The Best Laid Plans

SIDNEY SHELDON

THE BEST LAID PLANS

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to you with my appreciation

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Books by Sidney Sheldon

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The first entry in Leslie Stewart’s diary read:

Dear Diary: This morning I met the man I am going to marry.

It was a simple, optimistic statement, with not the slightest portent of the dramatic chain of events that was about to occur.

It was one of those rare, serendipitous days when nothing could go wrong, when nothing would dare go wrong. Leslie Stewart had no interest in astrology, but that morning, as she was leafing through the Lexington Herald-Leader, a horoscope in an astrology column by Zoltaire caught her eye. It read:

FOR LEO (JULY 23rd to AUGUST 22nd). THE NEW MOON ILLUMINATES YOUR LOVE LIFE. YOU ARE IN YOUR LUNAR CYCLE HIGH NOW, AND MUST PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO AN EXCITING NEW EVENT IN YOUR LIFE. YOUR COMPATIBLE SIGN IS VIRGO. TODAY WILL BE A RED-LETTER DAY. BE PREPARED TO ENJOY IT.

Be prepared to enjoy what? Leslie thought wryly. Today was going to be like every other day. Astrology was nonsense, mind candy for fools.

Leslie Stewart was a public relations and advertising executive at the Lexington, Kentucky, firm of Bailey & Tomkins. She had three meetings scheduled for that afternoon, the first with the Kentucky Fertilizer Company, whose executives were excited about the new campaign she was working up for them. They especially liked its beginning: ‘If you want to smell the roses …’ The second meeting was with the Breeders Stud Farm, and the third with the Lexington Coal Company. Red-letter day?

In her late twenties, with a slim, provocative figure, Leslie Stewart had an exciting, exotic look; gray, sloe eyes, high cheek-bones, and soft, honey-colored hair, which she wore long and elegantly simple. A friend of Leslie’s had once told her, ‘If you’re beautiful and have a brain and a vagina, you can own the world.’

Leslie Stewart was beautiful and had an IQ of 170, and nature had taken care of the rest. But she found her looks a disadvantage. Men were constantly propositioning her or proposing, but few of them bothered to try really to get to know her.

Aside from the two secretaries who worked at Bailey & Tomkins, Leslie was the only woman there. There were fifteen male employees. It had taken Leslie less than a week to learn that she was more intelligent than any of them. It was a discovery she decided to keep to herself.

In the beginning, both partners, Jim Bailey, an overweight, soft-spoken man in his forties, and Al Tomkins, anorexic and hyper, ten years younger than Bailey, individually tried to talk Leslie into going to bed with them.

She had stopped them very simply. ‘Ask me once more, and I’ll quit.’

That had put an end to that. Leslie was too valuable an employee to lose.

Her first week on the job, during a coffee break, Leslie had told her fellow employees a joke.

‘Three men came across a female genie who promised to grant each one a wish. The first man said, “I wish I were twenty-five percent smarter.” The genie blinked, and the man said, “Hey, I feel smarter already.”

‘The second man said, “I wish I were fifty percent smarter.” The genie blinked, and the man exclaimed, “That’s wonderful! I think I know things now that I didn’t know before.”

‘The third man said, “I’d like to be one hundred percent smarter.”

‘So the genie blinked, and the man changed into a woman.’

Leslie looked expectantly at the men at the table. They were all staring at her, unamused.

Point taken.

The red-letter day that the astrologer had promised began at eleven o’clock that morning. Jim Bailey walked into Leslie’s tiny, cramped office.

‘We have a new client,’ he announced. ‘I want you to take charge.’

She was already handling more accounts than anyone else at the firm, but she knew better than to protest.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s not a what, it’s a who. You’ve heard of Oliver Russell, of course?’

Everyone had heard of Oliver Russell. A local attorney and candidate for governor, he had his face on billboards all over Kentucky. With his brilliant legal record, he was considered, at thirty-five, the most eligible bachelor in the state. He was on all the talk shows on the major television stations in Lexington – WDKY, WTVQ, WKYT – and on the popular local radio stations, WKQQ and WLRO. Strikingly handsome, with black, unruly hair, dark eyes, an athletic build, and a warm smile, he had the reputation of having slept with most of the ladies in Lexington.

‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. What are we going to do for him?’

‘We’re going to try to help turn him into the governor of Kentucky. He’s on his way here now.’

Oliver Russell arrived a few minutes later. He was even more attractive in person than in his photographs.

When he was introduced to Leslie, he smiled warmly. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m so glad you’re going to handle my campaign.’

He was not at all what Leslie had expected. There was a completely disarming sincerity about the man. For a moment, Leslie was at a loss for words.

‘I – thank you. Please sit down.’

Oliver Russell took a seat.

‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Leslie suggested. ‘Why are you running for governor?’

‘It’s very simple. Kentucky’s a wonderful state. We know it is, because we live here, and we’re able to enjoy its magic – but much of the country thinks of us as a bunch of hillbillies. I want to change that image. Kentucky has more to offer than a dozen other states combined. The history of this country began here. We have one of the oldest capitol buildings in America. Kentucky gave this country two presidents. It’s the land of Daniel Boone and Kit Carson and Judge Roy Bean. We have the most beautiful scenery in the world – exciting caves, rivers, bluegrass fields – everything. I want to open all that up to the rest of the world.’

He spoke with a deep conviction, and Leslie found herself strongly drawn to him. She thought of the astrology column. ‘The new moon illuminates your love life. Today will he a red-letter day. Be prepared to enjoy it.’

Oliver Russell was saying, ‘The campaign won’t work unless you believe in this as strongly as I do.’

‘I do,’ Leslie said quickly. Too quickly? ‘I’m really looking forward to this.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘May I ask you a question?’

‘Certainly.’

‘What’s your birth sign?’

‘Virgo.’

After Oliver Russell left, Leslie went into Jim Bailey’s office. ‘I like him,’ she said. ‘He’s sincere. He really cares. I think he’d make a fine governor.’

Jim looked at her thoughtfully. ‘It’s not going to be easy.’

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Oh? Why?’

Bailey shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. There’s something going on that I can’t explain. You’ve seen Russell on all the billboards and on television?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s stopped.’

‘I don’t understand. Why?’

‘No one knows for certain, but there are a lot of strange rumors. One of the rumors is that someone was backing Russell, putting up all the money for his campaign, and then for some reason suddenly dropped him.’

‘In the middle of a campaign he was winning? That doesn’t make sense, Jim.’

‘I know.’

‘Why did he come to us?’

‘He really wants this. I think he’s ambitious. And he feels he can make a difference. He would like us to figure out a campaign that won’t cost him a lot of money. He can’t afford to buy any more airtime or do much advertising. All we can really do for him is to arrange interviews, plant newspaper articles, that sort of thing.’ He shook his head. ‘Governor Addison is spending a fortune on his campaign. In the last two weeks, Russell’s gone way down in the polls. It’s a shame. He’s a good lawyer. Does a lot of pro bono work. I think he’d make a good governor, too.’

That night Leslie made her first note in her new diary.

Dear Diary: This morning I met the man I am going to marry.

Leslie Stewart’s early childhood was idyllic. She was an extraordinarily intelligent child. Her father was an English professor at Lexington Community College and her mother was a housewife. Leslie’s father was a handsome man, patrician and intellectual. He was a caring father, and he saw to it that the family took their vacations together and traveled together. Her father adored her. ‘You’re Daddy’s girl,’ he would say. He would tell her how beautiful she looked and compliment her on her grades, her behavior, her friends. Leslie could do no wrong in his eyes. For her ninth birthday, her father bought her a beautiful brown velvet dress with lace cuffs. He would have her put the dress on, and he would show her off to his friends when they came to dinner. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ he would say.

Leslie worshiped him.

One morning, a year later, in a split second, Leslie’s wonderful life vanished. Her mother, face stained with tears, sat her down. ‘Darling, your father has … left us.’

Leslie did not understand at first. ‘When will he be back?’

‘He’s not coming back.’

And each word was a sharp knife.

My mother has driven him away, Leslie thought. She felt sorry for her mother because now there would be a divorce and a custody fight. Her father would never let her go. Never. He’ll come for me, Leslie told herself.

But weeks passed, and her father never called. They won’t let him come and see me, Leslie decided. Mother’s punishing him.

It was Leslie’s elderly aunt who explained to the child that there would be no custody battle. Leslie’s father had fallen in love with a widow who taught at the university and had moved in with her, in her house on Limestone Street.

One day when they were out shopping, Leslie’s mother pointed out the house. ‘That’s where they live,’ she said bitterly.

Leslie resolved to visit her father. When he sees me, she thought, he’ll want to come home.

On a Friday, after school, Leslie went to the house on Limestone Street and rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a girl Leslie’s age. She was wearing a brown velvet dress with lace cuffs. Leslie stared at her, in shock.

The little girl was looking at her curiously. ‘Who are you?’

Leslie fled.

Over the next year, Leslie watched her mother retire into herself. She had lost all interest in life. Leslie had believed that ‘dying of a broken heart’ was an empty phrase, but Leslie helplessly watched her mother fade away and die, and when people asked her what her mother had died of, Leslie answered, ‘She died of a broken heart.’

And Leslie resolved that no man would ever do that to her.

After her mother’s death, Leslie moved in with her aunt. Leslie attended Bryan Station High School and was graduated from the University of Kentucky summa cum laude. In her final year in college, she was voted beauty queen, and turned down numerous offers from modeling agencies.

Leslie had two brief affairs, one with a college football hero, and the other with her economics professor. They quickly bored her. The fact was that she was brighter than both of them.

Just before Leslie was graduated, her aunt died. Leslie finished school and applied for a job at the advertising and public relations agency of Bailey & Tomkins. Its offices were on Vine Street in a U-shaped brick building with a copper roof and a fountain in the courtyard.

Jim Bailey, the senior partner, had examined Leslie’s résumé, and nodded. ‘Very impressive. You’re in luck. We need a secretary.’

‘A secretary? I hoped –’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing.’

Leslie started as a secretary, taking notes at all the meetings, her mind all the while judging and thinking of ways to improve the advertising campaigns that were being suggested. One morning, an account executive was saying, ‘I’ve thought of the perfect logo for the Rancho Beef Chili account. On the label of the can, we show a picture of a cowboy roping a cow. It suggests that the beef is fresh, and –’

That’s a terrible idea, Leslie thought. They were all staring at her, and to her horror, Leslie realized she had spoken aloud.

‘Would you mind explaining that, young lady?’

‘I …’ She wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere. They were all waiting. Leslie took a deep breath. ‘When people eat meat, they don’t want to be reminded that they’re eating a dead animal.’

There was a heavy silence. Jim Bailey cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should give this a little more thought.’

The following week, during a meeting on how to publicize a new beauty soap account, one of the executives said, ‘We’ll use beauty contest winners.’

‘Excuse me,’ Leslie said diffidently. ‘I believe that’s been done. Why couldn’t we use lovely flight attendants from around the world to show that our beauty soap is universal?’

In the meetings after that, the men found themselves turning to Leslie for her opinion.

A year later, she was a junior copywriter, and two years after that, she became an account executive, handling both advertising and publicity.

Oliver Russell was the first real challenge that Leslie had had at the agency. Two weeks after Oliver Russell came to them, Bailey suggested to Leslie that it might be better to drop him, because he could not afford to pay their usual agency fee, but Leslie persuaded him to keep the account.

‘Call it pro bono,’ she said.

Bailey studied her a moment. ‘Right.’

Leslie and Oliver Russell were seated on a bench in Triangle Park. It was a cool fall day, with a soft breeze coming from the lake. ‘I hate politics,’ Oliver Russell said.

Leslie looked at him in surprise. ‘Then why in the world are you –?’

‘Because I want to change the system, Leslie. It’s been taken over by lobbyists and corporations that help put the wrong people in power and then control them. There are a lot of things I want to do.’ His voice was filled with passion. ‘The people who are running the country have turned it into an old boys’ club. They care more about themselves than they do about the people. It’s not right, and I’m going to try to correct that.’

Leslie listened as Oliver went on, and she was thinking, He could do it. There was such a compelling excitement about him. The truth was that she found everything about him exciting. She had never felt this way about a man before, and it was an exhilarating experience. She had no way of knowing how he felt about her. He is always the perfect gentleman, damn him. It seemed to Leslie that every few minutes people were coming up to the park bench to shake Oliver’s hand and to wish him well. The women were visually throwing daggers at Leslie. They’ve probably all been out with him, Leslie thought. They’ve probably all been to bed with him. Well, that’s none of my business.

She had heard that until recently he had been dating the daughter of a senator. She wondered what had happened. That’s none of my business, either.

There was no way to avoid the fact that Oliver’s campaign was going badly. Without money to pay his staff, and no television, radio, or newspaper ads, it was impossible to compete with Governor Cary Addison, whose image seemed to be everywhere. Leslie arranged for Oliver to appear at company picnics, at factories, and at dozens of social events, but she knew these appearances were all minor-league, and it frustrated her.

‘Have you seen the latest polls?’ Jim Bailey asked Leslie. ‘Your boy is going down the tubes.’

Not if I can help it, Leslie thought.

Leslie and Oliver were having dinner at Cheznous. ‘It’s not working, is it?’ Oliver asked quietly.

‘There’s still plenty of time,’ Leslie said reassuringly. ‘When the voters get to know you –’

Oliver shook his head. ‘I read the polls, too. I want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve tried to do for me, Leslie. You’ve been great.’

She sat there looking at him across the table, thinking, He’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever met, and I can’t help him. She wanted to take him in her arms and hold him and console him. Console him? Who am I kidding?

As they got up to leave, a man, a woman, and two small girls approached the table.

‘Oliver! How are you?’ The speaker was in his forties, an attractive-looking man with a black eye patch that gave him the raffish look of an amiable pirate.

Oliver rose and held out his hand. ‘Hello, Peter. I’d like you to meet Leslie Stewart. Peter Tager.’

‘Hello, Leslie.’ Tager nodded toward his family. ‘This is my wife, Betsy, and this is Elizabeth and this is Rebecca.’ There was enormous pride in his voice.

Peter Tager turned to Oliver. ‘I’m awfully sorry about what happened. It’s a damned shame. I hated to do it, but I had no choice.’

‘I understand, Peter.’

‘If there was anything I could have done –’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.’

‘You know I wish you only the best of luck.’

On the way home, Leslie asked, ‘What was that all about?’

Oliver started to say something, then stopped. ‘It’s not important.’

Leslie lived in a neat one-bedroom apartment in the Brandywine section of Lexington. As they approached the building, Oliver said hesitantly, ‘Leslie, I know that your agency is handling me for almost nothing, but frankly, I think you’re wasting your time. It might be better if I just quit now.’

‘No,’ she said, and the intensity of her voice surprised her. ‘You can’t quit. We’ll find a way to make it work.’

Oliver turned to look at her. ‘You really care, don’t you?’

Am I reading too much into that question? ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I really care.’

When they arrived at her apartment, Leslie took a deep breath. ‘Would you like to come in?’

He looked at her a long time. ‘Yes.’

Afterward, she never knew who made the first move. All she remembered was that they were undressing each other and she was in his arms and there was a wild, feral haste in their lovemaking, and after that, a slow and easy melting, in a rhythm that was timeless and ecstatic. It was the most wonderful feeling Leslie had ever experienced.

They were together the whole night, and it was magical. Oliver was insatiable, giving and demanding at the same time, and he went on forever. He was an animal. And Leslie thought, Oh, my God, I’m one, too.

In the morning, over a breakfast of orange juice, scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, Leslie said, ‘There’s going to be a picnic at Green River Lake on Friday, Oliver. There will be a lot of people there. I’ll arrange for you to make a speech. We’ll buy radio time to let everyone know you’re going to be there. Then we’ll –’

‘Leslie,’ he protested, ‘I haven’t the money to do that.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ she said airily. ‘The agency will pay for it.’

She knew that there was not the remotest chance that the agency would pay for it. She intended to do that herself. She would tell Jim Bailey that the money had been donated by a Russell supporter. And it would be the truth. I’ll do anything in the world to help him, she thought.

There were two hundred people at the picnic at Green River Lake, and when Oliver addressed the crowd, he was brilliant.

‘Half the people in this country don’t vote,’ he told them. ‘We have the lowest voting record of any industrial country in the world – less than fifty percent. If you want things to change, it’s your responsibility to make sure they do change. It’s more than a responsibility, it’s a privilege. There’s an election coming up soon. Whether you vote for me or my opponent, vote. Be there.’

They cheered him.

Leslie arranged for Oliver to appear at as many functions as possible. He presided at the opening of a children’s clinic, dedicated a bridge, talked to women’s groups, labor groups, at charity events, and retirement homes. Still, he kept slipping in the polls. Whenever Oliver was not campaigning, he and Leslie found some time to be together. They went riding in a horse-drawn carriage through Triangle Park, spent a Saturday afternoon at the Antique Market, and had dinner at À la Lucie. Oliver gave Leslie flowers for Groundhog Day and on the anniversary of the Battle of Bull Run, and left loving messages on her answering machine: ‘Darling – where are you? I miss you, miss you, miss you.’

‘I’m madly in love with your answering machine. Do you have any idea how sexy it sounds?’

‘I think it must be illegal to be this happy. I love you.’

It didn’t matter to Leslie where she and Oliver went: She just wanted to be with him.

One of the most exciting things they did was to go whitewater rafting on the Russell Fork River one Sunday. The trip started innocently, gently, until the river began to pound its way around the base of the mountains in a giant loop that began a series of deafening, breathtaking vertical drops in the rapids: five feet … eight feet … nine feet … only a terrifying raft length apart. The trip took three and a half hours, and when Leslie and Oliver got off the raft, they were soaking wet and glad to be alive. They could not keep their hands off each other. They made love in their cabin, in the back of his automobile, in the woods.

One early fall evening, Oliver prepared dinner at his home, a charming house in Versailles, a small town near Lexington. There were grilled flank steaks marinated in soy sauce, garlic, and herbs, served with baked potato, salad, and a perfect red wine.

‘You’re a wonderful cook,’ Leslie told him. She snuggled up to him. ‘In fact, you’re a wonderful everything, sweetheart.’

‘Thank you, my love.’ He remembered something. ‘I have a little surprise for you that I want you to try.’ He disappeared into the bedroom for a moment and came out carrying a small bottle with a clear liquid inside.

‘Here it is,’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘Have you heard of Ecstasy?’

‘Heard of it? I’m in it.’

‘I mean the drug Ecstasy. This is liquid Ecstasy. It’s supposed to be a great aphrodisiac’

Leslie frowned. ‘Darling – you don’t need that. We don’t need it. It could be dangerous.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you use it often?’

Oliver laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t. Take that look off your face. A friend of mine gave me this and told me to try it. This would have been the first time.’