Summer’s End

by Danielle Steel

  She walked slowly up the stairs to her bedroom, and lay down on the bed; then, glancing at the phone, she saw a message from Marc. Margaret had taken the call that afternoon. She cringed as she read it. PLEASE CALL MR. DURAS. She didn’t want to call now, didn’t want to hear him. Not now. But she knew she had to. She had to force herself back to her life and away from the dream on the beach.

  It took her half an hour to steel herself to make the call. At last, she dialed the overseas operator for Rome and asked for Marc’s room at the Hassler.

  This time he was in.

  “Marc? It’s me.”

  “Yes. Hello.” He sounded strange and cold.

  “Deanna.” She thought for a moment that he didn’t understand who it was. Then she realized the time. It was two A.M. in Rome. He had undoubtedly been fast asleep.

  “Yes, yes, I know. I was asleep.”

  “I’m sorry. We were cut off the last time we talked, and Margaret left a message. I thought perhaps it was important.” But suddenly she felt awkward with him. He didn’t sound as though he’d been asleep.

  “Right. Where were you?” God, why did he sound so cold? Why now? She needed a reason to hang on. A reason not to fall in love with Ben. A reason to stay faithful.

  “I was out. Shopping.” She hated the lie, but what could she tell him? I was kissing Ben Thompson on the beach? “Is everything all right in Rome?”

  “Fine. Look”—he seemed to hesitate for a moment—“I’ll call you back.”

  “When?” She had to know. She needed to hear him, needed to keep his voice in her head. Surely that would dull the pain of what she couldn’t have. “When will you call me?”

  “Tomorrow. This weekend. I’ll call, don’t worry. D’accord?”

  “Yes, all right, fine.” But she was cut to the quick by his tone. “I love you.” The words were a tentative plea. He didn’t seem to hear it.

  “So do I. Ciao.” And then, without saying more, he hung up, as Deanna sat staring blindly at the phone.

  Deanna ate alone in her studio that night, then stood for half an hour on the little tiled terrace, watching the sun set over the bay. She could have seen it with Ben, if she hadn’t sent him away. Why had she? So she could feel virtuous when she called Marc halfway around the world? She felt tears slide down her cheeks. When she heard the doorbell ring, she jumped. She decided not to answer, and then wondered if it might be Kim, coming to see how she was. Kim would have recognized the lights in the studio and known she was hiding. She wiped the tears away with the tail of her shirt and ran barefoot down the back stairs. She didn’t even think to ask who it was, she simply opened the door, looking like a tired, rumpled little girl, in jeans and bare feet, with her hair falling into her eyes. She looked up, expecting to see Kim and stood back in surprise when she saw who it was. It was Ben.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asked. She shook her head. “Can we talk?” He looked as troubled as she felt, and he was quick to come inside when she nodded yes.

  “Come up to the studio. I was up there.”

  “Working?” He searched her eyes, and she shook her head.

  “Thinking.”

  “Me too.”

  She closed the door softly behind them. He followed her up the stairs, and she motioned him to her favorite chair. “Coffee, or wine?”

  “Neither, thanks.” He looked suddenly very nervous, as though he wondered why he had come. Then he sat back in the chair, closed his eyes, and ran a hand through his hair. “This is crazy, I shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “In that case”—he opened his eyes and smiled tentatively at her—“so am I. Deanna, I—I know this is crazy … but dammit I love you. And I feel like an irrational kid. I shouldn’t even be here. I have absolutely nothing intelligent to say, except what I told you today on the beach.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he lowered his eyes. “Just that I love you.”

  The room was very still for a long moment as she watched him, her eyes filling with tears. He heard her sigh. “I love you too.”

  “You know what I came here to tell you?” he asked. “That I’ll accept anything. A moment, an evening, a summer. I won’t stand in your way after that. I’ll let go. But I can’t bear to see us lose what we might have.” He looked at her then. Her face was wet with tears that dripped slowly onto her paint-splattered shirt, but she was smiling at him and holding out a hand. He took it firmly in his and pulled her toward him. “Doesn’t that sound crazy to you?”

  “Yes. Very. And at the end of the summer?”

  “We let go.”

  “And what if we can’t?”

  “We’ll just have to. I will because I know it will be for your peace of mind. What about you?”

  “I suppose I could too.” Her arms went around him. “I don’t care what happens then, I just love you.”

  He was smiling broadly as he held her close. It was what he had wanted to hear. He felt suddenly free and excited and alive.

  “Will you come home with me, Deanna? My place is a mess, but I want to share it with you, show you my treasures. I want to show you the things I care about, give you my life, show you my galleries and how they work. I want to walk on the beach in Carmel with you, I want to … oh, Deanna, darling, darling, I love you!”

  They were both laughing now as he swept her into his arms and carried her down the stairs. For a moment Deanna was grateful that it was Margaret’s night off, but she didn’t dare think for longer than that. Only a moment, which was more thought than she spent on Marc. She was Ben’s now. Ben’s for the summer.

  9

  “Good morning.” She heard Ben’s voice softly in her ear. She opened one eye. The room was unfamiliar. She was staring at a pale-yellow wall. Someone had thrown wide the shutters on the large windows that looked out at the bay, and sun streamed into the room. There were trees just outside his window, and she could hear birds singing. It was a splendid, hot summer day, more like September than June.

  Deanna let her eyes wander across the pale-yellow wall, and quickly she was entranced by a watercolor of a beach, and then by a smaller pastel, and an oil. The artwork was all very subtle and sunny, not unlike Ben himself. She propped herself up on one elbow with a yawn and a stretch and a smile. He was looking down at her with the face of new love.

  “I’ve been waiting for you for an hour. I thought you’d never get up!” He suddenly sounded less like a lover than a small boy, and she laughed.

  “I think I was a trifle tired.” She smiled again and slid back into the sheets, with one hand on his thigh. It had been a long, delicious night in his arms, and they hadn’t fallen asleep until dawn.

  “Is that a complaint?”

  “Uh-uh.” She let her lips drift up his leg and then stop at his hip, where she kissed the pale, tender white skin where a small vein throbbed. “Good morning, my love.” She smiled at the life she saw stirring, and Ben pulled her gently back into his arms.

  “Have I told you yet this morning how much I love you?” He was looking tenderly into her eyes, and there was something in his face she had dreamed of and painted but never seen. It was a kind of passion, a kind of unfettered love. It was something that she had long ago longed for and ceased to believe could exist. “I love you, Deanna … I love you….” His words melted away on her lips as he kissed her for the first time that morning and let his body slide slowly over hers. She protested faintly but with laughter and squirms as he pressed her close to him. “You have an objection?” He looked amused and surprised; he didn’t look as though he would be swayed by whatever she said.

  “I haven’t even brushed my teeth! Or combed my hair … or….” Her words kept fading, swept away by his kisses, as she giggled and ran her hands through his uncombed hair. “Ben … I have to …”

  “No, you don’t. I love you like this.” He seemed sure.

  “But I …”

  “Shhh.…”

  “Ben!” But this time she forgot about
her teeth and her hair; she was too happy right where she was, swept away, adrift on a sea of delight as his whole body seemed to enter her soul.

  * * *

  “Sleepy, darling?” His voice was a whisper when they finally spoke. Almost two hours had passed, and she was curled happily in his arms, one leg braided between his.

  “Mm-hmm … Ben?”

  “Yes?” His voice was so soft on the warm, summer morning.

  “I love you.” Hers was almost the voice of a child.

  “I love you, too. Now go to sleep.”

  And she did, for another two hours. When she opened her eyes, he was standing at the foot of the bed, dressed and holding a tray. She woke up in surprise. He was wearing a businesslike, striped blue suit. “What are you doing?” Confused, she sat up in bed and ran a hand through her hair. Suddenly she felt very naked and unkempt, as the sweet smell of their lovemaking drifted up from the bed. “How long have I slept?”

  “Not very long. I’d look like that too except I have a luncheon at the gallery. I canceled one yesterday and if I cancel this one too, Sally will quit. But I won’t be gone long.” He placed the tray on her knees as she sat back against the pillows in the large double bed. “I hope that’ll do.” There were croissants, fruit, café au lait, and one carefully poached egg. “I wasn’t sure what you like for breakfast.” He looked very young again as he smiled.

  Deanna looked at the breakfast in astonishment and then at him. What could she say? He had appeared in her life on a beach in Carmel, and now he was making her poached eggs and croissants for breakfast and apologizing for not knowing what she liked. They had made love all through the night and for most of the morning; he had told her he loved her, and she him; she didn’t even feel guilty for waking up in his bed and not her own—the bed she had shared for eighteen years with Marc. She didn’t even give a damn about Marc this morning. She felt happy and young and in love, and all she wanted was what she had with Ben. She looked up at him with a rapturous smile and a sigh as she picked up a croissant.

  “I warn you, sir, if you spoil me rotten, I will be unbearable in less than a week.”

  “No, you won’t.” He said it with certainty and amusement. Suddenly he seemed very grown-up once again.

  “Yes, I will.” She closed her eyes blissfully as she ate the roll. “I’ll come to expect croissants every morning, and poached eggs, and café au lait….” She opened her eyes again. They were very bright and very full of mischief. “I’ll even expect you to stay home from the office every day, just so we can make love.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Oh, no? Why won’t I?”

  “Because tomorrow it’s your turn to make breakfast for me. This is a democracy, Deanna. We live here together; we take turns. We spoil each other. We make each other poached eggs.” He leaned down to kiss her one last time. “And I like mine fried.”

  “I’ll make a note of that.” She grinned at him.

  He stood up. “I’ll remind you.”

  “O.K.” She went on eating her breakfast, perfectly happy and at ease. She felt as though they had lived together for months if not years. It did not seem strange at all to have him smile happily at her naked breasts as she sipped café au lait from a bright-yellow mug. Everything between them was comfortable and easy and real. It was a far cry from the formality and rituals in her own home. And she found that she liked Ben’s way better. The yellow mug in her hand had a feel of solidity. It felt strong, not like the prissy blue-flowered Limoges from Marc’s mother.

  “What are you doing today?”

  “I think first of all I’ll take a bath.” She wrinkled her nose, and they both laughed.

  “I love you just like that.”

  “You’re a piggy.” She held her arms up to him though, and he kissed her again. When he pulled away, he rolled his eyes with regret.

  “God, maybe I’ll have to cancel that lunch after all.”

  “There’s later. Or”—she started to ask him if they would see each other that night, but she could already see the answer in his eyes.

  “No ‘or,’ Deanna. I’ll be finished at the gallery at five. I thought we could go somewhere quiet for dinner. Maybe somewhere in Marin?”

  “I’d love it.” She sat back against the pillows with a broad smile, but she noticed that there was a shadow of concern in his eyes. “Something wrong?”

  “Not for me. But I—I was wondering how you feel about—about going out. I don’t want to create any difficult situations for you.” He had to remind himself that she had another life. That she would never be entirely his. That she was on loan. Like a masterpiece from a foreign museum, not something he could own and keep on his gallery wall. It would make her infinitely more precious in the time that they’d share. “Won’t it create a problem for you if we go out?” He looked at her very openly, his green eyes tender and wide.

  “It doesn’t have to. It will depend on what we do, where we go, how we behave. I think it could be all right.” He nodded, saying nothing, and she held out a hand. He took it silently and sat down again on the bed.

  “I don’t want to do anything that will hurt you later.”

  “You won’t. Now stop worrying. Everything will be fine.”

  “I mean it though, Deanna. I would hate it if you suffered for this afterward.”

  “Don’t you think we both will?”

  He looked up in surprise, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that this is going to be the most beautiful summer of my life, and hopefully yours. When it ends, when we both go back to our own lives, don’t you think that we’ll suffer?”

  He nodded and looked down at the graceful hand he held tightly in his own. “Do you regret what we decided?”

  Deanna threw back her head and laughed a silvery laugh before kissing him tenderly on the cheek. “Not for a moment.” And then she grew serious again. “But I think we’d be crazy if we expected not to suffer later. If it’s worth a damn, if it’s beautiful, if we really care … then we will. We’ll have to accept that.”

  “I do. For myself. But—”

  “But what? You don’t want me to hurt too? You don’t want me to feel it? Or to love you? Don’t be crazy, Ben. It’s worth it.”

  “I understand that. I agree. But I also want to be discreet. I don’t want to create problems for you with Marc.” She almost cringed at the sound of his name. Ben leaned toward her again, kissed her quickly, then stood. “I think we’ve said enough for one morning.” He hated to think of what would happen at the end of the summer, but it was hard to believe that time would come. Their moments together had just begun. “Where will you be at five?” He looked at her over his shoulder from the door. “Here?”

  She shook her head. “I’d better go home.”

  “Shall I pick you up there?” He looked dubious for a moment.

  “I’ll meet you here.”

  He nodded, smiled, and was gone. She heard the little German car drive away a moment later, as she walked around the room, and then sat naked on the edge of the bed and crossed one leg. She was smiling to herself. She wanted to sing. She felt wonderful, and she was in love. What a lovely man he was, how gentle and how careful and how wise. And he amused her too; he loved to laugh, loved to tell silly stories and endless funny tales. He had spent hours the previous night telling her stories of his youth, showing her albums of photographs of himself as a child, and his parents and sister and their friends, many of them famous artists and actors and playwrights and writers. The albums still lay spread out on the floor.

  He had a comfortable little house, very different from the cottage in Carmel. The place in Carmel was larger and wore the same bland, sandy colors as the beach, whites, beiges, grays, dust-colored woods, and soft off-white wools. The city house was a tiny “bijou” nestled high on Telegraph Hill and crammed full of paintings and books. There were two deep, red-leather couches in a living room walled with handsomely bound volumes, mostly about art. The walls were a s
oft beige that enhanced the two paintings he’d hung; the floors were of old burnished wood, and the rug was Oriental but not as fine as the ones Marc had brought back for her years before from Iran. Ben’s little home was not a showplace; it was warm and lovely and a place he clearly liked to be, to spend evenings with his artists or his friends. There was an often used fireplace with brass andirons he had found in France and a bass fiddle propped up in one corner. He had a small piano and a guitar, a handsome, old English desk and a bronze bust of Cézanne. Throughout, there was a kind of friendly scramble, a kind of elegant wear and tear. Some of the objects were of value, but most were only of value to him and the people who loved him. The living room was very Ben, as was the pretty little yellow bedroom that looked east over the bay, and that was as bright as the morning sun. It boasted a tiny terrace filled with an array of bright flowering plants, and two comfortable, faded canvas chairs. Other than that there was a kitchen and one extra room, in which Ben housed his work—a few rare paintings, many files, another desk. The additional room allowed him to work at home, and like his car, was useful but not luxurious. As Deanna looked around, she realized again that he was an odd mixture of comfort and style, and he always seemed to happily marry the two in a way that was uniquely his. Deanna slipped into his blue-and-black silk bathrobe and wandered out onto the terrace. She sat down on one of the faded canvas chairs. It had once been a bright parrot green, now sun-bleached to a very pale lime. She stretched her legs out for a moment, turning her face to the sun and thinking of him, wondering where he was—already at the gallery? Having lunch? Signing checks with Sally? Talking to Gustave? She liked the way he led his life, what he did, how he handled the people around him—how he handled her. She found that she even liked the idea of taking turns making breakfast—a democracy, he’d called it. It was just a very pleasant way to live. She let the robe fall slightly open, and smiled as she felt the bright warmth of the sun. In a while she would go home to her studio and paint. But not yet. She was too happy sitting in the sun like a cat, thinking of Ben.