Charade

by Sandra Brown

  “I don’t want to be taken care of! I want to be Cat. The new Cat. The well, strong Cat. Every day since my transplant has been a discovery into the new me. I’m still becoming acquainted with this woman who can take the stairs instead of the elevator. Who can shampoo her hair in three minutes when it used to take thirty.”

  She pressed her fists against her chest where her heart was beating strongly. “Time has a new dimension for me, Dean. It’s precious. I jealously guard the time I spend with myself. Until I know completely this new Cat Delaney, I’m unwilling to share her with anyone.”

  “I see,” he said stiffly, sounding more peeved than heartbroken.

  She laughed. “Stop sulking. I don’t buy it. You won’t suffer unduly if we don’t marry. What you love most about me is my celebrity. You enjoy sharing the limelight, attending Hollywood premieres, being seen at Spago in the company of a TV star.” She struck a starlet’s pose, one hand on her hip, the other behind her head.

  He laughed, his sheepish grin as good as a signed confession. But she pressed on. “Admit it, Dean. If I clerked at a supermarket, would you still be pleading for my hand in marriage?” She had him pegged, and they both knew it.

  “You’re a cold woman, Cat Delaney.”

  “I speak the truth.”

  If the nature of Dean’s love for her were different, she would have ended their relationship long ago in order to spare him real heartache. As it was, he admitted to loving her only as much as he was capable of loving.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “In my way, Cat, I do love you, and I still intend to marry you, but I’ll relent for now. Fair enough?”

  They hadn’t solved anything, but at least she’d been granted another reprieve. “Fair enough.”

  “Good.” He hugged her close. “Ready for bed?”

  “I thought I’d take a swim first.”

  “Want company?”

  He wasn’t particularly fond of swimming, which was a shame since he had a gorgeous pool surrounded by more lush greenery than a tropical lagoon.

  “You go on up. I’ll be there shortly.”

  He climbed the sweeping staircase to the second floor. Cat went out through the terrace doors and followed the flagstone path through the manicured garden to the pool. Unselfconsciously, she unfastened her dress and stepped out of it, then peeled off her stockings and panties and slid naked into the deliciously cool water. It felt cleansing. Perhaps it would wash away the nagging dissatisfaction that had plagued her for months, not just with Dean but with everything in her life.

  She swam three laps before turning onto her back to float. She still marveled that she could swim without having to gasp for breath or be afraid that her heart would come to a screeching halt. A year and a half ago she couldn’t have believed that such a feat was possible. She’d been prepared to die. And she would have died, if someone else hadn’t died first.

  That thought was never far from her consciousness, but whenever it thrust itself forward, it was jolting. Now, it brought her out of the pool. Shivering, she tiptoed to the cabana and wrapped herself in a large towel.

  But the thought stalked her: Someone’s death had given her the gift of life.

  She’d made it clear to Dean, and to everyone on the transplant team, that she wanted to know nothing about the donor of her heart.

  Rarely did she allow herself to think of that anonymous person as an individual, with a family who had made a tremendous sacrifice so that she might live. When she did permit herself to think about that unnamed someone, her ambiguous discontent seemed the Mt. Everest of selfishness and self-pity. One life had been cut short; she’d been granted a second one.

  She lay down on one of the chaise lounges, closed her eyes tightly, and concentrated on counting her blessings. She’d conquered the overwhelming odds of her unfortunate childhood, pursued her dream, and achieved it. She was at the peak of her career and worked with talented people who liked and admired her. She had more than enough money and wanted for nothing. She was adored and desired by a handsome, cultured, highly respected cardiologist who lived the lifestyle of a prince.

  So why this vague restlessness, this disquiet that she could neither explain nor dispel? Her life, so hard-won, now seemed without purpose or direction. She yearned for something she couldn’t describe or identify, something beyond her reckoning and her grasp.

  What could she possibly want that she didn’t have? What more could she ask, when she had already received the gift of life?

  Cat sat up abruptly, sudden insight infusing her with energy.

  Self-doubt could be a positive motivator, and there was nothing wrong with self-examination. It was the focus of her self-analysis that was misdirected.

  Instead of asking what more she could want, perhaps she should be asking what she could give.

  Chapter Ten

  October 10, 1992

  Her house always smelled like something just out of the oven. This morning it was teacakes. Golden and sugar-dusted, they were cooling on a wire rack on the kitchen table, next to a chocolate layer cake and two fruit pies.

  Ruffled curtains fluttered in the open screened windows. On the refrigerator, magnets held in place Valentines made of red construction paper and white paper doilies, Thanksgiving turkeys drawn around small handprints, and Christmas angels that bore an unsettling resemblance to Halloween bats. All was the artwork of numerous grandchildren.

  She answered the knock on her back screen door with a glance, a smile, and wave to come on in.

  “You’ve got every mouth in the neighborhood watering. I could smell the cookies as soon as I stepped outside my door.”

  Her plump face was flushed with heat from the oven. When she smiled, her animated, guileless eyes crinkled at the corners. “Have one while they’re still warm.” She gestured at the teacakes.

  “No. They’re for your party.”

  “Just one. I need an opinion. Be honest now.” She picked up one of the teacakes and extended it expectantly.

  Knowing it would be rude to refuse, the guest acquiesced. “Hmm. Melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Just like Grandmother used to make.”

  “You’ve never told me about your family. Not in the three months you’ve lived next door.” Turning her back, she began washing the mixing bowls and measuring cups that had been soaking in the sink.

  “Not much to tell. Dad was in the military. We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Twelve grades, twelve schools.”

  “That can be so hard on a child.” Her usually cheerful smile became a frown of sympathy.

  “This is a royal proclamation! No sad thoughts today! I decree this a day of celebration. Your day.”

  She giggled like a girl, although she was well into her fifties. “I’ve got so much to do before this afternoon. Fred’s taking off early. Said he’d be home by two. The children should be arriving with their families around five.”

  “You can’t possibly make all the preparations yourself. Put me to work. I took the day off so I could help.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that!” she exclaimed. “Won’t your boss get mad?”

  “If he does, that’s tough. I told him how fortunate I am to be living next door to a very special lady and that, whether he liked it or not, I was going to help her celebrate her second year with a new heart.”

  She was touched. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I’ve been so blessed. When I think how close…”

  “Hey, none of that, now. Remember the royal proclamation. Where should we start?”

  She blotted her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, then returned it to her apron pocket. “Well, you could start setting up the extra folding chairs while I water my plants.”

  “Lead the way.”

  They moved into the family room. It was homey and bright. On one wall was a glass sliding door that opened onto the patio. In order to catch the morning sun, a Boston fern had been hung on a hook in the ceiling, directly in front of the large glass pane.
>
  “I guess Fred waters that fern for you. You’d never be able to reach it.”

  “Oh, it’s not hard to reach, dear,” she said. “I use a stepladder.”

  It had been a year since the Ward boy had met with that unfortunate accident in Memphis. Twelve months of careful planning had passed. Although it was anxiety-producing, the protraction was necessary. The methodology was essential to the mission. Without order and discipline, the mission would be madness.

  The longest part of the year had been the hours since midnight last night. They had seemed as long as all the hours that had gone before. Each second had been counted in eager anticipation. Now, the long wait was almost over, the anticipation was minutes away from being gratified.

  “Watch, love. I’m doing this for you. It’s a demonstration of love that even death cannot vanquish.”

  “A stepladder. How convenient.”

  Chapter Eleven

  November 1993

  “I didn’t even ring the doorbell.”

  “I heard your car.” Cat moved aside, silently inviting Dean to come in, then turned and led him into the living room of her house in Malibu.

  Three Emmy awards were displayed on a shelf built especially for them. The stark white walls were decorated with framed magazine covers on which she had appeared. It was a personal room and gave the impression of warmth and coziness despite its high cathedral ceiling and tall windows. The house was a contemporary structure perched on a precipice, connected to the beach by wooden steps that zigzagged down the steep, rocky slope.

  The fire in the fireplace relieved the chill of the overcast day. Beyond the wall of windows overlooking the Pacific, the view was monochromatic, the horizon undetectable. The water was the same dull gray as the low-hanging clouds.

  Even during the most inclement weather, Cat loved the seascape her house afforded. The ocean never failed to amaze her. Each time she looked at it, she felt as if she were seeing it for the first time. Its incessant rhythm filled her with awe, mystified her, and made her feel insignificant compared to such elemental impetus.

  Recently, she’d taken many long walks along the shore. She’d spent hours gazing out over the waves, weighing her options, searching for answers in the surging surf.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  She returned to the deep easy chair where she’d cast off an afghan when she’d heard the approach of his car. On the end table beside her were a cup of herbal tea and a high-intensity reading lamp focused on her lap.

  Dean sat across from her. “What’s that?”

  “Rough drafts for scripts. Each writer on staff submitted an idea as to the fate of Laura Madison. They’re all very good, and very sad. Rather than knocking her off, I urged them to hire another actress to continue the part.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her unruly curls. “But they’re adamant about writing her out.”

  “There isn’t another actress alive who could play that role,” Dean said. “You’ve ruined it for anybody else. Meryl Streep couldn’t handle it. You are Laura Madison.”

  She recognized in his features signs of frustration and anxiety that would be invisible to anyone who didn’t know him well. She was responsible for his unhappiness, and that bothered her tremendously.

  “Well, it’s official, isn’t it?” he said. “Entertainment Tonight broke the story yesterday. You’re leaving Passages. Effective when your contract runs out, shortly after the first of the year, I understand.”

  She nodded, but said nothing. The wind buffeted the glass walls as though trying to snuff out the candles on the mantel. She threaded the fringe of the afghan through her fingers. When she looked up, Dean was gazing out the window, his expression as turbulent as the surf.

  “How much did Bill Webster factor in to your decision?”

  She was slow to respond. “WWSA is his television station.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “If you’re implying that our relationship is anything other than professional, you couldn’t be more wrong. I have flaws, Dean, but lying isn’t one of them. If anything, I’m too honest for my own good. Furthermore, Bill is very happily married to a woman who is as attractive and charming as he.”

  His features remained taut. “In a desperate attempt to understand why you’re turning your back on your career, everything you’ve worked for, I’ve looked at your decision from every angle. Naturally it occurred to me that a romance might factor in.”

  “It doesn’t,” she said emphatically. “The Websters have six children. They also had a daughter who died several years ago. She was their firstborn. They took her death very hard.

  “I haven’t been entirely happy with my life for a long while. But it wasn’t until Bill told me about his daughter—this was about six months ago—that I knew I had to make a fresh start. Life’s too precious to waste a single day.

  “That evening, Bill and I had a very earnest and honest talk about the loss of their daughter, and before I realized it, I was telling him about my childhood. I told him how it felt to be orphaned, to become a ward of the state, to be shunted between foster homes, never quite fitting in.

  “That turned the conversation to an enormously successful program that he’d seen implemented in several major cities, where children who need adoptive parents are featured during the news broadcasts. He expressed an interest in beginning one at WWSA as a community service. That’s when I began to see a new start for myself.

  “I didn’t mean to shut you out, Dean. Countless times, I wanted to bounce the idea off you, but I knew you couldn’t be objective. Nor could you grasp my reasons for wanting—needing—to do this.”

  She laughed softly. “I’m not sure I grasp them myself. But I feel them. Intensely. I wrestled with them, tried to evade them, but they got their hooks in me and wouldn’t let go. The more I thought about the outreach this program could have, the more excited I became.

  “I thought back to all the times I was rejected for adoption because of my age, my sex, my medical history. Even my red hair was a deterrent, it seems.

  “There are so many children with special problems who don’t have loving parents. They began to haunt me, Dean. I couldn’t sleep for hearing them crying in the darkness, lonely and afraid and feeling unloved.” She gave him a sad smile. “I’ve got to do something for those kids. It’s that simple.”

  “I admire your philanthropic spirit, Cat. If you want to adopt a kid, more than one, I’m perfectly willing.”

  She laughed outright. “Oh, I can just see that! Dean, get real, okay? You’re a brilliant physician, but you lack the flexibility necessary to parenting.”

  “If it meant the difference between having you and not—”

  “It doesn’t. Believe me, if I thought a judge would award me—a single heart transplantee—a child, I’d already have one. But this isn’t about my adopting. Cat’s Kids is about convincing other people to adopt.”

  “Cat’s Kids?”

  “Nancy Webster’s idea. Like it?”

  “It’s real…catchy.”

  She wished he could share her enthusiasm, but he considered the whole idea preposterous.

  “Cat, do you really want to…demote yourself this way? Leave your career and move to Texas?”

  “It’ll be different,” she conceded with a chuckle.

  “Couldn’t you just sponsor the program, be the official spokesperson, without having to become personally involved?”

  “Be a figurehead, you mean?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That would be counterfeit. If my name’s attached, it’s my baby. It’ll be a hands-on project all the way.”

  She regarded him sadly. “Besides, I don’t view this as a ‘demotion.’ To my mind, I’m not taking a step backward, but several steps forward. I expect overwhelming rewards.”

  Restless with excitement, she tossed aside the afghan and left the chair. “This is the
part that you won’t get.” Turning to face him, she splayed her hand over her chest. “I’m doing this because I can’t live with myself if I don’t.”

  “You’re right,” he said, also coming to his feet. “I don’t get it. You had a tough childhood. But who the hell didn’t? Ozzie and Harriet was a fairy tale, Cat. In real life, every damn one of us grows up feeling unloved.”

  “Yes! Especially if your mom and dad choose death over living with you!”

  His angry retort was held in check. He looked at her with puzzlement. “Suicide? You told me your parents were killed in an accident.”

  “Well, they weren’t.” She now regretted blurting out the nasty truth of her parents’ demise because he was looking at her with the same mix of fascination and horror as the social workers had always regarded skinny, redheaded, recalcitrant little Catherine Delaney.

  “That’s when I learned to crack jokes instead of cry. I had to become either a wit or a basket case. So don’t pity me, Dean. It was a bad scene when it happened, but it made me strong, gave me enough grit to survive a heart transplant. I hope you can understand why I must do this.

  “I know firsthand what it’s like to be set apart from other children. If your parents are dead, or you’re disabled, or poor, you’re discriminated against. Those disadvantages make a kid an oddball. And you know as well as I do that if you’re different, you’re out. Period.

  “Hundreds of thousands of kids are hurting, Dean. They have problems we can’t imagine. Just getting through the day represents a challenge. They can’t play, learn, or interact with other children because they’re too burdened with being abused or orphaned or sick or any combination of the above.

  “There are families that are capable and willing to even the odds for these children, if only they knew how to go about it. I’m going to help match the two. It’s a challenge I welcome. It’s given me purpose. I believe this is why I was given a second life.”

  He groaned. “Don’t go philosophical on me, Cat. You were given a second life because medical technology made it possible.”

  “You’ve got your interpretation, I’ve got mine,” she said. “All I know is that there should be some payback for my good fortune. Being a TV star, making lots of money, always being surrounded by the beautiful people—that’s not what life’s about. Not my life anyway. I want more. And by more, I don’t mean more money and fame. I want something real.”