"George Bush Senior," Hunt said. "Our president also graduated

from Yale, and yes, he was a National Guard jet pilot."

"Yale," Agnes said. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you end

up here?"

Hunt brushed some snow from his gloves. "I volunteered," he said,

"just like you."

Agnes nodded.

"Now let's finish breaking down this camp," Hunt said, pointing to

the mountain nearby, "and head up there and find that bastard who attacked

the United States."

"Yes, sir," the men said in unison.

Ten minutes later, with fifty-pound packs on their backs, they started

up the mountain.

IN A TOWN where beautiful women abound, at age forty-nine Michelle

Hunt still caused men to turn their heads. Tall, with hazel hair and bluegreen

eyes, she was blessed with a figure that required neither constant

dieting nor endless exercise to appear trim. Her lips were full and her

teeth straight, but it was her doelike eyes and flawless skin that gave the

strongest visual impression. And while she was a beautiful woman, that

was as common in Southern California as sunshine and earthquakes.

What drew people closer to Michelle was something that cannot be

created by a surgeon's knife, honed through dress or manicure, or

SACRED STONE 17

I

J

developed through ambition or change. Michelle had that thing that

made both men and women like her and want to be around her-she

was happy, content and positive. Michelle Hunt was herself. And people

flocked to her like bees to a flower in bloom.

"Sam," she said to the painter who had just finished the walls in her

art gallery, "you do such nice work."

Sam was thirty-eight years old and he blushed.

"Only my best, for you, Ms. Hunt," he said.

Sam had painted her gallery when it had opened five years before,

her Beverly Hills house, her condo in Lake Tahoe and now this remodel.

And every time she made him feel appreciated and talented.

"You want a bottle of water or a Coke or something?" she asked.

"I'm okay, thanks."

Just then an assistant called from the front of the gallery that she

had a telephone call, and she smiled, waved and began to walk away.

"That's a lady," Sam said under his breath, "a lady."

Walking to the front of the gallery, where her desk faced out onto

Rodeo Drive, Michelle noticed that one of the artists she represented

was coming through the front door. Here her amiability had also paid

off in spades-artists are a fickle and temperamental lot, but Michelle's

artists adored her and rarely changed galleries. That and the fact that

she had started her business fully funded had contributed greatly to her

years of success.

"I knew today was going to be good," she said to the bearded man.

"I just didn't know it would be because my favorite artist would be paying

me a visit."

The man smiled.

"Just let me take this telephone call," she said, "and we'll talk."