Chapter 13

 

The handcuffs were removed as soon as they got to the police station. Daphne rubbed her wrists, surprised there were no bruises, and looked around her with wide eyes.

She had only been in a police station once before, that time when she had tried to hit that TV cameraman over the head with her protest sign. She hadn't liked it then. She didn't like it now. The place was drab and depressing and frightening. It was crowded and too hot and it smelled from the press of too many bodies in too small a space.

Uniformed police officers moved through the throng of people, doing their jobs as efficiently as possible. Men and women in street clothes sat on the hard wooden benches smoking or drinking coffee or staring into space, looking scared or defiant or bored, depending on their temperament—and their reason for being there. A young woman in a too-short blue dress stood in front of the sergeant's desk, crying as she tried to explain something. And the newly arrived protesters milled around in a sort of helpless confusion, waiting to be told what to do.

"Hey, man, when do I get my phone call?" someone wanted to know.

"Just as soon as you've been booked."

"Yeah?" The questioner was a young man, intent on showing everybody just how scared he wasn't. "And when will that be?"

"Just as soon as we can get around to it," the policeman said, bored. "Now, all of you, find yourselves a seat over there somewhere and sit down. It's going to be a long day."

Daphne did as she was told, sitting down between Sunny and a little old man in a red beret who appeared to be sound asleep.

"God, this brings back memories, doesn't it?" Sunny said in her ear. Her tone was halfway between disgust and nostalgia.

"Ones I'd just as soon forget," Daphne said dryly.

"Yeah, now that you mention it..." Sunny's voice was confiding. "Me, too."

"How long do you think we'll be here?"

"I don't know. Hours probably." Sunny gestured with one hand, her dark red nails gleaming. "All these bodies to process through the system."

And it was hours. One by one, they were booked, searched, fingerprinted and photographed like common criminals. Daphne, standing stock-still as brisk, impersonal hands ran up and down her body, had never been so humiliated in her life. The charges, they were informed by the arresting officer, were disorderly conduct and criminal mischief, both misdemeanors. Then, finally, a judge arraigned them, setting bail at two hundred dollars apiece, payable they were told, in cash. No checks, no credit cards. Neither Daphne nor Sunny had that much on them.

"Now what happens?" Daphne asked hesitantly.

"You can call someone to come down with the money," an officer told her. "A family member or friend, if you've got one. Or you can call a bail bondsman. There's a phone book by the telephone there."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime you wait in the tank."

The tank was segregated by sex, one for men, one for women. It was the worst place Daphne had ever been in her life. She hadn't experienced it during her one other brush with the law. That time, because it was her first offence and she had no record, the bail had been lower, and the organizers of the protest had been right there to pay it.

This time Daphne was made to suffer the indignity of having her valuables taken from her before she went into the tank. Her gold chains, her earrings, her watch and the contents of her pockets—a total of fifteen dollars and eighteen cents—were surrendered to the bored-looking officer behind the desk and sealed into little plastic bags that could be reclaimed, she was told, when she left the station. And then, finally, the two women were allowed their phone call.

"I got hold of Brian," Sunny said. She sat down on the bench next to Daphne, huddling close as she looked around at the other occupants of the tank. "God, will you look at these women," she whispered, her brown eyes big as saucers. "Have you ever seen such a sorry-looking bunch of losers in your life?"

"Was he mad?"

"Who? Brian?" Sunny shuddered dramatically. "Are you kidding? I could feel the steam coming right through the telephone wire."

"But he's coming to get us, isn't he?" Daphne asked hopefully.

"He said he ought to let us stew for a while but, yes, he's coming to get us." She patted Daphne's hand comfortingly. "Are you sure you don't want to call Adam? You still have your one phone call."

Daphne shook her head. "I don't want to bother him at the hospital."

"He's probably not at the hospital anymore, Daphne. We've been in this hellhole since eleven-thirty this morning. That's—" she glanced down, forgetting that her watch had been surrendered to the desk sergeant"—well, several hours, anyway. He's probably home by now, and worried sick. You know what a worrier he is. Maybe you'd better take your one phone call and let him at least know where you are."

"I left a note taped to the refrigerator telling him I'd gone out with you for a little while."

"Oh, that'll put his mind at ease."

Brian arrived at the station forty minutes later. He wasn't nearly so angry as Sunny had indicated. In fact, he seemed to have cooled off enough to see the funny side of things. Adam, however, apparently didn't see anything funny in the situation at all.

"I didn't tell Brian to call him," Sunny whispered as the two women were led out of the holding tank. "Honest. Brian must have thought of it all by himself."

"Well, well, if it isn't the two little jailbirds," Brian said teasingly. But he took his wife in his arms and hugged her hard. "Are you all right?" he said against her hair.

"Fine, now that you're here," Sunny replied. Her voice was just the tiniest bit shaky as she clung to Brian, hiding her face in his shoulder for a moment.

Daphne wished she were being held, too. She would have enjoyed clinging to the security of Adam's broad shoulders, but Adam hadn't made the slightest move toward her. He just stood there, a somewhat wary expression on his face as he waited for her to claim her valuables. She surreptitiously studied the taut line of his mouth as she signed for the little plastic bag containing her possessions. He was, she thought, absolutely furious with her. She didn't blame him. She was furious with herself.

It was one thing to land in jail for a cause you believed in. And quite another to end up there for no good reason at all.

"Are you all right?" he asked when she came away from the desk. His voice was low, his words clipped.

"Yes, Adam," she said, head down. "Fine."

He reached out and lifted her chin with his forefinger, forcing her to look at him. "You're sure you're all right?" His eyes scanned her face for a brief, intense second or two, searching for heaven knew what. His expression was concerned and—for just a moment—fearful. "You're not hurt? We heard that there was broken glass."

"No," she said softly. Her hand came up to touch his. "I wasn't near the glass when it broke. I'm fine."

"Good." His hand dropped. "Then, shall we go?" he said tightly, putting his hand under her elbow to lead her out of the station.

"Yes, please." Sunny answered for both of them, curling her arm through Brian's as they headed for the door. "Let's get out of this place."

They exited the police station to the glow of the late afternoon sunlight slanting across the pavement—and the flash of a newsman's camera exploding into their faces.

"What the hell—" Adam began, raising a hand to shield his face. He automatically drew Daphne closer, as if to shield her, too.

"Dr. McCorkle, how do you feel about your wife being involved in the antivivisection protest at the Hillman Medical Research Center?"

"No comment," Brian muttered, heading his wife toward the yellow Mercedes parked at the curb. Adam and Daphne crossed the pavement to the forest-green BMW parked right behind it.

"Dr. McCorkle, do you condone your wife's activities?" The reporter was persistent.

Brian shook his head, still refusing to answer. He pulled open the car door and handed Sunny inside. She went quietly, kept silent by the look on her husband's face.

"Dr. McCorkle..."

The questions were still coming fast and furious, thrown at them from all sides by what seemed like dozens of reporters. In reality, there were only four. One of them, apparently, was just a little better informed than his colleagues. He aimed his question at Adam, who had not yet reached the safety of the car.

"Dr. Forrest, how does having your wife involved in a criminal protest against a medical research center affect your relatively new position at Children's Hospital? Do you think it will affect your career there?"

Daphne's eyes widened at that. She hadn't given a thought to how this might affect Adam. At least, not careerwise. After all, she wasn't his wife anymore and what she did should have no bearing on Adam's career. Even if she were his wife, it should have no bearing. She opened her mouth to correct the reporter's assumption. "I'm not Mrs.—" she began, but a hand clamped down on her arm, silencing her.

"We have no comment," Adam snapped, assisting Daphne into the passenger seat of his BMW He slammed the door and stalked around the front of the car to the driver's side. Without a word, he inserted the key into the ignition and gunned the engine to life. And then careful, controlled, always-in-charge Adam left rubber on the road as he peeled away from the curb.

Daphne sat silently, unable to think of anything to say to defuse his anger. What could she say? "I'm sorry" was woefully inadequate. It was true, of course, but inadequate. "I didn't know what I was getting into" was true, too, but still no excuse. She should have known what she was getting into because anything was possible when Sunny McCorkle, master crusader, was involved.

"If I had known what Sunny was up to," she offered at last, "I wouldn't have gotten involved."

Adam didn't even glance at her. "A bit late for regrets, isn't it?" he said, downshifting as the car crested one of San Francisco's famous hills.

"I didn't say I regretted getting involved," Daphne snapped back, stung into saying something that she didn't mean by the abruptness of his comment. "I think it's a worthwhile cau—" The lie stuck in her throat. She didn't think it was a worthwhile cause at all. "Well, I'm sorry you had to get involved in the whole thing," she finished, eyes downcast as she plucked at the fabric of her jumpsuit.

"I suppose you'd rather I just left you sitting in jail? Would that have suited you better?"

"Brian would have bailed me out," she said, shrugging.

"Brian would not have bailed you out!" Adam exploded. He hit the steering wheel with the fist of his hand. "You're my responsibility!"

Daphne's head came up, all her senses ready—eager—to do battle. "I am not your responsibility," she said firmly, putting out a hand to brace herself against the dashboard as Adam turned onto their street. "I'm not anyone's responsibility."

"You're not even responsible for yourself!"

"Oh, really?" Her brows nearly disappeared into the wisps of hair on her forehead. "And who do you think has been taking care of me for the past several years? Santa Claus?"

"I wouldn't be the least bit surprised."

He swung the car into the driveway, bringing it to an abrupt halt only inches from the cream-colored paint of the garage door. Automatically, Daphne reached for the door handle, then stopped when she realized that Adam hadn't turned off the engine. "Do you intend to finish this—" she paused, searching for a word "—this discussion out here? In front of all your neighbors?"

"I don't want to finish it at all."

Daphne sat up straighter in her seat. "You don't want to finish it! Well, that's just too bad, Dr. Forrest, because I do."

"Fine. Finish it on your own. I have to go back to the hospital." He revved the engine as if to emphasize his impatience to be off.

"Oh, that's right!" Daphne said, her voice low and fierce with the effort to keep from shrieking at the top of her lungs. "Run off to the hospital whenever life gets a little too real for you. Hide behind your white coat. Well, I've got news for you, doctor. Your problems will still be waiting for you when you get back," she informed him icily, shoving the car door open.

He turned his head toward her. "Will they?" he said, very softly.

For just a moment Daphne hesitated, caught by the look on his face. It was hopeful and worried at the same time. She almost said something soothing, but then she realized the car was still running, that Adam's foot was still revving the gas pedal, and the moment vanished.

"Count on it!" she shouted, springing out of the car before he could say another word. She slammed the door as hard as she could then turned and flounced across the yard into the house. Tires squealed as Adam backed out of the driveway and roared off down the street. "Damn the man!" she cursed aloud, wishing she had something to throw. "He hasn't changed a bit!"

Oh, he was older, smoother, more expert with words of love. No, not love, she thought, her expression suddenly vicious. Seduction. He knew all the right words to say when he had her in his arms. But when it came to emotion—real, honest, heartfelt emotion—he was as closemouthed as ever. Be it love or hate or anger, he couldn't say the words. Couldn't tell her what was in his heart.

Well, that was coming to an end! And soon. Very soon. She would wait until he cooled off, until he wasn't so blazingly angry. And then she would confront him with her feelings, all of them, and demand that he expose his own. If she had to hold him down and sit on him, she would know what he really felt. There would be no more pussy-footing around the edges of this relationship of theirs. If it was love, the real, committed, ending-in-marriage, forever kind of love, she wanted to know. And if it was just a sexual fling... well, she wanted to know that, too. She couldn't go on like this, not knowing. It would drive her crazy before very much longer.

Somewhat calmer now that she had made a decision, she walked through the deserted house to the bedroom, shrugging out of her clothes as she went. They felt soiled; dirtied by the hands that had run so impersonally over her when the police officer had patted her down looking for God knew what.

In the bedroom she kicked off her shoes, tugged her sweater over her head, and pushed her jeans down her legs to the floor. She kicked them off, then, remembering she was trying to be more tidy, bent over to pick them up. The kitten, Tiger, wound his way between her feet, asking for attention.

Daphne scratched behind his ears. "What's the matter, little fella? The other guys desert you?"

"Meow," said Tiger piteously, rubbing against her hand.

Daphne straightened, tossing clothes over her arm. "Yeah, I know just what you mean," she said, carrying the soiled garments with her to the bathroom. She dropped them on top of the wicker clothes hamper and reached into the shower to turn on the taps. Her clothes weren't all that felt dirty after her little run-in with the law.

The phone was ringing as she stepped out of the shower. For a moment, she considered not answering it. It might be Adam. But, she decided, he knew she was here. And there was no sense in making him any madder than he already was. Besides, maybe he had chosen the phone as a way of apologizing. Fat chance, her mind sneered as she reached for the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Thank goodness I finally got you." Elaine sounded breathless and exasperated. "I've been calling all afternoon. Where have you been?"

Daphne hitched her towel a little more securely around her damp body. "Believe me. You don't want to know." She sighed, sinking down on the bed. "So—" her voice became businesslike and professional"—what's the problem?"

"Mr. Chan is here now and he's leaving tomorrow night. And he wants to see you. I told him you'd—"

"What happened to our Monday meeting?" Daphne interrupted her new business partner.

"His oldest grandson is having surgery on Tuesday—or is it Wednesday? Anyway, he wants to be back with him for that. Which means he's here now, two days ahead of schedule."

"Can't you handle it?" Daphne inquired. "You're a partner."

"I told him that, Daphne. But he insists on seeing you. You know how he is about dealing with the 'head man.'"

"Yes, I know." Daphne fell silent for a moment, thinking. Mr. Chan had the worst timing in the world. She needed to be here right now, dealing with Adam and the rest of her life. But business was business. And Mr. Chan was there about the fabrics for her new lingerie line. She needed to see him now, too, if the line was going to launch on schedule. Damn!

"Daphne, you there?"

"Yes." Her voice was resigned.

"You flying out?"

For a moment more Daphne struggled with what she should do and what she wanted to do. "Yes," she said, her sense of responsibility winning out. Besides, maybe two or three days would given Adam the time he needed to really cool off. "Yes, I'm flying out."

Rapidly, now that her decision was made, she began to plan. "Have someone meet the next San Francisco plane at La Guardia. Unless you hear otherwise, I'll be on it. And send a basket of fruit to Mr. Chan's suite with my—our—compliments. And make reservations at someplace fancy for dinner tomorrow night for three." She ripped a piece of paper off the telephone notepad and began scribbling. "Yes. You, me and Mr. Chan. It's high time he got used to dealing with someone other than me. No, I don't know his favorite restaurant, but you can have your secretary call his secretary and find out what his favorite place is. Oh, and would you please make sure there's enough food for a couple of days in my apartment? Nothing fancy, just something to keep me alive for a day or two. I'll be coming right back." She paused a moment, listening. "Let's not go into that now, okay? We'll discuss it when I get there. Yes. Bye."

Daphne pressed down on the telephone button, breaking the connection with New York, and dialed the airlines. After making reservations on the next flight into La Guardia, she called a taxi and then hurried to the bathroom and finished putting herself together.

In less than twenty minutes she was dressed in trim ankle-length slacks and a matching unlined jacket in a nubby beige fabric with a russet-colored string knit sweater beneath it. Large copper discs adorned her ears, a long oblong silk scarf in shades of brown, beige and peach was looped under the lapels of her jacket, and flat strappy sandals in deep tobacco-brown were on her narrow feet. She stuffed a few essentials into a large leather-and-canvas carryall and headed for Adam's den to write a note.

While dressing, she had debated whether or not to call him instead, and calmly, rationally explain the situation. But just thinking of his thundercloud of a face put her right off that idea. A note, she decided, was the safest bet. Cowardly, but safe. He should be good and cooled off by the time he got home and read it. If she called the hospital to explain, he might still be mad. Or she might be interrupting something, which would make him mad all over again. A note would be better.

As she was writing it, she heard the front door open. Apparently, she thought, the decision had been taken out of her hands. She wondered if that were good or bad. "I'm in here, Adam," she called, resigned to meeting him head-on.

There was no answer.

Daphne came out of the den, her carryall over one shoulder, the note in her other hand. "I was just writing you a note," she explained. "I know it's terrible timing but Elaine called and I have to fly out to New..." Her voice trailed off as she saw who it was. "Oh, hello, Marcia," she said coolly, inclining her head toward the younger woman. They had silently agreed to a truce of sorts. Not a friendly one by any means but at least there were no outright hostilities. "I'm afraid Adam's not home right now. He had an emergency at the hospital."

"Yes, I know exactly what kind of emergency Adam had. It's all over the hospital that he had to go down to the police station and bail out his ex-wife."

"Oh, dear," Daphne said, sincerely sorry and sincerely distressed. Above almost anything else in life, Adam valued his professional image. Quite rightly, too, she thought, since he had worked so hard to attain it. He wouldn't look kindly on anyone who smudged it for him. Of course, what she had done should have had no bearing on Adam. But would he look at it that way? It was easy to see that Marcia didn't. Like sister, like brother, she thought.

"Is that all you can say? 'Oh, dear'?" Adam's sister scoffed. "Not that I expected anything better of you after what Adam's told me." She advanced on Daphne like a lioness all set to defend her cub, although she made no overt move to inflict bodily harm.

It was the look in her eyes, Daphne decided. If looks could kill...

"I told him you'd be nothing but trouble. I told him that you hadn't changed. That you still had the same crazy, radical friends and believed in the same stupid causes. I told him you were no better doctor's wife material now than you were the first time around. And you've proved it." A particularly nasty, rather triumphant smile curved her pink lips. "Now maybe he'll listen to me."

"Maybe," Daphne agreed softly, her voice as level and calm as she could make it as she digested the rather disturbing fact that Adam had obviously discussed their relationship with his viper of a sister. Old tight-lipped Adam, who wouldn't even discuss his feelings with her, had discussed them with his sister. How dare he. Their relationship, however it turned out, was private. Silently, she added another bone to the pile she had to pick with Dr. Adam Forrest when she got back from New York.

"Maybe?" Marcia's voice rose to a near shriek. With a visible effort, she controlled it. "Oh, he'll listen all right. He can't help but listen with the evidence right in front of his eyes."

"Maybe," Daphne said again. She brushed past Marcia and went into the kitchen to tape her note to the refrigerator door, crumpling her earlier one—the one that had told him she had gone out with Sunny—in her hand. "That's something we'll have to discuss when I get back." She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised as she gave Marcia a deliberately arch look. "Adam and I, that is." She paused consideringly. "Although, if what you say is true, I'm sure Adam will let you know what we decide."

A horn sounded outside, three sharp blasts piercing the air.

Daphne silently blessed the efficiency of the San Francisco taxi companies. "That will be my cab," she said, heading for the front door with barely concealed relief. She paused with her hand on the knob. "Feel free to make yourself at home until Adam gets back. I'm sure he won't be long. And I'm sure you'll have plenty to say to him," she finished sweetly, and left.