The Season Of Love: Beloved

“He got it, in her name, and cited mental cruelty.” He shrugged. “I don’t think he considered how it might look to an outsider. It made things worse for him. He only did it to save her reputation. He thought it would hurt her publicly if he made it look like she was at fault.” He glanced at Simon. “That was right after your wreck and she was trying to take care of you. He thought it might appear as if she was having an affair with you and he found out. It might have damaged both of you in the public eye.”

His teeth clenched. “I never touched her.”

“Neither did John,” Harry murmured heavily. “He couldn’t. He cried in my arms about it, just before he saw an attorney. He wanted to love her. He did, in his way. But it wasn’t in a conventional way at all.”

Simon pushed back a strand of dark, wavy hair that had fallen on his brow. He was sweating because the gallery was overheated.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked with concern.

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t. He’d never be all right again. He glanced toward Tira with anguish in every line of his face. But she wouldn’t even look at him.

Jill, sensing some problem, came back to join him, sliding her hand into his arm. “Aren’t you ready? We’ll miss the curtain.”

“I’m ready,” he said. He looked down at her and realized that here was one more strike against him. He was giving aid and comfort to Tira’s worst enemy in the city. He’d done it deliberately, of course, to make her even more uncomfortable. But that was before he knew the whole truth. Now he felt guilty.

“Hello. I’m Jill Sinclair. Have we met?” she asked Harry, smiling.

“No, we haven’t. I’m—”

“We have to go,” Simon said abruptly. He didn’t want to add any more weapons to Jill’s already full arsenal by letting Harry tell her about John, too. “See you, Harry.”

“Sure. Good night.”

“Who was that?” Jill asked Simon as they went toward the door.

“An old friend. Just a minute. There’s something I have to do.”

“Simon…!”

“I 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.