“It's for you, Peter. I started it a long time ago. And I … I finished it for you.”
“Oh darling—” He walked toward it with bright eyes and a gentle look on his face, as though he couldn't believe what she'd done for him. It had been a day filled with emotion and surprises. For both of them. “I can't take that I already have so much of your work. You give it all to me, and then you have nothing left to exhibit.”
“You have photographs, Peter. This is different. This is a sign of my rebirth. It's the first time I've painted again. And… this painting used to mean a great deal to me. I want you to have it. Please.” There were tears in her eyes now, and he walked toward her and took her into his arms.
“It's exquisite. Thank you. I don't know what to say. You've been so good to me.”
“You don't have to say anything.” And then she kissed him in a way that said it all, and this time he was sure, too. He didn't need to ask. He simply walked into the bedroom with her and, trembling with desire, slowly slipped off her clothes. And in the soft light of twilight, with the music of the foghorns bleating softly in the distance, they made love.
Chapter 20
“Darling, can you zip me up?” She turned her graceful ivory back to him, and he kissed her shoulder.
“I would much rather zip you down than up.”
“Now, now, Peter, we don't have time.” Marie looked at him warningly and they both laughed. He was wearing a dinner jacket, and she had just put on a beautifully cut black dress with soft dolman sleeves and a narrow waist in a fabric that allowed one to see her silhouette but nothing more. It was a striking dress, and Peter was suitably dazzled.
“I hate to tell you this, my love, but no one is going to be looking at your work. They're all going to be looking at you.”
“Oh yeah?”
He laughed at her obvious disbelief and straightened the tie he wore with a soft blue shirt and his dinner jacket Together they made a very striking couple.
“Did they hang everything the way you wanted them to? I never got time to ask you.” When he had awakened at eight that morning, she was already gone. But late that afternoon he had arrived at her apartment, and an hour in bed had shown them that they had only begun to feed their hunger for each other. Then they had shared a half hour in the bath, catching up on each other's day. It was almost as though they had lived this way for years.
She smiled at him as she watched him finish dressing. “Yes, they put everything up exactly the way I wanted. Thanks to you. I get the feeling you told them to do it my way ‘or else.’ You or Jacques.” The gallery owner was one of Peter's oldest and closest friends. “I feel thoroughly spoiled. The complete ‘artiste.’”
“That's how you should feel. Your work is going to be very important, darling. You'll see.”
And indeed she did. The reviews in the paper the next day were spectacular. They sat around in her apartment over morning coffee, and grinned at what they read.
“Didn't I tell you?” He looked even more pleased with himself than she did. “You're a star.”
“You're crazy.” She plunked herself on his lap with a grin and rumpled the paper.
“You wait. You'll have every photographer's agent in the country calling you by next week.”
“Darling, you are out of your mind.” But he wasn't too far off. She was getting calls from Los Angeles and Chicago by the following Monday. She couldn't get over it, but she was thoroughly enjoying the whole thing. And she was amused by every phone call she got. Until the call from Ben Avery. It came on a Thursday afternoon, when she was developing some film. She heard the phone ring and she wiped her hands and walked into the kitchen to answer it. She assumed it was Peter. He had said he would call to let her know what time he could see her that evening. He had some kind of meeting scheduled for late afternoon. But she had plenty of darkroom work to keep her busy; there was a veritable avalanche of orders coming in as a result of the show.
“Hello?”
“Miss Adamson?”
“Yes.” She didn't recognize the voice, and the smile she had been wearing for Peter rapidly faded.
“I don't know whether we've met or not, but I met a Miss Adamson the last time I was here. At I. Magnin's. I was doing some Christmas shopping…. I bought some luggage, and …” He felt like a total ass, and for what seemed like an eternity she said nothing.
So it was Ben. Damn. How had he found her? And why had he bothered to?
“I … was that you?”
She was tempted to say no, but why lie? “I believe it might have been.”
“Good. Well, at least we've met. I'm actually calling you because I've just seen your work at the Montpelier Gallery on Post Street. I'm enormously impressed, as is my associate, Miss Townsend.”
Marie was suddenly curious. Was that the girl he had bought the luggage for? But she didn't feel she could ask. Instead she sighed and sat down. “I'm glad you liked it, Mr. Avery.”
“You remember my name!”
Oh, Jesus. “I have a memory for those things.”
“How fortunate for you. I have a memory like a sieve, and in my business that's no asset, believe me. In any case, I'd very much like to get together with you to discuss your work.”
“In what sense?” What the hell was there to discuss?
“We're doing a medical center here in San Francisco, Miss Adamson. It's going to be an enormous project, and we'd like to use your work in every building as the central theme of the decor. We're not quite sure how, but we know we want your pictures. We'd like to work it out with you. This could be the assignment of your career.” He said it with tremendous pride, and he was obviously waiting for a gasp at the other end of the line, a shriek of enthusiasm, anything but what he heard.
“I see. And what firm are you representing?” She waited, holding her breath, but she already knew the answer before he said the words.
“Catter-Hillyard, in New York.”
“Well, no thanks, Mr. Avery, it's just not my speed.”
“Why not?” He sounded stunned. “I don't understand.”
“I don't want to get into it with you, Mr. Avery, but I'm not interested.”
“Can we get together and discuss this?”
“No.”
“But I've already spoken to… I—”
“The answer is no. Thank you for your call.” And then, very quietly, she placed the receiver back into the cradle and walked back to the darkroom door. She wasn't going to do business with them. That was all she needed. She was through with Michael Hillyard. He didn't want her as his wife; she didn't want him as her employer. Or anything else.
The phone rang again before she had closed the darkroom door. She knew it would be Ben again, but she wanted to settle the matter once and for all. She strode back to the phone, picked it up, and almost shouted into it. “The answer is no. I already told you that.” But the voice on the other end was not Ben's, it was Peter's.
“Good God, what have I done?” He was half laughing, half stunned, and Marie felt herself relax at the sound of his voice.
“Oh Christ. I'm sorry, darling. I just had someone call me with an annoying request.”
“As a result of the show?”
“More or less.”
“The gallery shouldn't be giving out your number to crackpots. Why don't they take the messages there?” He sounded upset.
“I think I'll suggest that to Jacques.”
Peter was disturbed at the thought of some crazy calling her. “Are you all right?”
“I'm fine.” But she sounded shaken, and he could hear it.
“Well, I'll be there in an hour. Don't answer the phone till I get there. I'll handle it if anyone calls after that.”
“Thank you, my love.”