Her eyes widened at that last sentence, and horror filled them as she realized the humiliation of her position. "No," she whispered. "He couldn’t do that to me."
"He did. It’s done."
Blindly she got to her feet, shaking her head. "He – he’s really gone?" she asked in a faint murmur. "He left
me
for that… that – " Unable to finish, she walked quickly from the room, almost as if she were fleeing.
As soon as Noelle was gone, as soon as she was no longer there to frown at unseemly displays, Monica wilted onto the table, falling forward to bury her face against her arm. Harsh sobs tore up from her throat and shook her slim body. Almost as angry at Noelle as he was at Guy, Gray knelt beside his sister and put his arms around her.
"It’s going to be tough," he said, "but we’ll get through this. I’m going to be really busy the next few days, getting our finances under control, but I’ll be here if you need me." He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that financial disaster was looming. "I know it hurts now, but we’ll make it all right."
"I hate him," Monica sobbed, her voice muffled. "He left us for that… that
whore!
I hope he doesn’t come back. I
hate
him, I never want to see him again!" Abruptly she tore away from him, overturning her chair as she shoved it back
from the table. She was still sobbing as she ran from the parlor, and he heard the harsh, gulping sounds continue all the way up the stairs. A moment later the slam of her bedroom door echoed through the house.
Gray wanted to bury his own face in his hands. He wanted to punch something, preferably his father’s nose. He wanted to roar his rage to the heavens. The situation was bad enough as it was; why did Noelle have to make it worse by being concerned only with what her friends would say? For once, why couldn’t she give some support to her daughter? Couldn’t she see how much Monica needed her now? But she had never been there for them, so why should that change now? Unlike Guy, Noelle was at least constant.
He needed a drink, a stiff one. He left the breakfast parlor and went back to the study, to the bottle of Scotch that Guy always kept in the liquor cabinet behind his desk. Oriane, their longtime housekeeper, was going up the stairs with an armload of towels, and she gave him a curious look. Not being deaf, of course, she had heard some of the uproar. The speculation between Oriane, her husband, Garron, who took care of the grounds, and Delfina, the cook, would be rampant. They would have to be told, of course, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it right then. Maybe after he had that drink of Scotch.
He opened the cabinet and took out the bottle, and splashed a couple of inches of the amber liquid into a glass. The smoky, biting flavor was sharp on his tongue as he took the first sip, then threw the rest of it back with a neat, stiff motion of his wrist. He needed the sedative effect, not the taste. He had just poured himself a second drink when a shrill scream from upstairs pierced the air, followed by Oriane shrieking his name, over and over.
Monica.
As soon as he heard Oriane scream, Gray knew. Dread congealed in his chest as he bolted from the study and took the stairs three at a time, his long, powerful legs propelling him upward. Oriane rushed down the hall toward him, her eyes wide with panic. "She’s cut herself, bad! Ohmigod, ohmigod, there’s blood all over the place – "
Gray pushed past her and ran into Monica’s bedroom. She wasn’t there, but the door to her bathroom was open,
and he threw himself toward it, only to stop, frozen, in the
doorway.
Monica had decorated her bedroom and bath herself, in delicate pinks and pearly whites that looked absurdly little-girlish. Normally Gray was reminded of cotton candy, but now the pink ceramic tile on the bathroom floor was covered with dark red splotches. Monica sat calmly on the fuzzy pink toilet lid, her big, dark eyes empty as she stared out the window. Her hands were neatly folded on her lap. Blood pulsed from the deep gashes she had made in both wrists, soaking her lap, running down her legs to pool on the
floor.
"I’m sorry for the commotion," she said in an eerily remote little voice. "I didn’t expect Oriane to bring up clean
towels."
"Jesus," he groaned, and snatched up the towels Oriane had dropped. He went down on one knee beside Monica and grabbed her left wrist. "Damn it, Monica, I ought to tan your ass!" He wrapped one towel around her wrist, then tied another one around it as tightly as he could.
"Just leave me alone," she whispered, trying to tug her arm away from him, but she was already frighteningly weak. "Shut up!" he barked, taking her right wrist and repeating the procedure. "Goddamn it, how could you do something this stupid?" This, on top of everything else he had gone through that day, was almost more than he could bear. Fear and rage mingled in his chest and swelled until he thought he would choke. "Did you stop to think about anyone but yourself? Did you think that maybe I could use your help, that this is as hard on everyone else as it is on you?" He ground the words out between clenched teeth as he snatched her up against his chest and ran, past Noelle, who was simply standing in the hallway with a dazed expression on her bloodless face, down the stairs, and past Oriane and Delfina clutching each other in the foyer.
"Call the clinic and let Dr. Bogarde know we’re on the way," he ordered as he carried Monica out the front door and down the steps, to the Corvette parked there. "I’ll get blood in your car," Monica protested feebly. "I told you to shut up," he snapped. "Don’t talk unless
you have something sensible to say." Probably he was supposed to be more sensitive with someone who had just attempted suicide, but this was his sister, and he was damned if he would let her take her own life. He was in a towering rage, the fury just barely controlled. It seemed as if his life had gone to hell in just the past few hours, and he was fed up with the people he loved doing stupid things.
He didn’t bother opening the door of the Corvette, but simply leaned over and deposited her in the seat, then vaulted over her into the driver’s seat. He started the engine, let out the clutch, and left rubber on the driveway as he pushed the powerful motor to the limit. Monica slumped weakly against the passenger door, her eyes closed. He shot her a panicked glance, but didn’t risk taking the time to stop. She was deathly white, and there was a faint bluish tinge forming around her mouth. Blood was already seeping through the towels, the bright red garish against the white fabric. He had seen the cuts; they hadn’t been shallow slices, gestures made more to frighten and gain attention than seriously threaten a life. No, Monica had been very serious about the attempt. His sister might die because his father couldn’t resist chasing after that redheaded Devlin whore.
He made the fifteen-mile trip to the clinic in just under ten minutes. The parking lot was full, but he pulled around to the back door of the one-story brick building and blew the horn, then leaped out to lift Monica into his arms again. She was totally limp, her head lolling against his shoulder, and hot tears seared his eyelids.
The back door opened and Dr. Bogarde rushed out, followed by both his nurses. "Put her in the first room on the right," he said, and Gray turned sideways to get her through the doorway. Sadie Lee Fanchier, the senior nurse, held the door to the examining room open and he carried Monica inside, then gently deposited her on the narrow table, the sheet-covered vinyl creaking as it took her weight.
Sadie Lee was wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Monica’s arm even as Dr. Bogarde was untying Gray’s first-aid efforts. Quickly she pumped it up, then listened through the stethoscope pressed to the inside of Monica’s elbow. "Seventy-five over forty."
"Start an IV," Dr. Bogarde ordered. "Glucose." The other nurse, Kitty, moved to follow his instructions.
Dr. Bogarde kept his eyes on Monica’s wrists as he worked. "She needs blood," he said. "Fast. We have to get her to the hospital in Baton Rouge, because I can’t do it here. She’ll need a vascular specialist to repair her veins, too. I can stabilize her, Gray, but I can’t do any more than
that."
Kitty hung the clear bag of glucose on the metal rack and deftly inserted the IV needle in Monica’s arm. "We don’t have time to get an ambulance here," the doctor continued. "We’ll take her ourselves, in my car. You okay to drive?" he asked Gray, shooting him a sharp glance.
"Yes." The answer was flat, unequivocal.
Dr. Bogarde tightly taped Monica’s wrists. "Okay, that’s got the bleeding stopped. Kitty, I need a couple of blankets. Put one over the backseat of my car, and tuck the other one over Monica. Gray, pick her up again, and be careful of that IV line. Sadie Lee, call the hospital and let ‘em know we’re on the way, and then give a call to the sheriffs department so they can clear the roads a mite."
Gently Gray lifted his sister. Dr. Bogarde took the glucose bag in one hand and his medical bag in the other, and trotted at Gray’s side as he carried Monica out to the doctor’s four-door Chrysler. The doctor climbed in first, then helped Gray carefully maneuver Monica onto the backseat. Dr. Bogarde hooked the glucose bag on the garment hanger over the side window, and took up a position on his knees on the floorboard.
"Don’t go slamming us around," he instructed as Gray squeezed his long frame under the steering wheel. Dr. Bogarde was barely five foot five, so the seat was so close to the steering wheel that Gray’s chest was brushing it. He couldn’t let the seat back, though, with Dr. Bogarde on the back floorboard. "Keep it at a steady speed and we’ll make better time. And put on the emergency lights."
Gray had a violent thought about backseat drivers, but he kept it to himself. Following orders, he left the clinic more sedately than he had arrived, though his instincts were screaming at him to push the gas pedal to the floorboard and
keep it there. Only the knowledge that the roomy sedan, built more for comfort than road handling, would likely straighten out a curve if he pushed it the way he did the Corvette kept him at a reasonable speed.
"How’d this happen?" Dr. Bogarde asked.
Gray glanced at him in the rearview mirror. The doctor was a small, dapper man with shrewd blue eyes. Despite his name, he was neither Creole nor Cajun; he had to be in his mid-fifties, with graying, sandy blond hair. Gray had known him all of his life. Noelle had never gone to him, preferring an urbane physician in New Orleans, but everyone else in the family had been to see him with everything from childhood cuts to influenza to the broken arm Gray had received in spring practice when he was fifteen.
Gray didn’t want to tell him everything, preferring to keep the details quiet for a while longer until his broker had had time to sell and Alex had done his legal maneuvers, but it wouldn’t be possible to completely stifle the news. He gave Dr. Bogarde the central fact, the only one that mattered. "Dad and Mother have separated. Monica…" He hesitated.
Dr. Bogarde sighed. "I see." Everyone in the parish knew how Monica doted on Guy.
Gray concentrated on his driving. The Chrysler’s suspension evened out the bumpy roads, and the tires sang on the pavement. The sense of unreality he’d experienced earlier returned. The sun poured hotly through the window, burning his jean-clad leg, and the tall pines flashed by. The sky overhead was a deep, pure blue. It was high summer, and everything was as familiar as his own face. That was what was strange. How could it all be so unchanged, when his world had crashed around him today?
Behind him, Dr. Bogarde checked Monica’s pulse and blood pressure again. "Gray," he said quietly. "You’d better go faster."
Five
It
was ten-thirty that night when Gray and Dr. Bogarde left the hospital in Baton Rouge. Gray’s eyes burned with fatigue, and he was numb from the emotional roller coaster he’d been on all day long. Monica had finally been stabilized and undergone surgery, and was sleeping peacefully, under sedation. She had gone into cardiac arrest soon after arriving at the hospital, but the emergency room team had gotten her heartbeat back almost immediately. She had been given four units of blood prior to surgery, and another two units in surgery. The doctor who had done the repair work thought there was no permanent damage in her right wrist, but she had severed a couple of tendons in her left wrist and might not regain full mobility there.
All that mattered to Gray was that she was going to live. She had awakened briefly when she was transferred from recovery to the private room he’d gotten for her, and had groggily murmured, "I’m sorry, Gray," when she had seen him. He didn’t know if she’d meant she was sorry she’d tried to kill herself, sorry that she hadn’t succeeded, or sorry that she had caused him so much worry. He chose to believe she meant the first possibility, because he couldn’t handle the thought that she might try again.
"I’ll drive," Dr. Bogarde said, reaching up to slap him on the shoulder. "You look like hell."
"I feel like hell," Gray rumbled. "I need a cup of coffee." He was just as glad to let Doc drive. His brain felt like a wasteland; it probably wouldn’t be safe for him to do the driving, and it
was
the doc’s car. His knees would still be sticking up under his chin, but at least he’d have room to breathe.
"I can manage that. There’s a McDonald’s a few blocks from here."
Gray folded and inserted himself, and thanked God that the Chrysler had a padded dashboard. If it hadn’t, his shins would have been black and blue.