The Season Of Love: Beloved. Diana Palmer
won’t be a minute,” he promised, and caught one of the gallery’s salespeople alone long enough to make a request. She seemed puzzled, but she agreed. He went back to Jill and escorted her out of the gallery, casting one last regretful look toward Tira, who was speaking to a group of socialites at the back of the gallery.
“Half the works are sold already,” Jill murmured. “I guess she’ll make a fortune.”
“She’s donating it all to charity,” he replied absently.
“She can afford to. It will certainly help her image and, God knows, she needs that right now.”
He glanced at her. “That isn’t why.”
She shrugged. “Whatever you say, darling. Brrrr, I’m cold! Christmas is week after next, too.” She peered up at him. “I hope you got me something pretty.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. I probably won’t be in town for Christmas,” he said not quite truthfully.
She sighed. “Oh, well, I might go and spend the holidays with my aunt in Connecticut. I do love snow!”
She was welcome to all she could find of it, he thought. His heart already felt as if he were buried in snow and ice. He knew that Harry’s revelation would keep him awake all night.
Tira watched Simon leave with Jill. She was glad he’d gone. Perhaps now she could enjoy her show.
Lillian was giving her strange looks and when Harry came to say goodbye, he looked rather odd, too.
“What’s wrong?” she asked Harry.
He started to speak and thought better of it. Let Simon tell her what he wanted her to know. He was tired of talking about the past; it was too painful.
He smiled. “It’s a great show, kiddo, you’ll make a mint.”
“Thanks, Harry. I had fun doing it. Keep in touch, won’t you?”
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You know I will. How’s Charlie?”
“His brother-in-law had a heart attack. He’s not doing well.”
“I’m really sorry. Always liked Charlie. Still do.”
“I’ll tell him you asked about him,” she promised.
He smiled at her. “You do that. Keep well.”
“You, too.”
By the end of the evening, Tira was calmer, despite the painful memory of her argument with Simon’s and Jill’s catty remarks. She could just picture the two of them in Simon’s lavish apartment, sprawled all over each other in an ardent tangle. It made her sick. Simon had never kissed her, never touched her in anything but an impersonal way. She’d lived like a religious recluse for part of her life and she had nothing to show for her reticence except a broken heart and shattered pride.
“What a great haul,” Lillian enthused, breaking into her thoughts. “You sold three-fourths of them. The rest we’ll keep on display for a few weeks and see how they do.”
“I’m delighted,” Tira said, and meant it. “It’s all going to benefit the outreach program at St. Mark’s.”
“They’ll be very happy with it, I’m sure.”
Tira was walking around the gallery with the manager. Most of the crowd had left and a few stragglers were making their way to the door. She noticed the bust of Simon had a Sold sign on it, and her heart jumped.
“Who bought it?” Tira asked curtly. “It wasn’t Jill Sinclair, was it?”
“No,” Lillian assured her. “I’m not sure who bought it, but I can check, if you like.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” Tira said, clamping down hard on her curiosity. “I don’t care who bought it. I only wanted it out of my sight. I don’t care if I never see Simon Hart again!”
Lillian sighed worriedly, but she smiled when Tira glanced toward her and offered coffee.
Simon watched the late-night news broadcast from his easy chair, nursing a whiskey sour, his second in half an hour. He’d taken Jill home and adroitly avoided her coquettish invitation to stay the night. After what he’d learned from Harry Beck, he had to be by himself to think things out.
There was a brief mention of Tira’s showing at the gallery and how much money had been raised for charity. He held his breath, but nothing was said about her suicide attempt. He only hoped the newspapers would be equally willing to put the matter aside.
He sipped his drink and remembered unwillingly all the horrible things he’d thought about and said to Tira over John. How she must have suffered through that mockery of a marriage, and how horrible if she’d loved John. She must have had her illusions shattered. She was the injured party. But Simon had taken John’s side and punished her as if she was guilty for John’s death. He’d deliberately put her out of his life, forbidding her to come close, even to touch him.
He closed his eyes in anguish. She would never let him near her again, no matter how he apologized. He’d said too much, done too much. She’d loved him, and he’d savaged her. And it had all been for nothing. She’d been innocent.
He finished his drink with dead eyes. Regrets seemed to pile up in the loneliness of the night. He glanced toward the Christmas tree his enthusiastic housekeeper had set up by the window, and dreaded the whole holiday season. He’d spend Christmas alone. Tira, at least, would have the despised Charles Percy for company.
He wondered why she didn’t marry the damned man. They seemed to live in each other’s pockets. He remembered that Charles had always been her champion, bolstering her up, protecting her. Charles had been her friend when Simon had turned his back on her, so how could he blame her for preferring the younger man?
He put his glass down and got to his feet. He felt every year of his age. He was almost forty and he had nothing to show for his own life. The child he might have had was gone, along with Melia, who’d never loved him. He’d lived on illusions of love for a long time, when the reality of love had ached for him and he’d turned his back.
If he’d let Tira love him…
He groaned aloud. He might as well put that hope to rest right now. She’d hate him forever and he had only himself to blame. Perhaps he deserved her hatred. God knew, he’d hurt her enough.
He went to bed, to lie awake all night with the memory of Tira’s wounded eyes and drawn face to haunt him.
Simon was not in a good mood the next morning when he went into work. Mrs. Mackey, his middle-aged secretary, stopped him at the door of his office with an urgent message to call the governor’s office as soon as he came in. He knew what it was about and he groaned inwardly. He didn’t want to be attorney general, but he knew for a fact that Wally was going to offer it to him. Wallace Bingley was a hard man to refuse, and he was a very popular governor as well as a friend. Both Simon and Tira had been actively involved in his gubernatorial campaign.
“All right, Mrs. Mack,” he murmured, smiling as he used her nickname, “get him for me.”
She grinned, because she knew, too, what was going on.
Minutes later, the call was put through to his office.
“Hi, Wally,” Simon said. “What can I do for you?”
“You know the answer to that already,” came the wry response. “Will you or won’t you?”
“I’d like a week or so to think about it,” Simon said seriously. “It’s a part of my life I hadn’t planned to take up again. I don’t like living in a goldfish bowl and I hear it’s open season