“She ditched me for George.”

“Sensible of her.” The three of them had been shuffling around together on the dance floor and Wendy was starting to laugh. Seeing the two of them together this way was like getting a glimpse of the Ben and Michael of years gone by. This was the kind of occasion they had once thrived on. A good healthy dose of champagne, an occasion worth celebrating, and they were off.

“Listen, Avery, are you going to get lost, or aren't you? I want to dance with your fiancé.”

“And what if I don't want you to?”

“Then I dance with both of you, and my mother throws us out?” Wendy was grinning again. They were like two kids, dying to raise hell at a birthday party. They were just breaking into a song about “a girl in Rhode Island” that was beginning to worry her.

“Listen you two, this is supposed to be twice as much fun. Instead, I'm getting both my feet walked on at once. Why don't we all go have some wedding cake?”

“Shall we?” Ben and Michael eyed each other, nodded in unison, and each obligingly took one of Wendy's arms and led her off the floor, as Michael looked over her head and winked at Ben.

“Cute, but I think she's crocked. Did you notice the way she danced? My shoes are practically ruined.”

“You should see mine.” Ben spoke in a stage whisper, over her left shoulder, and Wendy sharply elbowed them both.

“Listen, you creeps, has anyone seen my shoes? Not to mention my poor aching feet, dancing with you two drunken louts.”

“Louts?” Ben looked at her, horrified, and Michael started to laugh as he accepted three plates of wedding cake from a uniformed maid, and then proceeded to juggle the plates, almost dropping two.

“Never mind her. The cake looks terrific. Here.” Michael handed a plate to each of the other two, and the three leaned against a convenient column and watched the action as they ate, eyeing dowagers in gray lace, young girls in pink chiffon, cascades of pearls, and a river of assorted gems.

“Jesus, just think what we could make if we held them up.” Michael looked enchanted with his idea.

“I never thought of that. We should have done it years ago. Up at school, when we were broke.” They nodded sagely at each other, as Wendy looked at them with a suspicious grin.

“I'm not sure I should trust you two alone while I go to powder my nose.”

“Not to worry. I'll keep an eye on him, Wendy.” Michael winked broadly and polished off another glass of champagne. Wendy had never seen him like this, but he amused her. Ben had been right. He was human after all. Seeing him that way, giddy and silly, was like meeting him five years before, or even two.

“I don't think either of you could uncross your eyes long enough to keep an eye on anything, let alone each other.”

“Bull… I mean… oh, go to the can, Wendy, we're in great shape.” He accepted two more glasses of champagne, handed one to Michael, and waved his fiancée off in the direction of the ladies' room. “She's a hell of a girl, Mike. I'm glad you didn't get mad when I told you about … about us.”

“How could I get mad? She's just right for you. Besides, I'm too busy for that stuff.”

“One of these days you won't be.”

“Maybe so. In the meantime, the rest of you can run off and get married. Me, I have a business to run.” But for once he didn't look grim when he said it. He looked over his glass of champagne with a grin, and toasted his friend. “To us.”





Chapter 25




The plane set down gently in San Francisco as Michael snapped shut his briefcase. He had a thousand things to do in the week to come. Doctors to see, meetings to attend, building sites to visit, architects to organize, and people, and plans and demands and conferences, and … damn … that photographer, too. He wondered how he'd find time for it all. But he would. He always did. He'd give up sleeping or eating or something. He took his raincoat out of the overhead rack where he had folded it, put it over his arm, and followed the other passengers out of first class. He felt the stewardesses eyes on him. He always did. He ignored them. They didn't interest him. Besides, he didn't have time. He looked at his watch. He knew there would be a car waiting for him at the terminal. It was two twenty in the afternoon. He had done a full day's work in half a day at the office in New York, and now he had time for at least four or five hours of meetings here. Tomorrow morning he had a breakfast conference scheduled for seven. That was the way he ran his life. That was the way he liked it. All he cared about was his work. That and a handful of people. Two of whom were happily off in Majorca by now, at the house of friends, and the other of whom was in Wendy's good hands in New York. They were all taken care of. And so was he. He had the medical center to pull together. And it was coming along beautifully. He smiled to himself as he walked into the terminal. This baby was his.

“Mr. Hillyard?” The driver recognized him immediately, and he nodded. “The car is over here.”

Michael settled back in the car while the driver retrieved his luggage from the chaos inside. It was certainly pleasant to be in San Francisco again. It had been a freezing cold March day when he left New York, and it was sixty-five in San Francisco that afternoon. All around him, the world was already green and lovely and lush. In New York, the trees were still barren and brittle and gray, and green would be a forgotten color for another month. It was hard waiting for spring in New York. It always seemed as though it would never come. And just when you gave up, and decided that nothing would ever be green again, the first buds would appear, bringing back hope. Michael had forgotten how pleasant spring was. He never noticed. He didn't have time.

The driver took him straight to his hotel, where some minor employee of the company had already checked him in and seen to it that his suite was in order for the first meeting. He had reserved two suites, one in which he could stay, the other for meetings. And if necessary there could be conferences held simultaneously in both. It was nine o'clock that night before he was through with his work, and tiredly he called room service and asked for a steak. It was mid-night in New York, and he was beat. But it had been a fruitful few hours, and he was pleased. He settled back on the couch, pulled off his tie, threw his feet up on the coffee table, and closed his eyes. And then it was as though he heard his mother's voice in the room. “Did you call that girl?” Oh, Christ. The words sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room, which still reeked of cigarette smoke, and the round of Scotches they'd ordered at the end. But the girl… well, why not? He had the time, while he waited for his steak. It might keep him from falling asleep. He reached for his briefcase, found the number in a file, and dialed from where he sat. The phone rang three or four times before she answered.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Miss Adamson, this is Michael Hillyard.”

She felt herself almost gasp and had to sharply control her breathing. “I see. Are you in San Francisco, Mr. Hillyard?” Her voice was clipped and brusque; she sounded almost angry. Maybe he had gotten her at a bad time, or maybe she didn't like to be called at home. He didn't really care.

“Yes, I am, Miss Adamson. And I was wondering if we might get together. We have a few things to discuss.”

“No. We have absolutely nothing to discuss. I thought I made that very clear to your mother.” She was trembling all over and clutching the phone.

“Then perhaps she forgot to relay the message.” He was beginning to sound as uptight as she. “She had a mild heart attack just after her meeting with you. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the meeting, but she didn't tell me a great deal about what either of you said. Understandably, given the circumstances.”

“Yes.” Marie seemed to pause. “I'm sorry to hear it. Is she all right now?”

“Very much so.” Michael smiled. “She got married last week. Right now she's in Majorca.”

How sweet. The bitch. She ruins my life and goes on a honeymoon. Marie wanted to grit her teeth, or slam down the phone.

“But that's neither here nor there. When can we meet?”

“I've already told you. We can't.” She almost spat the words through the phone, and he closed his eyes again. He was really too tired to be bothered.

“All right. I concede. For now. I'm at the Fairmont. If you change your mind, call.”

“I won't.”

“Fine.”

“Good night, Mr. Hillyard.”

“Good night, Miss Adamson.”

She was surprised at how quickly he ended the conversation. And he hadn't really sounded like Michael. He sounded worn out, as though he didn't really give a damn. Just what had happened to him in the last two years? She sat wondering for a long time after she hung up the phone.





Chapter 26




“Darling, you're so solemn-looking. Is anything wrong?” Peter looked at her across the lunch table, and she shook her head, toying with her glass of wine.

“No. I'm just thinking of some new work. I want to start a new project tomorrow. That always keeps me preoccupied.” But she was lying and they both knew it. Ever since Michael had called the night before, she had been catapulted back into the past. All she could think of was that last day. The bicycling, the fair, the gaudy blue beads, burying them at the beach, and then dressing in the white eyelet dress and blue satin cap to run off and marry Michael … and then his mother's voice as she lay bandaged and unseeing in her hospital bed. It was like having a movie shown constantly before her eyes. She couldn't get away from it.