“You're a long way away, Mr. Hillyard. Someplace pleasant, I hope.”

He shrugged. “Spring does strange things to me. It kind of makes me stop from year to year and take stock. I think that's what I was doing today.”

“That's a nice idea. For some reason, I always do that in September. I think the idea of the ‘school year’ marked me forever. A lot of other people take stock in January. But spring makes the most sense. Everything is starting again, so why wouldn't we start our lives again each spring?” They exchanged a smile and Michael looked out over the little lake, still except for a few contented-looking ducks. There were no other people in sight. “What were you doing this time last year?” She went on. It was an innocent question, but it cut through him like a knife. A year ago on that day …

“Nothing very different from what I'm doing now.” He furrowed his brow, looked at his watch, and stood up. “I'm afraid I have a meeting in ten minutes. I'd better be getting back. But it was nice chatting with you.” He barely smiled at her before striding away, and she sat there wondering what she had said. She'd have to ask Ben sometime what was wrong with the guy. You couldn't get within a thousand miles of him.





Chapter 14




Much to Michael's surprise, Wendy was scheduled into the same meeting he was, ten minutes later. Ben had wanted her there. They were going to discuss the very early plans for the San Francisco Medical Center, and Interior Design would be a big factor. A lot of local art would be used to highlight the basic design. Ben was going to take care of finding that art himself, but Wendy would be doing a lot of the coordinating on the home front—more than usual, since Ben would be in San Francisco a lot of the time. The project was, of course, a long way away, but it was time to start working out the plans and the problems and the details.

It was a long, demanding, interesting meeting, run in great part by Marion, with George Calloway's assistance. But Michael took an almost equal part in the proceedings. This project was his; his mother had wanted it to be, from the first. Every major architectural firm in the country had been lusting after this job, and Marion intended to use it to establish Michael's name and reputation in the business.

It was almost six o'clock when the meeting ended, and Wendy was drained. She had presented her ideas well, stood up to Marion when she had to, and made a great deal of sense to Mike. Ben was proud of her and patted her on the shoulder as they left.

“Nice job, kid. Damn nice job.” He was called away by his secretary then, and Wendy continued down the corridor alone. She was surprised when Mike stopped her, too.

“I was very impressed with your work, Wendy. I think that together we're going to pull off a beautiful job out there.”

“So do I.” She virtually glowed with the praise, and from him of all people. “I … Michael, I… I'm really sorry if I said anything to offend you this afternoon. I really didn't mean to pry, and if it was an inappropriate question, I'm awfully …”

He felt a pang for her discomfiture and put up a hand to stop her as he smiled gently down at her. “I was rude and I apologize. I guess spring fever makes me crazy as well as dreamy. Can I make it up to you this evening with dinner?” He was as surprised as she was when the words tumbled out of his mouth. Dinner? He hadn't had dinner with a woman in a year. But she was a nice girl, she was doing a good job, and she meant well. And she was looking up at him, pink-cheeked and embarrassed.

“I … you don't have to …”

“I know, but I'd like to.” And this time he meant it. “Are you free?”

“Yes. And I'd love to.”

“Fine. Then I'll pick you up at your place in an hour.” He jotted the address on the back of his notepad and smiled as he hurried back to his office. It was a crazy thing to do, but why the hell not?

He arrived punctually at her apartment an hour later, and he liked what he saw. It was a neat little brownstone with a shiny black door and a large brass knocker. The house was divided into four apartments, and Wendy had the smallest one, but hers boasted a perfectly kept little garden in the back. Her apartment was a wonderful mesh of old and new, antique shop, thrift shop, and good modern; it was all done in soft warm colors with soft lighting, plants, and candles. She seemed to have a great fondness for old silver, all of which she had polished to mirror perfection. He looked around him with pleasure, and sat down to enjoy the hors d'oeuvres she had made. They drank Bloody Marys and exchanged absurdities about the various projects they had worked on. An hour flew by in easy conversation, and Michael hated to break it up and move on to dinner, but he had made reservations at a French restaurant nearby, and they never held latecomers' tables for more than five minutes.

“I'm afraid we'll have to run if we want to make it. Or do we really care?” He was startled to hear her voice his own thoughts, and he wasn't quite sure what the mischief in her eyes meant. It had been so long since he'd been out with anyone that he was afraid to misinterpret and make the wrong move.

“Just exactly what are you thinking, Miss Townsend? Is the thought as outrageous as the look on your face?”

“Worse. I was thinking we could put together a picnic and go watch the boats on the East River.” She looked like a little kid with a naughty idea. There they both were, dressed for dinner, he in a dark suit and she in a black silk dress, and she was proposing a picnic on the East River.

“It sounds terrific. Do you have any peanut butter?”

“Certainly not” She looked offended. “But I make my own pâté, Mr. Hillyard. And I have sourdough bread.” She looked very proud of herself, and Michael was suitably impressed.

“My God. I was thinking more in the line of peanut butter and jelly, or hot dogs.”

“Never.” With a grin, she disappeared into the kitchen, where in ten minutes she concocted the perfect picnic for two. Some leftover ratatouille, the promised pâté, a loaf of sourdough bread, a healthy hunk of Brie, three very ripe pears, some grapes, and a small bottle of wine. “Does that seem like enough?” She looked worried, and he laughed.

“Are you serious? I haven't eaten that well since I was twelve. I live mostly on leftover roast beef sandwiches and whatever my secretary feeds me when I'm not looking. Probably dog food, I never notice.”

“That's great. It's a wonder you don't die of starvation.” He wasn't starving, but he was certainly very thin. “Are we all set?” She looked around the living room and picked up a delicate beige shawl while Michael gathered up the picnic basket. Then they were off. They walked the few blocks to the East River, found a bench, and settled themselves happily to look at the boats. It was a beautiful warm night with a sky full of stars, and the river was well populated with tugs, cabin cruisers, and even a few sailboats from time to time, out for an evening excursion. Mike and Wendy weren't the only ones with spring fever.

“Is this your first job, Wendy?” His mouth was half-full of pâté, and he looked younger than he had in a year.

She nodded happily. “Yes. First one I applied for, too. I was really glad I got it. As soon as I graduated from Parsons I came straight to you.”

“That's nice. It's my first job, too.” He was dying to ask her how she liked his mother, but he didn't dare. It wouldn't have been fair. Besides, if the girl had any sense at all, she must hate her. Marion Hillyard was a monster to work for; even Michael knew that.

“You should do well there, Michael.” She was teasing him again, and he laughed.

“What are you going to do after this? Get married and have kids?”

“I don't know. Maybe. But if I do, it won't be for a long time yet. I want a career first. I can always have kids later, in my thirties.”

“Boy, things sure have changed. Used to be everyone was hot to get married.” He grinned at his new friend.

“Some girls still are hot to get married.” She smiled at him and took a little piece of the Brie with a slice of pear. It had been an excellent dinner. “You want to get married?” She glanced at him curiously, and he shook his head as he looked out at the boats. “Never?” He turned to face her and shook his head again, and something in his eyes cried out to her. She wasn't sure if she should get off the question or not. She decided to ask him. “Should I ask why, or should I let it be?”

“Maybe it doesn't matter anymore. I've been running away from it for a whole year. I even ran away from you today at lunch. I can't run forever.” He paused for a moment, looked down at his hands, then back up at her. “I was supposed to get married last year, and on the way to the wedding; Ben Avery, and … and … my fiancée and I … were in a car accident. The other driver was killed, and so was. She was, too.” He didn't cry, but he felt as though his insides had been shredded. Wendy was looking at him with wide, horrified eyes.

“Oh God, Michael, how awful. It sounds like a nightmare.”

“It was. I was in a coma for a couple of days, and when I came to, she was already gone. I … I …” He almost couldn't say the words, but now he had to. He had to tell someone. He had never even told Ben. “I went back to her apartment when I got out of the hospital two weeks later, but it was already empty. Someone had just called Goodwill, and her paintings had … had been stolen by a couple of nurses from the hospital. She was an artist.” They sat in silence for a long time, and then he said the words again, as though to understand them better himself. “There was nothing left. Of me either, I guess.” When he looked up he saw tears running down Wendy's face.