“I suspected that when you hired her. She's a hell of a nice girl. Better than I deserved.” And then he smiled again. “And probably better than you deserve too. Hey, wait a minute.” There was pure mischief in his eyes now. “Is this serious by any chance?”

Ben grinned at his friend and then nodded. “I think so.”

“Jesus. You mean it? You're thinking of getting married?” He was stunned. Where had he been? Why hadn't he noticed? Of course, Ben had been away for a month, but still … he hadn't paid attention to things like that in two years. “I'll be goddamned. Married, Avery. Jesus. Are you sure?”

“I didn't say that. But we're thinking about it. I'd say the odds are all for it. Do you have any objections?” But they both knew he was only teasing. The awkward moment was already past.

“No objections whatsoever.” He sat there shaking his head, with a grin on his face. “I feel like I missed a page here and there. Or have you been particularly discreet?”

“No, not at all. You've just been particularly busy. All work and no play. It will make you rich and celebrated in your field, but totally out of touch with office gossip.” Ben was only half teasing, and Mike knew it.

“You could have told me, you jerk.”

“You're right and I'm sorry, and when there's big news to report, I will. Speaking of which, will you be my—” And then he could have bitten off his tongue for what he had started to ask. He had been acting as Mike's best man the night of the accident, and now he had almost asked Mike to be his. “Never mind. There's plenty of time.” Mike stood up, nodded, and went to shake hands with his friend, but there was something dark and hidden in his eyes again. He knew only too well what Ben had been about to say.

“Congratulations, old man.” The smile was genuine, but so was the pain. “And don't worry about the photographer in San Francisco. If she's really as good as you say we'll hit her with a fat contract and a good deal, and she'll give in. She's just playing games.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Trust me. I am.” Mike saluted smartly and then disappeared as Ben mused over what they had said. He felt better now that Mike knew. He was only sorry for his own stupid tactlessness. Even after all this time, any reference to Nancy caused explosions of agony in his friend's eyes. He hated himself for bringing it up, but it had seemed a natural question to ask and he hadn't thought first. He shook his head with regret and then went back to the work on his desk. He had barely an hour before the big meeting with Marion. And it seemed like only moments later when Wendy knocked on the open door and beckoned him with a smile.

“Come on, Ben. We have to be in Marion's office in five minutes.”

“Already?” He looked up nervously from his desk, and then smiled as he looked at her. She was just exactly what he had always wanted. “By the way, I told Mike this morning.” He looked pleased with himself.

“Told him what?” Her mind was on the medical center in San Francisco and the meeting with Marion. Meetings with the great white goddess of architecture always scared the hell out of her.

“I told him about us, silly. I think he was actually pleased.”

“I'm glad.” She didn't really care, but she knew it meant something to Ben. She really didn't give a damn about Mike anymore, one way or the other. He had been unkind and unfeeling, absent from every moment they had ever spent together. It was almost as though nothing had ever happened between them. “Ready for the meeting?”

“More or less. I tried the Adamson girl again this morning. She told me to go to hell.”

“That's a shame.” They talked about it quietly as they walked down the hall to the private elevator that led to Marion's ivory tower in the penthouse. Everything on that floor was the color of sand, even the elevator, which was entirely carpeted, floor, ceiling, and walls. It was like traveling upward in a soundless, plush, creamy-beige womb, until suddenly you reached the floor which housed Marion's office with its spectacular view. Wendy could feel her palms grow moist on the file she was carrying. Marion Hillyard always made her feel like that, no matter how pleasant she was: Wendy had seen what lay beneath the poise and the charm.

“Nervous?” Ben whispered it softly as they walked around a bend to the chrome and glass door to Marion's conference room.

“You bet.” They laughed with each other and then quietly took their seats in the long, plant-filled room. There was a Mary Cassatt on one wall, an early Picasso on another, and ahead of them lay all of New York, a magnificent view that always made Wendy feel almost dizzy as she sat there on the sixty-fifth floor. It was like taking off in a plane, except for the silence. Marion always seemed to move surrounded by a hush.

There were twenty-two people seated at the long smoked-glass conference table when Marion finally walked into the room flanked by George, Michael, and her secretary Ruth. Ruth carried an armful of files and George and Michael were engaged in an earnest conversation. Little by little George had been turning over the reins over to Michael, and was surprised to find it a relief. Only Marion seemed interested in the group, and she looked around at the faces, making sure everyone was there. She looked the same sandy color as her decor today, but Wendy assumed it was simply New York pallor. She had grown so accustomed to seeing tanned faces on the West Coast that it was a bit of a shock to come back to New York and realize how pale everyone still was in the dead of the Eastern winter.

But Marion looked as chic as ever in a dress that appeared to be Givenchy or Dior, of simple, heavy black wool, relieved by four rows of very large, perfectly matched pearls. Her nail polish was dark, and she seemed to be wearing very little makeup. Even Michael thought she looked unusually pale and was probably working too hard on this project, and ten other projects as well. His mother had her finger in every pie baked by the firm. That was just the way she was. And Michael was following in her footsteps. She admired the total dedication of his work for the past two years. That was how successful empires were kept healthy, infused by the life's blood of those who nurtured them. Sacred guardians. Keepers of the holy grail.

Marion was the first to speak. She reached over for the first folder in front of Ruth and began questioning the group, department by department, discussing the various problems that had come up in the last meeting, and checking up on their solutions. All went well until she got to Ben, and even there she was immensely pleased with what he and Wendy had to say. They explained their progress in San Francisco, the results of their meetings, all the new developments, and she checked off a list in front of her and looked over at Michael with pleasure. The San Francisco job was taking shape splendidly.

“We only had one problem.” Ben said it a little too softly and her eyes were instantly on him again.

“Oh? And what was that?”

“A young photographer. We saw her work and liked it very much. We wanted to discuss the possibility of signing her for the lobby art in all the major buildings. But she wouldn't talk to us.”

“What does that mean?” Marion did not look pleased.

“Just that. When she found out why I called her, she almost hung up on me.” Marion raised an eyebrow in query.

“Did she know whom you represent?” As though that would change everything. Michael concealed a smile, as did Ben. Marion had such overwhelming pride in the firm, she expected everyone to want to do business with them.

“Yes. I'm afraid that didn't sway her. If anything, it seemed to anger her more.”

“Anger her?” For the first time all morning there was color in Marion's face, but her expression was grim. Who did she think she was, this young woman who turned up her nose at Cotter-Hillyard?

“Well, maybe anger is the wrong word. Maybe scared her off would be more appropriate.” It wouldn't, but it suited the need of the moment. To pacify Marion. The two bright red spots in her cheeks began to fade, to everyone's relief, especially Ben's.

“Is she worth pursuing?”

“I think so. And we brought back some samples of her work to show you. I hope you'll agree.”

“How did you get samples of her work if she wouldn't agree to discuss the job with you?”

“We bought them from her gallery. It was an extravagance, but if there's any problem with it, I'd be happy to buy tham from the firm myself. She does beautiful work.” And with that, Wendy quietly went to a table near the back wall and came back with a good-sized portfolio from which she took three very handsome color photographs Marie had shot in San Francisco. One was a park scenes, its composition simple; it showed an old man seated on a bench, watching some small children at play. The picture could have been sentimental, but wasn't: it was compassionate. The second was a wharf scene, the vitality of its crowds not detracting from the grinning shrimp vendor who dominated the foreground. And finally, a shimmering view of San Francisco at dusk—the city as tourists and residents alike loved to see it. Ben said nothing. He merely propped up the photographs and stood back. They were enlarged so that everyone could see clearly how fine the work was. Even Marion sat in silence for a long time, before finally nodding.

“You're right. She is worth pursuing.”

“I'm glad you agree.”

“Mike?” She turned to her son, but he seemed lost in thought as he looked at the work. There was something haunting and familiar about the quality of the art, the nature of the subjects. He wasn't sure what it was, but it instantly put him in a pensive mood that he fought to shake off. He wasn't sure why the photographs bothered him as they did, but even he had to agree that they were remarkably good work and would enhance any building with the Cotter-Hillyard name on it.