“Only the woman I love.” He reached for her hand as he took the turnoff for the airport, and she touched his fingers gently with her own. It made her think of the night before and the rare meshing of their bodies that she cherished so much. Ma Diane.… “I love you, darling.” She pulled his hand to her lips and gently kissed the tips of his fingers. “I wish we had more time.”

“So do I. We will one of these days.”

Yes… but when? She carefully put his hand back on the seat and left her fingers intertwined with his.

“When you come back, do you suppose we could go somewhere together, for a holiday?” She watched him, her eyes wide, childlike. She still wanted him, wanted to be with him, to be his. After all these years she still cared. Sometimes it still surprised her how much she did.

“Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere. Just so we’re together.” And alone.

He looked at her for a long moment as they pulled up outside the terminal, and for an instant Deanna thought she saw regret in his eyes. “We’ll do that. As soon as I get back.” Then he seemed to catch his breath. “Deanna, I…”

She waited, but he said no more; he only put his arms around her and held her close. She felt her own arms go around him and hold him close. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She needed him more than he knew. There were tears sliding slowly down her face. He felt her trembling in his arms and pulled away to look at her with surprise.

“Tu pleurs?” You’re crying?

“Un peu.” A little. He smiled, it had been so long since she had answered him in French. “I wish you didn’t have to go.” If only he’d stay, if they had some time without Pilar…

“So do I.” But they both knew that was a lie. He pulled the keys out of the ignition and opened the door, signaling for a porter.

Deanna walked sedately beside him, lost in her own thoughts, until they reached the first-class lounge where he generally hid while waiting for a plane. She settled into a chair next to his and smiled at him. But he was already different, already gone, the moment in the car all but forgotten. He checked the papers in his briefcase and looked at his watch. He had ten minutes left, and he suddenly seemed impatient to leave.

“Alors, is there anything we forgot to discuss in the car? Any message for Pilar?”

“Just give her my love. Will you stop there before you go to Athens?”

“No, I’ll phone her tonight.”

“And me too?” She watched the seconds tick by on the enormous clock on the wall.

“And you too. You’re not going out?”

“No, I have some work I want to finish in the studio.”

“You should do something amusing, so you don’t feel alone.”

I won’t, I’m used to it. Again, she didn’t say the words. “I’ll be fine.” She crossed one leg over the other, looking down at her lap. She had worn a new lavender silk dress and the purple jade earrings encircled by diamonds that he had brought her from Hong Kong, but he hadn’t noticed. His mind was on other things.

“Deanna?”

“Hm?” She looked up to find him standing next to her, his briefcase in his hand and the familiar smile of victory in his eyes. He was off to the wars now, gone again, free. “Is it time to go?” Already? So soon? He nodded, and she stood up, dwarfed by his considerable size, but the perfect companion beside him. They were a strikingly good-looking couple. They always had been. Even Madame Duras, his cold-eyed mother, had acknowledged it -once.

“You needn’t walk me to the gate.” He already seemed distracted.

“No, but I’d like to. Is that all right?”

“Of course.” He held the door for her, and they stepped back into the bustle of the terminal, instantly lost among an army of travelers burdened with suitcases, gifts, and guitars. They arrived too soon at the gate, and he turned to look down at her with a smile. “I’ll call you tonight.”

“I love you.”

He didn’t answer but bent to kiss the top of her head, then strode into the passageway to the plane, without a backward look or a wave. She watched until he disappeared, then slowly turned and walked away. I love you. Her own words echoed in her head. But he hadn’t answered. He was already gone.

She slid into the car waiting at the curb, and with a sigh turned the key and drove home.

She went quickly upstairs to change her clothes, and was buried deep in her own thoughts in the studio all afternoon. She sketched absently, and had just gone out on the terrace at last for some air, when Margaret knocked softly on the studio door. Deanna turned in surprise, as the housekeeper hesitantly entered the room.

“Mrs. Duras… I-I’m sorry…” She knew how Deanna hated to be disturbed there, but now and then she had no choice. Deanna had disconnected the studio phone.

“Is something wrong?” Deanna looked distracted, standing there with her hair loose over her shoulders and hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans.

“No. Mr. Sullivan is downstairs to see you.”

“Jim?” And then she remembered Marc-Edouard’s promise that Jim would look in on her. He certainly hadn’t lost any time. Always devoted to his associate’s subtle commands. “I’ll be right down.”

Margaret nodded. She had done the right thing. She knew that Deanna wouldn’t have wanted him upstairs in the studio. She had shown him into the icelike green living room and offered him a cup of tea, which he’d declined with a grin. He was as different from Marc-Edouard as two men could be, and Margaret had always liked him. He was rugged, American, and easygoing, and somewhere in his eyes was always the promise of a rich Irish smile.

Deanna found him standing at the window, looking out at the summer fog drifting in slowly over the bay. It looked like puffs of white cotton being pulled by an invisible string, floating between the spires of the bridge, and hanging in midair over the sailboats.

“Hello, Jim.”

“Madam.” He executed a small bow and made as though to kiss her hand. But she waved the gesture away with a gurgle of laughter and offered her cheek, which he unceremoniously kissed. “I must admit I prefer that. Kissing hands is an art I’ve never quite mastered. You never know if they’re going to shake with you, or expect to be kissed. Couple of times I damn near got my nose broken by the ones who planned to shake.”

She laughed at him and sat down. “You’ll have to get Marc to give you lessons. He’s a genius at it. It’s either the Frenchman in him or a sixth sense. How about a drink?”

“Love it.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Margaret seemed to think I should have tea.”

“How awful.”

She was laughing again, and he watched her appreciatively as she opened a small inlaid cabinet and withdrew two glasses and a bottle of Scotch.

“Drinking, Deanna?” He said it casually but he was surprised. He had never seen her drink Scotch. Maybe Marc-Edouard had had a good reason after all for suggesting he come by. But she was already shaking her head.

“I thought I’d have some ice water. Were you worried?” She looked at him with amusement as she returned with his glass.

“A little.”

“Don’t worry, love. I haven’t hit the bottle yet.” Her eyes seemed suddenly wistful as she took a sip from her own glass and set it down carefully on a marble table. “But it’s going to be a mighty long summer.” She sighed and looked up at him with a smile. Gently, he reached over and patted her hand.

“I know. Maybe we can go to the movies sometime.”

“You’re a sweetheart, but don’t you have anything better to do?” She knew he did. He had been divorced for four years and was living with a model who had moved out from New York a few months ago. He adored that type, and they always loved him. Tall, handsome, athletic, with Irish-blue eyes and ebony black hair, barely salted with gray. He was the perfect contrast to Marc-Edouard in every possible way, easygoing when Marc was formal; All-American, unlike Marc’s totally European manner; and surprisingly unassuming, in contrast to Marc-Edouard’s barely concealed arrogance. It had always struck Deanna as odd that Marc had chosen Jim as his partner, but it had been a wise choice. Marc’s own special brilliance was matched by Jim’s; their stars just shone differently, and they moved in their own very separate orbits. The Durases rarely saw Jim socially. He was busy with his own life, and his collection of models, now dwindled to one-for the moment. Jim never stayed with one woman long.

“What are you up to these days?”

He smiled at her. “Work, play, the usual. You?”

“Fiddling around in my studio, also the usual.” She played it down as she always did.

“What about this summer? Have you made any plans?”

“Not yet, but I will. Maybe I’ll go see some friends in Santa Barbara or something.”

“God.” He made a horrible face, and she laughed.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You’d have to be eighty years old to enjoy that. Why don’t you go down to Beverly Hills? Pretend you’re a movie star, have lunch at the Polo Lounge, have yourself paged.”

“Is that what you do?” She laughed at the idea.

“Of course. Every weekend.” He chuckled and set down his empty glass, glancing at his watch. “Never mind. I’ll get you organized in no time, but now” -he looked regretful- “I have to run.”

“Thank you for stopping by. It was kind of a long afternoon. It’s strange with both of them gone.”

He nodded appreciatively, suddenly sobered. He remembered the feeling from the time when his wife and their two boys had first moved out. He had thought he’d go nuts, just from the silence.

“I’ll call you.”

“Good. And Jim”-she looked at him for a long moment-“thanks.”

He rumpled her long dark hair, kissed her forehead, and departed, waving at her as he slid into his black Porsche, thinking that Marc was crazy. Deanna Duras was one woman he’d have given almost anything to get his hands on. Of course he was too smart to play with that kind of fire, but he still thought Duras was nuts. Christ, he never even realized what a little beauty she was. Or did he? Jim Sullivan wondered to himself as he drove away, and Deanna softly closed the door.