The Promise - By Danielle Steel Page 0,6

over for her husband, she still spent her Sundays attending to the household and taking care of Michael on the nurse's day off. The memory made her smile, and for a moment she closed her eyes. Those Sundays had been precious, a few hours with him without anyone interfering, anyone taking him away. Her Sundays weren't like that anymore; they hadn't been in too many years. A tiny bright tear crept into her lashes as she sat very still in her chair, seeing him as he had been eighteen years before, a little boy of six, and all hers. How she loved that child. She would have done anything for him. And she had. She had maintained an empire for him, carried the legacy from one generation to the next. It was her most valuable gift for Michael. Cotter-Hillyard. And she had come to love the business almost as much as she loved her son.

“You're looking beautiful, Mother.” Her eyes flew open in surprise as she saw him standing there in the arched doorway of the richly paneled dining room. The sight of him now almost made her cry. She wanted to hug him as she had all those years ago, and instead she smiled slowly at her son.

“I didn't hear you come in.” There was no invitation to approach, no sign of what she'd been feeling. No one ever knew, with Marion, what went on inside.

“I used my key. May I come in?”

“Of course. Would you like some dessert?”

Michael walked slowly into the room, a small nervous smile playing over his mouth, and then like a small boy he peered at her plate. “Hm … what was it? Looks like it must have been chocolate, huh?”

She chuckled and shook her head. He would never grow up. In some ways anyway. “Profiteroles. Care for some? Mattie is still out there in the pantry.”

“Probably eating what's left.” They both laughed at what they knew was most likely true, but Marion reached for the bell.

Mattie appeared in an instant, black-uniformed and lace-trimmed, pale-faced and large-beamed. She had spent a lifetime running and fetching and doing for others, with only a brief Sunday here and there to call her own, and nothing to do with it once she had the much coveted “day.” “Yes, madam?”

“Some coffee for Mr. Hillyard, Mattie. And … darling, dessert?” He shook his head. “Just coffee then.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

For a moment Michael wondered, as he often had, why his mother never said thank you to the servants. As though they had been born to do her bidding. But he knew that was what his mother thought. She had always lived surrounded by servants and secretaries and every possible kind of help. She had had a lonely upbringing but a comfortable one. Her mother had died when she was three, in an accident with Marion's only brother, the heir to the Cotter architectural throne. The accident had left only Marion to become a substitute son. She had done so very effectively.

“And how is school?”

“Almost over, thank God. Two more weeks.”

“I know. I'm very proud of you, you know. A doctorate is a wonderful thing to have, particularly in architecture.” For some reason the words made him want to say, “Oh, Mother!” as he had when he was nine. “We'll be contacting young Avery this week, about his job. You haven't said anything to him, have you?” She looked more curious than stern; she didn't really care. She had thought it a little childish that Michael thought it so important to surprise Ben.

“No, I haven't. He'll be very pleased.”

“As well he should be. It's an excellent job.”

“He deserves it.”

“I hope so.” She never gave an inch. “And you? Ready for work? Your office will be finished next week.” Her eyes shone at the thought. It was a beautiful office, wood-paneled the way his father's had been, with etchings that had belonged to her own father, an impressive leather couch and chairs, and a roomful of Georgian furniture. She had bought it all in London over the holidays. “It really looks splendid, darling.”

“Good.” He smiled at his mother for a moment “I have some things I want to get framed, but I'll wait till I take a look at the decor.”

“You won't even need to do that. I have everything you'll need for the walls.”

So did he. Nancy's drawings. There was sudden fire in his eyes now, and an air of watchfulness in hers. She had seen something in his face.

“Mother—” He sat