“Hey, I’m glad you could make it,” I say.
“Yeah, me too. But I could only get away for about an hour. Any luck finding Oliver?”
I shake my head. “The police said she didn’t have a phone with her.”
“That’s odd. Doesn’t everyone always have their phone on them?”
“Yeah, well, maybe it fell out of the car in the accident. Anyway, I’m going to stop by a gallery that came up when I searched Sara’s name. Maybe they’ll know something.”
The elevator stops on the sixth floor and we get out. When we get to Sara’s room, the doctor is in with her. He sees us walk into the room and stops talking with the nurse.
“Is she okay?” Joelle asks.
“We still don’t know, but her ICP is coming down, so it looks like we won’t have to remove a portion of her skull.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Joelle says.
“It could be, but I don’t want to give you false hope. At this point, we’re merely at a crossroads of science, health, and faith. We’re taking care of the science part. And Sara is young and strong, so the health part is covered. That just leaves faith. So if you pray, or you know those who do, now might be a good time to rely on that.”
I back up and lean against the wall, saying a silent prayer for the woman I don’t even know. The woman whose chocolate brown eyes looking back at me in the mirror haunted my dreams last night.
My phone vibrates with a text.
Aspen: I just got off the phone with Bass. Are you really sitting vigil with an accident victim at the hospital?
Me: It’s not a big deal, Pen. It’s just until her family gets here.
Aspen: It sounds like a pretty big deal to me.
Me: If it were you, and you didn’t have anyone, wouldn’t you want someone there? Even if it was a stranger?
Aspen: Bass told me he saw you last night and that you were pretty messed up over the whole thing. Maybe it’s time to reach out to a counselor at FDNY.
I’m so tired of everyone telling me to see a goddamned shrink. Aspen brings it up every time I talk about work. Or our parents. So I try not to talk about either if I can help it, which doesn’t leave us with a whole hell of a lot to talk about when we’re together. Except baseball. We talk a lot about baseball.
And I suddenly realize my issues may have put some distance between us. Distance isn’t something twins are supposed to have.
Me: I’m fine.
Aspen: She’s not them, Den.
Me: I know that, Aspen.
Aspen: Do you?
I look over at Sara and then put my phone back in my pocket, not bothering to respond to Aspen’s question. Probably because I’m afraid of what the answer is.
Chapter Five
Yesterday, when Joelle visited Sara, she told me she left a message for Lydia. I suppose it’s possible that Lydia will know how to contact Oliver, but almost a day has passed without word from her, so I’m sticking with my original plan.
After three subway trains and a five-block walk, I’m staring into the windows of the art gallery I found on the Internet.
I enter the front door and look around at the paintings on the walls, hoping to find some other Sara Francis originals, but I don’t see any.
I hear footsteps on the concrete floor behind me. I turn around and see a tall, thin man wearing a pin-striped suit with a yellow scarf around his neck. He has an inviting smile on his face.
“Welcome,” he says. “How may I be of assistance? Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“I’m looking for information on an artist,” I say. I get out my phone and show him the picture of Sara’s painting. “You’ve sold some of her paintings.”
He looks at my phone. “Ah, Sara Francis. That crazy bitch is one talented chica. Pardon my French. But I don’t sell her paintings. No gallery sells her paintings. She only works by commission, creating one-of-a-kind masterpieces for her clients.”
I look at him with drawn brows.
“You don’t look like you’re much into art,” he says, eyeing me from head to toe while taking in my FDNY shirt and jeans.
“I’m afraid not,” I say.
“Well, let me tell you about our little Miss Diva. She doesn’t simply throw paint on a canvas and hang it on a wall with a price tag. She creates works of art out of memories.”
I glance at the painting on my phone. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Say you proposed to your girlfriend on a gondola in Venice and you wanted to capture that moment forever but didn’t have a photograph. Or maybe you have one, but it doesn’t quite evoke the emotion, the surroundings, or the ambiance that you long to remember. You have the talented Ms. Francis create you a painting.”
I cock my head. “And she can do all that from a description?”
The man laughs flamboyantly. “Hardly.” He points to a table in the corner. “I was about to have my morning tea. Care to join me?”
“Uh, okay.”
He holds his hand out. “I’m sorry for being so rude. I’m Davis Martinez, manager of the gallery.”
I shake his hand. “I’m—”
“Yummy,” he says, holding on to my hand little too long. “Sorry. I’m obviously not your type. But, honey, everyone is my type. Anyway, you were saying?”
I finally get my hand back. “I’m Denver Andrews.”
He glances at my shirt again. “Captain? Lieutenant? Ooooooh, Battalion Chief?”
I laugh. “None of those. Just firefighter.”
He waves off my comment with a quick flick of his wrist. “I’m sure you’ll get there someday, sweetie,” he says, pouring me a cup of tea.
We sit down at the table and I politely take a sip. “So, you were going to tell me about her paintings?”
I should cut to the chase and ask him about Oliver, but he’s got me so damned intrigued, I feel compelled to find out more about her. When I got home from the hospital last night, I spent an hour looking at some of her paintings on the Internet. I’ve never seen anything like them. She’s talented as hell.
“Sara has quickly become one of the most sought-after artists in the city. No, the country,” he says. “She’s a genius. And like I said, she doesn’t just paint. She researches. She experiences. She feels her art.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“So, the guy who proposed in the gondola? Sara would interview him and the fiancée, then she would fly to Venice and go to the location of the proposal. She’s fanatical about getting the details correct, right down to hiring the exact gondolier the couple had hired if she could find him. She wanted to experience her paintings before she created them. That girl has traveled to every corner of the world. She has more stamps in her passport than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Damn,” I say, shaking my head in comprehension. “Her paintings must cost an arm and a leg.”
He laughs. “Well, let’s just say if you proposed on top of the Empire State Building, you might pay a wee bit less than the guy on the gondola.”
“So, if she doesn’t sell paintings in a gallery, how did you have a showing?”
“Those are from her own personal collection,” he says. “They are the only ones she displays in public. And they aren’t for sale. They are just used to display her talent and attract clients. She’s never shown a commissioned painting anywhere. Claims it’s not her right because they aren’t her memories.” He shakes his head. “That girl is a damn shrew when it comes to everything else, but when it comes to art—hers or anyone else’s—she’s got the utmost respect.”
I nod to my phone. “So this one was her own memory? Is the girl supposed to be her?”
“No,” he says. “That’s a painting of someone else’s memory. A lot of her clients will post pictures of their paintings. But she’s never done it herself.”
I find it odd to be learning so much about the woman in the coma, but at the same time, it’s fascinating. So much so that I almost forget why I’m here.
Davis studies me and then glances down at my shirt again. His hand comes up to his mouth to cover a pained sigh. “Is she dead?”
“No,” I say quickly, wondering why he would ask.
“Oh, thank God,” he says, looking relieved. “Because the way you asked, you talked about her in the past tense. It made it sound like she was gone.”
“Sorry,” I say. “She’s not dead, but she was in a serious accident.”
He closes his eyes and makes the sign of the cross in front of his body. “What happened?”
Suddenly, I remember the driver and wonder if he knew her as well. “Do you know Anna Jorgensen?”
He bites the side of his lip and looks to the ceiling in thought. “Name sounds familiar, but she’s not someone I run around with, why?”
“I’m sorry to say Anna did die in the accident.”
“That’s horrible,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear that. But Sara is okay?”
“Not exactly. She’s in the hospital in a medically induced coma due to a head injury.”
“Oh, the poor girl.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here. We’re having a hard time locating her boyfriend.”
“Ollie?” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Another yummy one.”
“So you know him?”
He winks at me. “Not as well as I’d like. Couldn’t you just die for that accent?”
“I’ve never talked to him. Uh, I don’t even know Sara. I was at the scene of the accident. I’m just trying to locate him. Do you know how I can find him?”
He stands up and walks over to the counter to grab his phone. “I should hope so. He’s an art dealer. It’s how they met. He’s the person rich people hire when they want a nice piece. He visits their home, sees their space, finds out what kind of people they are, and then he finds a painting for them, or in Sara’s case, an artist to create one.”
He shows me Oliver’s contact information and I type it into my phone.
“Thank you,” I say, standing up and handing him my tea. “I really appreciate it.”
“You’ll let me know how Sara is?”
“Of course,” I say, getting his number, too.
Before I reach the front door, he calls out to me. “Denver?”
I turn around and raise my brow.
“If all you needed was Ollie’s number, why all the interest in Sara’s paintings?”
I think about his question before shrugging a shoulder. “Just curious, I guess.”
On my way to the hospital, I wonder what I should say to Oliver. I haven’t had a serious girlfriend in a while, not since Kendall dumped me back in Kansas City a few months after my arrest. But before that, we dated for several years. She helped me get through the death of my parents. And I know it would have been hard to get a phone call like this about her.
I imagine Oliver will feel the same way I did when I got that awful call about my parents. I decide it’s best to handle things similarly and not tell him the full extent of her injuries.
I sit down on a bench outside the hospital and dial his number. It goes straight to voicemail, where I hear the accent Davis mentioned. Oliver sounds British, but it’s not a heavy accent, like maybe he’s lived most of his life in the states.
“You’ve reached Oliver Compton,” his message says. “Leave a message and I’ll ring you back.”
“Mr. Compton, my name is Denver Andrews. I’m calling about Sara. She was in a car accident a few days ago and is currently in the hospital. Please call me at this number as soon as you can.” I quickly go over the words in my mind and wonder if that will freak him out. “Uh, she’s not dead, but … well, just call me.”
I hang up the phone, thinking how awkward that was. I probably shouldn’t have been the one to do that. Maybe I should have let the doctors handle it.
On my way to the elevator, I pass by the gift shop. And I’m not sure why, but I stop and get a vase of flowers. I mean, Sara’s not even awake to see them. But I feel bad that no one has bothered to send her anything. I’d hate for her to wake up and think that no one cares.
When I approach the nurses’ station on the sixth floor, Krista comes over to greet me. She looks at what I’m carrying. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Flowers aren’t allowed in the ICU rooms.”
I look down at them. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know.”
She holds her hand out. “How about I put them on our desk where she’ll be able to see them through the glass window when she wakes up?”
If she wakes up, I think.
“Okay. Thank you. How’s she doing today?”
“Dr. Miller is just finishing up with her. Go on in.”
“Good morning,” I say to the doctor as I put on the jacket I remembered to bring with me today.
“Good call,” he says, nodding to my coat. “We’re still having trouble keeping her temperature down. But the good news is her ICP has stabilized, so we’re weaning her off the sedation meds.”
“Really? Does that mean she’ll be okay?”
“We still don’t know. We’ll take her in for an MRI later today. And as long as her ICP stays down, we’ll remove the monitor from her skull after another twenty-four hours. She still needs the ventilator, but I’m hoping that as the sedation meds wear off, she’ll start to breathe over the vent.”
I look down at Sara, still lifeless and alone, and I sigh.
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Miller says. “I wish I had more news, but it’s always wait-and-see with this type of injury.”
I nod.
“One thing you can do is talk to her. As the meds wear off, the hope is she will become cognizant. If she does wake up, she’ll be scared. It helps to talk to her. Maybe remind her about things she likes.”
“I don’t know what she likes. I’m just a firefighter who was at the scene,” I remind him.
“Right. Well, if her cousin or boyfriend show up, maybe they could talk to her about her life. It could help.”
“Thank you.”
He looks from Sara to me. “Pardon my bluntness, but why are you here if you don’t know her?”
I wave my arm in a motion around the empty room. “Because no one else is. I’d hate to think of her lying here alone.”
He studies me. “Okay. Well, I’ll check on her later.”
After the doctor leaves, I take my usual spot in the chair by her bed.
“Hi, Sara. It’s me, Denver. Remember me? I’ve been here for the past few days. You’re in the hospital and you’ve been in an accident. But you’re going to be okay. The doctor said you might even wake up soon. Which is good, because I almost forgot what your eyes look like.”
It’s a lie. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what those chocolate-brown eyes looked like as they held my gaze in the mirror.
“It would be nice to have a proper introduction. Oh, I met Davis today. He’s an interesting character. He told me a little about your paintings. What an awesome job you have, traveling around the world in order to recreate memories for people. If there was one thing I would want a painting of, it would be my parents. Of course you’d have to go to Vail or Breckenridge or Aspen to do your research. Because you would have to paint them on a snow-covered mountain.” Then I laugh. “And I’m sure I could never afford what you would charge, so it doesn’t really matter anyway.”
I look around the room, trying to think of what else to talk about when I see a new face in the doorway.
The woman walks in. “The nurse said it was okay to come in.”
“Yes. Please.”
She walks over and looks sadly at Sara, and then she looks back at me. “I’m Lydia. Sara and I are … uh, were, friends what seems like forever ago. Her cousin called me yesterday and told me what happened.”
“I’m Denver.”
“I know. The nurse outside told me everything. So you’re the one who saved her?”
I shake my head. “I
don’t know about that. But I was in the car with her after the accident.”
Lydia nods. “I hope she’ll wake up. We may not have parted on the best terms, but I still wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about her? The doctor said we should talk about things she might like and that are familiar, so she won’t be so scared when she wakes up.”
I pull another chair over for Lydia and we sit down.
“I can tell you what she used to like. But if you want to know about the person she is today, that person is a stranger to me. That person will probably wake up and demand to be moved to the VIP suite.”
“The VIP suite?”
“Yeah. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the girl is rich. I mean, she was rich even when we were kids, because she grew up in a wealthy household, and then she got everything when her parents died. And now she sells twenty-thousand-dollar paintings.”
“Isn’t that because she has to travel in order to paint them?”
“I guess. But still.”
“So, what can you tell me about her?”
Lydia looks at Sara like she can’t decide if she loves her or hates her.
“We haven’t spoken in over two years,” she says. “She was a lot to handle after her parents died four years ago. And that says a lot coming from me. You see, it takes one to know one. Bitches, I mean.” She laughs half-heartedly. “But the thing is, we knew that about ourselves and we owned it. We used people. We toyed with men for sport. We were selfish and demanding and rude. Except with each other. We were each other’s touchstone. We moved to the city together after high school and, man, did we have fun. But that all changed when her parents died. I tried to be understanding, because, well, they died within like six months of each other and that has to mess with a girl. But I just became another annoyance to her. I could only be her doormat for so long, you know? And then, once her paintings got noticed and she started hanging around with those snobby artists, it just all became too much.”
“I’m sorry.”
The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 33
