“Ignore it,” she advises as we set off toward the parking lot. “Most people won’t give a damn after the initial shock.”
My mother speaks from experience. Fredonia is a small town in which everyone seems to know everyone else. When Janet Williams came back from her short stint in the city, pregnant and unwilling to mention the father, it was the scandal of the year.
Janet Williams weathered it. I will too. I’m older than she was when she had me, and I have Asher and Hudson on my side. They’ll help me with the baby.
I think.
“What’s the matter?” My mother looks at my face and knows immediately that something is wrong.
I grimace. “I told Asher and Hudson about the baby,” I tell her. “And after their initial shock, they were okay, but we never discussed the details. I don’t know what they want.” I hit the key fob, and the headlights flash as the car doors unlock. We get into our seats, and I start the engine and punch in Hudson’s home address into the GPS.
“What do you want?” she asks me once we get underway.
“I want us to be one family,” I confess, crossing my fingers as I reveal my heart’s desire. “But am I being selfish, mom? Do I owe it to the baby to pick one of them and settle down like a normal person?”
“Sweetie,” my mother says bracingly. “You’ve never been normal. Why start now?”
“What do you mean?” I ask indignantly.
She laughs. “Wendy, you got into fights in the playground on a weekly basis in grade school, remember? Who was that little girl that all the other kids used to make fun of?”
A long-forgotten memory surfaces. “Hannah. Don Jones and Randy Wright used to call her Hannah the Hippo, the horrid bullies.”
“And you’d get into such scrapes, defending Hannah from those two.” She sighs. “All you owe your baby is love and care, Wendy. Don’t make yourself miserable because you think you’re doing it for the child. You’ll just end up resenting him or her.”
“What if Hudson or Asher want something more conventional?” My voice is small. This is my biggest worry; that they’ll ask me to choose between them. And I can’t do that.
“Have they asked you to do a paternity test?” she probes. “Do they seem keen to know who the biological father is?”
I shake my head. Things have been so chaotic that I haven’t noticed, but my mother’s right. Neither Hudson nor Asher have insisted that I figure out which one of them is the father. “No, they haven’t.” I hit the brake pedal as we hit another red light. It looks like all of New York is out on the road tonight, shopping for Christmas presents. The traffic is demented and to add to the mess, a light snowfall has started. Thank heavens I’m driving Hudson’s Land Rover. This car is built like a tank.
“Well then,” she says. “That’s your answer, isn’t it? They aren’t pushing the issue.” She reaches out and ruffles my hair. “You’re a silly goose,” she says fondly. “Stop being so afraid of what might happen, and just ask for what you want.”
My mom is right again; of course she is. “How’d you get so wise?” I ask her, glancing at her smiling face.
I’m looking at her; that’s the only reason I see it. A snow plow is speeding up a side street, headed straight for our car.
Something’s wrong, I think. He’s driving too fast. He’s coming right at us.
Then there’s a crash.
And I can’t think anymore.
Darkness envelops me.
38
Asher
I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.
Frank Herbert, Dune
My heart is in my mouth as I speed through the streets, taking the corners on two wheels, weaving in and out of traffic like a cab driver on steroids. It’s started to snow. Large flakes fall from the sky, and it seems like everyone in New York has forgotten how to drive.
Mikhail Vasiliev’s words echo in my ear. A snowplow just slammed into the Land Rover. Wendy’s been injured.
Of course this is Thorne’s handiwork; Vasiliev even confirmed it. Normally, thoughts of revenge would be uppermost in my mind, but right now, the only thing that matters is Wendy. Please let her be okay, I pray as I maneuver past a stalled car in the left shoulder. She has to be okay.
Then I remember the baby, and my panic kicks up another notch.
To my right, Hudson’s on his phone, trying to call Mount Sinai, trying to get any information on what’s happened. No one is willing to talk to us. “We can’t reveal any details on our patients,” I hear a woman’s tinny voice sound through the speaker. “I’m sorry.”
“Try calling Wendy,” I grit out.
“I did,” Hudson replies. “It went to voicemail.”
“Try her again,” I insist. Damn it, why is everyone driving so fucking slowly?
Hudson doesn’t reply. “Miki,” I hear him say into the phone. “Have you heard from Wendy?”
Good thinking. Even if Miki’s heard nothing, she might be able to hack into the hospital system to find out if Wendy’s been admitted there. Normally, I’d frown on such flagrant violations of the law. Not today.
“No,” she replies, her tone sharp. Hudson’s put her on speakerphone. “Why?”
Hudson explains about the crash, and Miki swears. “I’ll call Piper and Katie and let them know,” she says. “We’ll meet you at the hospital. Where are you right now?”
We’ve finally reached Mount Sinai. I screech into the hospital parking lot, pulling into the first spot I see. “I just got to the hospital,” I tell her. “We’ll call you as soon as we know something.”
We sprint full-speed to the door, hurrying to the information desk. “Williams,” I gasp at the receptionist. “A car accident. Two women in a Land Rover. I was told she’d been brought here.”
A tired-looking nurse in wrinkled scrubs standing behind the receptionist overhears us. “Yes, they were,” she confirms. “They had to pull her into surgery immediately.” Her face is sympathetic. “It’s a bad head injury,” she says softly. “Her ribs are broken, and her lung is punctured. I’m sorry.”
Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
The nurse’s expression isn’t encouraging. She doesn’t tell us that the odds are low, but I can read it in her body language.
I can’t breathe. I swore that I would protect Wendy and I’ve failed.
Hopelessness sweeps over me. I picture myself standing at Wendy’s grave, lowering her body into the ground. I thought that Lauren’s death wrecked me, but I don’t remember this much pain. My chest is tight, and everything appears blurry.
Hudson’s face is bleak. “Who can we talk to for more information?” he asks.
The nurse says something in reply, but I don’t listen. Closing my eyes, I picture my fingers wrapping around Thorne Hancock’s throat. I imagine squeezing, watching his face turn red, watching him kick out and struggle for breath, begging for mercy.
There will be no mercy.
The Surgery Department is on the fifth floor. In a daze, the two of us head to an elevator, riding up in silence. The hospital is brightly lit, and there are colorful pictures on the wall. This isn’t a place of death, it seems to scream. People don’t suffer here.
What a futile attempt to counter the pervasive gloom of the place.
The elevators open onto a small empty waiting room. I look around, trying to find someone who can help us. “Where the hell is everyone?” My voice comes out loud with frustration.
“Asher? Hudson? Is that you?”
I freeze. That sounds like Wendy, but she’s in surgery, isn’t she? Barely daring to hope, I look up, and it’s indeed her. There’s a large bandage on her forehead, and her wrist is in a sling. Her face is pale, and her voice is shaky, but she’s standing in the doorway, and she’s alive.
> I take a step toward her, then another one, then I’m folding her in my embrace, holding her tight. Hudson hugs her from the other side, his face buried in her hair. “We were so worried,” he chokes out. “The baby?”
“The baby’s fine,” she says. I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “But my mom…” Her eyes fill with tears. “They’re not sure if she’s going to be okay.” She starts weeping, her body shaking with huge, shuddering, hiccupping sobs. “They have her in surgery,” she says, “and the doctor,” her voice falters, “told me she might not make it out alive.”
Fuck. Wendy was raised by her mom, and the two of them are very close.
Hudson’s face is etched with misery. This has to be bringing back painful memories for him. His father died in a hospital. I’m positive he’d rather be anywhere but here.
And yet, neither of us loosen our hold on Wendy. We stand there for what seems like hours, our arms around each other.
All we can do is hold her tight and offer comfort.
We spend the next week at Wendy’s mother’s bedside. The first day is the worst. The doctors warn us that Janet Williams has lost a lot of blood and is dangerously weak. They’ve set her leg and removed the excess air from her punctured lung, but the injury has stressed her heart.
But the injury that the doctors are most concerned with is the contusion in her brain tissue. They’ve been forced to put Wendy’s mother in a temporary coma. “The swelling needs to come down,” the senior surgeon explains to Wendy. “Right now, her brain is being compressed against her skull.” He sighs. “The next thirty-six hours are critical.”
He clears his throat, sounding uncomfortable. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up,” he continues gently. “There’s only a 25% chance that your mother will awaken from her coma without significant brain injury. At her age,” he shakes his head, “the brain doesn’t heal quickly.”
“I understand.” Wendy’s voice is so quiet I can barely hear it. Her hands clench into fists, and her expression is bleak. “Thank you for your honesty, Doctor.” She turns to us. “I can’t leave her.”
“Sit.” I pull a chair up. “Whatever you want, we’re here for you.”
She grasps our hands in hers. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be.” Hudson’s voice is grim. “Asher and I have no intention of letting you out of our sight.”
The staff at the hospital sets up a cot in Janet Williams’ room so Wendy can get some rest. Hudson and I take turns staying with her. Miki’s a constant presence at the hospital as well, and Piper visits every single day, bringing bags of food with her and coaxing her friend to eat.
Things get a little better on the third day. Wendy’s mother is still unconscious, but the surgeon looks cautiously optimistic with the way her brain is healing. “We might be able to pull her out of the coma tomorrow,” he tells us. “But you must be prepared for the worst. Your mother might have speech impediments because of her injury. She might have memory loss; she might not remember you or anyone else. It’s going to be a long and expensive path to recovery.”
“Money’s not a problem,” I reply at once.
Hudson nods agreement. “If I understand you correctly,” he says slowly. “You’re saying that Wendy’s mother is well enough that her life isn’t in danger anymore?”
We’re searching for a desperate glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. And we find it. “That’s right,” the doctor confirms, smiling for the first time in days. “If her vitals hold up, she’s going to pull through.”
Yes. Wendy’s body slumps in relief. For days, we’ve been cautioned to expect the worst, but the doctor’s words lift the cloud that’s descended over us. Janet Williams has hung on the brink of death for three days, but she’s going to make it. She’s a fighter, just like her daughter.
Five days after the accident, Wendy’s mother regains consciousness. “What happened?” she asks in a hoarse whisper. “Where am I?”
Hudson rushes out to find a doctor. I stay with Wendy, unwilling to leave her side. The doctor warned us that her mother might have lost her memory. We don’t know the extent of Janet Williams’ brain injuries, and I want to be around to comfort Wendy if she needs it.
“You’re in the hospital,” Wendy chokes out. “There was an accident. Do you remember anything?” Her body is tense as she asks her next question. “Do you remember me?”
A mixture of alarm and puzzlement flickers on the older woman’s face. “Wendy?” she asks. “What do you mean, do I remember you?”
I close my eyes as a wave of relief washes over me. Wendy’s mom is okay. Her speech seems fine, and so does her memory.
Janet Williams struggles to sit up, but she’s too frail. She falls back to the bed, exhausted by the attempt. “There was an accident?” she asks weakly. “Is your baby okay?”
Wendy clasps her mother’s hands between hers. “The baby is fine.” She sinks into a chair next to the hospital bed and puts her head on her mother’s shoulder, sobbing in relief. “You remember the baby,” she says, her voice tremulous. “Oh mom, you know I’m pregnant.”
One of Janet Williams’ doctors enters the room, Hudson on her heels. “You’re awake,” she says cheerfully to Wendy’s mother, reading the chart at the foot of her bed. “How do you feel?”
“Like a truck ran over me.”
Wendy laughs shakily. “That’s literally true.”
The doctor’s eyebrow rises with surprise as she pores over the chart. “How is this possible?” she mutters. She conducts a detailed examination of her patient, and her findings confirm my hopes. Janet Williams appears to have no brain damage. The broken leg will need months of rehab, and her ribs will hurt for weeks when she breathes, but she’s going to be okay.
It’s five days to Christmas, but our miracle came early.
Wendy accosts us in the small reception area. “I need to talk to you,” she says determinedly. “How did you find out I was in an accident? My cell phone was smashed to pieces, so I couldn’t call you. How did you know?”
I fill her in on my meeting with Jean Nakashima, and on our interaction with Mikhail Vasiliev. As I explain, I brace myself for her anger. She has every right to be furious with us. We should have told her about our plan before we went to see the Head of the Bratva, not after the fact.
To my surprise, she takes the news calmly. “Don’t do things behind my back again,” she says mildly. “And Vasiliev told you that it was Thorne that did it?”
“Yes, he did.”
Wendy nods grimly. “Good. Because I’m going to see to it that Thorne goes to jail for this. He nearly killed my mother. I won’t let him get away with it.”
“Hudson and I will figure something out,” I reply. “I don’t want you to put yourself in danger.”
Her eyes flash in anger, and she gets to her feet. “Let me remind you,” she says through clenched teeth, “that you had an opportunity to tell me about Jean Nakashima and you didn’t. You should have told me about Mikhail Vasiliev, but you kept quiet. I’m giving you a pass on that because I can understand bad decisions motivated by fear. After all, I didn’t tell you I was pregnant for similar reasons.”
She’s adorable when she’s furious, but I’m smart enough to keep that thought to myself. “But it’s time we stop hiding things from each other. We’re most successful when we work together. All three of us.”
“She’s right, you know.” Hudson’s voice is amused. “Without us working together, we’d have never been able to get as far with Staten Island as we did.”
I glare at my friend. “You’re just sucking up to her,” I accuse him. “What if she gets hurt? What if something happens to the baby? We can’t let Wendy get involved.” Fear rises in my throat. I can’t go through this again.
“Asher.” Wendy crouches next to me, her expression gentle and understanding. “I know you’re worried about me.” She places her hand over mine. “I know you want to keep me safe. I know you can�
��t stop thinking about what happened to Lauren and wonder if the same thing is going to happen to me.” She takes a deep breath. “But I’m not a doll to be played with and protected. I’m always going to want to fight my own battles.” She brushes her lips over my cheek. “Will you help me?”
I look into her pale blue eyes. The truth is, I love that she’s a fighter. She’s a beautiful woman, but it isn’t her looks I fell in love with. It’s her passion and her fire. “What’s the plan?”
A smile breaks out on her face. “I don’t know,” she confesses. “Want to work on one together?”
Together. I can get on board with that.
39
Wendy
Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.
Lao Tzu
Two days later, we’re ready to put our plan into action.
“Thorne is rattled,” I tell Hudson and Asher, trying to convince them this is a good idea. “Jeff Choi emailed me this morning. The Attorney General is investigating Thorne’s highway project for bribery and corruption.” A mess I’ll inherit if I win, but I can’t worry about that right now. “I’m going to try and force the truth out of him.”
Asher frowns at me. “I don’t like it,” he says for the millionth time. He opens a box and pulls out a decorative pin in the shape of a pair of boxing gloves. Though my pulse is racing with nerves, I have to smile when I catch sight of the brooch. “Very nice,” I congratulate him.
He’s obviously preoccupied because he barely cracks a smile. “It’s a microphone,” he says. “We’ll be able to hear and record everything.”
Hudson paces in front of the window, too tense to watch. Asher pins the microphone on my blouse. “Be careful,” he advises. “Thorne is erratic. He’s run out of options. His project is failing, and he thinks he owes the Russian mob sixty million dollars, money he doesn’t have. He’s cornered.”
Ménage in Manhattan: The Complete 5-Book Ménage Romance Collection Page 83
