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cotton being pulled by an invisible string, floating between the spires of the bridge, and hanging in midair over the sailboats.
“Hello, Jim.”
“Madam.” He executed a small bow and made as though to kiss her hand. But she waved the gesture away with a gurgle of laughter and offered her cheek, which he unceremoniously kissed. “I must admit I prefer that. Kissing hands is an art I’ve never quite mastered. You never know if they’re going to shake with you, or expect to be kissed. Couple of times I damn near got my nose broken by the ones who planned to shake.”
She laughed at him and sat down. “You’ll have to get Marc to give you lessons. He’s a genius at it. It’s either the Frenchman in him or a sixth sense. How about a drink?”
“Love it.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Margaret seemed to think I should have tea.”
“How awful.”
She was laughing again, and he watched her appreciatively as she opened a small inlaid cabinet and withdrew two glasses and a bottle of Scotch.
“Drinking, Deanna?” He said it casually but he was surprised. He had never seen her drink Scotch. Maybe Marc-Edouard had had a good reason after all for suggesting he come by. But she was already shaking her head.
“I thought I’d have some ice water. Were you worried?” She looked at him with amusement as she returned with his glass.
“A little.”
“Don’t worry, love. I haven’t hit the bottle yet.” Her eyes seemed suddenly wistful as she took a sip from her own glass and set it down carefully on a marble table. “But it’s going to be a mighty long summer.” She sighed and looked up at him with a smile. Gently, he reached over and patted her hand.
“I know. Maybe we can go to the movies sometime.”
“You’re a sweetheart, but don’t you have anything better to do?” She knew he did. He had been divorced for four years and was living with a model who had moved out from New York a few months ago. He adored that type, and they always loved him. Tall, handsome, athletic, with Irish-blue eyes and ebony black hair, barely salted with gray. He was the perfect contrast to Marc-Edouard in every possible way, easygoing when Marc was formal; All-American, unlike Marc’s totally European manner; and surprisingly unassuming, in contrast to Marc-Edouard’s barely concealed arrogance. It had always struck Deanna as odd that Marc had chosen Jim as his partner, but it had been a wise choice. Marc’s own special brilliance was matched by Jim’s; their stars just shone differently, and they moved in their own very separate orbits. The Durases rarely saw Jim socially. He was busy with his own life, and his collection of models, now dwindled to one—for the moment. Jim never stayed with one woman long.
“What are you up to these days?”
He smiled at her. “Work, play, the usual. You?”
“Fiddling around in my studio, also the usual.” She played it down as she always did.
“What about this summer? Have you made any plans?”
“Not yet, but I will. Maybe I’ll go see some friends in Santa Barbara or something.”
“God.” He made a horrible face, and she laughed.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You’d have to be eighty years old to enjoy that. Why don’t you go down to Beverly Hills? Pretend you’re a movie star, have lunch at the Polo Lounge, have yourself paged.”
“Is that what you do?” She laughed at the idea.
“Of course. Every weekend.” He chuckled and set down his empty glass, glancing at his watch. “Never mind. I’ll get you organized in no time, but now” —he looked regretful— “I have to run.”
“Thank you for stopping by. It was kind of a long afternoon. It’s strange with both of them gone.”
He nodded appreciatively, suddenly sobered. He remembered the feeling from the time when his wife and their two boys had first moved out. He had thought he’d go nuts, just from the silence.
“I’ll call you.”
“Good. And Jim”—she looked at him for a long