Cry Mercy, Cry Love

by Monica Barrie

  “After all the publicity we received because of Ainsworth’s cancellation and the mysterious circumstances surrounding my new ‘discovery,’ I’d say just about everyone who is anyone will be there.”

  “Oh...” Heather whispered at the sudden thought of so many strangers crowding around her turned her heart cold.

  “Don’t worry—you’re going to be a success!”

  “At least in that department,” Heather whispered to Gwen’s retreating footfalls.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in self-pity,” Gwen said suddenly, her voice whip-like in Heather’s ears.

  “It wasn’t self-pity,” Heather stated. “Just fact.”

  “Oh, please,” Gwen shot back before she closed the door to her den.

  “It wasn’t self-pity,” Heather said to the empty room as the sudden memory of her fingers on Reid’s face floated into her mind. She could “see” the cutting edges of his strong chin and the slight bump on his nose. No! she ordered herself. Think of something else—anything else.

  Heather leaned her head back on the couch’s cushions, closed her eyes, and in her effort to avoid thinking of Reid she thought about the fast-paced morning and afternoon she had just had.

  She thought about the breakfast she had not tasted, her mind still filled with the painful memory of last night, which the three hours of sleep she’d finally gotten had been unable to wash away. She’d gone with Gwen to the boutique to try on the dress, to see if she needed any additional alterations.

  A week ago, Gwen had brought up the subject of what Heather would wear for her opening. Heather hadn’t realized she needed to be dressed up, but Gwen insisted she dress in style. Gwen had wanted Heather to wear an evening gown. Heather had argued she was not the gown type and would feel uncomfortable. At the boutique Gwen had taken her to, Heather chose a dress that was stylish, elegant, yet not quite as formal as Gwen’s first choice.

  “It’s your night, Heather,” Gwen had told her on the first visit to the store. “You’re the one who’ll be on center stage. You should dress the part.”

  “I can’t dress a part that isn’t me,” she had replied. “I’m going to be nervous enough. At least let me feel comfortable with what I have on.”

  Gwen had acquiesced reluctantly, and at this morning’s final fitting, she had grudgingly admitted Heather had been right. The dress looked perfect on her, and Gwen had told her she did indeed look comfortable and well dressed. The only problem Heather had during the final fitting was wondering if the dress was too much for her.

  Then they had gone to lunch at a quaint restaurant on the outskirts of Santa Fe. During the drive, Gwen described the varied adobe houses they passed, as well as the people who occupied them. Names of famous artists and writers had flown from Gwen’s lips and Heather had felt a thrill race through her at their mention. She had wondered if at some point another person would feel the same way when at the mention of her name.

  After a delicious lunch that Heather had barely touched—a fact Gwen had tactfully not mentioned— they’d returned to town, where without warning Gwen had taken her to her first interview.

  “But you said not until the show opened,” Heather had protested while she tried to untwist the knot that had formed in her stomach.

  “I know. But this one is different,” Gwen had replied. “The Santa Fe Voice is a weekly magazine, and if we want to get into the next issue, we have to do the interview today. The pub date isn’t until your show is a week old. And besides, in return for giving them this interview and an early private viewing they’ve promised not to speak to any of the other media people about you.”

  “It’s not fair,” Heather had protested again.

  “It’s how you play the game.”

  “No, I mean to me.”

  “Would you rather I had told you about it last week and let you worry?” Gwen had asked in a gentle tone.

  “I guess not. But why are they interviewing me before they see my work?” Heather had asked.

  Gwen’s silence had answered her.

  “When?”

  Gwen had laughed softly before she answered. “They were at the gallery this morning. Laureen gave them a preview during your dress fitting. Here we are,” she said as she pulled to the curb. “Relax. Answer the questions freely and be yourself.”

  Heather had taken Gwen’s advice and, after the first few minutes, she relaxed, secure in the knowledge the interviewer was both experienced in his craft and very good at it. The interview lasted over an hour. When it was ended, Heather had the distinct impression the journalist was satisfied.

  The magazine’s art critic had come in at the end of the interview session and talked with Heather for a few minutes. He told her he was impressed with her work but would not elaborate further. He asked about her favorite artists, and they discussed each other’s likes and dislikes.

  In the car Gwen had laughed. “They loved your work. I spoke to Laureen. He was raving about it when he left. Laureen reminded him of the magazine’s promise. Neither the critic nor the writer will tell anyone until the show opens. Now,” Gwen had said as her voice turned serious, “I think it’s time to call it a day.”

  “Heather?” Gwen called softly, “are you awake?” Gwen’s voice pulled Heather from the place she’d escaped to and brought her back to the living room.

  “I’m afraid I am.”

  “I have to go out. Laureen is having a problem with the caterer. I won’t be long, and when I get back, I’ll fix us some dinner.”

  “Don’t rush. How was Tom?” Heather asked.

  “He wasn’t in. I talked to Gregg—he said to say ‘hi,’ and he can’t wait until tomorrow.” Heather smiled at Gwen, a warm feeling settling in her mind as she listened to Gregg’s message. Gwen left and silence descended again in the house. Heather did not feel like moving. A grip of lethargy held her within its grasp and she could not summon the energy to break it. She tried not to think of Reid, but she failed.

  Heather knew logic was the only way to fight the ache in her heart. She must use rationalities to chase away the memories of his touch, his lips, and his soft and gentle words.

  Haunting memories of their many nights of love rushed through her mind with so paralyzing a force it held her captive. Heather’s emotions rose to the breaking point. Clenching her fists, Heather fought herself until the shrill ringing of the telephone broke her concentration.

  She didn’t want to answer the phone—not in her state of mind—but she had to. She was a guest in Gwen’s house and the call might be important. Slowly, she picked up the telephone from the table next to the couch.

  “Hello?” Heather asked.

  “Heather?” Heather’s body turned rigid at the sound of Reid Hunter’s voice.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “How are you?” he asked in his deep, soft voice.

  How am I? she repeated in her mind. “How should I be?” she snapped back.

  “Is something wrong?” Reid asked, his tone conveying his bewilderment at her words.

  “Yes, damn it, something’s wrong—you’re wrong!” she yelled, unable to hold in her rush of anger, unable to control her emotions after hearing the voice she had dreamed of for weeks. All her work, all the effort she had spent in submerging her feelings since last night, was wasted. With Reid on the telephone, she could no longer hold herself back.

  “You lied to me. From the beginning, you deceived and tricked me. Did you have fun? Is that what you really do with your life? Go from ranch to ranch and make women fall in love with you, and when they do, you move on to greener pastures? Is that what happened at the Triple-K?” she asked, not bothering to think out her words. Heather was past caring, past worrying about the ramifications of what she said.

  “No, Heather, you’re wro—”

  “Don’t say another word to me. I can’t listen to any more of your lies. I loved you! Do you understand? I gave you all of my love. I would have given you anything you asked for, anything.
I loved you with all my heart,” she said, her voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, “but all you gave me were lies.”

  “Listen to me,” Reid yelled, his voice exploding from the receiver.

  “I’ve listened to all the excuses and explanations I’m going to. Reid Hunter, you are a selfish, unreliable, and...and...and as rotten a bastard as I’ve ever known! I want you out of my life! I don’t want to hear about your grief-stricken conscience or your pious deeds. I know all about the way you walked out on your brother and on your birthright. I know all about your stupid damned pride, and I don’t want to know anything more!” she said as she slammed down the phone.

  “Oh...no,” she cried as her hands came up and cupped her face. “Oh, Reid, why?” she asked.

  Years passed that night and Heather was still in the same position. She had replayed the phone call a hundred times, and no matter how she repeated her harsh words in her mind, she knew she could have done nothing else. She still loved him, she realized—her angry and irrational screaming had only proved the truth of that—but the yelling she’d done represented a release, a catharsis her mind had needed.

  She had told him the source of her pain, what he had done to her, and now she was free of him. No, she thought, not free, but under a new control. She would be able to go on with her life, alone, but with the knowledge of having been truthful.

  Slowly, without realizing it, Heather slid down on the couch and fell into a dreamless sleep. She did not move when Gwen came home, nor did she feel the blanket that Gwen slid over her. She didn’t even hear how hard Gwen had to pull Polaris to get him to leave Heather to go out for his walk.

  She slept soundly, peacefully, and deeply.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The hum from Gwen’s office air conditioner matched the hum inside Heather’s head and body. Even those two distinct vibrations could not mask the sounds of the final preparations for tonight’s opening party.

  Heather smiled. Gwen had once again kept her moving through the day in an effort to keep her mind off Reid and to help speed the day and ease her nervousness about tonight. It had been a good day, culminating now, as she readied herself for the evening.

  With Gwen’s help, she had put on her new dress. It felt and fit superbly. The black silk dress was elegant, baring one shoulder and covering the other in a sweeping arc of silk that crisscrossed and supported her breasts, lifting them to show their fullness yet not making her seem overly bold. The dress accented her slim waist before it flared over her hips, ending in a slightly ruffled hem, which was more an irregular arc than a closed circle. It had a split side offering a brief glimpse of calf and thigh with each step she took.

  Heather hoped she looked as good in the dress as Gwen said she did. She knew she felt good wearing it, although at the same time she didn’t want to be too conspicuous. She admitted she was not used to wearing such a daring dress, but she had once again deferred to Gwen. After all, she reasoned, it was a special night and she wanted to look the part.

  To finish off the look, a single string of pearls surrounded her neck and a cluster of three pearls on golden chains hung enticingly from each ear. The jewelry was Gwen’s, who had insisted she wear the pearls tonight.

  Eschewing formal makeup, Heather applied a deeper blue eye shadow than she normally used, this time at Laureen’s insistence. “It will bring out your natural skin tones better under the artificial light in the gallery,” which was something Heather readily admitted knowing nothing about. Her shoes were simple black pumps with three-inch heels she hoped would not make her feet ache too badly before the evening was over.

  Snapping her makeup case closed, Heather took a deep breath and stood. She was as ready as she could be to face the first night of her new life.

  Halfway to the door, she heard a low knock. “Come in,” she called as she stopped walking. The door opened slowly. Heather waited but no one came in, although she could sense eyes staring at her. A strange chill ran the length of her body. “Yes?”

  “You look real p-p-pretty, Miss Heather,” Gregg Farley said softly.

  “Gregg!” A warm, wonderful rush of love surged through Heather. She walked toward the boy’s voice and heard him move toward her. Just as she was reaching out to embrace him, he took her hand shook it firmly. Heather paused, flustered for a moment before she remembered Tom telling her weeks ago that Gregg was reaching that funny age of being embarrassed by demonstrations of affection.

  “Did you have a nice trip?” she asked, recovering quickly, not holding his hand for too long.

  “Did he ever!” declared Emma Kline.

  “Emma, you too?” Heather asked, surprised but glad.

  “You really didn’t think I’d miss this, did you?” Emma asked jovially. “No, of course you didn’t,” she answered for Heather as she swept the younger woman into her arms.

  “Where’s Tom?” Heather asked after she hugged Emma.

  “Aw...he’s still a kissin’ Gwen,” Gregg told her in a strangely subdued voice.

  “No he’s not,” Tom said as he stepped into the now crowded office. “Evenin’, Heather,” he said as he, too, took her hand. The gentle pressure he exerted made Heather feel good.

  “It is a good evening now,” she told them, knowing that her eyes were filling with moisture. “Do you like the dress?” she asked as she whirled around, making the ruffled silk fly upward and giving them all a glance of her well-shaped legs while she fought to control her emotions.

  “I’ll say one thing about it,” Emma began, and Heather heard the familiar bantering tones in her friend’s voice. “You sure could make a nice living in Tahoe...”

  “Emma!”

  “Only kidding. It’s absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Thank you,” Heather said with a slight curtsy.

  “Enough compliments,” came Gwen’s authoritative voice. “We’ve a party starting in”—she paused to glance at her watch—“exactly eleven minutes, and I don’t want her ego any bigger than it is! Shall we go out front?” Gwen asked over the laughs her comment caused.

  With Emma’s arm linked in hers, Heather followed Gwen and Tom. Inside the large gallery room, Heather called Gregg over to her.

  “I know this isn’t a rodeo, but would you tell me what everything looks like?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a serious voice, knowing with the instinctiveness of an eight-year-old that he was doing something important. As Gregg took a deep breath, Emma’s hand covered Heather’s and pressed it comfortingly.

  “It’s kinda a big room, with long white walls.” Gregg started slowly, sounding a little self-conscious, but pushed on anyway. “The walls are real shiny, and the floor’s wood. I’m not sure what kind...”

  “Oak,” Gwen told him.

  “The ceilin’s white, too, with lots a small lights comin’ out.”

  “Spotlights,” Gwen added.

  “And the lights are shining’ on your sclup...sculptures. Makes them look real fine. Oh! Wow!” Gregg yelled as his eyes fell on a special display of three bronze busts, one elevated above the other two. “You put me and Dad and Reid together,” he said excitedly.

  Heather bit down on her lower lip as she fought off the invasion of hurt that struck with the mention of Reid’s name. She fought her battle and won as she pushed aside the feeling of betrayal.

  “Polaris looks real good,” Gregg continued, oblivious to Heather’s reaction of seconds ago. At the mention of his name, Polaris barked once, eliciting laughs from everyone. “I’m glad he’s the first sculpture you see when you come in. Next to him are those funny-shaped things from the studio walk.”

  “Abstracts,” Gwen informed him at the same time as Heather.

  “They’re still funny lookin’,” Gregg declared, adamantly refusing to change his mind.

  “Thank you, Gregg,” Heather said as she pulled her hand from Emma’s and began to walk toward one of the abstracts.

  “Time,” Gwen called as the front door opened and voices began to
float to Heather’s ears. The next thing she knew, Laureen, Gwen’s assistant, was pressing a glass into her hand.

  “I don’t think I should drink,” Heather told her.

  “It’s not to drink—it’s to occupy your hands so you’ll have something to do with them,” she told Heather in a conspiratorial voice.

  Suddenly voices swirled around her, and for a moment Heather’s eternal darkness frightened her. There were too many people around her all at once, talking, jabbering, and fighting to give her compliments.

  She warded off the fear, smiling all the while as Gwen returned to her side and began to introduce her to the different visitors. By the fifth introduction, Heather knew it was pointless to try to remember the names. She just smiled and nodded. The muted strains of bits and pieces of conversations bounced in her ears and smiled appropriately when she’d sensed the astonished reactions of those who learned she was blind.

  The minutes turned into hours, and as the evening changed to night, it all became a blur of time in Heather’s mind. Halfway through the party, Heather became aware of a new sensation. It was as if she were no longer standing on the gallery floor amidst the people but was a separate entity hovering over the room, hearing everything but being invisible. She drifted among the people, always guided by either Gwen or Laureen, and never once released the now warm glass of white wine.

  “Miss Strand,” called a man whose voice she did not recognize, but which pulled her back into the reality of the gallery.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Malcolm Samuels. I have a gallery in New York, and I just wanted you to know that I think you have a great future ahead of you.”

  “Thank you,” Heather said, flushing slightly at the compliment.

  “Don’t thank me—I make my living judging the talents of artists. I’m just telling you the truth.” The art dealer paused for a moment and Heather heard him take a breath. “Would you consider doing commissions?” he asked.

  “I don’t really know,” Heather replied hesitantly.