Warm Hearts (39 page)

“Well,” she prevaricated, “maybe mine's the same. Maybe I have a hidden past. Maybe I'm not as pure as I let on.”

He chuckled and sat back, momentarily indulging her. “Funny, I never thought of you simply as ‘pure.' Maybe pure honey or pure wit or pure sensuality. Never just … ‘pure.' Besides—” he came forward again, his dark eyes narrowed “—you were the one who informed me—albeit in a very sexy voice—that you didn't sleep around.”

She recalled the moment exactly, the Friday before, when she'd first arrived from New York and had been sick and very threatened by his presence. How far she'd come, she mused, then abruptly realized she hadn't. If she stopped to think, she'd know that she was still very threatened indeed, though by something quite different now.

“So, Les,” Oliver went on, reaching forward to brush his thumb against the furrows on her brow, “tell me about it.” His voice was quiet, patient. “Tell me about honesty. Too many times I've heard bitterness, then just now vehemence, in your voice when you've mentioned it. You need it, you say. Why?”

Quiet and patient, yes. But there was also an unmistakable trace of cynicism underlying his tone. Disturbed, Leslie tore her gaze away. “It's not relevant to anything, Oliver.”

Though his stance remained casual, long bare legs set nonchalantly, hands now crossed over his stomach, his gaze was sharp. “It's relevant to us … and to what's happened twice now. And it matters to me. I need to understand you.”

It was the last that hit home. She mulled the words over again and again.
I need to understand you … need to understand you.
Perhaps it was nothing more than a continuation of the illusion born earlier that day and brought to fulfillment on the beach. But she wanted so badly to believe that he cared that at long last she yielded and spoke, softly, slowly, eyes downcast, arms clutched tightly about herself.

“It's really very simple,” she began. “I grew up a Parish, always a Parish. Living in an exclusive area, going to a private school, my friends were pretty much … people like me, people who'd had most everything they'd wanted in life.” She lifted her eyes to find Oliver sitting back, listening thoughtfully. “Oh, I had friends. A couple of good ones I've kept. But at some point I became disillusioned with most of them. They seemed shallow. Boring. Quick to manipulate when it suited their purposes. Maybe it was natural for me to rebel. I was the youngest Parish and felt I had gone through life in the shadow of the others. I was seventeen and feeling my oats. Having always had the material things I'd wanted and knowing that they'd always be there for me, it was easy to turn my back on them.”

“You became a flower child?” Oliver asked, faint amusement lighting his features.

She blushed. “Not really. Just a free thinker. I did little things to proclaim my individuality—like going vegetarian and boycotting the senior prom and donating my graduation money to Oxfam and biking across the country with three friends.”

Again his eyes lit. “Bicycling?”

She lowered hers. “Motorcycling.”

“And the three other kids?” he asked more pointedly.

“My best friend from school … and her twin cousins.”

He caught the drop in her voice and interpreted correctly. “Male?”

“Yes.” She raised a defensive gaze and went quickly on. “Not that anything happened between us. I mean, we were all good friends, but that was it. We didn't cause trouble, either. Our idea of adventure was in living as cheaply as we could. We camped out a good part of the time, stayed in our share of sleazy places. Just knowing how appalled our parents would have been enhanced our joy.” She sighed. “We did see the country, I have to admit.” Then she qualified the statement. “I mean, we'd all seen the country before, but never like that.”

“Sounds like fun,” Oliver ventured wryly.

“It was! It really was. We enjoyed mocking everything we'd always had. Then the other three went right back to it when the summer was over.”

“And you?”

“I went on to college. Berkeley.” When he winced, she smiled. “It wasn't so bad. Actually, I'd already gotten much of the rebelliousness out of my system, so I was pretty receptive to learning. I felt confident and in control and loved the idea of being three thousand miles away from all of the other Parishes.”

“They didn't keep close tabs on you?”

“Naw. They trusted me.”

He arched a brow. “Should they have?”

She thought for a minute, then nodded. “My intentions were good. I was idealistic, bent on making a very serious, independent way in the world. I would never have done anything to disgrace them.” She paused, then frowned. “Not knowingly, at least.”

Silence sat between them for a time, broken only by the gentle murmur of the night surf on the beach as it accompanied the softest of breezes through the open glass doors. Leslie let herself be momentarily lulled, then, eager to get out the worst, she went on.

“I had a great freshman year. I loved school and did well.” She cast him a sheepish look. “It was an awakening to find myself among so many people who were legitimately serious and independent. In many ways, it was humbling. I guess I withdrew a little, letting the place itself speak for my rebellion while I got reacquainted with the person I was inside. I liked myself. I thought I'd found a nice blend between ‘way out' and ‘way in'.…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes reflected a distant pain.

“Then what happened?”

As though she'd forgotten his presence, she came back with a start. With a shrug she looked down at the pleats her fingers were nervously folding into the terry fabric of her robe. “I met a fellow. A med student.” She tossed her head to the side, keeping her eyes downcast, safe from Oliver's intent study. “He was tall and good-looking and bright and funny … and very high on life and himself.” Her voice took on a gently mocking tone. “He was going to be a doctor. You know, heal the world?”

“I know the type,” Oliver injected, but Leslie was too immersed in her story to hear the dryness in his tone.

“Anyway,” she sighed, “we started to date and … things got pretty heavy. We couldn't see each other often. I was busy studying, and his schedule was ten times worse. I think it was the time we spent apart that aided his cause more than anything. I was young and starry-eyed and spent those times away from him imagining all the wonderful things he was going to do.” She lowered her voice to a self-conscious murmur, “All the wonderful things we were going to do together. He was talking about the Peace Corps. That fit right into my scheme of things—noble, stoic, commendable. I spent those days alone dreaming about how, after graduation, we'd both go to South America or South Africa. He'd doctor; I'd teach. It was perfect.” She paused to recall that particular illusion, then shook her head in dismay. “Things didn't quite work out as as I'd dreamed.”

Oliver propped his elbows on his knees and prodded gently. “Why not?”

She looked up then, vulnerable and in pain. “He was married.”

“Oh. And you didn't know.”

“Of course not!” she cried, doubly hurt. “I'd never have knowingly had an affair with a married man! For all my ballyhooing about rebellion, I'd been pretty conservative about sex; it was enough for me to have had the affair in the first place! I honestly thought that he was busy studying all the time. I mean—” again the mocking tone “—between classes and rotations, a med student has to be the most put-upon person in the world. Hmmph,” she mused aloud, “no wonder they go out into the world and keep patients in their offices waiting for hours. Revenge, I'm sure. Simple revenge.”

Oliver let her anger gradually seep away before he spoke. “Not all doctors are that way, Les. There are ones who do serve time in the Peace Corps, or who keep ungodly hours as staff physicians well after their med-school days are over, or who go into private practice and make a point to see all their patients on time. How they are as doctors can sometimes be very different from the way they run their private lives.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” she retorted bitterly, “though I'll concede you the point. For all I know Joe's become an excellent doctor. And for that matter, I may have been as much at fault for what happened between us as he was.” At Oliver's puzzled look, she explained. “Idealistic young thing that I was, I accepted everything on faith. He explained that when he was free he wanted to get away from it all. So he always came to my place, rather than the other way around. Sucker that I was, I believed him.”

“Did you love him?” came the quiet follow-up.

“What I knew of him, yes. He was truly charming—great bedside manner, if you'll excuse the pun.” Her lips thinned. “We'd been seeing each other for nearly six months when one day I thought I'd surprise him and bring a home-cooked dinner to his apartment. I knew his address in Palo Alto, though I'd never been there before.” She swallowed hard, trying to accept all over again what she'd learned that day. “It was a lovely dorm not far from the medical school. Prettier than most—you know, small balconies with hanging plants and a baby swing here and there. When I went into the lobby to buzz him, I understood why. It was a married students' dorm. ‘Dr. and Mrs.' all along the roster—the Joe Durands right up there with the rest. I turned around with my shattered dreams and went home.”

By way of offering comfort, Oliver took her hand, but it lay limply under his gentle massage. “Did he ever follow you?”

“Oh, yes,” she spat out with a harsh laugh. “He hadn't known I'd come and didn't know anything was wrong. He assumed his little game could go on indefinitely. When he showed up several days later, I'd had time to cool off and gather my thoughts. I was really quite … good.”

“I'm sure,” Oliver remarked tightly.

“I was,” she insisted, raising her eyes in a burst of courage. “It was actually funny. I threw myself into his arms and told him how much I'd missed him, how much I loved him. After he tossed back those same hollow words, I told him about my brainstorm. It had occurred to me, I told him, that he'd be able to save all kinds of money if he moved in with me. I could cook for him and do his laundry and take care of him in between my own studies. After all, why not, since we loved each other so much?”

“That was mean,” Oliver scolded, though he couldn't completely hide the glimmer of admiration in his gaze.

“It was intended to be,” she rejoined without remorse. “I was brokenhearted at the time. I felt used and dirty. I had to score some points, and since I didn't have the heart to resort to blackmail, I simply wanted him to squirm.”

“Did he?”

“Oh ho, yes,” she answered, neither pride nor pleasure in her tone. “He hemmed and hawed about how he'd never get any studying done if we lived together, and he'd feel all the more guilty about having to put me off when he did need to work. I insisted that it wouldn't bother me and that it would be better watching him study than not seeing him at all.”

The fire in her eyes spoke of an inner strength. Respecting it, Oliver grew more grave. “How did he handle that?”

“Very predictably, actually. On the pretense of being overcome by my offer, he took me in his arms and tried to put off the whole discussion by making love.”

“You didn't—”

“No. I brought my knee up hard, and then told him to go home and
try
to make love to his wife.”

Oliver jacked forward as though in physical pain himself. “You really did that?”

“You bet I did,” she breathed, “and I haven't regretted it for a minute. I was hurt and angry. The look of surprise, then disbelief, then sheer terror on his face was the small satisfaction I got out of the affair. That … and the determination never to be made a fool of again.” With the last of her venom trickling into thin air, she spoke more gently and with an awareness of Oliver once more. His face was racked by pain; she was touched by his sympathy. “It's okay, Oliver,” she said, forcing a smile. “It's over, and I survived. In hindsight, I guess I was most disappointed in myself—disappointed that I'd been fool enough to be so completely taken in. I really did love a part of Joe. I thought I'd found someone different—someone down-to-earth, someone more concerned with doing and living than clawing up the social ladder.” Her voice grew sad. “I was wrong. His greatest fear, when he discovered I knew the truth, was that I'd blow the whistle on him and somehow hurt his chances for a future in Boston. Not Kenya. Boston.” She sighed, her tone a mere whisper. “Boy, was I wrong.”

For the longest time, Oliver simply sat and stared at her, his chin propped on his fist, his face a mask of dismay. When she could no longer stand the silence, Leslie pushed herself from her chair and paced to the window.

“So now you know what a clever lady I am,” she called over her shoulder. “Now you know why I'm wary.”

With the sound of his bare feet muffled in the carpet, she didn't hear him approach. When his arms slipped around her to draw her back against him, she resisted. But he was insistent. And in the end she needed his support.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured so sadly that Leslie turned in his arms to face him.

“You're sorry?” she asked, bemused by his almost anguished expression. “It wasn't your fault!”

“But still … in some ways I identify with … your Joe.”

“He's not my Joe, and that's ridiculous. Aside from the fact that you both wear pants, you're nothing at all like Joe. He was a two-timing liar. You're not. You've never made promises or said things you couldn't see through. You've never made any attempt to deliberately sweeten the image of what you do, even when I've thought the worst.” Her ardent claim did nothing to ease his pain.