by Judith Gould
"Shit, shit, shit!" she said aloud. To have to take abuse from Daphne as well as Charles was too much. When is this ever going to end? she thought. But she knew the answer to that question, in theory at least: When I have my own clinic and I'm my own boss, that's when.
There was a knock at the door, then it opened before she could answer.
"Here," Tami said, her hand extended. "You forgot your schedule for today."
"Thanks, Tami." Valerie took the proffered sheet of paper.
"You're welcome," Tami said, eyeing her curiously before closing the office door.
Valerie took a sip of coffee and looked down at the schedule, but she didn't really see it. I can't concentrate, she thought miserably. She realized that her defenses were at a low point this morning and that the catty remarks had bothered her more than usual. Suddenly she felt almost overwhelmed by worry and fear and had a powerful urge to cry, but she was determined not to.
I'm not going to let them get the best of me, she thought.
It had all started with Teddy this weekend—her worries and fears—with his proposal and her own stupid response. Now it was only getting worse, and here at work, which she'd always thought of as a sort of haven.
Her vision of working in a veterinarian clinic, caring for animals, had always been one of a peaceable kingdom where concern for animals was of paramount importance. She hadn't envisioned the office politics, the games of one-upmanship. She had never dreamed of the sometimes callous attitude that doctors and staff displayed toward the animals and their owners. Nor had she imagined that it would take her years to pay off the tens of thousands of dollars she owned in loans that she'd taken out to get through school.
Elvis growled in his sleep, and she reached down and stroked him gently. I've got to snap out of it, she thought. Self-pity will get me nowhere fast. She picked up the daily schedule and took a sip of her coffee. She could see that it was going to be a busy day, and she was glad of that. It would keep her mind off of her troubles. The telephone rang, and she idly picked up the receiver, still perusing the schedule.
"Hello," she said.
"Valerie, dear," the cultured, dulcet voice of her mother intoned.
"Hi, Mother," she said, wishing now that she'd told Tami to screen her calls—and feeling guilty about having such a thought.
"How was your weekend, dear?" her mother asked.
Damn! Valerie thought. I wonder if Teddy's already talked to her, and she knows about the ring. "It was okay," she replied mildly.
"That's all?" her mother asked pointedly. "Okay?"
"Yes," Valerie replied. She decided she would not let her mother push her around this morning.
"I see," Marguerite de la Rochelle said. She paused momentarily, then continued. "I phoned because I want you and Teddy to come to dinner tonight."
"But today's Monday, Mother," Valerie said. "Teddy's gone back to—" Then she remembered that Teddy was taking the week off. He was staying out in the country.
"I should think you would know better than that," Marguerite said with reproach. "I spoke to him early this morning. He's staying at Apple Hill all week, and he'll be here for dinner."
Valerie's heart sank. They're ganging up on me, she thought. The two of them are in cahoots as usual. "I wish you'd discussed this with me first," she said. "I have a very busy day and need to get a lot of things done at home tonight."
"I'm sure that whatever it is you have to do at your little home can wait," Marguerite said disparagingly. "I'll expect you around eight, dear."
Before Valerie could answer, her mother had hung up. Shit, she thought as she replaced the receiver in its cradle. Why do I let her do this to me? And why does she always make me feel like a naughty child who is guilty of something? Why does she always make fun of my little house? The house I've worked so hard to buy?
She wanted to scream for the second time that morning, but restrained herself, gritting her teeth. I'd like to choke them both, she thought. Teddy and my mother! She could already envision tonight's dinner. First, Marguerite would have to see the ring and swoon and coo to Teddy about it. Then Teddy and Marguerite would laugh and talk amiably, like old lovers, gossiping about mutual friends and acquaintances, the latest antics among the bluebloods in Manhattan and here in the country, and finally coming to focus all of their considerable energies on her.
Pressuring her into setting a date. Pressuring her into putting her house on the market and moving in with Teddy. Pressuring her to accept Teddy's offer to build her a clinic of her own and pay off her loans. Pressuring her into giving up nearly all the independence and self- reliance that she'd worked so long and hard to achieve. Soon enough, they'd be pressuring her into having babies and working part-time or giving up her work altogether.
And never once taking into account her own thoughts and feelings on anything. Never once giving her any credit for having an opinion, discounting out of hand any that she might express. It was as if she didn't matter in all of the elaborate plans they'd worked out for her.
Some things never change, she realized. Growing up, Valerie had been an outsider even in her own family. Marguerite was a vain and beautiful woman, obsessed with her own physical appearance and, equally as important, the image that the de la Rochelle family presented to the world. She was still incensed that Valerie had chosen to drop the "de la" from her name and go simply by Rochelle, failing to understand that Valerie had done it for simplicity's sake. Valerie de la Rochelle was a mouthful for some of her clients, and actually created a sort of barrier between her and others. Besides, she thought, we're no longer living in the Dark Ages when such distinctions came about and might have actually meant something.
Her mother, however, didn't see it that way at all. The de la Rochelle family could be nothing less than perfection at all times—in looks, behavior, and manners. They were also to be perceived as having healthy, happy—perfect!—relationships with one another and the coterie of rich, old-money families that made up their social circle.
In this and nearly every other respect, Valerie had been a miserable disappointment to her mother—and her father, for that matter. While he'd been alive, he'd been in league with Marguerite just as Teddy was now. Armand de la Rochelle had always dressed well, behaved well, and played the role of the wealthy gentleman heir to the fortune he'd inherited—and had managed to increase by his marriage to the equally rich Marguerite de Coligny.
Like Marguerite, Armand had been obsessed by appearances, and until the end, people had been fooled into believing that the world of the de la Rochelle's was perfect in every way. Beautiful, tasteful, elegant, to the manor born.
She had loved her father dearly and missed him still, but she couldn't fool herself into believing that it had been reciprocated. He'd been as disappointed in her as her mother, with many of the very same complaints.
"Why must you keep your nose buried in that book, Valerie, dear?"
"Why don't you play with the other young people, Valerie, dear?"
"Why must you devote yourself to those filthy animals, Valerie, dear?"
"Why must you be all elbows and knees? So unattractive, so ugly, Valerie, dear?"
She could hear their voices as if it were yesterday. Both of them, Mother and Father, denigrating her from the time she was old enough to understand what they were saying to her. Perhaps they hadn't meant to be cruel; perhaps they had been challenging her to be her best. Whatever the case, the result had been to make her retreat into herself, to shy away from a world that also thought she was a gangly, awkward, four-eyed bookworm.
Virtually friendless and scorned by her beautiful parents, she had eventually found solace in animals. From an early age she had made friends of her pets, confiding in them, playing with them, telling them her joys and sorrows, her deepest secrets, caring for them in a way that others found eccentric. As she'd grown older, she'd begun to nurse her pets and any other sick or injured animal she came upon. Birds, dogs, cats, even a racoon and a chicken.
She had discovered that she could communicate with her pets on a level that most people would consider amazing—or, more likely, frightening. She'd kept this knowledge to herself, knowing that her family would disapprove anyway. She had decided early on that she wanted to be a veterinarian, a profession that would draw an equally unenthusiastic response from the powers that be.
She was expected to go to the "right" schools, blossom into a beautiful debutante, and eventually marry the "right" man. If she must work, she must do something genteel. Charity committee work, board directorships, perhaps something in the art or publishing worlds, if not too commercial, might fill the bill.
Valerie had gone to the "right" schools. Just before Armand died, she had even been presented to society in a New York City debutante ball. All to please her parents.
It was about this time that Valerie began to blossom. The gangly, awkward girl who'd been all knees and elbows with no breasts to speak of was gradually turning into a swan. Suddenly young men began to pay attention to her, but Valerie, who'd spent her childhood and youth alone, didn't really know how to cope with the attention. She had no use for small talk, was terrible at the social niceties, and really preferred the company of her menagerie, who understood her as she understood them.
When the question of college came up, Marguerite, newly bereaved, insisted that Valerie attend one of the Seven Sisters or, preferably, go to an exclusive finishing school in Switzerland. Valerie, however, had defied her mother for the first time in her life, choosing instead to go to Cornell and prepare for veterinarian school.
"Then you'll pay for it yourself," Marguerite had said. "You could be in Switzerland learning the proper way to be a wife and mother and a social figure of importance. Besides which, you would inevitably meet young ladies of your class and an appropriate young man to marry. But Cornell! I won't give you a penny for such nonsense."
"I'll find a way," Valerie had responded.
And she had, working part-time and taking out student loans, year after year. She never once asked her mother for anything, and her mother never volunteered it. Nor had Marguerite deigned to come to her graduation ceremonies.
Now, sitting in her office, Valerie imagined that her mother would be very pleased if she knew how miserable she was this morning. She caught herself laughing suddenly, amused by the situation. Well, she thought, I'm not going to give her a reason to gloat. No way! I've succeeded in doing what I set out to do. And if I stick it out, I know I can do the rest.
An image of Storm Warning abruptly came into her mind. She could see the stallion, panicked at first, rolling in his stall, covered with sweat, scared for his life. And later, after her gentle care, she could see the trusting look in his eyes. She could still sense the bond that had been formed between them, and it made her feel good.
Then she remembered the shadowy figure she'd seen while she'd been working on Storm Warning. Was it Conrad? she wondered. And, if so, why the secrecy? For that matter, why hadn't a single person hereabouts laid eyes on the mystery man since he'd bought and renovated Stonelair?
She felt a sudden twinge in her stomach, an uncomfortable feeling that she couldn't quite describe. All thoughts of tonight's dinner and unpleasant office politics were swept away, and she felt a new sense of uneasiness that she couldn't explain. It was something about Stonelair, of that she was certain, but what was it that had her so spooked?
Chapter Four
Wyndhym Ashley Conrad III slowly paced back and forth across the library's faded Portuguese needlepoint rug, a mug of coffee in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. A black baseball cap partially hid his long, slightly curly raven-black hair and all but obscured the thoughtful expression in his velvety dark brown eyes. The sleeves on his long-sleeved black T-shirt were rolled up above his elbows, revealing strong, muscular forearms and powerful-looking hands. Matching sweatpants, cinched tightly against the flat plane of his stomach, hung loosely on his muscular legs.
As he paced, four enormous Irish wolfhounds watched his every move. Two of them, both gray, were ensconced on tufted antique leather sofas that faced one another in front of the French limestone fireplace mantel. The other two, one brindle and the other brown, had arrayed themselves on the rug near the hearth. On their alert faces were looks of equal parts devotion and curiosity.
Wyn, finally weary of his aimless strides, sprawled on the cracked leather of an ancient Georgian wing chair and looked over at Santo Ducci, who was talking on the telephone behind Wyn's desk, a Louis XV bureau plat. He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. It was already cold.
He tossed his unlit cigarette into a crystal ashtray and got back up, walking over to an ornate gilded console and draining the coffee mug in an orchid plant on the marble top. Then he walked to the minibar that was concealed behind a jib door near the fireplace and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from the coffeemaker there. He retraced his steps, sipping the hot black coffee as he went, but before he could sit back down, Santo quietly hung up the telephone and looked over at him.
"That was the vet, right?" Wyn asked.
Santo shook his head. "No," he replied. The sun, which streamed through the French doors behind him, shone off the top of his shaved head.
"No?" Wyn said irritably. He glared at Santo, but the giant couldn't read the look in Wyn's eyes because of the long shadow cast by his baseball cap. "Didn't I tell you to call her first thing this morning?"
"And I did," Santo said mildly. He gazed at his boss dispassionately, his hugely muscled arms folded across his chest, his feathers completely unruffled by Wyn's irritation. "That was somebody else," he added.
"Oh," Wyn said, frowning. "Well then, tell me, Santo. What the hell did the vet say?"
"They share and share alike," Santo said. "She said it was usually against clinic policy."
"Against clinic policy?" Wyn stormed. "That's a crock of shit."
Santo held his hands out, gesturing at Wyn to hold on a minute. "Chill out," he said calmly. "She said she'll discuss it with the other vets and get back to me. It's a possibility."
"I never heard of anything so stupid," Wyn groused.
"I told you, she said they have a share-and-share- alike policy," Santo countered.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It's simple. You don't normally get to choose a particular vet," Santo said. "You get whoever's on duty."
"That's ridiculous," Wyn spat. "This isn't a third- world country."
"Maybe not," Santo said, "but that's the usual policy."
"Damn!" Wyn sat down in the big wing chair and slammed his mug of coffee on the table next to it. Coffee sloshed out onto the table's highly polished walnut surface, but he ignored it. "Find out who owns the fucking clinic," he demanded, casting a scowl in Santo's direction.
"That's what I just did."
"And?" Wyn asked impatiently.
Santo looked down at some notes he'd scratched out on a pad. "A guy named Charles Bradford—he's one of the other vets," he said. "Owns it lock, stock, and barrel. Rochelle is just a salaried employee."
Wyn looked disgruntled. "Aw, shit," he said.
"Look," Santo said, trying to placate his unhappy boss, "don't get yourself so worked up. I bet it'll work out. She said she'd discuss it with the other docs, so she must be interested, Wyn. Right? She wouldn't bother talking to them if she wasn't. She'd have just said no." He looked at Wyn for some indication that he was satisfied. Jeez, he thought, the guy's acting like a spoiled rich kid that has to have it his way, or else. What's worse, lately he's been carrying on like a genuine nutcase. Santo was patient, however, because he figured that with all of Wyn's worries, he'd be pretty much a basket case himself.
Wyn finally nodded. "I guess you're right," he agreed. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then added: "Call her back and tell her that, if she does it, there'll be a bonus in it for her. A bonus that the others don't need to know about."
"If you say so."
"I s
ay so," Wyn said emphatically.
But before Santo could pick up the telephone, it rang, and he answered it. "Stonelair," he said.
He listened for a minute, then said: "I'll have to put you on hold for a moment."
He punched the hold button and looked over at Wyn. "It's Arielle."
Wyn shook his head. "I'm not available," he said. "But put her on the speaker so I can listen."
Santo punched the hold button again, then the speaker button, after which he replaced the receiver in its cradle. "I'm sorry, Arielle," he said. "He can't come to the phone right now."
"You're lying to me, Santo." Her disembodied voice filled the room, its smokiness tinged with anger. The Irish wolfhounds pricked up their ears at the sound of their former mistress's voice.
"No, Arielle," he replied, "I'm not lying."
"You bastard!" she cried nastily. "You sound like you're in a garbage can. You put me on the fucking speaker so that shit can listen."
Santo looked over at Wyn, whose lips formed a smile.
"Let me speak to him," Arielle shouted.
"I told you, Arielle," Santo said in his most patient voice, "he can't come to the telephone now."
There was an audible sigh of resignation from the speaker. Then in calm and measured tones, Arielle said, "Tell him that his monthly support check hasn't arrived yet, and it's overdue. As you well know. I called Goldman's office, and his secretary said they haven't received it yet."
