by Sandra Brown
Although she felt fabulous tonight, she would never take good health for granted. Her recollections of her illness were still too vivid. She was grateful to be alive and able to work. Her resumption of the Laura Madison role, and all the physical demands it placed on her, had caused no health problems. Now, a year after her transplant, she’d never felt better.
Grinning, she moved up behind Dean and slid her arm through his. “Why is it that the two most attractive men in the room are monopolizing each other and depriving the rest of us?”
Dean smiled down at her. “Thank you.”
“Likewise,” the other man said. “The compliment is especially welcome coming from the belle of the ball.”
She executed a mock curtsy, then smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Cat Delaney.”
“Bill Webster.”
“From…?”
“San Antonio, Texas.”
“Ah, WWSA! You’re that Webster.” She turned to Dean and said in a stage whisper, “Top dog. Owner and CEO. In other words, kiss up.”
Webster chuckled modestly.
His name was known and respected industry-wide. He appeared to be in his midfifties. There was an attractive feathering of gray at his temples, and his suntanned face had accommodated maturity very well. Cat liked him instantly.
“You’re not a native Texan, are you?” she asked. “Either that or you conceal your accent.”
“You have a good ear.”
“And great legs,” she said, winking.
“I concur,” Dean said.
Webster laughed again. “I’m originally from the Midwest. I’ve been in Texas almost fifteen years. It’s become home.”
“Thank you for tearing yourself away long enough to attend the party,” she said sincerely.
“I wouldn’t have missed it.” He nodded toward Dean. “Dr. Spicer and I have been talking about your remarkable recovery.”
“He deserves all the credit,” she said, smiling up at Dean. “He—and all the doctors and nurses in the transplant program—did all the work. I was just their dummy.”
Dean placed his arm around her slender waist and said proudly, “She’s been an ideal patient, first for me and then for Dr. Sholden, who took over her case when our relationship progressed to the point where medical considerations could have become clouded. As you can see, it turned out all right.”
Cat sighed theatrically. “It’s been all right since I got those blasted steroids adjusted. Of course, I had to give up my mustache and chipmunk cheeks, but one can’t have everything.”
The unpleasant side effects of the steroids had disappeared once her dosage had been lowered. She’d regained the pounds she’d lost and now held steady at her ideal, pretransplant weight.
Even before the “zipper” became part of her body, her slight figure had never had centerfold potential. She’d been a gangly, skinny child. Adolescence hadn’t paid off for her as it had for many girls; the fervently desired curves had never developed. The angular bone structure of her face and her vibrant coloring were her best assets. She’d learned to maximize them. Cameras loved them.
“I’m an unabashed fan, Ms. Delaney,” Bill Webster was saying.
“Please, call me Cat. And unabashed fans are my favorite kind.”
“Only a very important luncheon appointment can keep me from tuning in Passages every day.”
“I’m flattered.”
“I attribute the show’s enormous success to you and the character of Laura Madison.”
“Thank you, but you’re far too generous. Passages was successful before Laura Madison was written into it. And it held its own in the ratings during my absence. I share the show’s success with everyone involved, the scriptwriters, the whole cast and crew.”
Webster looked at Dean. “Is she always this modest?”
“To a fault, I’m afraid.”
“You’re a very fortunate man.”
“Hey, guys,” she said, “I think it only fair to warn you that one of my pet peeves is being talked about as though I’m invisible.”
“Sorry,” Webster said. “I was just picking up the conversation where we left off when you joined us. I had just congratulated Dr. Spicer on your impending marriage.”
Cat’s smile faltered. Angry heat rushed to her head. This wasn’t the first time Dean had fabricated their engagement. His self-esteem wouldn’t allow him to take seriously her declinations to his repeated marriage proposals.
In the beginning, their developing friendship had jeopardized his objectivity as her cardiologist. Throughout her illness and following her transplant she’d relied on that friendship. During the past year, it had advanced to a deeper, more mature level. He was important to her, but he continued to misread the nature of her love for him.
“Thank you, Bill, but Dean and I haven’t set a definite date.”
Despite her attempt to hide her irritation with Dean, Webster must have sensed it. Self-consciously he cleared his throat and said, “Well, there are a lot of people here wanting your attention, Cat, so I’ll say good night.”
She extended her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope our paths will cross again.”
He squeezed her hand. “You can count on it.”
She believed him.
Chapter Eight
October 10, 1991
The day was only minutes old when they decided they’d had enough of the video games.
After the darkness of the arcade, where one individual’s features were more or less indistinguishable from another’s, the fluorescent light in the empty shopping mall seemed unnaturally harsh and bright. They laughed at having to give their eyes time to adjust.
The mall’s stores and cafes had been closed for hours. Their voices echoed in the cavernous atrium, but it was a relief to carry on a conversation without having to shout above the electronic cacophony inside the arcade.
“You’re sure it’ll be okay?”
Jerry Ward shot his new companion the cocky, confident grin that belongs exclusively to happy, well adjusted, sixteen-year-old boys. “My folks’ll be asleep by now. They don’t wait up for me.”
“I don’t know. It seems strange for you to invite me home with you just like that. I mean, we hardly know each other.”
“What better way to get to know each other?” Jerry saw that he still had some convincing to do. “Look, you just got laid off and need a job, right? My dad’s got a business. He’s always hiring new people. He’ll find something for you.
“And tonight you need a place to crash. It’ll save you some bucks to stay at my house. We’ve got a guest room. If you’re nervous about what my mom and dad will think about you spending the night, I’ll sneak you out first thing in the morning and introduce you to them later. They never have to know you slept over. So, relax.” He laughed and spread his arms wide. “Okay? You cool?”
Jerry’s amiability was contagious and earned him an uncertain smile. “I’m cool.”
“Good. Wow! Look at those blades!” Jerry jogged to a sporting goods store. In the window were displayed in-line skates and all the safety paraphernalia. “See that pair there, the ones with the green wheels. They’re bad. That’s what I want for Christmas. And the helmet, too. The whole outfit.”
“I’ve never tried roller blading. It looks dangerous.”
“That’s what my mom says, but I think by Christmas she’ll come around. She’s so glad I can finally do normal stuff that she’s a real soft touch.” Jerry gave the display one last covetous glance before moving on.
“What do you mean, ‘do normal stuff’?”
“What? Oh, never mind.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to butt into private matters.”
Jerry hadn’t intended to give offense. But he’d been a geek for so many years, and was so glad no longer to be one, that he hated reminders of his infirmity.
“It’s just that, see, I was sick when I was a kid. I mean, real sick. From age five until last year. In fact, it’ll
be a year tomorrow. Mom’s having a big party to celebrate it.”
“Celebrate what? If you don’t mind my asking.”
They’d reached the exit doors. The guard on duty was slumped on a bench, sound asleep. Jerry faced his new friend, his face filled with doubt. “If I tell you, promise you won’t think I’m a dork.”
“I won’t think you’re a dork.”
“Well, some people get really weird about it.” Jerry took a quick breath. “I had a heart transplant.”
The declaration was met with a guffaw of disbelief. “Yeah. Right.”
“Swear. I almost died. They got a heart for me just in time.”
“You’re serious? No shit? Jesus Christ.”
Jerry laughed. “Yeah. My folks firmly believe He had something to do with it. Come on.” He pushed the door open and was confronted by a cold, damp wind. “Aw, hell. It’s raining again. Every time it rains this hard, the creek out by our place floods. Where’s your car?”
“That way.”
“Mine’s in that area, too. Want me to walk with you?”
“No. Just pull up in front of Sears. I’ll follow you from there.”
Jerry gave a thumbs-up sign, pulled his windbreaker up over his head, and charged into the downpour. He didn’t see his companion glance back at the sleeping guard.
Following the successful surgery, the Wards had bought Jerry a brand-new compact pickup. He proudly swung it into the lane in front of Sears, tooted the horn twice, and watched in his rearview mirror as the other car pulled up behind him.
He sang along with the radio and added a few bass percussion sounds as he negotiated the familiar streets that led from the Memphis suburbs to a rural area. He kept his speed moderate so as not to outdistance the car following him. If one didn’t know his way around in this neck of the woods, it was easy to get lost after dark.
As he neared a narrow bridge, Jerry reduced his speed. Just as he’d predicted, the creek below was running swift and high. He’d almost reached the middle of the bridge when his pickup was rammed from behind.
“What the—”
Jerry was pitched forward by the impact, but his seatbelt restrained him. Then he was slammed backward by the recoil, and it felt like someone had driven a hot spike through the back of his neck.
He cried out in pain and reflexively reached for his neck. Just as he let go of the steering wheel, the other vehicle gave his rear bumper another vicious nudge. Wood splintered and snapped as the pickup crashed through the rickety barricade. For only an instant the small truck was airborne, then the grille splashed into the swirling, dark waters. Within seconds the swift current was slapping against the windshield.
Screaming hoarsely, Jerry groped for the seatbelt release. It sprang open and he was free. In the darkness he searched for the door handle 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 lighting.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He softened his tone. “Many transplantees have lived for twenty or more year
s 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.”