Charade (6 page)

and tugged on it, frantically, before remembering that the doors were automatically locked while the engine was running. Shit. He felt water closing over his knees. He raised his legs and kicked at the driver's window, kicked with all his might, until the glass cracked. But it was the force of the water that finally broke the glass. Gallons of creek water gushed in, instantly filling the cab of the truck. Jerry held his breath, although he realized that his life was over. Death, which he'd miraculously cheated so many times during his youth, was finally claiming him. He was on his way to meet Jesus. More accurately, a virtual stranger had sent him to meet Jesus. And Jerry Ward's last thought was one of anger and perplexity. Why?

Chapter Nine

Summer 1992

You're angry." Clearly, Dean was not asking a question. Cat continued to stare through the windshield of his Jag. "What was your first clue?" "You haven't spoken a word in twenty minutes." "Because I have you to speak for me. Once again, you practically posted banns." "Cat, I was merely carrying on a conversation during dinner with the woman seated beside me." "Who later cornered me in the powder room and begged to know the details of our forthcoming wedding." She turned to him. "You must have led her to believe it was imminent. The real irony is that we don't have plans to marry." "Of course we do." Cat would have argued, but he swung the Jag into the semicircular driveway of his house. On cue, his housekeeper opened the front door to greet them. Cat smiled at her and said hello as she entered the domed foyer. Being waited on by servants made her uncomfortable. Dean took dealing with hired help in stride.

Cat now wished she hadn't agreed to spend the night at his house. She had done so only because it promised to be a long evening, making it too late to drive to Malibu and then return early tomorrow morning for her studio call. She decided that if their brewing argument developed as she feared it might, she would call the Bel-Air and ask them to send a car for her. She went into his study, preferring it to the other rooms in the house because it was the coziest and least formal. "What something to drink?" he asked, following her. "No, thank you." "A snack? I noticed you didn't eat much dinner. You were too busy chatting with Bill Webster." She ignored that. Since their first meeting, she and the TV executive from Texas had crossed paths several times at network functions. Dean mistook the nature of her attraction to him. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry." "I can have Celesta fix something for you." "No need to bother her." "She's paid well to be bothered. What would you like?" "Nothing!" She regretted her sharp tone and drew in a deep breath to subdue her temper. "Don't coddle me, Dean. If I were hungry, I'd ask for something to eat." He left the study only long enough to dismiss the housekeeper for the night. When he rejoined Cat, she was standing at the window with her back to the room, gazing out over the formal garden. She heard his approach but didn't turn around. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that a casual comment would create such a fuss. Why don't we just get married and spare ourselves this recurring argument?" "Hardly a good reason to get married." "Cat." He grasped her shoulders more firmly and turned her to face him. "That's not the reason I want to marry you." They could be talking about anything--the weather, their favorite sundae topping, the national debt--but the subject always came back to this. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I don't want to rehash this tonight, Dean." "I've been patient, Cat."

"I know." "Our wedding doesn't have to be a media event. We can fly to Mexico or Vegas and have it over and done with before a single reporter gets wind of it." "It's not that." "Then what?" he pressed. "Don't give me that crap about not wanting to give up your house in Malibu, or your fear that you'll sacrifice your independence. Those are stale arguments. If you continue to turn me down, you'll have to come up with more valid objections." "It's only been a year and a half since my transplant," she said quietly. "So?" "So you might saddle yourself with a wife who'll spend a good portion of her life, and yours, in a cardiac ward." "You didn't experience a single rejection event." He raised his index finger. "Not one, Cat." "But there's no guarantee that I won't. Some transplantees live with their heart for years, then wham! For no apparent reason they reject." "And some die from causes totally unrelated to their hearts. In fact, there's a one-in-a-million chance you'll get struck by lightning." "I'm serious." "So am I." He softened his tone. "Many transplantees have lived for twenty or more years without any signs of rejection, Cat. Those patients received hearts when the procedure was still experimental. The technology has improved considerably. You stand an excellent chance of living out your normal life expectancy." "And every day of that 'normal life,' you'll be monitoring my vital signs." He looked puzzled. "I was your patient first, Dean, before I became your friend and lover. I think you'll always look upon me as your patient." "Not so," he said firmly. But she knew better. He hovered over her protectively, a continual reminder that she had once been very fragile. He still treated her with utmost care. Even when they made love, he handled her as

though she might break. His nerve-racking, irritating restraint made her feel cheated rather than cherished and severely curtailed her passion. For fear of damaging his ego, she'd borne her frustration in silence, while yearning to be treated like a woman, without being qualified as a heart transplantee. With Dean, she doubted that would ever be possible. Still, she knew that his overprotectiveness was only a symptom; the real problem was that she wasn't in love with him. Not in the way she should be before entertaining marriage. Life would be much simpler if she were in love with him. At times she fervently wished she could be. She'd always tried to spare his feelings, but now she felt that a more straightforward approach was in order. "I don't want to marry you, Dean. I care about you deeply. If it weren't for you, I'd never have made it." Smiling at him tenderly, she said, "But I'm not head over heels." "I realize that. I don't expect you to be. That's for kids. We're beyond that romantic silliness. On the other hand, we make a good team." "A team," she repeated. "That doesn't really appeal to me, either. I haven't belonged to anyone since I was eight years old, when my parents . . . died." "All the more reason to let me take care of you." "I don't want to be taken care of! I want to be Cat. The new Cat. The well, strong Cat. Every day since my transplant has been a discovery into the new me. I'm still becoming acquainted with this woman who can take the stairs instead of the elevator. Who can shampoo her hair in three minutes when it used to take thirty." She pressed her fists against her chest where her heart was beating strongly. "Time has a new dimension for me, Dean. It's precious. I jealously guard the time I spend with myself. Until I know completely this new Cat Delaney, I'm unwilling to share her with anyone." "I see," he said stiffly, sounding more peeved than heartbroken. She laughed. "Stop sulking. I don't buy it. You won't suffer unduly if we don't marry. What you love most about me is my celebrity. You enjoy sharing the limelight, attending Hollywood premieres, being seen at Spago in the company of a TV star." She struck a starlet's pose, one hand on her hip, the other behind her head.

He laughed, his sheepish grin as good as a signed confession. But she pressed on. "Admit it, Dean. If I clerked at a supermarket, would you still be pleading for my hand in marriage?" She had him pegged, and they both knew it. "You're a cold woman, Cat Delaney." "I speak the truth." If the nature of Dean's love for her were different, she would have ended their relationship long ago in order to spare him real heartache. As it was, he admitted to loving her only as much as he was capable of loving. He took her in his arms and kissed her forehead. "In my way, Cat, I do love you, and I still intend to marry you, but I'll relent for now. Fair enough?" They hadn't solved anything, but at least she'd been granted another reprieve. "Fair enough." "Good." He hugged her close. "Ready for bed?" "I thought I'd take a swim first." "Want company?" He wasn't particularly fond of swimming, which was a shame since he had a gorgeous pool surrounded by more lush greenery than a tropical lagoon. "You go on up. I'll be there shortly." He climbed the sweeping staircase to the second floor. Cat went out through the terrace doors and followed the flagstone path through the manicured garden to the pool. Unself-consciously, she unfastened her dress and stepped out of it, then peeled off her stockings and panties and slid naked into the deliciously cool water. It felt cleansing. Perhaps it would wash away the nagging dissatisfaction that had plagued her for months, not just with Dean but with everything in her life. She swam three laps before turning onto her back to float. She still marveled that she could swim without having to gasp for breath or be afraid that her heart would come to a screeching halt. A year and a half ago she couldn't have believed that such a feat was possible. She'd been prepared to die. And she would have died, if someone else hadn't died first. That thought was never far from her consciousness, but whenever it thrust itself forward, it was jolting. Now, it brought her out of the

pool. Shivering, she tiptoed to the cabana and wrapped herself in a large towel. But the thought stalked her: Someone's death had given her the gift of life. She'd made it clear to Dean, and to everyone on the transplant team, that she wanted to know nothing about the donor of her heart. Rarely did she allow herself to think of that anonymous person as an individual, with a family who had made a tremendous sacrifice so that she might live. When she did permit herself to think about that unnamed someone, her ambiguous discontent seemed the Mt. Everest of selfishness and self-pity. One life had been cut short; she'd been granted a second one. She lay down on one of the chaise lounges, closed her eyes tightly, and concentrated on counting her blessings. She'd conquered the overwhelming odds of her unfortunate childhood, pursued her dream, and achieved it. She was at the peak of her career and worked with talented people who liked and admired her. She had more than enough money and wanted for nothing. She was adored and desired by a handsome, cultured, highly respected cardiologist who lived the lifestyle of a prince. So why this vague restlessness, this disquiet that she could neither explain nor dispel? Her life, so hard-won, now seemed without purpose or direction. She yearned for something she couldn't describe or identify, something beyond her reckoning and her grasp. What could she possibly want that she didn't have? What more could she ask, when she had already received the gift of life? Cat sat up abruptly, sudden insight infusing her with energy. Self-doubt could be a positive motivator, and there was nothing wrong with self-examination. It was the focus of her self-analysis that was misdirected. Instead of asking what more she could want, perhaps she should be asking what she could give.

Chapter Ten

October 10, 1992

Your house always smelled like something just out of the oven. This morning it was teacakes. Golden and sugar-dusted, they were cooling on a wire rack on the kitchen table, next to a chocolate layer cake and two fruit pies. Ruffled curtains fluttered in the open screened windows. On the refrigerator, magnets held in place Valentines made of red construction paper and white paper doilies, Thanksgiving turkeys drawn around small handprints, and Christmas angels that bore an unsettling resemblance to Halloween bats. All was the artwork of numerous grandchildren. She answered the knock on her back screen door with a glance, a smile, and wave to come on in. "You've got every mouth in the neighborhood watering. I could smell the cookies as soon as I stepped outside my door." Her plump face was flushed with heat from the oven. When she smiled, her animated, guileless eyes crinkled at the corners. "Have one while they're still warm." She gestured at the teacakes. "No. They're for your party."

"Just one. I need an opinion. Be honest now." She picked up one of the teacakes and extended it expectantly. Knowing it would be rude to refuse, the guest acquiesced. "Hmm. Melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Just like Grandmother used to make." "You've never told me about your family. Not in the three months you've lived next door." Turning her back, she began washing the mixing bowls and measuring cups that had been soaking in the sink. "Not much to tell. Dad was in the military. We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Twelve grades, twelve schools." "That can be so hard on a child." Her usually cheerful smile became a frown of sympathy. "This is a royal proclamation! No sad thoughts today! I decree this a day of celebration. Your day." She giggled like a girl, although she was well into her fifties. "I've got so much to do before this afternoon. Fred's taking off early. Said he'd be home by two. The children should be arriving with their families around five." "You can't possibly make all the preparations yourself. Put me to work. I took the day off so I could help." "Oh, you shouldn't have done that!" she exclaimed. "Won't your boss get mad?" "If he does, that's tough. I told him how fortunate I am to be living next door to a very special lady and that, whether he liked it or not, I was going to help her celebrate her second year with a new heart." She was touched. Tears glistened in her eyes. "I've been so blessed. When I think how close ..." "Hey, none of that, now. Remember the royal proclamation. Where should we start?" She blotted her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, then returned it to her apron pocket. "Well, you could start setting up the extra folding chairs while I water my plants." "Lead the way." They moved into the family room. It was homey and bright. On one wall was a glass sliding door that opened onto the patio. In order to catch the morning sun, a Boston fern had been hung on a hook in the ceiling, directly in front of the large glass pane.

"I guess Fred waters that fern for you. You'd never be able to reach it." "Oh, it's not hard to reach, dear," she said. "I use a stepladder." It had been a year since the Ward boy had met with that unfortunate accident in Memphis. Twelve months of careful planning had passed. Although it was anxiety-producing, the protraction was necessary. The methodology was essential to the mission. Without order and discipline, the mission would be madness. The longest part of the year had been the hours since midnight last night. They had seemed as long as all the hours that had gone before. Each second had been counted in eager anticipation. Now, the long wait was almost over, the anticipation was minutes away from being gratified. "Watch, love. I'm doing this for you. It's a demonstration of love that even death cannot vanquish.'' "A stepladder. How convenient."