Warm Hearts (45 page)

“Tell Oliver,” she yelled on the run toward her car, “that I don't take orders from anyone! Least of all
him
!”

“Leslie…!”

But she had slammed the door and started the engine before he could say any more. He stood helplessly and watched as she whirled her car around and gunned from the drive, praying that she'd have the sense to slow down before she got herself killed. Glancing at his watch, he calculated the amount of time it would take for her to drive home. Then, vowing to call to make sure she was all right, he quietly closed the door and turned back toward the den.

Oliver had drawn a chair up close to Diane and continued to talk to her in a slow, soft reassuring manner. At Tony's return, he stood, squeezed her shoulder and walked to the door, where he gestured with his chin toward the hall. When Tony joined him there, he spoke in hushed tones.

“I think she's gotten the worst of it out of her system. She's tired and confused. I'll give her something to help her sleep.” He glanced up briefly when Brad joined the conference, then swung his attention back to Tony. “Is there someone who can stay with her?” He frowned and looked around. “Where's Leslie?”

“She's gone home,” Tony ventured hesitantly, at once aware of the way his friend's jaw tensed at the news.

Oliver thrust his fingers through his hair. “Swell,” he muttered under his breath, then turned to Brad. “Your wife is upset. She'll need to rest and then talk with someone. I'll stay with her until she falls asleep. Can you get her to my office tomorrow morning?”

Unbelievably, Brad grew nervous. “You don't think she should be, uh, hospitalized?”

“No, I don't,” Oliver decreed, his voice low and taut. “Hospitalization at this point would only upset her more.”

“But what about what she's done?” Brad countered. “What if she wakes up and turns violent again?”

“She won't. She's let off the worst of the steam … and she's got our full attention. Now she needs our understanding and support.”

“She doesn't want
me
to do anything for her,” Brad went on in a sulking tone. “I tried before. She wouldn't let me near.”

“That's because you're very much a part of her problem,” Oliver stated with a decided lack of sympathy for the man who'd been so blind to his wife's worsening mental state. Tony had filled him in on the history of the Weitzes' married life, and though it wasn't Oliver's job to pass judgment, he couldn't deny his anger. Anymore than he could deny his need to get out of this house and go after Leslie. “Tony tells me you've got a housekeeper.”

“Some help she is,” Brad grumbled. “She's been hiding in the kitchen through all of this.”

“Can I see her?”

“I guess so.” With a parting glance of irritation toward the dining-room door, Brad stalked off toward the kitchen.

“Nice guy,” Oliver couldn't help but observe.

“Yeah. But Diane loves him. At least she did.”

“She still does or she wouldn't have gone off the deep end like this.”

Tony grew more alert. “Has she, Oliver? What's the prognosis for this kind of thing?”

Oliver shrugged. “I've only talked with her for a few minutes. But between that and what you've told me, I think she's got very workable problems.”

“You can help her?”

“In time.” He frowned, his eyes clouding. “I just hope I'm the one to do it.”

“Why not? You're the best.”

He snorted. “Be that as it may, I happen to be emotionally involved with your
other
sister, and that fact could complicate my treating Diane.” Hands in the pockets of his slacks, he crossed the hall to stand by the front bay window.

Tony was quickly by his side again. “Come on, Oliver. Don't make me go to someone else in a matter as sensitive as this.”

Something in his voice, a note of urgency, pricked Oliver's curiosity. “Your family isn't big on psychiatry, is it?”

“Why do you say that?” Tony returned defensively.

“Because, among many families in your social stratum, psychiatrists have become standard fixtures. I'm surprised that none of you thought to call in someone earlier.”

“We didn't want to interfere. We thought it was a matter between Diane and Brad. It wasn't until today that we realized how bad things were. Leslie's been trying to see Diane all week, but she'd put her off each time.…” When Oliver simply continued to stare expectantly at him, he scowled. “All right. We're not big on psychiatry. My mother was pretty unhappy during the last years of her life. We don't talk about it much, but I think we all agree that the guy she was seeing didn't do her much good.”

“She was seeing a psychiatrist?” Leslie had never mentioned this. “Why?”

“Depression. Anger. Loneliness.”

“With a husband and four kids?”

“It was the husband she wanted, and he was never around. What with business trips and all.…” He'd said enough, without elaborating on the “and all.” “The kids could only fulfill certain needs. She had a slew of others that were never addressed.”

“How did she die?”

“She didn't commit suicide, if that's what you're thinking. She had cancer. I think she just … gave up. Not much difference, I suppose.”

Oliver was given no time to comment, for Brad returned with a shy-looking woman in tow. Introductions were made, at which point Oliver spoke kindly to the woman, asking her to check in on her mistress at intervals during the night. Diane was not to awaken alone. She was to be made comfortable and given food or drink or anything of the like that she wanted. And he was to be called if there was any further problem.

Returning to Diane, Oliver gave her a sedative and helped her upstairs to a bedroom at the opposite end of the house from the one she'd torn apart. All the while he talked quietly with her, demanding little, letting her speak as she wished. The housekeeper brought the glass of warm milk he'd requested; he supported Diane while she drank. Then, denying the gremlins that thudded impatiently inside him, he sat by her bedside until the sedative took effect, leaving only when he was sure she was asleep.

*   *   *

Leslie wished she were out of it. Her mind was in a turmoil from which neither the sobering drive home nor her arrival at her own warm, familiar house nor a glass of her best and most mellow wine could rescue her. She picked up the mail, looked through it, put it down. She turned on the television, ran the gamut of channels, switched it off. She went to the refrigerator, stared at its contents, shut the door without touching a thing.

Wiping a single tear from her eye, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom and lay down in the dark. She felt hurt and tired, stretched taut by the emotions that gathered into a tight knot deep inside.

When the phone rang, she simply glared at it. Then it rang a second, a third and a fourth time and she realized that it might well be Brenda calling in concern about Diane.

“Hello?” she began cautiously, prepared to hang up if it was Oliver.

It was Tony. “Thank goodness,” he breathed. “You got home all right.”

“Of course I did,” she answered in quiet relief, then growing irritation. “What could have happened?”

“The way you were driving, I wasn't sure.”

“I'm all right.”

“Are you?”

“Relatively speaking.”

“He wasn't pleased that you'd left.”

“Tough. How's Diane?”

“He took her to bed.”

“Oh, great.”

“He
brought her upstairs.
He gave her a sedative and said he'd talk with her until she drifted off.”

“Then what?”

“Then he'll probably go after
you
.”

Leslie scowled in frustration. “Then what does he have planned for Diane? One sedative and a good-night talk is hardly going to solve her problem.”

“He'll see her in his office tomorrow.”

“That's good of him.”

“It is, given the fact that he's booked solid, and that he's got serious reservations about treating her, what with his relationship with you. Come on, Leslie. Ease up.”

“Relationship with me,” she muttered to herself. “
What
relationship? A relationship based on lies is nothing!”

Tony started to argue, then caught himself, fearing he'd only make things worse. “Listen,” he said in his most placating tone, “Oliver will explain everything. I've got to run. I'll catch you later.”

“Sure,” Leslie murmured, hanging up the phone and lying back in the dark again. She didn't know how much time passed, only knew that she couldn't motivate herself to do anything but lie there and wonder how she'd managed to get hurt again. It hurt. It did hurt. As the numbness slowly wore off, the sting had begun.

When the front doorbell rang, she wasn't surprised. She'd known he would come. The male mind was very predictable when it came to bruised egos, and she'd bruised his with her refusal to hang around at Diane's house. No, it hadn't taken psychiatric wizardry to anticipate his move.

She lay in the dark listening. The bell rang again and again. When he began to pound on the thick wood, she simply turned onto her side and huddled in a tighter ball. When the back bell rang, again followed by knocking, she flipped onto the other side. She heard the vague echo of her name and found perverse satisfaction in his annoyance. His ego certainly was bruised; small solace for the tatters to which he'd reduced hers!

To her amazement, he gave up after several minutes. She grew more alert, listening closely for any sounds of his prowling outside. But what could she possibly hear? Her bedroom was on the second floor. It was the middle of winter. Snow blanketed the ground, providing a natural cushion for footsteps, while thick storm windows blocked out not only the cold but extraneous noise as well.

It was spooky, she had to admit, lying here, wondering if she was being stalked. She sat up to listen. Slipping quietly from the bed, she stood at the door. Everything was still. Had he left, the coward? Had he tossed in the towel so easily? Then it had been illusion, what she'd imagined he'd felt on St. Barts. Illusion and deception—all she detested.

A sound caught her ear and brought her instantly alert. A door shutting. In the kitchen? Then she heard footsteps and nearly panicked. Someone was in her house. Someone had broken in. The alarm … what had happened to the alarm? Had she actually forgotten to reengage it after she'd come in? Everything had been locked; she was sure of it. Hand on her thudding heart, she stood rooted to the spot, thinking she should call the police but waiting, waiting.…

“Leslie! Where are you? I know you're here!”

Her heart continued to thud, despite the wave of relief that swept over her. The footsteps came and went as he passed from area rugs to hardwood floors and back. He searched the living room, the dining room, the library, the den. On stocking feet she walked quietly from her bedroom door to the top of the stairs. Though the lower floor was bathed in light, she stood in darkness, waiting.

When Oliver reached the stairs and looked up, he saw her instantly. Hand on the end curl of the wood bannister, one foot on the lowest rung of the steps, he stared up at her for a moment.

“Come on down, Leslie,” he said evenly, his manner tautly reined. “We have to talk.”

“How did you get in?” Her voice was as tight as his.

“Through the garage. The lock on the inner door was easy to pick.”

“That's breaking and entering, Oliver. Another of your surprise talents?” She hadn't moved, finding small comfort in the advantage of her raised position.

“The fact is,” he snarled, whipping off his overcoat and throwing it over the bannister, “that it was a lousy lock. You should be better protected than that. I'm surprised no one's broken in before.”

“Someone has. I have an alarm system.”

“It did one hell of a job just now.”

“It wasn't on.”

“Swell! Your insurance company would be real pleased! So you're one of those who feels that the little sticker on the front window is enough to scare away a thug?”

“It didn't scare
you
away. What would you have done if the whole system had gone off, and you'd found yourself surrounded by cops? It's hooked in to the police station, you know.”

“I would have told them the truth. And I certainly would have had your attention.”

“Oh, you've got my attention, all right,” she spat. “You've had that since the first time I found you in my bed. Thing is that I could get you for perjury.”

Oliver simmered. “Come downstairs, Leslie. I can't talk standing here like this staring up into the dark. I'd like to see your face.”

Her fingers tightened on the wood railing. “Why? So you can gauge my reactions and gear your words accordingly? So you can analyze my frame of mind and plot your counterattack? So you can—”

“Leslie! Get down here!” he thundered, then swore softly and lowered his voice. “Please. It's been a long day for both of us. I'm tired and no more wild about this turn of events than you are.”

“I bet you're not,” she bounded on, driven by the anguish festering within. “I bet you'd have liked to have kept the charade going a while longer. Fun.”

Oliver shot her a withering stare, reached up to loosen his tie, then turned and headed for the den. In her mind's eye, Leslie saw him approach the bar, remove a glass, open the small refrigerator below, extract the same bottle she had earlier and uncork it. Only when she heard the refrigerator door close with a thud did she very slowly start down the stairs.

He met her at its bottom holding two glasses, his own and the one he'd refilled for her. Head high, she took it from him without a word and padded softly into the living room. It was a larger room, not quite as intimate as the den and, for that very reason, never a favorite of hers. On this occasion, she mused, it would serve just fine. She needed the space. She also needed four-inch spikes; she felt suddenly much smaller and more insignificant than she had before. It took all her courage to settle calmly into the armchair and tip her head at its most arrogant angle toward Oliver.