“I don't hate you, Mr. Hillyard.” She had waited a long time to say it as they walked along.
“You sure do a good act.” He smiled, and for the first time he looked like a boy again. Like the kid who used to tease her with Ben in her apartment. That glimpse of the past tore at her heart and she looked away. “Can I invite you out somewhere for a cup of coffee?” She was going to refuse, but maybe it would be better to get it over with once and for all. Maybe then he'd leave her alone.
“All right.” She suggested a place across the street, and they walked there with Fred at their heels. They both ordered espressos, and without thinking she handed him the sugar. She knew he took two, but he only thanked her, helped himself, and set the bowl down. It didn't seem unusual to him that she had known.
“You know, I can't explain it, but there's something odd about your work. It haunts me. As though I've seen it before, as though I already know it, as though I understand what you meant and what you saw when you took the pictures. Does that make any sense?”
Yes. A great deal of sense. He had always had a wonderful understanding of her paintings. She sighed and nodded. “Yes, I guess it does. They're supposed to do something like that to you.”
“But they do something more. I can't explain it. It's as though I already know … well, your work. I don't know. It sounds crazy when I say it.”
But don't you know me? Don't you know these eyes? She found herself wanting to ask him those questions as they quietly drank their coffee and discussed her work.
“I get the terrible feeling you're not going to give in. You won't, will you?” Sadly, she shook her head. “Is it money?”
“Of course not.”
“I didn't think so.” He didn't even mention the enormous contract he had in his pocket. He knew it would do him no good, and perhaps make things worse. “I wish I knew what it was.”
“Just my eccentricities. My way of lashing out at the past.” She was shocked at her own honesty but he didn't seem to be.
“I thought it was something like that”. They were both at peace now as they sat in the little Italian restaurant. There was a sadness to the meeting too, a bittersweet quality Michael couldn't understand. “My mother was very taken with your work. And she's not easy to please.” Marie smiled at his choice of words.
“No, she isn't. Or so I've heard. She drives a very hard bargain.”
“Yes, but she made the business what it is today. It's a pleasure to take over from her. Like a perfectly run ship.”
“How fortunate for you.” She sounded bitter again, and once more Michael didn't understand. In a little nervous gesture he ran his hand across a tiny scar on his temple, and abruptly Marie set down her coffee cup and watched him. “What's that?”
“What?”
“That scar.” She couldn't take her eyes from it. She knew exactly what it was. It had to be from …
“It's nothing. I've had it for a while.”
“It doesn't look very old.”
“A couple of years.” He looked embarrassed. “Really. It was nothing. A minor accident with some friends.”
He tried to brush it off, and Marie wanted to throw her coffee in his face. Son of a bitch. A minor accident. Thanks, baby. Now I know everything I need to know. She picked up her handbag, looked down at him icily for a moment, and held out her hand.
“Thanks for a lovely time, Mr. Hillyard. I hope you enjoy your stay.”
“You're leaving? Did I say something wrong?” Jesus. She was impossible. What the hell was wrong with her now? What had he said? And then he found himself shocked at the look in her eyes.
“As a matter of fact, you did.” She in turn was shocked at her own words. “I read about that accident of yours, and I don't think it was what anyone would call minor. Those two friends of yours were pretty well banged up, from what I understand. Don't you give a damn about anything, Michael? Don't you care anymore about anything but your bloody business?”
“What the hell is wrong with you? And what business is it of yours?”
“I'm a human being, and you're not. That's what I hate about you.”
“You are crazy”.
“No, mister. Not anymore.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Michael to stare at her. And then, as though pushed by an invisible force, he found himself on his feet and running after her. He had dropped a five-dollar bill on the little marble table and fled in her wake. He had to tell her. He had to … No, it hadn't been a minor accident. The woman he loved had been killed. But what right did she have to know that? He didn't get a chance to tell her, though, because when he reached the street, she had just slipped into a cab.
Chapter 28
She had just gotten to the beach and was setting up her tripod when she suddenly saw the figure approach. His determined step puzzled her until she realized who it was. Michael, damn it He walked down the beach and over the small dune, until he stood in front of her, blocking her view.
“I have something to say to you.”
“I don't want to hear it.”
“That's tough. Because I'm going to tell you anyway. You have no right to pry into my private life and tell me what kind of human being I am. You don't even know me.” Her words had tormented him all through the night. And he had found out from her answering service where she was. He wasn't even sure why he had come here, but he had known he had to. “What right do you have to make judgments about me, damn you?”
“None at all. But I don't like what I see.” She was cool and removed as she changed lenses.
“And just exactly what do you see?”
“An empty shell. A man who cares about nothing but his work. A man who cares about no one, loves nothing, gives nothing, is nothing.”
“You bitch, what the hell do you know about what I am and do and feel? What makes you think you're so almighty together?” She stepped around him and focused on the next dune. “Damn you, listen to me!” He reached for her camera and she dodged him, turning on him in fury.
“Why don't you get the hell out of my life?” Like you have for the last two years, you bastard…
“I'm not in your life. I'm trying to buy some work from you. That's all I want. I don't want your pronouncements about my personality, or my life, or anything else. I just want to buy some stinking photographs.” He was almost trembling, he was so angry, and all she did was walk past him to the portfolio that lay on a blanket on the beach. She unzipped it, looked into a file, and pulled out a photograph. Then she stood up and handed it to him.
“Here. It's yours. Do whatever the hell you want with it. Then leave me alone.”
Without saying a word he turned on his heel and walked back to the car he'd left parked in the road.
She never turned to look at him, but went back to work until the light began to dim and she could work no longer. Thai she drove back to her apartment, scrambled some eggs, heated some coffee, and headed for the dark room. She went to bed at two in the morning, and when the phone rang, she didn't answer it. Even if it was Peter, she didn't care. She didn't want to speak to anyone. And she was going back to the beach at nine the next morning. She set her alarm for eight and fell asleep the moment she hit the bed. She had freed herself of something back there on the beach. And she had to be honest with herself: even if she hated him, at least she had seen him. In an odd way, it was a relief.
She showered and dressed in less than half an hour the next morning. She was wearing well-worn work clothes, and she sipped her coffee as she read the paper. She left the apartment on schedule, a few minutes before nine, and she was already thinking of her work as she hurried down the steps with Fred. It was only when she reached the foot of the steps that she looked up and gasped. Across the street was an enormous billboard mounted on a truck, driven by Michael Hillyard. He was smiling as he watched her, and she sat down on the last step and started to laugh. He was really crazy. He had taken the photograph she had given him, had it blown up and mounted, and then driven it to her door. He was grinning as he left the truck and walked toward her. And she was still laughing when he sat down next to her on the step.