by Janet Dailey
"Swimming at night seems to improve your disposition, Zane," he remarked at one point. "You should do it more often." His gentle glance encompassed Deborah, signaling his approval of a relationship he had once counseled against.
At five o'clock, Zane glanced at his watch. "We'll quit for today." He began stacking the papers in front of him.
"Why so early?" Deborah frowned. Ever since the office had been transferred to the house, they had worked at least an hour longer.
"Have you forgotten? We're having a dinner party tonight. I thought you would want time to get ready."
She had forgotten. Too much had happened since Madelaine had volunteered her as hostess. She uttered her first thought, "What should I wear?"
"Don't tell me you don't have anything to wear?" Zane mocked. "I bought you a closetful of dresses."
His reminder sidetracked her. "Why did you buy me those gowns? Were you ashamed of what I wore?" She remembered how her pride had been bruised by that incident.
"You would be stunning in anything. I think I just delighted in showing you off," he shrugged.
"That's a diplomatic answer," Deborah responded with a trace of irritation and disappointment. "No wonder you are such a successful businessman."
Zane studied her for a long moment. "All right. The truth is I was defensive about you even then. I didn't want some snob like Foster Darrow's wife or daughter making disparaging remarks about your clothes. I knew we'd be seeing a lot of them during the negotiations. I didn't want them to hurt you," he finished on a taut note, then flashed her a smile. "Now, go make yourself more beautiful."
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Chapter Eleven
SINCE THE PARTY was a pre-Christmas celebration, Deborah chose a velvet dress of kelly green. The silver filigree brooch was her grandmother's, a lovely piece of costume jewelry but with little antique value. She wore her auburn hair loose, the way Zane liked it, and silver hoops in her ears.
There were butterflies in her stomach as she walked to the living room. The invited guests were Zane's friends. It was important that they like her, important to her if no one else. She tried to calm her jittery nerves with a deep breath. Inside the living room, she stopped as Zane swept her with a slow glance.
"How do I look?" Her self-confidence was decidedly lacking at this moment.
"Like a Christmas tree." His crooked smile was lightly teasing. He moved leisurely across the room to let his hand finger a russet curl. "You are beautiful, Deborah."
The doorbell rang and the guests began arriving. Zane smoothly explained that his wife was not feeling well and everyone seemed to tacitly understand what he had left unsaid. Deborah was introduced as his assistant. No one questioned her position but she received a few curious glances, and speculating looks were exchanged between couples. Yet she wasn't made to feel uncomfortable—not by them.
With each passing hour, Zane had become more and more aloof, speaking less, avoiding her eyes whenever she looked at him, and donning that mask again. Deborah had the impression that she was somehow to blame. As the evening dragged on, she had to force the smile that curved her mouth and the responses to the small talk of the guests. When the front door closed on the last guest, her nerves were stretched as taut as piano wire.
The silence in the house was deafening as Zane walked past her to return to the living room. Deborah followed him, confused and angry. After unplugging the tree lights, he walked to the fireplace and stirred the dying embers. A shower of sparks cascaded into the gray ashes. Deborah watched the silent death of the fire and knew she wasn't going to let hers end that way.
"What is it, Zane? What have I done wrong?" she demanded.
His back remained to her. He continued to stare at the banked fire, demonstrating impatience in the way he gripped the fireplace poker. "Nothing. You belonged tonight, Deborah." His voice seemed to come from some deep, dark place. "It felt right to have you by my side greeting the guests, right to have you sitting at the opposite end of the table from me, and right to walk our guests to the door. I wanted to choke every time I had to call you my assistant." He spun angrily. "But what else could I call you with my wife upstairs?"
"I am your assistant … unless you fired me in the last six hours,"Deborah pointed out in a tremor of relief.
"You know what I mean." He jammed the poker in its stand, metal clanging with the force of his anger.
"Yes, I do." It was a consolation to her pride that Zane was bothered by her position. She moved slowly across the room to the fireplace and lifted her face to his. "But I've accepted it."
"Well, dammit! I won't!" he exploded.
"What else can you do?" she reasoned quietly.
His eyes blazed over her face. With a groan, he gathered her into his arms and crushed her lips beneath his. It was a wild, desperate need that tore at her heart. The raw emotion of his kiss enveloped her, making her weak because it echoed her feelings.
From another part of the house came a startled outcry, followed by a loud thumping. They broke apart, both looking toward the open doorway to the hall. Deborah cast a frowning glance toward Zane.
"What was that?"
"I don't know." His jaw tightened in ominous grimness. He set Deborah away from him and started for the door.
Deborah hesitated only a second before she followed him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. More sounds could be heard coming from the staircase … and voices … Madelaine's voice, then Frank's. The staircase was enclosed, except for the last short flight. As Deborah rounded the hall corner behind Zane, she saw Madelaine crouched beside a still figure on the landing. Sylvia Wilding had fallen down the steps. Zane rushed up the short flight to his wife's side.
"What happened?" He shot the question at Madelaine.
"I thought she was asleep and I stepped out of the room just for a moment. She slipped out while I was gone. Frank is calling an ambulance." She smoothed blond hair away from the forehead of the unconscious woman.
Zane bent over her, then shook his head in tired anger. "She's drunk."
"I know. I found a third of a bottle of rum in her room," Madelaine admitted. "It's probably what Jessie had left over from the eggnog."
"Why didn't she lock it up?" he demanded harshly.
"For all we know, Sylvia might have a key to the cabinet." Madelaine straightened from her patient to glare at him. "Why don't you give up, Zane? You simply can't keep her here. You want her to have her own room, be free to come and go as she pleases, and not be locked in. You want her to live in a normal atmosphere, but Sylvia is not normal! She needs constant care and supervision. I can't give it to her. This isn't a controlled environment. Give up, Zane. She doesn't belong here."
There was a clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Frank came into view at the landing. "The ambulance is on its way."
"Is it necessary?" Zane questioned, without anger this time.
"I think she might have a concussion, maybe a cracked rib." The brunette nurse had regained her professional poise. "I'd rather be safe and have an ambulance take her to the hospital than drive her there ourselves."
By the time the wail of the ambulance sirens entered the driveway, Tom and Jessie had joined Deborah at the base of the stairs. As the attendants lifted Sylvia Wilding onto the stretcher, Zane glanced Deborah.
"I'm going to the hospital with her," he said.
"Of course," she nodded.
"I'll come with you," Tom volunteered.
Zane hesitated, then nodded his agreement. Seconds later, Sylvia was being wheeled out by the attendants. Madelaine went along, too, but Frank stayed behind. The sirens wailed again as the ambulance drove away.
Deborah waited up until after midnight before she finally gave up the vigil and went to bed. Tom was at the breakfast table the next morning when she entered.
"Good morning. How is Sylvia?" she asked.
"A slight concussion and a lot of bruise. Other than that, she wasn't hurt. It's a miracle but I guess it
was because she was drunk." he shrugged.
"It must have been late when you came back. I suppose Zane is still sleeping," Deborah guessed.
"He didn't come back with us."
"He stayed at the hospital with Sylvia?" Something in his tone made her phrase the sentence as question.
"No."
"Where did he go?"
"I don't know." Tom shook his head and spread more jam on his toast.
"Surely you must have some idea," she insisted.
"I have some, yes, but I'm not going to guess where he is or what he's doing," he answered. "I deal in facts and statistics."
"Did … did he say when he'd be back?"
"No."
Without Zane to add to her workload, Deborah finished the backlog of papers, memos, and reports that had accumulated on her desk. It helped the day pass, but the evening dragged. No one was willing to venture an opinion of where Zane might be. Since no one else seemed to be worried, Deborah tried not to be either.
Zane wasn't at the breakfast table the next morning. She refused the pancakes and sausages Jessie brought and settled for juice and coffee instead. The others were still at the table eating when Deborah left to go to the study.
The doors were ajar. Deborah hesitated outside because they were always kept closed. She hurried inside to find Zane standing at a window looking out. He glanced over his shoulder when she entered, then turned back.
"Welcome back." The words came out in an eager rush. "Where have you been?"
"I've arranged to have Sylvia committed. She'll have twenty-four-hour, professional care, the best in the country." Zane continued to stare out the window.
"I'm sorry."
"The doctors aren't sure that she will ever get better. Whatever I felt for her, died a long time ago. Our marriage has just been some words on a piece of paper for years now."
"It was a difficult decision for you." Deborah wanted to get close to him, but his attitude was keeping her at a distance, almost physically holding her away.
"Yesterday afternoon I had my attorney file for a divorce." Zane turned to look at her after he had issued the statement. "There isn't any doubt that I'll get a decree, but there's something you have to know. My marriage to Sylvia was dead long before you came on the scene; this decision would have been made anyway, whether or not I had ever met you. Her love for me was as dead as mine for her. But circumstances being what they are, I can never entirely walk out on her, or shelve my responsibility toward her. Even when you are my wife, Deborah, in one respect Sylvia's needs must always come first.
"It may not sound fair, but I am responsible for her—there's no one else who cares about her. She needs me and I have to be there when she does. She was the mother of my son, and I can't just abandon her."
A tremulous smile curved Deborah's lips. "You wouldn't be the man I love if you could, Zane."
Her response eliminated the icy mask forever. Zane started toward her and she met him halfway. Outside, the sun glistened on pure white drifts of snow.
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