“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.

“Mr. Thompson said to wait for him in his den. He’s upstairs on the phone. To London.” She added the last words with disapproval, as though she thought it a shocking expense. But not nearly as great an expense, Deanna thought, as the paintings on the walls. She looked at them with awe as they followed the housekeeper to the den. The man had a magnificent collection of English and Early American paintings. None of them were what Deanna would have collected herself, but they were a joy to behold. She wanted to linger so she could study each piece, but the woman in the apron marched them quickly and firmly into the den, glared at them long and hard, muttered, “Sit down,” then disappeared back to her chores.

“My God, Kim, did you see what he has on his walls?”

Kimberly grinned, readjusting her hat. “Beautiful stuff, isn’t it? Not my cup of tea, but he has some awfully good pieces. Though they’re not all really his.” Deanna raised an eyebrow in question. “He owns two galleries. One in San Francisco, and one in L.A. I suspect he borrows some of these from his galleries. But what the hell, it’s beautiful work.”

Deanna nodded in rapid agreement and continued to look around. They were seated in a room with a wide picture window that looked out at the sea. A simple pine desk, two couches, and a chair. Like the exterior of the house and the modest car, it was functional rather than impressive. But the art collection amply made up for that. Even here, he had hung two very fine, perfectly framed black-and-white sketches. She leaned closer to peer at the signatures then turned to look at a painting that hung behind her, the only ornament on a totally bare, white wall. Even as she turned to look, she felt herself gasp. It was the painting. The Wyeth. The woman on the dune, her face partially hidden as she rested it on her knees. And even Deanna could see that the woman was startlingly like her. The length and color of her hair, the shape of her shoulders, even the hint of a smile. She was surrounded by a bleak, damp-looking beach and accompanied only by the passing of one lonely gull.