by Andrea Kane
"Sold." Jeannie perked up at the part about the great food. As for the great time—anything was possible. Carson Brooks hung with a very eclectic crowd—corporate execs, regular Joe's, and grown-up street kids. Mix that with Beacon Hill snobs and high-fashion designers, and, hey, whether or not it was a great time, it sure as hell wouldn't be boring. "I'm sure I can speak for Frank and Linda, too. We'll all be checking our mailboxes. When's the date so we can save it?"
"That part's still up for grabs. If you want an answer, ask my kidneys."
EPILOGUE
April 2nd, 2:30 P.M.
West 73rd Street
Muttering a few choice curses under his breath, Carson tossed the pile of contracts, specifications, and Internet printouts across the coffee table in Sabrina's living room, and leaned back on the sofa.
"I don't believe this," he muttered, linking his fingers behind his head. "And I thought running a corporation was hard? This isn't a wedding; it's a fucking conspiracy planned by pompous, cutthroat lunatics. Worse, they're all delusional enough to believe they're visionaries. Wedding planners who want to color-coordinate flowers and bathroom accoutrements? What the hell's a bathroom accoutrement, anyway—toilet paper? How about white? That goes with everything, including your gown. And that's just the flowers and the other artsy touches she's proposed. We've also got an orchestra that can change gears so fast—from Sinatra to hip-hop—that I'm convinced they're on drugs, an egocentric photographer and videographer who are like two male turkeys—I know in my gut that in the middle of the reception they're gonna start beating the crap out of each other fighting for center stage—a centerpiece designer who thinks she's Michelangelo, and volatile bridesmaids who have perpetual PMS and can't even agree on the same pair of Donna Karan panty hose. Jesus Christ."
He reached for his bottled water, took a long, cold swig. "Here's an idea. Let's chuck the whole wedding coordinator thing. I'll walk you down the aisle and give you to that incredibly tolerant guy over there who's held up through this insanity a helluva lot better than I have." Carson pointed at Dylan, who was standing at the sideboard, enjoying his friend's outburst. "After that, you can say a few mushy words, exchange vows and rings, hang around long enough for one dance with your husband and one with me, and then go upstairs for the good part. I hear the toilet paper in the honeymoon suite is fabulous."
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, paperwork sprawled out all around her, Sabrina burst out laughing. "You know you wouldn't have to twist my arm to get me to go along with you. That woman's driving me nuts, too. But we agreed to make this one concession for my grandparents. According to them, everybody who's anybody has Lilah Wellington do their wedding. She's the most sought-after wedding planner in the business."
"She might be sought-after. But she's certifiable."
"Eccentric," Sabrina corrected, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Just eccentric. And remember, at least she thinks the grand ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria has the right feel. Otherwise, we couldn't have the reception there."
"We need to have the reception there. It's got to be somewhere big enough to hold the four hundred guests your grandparents are probably going to come up with, plus the two hundred fifty we've put together. I can't wait to hear the grand total."
"Seven hundred seventy-two," Gloria announced, hanging up the phone. "That would be the grand total. My parents just finished cutting down their list to five hundred twenty-two, thanks to the seventeen couples who will be abroad during the last week of June. Other- wise, we'd be topping eight hundred." Her forehead creased in concentration as she scanned the list. Walking over to the sofa, she sank down next to Carson. "Anyway, we can call in our final count, so the invitations will be printed and ready for the calligrapher to address them. They'll be mailed out in four weeks."
Carson hadn't heard a word after the first sentence. He'd whipped around to face Gloria, his jaw dropping. "Did you say five hundred twenty-two people?"
"Um-hum." Gloria's lips twitched. "I'll kick in some extra cash, if you're running low."
"Cash isn't my problem. Space is. I don't need money. I need Shea Stadium."
"The Waldorf's equipped to handle well over a thousand guests."
"So's the Javits Center. But this is a wedding, not a convention."
"There, there." Gloria patted his arm in mock comfort. "Look at the bright side of having this huge affair."
"What bright side? All I want is to see these two happily married and figuring out how many grandchildren they're going to give us."
Gloria swallowed her grin. "To begin with—sales. Profits. Ruisseau's, the Gloria Radcliffe fashion fine's, and CCTL's. They've skyrocketed, thanks to all the publicity surrounding this wedding. Ever since Dylan's Central Park proposal, both our families and companies have dominated the social and business headlines. As a result, C'est Moi for men burst on the scene and squashed the competition, my spring and summer lines have sold like there's no tomorrow, and CCTL has had to double its staff to accommodate all its new corporate clients. As for you and me, why, we're being credited with creating and inspiring the love match of the century—Sabrina and Dylan. The media spotlight is bright, their spin is positive—why, even my parents are starting to like you."
Carson shot her a skeptical look. "Don't get carried away. Your parents don't like me. We tolerate each other."
"Fine. You tolerate each other. That's still an improvement."
"Yeah. When we first met, they looked at me like I was an ax murderer. Not that I blame them. It was right after the transplant surgery. I was the reason Sabrina went through that ordeal."
He fell silent for a moment, remembering the tension-filled Christmas season of a few short months ago. Between Susan's conviction, his own struggle back to health, and his harsh realization that his kidneys weren't going to rally on their own, it had been one dark, hellish time. The thought of relying on hemodialysis three times a week for the rest of his life—it sucked. He wanted his life back. He needed his life back. Christmas and all the joyous spirit it conveyed had been the farthest thing from his mind.
Except that Santa Claus had arrived in the form of an extraordinary young woman who happened to be his daughter.
There was no talking Sabrina out of the transplant. She was hell-bent on seeing it through. And she had.
Luckily, she'd been able to undergo the laparoscopic procedure, which had kept her risks minimal, her recovery time shorter, and her incisions minor. She'd also been able to keep the rib that the surgeon would have had to remove had the conventional surgery been necessary. Still, she'd given up one of her organs. She'd been in the operating room for four hours, not counting prep time and recovery time. That was twice as long as his transplant recipient surgery had been. As far as he was concerned, that was damned unfair. As far as Abigail and Charles Radcliffe were concerned, it was abominable.
He understood where they were coming from. He felt for them. He felt with them.
Maybe, in the long run, that's what had finally turned things around. Maybe it was seeing how much he cared about their granddaughter that had made them thaw a tiny bit. Maybe they'd finally realized he wasn't just an anonymous sperm donor. Not anymore. Now he was a father.
"Hey." Sabrina scooted over on the area rug and nudged Carson's leg. "Stop brooding. The transplant's ancient history now. You've had my kidney for over three months. A damned fine kidney, too, if I must say so myself. And a match made in heaven. You and I might kill each other in the boardroom, but our kidneys are as compatible as bread and butter. Not the slightest sign of rejection. You're doing great. I'm doing great. Sales are doing great. My grandparents stopped worrying a long time ago. And they're so into this wedding thing—not to mention the oohs and ahs they're getting from their socially prominent friends—that they've forgotten all about the negative publicity from last fall. They're really strutting their stuff. Which is why we're going along with Lilah Wellington, and the aura she wants to create for our special day." Sabrina rol
led her eyes, then scooped up the pages Carson had tossed on the coffee table. "So let's get on with our next decision—the cake. Lilah wasn't wild about the milk chocolate mousse filling we selected. She thinks it conflicts with our aura. She wants us to go with dark chocolate."
Carson groaned, flinging an arm over his eyes. "I give up."
"But there's good news," Dylan consoled him, strolling over to stand behind Sabrina. "She's crazy about the tuxes we picked out." A corner of his mouth lifted. "They're in sync with the feel of the Waldorf."
Shifting his forearm away from his eyes, Carson gazed suspiciously at Dylan. "How come you're dealing with this so well? When we first started with this Wellington kook, you were bitching up a storm. Now suddenly, you're all sweetness and light. Why?"
Dylan tugged Sabrina to her feet, wrapped an arm around her waist. "Because then it was January. Now it's April. I'm marrying your daughter on June 30th, which is just a few months away. After that, I'm taking her to a beautiful, private villa in Tuscany where we'll be totally alone for two weeks, and where the aura will be better than anything Lilah Wellington can create at the Waldorf or anywhere else. So I can afford to be tolerant." He paused, winking at Sabrina before he added, "You know, Carson, you can afford to be tolerant, too."
Carson arched a brow. "Yeah? How do you figure that?"
"Because Tuscany's a beautiful and romantic place. And because Sabrina and I will be there at just the right time."
"You lost me." Carson glanced at Gloria, who had started to smile—a smile that broadened as she exchanged a look with Sabrina. "You obviously know what Dylan's talking about," he observed.
"I guessed. And I'm thrilled. You will be, too. Thrilled enough to jump through hoops for Lilah Wellington."
He snorted. "Don't hold your breath. Nothing could get me to do that."
A dubious shrug. "If you say so."
"Okay, I'll bite." Carson eyed Dylan. "What do you mean you'll be in Tuscany at just the right time?"
"We're arriving in Italy on July 2nd," Dylan explained. "That's six and a half months after your transplant surgery. Which is two weeks after the go-ahead date we got from Sabrina's nephrologist, her surgeon, and her OB/GYN."
"Dylan's right, Carson," Sabrina concurred with a teasing grin. "So if this wedding goes off smoothly, and my new husband and I are feeling very relaxed and very adventurous on our honeymoon—well, who knows? My mother might be able to start on that line of designer baby booties right away, with us as her first customers."
Carson sucked in his breath, jerking to an upright position. "Whose idea was the milk chocolate, anyway?" he barked, snatching the paperwork from Sabrina's hand and poring over it. "Dark chocolate's richer, more elegant. It's definitely got an aura. This Wellington woman knows what she's talking about." His head snapped up, and he gazed from Sabrina to Dylan to Gloria, scowling at their three smiling faces. "What's wrong with all of you? Stop grinning like fools. We've got a wedding to plan."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With deep gratitude, I acknowledge those who were an integral part of my writing Scent of Danger.
I was fortunate to have outstanding consultants who helped me create the authenticity I strove for. Any divergence from that authenticity is my responsibility—a literary license I sparingly availed myself of only when necessary to tell the story.
In that vein, I specifically want to thank:
Hillel Ben-Asher, M.D., whose medical knowledge and diversity of expertise never fail to impress me. Almost as impressive are his patience in sharing that knowledge, and his prompt and thorough responses to my countless detailed questions.
Desiree Laz, RN, Clinical Transplant Coordinator, Department of Surgery, Albany Medical Center Hospital, who educated me in the kidney transplant process, taking me through the procedure from evaluation to completion, addressing all my questions. Her personal commitment to her career, her patients, and the future of transplant surgery is humbling.
Randy Slaughter, who generously shared his experience as a kidney donor with me, providing me with technical information, literature, and his own perspectives so that I could gain the necessary insights to integrate the medical aspects of this procedure with the personal and emotional ones.
Alex Senchak, EMT, who brought the world of an emergency medical technician to life, explaining his training and experience, and helping me convey a realistic portrayal of a gunshot victim. Emergency medical teams save lives every day. The maturity, wisdom, and levelheadedness of its members, some of whom are so young, is inspiring.
I want to thank the following people for their contributions, every one of which made Scent of Danger a stronger book:
Scott Mayer, for his meteorological insights, Which helped me explain the atmospheric conditions that aggravated Sabrina's heightened olfactory sense.
The Cornell "hotelies" who shared curriculum details and the vast range of career opportunities available to Sabrina, and to them, after graduation.
Peggy Gordijn, for her bird's-eye view of Mt. Sinai Hospital, particularly 11 West. My only request is that, next time, she's just a visitor.
Andrea Cirillo, for championing me through a year filled with emotional and professional challenges, for knowing when to step in and when to give me space, and for providing a potpourri of story-enhancing tidbits— from the security bars on brownstone windows to designer toilets.
Caroline Tolley, for a twelve-year partnership, an enduring friendship, and more memories than I can fit on a page. Thanks for believing in me from day one, and never wavering in that belief. The Smith and Wo's scene is my tribute to you, from appetizer to dessert.
Brad Kane, management consultant extraordinaire, incomparable brainstorming partner, and one-of-a-kind support system that defies words. No matter how many years go by, you're still the greatest guy in the world.
Wendi Kane, for going but still staying, for cheering and critiquing, and for having the heart, the wisdom, and the maturity to understand that reshaping is inevitable, but retaining is the ultimate prize.
I want to close by highlighting the fact that there is a serious shortage of organ donors at this time. Some eighty thousand people are on waiting lists, and that list grows longer every day. March is Kidney Month. I urge you to visit the National Kidney Foundation's website at: http://www.kidney.org and learn more about kidney disease, what's being done to educate the public, what the Kidney Foundation does to assist those in need, and what you can do to help.
