Listen To Your Heart (10 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Listen To Your Heart
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The last of her errands completed, Josie loaded the van and headed for the dry-cleaning shop. She had a good hour before she had to be home to help Kitty load the food into the van for a private dinner. She could stop for coffee, get a double praline crunch ice cream cone or perhaps she could drive by Paul's house. Driving by wasn't the same as going in the way Kitty suggested. “What would you do, Mom? Kitty is so . . . so much like you. Sometimes I wish I was more . . . impulsive like she is. Maybe I'm using the wrong deodorant. He did say he would call. I have his dog. That means he has to come back for him. Do I need more guts? What's wrong with me, Mom? These last few days all I feel like doing is crying. That double praline crunch isn't going to make me feel one bit better. Would you do it, Mom?”
Josie turned the corner but not before she rolled down the window. She eased up on the gas pedal when the overpowering scent of lily of the valley from the house next to Paul's wafted through the window. She blinked and then shivered as she looked around. The flower border on Paul's neighbor's lawn was made up totally of lilies of the valley nestled in and among thickets of spiky monkey grass. Her eyes filled with tears. “I'm taking this as a sign, Mom. I'm gonna do it!”
Her legs felt like jelly as she got out of the car and walked boldly up the driveway to Paul Brouillette's house. He'd said Zip knew how to open the French doors. Maybe it would be better if she walked around the back so the neighbors wouldn't see her and possibly report back to Paul. Maybe the key in her hand would open the French doors. She felt like a thief as she meandered to the back of the house, striving, for a nonchalant pose when she reached the door.
Josie looked over her shoulder. There was nothing to be seen on either side of the house except thick, lush shrubbery pruned to perfection. With a shaking hand she started to fit the key into the lock and then changed her mind. She turned to leave when a light breeze rustled the trees overhead, bringing the scent of lily of the valley to her nostrils. A moment later, the trees were quiet. A dog barked in the distance. A tree frog leaped in front of her. She clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the squeal that was about to rush past her lips.
There were no squeaks, no groans, no sound at all when the lock turned and the door opened. Josie stepped into an immaculate dining room. In an instant she knew the house was professionally decorated. A bachelor pad done in earth tones. No real color anywhere. She thought it depressing as she walked from room to room. It didn't look like anyone lived in the house. Where were the treasures, the mementos, the family pictures? She eyed the expensive silk plants with a jaundiced eye. She hated silk plants. She decided she also hated the faceless decorator who had taken such modern liberties with the beautiful old house.
Josie peeked into the kitchen. Kitty would love the sterile, stainless-steel area. She wouldn't like the wrought-iron table and chairs, though. There was no centerpiece on the table, no colorful place mats or napkins, no cushions on the hard, iron chairs. She shuddered. How could Paul Brouillette live in such a cold, impersonal house? Maybe he didn't really live here; maybe he just came back and forth. Tentatively she opened the huge refrigerator. Her jaw dropped at the shelves full of food.
Where were Zip's things, his bed, his toys? Maybe Zip was just a dog to Paul. A dog he fed and walked. She felt a frown building between her eyebrows. A dog was a commitment, a responsibility, a member of the family.
The frown stayed with Josie as she made her way to the second floor. She told herself going to the second floor was simply to look for Zip's things. Certainly not to check out Paul's bedroom. She'd never do something like that. Kitty would, but she wouldn't. Kitty would want to know if he wore boxers or jockeys.
The doors to three of the bedrooms stood open. Josie peeked into each room. Clean, neat, professionally decorated like the downstairs. The bathrooms were done in pastel shades with matching towels and rugs. Even the soap matched. Josie winced. Were these rooms ever used? Did Paul entertain or have guests? She wondered if there was anything feminine in his room or bathroom. Someone who stayed over and left things behind.
Josie had to coax herself to open the door to what she assumed was Paul's bedroom. Three times her hand reached out to turn the knob and three times she pulled it back. Checking out the rest of the house was one thing, but if she went into this room, she was invading Paul's privacy.
On the fourth try she allowed her hand to close over the knob. She turned it slowly, sucking in her breath as she did so. It was dim and cool inside and she had to squint to see the dim shapes of the furniture. She had the impression of a large, square room with equally large furniture. She squeezed her eyes shut and then reopened them in hopes of a better look. Here there were photographs, four in all on top of the long dresser. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness in the room she allowed her gaze to sweep past the open bathroom door, the pile of clothes outside the door, to the night tables and the long king-size bed, where someone was sleeping.
Josie thought her blood froze in her veins in that one second.
Someone sleeping.
She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from calling out.
You bastard! You smart-ass bastard. You're here sleeping while I stew and fret about why you didn't call me. Kitty was right. All you wanted was someone to watch your dog.
Josie backed away from the open doorway and reached out to close it quietly. She wasn't aware that she was crying until she was outside. Inside the Explorer, she reached for a tissue and blew her nose. The scent of lily of the valley was so strong she got back out of the car and walked across the lawn to Paul's neighbor's house, where she dropped to her knees to sniff the tiny flowers. There was hardly any scent at all. She moved along on her knees, realizing how stupid she must look to anyone watching. She didn't care. Satisfied, she stood up and walked back to the Explorer. She felt light-headed when she leaned back in the driver's seat to let the light flower scent wash over her. “Oh, Mom,” she wailed.
He knew he was in a hospital. He could tell by the smell and the way everyone was whispering. He knew a thing or two about hospitals. People died in hospitals. His father had died in one, his three stepfathers had died in hospitals and so had his two sisters. He knew he had to open his eyes, but the moment he did that, the voices in the room would start to talk to him, ask him questions. He didn't want to talk, and he certainly didn't want to answer questions. He needed to think. He needed to remember how he got here. He knew he would never voluntarily go to a hospital on his own. That had to mean he had had an accident of some kind, and someone else brought him here. He wanted to move his legs and arms, test his fingers, open his eyes but if he did that the voices would know he was awake. Better to wait and think. He heard the words
John Doe Number 4.
Were they referring to him? Was he a John Doe? It must mean they didn't know his name. He remembered then. He'd been running in the park. All he had on him was a twenty-dollar bill for the taxi ride after his run. Did he trip and fall? Was he mugged? How had he gotten here? Well, the only way he was going to find out was to open his eyes and ask questions. He did just that.
There were five people in the room: two doctors and three nurses. “What happened to me? How long have I been here?” he whispered.
Instead of answering his questions, the tall distinguished doctor asked one of his own: “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three. What's wrong with me?”
“Are you in any pain?” the doctor asked, ignoring that question, too.
“My head and neck hurt. I had a headache when I started out. What the hell happened to me?”
“We don't know. We're assuming you were mugged. You had no ID on you when you were brought in. You had no watch, no rings, no money. It was a logical conclusion. A nanny walking a baby in the park called 911 and you were brought here by ambulance. You have a severe concussion. Your name please.”
“Paul Brouillette. How long have I been here?”
“This is your fifth day. You were unconscious for nearly twenty-four hours. For the last few days you've been slipping in and out. We tried to talk to you, but you kept falling asleep. Your vital signs are good. That nasty headache is going to stay with you for a few more days. What you need now is rest and some solid food. You should be able to leave here in a day or so. Now, we need to take down your insurance information. Someone from the business office will be up in a little while to do that. For now we want to draw some blood, run some tests, and take your blood pressure. By the way, I'm Dr. Slobodian and this is Dr. Entwhistle. These lovely nurses are Karen, Janet, and Andrea. I'll check back on you when I make rounds this evening. Sleep and relax, Mr. Brouillette. It's the best thing for you.”
“I need to make some telephone calls,” Paul said wearily.
“The nurses will make them for you.”
He thought nurses wore little starched caps and rustled when they walked. These women moved soundlessly and wore squashed-up blue paper hats and blue paper booties. On television they only wore getups like that in the operating room.
“Now, Mr. Brouillette, who would you like me to call?” one of the nurses asked cheerfully.
Jack Emery? The office? His mother? Josie Dupré? Zip? “I can't remember,” he lied. He sniffed. “Did someone send me flowers?”
“I don't think so, Mr. Brouillette. Why do you ask?”
“I guess it's your perfume I smell.”
The nurse laughed. “We aren't allowed to wear perfume. I don't smell anything. Are you sure it isn't the hospital smell?”
“Those little white flowers that look like tiny bells,” Paul said, sniffing again.
“You must mean lilies of the valley. I have some in my flower garden. They smell wonderful. I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir. Sometimes a concussion strengthens the senses or possibly someone wearing perfume walked down the hall. That must be it. A visitor wearing perfume. Now, aren't you glad we solved that little mystery? This isn't going to hurt,” the nurse said as she strapped on the blood-pressure cuff to his upper arm. Paul was asleep before she nodded in satisfaction and proceeded to jot down the numbers on the chart at the end of his bed.
 
Jack Emery padded barefoot down the long flight of stairs and out to the kitchen, where he searched for coffee. When he saw the pot was empty and he would have to make his own, he groaned. While the coffee dripped he swigged down half a quart of ice-cold tomato juice, swearing he was never going to tie one on again. He'd had his share of hangovers during what he called his hellion years, but this one was the queen mother of hangovers. Damn! Those last two drinks were what had done him in. Since he couldn't see his car in the driveway, that had to mean he had the good sense to take a taxi, or else one of his friends had dumped him off. What the hell had he been celebrating anyway? John Connors's big promotion? Like he really cared if John Connors got promoted or not. It was just an excuse on his end to party a little too hearty. Well, that would be it for another six months.
Jack rubbed his temples. Today was going to be a recovery day. Thank God he owned his own company and didn't have to report to some tight-assed, surly boss. Besides, there was something he was supposed to do today. What the hell was it? Yeah, yeah, he was supposed to pick up Zip. Where the hell was the piece of paper with the name and address? Pants pocket, jacket pocket? That meant he had to go upstairs to get it. Call ahead. It was always good to call ahead and set things up. That's what he would do the minute he made his way upstairs. He finished off the tomato juice and a second cup of coffee. He didn't feel one bit better. He started to feel worse when he looked at the clock and knew he wouldn't be able to make his luncheon date with Marissa Gaffney no matter how hard he tried.
Call now and get it over with.
His head pounding, he padded over to the phone and dialed the number from memory. “It's Jack, Marissa. I'm sorry but I have to cancel lunch. The truth is, I'm dog-sitting. I have one hell of a hangover, and I don't have a car at the moment. I'm staying at Paul's house to watch Zip. I owed him a couple of favors. Listen, how about dinner tomorrow night instead? I'm sorry about lunch. Is dinner on or off? Call me.”

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