Danielle Steel - Summer’s End

Dammit, why didn’t he ask her to go with him, to commute between Athens and Paris. For a wild moment Deanna thought of suggesting it to him, but she knew he wouldn’t let her go. He liked to be free when he worked. He would never take her along.

“Can you manage alone?” he said now.

“Do I have a choice? Do you mean I could say no and you wouldn’t go?” She turned her face up to his.

“You know that’s not possible.”

“Yes, I do.” She was silent for a time and then shrugged with a small smile. “I’ll manage.”

“I know you will.”

How do you know dammit? How do you know? What if I can’t? What if I need you?… What if…

“You’re a very good wife, Deanna.”

For a brief second she didn’t know whether to thank him or slap him. “What does that mean? That I don’t complain very much? Maybe I should.” Her smile hid what she felt and allowed him to dodge what he chose not to answer.

“No, you shouldn’t. You are perfect the way you are.”

“Merci, monsieur.” She stood up then and turned away so he would not see her face. “Will you pack yourself, or do you want me to pack for you?”

“I’ll do it myself. You go to bed. I’ll be there in a while.”

Deanna watched him dart around his dressing room, then disappear downstairs, to his study, she assumed. She had turned off the lights in the bedroom and was lying very still on her side of the bed when he returned.

“Tu dors? Are you asleep?”

“No.” Her voice was husky in the dark.

“ Bon .”

Good? Why? What did it matter if she were asleep or not? Would he talk to her, tell her that he loved her, that he was sorry he was going? He wasn’t sorry and they both knew it. This was what he loved to do, gad about the world, plying his trade, enjoying his work and his reputation. He adored it. He slid into bed, and they lay there for a time, awake, pensive, silent.

“Are you angry that I’m going away for so long?”

She shook her head. “No, not angry, sorry. I’ll miss you. Very much.”

“It will pass quickly.” She didn’t answer, and he propped himself up on one elbow to study her face in the dark room. “I’m sorry. Deanna.”

“So am I.” He ran a hand gently across her hair and smiled at her, and she turned her head slowly to look at him.

“You’re still very pretty, Deanna. Do you know that? You’re even prettier than you were as a girl. Very handsome in fact.” But she didn’t want to be handsome, she wanted to be his, as she had been so long ago. His Diane. “Pilar will be beautiful one day too.” He said it with pride.

“She already is.” Deanna said it dispassionately, without anger.

“Are you jealous of her?”

He almost seemed to like the idea, and Deanna wondered. Maybe it made him feel important. Or young. But she answered him anyway. Why not? “Yes, sometimes I’m jealous of her. I’d like to be that young again, that free, that sure of what life owes me. At her age it’s all so obvious: You deserve the best, you’ll get the best. I used to think so too.”

“And now, Deanna? Has life paid you its debt?”

“In some ways.” Her eyes held a certain sadness as they met his. For the first time in years he was reminded of the eighteen-year-old orphan who had sat across from him in his office wearing the little black Dior dress. He wondered if he had truly made her unhappy, if she really wanted more. But he had given her so much. Jewels, cars, furs, a home. All the things most women wanted. What more could she possibly want? He looked at her for a very long time, his eyes questioning, his face creased with a sudden thought. Was it possible that he really did not understand?

“Deanna…?” He didn’t want to ask, but suddenly he had to. There was too much in her eyes. “Are you unhappy?”

She looked at him squarely and wanted to say yes. But she was afraid. She would lose him; he would leave her, and then what? She didn’t want to lose Marc. She wanted more of him.

“Are you unhappy?” He repeated the question and looked pained to realize what the answer was. She didn’t have to say the words. Suddenly it was clear. Even to him.

“Sometimes I am. And sometimes not. Much of the time I don’t give it much thought. I miss… I miss the old days though, when we first met, when we were very young.” Her voice was very small as she said it.

“We’ve grown up, Deanna, you can’t change that.” He leaned toward her and touched her chin with his hand, as though perhaps he might kiss her. But the hand fell away, as did the thought. “You were such a charming child.” He smiled at the memory of what he had felt. “I hated your father for leaving you in that mess.”

“So did I. But that was just the way he was. I’ve made peace with all that.”

“Have you?” She nodded. “Are you quite sure?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I sometimes think you still resent him. I think that’s why you continue to paint. Just to prove to yourself that you can still do something on your own, if you ever have to.” He looked at her more closely then, his forehead wrinkling into a frown. “You won’t ever have to, you know. I’ll never leave you in the condition that your father did.”

“I’m not worried about that. And you’re wrong. I paint because I love it, because it’s a part of me.” He had never wanted to believe that, that her artwork was part of her soul.

He didn’t answer for a time but lay looking up at the ceiling, turning things around in his mind. “Are you terribly cross that I’m going away for the summer?”

“I told you, I’m not. I’ll simply paint, relax, read, see some of my friends.”

“Will you go out a great deal?” He sounded worried, and she was amused. He was a fine one to ask about that.

“I don’t know, silly. I’ll let you know if I’m asked. I’m sure there’ll be the usual dinner parties, benefits, concerts, that sort of thing.” He nodded again, saying nothing. “Marc-Edouard, are you jealous?” There was laughter in her eyes, and then she laughed aloud as he turned to look into her face. “Oh, you are! Don’t be silly! After all these years?”

“What better time?”

“Don’t be absurd, darling. That’s not my style.” He knew that was true.

“I know that. But, on ne sait jamais. One never knows.”

“How can you say something like that?”

“Because I have a beautiful wife, with whom any man in his right mind would be crazy not to fall in love.” It was the most elaborate speech he had made to her in years. She showed her surprise. “What? You think I haven’t noticed? Deanna, now you are being absurd. You are a young and beautiful woman.”

“Good. Then don’t go to Greece.” She was smiling up at him again, like a very young girl. But he didn’t look amused now.

“I have to. You know that.”

“All right. Then take me with you.” There was an unaccustomed note in her voice, half teasing, half serious. He didn’t answer for a long time. “Well? Can I go?”

He shook his head. “No, you can’t.”

“Well, then I guess you’ll just have to be jealous.” They hadn’t teased like this in years and years. His going away for three months had produced an assortment of very odd feelings. But she didn’t want to push him too far. “Seriously, darling, you don’t have to worry.”

“I hope not.”

“Marc! Arrête! Stop it!” She leaned forward and reached for his hand, and he let her take it in hers. “I love you… do you know that?”

“Yes. Do you know as well that I love you?”

Her eyes grew very serious as they looked into his. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.” He was always too busy to show her he loved her, and it wasn’t his style. But now something told her that she had hit home, and she was stunned as she watched him. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he realize what he had done? The wall he had built around himself, surrounded by business and work, gone for days or weeks, and now months, and his only ally Pilar? “I’m sorry, darling. I suppose you do. But sometimes I have to remind myself of it.”