“Yes. He insisted on having this meeting in Carmel. He lives in San Francisco, but has a house here. He was on his way up from L.A. and thought this would be a more pleasant place to discuss the account.”
“How civilized.”
“Yes. Very.” Kim smiled at Deanna.
It was almost eight o’clock when they pulled up in front of the hotel. Kimberly climbed out of the MG with a shake of her curls and a glance at Deanna, pulling herself out of the car with a groan.
“Think you’ll survive? I’ll admit, this isn’t the smoothest possible chariot for traveling.”
“I’ll live.” Deanna looked around at the familiar surroundings. In the early days of their marriage, she and Marc had often come down to Carmel on weekends. They had wandered in and out of the shops, had cozy, candlelit dinners, and walked for miles on the beach. There was a bittersweet feeling to being here again, this time without him.
The hotel was tiny and quaint, with a French provincial facade and gaily painted window boxes filled with bright flowers. Inside, there were low wooden beams, a large fireplace framed by copper pots, and Wedgwood-blue wallpaper with a tiny white design. It was the kind of hotel Marc would have enjoyed; it looked very French.
Kimberly signed the register at the front desk then handed the pen to Deanna. “I asked for adjoining rooms. O.K. with you?” Deanna nodded, relieved. She liked having a room to herself and hadn’t really wanted to share one with Kim.
“That sounds fine.” She filled in her name and address on the card, then they followed the porter to their rooms.
Five minutes later Deanna heard a knock at the door.
“Want a Coke, Deanna? I just got two out of the machine down the hall.” Kim sprawled her long generous frame across Deanna’s bed and held out an icy-cold can.
Deanna took a long sip and then let herself into a chair with a smile and a sigh. “It feels so good to be here. I’m glad I came.”
“So am I. It would have been boring without you. Maybe we can even find time for the shops tomorrow when I’m through with business. Or would you rather go back to the city tomorrow afternoon? Do you have plans?”
“Absolutely none. And this is heaven. I may never go back. The house is like a tomb without Marc and Pilar.”
Kimberly thought it equally tomblike with them, but she didn’t say anything to her friend. She knew that Deanna loved the house and that the security of her family meant a great deal. She had met Deanna at art school, shortly after the death of Deanna’s father had left her penniless and alone. She had seen her struggle to make it on the little money she earned at her job. She had been there too when Marc began to court Deanna, and she had seen Deanna come to rely on him more and more, until she felt helpless without him. She had watched Marc sweep her friend under his wing, tenderly, irresistibly, and with the determination of a man who refused to lose. And she had seen Deanna nestle there for almost two decades, safe, protected, hidden, and insistent that she was happy. Perhaps she was. But Kim was never sure.
“Any place special you want to go for dinner?” Kim drained the last of her Coke as she asked.
“The beach.” Deanna looked longingly through the window at the sea.
“The Beach? I don’t know it.” Kim looked vague, and Deanna laughed.
“No, no. It’s not a restaurant. I meant I wanted to go for a walk on the beach.”
“Now? At this hour?” It was only eight-thirty, and just barely dusk, but Kim was hungry to begin her evening and have a look around. “Why don’t you save that until tomorrow after my meeting with the new client?” It was obvious that Kim was not lured by surf and white sands. But Deanna was.
She shook her head resolutely and put down her Coke. “Nope. I can’t wait that long. Are you going to change before we go out?” Kim nodded. “Good. Then I’ll go for a walk while you dress. I’ll just wear what I have on.” The cashmere sweater and gray slacks still looked impeccable after the drive.
“Don’t get lost on the beach.”
“I won’t.” Deanna smiled sheepishly at Kim. “I feel like a kid. I can’t wait to get out and play.” And look at the sunset, and take a deep breath of the sea air… and remember the days when Marc and I walked down that beach hand in hand. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“Don’t rush. I’m going to take a nice hot bath. We’re in no hurry. We can have dinner at nine-thirty or ten.” Kim would make reservations in the staid, Victorian dining room of the Pine Inn.
“See you.” Deanna disappeared with a wave and a smile, pulling on her jacket and carrying a scarf in her hand. She knew it would be windy on the beach. When she stepped outside the fog was already rolling in.
She walked along the main street of Carmel, weaving her way between the few straggling tourists who had not yet taken refuge at dinner tables or in their hotels, their children chattering at their heels, their arms filled with booty from the shops, their faces smiling and relaxed. It reminded her of the time she and Marc had come here with Pilar. Pilar had been an exuberant nine, and she had joined them on one of their sunset strolls on the beach, collecting bits of driftwood and shells, running ahead of them and then back to report her discoveries, as Deanna and Marc talked. It seemed an aeon ago. She reached the end of the street and suddenly stopped to look down the endless expanse of alabaster beach. Even Marc had admitted that there was nothing like it in France. The perfectly white sand and the rich swell of waves rolling in toward the shore with sea gulls drifting slowly by. She took a deep breath as she looked at the scene again, watching the tide roll inexorably in. There was a lure to that beach, a lure like none she had ever known. She pocketed the scarf and slipped her shoes off, feeling the rush of sand between her toes as she ran toward the shore, stopping short of the water’s edge. The wind ripped through her hair. She closed her eyes and smiled. It was a beautiful place, a world she had left buried in memory for too long. Why had she stayed away for so long? Why hadn’t they been back here before? With another deep breath, she set off down the beach, one shoe in each hand, and her feet aching to dance in the sand like a child.
She had walked a long way before she stopped to watch the last rim of gold on the horizon. The sky had turned to mauve and a thick bank of fog was moving in toward the shore. She stood watching it for an interminable time, then walked slowly up toward the dunes where she made a seat for herself amid the tall grass and pulled her knees up under her chin as she looked out to sea. After a moment she rested her head on one knee and closed her eyes, listening to the sea and feeling a rush of joy in her soul.
“It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
Deanna jumped at the unexpected voice at her side. She opened her eyes to see a tall, dark-haired man standing beside her. For a moment she was frightened, but his smile was so kind that it was impossible to feel threatened while in the warm embrace of those eyes. They were a deep blue-green like the sea. He had the build of a man who might have played football in college. His hair was as dark as Deanna’s and ruffled by the wind. He was looking down at her intently.
“I like it best at this time of day,” he said.
“So do I.” She found it easy to answer him and was surprised that it didn’t annoy her when he sat down beside her. “I thought I was alone on the beach.” She glanced shyly into his face, and he smiled.
“You probably were. I came up behind you. I’m sorry if I startled you.” He looked at her again with that same open smile. “My house is just behind here.” He nodded over his shoulder to an area shrouded by wind-contorted trees. “I always come out here in the evenings. And tonight I just got in from a trip. I haven’t been here in three weeks. I always realize then how much I love it, how much I need to walk on this beach and look at that.” He looked straight ahead, out to sea.
“Do you live here all year ’round?” Deanna found herself conversing with him as though he were an old friend, but he had that way about him, it was impossible to be ill at ease.
“No, I come down on weeken
ds whenever I can. And you?”
“I haven’t been here in a long time. I came down with a friend.”
“Staying in town?”
She nodded, and then remembering, looked at her watch. “That reminds me, I have to get back. I got carried away by my walk on the beach.” It was already nine-thirty and the last light of day had fled as they talked. She stood and looked down at him, smiling. “You’re lucky to have this anytime you like.”
He nodded in answer, but he wasn’t really listening, he was looking intensely at her face, and for the first time since she’d noticed him next to her, Deanna felt an odd rush of warmth in her cheeks and was aware of her embarrassment when he spoke.
“Do you know, you looked like a painting by Andrew Wyeth, sitting there in the wind? I thought that when I first saw you sitting on the dune. Are you familiar with his work?” He had a look of great concentration in his eyes, as though measuring her face and the thickness of her hair. But she was already smiling.
“I know his work very well.” It had been her passion when she was a child, before she had discovered that Impressionism was much more her style. “I used to know every piece he had done.”
“Every piece?” The sea-colored eyes were suddenly teasing but still warm.
“I thought so.”
“Do you know the one of the woman on the beach?” She thought for a moment and shook her head. “Would you like to see it?” He stood next to her, looking like a bright-eyed, much-excited boy, only the manly spread of his shoulders and the few strands of gray in his hair belied the look in his eyes. “Would you?”
“I—I really have to get back. But, thank you….” She trailed off in embarrassment. He didn’t seem to be the kind of man one ought to be afraid of, but nevertheless he was only a stranger who had appeared on a beach. It struck her then that she was really a little bit mad to be talking to him at all, standing there alone in the dark. “Really, I can’t. Perhaps some other time.”
“I understand.” The fire dampened a little in his eyes, but the smile was still there. “It’s a beautiful piece though, and the woman in it looks a great deal like you.”
“Thank you. That’s a lovely thing to say.” She was wondering how to leave him. He seemed to have no immediate intention of returning to his house.
“May I walk you back up the beach? It’s a little too dark now for you to be wandering around on your own.” He grinned at her, squinting into the wind. “You might get accosted by a stranger.” She laughed in answer and nodded as they walked down the shallow dune back toward the sea. “Tell me, how did you become so fond of Wyeth?”
“I thought he was the greatest American painter I had ever seen. But then,” she looked apologetically into his eyes, “I fell in love with all the French Impressionists. And I’m afraid I forgot about him. Not forgot, really, but I fell a little bit out of love.”
They walked along comfortably, side by side, the only two people on the beach, with the surf pounding beside them. She laughed suddenly then. It was so incongruous, discussing art with this stranger, walking in the sand in Carmel. What would she tell Kim? Or would she tell Kim at all? For a moment she was inclined to tell no one about her new friend. It was just a moment’s encounter at dusk on a quiet beach. What was there to tell?
“Do you always fall out of love that easily?” It was a silly thing to say, the sort of things strangers say to each other for lack of something better. But she smiled.
“Generally not. Only when French Impressionists are involved.”
He nodded sagely. “That makes sense. Do you paint?”
“A bit.”
“Like the Impressionists?” He seemed to know the answer already, and she nodded. “I’d like to see your work. Is it shown?”
She shook her head, looking out at the waves capped iridescently by the first light of the moon. “No, not anymore. Just once, a long time ago.”
“Did you fall out of love with painting too?”
“Never.” She looked down at the sand as she spoke and then back at him again. “Painting is my life.”
“Then why don’t you show?” He seemed puzzled by her reaction, but she only shrugged. They had reached the place where she had walked onto the beach.
“This is where I get off.” They stood in the moonlight, looking into each other’s eyes. For the madness of one moment she wanted to be held in those strong, comfortable arms, wrapped in his Windbreaker with him. “It was nice talking to you.” Her face was strangely serious as she spoke.
“My name is Ben.”
She hesitated for a moment. “Deanna.”
He held out his hand, shook hers, and then turned away and walked back down the beach. She watched him, the broad shoulders, the strong back, and the wind in his hair. She wanted to shout “Good-bye,” but the word would have been lost in the wind. Instead, he turned, and she thought she saw him wave at her once in the dark.
4
“Where the hell have you been?” Kim was waiting for her in the lobby with a look of concern, when Deanna returned. She smoothed her tangled hair back from her face and smiled at her friend. Her cheeks were pink from the wind, her eyes shining. The word radiant flashed into Kim’s mind as Deanna began a rush of explanation.
“I’m sorry. I walked farther than I thought. It took me ages to get back.”
“It sure did. I was beginning to worry.”
“I’m sorry.” She looked remorseful, and Kim’s face softened into a smile.
“All right. But Jesus, let the kid loose on a beach and she vanishes. I thought maybe you’d run into a friend.”
“No.” She paused for a moment. “I just walked.” She had missed it. Her chance to tell Kim about Ben. But what was there to say? That she had met a stranger on the beach with whom she had discussed art? It sounded ridiculous. Childish. Or worse, stupid and improper. And she found that when she thought of it, she wanted to keep the moment to herself. She would never see him again anyway. Why bother to explain?
“Ready for dinner?”
“I certainly am.”
They walked the two blocks to the Pine Inn, glancing into shop windows, chatting about friends. Theirs was always an easy exchange, and the silence left Deanna to her own thoughts. She found herself wondering about the unknown Wyeth Ben had suggested he had. Did he really or was it only a poster? Did it matter? She told herself not.
“You’re mighty quiet tonight, Deanna,” Kim said as they finished their dinner. “Tired?”
“A little.”
“Thinking about Marc?”
“Yes.” It was the easiest answer.
“Will he call you from Athens?”
“When he can. The time difference makes it difficult.” And it made him seem terribly far away. In only two days he already seemed part of another lifetime. Or maybe that was just the effect of being in Carmel. When she was at home, with his clothes and his books or on his side of the bed, he felt much nearer. “What about your client tomorrow? What’s he like?”
“I don’t know. Never met him. He’s an art dealer. The Thompson Galleries. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to the meeting. You might like to see his house. I hear he has a fabulous collection in what he calls his ‘cottage.’ ”
“I don’t want to get in your way.”
“You won’t.” Kimberly looked at her reassuringly, and they paid the check. It was already eleven-thirty and Deanna was glad to climb into her bed.
When she slept, she dreamed of the stranger named Ben.
* * *
The phone rang beside her bed as she lay on her back, sleepily wondering if she should get up. She had promised to go with Kim, but she was tempted to go back to sleep. And then take another walk on the beach. The lure of that bothered her. She knew why she wanted to go back, and it was a strange, uncomfortable feeling the way he lingered in her mind. She would probably never see him again. And what if she did? What then? The phone rang again, and she reached over to answer
it.
“Rise and shine.” It was Kim.
“What time is it?”
“Five after nine.”
“God. It feels more like seven or eight.”
“Well, it isn’t, and our meeting’s at ten. Get up, and I’ll bring you breakfast.”
“Can’t I order room service?” Deanna had grown used to traveling with Marc.
“The Ritz this ain’t. I’ll bring you coffee and a Danish.”
Deanna realized suddenly how spoiled she’d become. Not having Margaret and one of her perfect breakfasts was becoming a hardship. “All right. That’ll be fine. I’ll be ready in half an hour.”
She showered and did her hair and slipped into a cashmere sweater of a rich cornflower blue, which she pulled on over white slacks. She even managed to look fresh and alive by the time Kim knocked on her door.
“Jesus, you look gorgeous.” Kim handed her a steaming cup of coffee and a plate.
“So do you. Should I wear something more businesslike? You look awfully grown-up.” Kim was wearing a beige gabardine suit with a persimmon silk blouse and a very pretty straw hat, and a little straw bag clutched under her arm. “You look very chic.”
“Don’t look so surprised.” Kim smiled and collapsed in a chair. “I hope this guy is easy. I don’t feel like arguing business on a Saturday morning.” She yawned and watched Deanna finish the coffee in her cup.
“Who am I supposed to be by the way? Your secretary or your chaperon?” Deanna’s eyes sparkled over her cup.
“Neither, you jerk. Just my friend.”
“Won’t he think it a little strange that you bring along your friends?”
“Too bad if he does.” Kim yawned again and stood up. “We’d better go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The drive took only five minutes, with Deanna reading the instructions to Kim. The address was on a pretty street, the houses all set back from the road and hidden by trees. But she saw when they got out of the car that it was a small, pleasant house. Not elaborate, and far from pretentious. It had a windswept, natural look to it. A small black foreign car was parked outside, something convenient, not handsome. None of the evidence suggested that the promised art collection would be impressive or rare. But the inside of the house told a different tale, as a small tidy woman in a housekeeper’s apron opened the door. She had the look of someone who came once or twice a week, efficient rather than warm.
Summer’s End Page 5