Danielle Steel - The Promise

“Yes.” Marie nodded with a small taut smile. “Mrs. Hillyard?” But she knew. She had not seen Marion that May night because her eyes had been bandaged, but she had seen enough photographs around Michael's apartment. She would have recognized his mother in a back alley in Tokyo. This was the woman who had haunted her dreams for two years. This was the woman she had once wanted as her mother and friend, but no more.

“How do you do?” Marion extended a cool, firm hand, and they shook hands ceremoniously just inside the door, before Marion made a gesture toward the suite. “Won't you come in?”

“Thank you.”

The two women eyed each other with interest and caution, and Marion seated herself easily in a chair near the table. She had had room service set up a tea service there and some soft drinks for her guest. It seemed a great deal of trouble to go to for a girl who had already cost her almost half a million dollars. If this was the girl. She eyed her carefully, but she could see nothing. There was no resemblance to any of the photographs she had seen over the years. This was not the same girl. At least she didn't seem to be. But Marion sat back to watch her, and listen. She would always remember that torn, broken voice as they had made the agreement.

“What may I offer you to drink? Tea? Soda? We can order a drink if you like.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Hillyard. I'd really just prefer to …” But her voice trailed off as they watched each other, the pretext of their meeting almost forgotten as the older woman appraised the younger, watched her move, studied the shape and texture of her hair, and then glanced quickly at the overall picture again. She was a terribly pretty girl, in very expensive clothes. Marion found herself wondering if she were spending her living allowance on outfits like that one. Her wool dress bore the distinct mark of Paris, her suede handbag and shoes were Gucci, and her unassuming beige trench coat was lined in a dark fur that looked to Marion like possum.

“That's a very attractive coat, by the way. Must be a marvelous weight for this city. I envy you the easy climate. I left New York in two feet of snow. Or rather,” she smiled winningly at the girl, “two inches of snow, and twenty-two inches of slush. Do you know New York?”

It was a loaded question and Marie knew it, but she could answer it honestly. She had lived in New England, but spent little time in New York. Had she married Michael, she would have lived there. But she hadn't. Her face set and something hardened in her voice. “No, I don't know it very well. I'm not really a big-city person.” She was pure Marie now, there wasn't a trace of Nancy.

“I find that hard to believe. You look extremely “big-city' to me.” Marion smiled at her again, but it was the smile of a barracuda eying a small and tender minnow.

“Thank you.” And then without further ado, Marie reached toward her portfolio, put it on her lap as Marion watched her, and unzipped the case. She smilingly handed Marion a thick black book with copies of her work. The book was large and unwieldy, and the older woman seemed to falter as she took it. It was then that Marie noticed the violent trembling of her hands, and how weak she was when she tried to hold the book. Time had not been kind to Marion Hillyard after all. Was it possible that some of her own ugly prayers had been answered? She watched the woman intently, but Marion seemed to regain her composure as she silently turned the pages.

“I can see why Ben Avery was so anxious to sign you for our center. You do extraordinarily fine work. You must have been at this for years.” For once it was an innocent question, and Marie shook her head.

“No, photography is new to me. I was a painter before.”

“Ah yes, Ben mentioned that.” Yet Marion seemed surprised. She had actually forgotten this might be Nancy McAllister she was talking to, she was so engrossed in the beautiful work. “Are you as good as this at painting?”

“I thought I was.” Marie smiled at the woman. An almost eerie exchange was going on. She felt as though she were watching Marion Hillyard through a trick mirror: she could see Marion plainly, yet the person Marion saw was actually someone else. Marie thought that she alone knew the secret. “I like photography just as much now.”

“Why did you change?” Marion looked up, intrigued.

“Because everything in my life changed very suddenly, so much so that I became a new person. The painting was part of that old life, that old me. It hurt too much to bring it with me.” Marion almost winced at the words.

“I see. Well, the world hasn't suffered a loss, from what I can see anyway. You're a marvelous photographer. Who got you started? Undoubtedly one of the local greats. There are so many out here.”

But Marie only shook her head, with a small smile. It was strange. She had come here to hate this woman, and now she found that she couldn't. Not quite. She didn't like her. But she couldn't hate her, either. She looked so tired and frail beneath the bravado and the pearls. She wore a death mask carefully concealed with good makeup, but beneath the veneer lurked the sorrows of autumn, with winter already clutching at her heels. Marie forced herself back to the woman's question, trying to remember what that question was…. Oh, yes.

“No, actually, it was a friend who got me started. My doctor, in fact. He's been responsible for getting me launched as a photographer. He knows everyone in town.”

“Peter Gregson.” The words were soft and dreamy on Marion Hillyard's lips, as though she hadn't meant to speak them, and then they were both shocked into silence.

“Do you know him?” Why had the woman said that? Did she know? But she couldn't. Had Peter … No, he'd never do that.

“I… yes …” Marion hesitated for a long moment and then looked at her squarely. “Yes, Nancy, I do. He did a beautiful job on you.” It was a long shot. A wild guess. But she had to say it, even if she made a fool of herself. She had to know.

“There must be some misunderstanding. My name is Marie—” and then, like a rag doll, she crumpled. There were tears in her eyes as she stood up and walked away to stand at the window with her back to the room. “How did you know?” The voice was shattered and angry. The voice of two years before. Marion sat back in her chair, tired but relieved. Somehow it comforted her to know she had been right. She had not made this difficult trip for nothing. “Did someone tell you?” Marie demanded.

“No. I guessed. I don't even know why. But I had a feeling the first time Ben mentioned you to us. The details fit.”

“Did—” Goddamn. She wanted to ask her about him. She wanted to … Would this never leave her life? Would they never go away? “Why did you come here? To reconfirm our little deal?” Marie wheeled on her heels at the window, to stare at the woman who tormented her. “To make sure I'd stick with my promise?”

“You've already proven that.” Marion's voice was tired and gentle, and uncharacteristically old. “No, I'm not even sure I understand it myself, but I came to see you. To talk to you. To find out how you are, if indeed it was you.”

“Why now? Why should I be so interesting after two years?” Suddenly there was venom in Marie's voice, and hatred in her eyes. The she had dreamed of spewing for months. “Why now, Mrs. Hillyard, or were you just curious to take a look at Gregson's work? Was that it? Well, how do you like your four hundred-thousand-dollar baby? Was it worth it?”

“Why don't you answer that? Was it? Are you pleased?” She hoped so. She suddenly, desperately hoped so. They had all paid such a high price for that new face. It had been wrong. Suddenly she was sure of it. But it was too late. They were not the same people anymore. She could see that in the girl as much as she could in Michael. It was far, far too late, for either of them. They would have to find their dreams somewhere else. “You're a very beautiful girl now, Marie.”