Bob Warner arranged these meetings as efficiently as he did most everything else. He offered Deanna only what information she needed to be generally aware of foundation activities, answered her questions patiently and gave his advice freely. He had been frankly startled
when, soon after Larry's death, Deanna had asked to be given these regular briefings. With her total lack of business training, it might have been easier for her to have handed over the reins completely. But she had needed to participate in some small way, and though Bob's word was more often than not the law, her twice-weekly presence among the office staff carried a subtle and understated force. She was quiet and unobtrusive, but her questions were pithy, her inquiries pointed. She possessed good common sense and a knack for diplomacy, both of which Bob Warner channeled into useful avenues.
In this case the avenue was the drive toward the building of the Greater Georgia Children's Hospital and the bulk of the afternoon session revolved around the fund raising in which Deanna was already deeply involved. After much coaxing, she had finally agreed to hold a series of private dinner parties in her own suite, each courting eight to ten potentially significant supporters of the project. Though Bob and his wife would be at each, along with at least one or two other foundation bigwigs, Deanna had not entertained since Larry's death and never alone. As intimidating as the thought had been at first, Bob's argument was valid. There was an emotional value to be gained from Deanna's visible activity and Larry's vivid memory. It had been Larry's last hope to see this project a reality.
Deanna was exhausted when Henry finally shuttled her home at six. She ate alone, reflecting on the afternoon's meetings as Irma quietly served her a private feast of rock cornish hen and wild rice. Later she retreated to her bedroom to read before sinking at length into a restless sleep.
When she arose Friday morning it was with a vague sense of anticipation. She took greater pains in dressing than she had on either of the past two mornings. Even on
tennis mornings such as this she would never have thought to show herself in the hotel dining room looking anything less than well groomed. Today, however, she wanted to do even better.
Sorting through the rack of late-summer fashions, she chose a pale lavender sundress, a one-piece wrap that was strapless, self-sashing and bottomed by gay white high-heeled sandals. Her jewelry was simple: small hoop earrings, a necklace, a ring. But she added an extra coat of mascara to her lashes, giving them the illusion of even greater length, and a second dab of color high on each cheekbone. As always, she swept her thick fall of dark copper-sheened hair loosely to the top of her head, securing it this time with an exquisite gold-leaf clasp before breaking from custom and pulling several tendrils free to wave delicately around her face and neck. With a touch of perfume to the pulse at her throat and the tossing of a lightweight open-weave blazer over her shoulders in deference to the potential chill of air conditioning, she was off.
Beneath the archway of the dining room, she took a deep breath to fill her lungs with confidence, then slowly let it out in the short walk to her table. She was met there by the maître d', whom she acknowledged with a smile. “Good morning, George.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. Here, let me help you.” He adjusted her chair as she sat down. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, casually reaching for the newspaper as he vanished. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo and she only prayed that she looked more normal than she felt. The news held no special appeal at the moment, but she focused on it to keep from looking elsewhere.
Frank approached quietly, his voice low. “Good morning, Mrs. Hunt. You look lovely today.”
“Why, thank you, Frank.” Would he think so too? The fantasy persisted! “It's kind of dreary out, though. Do you think it's going to rain?” With a perfect excuse she glanced toward the far window. He wasn't there! And it looked as though it would pour. Deanna felt suddenly gloomy herself.
Frank's gaze followed hers, though it encompassed only the elements beyond the large bay window. “They say we may get a few showers this morning. I hope you don't get caught in any.”
Just then Deanna didn't care. She had looked forward to seeing that stranger again, and he wasn't there. Had he gone back to where he'd come from? Or simply gone elsewhere for breakfast? It had been fun dressing especially for him. But he'd let her down. Would she ever see him again?
Deanna's Friday proceeded as Mondays and Wednesdays did, with a morning at the club and an afternoon at home. But much as she threw herself into her prearranged activities, she couldn't shake the image of an auburn-haired man. In those few short moments of visual exchange, he had made her startlingly aware of something she had managed to ignoreâthat she was a woman, an individual, warm and alive.
It occurred to her as she analyzed it that she lived in a virtual cocoon, insulated and protected from the outside world. Every move she made, every person she met, was within the limited realm of this cocoon and she was invariably accorded the deference her position merited. To the world she was Mrs. Lawrence Hunt. Not so to this man.
It was one of the things that made him different He had seen her as a human being, as a woman. His eyes had said as much. And he had shared a need she barely understood herself, had reached out to her with the force
of his own inner drive. But he hadn't been back to see her today. Had their visual intimacy been no more than a figment of her imagination after all?
That imagination drove her to distraction. It was active all weekend through standing appointments at the beauty parlor and with the manicurist, a Saturday luncheon with a cousin who had stopped in Atlanta en route from St Petersburg to Washington and Sunday afternoon's attendance at the wedding of the daughter of one of Larry's oldest friends. In between were moments of solitude, moments of intent contemplation, even brooding. She had sensed a growing void in her life, but this stranger's appearance had accentuated it What was it she truly wanted?
Her thoughts became sensual daydreams, one as new and unexpected as the next and each involving the nameless vision of a tall, auburn-haired man. She pictured herself alone with him, lying beneath the shade of an ancient chestnut tree in a sylvan setting beyond the city. They talked of their lives and hopes, sharing fantasies without fear. Their only responsibility was to each other and she gloried in that singularity of purpose. Secluded in rural luxury, she held him, reveling in the hard strength beneath and against her that so desperately needed her softness for fulfillment And he held her likewise, caressing her with a tender demand she still sought to comprehend. As the weekend passed, the dream soared higher and hotter until, aghast, Deanna forced the reality of solitude on herself once more. What was it she wanted? She refused to say.
Monday morning found her back to her routine and relieved to be busy once more. For the moment she was again content to fill the role in life she assumed had been meant for her. But when Tuesday morning came she was jolted out of her complacency when she glanced up from
her French toast to find
him
looking at her. Her breathing faltered; her heart skipped a beat.
So he had returned! A ripple of excitement flowed through her veins and she felt suddenly freer, relieved of a burden she hadn't known she carried. He looked warm and wonderful, all tanned and handsome as he held her gaze unwaveringly. And then he smiled gently and she melted.
Deanna had never been as touched as she was by the silent reunion she shared with this man. She felt as though she'd found her special friend after a very long search, though the search had been solely in her fantasy life and had only spanned the four days since she'd seen him last. But he was flesh and blood, a far cry from imagination, and she knew that the vibrant awareness he sparked was no fantasy.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Hunt?” Frank asked by her ear. Taken off guard, Deanna swung her head around abruptly and began to blush at having been caught in an uncharacteristic state of distraction.
“Uh, yes, everything's fine,” she gasped quickly, then added on impulse, “but I wonder if you could do something for me?”
The waiter sobered in response to her gravity. “Of course.”
Allowing herself no chance to back down, Deanna spoke directly. “There's a gentleman in the far corner. No, please don't look around now. He's sitting by the large bay window and has breakfasted here before. But I can't seem to recall his name or whether he's actually staying at the hotel. Could you possibly ⦠?” Her raised brows and softly pleading expression said the rest
Frank's pleasure at the mission brought a conspiratorial smile to his lips. “Certainly, Mrs. Hunt. And I'll be discreet.”
“You always are. I appreciate it” She paused awkwardly. “It's embarrassing ⦠when I can't remember ⦔
“Please don't worry. I'll have the information you want in no time.”
“No time” seemed to stretch on indefinitely as Deanna waited. She poked at her French toast, sipped her fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, fingered the dull edge of the marmalade knife and tried to understand what it was this man stirred in her. It seemed to be a far-reaching passion that encompassed the emotional, the intellectual and, yes, the physical. The last was by far the most enigmatic. Why him? Why now? Or
was
she simply fantasizing that this stranger would be a panacea?
Daring to cast another glance his way, she found him staring solemnly out the window. What were his thoughts? she wondered as she hastened to freely admire the strength of his profile highlighted by the sun, the breadth of his shoulders beneath a fine-tailored navy blazer, the commanding air of his body even when seated and at ease. Who was he? she asked a final time and he must have heard, for he turned.
At that moment Deanna knew for certain that her need was not the only one. Despite her skepticism, she could not deny what she saw. His face held the same expression that had fascinated her that first day. It held a look of vulnerability, of searching, of loneliness. It seemed to beam a message that surged from his depths to penetrate his outer aura of composure. Deanna felt that he was asking
her
helpâ
she
, who had spent a lifetime on the receiving end of love, indulgence and protection. It frightened her, this gaze that pleaded with such dignity, yet she couldn't turn away from it
Only the delivery to her plate of a small white card diverted her attention. She instantly knew that it was from the maître d's desk and reached to open it, her
pulse hammering loudly, her teeth worrying her lower lip. For the same mystical reason that she was so drawn to the man, this information seemed crucial to her. She read the words as though her life depended on them.
Mark Birmingham. Architect with the firm of Birmingham and Swift, Inc., Savannah, Georgia. Registered at the Hunt International-Atlanta through Thursday.
Mark. First and foremost, Mark. A name for the face and a fitting one at that. Mark. Deanna spoke it silently several times, testing its strength in her mind and finding that it matched him well.
Mark. An architect. Obviously successful, most probably involved in a project requiring his midweek presence last week, now this. Smart man, she smiled in delight, to have chosen such a fine hotel!
Her smile was still in evidence when she looked up, but faded quickly at the sight of this smart man in the process of leaving. He stood taller than she had imagined and moved calmly and deliberately, with a liquid grace, toward the door. Her heart was in her throat as she helplessly watched him go. It was only at the last that he paused, head down, faltering. Then he looked up and made her day with a warm and gentle smile just for her before he disappeared into the hotel lobby.
Deanna let him go, somehow knowing she would see him again. For, whatever the long-range wisdom of it was, she knew that she
wanted
to see him again. If this was to be her first-in-a-lifetime stab at frivolity, so be it Nothing could stop her from thinking of this man, from daydreaming and wondering what it might be like to be with him.
Cushioned by these daydreams, she passed the hours with a special spark to her smile. After a morning at the hospital she returned home for lunch, at the end of which she nonchalantly made the commitment she'd been toying with since breakfast.
“Irma, why don't you and Henry take the evening off? I think I'll eat downstairs tonight”
Irma's surprise was in direct proportion to the number of weeks it had been since Deanna had last done this. “Why, Mrs. Hunt, you don't have to do that on our account!”
“I know, but I'd like to eat in the dining room for a change. I've kept abreast of the breakfast crowd. Now it's about time I took a look at what goes on in the evening.”
What Deanna had offered half in jest Irma interpreted quite differently. “It
would
be good for you to get out more. It's better that you be with people ⦔ Fearing that she'd been too forward, she let her words trail off and scurried toward the kitchen. “If you should change your mind, just let me know,” she called over her shoulder. “I can easily cook something up.”