Here I Am

Ciara waited until Brandt was asleep before she left the bedroom. “He’s asleep,” she told Leona who popped up from the bench. “Is there some place we can go and talk?”

“We can talk in the kitchen. I could use a cup of chamomile tea to calm my nerves. Would you like coffee or tea?”

Ciara gave her a sidelong glance. “Tea would be nice, thank you.”

“After tea, I’ll give you a tour of the penthouse. All of the bedroom suites on the first floor have connecting doors. Brandt installed an elevator between the pantry and the kitchen, so you don’t have to climb the stairs. If you take the suite next to his it will give you easy access whenever he needs you.”

“Does he sleep through the night?” Ciara asked, following Leona into a spacious kitchen finished in an antique white with a coffered ceiling, paneled-door refrigerator, black granite countertops, an eight-burner commercial range and double ovens. The kitchen opened to a formal dining room with the same coffered ceiling.

“I’m not certain.” Leona gestured to a quartet of stools at the cooking island. “Please sit down.”

Ciara sat, giving the older woman a questioning look. “Why don’t you know?”

A rush of color suffused Leona’s face. “Since the accident I’ve been unable to sleep, so my doctor prescribed a sleeping aid. I always make certain Brandt is settled before I take the pill.”

So if he were to fall out of bed or need something, you wouldn’t know it until the following morning. Ciara shook her head as if to banish the thought. Throughout her nursing career, she had been taught that it was always and only about the patient.

“Is he eating?” she asked, changing the subject.

Leona filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stovetop range. “His appetite is improving.”

“What do you mean improving?” Ciara asked.

“During his hospital stay he’d refused to eat, so they fed him intravenously. Since his return, he has been picking at his food.”

“Who cooks for him now?” she asked, continuing her questioning, and watching Leona as she moved comfortably around the kitchen, opening cabinets, drawers and removing china and silver.

“I ordered frozen entrées.”

Resting her elbows on the countertop, Ciara cupped her chin in the heel of her hand. She decided to reserve comment on the frozen meals. Her mother, Phyllis Dennison, was a registered dietician and abhorred processed food. If it wasn’t made from scratch, then it didn’t end up on Phyllis’s table.

“The pantry and refrigerator are stocked, so if you want to make something for yourself, then please feel free to do so,” Leona continued as she placed a bottle of honey and a sugar bowl on the countertop. “If you prefer ordering takeout, then just call the building’s concierge. You do cook, don’t you?” she asked without taking a breath. “I’m only asking because most young women nowadays are so busy with their careers that cooking isn’t as much a priority as it was years ago.”

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Ciara’s mouth. “My mother is a registered dietitian at a nursing facility and my roommate is a chef. Thankfully I’ve learned to prepare more than a few dishes.”

Leona dropped several teabags into a teapot and added boiling water. “Good for you. I have some scones that go very well with tea. Perhaps you would like some?”

“No, thank you.”

She wanted to tell Leona Wainwright that she was on duty and sharing afternoon tea with her patient’s mother was not a part of her job description. However she had to go along with it. Private nurses were well paid—and in Brandt Wainwright’s case, extremely well paid. Ciara estimated her stint with Brandt would probably last two months, give or take a week. Once the casts were removed and he could bear his own weight, then her assignment would be over. After that, her plans included taking two weeks off to visit with her mother in upstate New York before returning to Manhattan for her next case.

Leona poured the tea into fragile, hand-painted china cups, adding a teaspoon of sugar to hers, while Ciara opted for honey. The two women sat sipping tea in comfortable silence until Leona said, “I hope you don’t get the wrong impression of my son. I’ve never known him to be so rude—”

“There’s no need to apologize, Mrs. Wainwright,” Ciara interrupted. “I’m more than familiar with—”

“Please call me Leona. I always think of my mother-in-law as Mrs. Wainwright.”

Ciara smiled over the rim of her cup. “Okay. As I was saying, there’s no need to apologize. Brandt’s anger and frustration aren’t unique to his type of injury. I’ve had patients who’ve gotten depressed and refused to eat, talk or even try to do their rehab.”

Leona leaned closer, her brow knitting in concern. “What did you do?”

“I recommended a psychiatric evaluation. Some are prescribed antidepressants, but it was usually enough to get them to open up about their feelings of helplessness or loss of independence.”

“Do you think that’s what wrong with Brandt?”

“I’m a psychiatric nurse, not a psychiatrist. Your son is a professional athlete, and that means that his body is integral to his self-image. The fact that he can’t use his legs would affect him more than someone who sits behind a desk for seven or eight hours a day. I don’t think Brandt is as depressed as he is frustrated that he needs help with his most basic needs.”

“I pray you’re right, Ciara. Seeing Brandt in physical and emotional pain is more than I can bear right now.” Leona’s eyes filled with tears.

Ciara’s hands tightened around her cup to prevent her from reaching out to comfort Brandt’s mother. She wanted to remind her that her son had survived a horrific accident that could’ve ended his life. And the fact that he did survive meant he would recover. Whether he’d ever be able play football again was another matter.

“Brandt’s going to be all right, Leona. It’s just that he’s going through a rough time now. Give him another few weeks.”

“I’m trying to be patient, but every time he lashes out I don’t recognize him. Of all of my four children he is the free spirit, the most fun-loving. When he told me he wanted to be a professional football player, it was the darkest day in my life. I had visions of him being carried off the field or spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair paralyzed from some freak accident. Little did I know that he would still end up in a wheelchair.” Leona sniffled, then dabbed at her nose with a napkin. “I’m sorry about becoming weepy. I’m usually not so emotional.”

Ciara gave Leona a warm smile. “You’re entitled, because that’s what mothers do when there’s something wrong with their children.”

Blinking back tears, the older woman managed a weak smile. “Even when that child is thirty-three?”

“Yes. Even if that child is fifty or sixty-three.”

Leona stared at the young woman sitting opposite her. “Do you have any children, Ciara?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Would you like to have children one day?”

“Perhaps one day,” Ciara confirmed, staring into her cup of tea.

She’d thought about having a child, but only if she met the right man. Unlike some women, she didn’t want to be a single mother and raise a child by herself. Her parents had divorced the year she’d celebrated her tenth birthday, and not having her father in her life had had a negative affect on her relationships with men. Sometimes she hadn’t chosen wisely, and when she did choose to commit to a long-term relationship it was for the wrong reason. At the time, Ciara had wanted to prove to her mother that not only could she get a man, but she could also keep him.

William Dennison was in and out of her mother’s life so often that Ciara thought he’d worked for the CIA and that he’d had to go undercover for long periods of time. What she didn’t learn until she was in her early teens was that her father was living a double life. Although married to Phyllis, he’d also married another woman. His job as regional manager for a major beverage company kept him on the road, so he was able to divide his time between two households with relative ease. Although a bigamist, William never fathered a child with his second wife.

“You’re young, so you have time before you have to decide whether you want to have children.”

Leona’s soft voice broke into her musings. Thirty-three wasn’t that young, Ciara thought.

After wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Leona placed it on the countertop. “I think it’s time I show you where everything is.”

They walked out of the kitchen, passed a laundry room and entered an area off the pantry. The elevator, large enough to accommodate four, was next to a wine cellar filled with bottles of wine too numerous to count. Ciara smothered a gasp when the elevator door opened to a wall of glass, running the length of the hallway and spanning the width of the penthouse.

Leona turned to her left. “This floor is still under construction. Brandt’s private quarters have been completed, but the opposite wing is an open space. He said once he’s married with children he’ll have a contractor build several bedrooms and a nursery.”

Ciara was too enthralled by the sight of a rooftop solarium to respond. Palm trees and exotic flowers made the space seem like an oasis in the middle of Manhattan. She stared at the exotic orchids spilling out of baskets, a riot of color in hues ranging from the deepest purple to pure white.

“Who takes care of the plants?”

“Brandt,” Leona replied smiling.