His Golden Heart

by Marcia King-Gamble

  Yeah, a competition with winner-take-all.

  He had to admit that it was odd that a binding would be defective. It was even stranger that his skis were nowhere to be found. He’d repeatedly given himself a verbal flogging for not checking and double-checking his equipment and making sure they were sound. No time to think about that now. In a matter of minutes he would see Shayna again. He’d made it halfway through Turning Hurts Into Halos. The book had an interesting premise but he wasn’t fully convinced that a positive outlook had anything to do with speedier healing, or being able to walk again. But he wanted to discuss the book with Shayna, hear her perspective on things.

  Beau wheeled himself to the elevator, actually managing to nod in the direction of the nurses’ station. Ignoring the muffled whispers behind him, he continued to the bank of elevators. His dexterity had improved and he was more in control of his chair, he no longer wobbled all over the place. Practice made perfect, he supposed.

  When Beau entered her room, Shayna was totally absorbed in whatever she was reading, her face obscured by a newspaper. He sat silently, observing her, watching those slender, perfectly shaped legs in black hose bounce to an unheard rhythm. The woman was hotter than crackling firewood. He hesitated. Should he call out to her and disturb her reading?

  Shayna must have sensed he’d come in. She lowered the newspaper and tried to quickly put it away. She wasn’t quick enough. He’d already seen the photo on the front page. Why didn’t it surprise him?

  “Mind if I look at that?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  “If you’d like.” She made no attempt to turn it over. He could tell she was uncomfortable being caught. Maybe she suspected he’d seen the photo and her discomfort stemmed from wanting to protect him. Or maybe she was simply embarrassed for having been caught reading junk.

  “The paper,” Beau insisted, continuing to hold his hand out and scooting closer.

  “Here.” There was a haughty tilt to her head as she turned the newspaper over. Beau took his time shaking it out, smoothing out the creases. He stared at the photograph on the front page of the Living & Arts section and couldn’t resist a smirk.

  “This didn’t take long.”

  “Oh, Beau, don’t do that to yourself. Would you like something to drink? Water?”

  “No, thanks. I’m a big boy.”

  “Would it help you to talk?”

  He dismissed her with a nod of his head, and turned back to the newspaper, his eyes focusing on the caption again. “Not really.”

  PARALYZED SKIER DUMPED FOR BELLISSIMA HEIR.

  Such bull.

  Splashed across the front page was an oversize photograph of Chandra looking exceedingly chic in a bright red catsuit. A pair of dark glasses were perched on the end of her nose. Her wild mane of hair had been carefully spritzed and tousled. She was being helped from a limousine by a dark-skinned man who could easily have been a cover model himself. The man’s suit was impeccably cut. Armani, Beau would guess. A tie completed the high-powered look. He too wore sunglasses. Beau’s photograph, juxtaposed next to theirs, wasn’t exactly flattering. It was an aerial view of him seated in his wheelchair, taken the day he’d been sitting on the patio waiting for Shayna.

  “Beau, are you sure you don’t want to talk?” Shayna asked, touching his shoulder gently.

  He was still too humiliated to say a word. How dare the press make fun of him? Chandra pictured with that man could be innocent enough, but what did they have to gain by making these photos public and holding him up to ridicule? Why be so brutal? He’d always made time for reporters. He’d patiently answered their probing questions.

  Beau read the accompanying article. Franco Santana, heir to the Bellissima line, was Chandra’s constant companion. These two beautiful people were taking Milan by storm. They’d been seen at the more upscale eateries, been shopping together, and frequently seen at the designer showings. They’d made a big splash at a recent soiree, arriving in his and her tuxedos.

  The reporter, tongue-in-cheek, questioned whether it had been love at first sight, or an arrangement made in Fragrance heaven. Whatever, Chandra had just thrown down the gauntlet and sent him a definite message. She was parading her newfound freedom for all to see, and it had been assumed he’d been cast aside. Her blatant disregard for his feelings convinced him it was over with. Permanently. He would maintain a “to hell with them” attitude. What hurt wasn’t seeing her with another man, but rather the hypocrisy of it all. She’d made such a fuss when he’d suggested they put things on hold. And every few days she’d called, terrorizing the poor nurse’s aide, demanding to speak with him. She’d filled his ear with tales of having missed him. My, how quickly things changed.

  “I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Shayna said, coming to kneel beside him. “It was insensitive of me to flaunt your fiancée’s betrayal in your face.”

  “She’s no longer my fiancée,” Beau said gruffly. “She can do whatever the hell she wants.”

  “Be that as it may, you still hurt. That headline was awful. No one likes being made fun of.”

  Beau grunted. “There’s been a lot worse said about me.”

  “And there’s been a lot of good said. I’ve been reading about you.”

  “Obviously.”

  She smiled and touched his hand. “I like to get to know my patients. I can help them better if I know what makes them tick.”

  “I’m halfway through your book,” Beau said, deftly changing the subject. “I’m not sure I’m getting it though.”

  “Keep reading and you will. Shall we try something a little different today?”

  “Like?”

  “Like fitting you with ankle weights. Like having you work out your legs.”

  “All right, if you think it would help.” He was tempted to tell her about the tingling sensation that he was experiencing. That it started in his toes and slowly worked its way up his legs. Was that a good sign? Would she know? He’d been nervous when it first happened, still was. Yet some sensation was better than the oppressive numbness. The dead weight.

  Shayna crossed over to a cabinet, fumbled around, and selected the weights. She hefted them in one hand. “Yes, I think these will do.”

  Returning, she bent down next to him, strapping the weights on his ankles. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her hair, stroke the naked nape of her neck, caress her coffee skin. She was wearing some kind of perfume that was fresh and outdoorsy. It reminded him of orange blossoms.

  “I think you should be discharged,” she said. “It will make you much more self-sufficient. You’ve been here almost two weeks, and you were in the hospital longer.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “You’ll never be unless someone kicks you out.”

  Beau felt himself beginning to panic. His psychiatrist had said the same thing. They were conspiring against him. In a structured environment he could cope. Sending him to the outside world was another matter.

  “You’d benefit from being an outpatient,” Shayna said. “You’re too dependent on the staff.”

  “Hey, I thought you were on my side,” Beau joked.

  “I am, that’s why I’m recommending this.”

  He couldn’t tell her he wasn’t ready to face the real world, much less navigate his spacious home alone. He wasn’t ready for people. Friends. The few that still came to visit made him uncomfortable. They hadn’t known what to say. How to act. They weren’t even successful at hiding their looks of pity, their discomfort at seeing him in a wheelchair.

  Beau had read somewhere that people had a tendency to look through disabled people. Pretend they didn’t exist. How would he adjust to the sympathetic looks? How could he have gone from boy wonder to an object of pity in a matter of months? He needed to convince Shayna that he was better off here in Denver Rehabilitation Center with others like him. No press hounding him. Family fussing over him. All that stuff.

  “I live alone,” Beau said. “My place has
two stories. It’s going to be difficult getting around.”

  “You’ll have to make accommodations. Check with your insurance company. I’m sure they allow for an aide to come in. The quicker you can assimilate yourself back into society, the better chance you have for recovery. You have limited mobility and with work your strength should improve. Let someone who really needs your bed have it. “

  “My occupational therapist thinks differently,” Beau said quickly. “What about personal hygiene, dressing myself?”

  “That’s what an aide is for. I’m sure your friends and family will help.”

  The thought of rattling around in his huge house, alone, didn’t hold much appeal. This was the house he’d wanted and had custom made, yet it meant nothing to him now, though at one time it had been his pride and joy. He’d viewed it as a status of his achievement. His refuge. A place to get away from it all, where he could ride horses and explore.

  What was the point of having all that space when you couldn’t truly enjoy it? What was the point of going home not knowing if a wheelchair would become a way of life? He’d have to start thinking about ramps. Accessibility.

  “Stop wallowing in self-pity, Beau, flex your legs,” Shayna ordered.

  With some difficulty, Beau attempted to do just that, even though it seemed as if bags of cement weighed down his legs and heart.

  “Good. Better than good. Great effort” Shayna applauded. “We’ll get you walking yet.”

  All he’d done was make a feeble effort to pick up his feet, and he hadn’t been that successful. Yet Shayna’s cheering had made him feel like a million bucks, as if he was capable of doing almost anything, including getting on a ski slope again. How could one petite beauty have that ability?

  Lowering his eyelashes, Beau slanted a look Shayna’s way. It was a mistake. He suddenly felt flustered and out of sorts. The weights on his ankles were heavy. What did she think of him? Today he’d taken time to clean himself up. He’d even been motivated to brush his teeth and put on a brand-new sweat suit. With some assistance from Immaculata he’d managed to shave. And for what?

  He couldn’t be interested in Shayna, nor she in him. He didn’t go for the waifish type. He liked his women model-tall. Elegant. Commanding. Women like Chandra.

  Chapter Seven

  “Are you telling me the absolute truth, son?” Colin Johnson, Reggie’s attorney, shot him a look that clearly stated he wasn’t buying any bull.

  Reggie rose, sending the chair behind him toppling. “Look, man, if you don’t believe me, why are you representing me?”

  Shayna interceded quickly before things got out of hand. It was exactly that hot temper that often got Reggie into trouble. She got up and faced her brother.

  “That’s enough, Reggie. Colin is simply trying to get the facts. Answer his question and stop being rude.”

  Colin remained where he was, his fingers steepled. He regarded Reggie through shrewd brown eyes. “It’s exactly that kind of attitude that’s going to land you in jail,” he admonished, in a slow, lazy drawl. “You’ll need to answer the questions calmly. If you appear testy or belligerent it will work against you. Don’t forget, you’re fighting a stereotype.”

  “You mean you want me to lie down and die? Sell out.”

  “I’m not asking you to do either. You’re in a lot of trouble, young man. Being respectful and not losing your cool couldn’t hurt. The jury’s bound to be more sympathetic to a polite kid than the thug the prosecution will describe. It’s up to you to help them change their minds.”

  Shayna listened intently as Colin continued to reason with Reggie. She’d driven her little brother to the attorney’s office after work. With only a few weeks to go before the trial, Colin had wanted them to meet and go over their defense once again. Even though Colin appeared outwardly calm, she could tell he was worried. They were up against the powerful testimony of the victim, Mrs. Simpkins. She’d been beaten up pretty badly, and her appearance alone assured her sympathy. Shayna had also learned of an eyewitness who’d come forward claiming that the boy’s Honda had been seen casing Mrs. Simpkins’s block. It had been parked on a corner for a considerable time. Reggie, when confronted, had insisted it was a lie. He’d stuck to his story about looking for a McDonald’s. Colin had insisted they hire a private eye. He’d hoped to find a witness to substantiate Reggie’s story. If this person came forward confirming the time the boys were in McDonald’s, the case would most likely be dismissed. So far they’d come up empty, but Colin remained optimistic.

  “The prosecution’s attorney’s going to play hardball,” he said to Reggie, capturing Shayna’s attention again.

  “He’s going to paint you as the worst kind of monster. A beast that should be put away. Your job, and mine, is to make the jury think otherwise. To create reasonable doubt.”

  “Why is it always harder for black people?” Reggie asked, his youth and naiveté showing. “That lawyer on TV looked like a redneck. He spoke all proper and stuff. Yapping on about me being the new breed of thug.”

  Colin’s white teeth were prominent in a face that was almost the color of coal. Shayna wondered what was so funny about Reggie’s remark. There were elements of truth in what he had to say. Although she’d never considered Reggie’s attorney a handsome man, when he threw his head back, cognac eyes sparkling, she saw what others must see, an attractive and very virile man.

  He’d come highly recommended by their family attorney. The two had gone to law school together. What she’d been told by the very proper Rita Pinkett Meadows, esq., was that Colin Johnson was the best lawyer that money could buy. Shayna noticed his ring-less hands and wondered if he was married. Not because she was particularly interested in him, but because it had occurred to her that she hadn’t met an available man since moving to Denver. What was it? Eight, nine months ago? Actually that wasn’t true. She’d met Beau, though she would hardly call him available.

  “Ed Anderson, a bigot?” Colin repeated, when he’d stopped laughing. “Far from it. He’s tough but fair. He enjoys defending the underdog.”

  Shayna remembered something the reporter on television had said. He’d implied that one of Anderson’s sons had been a problem.

  “I understand Ed Anderson’s got kids of his own,” she said, joining the conversation.

  “That he does. One of his sons is famous. You might have heard of him.”

  “Can we stick to my case?” Reggie said, bouncing on the balls of his feet impatiently. “I’m meeting the guys to play basketball in exactly one hour. I don’t have a lot of time to waste. So fill me in on what’s going on. Tell me how you’re planning on getting me out of this mess.”

  Colin jabbed a finger at Reggie. “There’s that attitude again. Next time check it at the door or you’ll need to find a new attorney. If you act like an ass in the courtroom there’s not a damn thing I’ll be able to do about getting you off.”

  Colin returned to his notes and continued to brief Reggie. When he was through, he placed a hand on Shayna’s elbow and pulled her aside. “Reggie, will you wait outside for a moment? I’d like to speak to your sister alone.”

  Grunting something unintelligible, Reggie loped off. He had a ticked-off expression on his face, and grumbled something about not being part of the conversation.

  Shayna smiled politely, waiting for Colin to say what he had to say. Hopefully it was not more bad news. She just couldn’t take it.

  “Are you available this coming Saturday?” he surprised her by asking.

  “I might be,” Shayna said evasively. She hated making commitments until she knew what she was getting into.

  “I was thinking we’d get a bite to eat at one of the trendy restaurants in LoDo.”

  Theirs so far had been a business relationship. But he was one of the rare single men she’d met since moving to Denver. Besides, one date did not an emotional attachment make.

  She was familiar with the lower downtown area. It had recently been gentrified and seve
ral trendy boutiques and small businesses had replaced the warehouses. Overnight, it had become Denver’s answer to New York’s Soho. When she’d first moved here she’d considered renting a loft in the area.

  “Great I’ll look forward to it,” Shayna answered.

  “Shayna,” Reggie called from outside. “Are you almost done? We need to go.”

  “We’re wrapping up,” she shouted back, rolling her eyes. “That boy’s a handful.”

  Colin’s strong fingers circled her forearm. “He’s a teenager. I’ll pick you up Saturday, say around eight”

  “Let me give you my address. You’ll need my phone number as well.”

  Colin released her to tap a fat folder on his desk. “I have it all here. I’m really looking forward to our date, Shayna.”

  “Me too.”

  She followed him out. While it wouldn’t be a love connection, a date would help break up the monotony of another Saturday night.

  Beau wasn’t ready for this, the vast outdoors surrounding him, wide-open spaces, and no evident boundaries. Sunlight poured through the open van windows as he sat huddled in his seat, trying to forget how exhilarated he felt out on the slopes, the cool mountain air blowing against his face.

  He slumped in the back of a leased van, his father in the driver’s seat, his mother beside his dad. Immaculata and an assortment of medical personnel waved to him from the front steps, his occupational therapist among them, but no Shayna.

  “Bye, Beau-Beau, don’t be a stranger,” Immaculata called, waving to him. “You come by and visit when you have therapy, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Beau nodded at her but didn’t trust himself to speak.

  He flipped the thumbs-up sign and choked back the bile that was beginning to rise in his throat. His safety net had just been pulled out from under him. Denver Rehabilitation Center had represented organization and structure. It was safe. There, he wasn’t an oddity, just another patient with special needs.