But they both knew that Marion did only what she wanted to do, listened only to what she wanted to hear, and understood only what suited her. Somehow he knew they'd win her over though.

They had to. He had to have Nancy. No matter what. He took her in his arms one last time before slipping a tie around the collar of the sport shirt he was wearing and grabbing a lightweight jacket on the back of a chair. He had left it there that morning. He knew it would be hot in New York, but he knew, too, that he had to appear at Marion's apartment in coat and tie. That was essential. Marion had no tolerance for “hippies,” or for nobodies … like Nancy. They both knew what he was facing when they kissed good-bye at the door.

“Good luck.”

“I love you.”

For a long time Nancy sat in the silent apartment looking at the photograph of them at the fair. Rhett and Scarlet, immortal lovers, in their silly wooden costumes, poking their faces through the holes. But they didn't look silly. They looked happy. She wondered if Marion would understand that, if she knew the difference between happy and silly, between real and imaginary. She wondered if Marion would understand at all.

Chapter 2

The dining room table shone like the surface of a lake. Its sparkling perfection was disturbed only on the edge of the shore, where a single place setting of creamy Irish linen lay, adorned by delicate blue and gold china. There was a silver coffee service next to the plate, and an ornate little silver bell. Marion Hillyard sat back in her chair with a small sigh as she exhaled the smoke from the cigarette she had just lit. She was tired today. Sundays always tired her. Sometimes she thought she did more work at home than she did at the office. She always spent Sundays answering her personal correspondence, looking over the books kept by the cook and the housekeeper, making lists of what she had noticed needed to be repaired around the apartment and of items needed to complete her wardrobe, and planning the menus for the week. It was tedious work, but she had done it for years, even before she'd begun to run the business. And once she'd taken over for her husband, she still spent her Sundays attending to the household and taking care of Michael on the nurse's day off. The memory made her smile, and for a moment she closed her eyes. Those Sundays had been precious, a few hours with him without anyone interfering, anyone taking him away. Her Sundays weren't like that anymore; they hadn't been in too many years. A tiny bright tear crept into her lashes as she sat very still in her chair, seeing him as he had been eighteen years before, a little boy of six, and all hers. How she loved that child. She would have done anything for him. And she had. She had maintained an empire for him, carried the legacy from one generation to the next. It was her most valuable gift for Michael. Cotter-Hillyard. And she had come to love the business almost as much as she loved her son.

“You're looking beautiful, Mother.” Her eyes flew open in surprise as she saw him standing there in the arched doorway of the richly paneled dining room. The sight of him now almost made her cry. She wanted to hug him as she had all those years ago, and instead she smiled slowly at her son.

“I didn't hear you come in.” There was no invitation to approach, no sign of what she'd been feeling. No one ever knew, with Marion, what went on inside.

“I used my key. May I come in?”

“Of course. Would you like some dessert?”

Michael walked slowly into the room, a small nervous smile playing over his mouth, and then like a small boy he peered at her plate. “Hm … what was it? Looks like it must have been chocolate, huh?”

She chuckled and shook her head. He would never grow up. In some ways anyway. “Profiteroles. Care for some? Mattie is still out there in the pantry.”

“Probably eating what's left.” They both laughed at what they knew was most likely true, but Marion reached for the bell.

Mattie appeared in an instant, black-uniformed and lace-trimmed, pale-faced and large-beamed. She had spent a lifetime running and fetching and doing for others, with only a brief Sunday here and there to call her own, and nothing to do with it once she had the much coveted “day.” “Yes, madam?”

“Some coffee for Mr. Hillyard, Mattie. And … darling, dessert?” He shook his head. “Just coffee then.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

For a moment Michael wondered, as he often had, why his mother never said thank you to the servants. As though they had been born to do her bidding. But he knew that was what his mother thought. She had always lived surrounded by servants and secretaries and every possible kind of help. She had had a lonely upbringing but a comfortable one. Her mother had died when she was three, in an accident with Marion's only brother, the heir to the Cotter architectural throne. The accident had left only Marion to become a substitute son. She had done so very effectively.

“And how is school?”

“Almost over, thank God. Two more weeks.”

“I know. I'm very proud of you, you know. A doctorate is a wonderful thing to have, particularly in architecture.” For some reason the words made him want to say, “Oh, Mother!” as he had when he was nine. “We'll be contacting young Avery this week, about his job. You haven't said anything to him, have you?” She looked more curious than stern; she didn't really care. She had thought it a little childish that Michael thought it so important to surprise Ben.

“No, I haven't. He'll be very pleased.”

“As well he should be. It's an excellent job.”

“He deserves it.”

“I hope so.” She never gave an inch. “And you? Ready for work? Your office will be finished next week.” Her eyes shone at the thought. It was a beautiful office, wood-paneled the way his father's had been, with etchings that had belonged to her own father, an impressive leather couch and chairs, and a roomful of Georgian furniture. She had bought it all in London over the holidays. “It really looks splendid, darling.”

“Good.” He smiled at his mother for a moment “I have some things I want to get framed, but I'll wait till I take a look at the decor.”

“You won't even need to do that. I have everything you'll need for the walls.”

So did he. Nancy's drawings. There was sudden fire in his eyes now, and an air of watchfulness in hers. She had seen something in his face.

“Mother—” He sat down next to her with a small sigh and stretched his legs as Mattie arrived with the coffee. “Thank you, Mattie.”

“You're welcome, Mr. Hillyard.” She smiled at him as warmly as she always did. He was always so pleasant to her, as though he hated to bother her, not like … “Will there be anything else, madam?”

“No. As a matter of fact … Michael, do you want to take that into the library?”

“All right.” Maybe it would be easier to talk in there. His mother's dining room had always reminded him of ballrooms he had seen in ancestral homes. It was not conducive to intimate conversation, and certainly not to gentle persuasion. He stood up and followed his mother out of the room, down three thickly carpeted steps, and into the library immediately to their left. There was a splendid view of Fifth Avenue and a comfortable chunk of Central Park, but there was also a warm fireplace and two walls lined with books. The fourth wall was dominated by a portrait of Michael's father, but it was one he liked, one in which his father looked warm—like someone you'd want to know. As a small boy he had come to look at that portrait at times, and to “talk” aloud to his father. His mother had found him that way once, and told him it was an absurd thing to do. But later he had seen her crying in that room, and staring at the portrait as he had.

His mother ensconced herself in her usual place, in a Louis XV chair covered in beige damask and facing the fireplace. Tonight her dress was almost the same color, and for a moment, as the firelight glowed, Michael thought her almost beautiful. She had been once, and not so long ago. Now she was fifty-seven. Michael had been born when she was thirty-three. She hadn't had time for children before that. And she had been very beautiful then. She had had the same rich honey-blonde hair that Michael had, but now it was graying, and the life in her face had faded. It had been replaced by other things. Mostly the business. And the once cornflower-blue eyes looked almost gray now. As though winter had finally come.

“I have the feeling that you came down here tonight to speak to me about something important, Michael. Is anything the matter?” Had he gotten someone pregnant? Smashed up his car? Hurt someone? Nothing was irreparable, of course, as long as he told her. She was glad he had come down.

“No, nothing's the matter. But there is something I want to discuss with you.” Wrong. He cringed almost visibly at his own words. “Discuss.” He should have said there was something he wanted to
tell
her, not
discuss
with her. Damn. “I thought it was about time we were honest with each other.”

“You make it sound as though we usually aren't.”

“About some things we aren't” His whole body was tense now, and he was leaning forward in his chair, conscious of his father looking over his shoulder. “We aren't honest about Nancy, Mother.”

“Nancy?” She sounded blank, and suddenly he wanted to jump up and slap her. He hated the way she said her name. Like one of the servants.

“Nancy McAllister. My friend.”

“Oh, yes.” There was an interminable pause as she shifted the tiny vermeil and enamel spoon on the saucer of her demitasse cup. “And in what way are we not honest about Nancy?” Her eyes were veiled by a sheet of gray ice.

“You try to pretend that she doesn't exist. And I try not to get you upset about it. But the fact is, Mother … I'm going to marry her.” He took another breath and sat back in his chair. “In two weeks.”

“I see.” Marion Hillyard was perfectly still. Her eyes did not move, nor her hands, nor her face. Nothing. “And may I ask why? Is she pregnant?”

“Of course not.”

“How fortunate. Then why, may I ask; are you marrying her? And why in two weeks?”

“Because I graduate then, because I'm moving to New York then, because I start work then. Because it makes sense.”

“To whom?” The ice was hardening, and one leg crossed carefully over the other with the slippery sound of silk. Michael felt uncomfortable under the constancy of her gaze. She hadn't shifted her eyes once. As in business, she was ruthless. She could make any man squirm, and eventually break.

“It makes sense to us, Mother.”

“Well, not to me. We've been asked to build a medical center in San Francisco, by the same group who were behind the Hartford Center. You won't have time for a wife. I'm going to be counting on you very heavily for the next year or two. Frankly, darling, I wish you'd wait.” It was the first softening he'd seen, and it almost made him wonder if there was hope.

“Nancy will be an asset to both of us, Mother. Not a distraction to me, or a nuisance to you. She's a wonderful girl.”

“Maybe so, but as for being an asset … have you thought of the scandal?” There was victory in her eyes now. She was going in for the kill, and suddenly Michael held his breath, a helpless prey, not knowing where she would strike, or how.

“What scandal?”

“She's told you who she is, of course?”

Oh, Jesus. Now what? “What do you mean,
who
she is?”

“Precisely that. I'll be quite specific.” And in one smooth, feline gesture, she set down the demitasse and glided to her desk. From a bottom drawer she removed a file, and silently handed it to Michael. He held it for an instant, afraid to look inside.

“What is this?”

“A report I had a private investigator look into your artistic little friend. I was not very pleased.” An understatement. She had been livid. “Please sit down and read it” He did not sit down, but unwillingly he opened the folder and began to read. It told him in the first twelve lines that Nancy's father had been killed in prison when she was still a baby, and her mother had died an alcoholic two years later. It explained as well that her father had been serving a seven-year sentence for armed robbery. “Charming people, weren't they, darling?” Her voice was lightly contemptuous, and suddenly Michael threw the folder on the desk, from which its contents slid rapidly to the floor.

“I won't read that garbage.”

“No, but you'll marry it.”

“What difference does it make who her parents were? Is that her Goddamn fault?”

“No. Her misfortune. And yours, if you marry her.

Michael, be sensible. You're going into a business where millions of dollars are involved in every deal. You can no longer afford the risk of scandal. You'll ruin us. Your grandfather founded this business over fifty years ago, and you're going to destroy it now for a love affair? Don't be insane. It's time you grew up, my boy. High time. Your salad days are over. In exactly two weeks.” She burned as she looked at him now. She was not going to lose this battle, no matter what she had to do. “I won't discuss this with you, Michael You have no choice.” She had always told him that Goddammit, she had always …

“The hell I don't!” It was a sudden roar as he paced across the room. “I'm not going to bow and scrape before you and your rules for the rest of my life, Mother! I won't! What exactly do you think, that you're going to pull me into the business, groom me until you retire, and then run me as a puppet from a chaise longue in your room? Well, to hell with that. I'm coming to work for you. But that's all. You don't own my life, now or ever, and I have a right to marry anybody I bloody well please!”

“Michael!”

They were interrupted by the sudden peal of the doorbell, and they stood eying each other like two jaguars in a cage. The old cat and the young one, each slightly afraid of the other, each hungry for victory, each fighting for his survival. They were still standing at opposite ends of the room, trembling with rage, when George Calloway walked in, and instantly sensed that he had stepped into a scene of great passion. He was a gentle, elegant man in his late fifties who had been Marion's right hand man for years. More than that, he was much of the power behind Cotter-Hillyard. But unlike Marion, he was seldom in the forefront; he preferred to wield his strength from the shadows. He had long since learned the merits of quiet strength. It had won him Marion's trust and admiration years ago, when she first took her husband's place in the business. She had been only a figurehead then, and it had been George who actually ran Cotter-Hillyard for the first year, while he determinedly and conscientiously taught her the ropes. And he had done his job well. Marion had learned all he had taught, and more. She was a power in her own right now, but she still relied on George on every major deal. That meant everything to him. Knowing that she still needed him after all these years. Knowing that she always would. He understood that now. They were a team, silent, inseparable, each one stronger because of the other. He sometimes wondered if Michael knew just how close they were. He doubted it. Michael had always been the hub of his mother's life. Why would he ever have noticed just how much George cared? In some ways, even Marion didn't understand that. But George accepted that. He lavished his warmth and energies on the business. And perhaps, one day … George looked at Marion now with instant concern. He had learned to recognize the tightness around the mouth and the strange pallor beneath the carefully applied powder and rouge.