“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 tired 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.”

“Your mother doesn’t see her drive it away from the house. She has no more control over her than I do, or you. Marc, I told you explicitly…” Tears began to sting her eyes. She had lost to them again. She always lost. And this time it was something dangerous, something that might… “Goddammit, Marc, why don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Calm yourself. She’ll be fine. What have you been up to?”

There wasn’t a damn thing she could do. And she knew it. The subject of Pilar and the motorcycle was closed. “Not much.” Deanna’s voice was like ice.

“I called once; you were out.”

“I’ve started painting in a studio.”

“Can’t you work at home?” Marc sounded irritated and confused.

Deanna closed her eyes. “I found a place where it’s easier for me to work.” Her heart started to race as she thought of Ben. What if Marc could read her mind? What if he knew? What if someone had seen them together? What if…

“With both of us gone, I can’t understand why you don’t paint at home. And what is this sudden new frenzy for your work?”

“What ‘frenzy’? I’m painting as much as ever.”

“Deanna, I really don’t understand.” But the tone in which he said the words suddenly hit her like a slap in the face.

“I enjoy my work.” She was goading him and she knew it.

“I don’t really think you need call it ‘work.’” He sighed into the phone and looked at his watch.

“I call it work because it is. I’m having a show at a gallery next month.” Her voice rang with defiance, and she felt her heart race faster and faster. He didn’t answer.

Then: “You’re what?”

“Having a show at a gallery.”

“I see.” There was a nasty tone of amusement in his voice, and for a moment she hated him. “We’re having a bohemian summer, are we? Well, maybe it will do you good.”

“Maybe it will.” Bastard… he never understood!

“Is it necessary to prove your point by having a show? Why not dispense with that? You can work in your other studio, and let it go at that.”

Thank you, Daddy. “The show is important to me.”

“Then it can wait. We’ll discuss it when I get back.”

“Marc…” I’m in love with another man…. “I’m going to do the show.”

“Fine. Just let it wait till the fall.”

“Why? So you can talk me out of it when you come home?”

“I won’t do that. We’ll talk about it then.”

“It won’t wait. I’ve already waited too long.”

“You know, darling, You’re too old for tantrums and too young for menopause. I think you’re being very unreasonable.”

She wanted to hit him, except that for a moment she also wanted to laugh. It was a ridiculous conversation, and she realized that she sounded a great deal like Pilar. She laughed and shook her head. “Maybe you’re right. Tell you what: You win your case in Athens; I’ll do what I need to do with my art, and I’ll see you in the fall.”

“Is that your way of telling me to mind my own business?”

“Maybe so.” She was suddenly braver than she had been in years. “Maybe we both just have to do what we need to do right now.” Oh God, what are you doing? You’re telling him.… She held her breath.