Warm Hearts (44 page)

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Unfortunately her dreams were to remain unfulfilled. Leslie had barely stepped foot in the house after work on Thursday when the phone rang. She nearly panicked. Her relief at finding that it wasn't Oliver calling to cancel on her was short-lived.

It was Brad, in a state of panic himself. “You've got to get over here, Leslie! I don't know what to do!” Gone was all pretense of composure. He sounded frantic.

Leslie's stomach lurched. “What is it, Brad? What's happened?”

“She spent the day in her room. When I got home a little while ago I found that she'd been on a silent rampage.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Her scissors. She's taken her scissors to the sheets, the pillows, the drapes, the clothes … it's a mess!”

Images of destruction had begun to form in Leslie's mind's eye. “Calm down, Brad,” she said, trying desperately to stay that way herself. “What's she doing now?”

“That's the problem. Now she's in the dining room breaking dishes. She just stands there throwing them on the floor. When I try to stop her she aims at me! You've got to come over, Leslie! I can't seem to get through to her. Nothing I say registers. I don't know what to do!”

Nerves in a bundle, Leslie hung her head and pressed her fingers to her temple. “Okay, Brad.” She thought aloud. “You stay there. I'll be right over. Did you call Tony?”

“What can Tony do? He's about as understanding as a bulldozer!”

Though on the surface brother and brother-in-law had always gotten along, Leslie could understand that Brad was, in his way, intimidated by Tony. “Okay. I'll take care of it. You watch Diane and make sure she doesn't hurt herself. I'm on my way.”

Pressing the cut-off button, she punched out Tony's number. Since he'd taken over as president of the company, he'd also taken over as head of the family. It was the handing of power down a generation, with the senior Parish happy to hold no more than a purely titular position.

Leslie impatiently tapped her foot as the phone rang repeatedly. The receiver was finally lifted just as an angry voice finished its statement, “… always the one who has to!” The voice lowered. “Hello?”

“Mark?”

“It's Jason.”

“Jason. This is Aunt Leslie. Is your dad home yet?”

“Yeah. Just a minute.”

“Thanks.”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling, praying he'd hurry. When she heard a rustle at the other end of the line, she readied herself.

“Leslie?”

“Tony! Thank heavens you're there.”

“You sound hassled, Les. What's up?”

“It's Di. Brad just called. She's gotten worse.”

“How … worse?”

“Violent.”

“Violent?
Diane?
”

As calmly as she could, Leslie related what Brad had told her. “I'm going over there now. Brad doesn't have the foggiest as to what to do. Not that I do, but she needs
something
.” When Tony remained silent, she prodded. “What do you think? Should we call someone? I mean, I'm not thrilled with the idea, but I'm nervous. It's fine and dandy to overlook strange behavior in the hopes it will go away, but when strange turns violent, it's scary.”

Tony hesitated for only a minute. “I agree. Listen, I'll get on the phone. You go on over and see what you can do. I'll meet you there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Leslie said, then quickly hung up and reached for the coat she'd discarded just moments, before. Tony was good at this type of thing—identifying resources, sifting through to find the cream of the crop. She felt assured that he'd come up with a qualified professional to treat Diane.

The scene at Brad and Diane's was gut-wrenching.

“Where is she?” Leslie asked the subdued Brad who answered the door. His face was pale, his hair disheveled. He bore a look of shock; she couldn't help but wonder how he'd managed to be so ignorant of Diane's mental state that he hadn't seen this coming. Then she chided herself for her insensitivity. The man's wife was falling apart. Cad he might be, yet he had a right to be upset.

“She's in the den,” he said grimly.

Leslie glanced toward the dining room. Even from where she stood she could see shards of fine white china littering the oak floor and overflowing onto the rug. She frowned and looked around, listening. “She's quiet?”

“She ran out of plates. And steam, I guess. She's just sitting there crying.”

Thrusting her coat toward Brad, she headed that way without a word. On the threshold, she faltered. Diane sat, a petite form in a long white robe, curled in an oversize armchair in the corner. Head bent, one hand to her face and another tucked against her waist, she was a pathetic figure.

“Di,” Leslie whispered in agony, leaving the door and quickly crossing the room. She knelt before her sister's chair and placed her hands on its arms for support. “Di, what is it? Di?”

Diane's sobbing was quiet and internal, far different from the violent behavior she'd exhibited earlier. When she continued to cry, Leslie coaxed her gently.

“Diane, it's me. Leslie. I want to talk. Come on. Say something.”

Very slowly Diane raised tear-drenched eyes. Time seemed to fly back to the day she'd been eighteen and had lost the most important gymnastic competition of her life. She looked crushed.

“Leslie?” she murmured in a small, high voice.

As though Diane were one of her preschoolers rather than actually two years older than her, Leslie reached up to tuck a long brown wave of hair from her cheek. “What is it, Di?” she asked gently. “What's bothering you?”

“Oh, Les,” Diane began with a new rush of tears, “I've … made a mess of … things. I've really … blown it.”

Leslie took her hand and held it firmly. “No, you haven't. Everything can be put to rights.”

Diane was shaking her head even as Leslie spoke. “No. No. You don't understand. It's … everything. I'm lousy at the office. They override every decision I make. I'm lousy here. He finds his pleasure everywhere else—”

“No, Di—”

“It's true!” Diane cried, eyes suddenly flashing. “I hate him! I hate all of them!”

“Shhhh. You don't mean that—”

“I do!”

For a minute Leslie just rubbed the back of her sister's hand. If Diane were indeed four years old, she'd know what to say. Even now her temptation was to acknowledge that she had simply thrown one hell of a temper tantrum and now just needed a good talking to. But it wasn't that simple. Diane wasn't four; she was thirty-two. And her temper tantrum had involved acts that could easily have been harmful to herself. Then there had been the days of depression beforehand.… Where was Tony? Where was help?

“You may feel that way now, Di, but you're angry.”

“I'm … not … angry.…” She dissolved into tears again.

Rising from her kneeling position, Leslie perched on the arm of the chair and tried to put her arm around her sister. When Diane resisted, burrowing more deeply into the cushions, Leslie had to settle for her hand again.

“Can I get you anything? A glass of wine? Warm milk?”

Crying softly, Diane simply shook her head.

“How about lying down?”

“I … can't. The room's destroyed.”

“You could lie down on the sofa here.” She started to get up. “I'll get a blanket—”

“No! I … don't want … to lie down!”

Feeling totally inadequate in the role of therapist, Leslie patted her hand. “Okay, hon. We'll just sit here.”

“You don't have … to stay.…”

“I know.”

“I'm … such a burden. Now to you, too.”

“You're not a burden,” Leslie argued ever so softly and urgently. Her face bore a pained expression. She didn't think she'd ever seen such dire unhappiness, such raw despair as she now saw on her sister's face.

Then she glanced up and, in a wave of relief, saw Tony stride through the door. Her gaze fell again to Diane, and she wondered what her reaction would be to seeing him.

“Diane?” Tony said, hunkering down before her much as Leslie had done at first. “Are you all right?”

Diane looked up in alarm. “Tony! You … shouldn't be … here!” she cried between sobs, wrenching her hand from Leslie's to cover her face with it. “I don't want … you to see.…”

“Diane, I've brought someone with me. He'd like to talk to you.”

Only then did Leslie look up, her expression hopeful in a desperate kind of way. Then she froze. Her eyes grew larger. Hopefulness yielded to confusion, creating such a whir of sounds in her head that she barely heard Tony's words.

“This is Dr. Ames, Diane. He's going to help you.”

8

Shocked, Leslie watched as Tony straightened and moved aside to let Oliver take his place. Dr. Ames.
Dr.
Ames? The man in question shot her a somber glance before turning his attention to Diane.

“Hi, Diane,” he said in a low, gentle voice. “Not feelin' great?”

Diane looked up, first at Tony, then Leslie, her tear-streaked face accusing them of betrayal. “What is this?” she whispered.

Leslie couldn't possibly have answered. She felt numb, as stunned as Diane. Tony chose not to answer. It was Oliver who came to the rescue.

“I'd like to help you.”

“But … you're a … psych.…”

“A psychiatrist. That's right.” His voice was miraculously calm in light of the anguished expression he sent toward Leslie, who was far too busy comprehending his words to begin to see the pain accompanying them.

A psychiatrist? It had to be some kind of joke. This was Oliver of Homme Premier fame. Free heart. Golden boy. The man she'd once actually thought to be a gigolo.
Her
Oliver. His skin bore its familiar tan, his features their familiar shape. And the silver C behind his ear—it was there as well.

Yet something was different. Was it the tailored slacks he wore, or the blazer or shirt or tie? Was it the air of authority about him? But he'd had that even on St. Barts. Now, though, it was … professional.

Stupefied, Leslie raised glassy eyes to Tony, who was looking directly at her. Obviously feeling Diane to be in the best of hands, his concern had shifted. In an instant Leslie realized that he'd known all along. Of course. They played tennis together, didn't they? They were friends. Tony had known just whom to call tonight.

Feeling superfluous at the moment and badly in heed of fresh air, Leslie stood abruptly and started for the door. But Oliver caught her arm. His voice was calm, his expression well schooled. Only his fingers, fiercely circling her wrist, betrayed the intensity of emotion within him.

“Why don't you wait in the other room,” he ordered softly. “I'll be out to talk with you in a minute.”

Releasing her hand he turned back to Diane, to all appearances having done nothing more than offer support to the distraught relative of his patient. Tony knew better. He followed Leslie out, leaving Oliver to deal with Diane.

Feeling on the verge of suffocation, Leslie ran to the front door and opened it. She stood gasping the cold air when Tony reached her.

“Leslie?”

She shot him a look of bewilderment, then looked back out at the driveway, a bleak winter scene.

“It's all right, Les. There's really nothing so terrible about a psychiatrist.”

“A psychiatrist?” she echoed dumbly. “I can't believe it. He's a model. A handsome model.”

“No, Les. He's a handsome psychiatrist who happens to model on the side.”

“But I … he can't … I never.…” She shook her head in confusion and slumped sideways against the door.

“Come on in, Les. You'll catch cold.”

“I've already had my cold. He took care of me. A doctor … damn!”

“It's really no big thing—”

“No big thing?”
she exclaimed, turning the force of her upheaval on Tony. “That's easy for you to say! You weren't the one who spent the week with the guy! You weren't the one who believed his lies!” And he certainly wasn't the one who'd fallen in love. In deep pain, she turned her head. “He didn't tell me,” she murmured. “All that, and he didn't tell me.…”

Watching the agony his sister endured, Tony felt hamstrung. It would be so simple to tell her of Oliver's pain, but he'd promised his friend that he'd keep out of it. It was bad enough that the revelation had been forced upon them tonight; for that, too, Tony felt responsible. Too late he wondered if he might have been able to keep Leslie away from this house; unfortunately, at the time, he'd been more concerned with seeing that Diane was all right. Brad seemed useless. Even now he stood at the door of the den, his eyes downcast, his charm nonexistent.

“Come in from the cold, Les,” Tony said again.

She looked up, uncomprehending at first, frowning in puzzlement. Then, as though suddenly given direction, she pushed off from the doorjamb and moved into the house, but only to put on the coat that Brad had dropped on a nearby chair.

Tony eyed her cautiously. “Where are you going?”

With her coat hanging open, she dug her keys from the pocket and turned to the door again. “Home.” She felt numb and simply wanted time and space to consider what she'd learned.

“Wait, Les!. You can't leave!”

“Why not?”

“Diane. Diane needs you.”

“Diane's got capable help. He is capable, I assume,” she snapped sarcastically.

“The best. But she'll need our support, too.”

“You stay here. And Brad's here, for what that's worth. I only know that I wouldn't be much good to her tonight.” She was already outside and halfway down the steps.

“But Oliver said to wait—”