problem?”
“No.” She said it softly as he pulled away from the curb. She found herself wondering if Margaret had seen them.
He amused her with stories about some of the gallery’s more colorful artists as they drove across the splendor of the Golden Gate Bridge. He fell silent then for a moment. They were both looking out at the view.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” he asked. She nodded with a smile. “May I ask you an odd sort of question?”
She looked surprised for a moment. “Why not?”
“How is it that you and your husband live here, instead of France? From what I know of the French they don’t, as a rule, like living very far from home. Except under duress.”
She laughed. What he had said was true. “There’s a lot of business to be done here. And Marc isn’t here that much anyway; he travels most of the time.”
“Lonely for you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m used to it.”
He wasn’t quite sure he believed her. “What do you do when you’re alone?”
They spoke in unison with a burst of laughter: “Paint.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“What ever made you come down to Carmel?” He seemed to be riddled with questions. So far they were all easy to answer.
“Kim. She insisted that I needed to get away.”
“Was she right?” He glanced over at her as he took the turnoff that led into the military preserve on the other side of the bridge. “Did you need to get away?”
“I suppose I did. I’d forgotten how lovely Carmel is. I hadn’t been there in years. Do you go every weekend?” She wanted to turn the questions back to him. She didn’t really like talking to him about Marc.
“I go whenever I can. It’s never often enough.”
She noticed then that they had taken a narrow country road and were driving past deserted bunkers and military buildings. “Ben, what is this?” She looked around herself with curiosity. They might have stumbled onto a stage set for a movie depicting the years after a war. The barracks on either side of the road were crumbling and boarded up, and there were wild flowers and weeds climbing onto the road.
“It’s an old army post from the last war. For some reason they hang on to it, though it’s empty now. There’s a beautiful beach down here at the end. I come here sometimes, just to think.” He looked over at her with a smile, and once again she was aware of how comfortable it was just to be with him. He had all the makings of a good friend. They fell into an easy silence as he drove the rest of the way.
“It’s eerie, isn’t it? It’s so pretty and there’s no one here.” His was the only car there when they stopped just before they reached the beach. She hadn’t seen another car since he’d turned off the main road.
“There never is. And I’ve never told a soul about it. I like coming here by myself.”
“Do you do that sort of thing often? Like walk on the beach in Carmel by yourself?” she asked. He nodded, reaching over for the basket in the backseat. He was looking very closely at her.
“I never thought I’d see you again after that night on the beach.”
“Neither did I. It was strange, walking along, talking to you about art. I felt as though we’d known each other for years.”
“So did I, but I thought it was because you looked so much like the Wyeth.” She smiled and lowered her eyes. “I wasn’t quite sure what to say the next day when I found you in my den. I didn’t know whether or not to acknowledge that we’d met.”
“What made you decide not to?” She looked back into his eyes with a very small smile.
“The ring on your left hand. I thought it might be awkward for you if I did.”
It was like him, Deanna realized, perceptive and thoughtful. She saw him frown a little, and sit back in his seat.
“Would it be awkward for you if people knew we were having lunch?” he asked.
“I don’t see why.” But there was more bravado than truth in her face, and he saw it.
“What would your husband say, Deanna?”
The words were unbearably soft, and she wanted to tell him that she didn’t give a damn, but she did. The bitch of it was that she did care. A lot.
“I don’t know. The question has never come up. I don’t have lunch with men very often.”
“What about art dealers who want to show your work?” Ben smiled at her. They had not moved from the car.
“No, least of all with art dealers. I never have lunch with them.”
“Why not?”
She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “My husband does not approve of my work. He thinks it’s a nice hobby, a pastime, but ‘artists are hippies and fools.’”
“Well, that certainly takes care of Gauguin and Manet.” He thought for a moment. When he spoke, she felt as though his eyes were burning straight into her soul. “Doesn’t that hurt? Doesn’t it force you to deny an essential part of yourself?”
“Not really. I still paint.” But they both knew that her denial was a lie. She had been forced to give up something she wanted very much. “I suppose marriage is a kind of exchange,” she went on. “Everyone compromises something.” But what did Marc compromise? What had he given up? She looked pensive and sad, and Ben looked away.
“Maybe that’s what I had all wrong when I got married. I forgot the compromises.”
“Were you very demanding?” Deanna watched him with surprise.
“Maybe I was. It was so long ago, it’s hard to be sure. I wanted her to be what I had always thought she was…” His voice drifted off.
“And what was that?”
“Oh”-he looked up with a wry little smile-“faithful, honest, pleasant, in love with me. The usual stuff.” They both laughed then, and he grabbed the picnic basket and helped Deanna out of the car. He had brought a blanket too and spread it out carefully for her on the sand.
“Good God, did you make this lunch?” She looked at the goodies he was pulling out of the basket. There was crab salad, pate, French bread, a little box of pastries, and more wine. There was also a smaller basket filled with fruit and richly sprinkled with cherries. She reached for a cluster and hung it over her right ear.
“You look lovely in cherries, Deanna, but have you tried grapes?” He handed her a small bunch. She laughed and draped them over her left ear. “You look as though you should be climbing out of a horn of plenty… it’s all very
“Isn’t it though?” She leaned back, looking up at the sky with a broad smile. She felt terribly young and irrepressibly happy. It was easy being with him.
“Ready to eat?” He looked down at her, a bowl of crab salad in one hand. She looked startlingly beautiful, reclining easily on the blanket with the fruit peeking through her dark hair. Seeing his smile, she remembered the cherries and the grapes. She pulled them away from her ears and sat up on one elbow.
“To tell you the truth, I’m ravenous.”
“Good. I like women with healthy appetites.”
“And what else? What else do you like?” It wasn’t an appropriate question, but she didn’t care. She wanted to be his friend. She wanted to know more, and to share.
“Oh, let’s see… I like women who dance… women who type… women who can read-and write! Women who paint… women with green eyes.” He stopped, staring down at her again. “And you?” His voice was barely audible.
“What kind of women do I like?” She laughed at him.
“Oh, shut up. Here, have something to eat.” He handed her the loaf of French bread and the pate, and she broke off the heel and slathered it handsomely with the delicate meat.
It was a perfect afternoon; the sun was high in the sky and there was a gentle breeze as the water lapped softly at the beach. Now and then a bird would fly by. Behind them the deserted buildings stood staring sightlessly. It was a world of their own.
“You know”-she glanced around and then back at him-“sometimes I wish I painted things like this.”
