Warm Hearts (48 page)

She was more rattled than ever. Though ecstatic to receive his gifts, she was terrified to read too much into them. Worse, she was appalled at how much she wanted to read into them. She was wary and elated, distrustful and optimistic, and very much afraid of being hurt again.

Determined to view the violets as nothing more than a token, she put them in the center of her bright kitchen table and tried to go about her business as usual. She went to work each day at one of the centers, invariably brought paperwork home to do at night, had a pleasant if uninspiring dinner-date with a college professor she'd dated from time to time, spoke to Tony and Brenda, met Diane for lunch.

And the violets remained on her table. She gave them fresh water. She misted them. She recut their stems. She withered a little as each delicate face fell, dried up and had to be removed from the bunch. With no more than four or five flowers left, the vase began to look as lonely as she felt.

Then, on a rainy Wednesday evening that just happened to be April Fool's Day, Leslie came home from work to find a puddle of water accumulating in her basement frighteningly close to the furnace. Tired and discouraged, she was trying to get the sump pump going when the doorbell rang. Struggling frantically, she poked and pinched in vain. Then the bell rang a second time. Swearing at the stubborn machine, she brushed off her hands as she ran up the stairs.

The house, a brick Tudor, had an inner door, a small foyer, then a thicker outer door with multiple locks. Dashing through the first door, she stood on tiptoe at the second to peer out its single window. She was saved! Flipping the locks, she opened the door.

Standing in the cover of the meager overhang was Oliver. His hair glistened; his raincoat was wet. Collar up, he was hunched over as though trying to protect himself from the rain.

Without a pause she stood aside to let him step quickly in out of the rain. His breathing came fast; he must have dashed from the car.

“Hi,” he said, shaking out his sleeves. “Man, is it pouring! Listen, I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was worried you wouldn't see me unless I took you by surprise—”

“Thank heavens you're here, Oliver! Do you know anything about sump pumps?” She reached up to help him out of his coat.

“Excuse me?”

“Sump pumps!” She hung the coat to drip on the tall brass coat stand, then led the way into the house and directly toward the basement door. “Do you know how they work … or what's wrong with them when they don't?” She was taking the stairs at a clip, calling back over her shoulder to the bemused figure following her lead. “I can't get the thing to work and my basement's beginning to flood and if the water keeps coming in the furnace is going to be knocked out and then I'll be without heat and—”

“Keep still for a minute while I take a look.”

Oliver hunkered down and peered into the small hole of the compact piece of machinery that was barely above the water line. Shrugging out of his blazer and handing it to her, he rolled up his shirt sleeve, then reached in to locate a part here, to jiggle a part there, to fiddle with still a third, while Leslie looked on.

“I can't believe this is happening!” she exclaimed. “I have a service that comes in twice a year to check both the furnace and the pump. They assured me both were fine. What do you think?” she asked, anxiously clutching his blazer. “Should I call the plumber?”

“I think,” he grunted, reaching lower to tug at a lever that momentarily resisted him, “that the guy simply had the thing turned off. It's stuck. Wait.… There.” Sure enough, with a final forceful tug, Oliver had the pump started. Removing his hand from the water, he shook it, then stood.

“It wasn't turned on,” Leslie stated as though any fool should have known it right off the bat. With an expression of exasperation, she shook her head. “Terrific April Fool's Day prank.… Here, let me get you a towel.” She would have escaped up the stairs had Oliver not caught her hand.

“The towel can wait. I can't.” He drew her toward him.

The basement was gray, lit by a sole bare bulb hanging over their heads like mistletoe. Leslie looked up at Oliver then, and in an instant was hit by the fact of his presence.
He was here.
He had come. Or was he nothing more than a tall, dark and handsome April Fool's Day mirage?

“Heeey, don't look so stricken,” he whispered. “I'm only going to kiss you.” And kiss her he did, with one large hand curved to her throat, the other arm around her back holding her closer.

Leslie was stunned. In a matter of seconds, every one of the emotions with which she'd been wrestling for five weeks declared war. She loved him, she didn't. She needed him, she didn't. She trusted him, she didn't. She wanted him, she didn't. But … she did.

His lips felt wonderful on hers, bringing back thoughts of warmer, more carefree days on a distant Caribbean isle. His arms were strong, his body large and hard and just right to lean upon. Any thought Leslie might have had of denying her physical attraction to him was negated by the helplessness of her response. She needed to feel the hungry movement of his mouth, needed to respond to him for just that minute, just that minute … until sanity slowly returned. Only then did she put her palms to his chest and exert the gentle force that would speak for her.

Oliver instantly released her lips and buried his in her hair. Both of his arms circled her now, hugging her tightly for a minute. “Oh, Leslie, I've wanted to do that night after night,” he whispered, then loosened his hold as she'd requested.

Looking up, Leslie met the same warm brown eyes that had so enchanted her on St. Barts. In self-defense, she averted her gaze and hugged his blazer tighter while she dug her free hand into the pocket of her slacks. Clearing her throat, she started for the stairs. “I'll get you that towel,” she murmured, running ahead.

Oliver indulged her, though his hand had begun to dry on its own. She was nervous. Hell, so was he. God bless the sump pump for giving him entrée into the house; he hadn't been in the mood for picking locks tonight. It was dark and rainy and he'd had a long and trying day, not the least of which related to his anticipation of this visit. He'd planned it this way … almost. He'd guessed that she'd be better left alone for a while to quiet down, to put things into perspective. The kitten, the violets … they were simply reminders that he'd been thinking of her. Now came the test.

“Here you go,” Leslie said as she handed him the towel. Then, not knowing what else to do, she stood back against the kitchen counter and waited for him to speak.

Unsure as to how he'd be received, Oliver was in no rush. He wiped his hands, rolled down his shirt sleeves, picked up his blazer from the chair over which Leslie had laid it and put it on.

Leslie's pulse raced as, arms hugging her waist, she followed each step of the dressing process. Damn, but he was handsome. Had he been this good-looking on St. Barts? His hair seemed darker; but of course it was wet. And the silver streaks seemed to have acquired several companions at his sideburns; or was that simply the reflection of her kitchen light? He looked leaner, which puzzled her, since she'd have thought that clothes would have made him look heavier. Perhaps it was the flattering fit of his gray slacks, the length of his legs, the thinning effect of the navy blazer he was slipping on. Beautiful material. Well tailored. But then, with his broad shoulders and tapering physique he was the perfect mannequin.

“There,” he said with a final tug to his shirt cuffs. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you
, I might have had a flooded basement had it not been for you.”

“You'd have called a plumber,” he said dismissingly. “It was a simple enough problem to solve.”

“Well,” she sighed, rubbing her hands together, “thanks anyway.” She looked up at him, then away, intimidated by the intensity of his gaze. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what she wanted to say. Oh, yes, she was glad to see him again. Even now, mired in confusion, she felt more alive than she had in five weeks. Why was he here? What did he want? At one time she might have believed that he wanted to be with her. Now she was wary.

“How've you been, Leslie?”

“Okay.” She looked up shyly. “Thanks for the kitten. It's adorable. And the flowers.” Her gaze wandered to the table where now only the empty vase stood. “They were beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Frowning, she absently rubbed at a small chip on the edge of the Formica countertop. Seeing her discomfort, Oliver instantly changed tactics.

“Listen,” he said, clearing his throat, “I thought maybe we could go out for a bite.”

“It's pouring.”

“I don't mind if you don't. It's been a long time since lunch. Didn't I pass a place about ten minutes back, down the road?”

She nodded, biting her tongue. She could fix dinner here. But she wouldn't. Oliver Ames in her cozy kitchen would be far too much for one Leslie Parish to endure.

“How about it?”

She shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Have you eaten already?”

“No.”

“Then come on.” He cocked his head toward the front of the house. “Keep me company. We'll just get something to eat … and then talk. I'll drop you back here afterward.” When she hesitated still, he tipped his head and eyed her teasingly. “You're not frightened of me, are you?”

“Frightened of you? Are you kidding?” She was scared to death, though quick to point out to herself that technically she hadn't lied. She could play that game, too.

“Then why not dinner?”

Because being with you may be as painful as being without you. On the other hand.…
She sighed her resignation. “Why not.”

Within fifteen minutes they were seated across from each other at the steak-and-sandwich place Oliver had selected. Leslie remained quiet, letting Oliver take the lead. If he wanted to talk, let him do the talking for a change. She'd done her share on St. Barts.

As though understanding her silent request, he began to speak soon after their orders were taken. And if he'd been hesitant to discuss himself during their time on the island, he was no longer. Indeed he seemed to want her to know everything. In turn, Leslie couldn't help but respond to his openness.

“I always wanted to be a doctor,” he began quietly, almost shyly. “From the time I was a kid. It wasn't until I was nearly done with medical school that I decided on psychiatry.”

“Why?”

“Why did I wait that long?” He gave a self-conscious laugh. “Because I think I wanted to see myself in a more—” he frowned as he searched for the word “—flamboyant field. I'd had my heart set on surgery. I was going to be a surgical pioneer, improving on existing transplant processes, experimenting with others.”

“What happened?”

“My surgical rotation was a disaster. Not only was I clumsy with a knife, but I also discovered that I wasn't terribly sorry about the fact. Scalpels are cold, impersonal, sterile tools. The major tool the psychiatrist uses is his own intellect—I kind of liked that. I felt there was that much more of a challenge in psychiatry. Perhaps not the glory of a transplant surgeon. But a good feeling right here.” He tapped his chest in the region of his heart.

“Has the good feeling persisted?”

“For the most part. Sure, there are some patients who are either beyond my help or, for one reason or another, resistant to it, but I've seen progress.”

“Diane seems better,” she began on impulse, then caught herself. “I'm sorry. I know you can't talk about her.”

“That's all right. It wouldn't be violating doctor-patient confidentiality for me to say that things are beginning to move. She's opening up.” His brow furrowed. “She calls me often, which is normal for someone just making that transfer of trust. I don't want her growing too dependent, though. I'd been seeing her three times a week; I've just cut it back by a session.”

“She sounds okay when I speak with her.”

“She is. She really is. And she'll be fine.”

Leslie nodded, thinking how ironic it was that Diane might trust Oliver so completely while she had to remain on her guard all the time. Maybe she was the one with the problem, she mused, then reminded herself that it was the truth. To sit with Oliver like this, loving him so very much yet trying to remain detached, was pure hell.

“You enjoy private practice, then?” she asked, needing to keep the conversation going as a detour from her thoughts.

The waitress brought a carafe of wine, from which Oliver proceeded to fill their glasses before answering. “I do.…”

His slight unsureness caught her ear. “You don't sound sure.”

“I am,” he said more firmly, but he continued to study the swirl of rosé in his glass. “I'm not sure I see myself doing it forever.” When Leslie remained silent, he went on. “I'm on the Bellevue—N.Y.U. staff; I spend two mornings a week there seeing patients. In some ways I prefer that kind of practice.”

Leslie was puzzled. In the social circles in which she'd grown up, private practice would certainly have been far more prestigious, not to mention lucrative. “Why?”

“The patients. The problems. They're more diverse, often more extreme. I'm needed—and appreciated—that much more. Those patients could never afford the hourly rates I usually charge.” His was a straightforward statement, devoid of either pride or arrogance. Perversely itching to find the latter, Leslie prodded.

“If you don't find private practice as rewarding, why do you do it at all? Bellevue is a teaching hospital; surely they'd take you on full-time.”

“They would.”

“Then why not?”

His eyes held hers levelly. “The money. I want the money private practice can offer.”