Summer’s End

by Danielle Steel

  “Grazie Signore … Signora Duras.” The concierge at the Hassler bowed formally to Chantal and Marc as they checked out of the hotel and Marc endowed him with a more than healthy tip. A car was already waiting for them outside the hotel. Their bags had been stowed in the trunk, and the driver waited to take them to the airport.

  Chantal was strangely quiet as they rode to the airport. At last Marc pulled his gaze from the windows and allowed himself to seek out her eyes.

  “You’re sure that’s what you want to do?”

  “Absolutely.”

  But it worried him. She had never been this obstinate before. She had insisted that she was not going to hide in San Remo or some other town on the Riviera. She wanted to go back to Paris and wait for him there, while he visited his family in Cap d’Antibes. So that she could steal a weekend with her lover, the man who had asked her to marry him? The implied threat had not been lost on Marc. He felt a surge of murderous jealousy.

  “Just what exactly are you planning to do with yourself all weekend?” There was a decided edge to his voice, but she returned his gaze evenly as the car raced through the traffic.

  “I’ll go into the office. I can’t leave everything on Marie-Ange’s shoulders. It’s bad enough that whenever we travel I have to dump everything in her lap. As long as I have the time, I might as well go in and see what’s happening there.”

  “I’m impressed by your devotion to your business. That’s new, isn’t it?” It was rare for him to be sarcastic with Chantal.

  But her tone matched his. “No, it’s not. You’re just not around to see it very often. What exactly did you think I was going to do?”

  “Your bit of news yesterday did not go unnoticed, Chantal.”

  “I said someone asked me. I did not say I accepted.”

  “How comforting. One would assume, however, that he didn’t ask you on the basis of two luncheons and a tea party. I would assume that you know each other rather well.”

  Chantal didn’t answer. She merely looked out the window, as secretly Marc-Edouard raged. Dammit, what did she expect of him? He couldn’t be with her more than he already was, and he could hardly propose marriage. He had Deanna.

  But Chantal’s voice was oddly soft as she answered him. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Thank you.” He sighed, and his shoulders seemed to sag as he took her hand. “I love you, darling. Please, please try to understand.”

  “I do try. More than you know.”

  “I know it’s difficult for you. It is for me too. But at least don’t establish a competition between you and Pilar and my mother. That just isn’t fair. I need to see them too.”

  “Perhaps, so do I.” There was something so sad in her voice that he didn’t know what more to say. Had he been a less rational man, he might have decided to throw reason to the winds, and taken her with him, but he simply couldn’t.

  “Darling, I’m sorry.” Gently, he slipped an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her closer to him, and there was no resistance. “I’ll try to think this thing out. All right?” She nodded and said nothing, but a tear hovered on the end of her lashes, and he felt something tear at his heart. “It’s only for a few days, I’ll be home on Sunday night, and we can have dinner at Maxim’s, before we leave for Athens.”

  “When are we leaving?”

  “Monday or Tuesday.”

  She nodded again. He held her close all the way to the airport.

  Deanna turned her key in the door and stopped for a moment, listening for Margaret. There was no one at home. It was still Margaret’s day off. Could it be? Hadn’t weeks passed? Or months or even years? Had she only gone with Ben the night before to make love with him for the very first time? Had it only been eighteen hours since she’d left the house? Her heart pounded as she closed the door behind her. It had been so peaceful at his place as she bathed and got dressed. She had watched two little birds play on the terrace, and she had listened to one of his records while she made the bed. She’d grabbed a plum from a large basket of fruit in the kitchen as she left, feeling as though she had lived there for years, as though it were hers as well as his. Now, suddenly, she was here again. In Marc’s house, in the home of Monsieur and Madame Duras. She glanced at a photograph of them in a silver frame, taken during their first summer in Cap d’Antibes. Could that have been her? Standing awkwardly with a glass of white wine in her hand, while Marc chatted with his mother beneath her gigantic straw hat. How awkward she felt again just looking at it, how awkward she felt in his room. She stood at the entrance to the pale-green silk living room with the Aubusson rug, thinking that just looking at it made her feel cold. But this was her home. This was where she belonged, not in that tiny house on the hill where she had just spent the night with a strange man. What on earth was she doing?

  She slipped her feet out of her sandals, walked barefoot into the chilly green room, and sat down carefully on the couch. What had she done? She had cheated on Marc for the first time in eighteen years, and it had all seemed so natural, so normal. For one entire night it was as though she didn’t even know Marc, as though she were married to Ben. She reached for a small photograph of Pilar in another silver frame and saw that her hand was shaking. Pilar was in tennis clothes; the photograph had been taken in the South of France. Deanna stared at it almost blindly. She didn’t even hear the persistent ringing of the bell. It was two or three minutes before she realized that there was someone at the door. She jumped up, startled, and put down the photograph of Pilar. Her mind raced as she walked to the door. Who was it? Who knew? And what if it was Ben? She didn’t feel ready to see him now. It was wrong what they had done. She had to tell him, she had to stop, now before it was too late, before her orderly life came apart at the seams … before….

  “Who is it?”

  A voice informed her that there was a package. Reluctantly, she opened the door and saw the delivery boy. “But I didn’t order….” Then she knew. They were flowers from Ben. For a moment she wanted to turn them away, send them back, pretend that the night before hadn’t happened and never would again. Instead, she held out her arms and took the bundle inside, where she pulled off the card and held it for a moment before reading what it said:

  Hurry home, my darling. I’ll meet you at five.

  I love you,

  Ben

  I love you, Ben. Her eyes ran over the words and filled with tears. I love you, Ben. It was already too late. She loved him too.

  She ran upstairs to her room and packed a small bag. Then she went to the studio. That’s all she would take. Just one or two canvases, some paints, she’d make do for a while. She didn’t have to stay for more than a few days. That was all.

  She left a number for Margaret and explained that she was staying with a friend. By five-thirty she was back at his house. She parked the Jaguar half a block away and walked hesitantly toward the door. What in hell was she doing? But he’d heard her on the front steps. Before she rang, he opened the door with a bow and a smile and a sweep of one arm.

  “Come in. I’ve been waiting for hours.” He closed the door softly behind her. For a moment she stood there, her eyes tightly shut against tears. “Deanna? Are you all right, darling?” There was concern in his voice, but she nodded. Slowly, he put his arms around her. “Are you afraid?”

  She opened her eyes and hesitantly nodded her head.

  But Ben only smiled and held her very close as he whispered into her hair, “So am I.”

  10

  “O.K., kid, off your ass. It’s your turn.” Ben poked her gently in the small of her back, and Deanna groaned.

  “It is not. I made breakfast yesterday.” She smiled into the pillow and hid her face.

  “Do you know that I love you, even if you are a liar? I made breakfast yesterday and two days before that and for four days just before that. In fact I think you owe me three in a row.”

  “That’s a lie!” She was giggling.

  “The hell it is. I told you, thi
s is a democracy!” He was laughing too and trying to turn the naked body he loved so that he could see her face.

  “I don’t like democracy!”

  “Tough. I want coffee and French toast and eggs.”

  “What if I won’t do it?”

  “Then tonight you sleep on the terrace.”

  “I knew it. I should have brought Margaret.”

  “A ménage à trois? It sounds lovely. Can she cook?”

  “Better than I can.”

  “Good. We’ll have her move in today.” He rolled over in bed with a satisfied smile. “Meanwhile, get off your dead ass and feed me.”

  “You’re spoiled rotten.”

  “And I love it.”

  “You’ll get fat.” She sat on the edge of the bed looking at his far-from-overweight body. “Besides, eggs aren’t good for you, they have carbohydrates or cholesterol or chromosomes or something, and. …” He pointed toward the kitchen, a mock scowl lining his face, and Deanna stood up. “I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  Laughing, she vanished into the kitchen. They had been together for two weeks—a moment; a lifetime. They shared the cooking and the chores. A funny little old lady came in twice a week to clean, but Ben liked doing things for himself, and Deanna found that she enjoyed sharing those things with him. They went marketing, cooked dinners, polished the brass, and pulled weeds from among the flowers on the terrace. She watched him pore over catalogues of upcoming auctions, and he watched her sketch, or work in pastels or oils. He was the first person she had allowed to see her work in progress. They read mystery books and watched television and went for drives; they walked on the beach once at midnight, and twice went down for the night to his house in Carmel. She went to another opening at his gallery and on a visit to a new artist, masquerading as his wife. It was as though nothing had come before and nothing would come after—they had only the time and the life that they shared.

  Deanna set down the tray with his breakfast and the paper. “You know something? I like you. I really do.”

  “You sound surprised. Were you afraid democracy would wear you out?”

  “Maybe.” She sat down with a small, happy shrug. “I haven’t taken care of myself or anyone else, in a practical way, in a long time. I’m responsible for everyone, but I don’t think I’ve made breakfast in years. Or done any of the things that we’ve done.”

  “I don’t like being dependent on other people, like maids. Basically, I like a very simple life.”

  She grinned to herself, remembering the three lavishly expensive paintings he had bought the day before in L.A., but she knew that what he was saying was true. Opulence wasn’t his style. He had seen too much of it as a child, in the home of his grandparents and then his father. He was happier with the little house on the hill in San Francisco and the unpretentious cottage in Carmel.

  He leaned over to kiss the tip of her nose, then sat back against his pillows again with the breakfast she had made still waiting on the tray. “I love you, Deanna.” He was smiling wickedly. “Now when are you going to sign with the gallery?”

  “Are you back at that again? That is what this is all about. You just want me to sign with the gallery. I knew it! I knew it!” She laughed as he ducked the pillow she aimed at his head. “The things some people will do to sign new artists!”

  “Well? Did it work?”

  “Of course not! You’ll have to do better than that!”

  “Better?” He looked at her ominously and put aside the breakfast tray. “What exactly do you mean by ‘better,’ why I …” He closed his mouth over hers and reached for her body with his hands. “Better … ?” They were both laughing now. It was half an hour later before they had untangled themselves and caught their breath. “Well, was that better?” Ben asked.

  “Much.”

  “Good.” He looked up at her happily from where he lay on the bed. “Now will you sign?”

  “Well….” She lay her head on his chest and looked at him with a small yawn. “Maybe if you’d just run through that again…”

  “Deanna!” He rolled over and covered her body with his own, holding her throat menacingly in both hands. “I want you to sign with me!” His voice boomed.

  She smiled sweetly, “O.K.”

  “What?” He sat up, a look of astonishment on his face.

  “I said O.K. O.K.?”

  “Did you mean it?”

  “Yes. Do you still want me? For the gallery, I mean.” She grinned, and looked at him questioningly. Maybe it had been only a game all along.

  But he was looking at her as though she were crazy. “Of course I still want you, you lunatic! You’re the best new artist I’ve gotten my hands on in fifteen years!”

  She rolled over again and looked at him with a feline little smile. “And just whom have you ‘gotten your hands on’ in the last fifteen years?”

  “You know what I mean. I mean like Gustave.” They both laughed at the thought. “Are you serious, Deanna? Will you sign?” She nodded. “You don’t have to, you know. I love you even if you never let me show your work.”

  “I know. But I’ve been watching you work for weeks, and I can’t stand it. I want to be part of it too. I want my own show.”

  He laughed. “Your own, eh? No other artists. All right, you’ve got it. When?”

  “Whenever it works for you.”

  “I’ll check the calendar with Sally. Maybe in a few weeks.” He dug into his breakfast with a broad smile. He looked as though she had just given birth to his son.

  “Should I make you something else?” She was watching him devour the ice-cold French toast.

  “All you have to do is bring me your paintings and let me show them. From now on I’ll make breakfast. Every day. No…five times a week. You do weekends. How’s that?”

  “Wonderful. I knew there were benefits to giving in.” She pulled the covers back to her chin. “Ben? Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  He knew what was coming. The doubts were written all over her face. But he was not going to let her back away. “Shut up. If you start that, we’ll do the show next week. You’re good enough. You’re terrific. You’re fabulous. For God’s sake, Deanna, you’re the best young artist in this town, probably in L.A. too. Just shut up and let me do the show. All right?”

  “All right.”

  For a time she was very quiet, thinking about Marc. How could she tell him she had finally decided to show? Or did he even have to know? He had told her years ago to put her dreams about art away, that Madame Duras could not be some kind of “hippie painter.” But she wasn’t, dammit, and what right did he have to …

  “What are you thinking?” Ben was still watching her.

  “Nothing much.” She smiled. “I was just thinking about the show.”

  “Are you sure? You looked as though you were about to be beaten up.”

  She sighed, then looked at him again. “I felt as though I was. I was trying to think of … of what to tell Marc.”

  “Do you have to?” Ben sounded momentarily strained.

  “I probably should. I suppose it sounds crazy to you now, but I don’t want to be dishonest with him. No more than I have to.”

  “It does sound crazy, but I understand what you mean. He won’t be pleased about a show, will he?”

  “No, he won’t. But I think I ought to tell him.”

  “And if he says no?” Ben looked hurt and Deanna lowered her eyes.

  “He won’t.”

  But they both knew he would.

  Marc quietly let himself into the apartment. It was the second weekend he had gone away without Chantal. But his weekends in the South of France with his family were sacred. She had always understood that before. Why was she giving him problems about it now? She had barely been speaking to him on Friday when he had left. He set his bag down in the hall and looked around. She wasn’t home. But it was already after nine o’clock. Where the hell was she? Out? Out with whom? He sighed a long tire
d sigh as he sat down on the couch. He glanced around. She hadn’t left him a note. He looked at his watch again, and this time he reached for the phone. It would be noon in San Francisco, a good time to report to Deanna about Pilar. He dialed the call direct and waited for the phone to ring. He hadn’t spoken to her in a week. He had been too busy to call, and the one time he had, Margaret had told him she was out.

  “Hello?” Deanna answered the phone breathlessly as she came up the studio stairs. Ben had just dropped her off. She had promised to come home and pick out twenty-five of her favorite paintings. That would keep her busy for days. “Yes?” She still hadn’t caught her breath and at first she hadn’t even noticed the whir of a long-distance call.

  “Deanna?”

  “Marc!” She stared at the phone in astonishment, as though he were a ghost from the past.

  “You needn’t sound that surprised. It hasn’t been that long since we’ve spoken.”

  “No, no, I’m sorry. I just … I was thinking of something else.”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, of course not. How’s Pilar?” She sounded vague to him as though she were at a loss for what to say. “Have you seen her lately?”

  “Just today. I just got back from Antibes. She’s fine. She sends you her love.” It was a lie, but one he told often. “And my mother sends her love too.”

  Deanna smiled at this last. “Pilar’s all right?” Suddenly, speaking to Marc again reminded her of her duties. With Ben, she only thought of him and herself. She thought of her paintings and his galleries, their nights together, their good times. She was a woman again, a girl. But Marc’s voice returned her to her role as mother. It was as though for a time she had forgotten.

  “Yes, Pilar is fine.”

  “She didn’t buy the motorcycle, did she?”

  There was a long moment of silence. Too long. “Deanna …”

  “Marc, did she?” Deanna’s voice rose. “Dammit, she did! I know it.”

  “It’s not really a motorcycle, Deanna. It’s more, more a. …” He looked for the words, but he was tired, and where the hell was Chantal? It was nine forty-five. “Really, you have no need to worry. She’ll be fine. I saw her drive it. She is extremely careful. Mother wouldn’t allow her to ride it if she were not.”