Danielle Steel: Passion's Promise

The papers said she was planning to go skiing, but it didn’t say where, and her hat was pulled so low over her face that Alejandro would never have known her if he hadn’t seen the name. As he looked at the picture, he marveled again at the absence of reporters on their last trip to San Francisco and back. In the state she’d been in, that would really have made news.

He sat for a long time in the small office with the paint peeling off the walls, looking at the picture, at the hat pulled low over the face. At the word, Geneva. And what now? When would he hear from her again? He still remembered the kiss of the last morning he’d seen her, only a few days ago. And now she was gone. He felt heavy, as though he were nailed to the chair, glued to the floor, part of the building and crumbling like the rest of it. Everything was going to pot in his life. His job stank, he hated the city, his best friend was dead, and he was in love with a girl he knew he could never have. Even if Luke had wanted it that way, as Alejandro suspected he might have…. There was something about Luke’s insistent summons to come out with Kezia that last time. Luke knew she’d need help. But it was never meant to be. He knew that, and Kezia must know it too. It was all very crazy, and he had to work out his own life. But he kept staring at the word, hating it. Geneva.

“Someone here to see you, Alejandro.” He looked up to see one of the kids poke his head in the door.

“Yeah? Who?”

“Perini’s probation officer, I think.”

“Tell him to get fucked.”

“For real?” The boy looked thrilled.

“No, not for real, asshole. Give me five minutes, and send him in.”

“What’ll I do with him for five minutes?”

“I don’t know, dammit. Do whatever you want to do. Beat him up, roll him, kick him down the stairs. Give him coffee …. I don’t give a shit what you do.” Alejandro threw the newspaper off his desk and into the garbage.

“Okay, man. Okay. Don’t get all pissed off.” He had never seen Alejandro like that before. It was scary.

The hotel in villars-sur-Ollon suited her purposes perfectly, high up in the mountains and in a town that was crawling with schools. There were virtually no tourists there, except a few visiting parents. She stayed in a huge hotel that was mostly uninhabited, and took tea with seven old ladies to the sound of violins and a cello. She went for long walks, drank a lot of hot chocolate, went to bed early, and read. Only Simpson and Edward knew where she was, and she had told them both to leave her alone. She didn’t plan to write until further notice, and even Edward had respected her wishes. He sent her weekly letters to keep her abreast of her financial news, and expected no response, which was just as well, because he got none. It was the middle of April before she was ready to leave.

She took the train to Milan, spent a night, and then went on to Florence. She mingled with the early spring tourists, toured the museums, wandered in and out of shops, walked along the Arno, and tried not to think. She did the same in Rome, and by then it was easier. It was May. The sun was warm, the people were lively, the street musicians were funny, and she ran into a few friends. She had dinner with them, and found that the urge to jump up and scream had finally left her. Little by little, she was healing.

In the early weeks of June, she rented a Fiat and drove north to Umbria, and to Spoleto where later in the summer the music festival would be held. And then she drove through the Alps, and eventually into France.

She danced in St. Tropez in July, and gambled in Monte Carlo, boarded the yacht of friends in St. Jean-Cap Ferrat for a weekend, and bought new Gucci luggage in Cannes. She began to write again when she drove up through Provence, and spent three weeks lost in a tiny hotel, where the terrine was superb, better than any pâté she had eaten.

Luke’s book reached her there, hesitantly sent to her by Simpson, with the reviews. She opened the package unsuspectingly one morning, bathed in sunshine as she stood barefoot in her nightgown on the little balcony outside her room. She could see hills and fields beyond, and for almost an hour she simply sat cross-legged on the balcony floor with the book in her lap, holding it, running her fingers over the cover, but unable to open it. The jacket design was good, and there was a marvelous photograph of him on the back. It had been taken before she had met him, but she had a copy of the same photo on her desk in New York. He was walking down a street in Chicago, wearing a white turtleneck sweater, his dark hair blown by the wind, his raincoat slung over his shoulder. One eyebrow raised, he was looking sarcastically into the camera with the beginnings of a smile. She had squeezed the photograph out of him the first time she had seen it.

“What the hell do you want that for?”

“You look so sexy in it Luke.”

“Jesus. You nut I hope my readers don’t think so.”

“Why not?” She looked up, a little surprised, and he had kissed her.

“Because I’m supposed to look brilliant, not sexy, silly lady.”

“Well, you happen to look both. Can I have it?” He had waved an embarrassed hand at her, and gone off to answer the phone. But she had taken the photograph, and framed it in silver. It was a glimpse of the real Luke, and she was glad it was on the book jacket. People should see him as he was … people should….

She had looked up after what seemed like hours, the book still cradled in her lap, unfelt tears rolling steadily down her face, misting the view. But she had been looking into the past not at the fields in the distance.

“Well, babe, here we are.” She spoke aloud and smiled through her tears, using the hem of her nightgown to wipe her face. She could almost see Lucas smiling at her. It didn’t matter where she went anymore, she carried him with her in a warm, tender way. Not in the agonizing way that she had; now she could smile at him. Now he was with her, forever. In New York, in Switzerland, in France. He was a part of her now. A comfortable part.

She looked far into the fields with a soft shrug and leaned back against the legs of a chair, still holding the book in her hands. A voice seemed to tell her to open it, but she couldn’t, and then as she watched the face in the photograph yet again, almost expecting him to move along that long-forgotten street in Chicago, it was as though she could see his face growing stern, his head shaking in teasing annoyance.

“Come on, Mama, open it, dammit!”

She did, gingerly, carefully, not wanting to breathe or to look or to see. She had known, known it when she touched the book, but seeing it would be different. She wondered if she could bear it, but she had to. Now she wanted to see, and she knew he had wanted her to. He had never told her, but now it was as though she had always known. The book was dedicated to her.

Fresh tears ran down her face as she read it, but they were not tears of grief. Tears of tenderness, of gratitude, of laughter, of loving. Those were the treasures he had given her, not sorrow. Luke had never been a man to tolerate sorrow. He had been too alive to taste even a whisper of death. And sorrow is death.To Kezia, who stands by my side wherever I go. My equal, my solace, my friend. Brave lady, you are the bright light in a place I have long sought to find, and now at last we’re both home. May you be proud of this book, for now it is the best I can give you, with thanks and my love.L.J.

“… and now at last we’re both home.” It was true, and it was late August by then, and she had one final test Marbella. And Hilary.

“My God, darling, you look divine! So brown and healthy! Where on earth have you been?”

“Here and there.” She laughed and brushed her hair from her eyes. It was longer now, and the harsh angularity of her face had melted again. There were small lines on either side of her eyes, from the sun, or whatever, but she looked well. Very well.