But Michael was still staring at him with a look of astonishment. “They lied to me, Gregson. Did you know that? They lied to me. They told me she was dead.” His eyes were brimming with tears. “I've spent two years like a dead man, working like a robot, wishing I had died instead of her, and all this time—” For a moment he couldn't go on, and Gregson looked away. “And when I saw her this week, I never knew. I… it must have killed her… no wonder she hates me. She does, doesn't she?” Michael sank into a chair, stating at the painting.
“No. She doesn't hate you. She just wants to put it behind her. She has a right to do that.” And I have a right to her. He wanted to say the words, but he couldn't bring himself to. But suddenly it was as though Michael had heard his thoughts. Michael had just remembered what he'd heard about Marie having a sponsor, a plastic surgeon. The words suddenly rang in his ears, and just as suddenly the anger and pain of two years was upon him. He jumped to his feet and grabbed Gregson's lapels.
“Wait a minute, damn it. What right do you have to tell me that she wants to ‘put it behind her’? How the hell do you know? How can you even begin to understand what we had together? How can you know what any of that meant to her, or to me? If I get out of her life without saying a word, then you have it all your way, is that it, Gregson? Is that what you want? Well, to hell with you! This is my life you're playing with, mister, and it seems to me that enough people have played with it already. The only person who can tell me she wants this thing finished is Nancy.”
“She already told you to leave her alone.” His voice was quiet, as he looked into Michael's eyes.
Michael backed away from him now, but there was hope mixed in with the anger and confusion in his face. For the first time in two years there was something alive there. “No, Gregson. Marie Adamson told me to leave her alone. Nancy McAllister hasn't said a word to me in two years. And she's going to have a lot of explaining to do. Why didn't she call me? Why didn't she write? Why didn't she let me know she was alive? And why did they tell me she was dead? Was that her doing, or… or someone else's? And as a matter of fact”—he hated to ask the question because he already knew what he would hear—“who paid for her surgery?” His eyes never left Gregson's face.
“I don't know the answers to some of your questions, Mr. Hillyard.”
“And the ones you do have the answers to?”
“I'm not at liberty to—”
“Don't give me that—” Michael advanced on him again, and Peter put up a hand.
“Your mother has paid for all of Marie's surgery, and for her living expenses since the accident. It was a very handsome gift.” It was what Michael had feared, but it didn't really come as a shock. It fitted the rest of the picture he saw now, and maybe in some insane, misguided way his mother had thought she was doing it for him. At least she had led him back to Nancy now. He looked at Gregson again, and nodded.
“And what about you? Just exactly what is your relationship with Nancy?” Now he wanted to know it all.
“I don't know that that concerns you.”
“Look, damn it …” His hands were at the other man's coat again, and Peter held up a hand in defeat.
“Why don't we stop this now? The answers are all in Marie's hands. What she wants, who she wants. She may not want either one of us, you know. For whatever reasons, you haven't contacted her in two years, nor has she contacted you. And as for me, I'm almost twice her age, and for all I know, suffering from a Pygmalion complex.” He sat down heavily in his desk chair and smiled ruefully. “I almost think she could do better than either one of us.”
“Maybe, but this time I want to hear it from her myself.” He looked at his watch. “I'm going over to her place right now.”
“It won't do you much good.” Peter watched him and stroked his beard. He almost wished the boy luck. Almost. “She called me from the airport just before you got here this morning.”
Once again Michael looked shocked. “Now what? Where was she going?”
For a long moment Peter Gregson hesitated. He didn't have to tell him anything. He didn't have to… “She was going to Boston.”
Michael looked at him for one moment, and a shadow of a smile flitted through his eyes as he dashed for the door. He stopped, glanced back, and saluted Peter with a full-blown smile. “Thank you.”
Chapter 32
She was up at dawn. Awake, alive. She felt better than she had in years. She was almost free now. In a few hours she would be. As though that childish promise had held her for all this time. And only because she had let it. Its only power had been the power she had given it.
She didn't even bother with breakfast. She only drank two cups of coffee, and got into the rented car. She could be there in two hours, by ten o'clock. Back at the hotel at noon. She could catch a plane back to San Francisco and be home by late afternoon. She might even be able to pick up Peter at the office and surprise him. Poor man, he had been so patient about the trip.
She found herself thinking about him as she drove along, wishing she had given him more, wishing she had been able to. Maybe after today that would change too. Or was it that … she didn't even let herself finish the question. Of course, she loved him. That wasn't the point.
She drove through the New England countryside, barely noticing anything she passed. The landscape was still gray and dark; the new leaves had not yet emerged. It was as though the countryside too had lain buried for two years. It was nine thirty when she passed Revere Beach, where the fair had been, and she felt a little jolt in her heart when she recognized the place. She followed an old road which wandered along the coast, and then she came to a stop, and got out of the car. She was stiff, but not tired. She was exhilarated, and nervous. She had to do this… had to… she could already see the tree from where she stood. She stood staring at it for a long time, as though it held all the secrets, knew her story too well, as though it had waited for her return. She walked slowly toward it, as though going to meet an old friend. But it was no longer a friend. Like everything and everyone she had once loved, it was a stranger. It was just another marker on Nancy McAllister's grave.
She stopped when she reached it, and then walked the last steps across the sand to the rock. It was still there. It hadn't moved. Nothing had. Only she and Michael had moved, in opposite directions and to different worlds. She stood there for a very long time, as though trying to summon the strength and the courage to do it. And at last she bent down and began to push. The rock moved after a few moments, and quickly, with a stick, she dug under it for what she sought. But there was nothing there. She dropped the rock, breathless, and then with fresh strength, she pushed it again, until this time she could see that they were gone. Someone had already taken the beads. She let the rock slip back into place just as she heard his voice.
“You can't have them. They belong to someone else. To someone I loved. To someone I never forgot.” There were tears in Michael's eyes as he spoke to her. He had waited half the night for her to come. It had taken a chartered jet to get him there before she arrived. But he would have flown on his own wings if he had had to. He held out a hand now, and she saw the beads, still caked with the sand from under the rock. Her own eyes filled with tears when she saw them. “I promised never to say good-bye. I never did.” His eyes never left hers as he stood there.
“You never tried to find me.”
“They told me you were dead.”
“I promised never to see you again if … if they gave me a new face. I promised because I knew you'd find me. And then… you didn't.”