Huddled into himself, obviously freezing, he glanced at her with huge, wounded eyes.
She draped the overcoat on his shoulders. He pulled it tightly around him. Without acknowledging her kindness in any way, he set off up the hill, stumbling and falling backward every few feet, but keeping enough momentum going to reach the top before Diane could quite do or say anything.
'Jeff wait!' she shouted, and started her own path up the hill.
By the time she reached the drifts above, Jeff was gone. Anxiously, she looked around, wondering if, in his obviously dazed mental state, he had gone off in the wrong direction. The churning snow made seeing impossible. He could well be out there somewhere wandering around-but there was nothing she could do for him except run to Mindy's and have her call the police.
The trek back to the McCay place took nearly fifteen minutes. Halfway there, through the haze of wind and snow, she saw the same faint downstairs light she'd noticed when she'd brought the pie over.
Sneezing, her head pounding with tension, wishing she would find both a steaming cup of tea and a certain lawman named Robert Clark waiting for her in her kitchen, Diane trudged through the last of the snow and up to the McCay door.
Rather than use the doorbell, she pounded thunderously-taking out some of her frustration-on the door. Jeff answered.
She was startled that he was already there. Even more startling was that he was fully dressed in blue cardigan sweater, white shirt, gray slacks, and comfy red-lined leather slippers.
But what did the images really mean?
Had such a thing-his fleeing the house naked, his diving into the brook-really taken place, or was it just her imagination?
'Hello, Diane. Kind of late for you to be out, isn't it? Everything all right?'
He spoke to her through the narrow crevice created by the chain.
'Me? Am I all right?' Diane said, knowing she sounded as if she were about to explode. 'You're the one I'm concerned about!'
He offered a confused smile. 'Diane, I'm fine. I've been in the basement working late on a campaign. Why would you worry about me?'
'But just a few minutes ago you were-'
She stopped, shaking her head.
'I was what, Diane? What were you going to say?'
She knew how foolish she would seem, telling him that he'd been wandering around in the bitter night naked, when obviously-when obviously he would tell her he'd been in the basement all that time working on a new campaign.
'Nothing,' Diane said. 'Nothing. I'm sorry I bothered you.'
'I appreciate your concern.'
'Right. Yes,' Diane mumbled. 'My concern.'
Then she put her head down, started to push back into the freezing night for the last part of her journey back to her house.
I don't want to be this way. Help me.
Turning around, intending to ask Jeff if he had just said something, she found herself facing a closed door. Jeff hadn't said anything at all.
But words had imposed themselves distinctly on her mind. But whose words? And what had they meant?
Exhausted, Diane trudged the last yards back to her place. Neither a handsome law officer nor a steaming cup of tea awaited her.
Next morning, the headache started for Jeff McCay while he was fighting cross-town traffic on the expressway. Over the past few months, he had suffered headaches regularly and inexplicably. Before bed each night, he took three aspirin, and during the day he consumed as many as ten.
He was listening to a new rock song by Fleetwood Mac when the images began flashing before his eyes. Squeezing his head between his hands, Jeff's mind flashed and filled like a movie screen bombarded with Technicolor scenes of a nightmare…his nightmare:
Naked. Snow. Diving into the brook…a woman…Diane from next door… bending over him. An over-coat thrown over his shivering body. Pain. Fear. His own bed at last. Trembling from the cold even under the covers.
His first reaction was that he had suffered some kind of stroke and that his mind was playing dark tricks on him. Fighting the wheel to the left, he pulled off the macadam, letting cars whisk by him, their drivers straining curiously to see why a fellow yuppie was temporarily downed. Certainly, there couldn't be anything wrong with his BMW.
Shaking now, and suddenly covered with a pasty sweat, Jeff dropped the car back into gear and proceeded cautiously back onto the expressway. Just ahead, a yellow city truck dispensed sand, the expressway treacherous from last night's snow.
Last night's snow…
Diving head first into the brook…
The bruised, tender spot he'd found on the right side of his head this morning while shaving…
What was going on? Was his terrible loss of Brenda finally getting to him?
Or was it what he and Mindy had done to little Jenny this summer? Was his guilt finally taking its toll?
Fishtailing, a car behind him blaring its horn, Jeff made his uncertain way to the agency.
He snapped off the intercom, glanced around his office. Ray Culhane despised this particular office-'All those fruity paintings,' as he liked to laugh, which translated to a Picasso, a Chagall, and a Monet print. The furnishings were inoffensive enough, traditional Eames lines and patterns, running to grays with complementary subdued blues. And a window that looked out over the frozen, frosty city as a fat, round, yellow sun beamed down on it.
There was a knock and then the door opened. No chance to say Hello! or Come in or Up yours. Just the knock and the virtual simultaneous opening of the door.
Today, Culhane was dressed in his oil-millionaire outfit, sleek western dress suit, string tie, white Stetson, and small unlit cigarillo to complete the picture. Ray Culhane liked to play dress-up just as much as any other eighty-year-old.
'Hope I'm not disturbing you,' Culhane said, closing the door and sliding into a chair on the other side of the desk.
Not bothering to hide his irritation, Jeff said, 'No, I was just trying to get some work done.'
Culhane smiled unpleasantly. 'You'd really like to throw me out that window, wouldn't you, kid?'
Jeff put his elbows on the messy desk and faced Culhane squarely. 'What can I do for you?'
'You want the good news or bad news first?'
'How about the good news? I could use some.'
'Well, the good news,' Culhane said, fingering his Stetson, 'is that I absolutely love that new ad campaign you boys came up with.'
Eight complete campaigns later, they'd finally devised one that Ray Culhane liked. There had been some worry that they'd never come up with one that Culhane approved and that he would, uncle-in-law or not, take his business to some other agency.
'That is good news,' Jeff said.
'I thought you'd like to hear that.' Culhane angled his beefy body forward. 'And here's something else you'll like to hear, son. We like that campaign so much we're going to double our spring budget.'
'Really?'
'Really.'
'That's fantastic.'
'You boys hunkered down and delivered the goods. Now it's our turn to repay your hard work.'
'I really appreciate this.'
'I know you do, and that's why it's a pleasure to do business with you. You appreciate things, and that's hard to come by these days.'
Jeff almost felt guilty over Ray Culhane's uncharacteristic burst of flattery. All the things he'd said and
