Here I Am

by Rochelle Alers

  Initially, he’d found himself drawn to Ciara because she was a chameleon. At work, her loose-fitting scrubs, glasses and hair secured in a matronly bun at the nape of her neck gave her the appearance of a no-nonsense nurse. But away from the hospital, contact lenses replaced her glasses, her hair came down and form-fitting clothes replaced her baggy nursing attire.

  “Why are you here, Victor? I’m certain you weren’t invited.”

  Victor blinked. “I came because I knew you would be here. Please hear me out,” he pleaded when Ciara turned away. “I came to say I’m sorry, Ciara.”

  “Two years, Victor. It has taken two years for you to tell me you’re sorry,” she said incredulously.

  “You left the hospital, moved and you wouldn’t take my calls on your cell,” he replied.

  “Well, you see me now. Apology accepted. We have nothing else to say to each other. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to get back to my date.”

  Victor’s eyebrows and the expression on his face lifted. “You’re dating someone?”

  She let out an unladylike snort. “Did you actually believe I wouldn’t find someone after we broke up?” Ciara leaned closer, her head eclipsing the plastic surgeon’s by several inches. “Get away from me before I tell my boyfriend that you’re stalking me.”

  Victor held up both hands. “Okay, Ciara. I get the message—loud and very clear.” Turning on his heel, he walked back inside the restaurant. Ciara Dennison had done to him what no other woman would think of doing—walk out on him. It was as if history was repeating itself. Victor’s mother had walked out on him and his father, destroying the older man, who turned to drugs and alcohol. His father died of an overdose, and Victor became a ward of the state. Eventually he was adopted by his foster parents.

  Ciara waited until her ex disappeared, hoping it would be the last time she ever had to see him. What she’d told Victor was only half-true. Although she’d invited her roommate’s brother to attend the party with her, NYPD Sergeant Esteban Martinez was not her boyfriend, but just a very good friend.

  Pushing a button, Brandt switched from the radio to the playlist in his iPod. He’d left New York City before dawn in an attempt to avoid the morning rush, but had run out of luck when traffic came to a standstill between Baltimore and Washington, D.C. It had taken more than an hour before traffic began to move again.

  When he’d stopped in Norfolk, Virginia, to eat a late breakfast and fill up his Escalade, the skies had opened up, with the rain coming down in torrents, flooding many of the local roads. Brandt had considered whether to spend the night in Norfolk or continue on to North Carolina. The decision was made for him when rays of sunlight broke through watery clouds.

  The cell phone rang and he pushed a button on the Bluetooth. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Brandt.”

  He smiled. “Hey, Rissa. What’s up?”

  “I did it. I gave Harper back his ring.”

  Brandt lowered the volume on the music filling the SUV. “How did he take it?”

  “He was upset, but there wasn’t much he could do with Sumner glaring at him. I’d told Mother, Daddy and Sumner what I’d planned to do, and Mother really shocked me when she said she was relieved.”

  “You’re shi…you’re kidding me,” he said, before the profanity slipped out.

  “No, I’m not. She admitted she found Harper a little too pushy, but hadn’t wanted to interfere.”

  “It looks as if you underestimated Leona Wainwright.”

  “I know. We’re going out for lunch and I’m going to order a burger with bacon, cheese and grilled onions. And, if I’m not too full I’ll down an order of steak fries.”

  “Careful, little sister, or you’ll ruin your girlish figure.”

  Clarissa’s lilting laugh came through the speaker. It had been a long time since Brandt had heard her laugh. “I lost whatever curves I used to have. But that’s all going to change. Right now it’s all about Clarissa Odette Wainwright.”

  “That’s my girl.” The skies darkened again and within seconds rain splattered on the windshield. Brandt adjusted the speed of the windshield wipers.

  “I want to apologize,” Clarissa said.

  “What about?”

  “Going off on you yesterday.”

  “I’ve forgotten about it, so I want you to do the same.”

  “Consider it done. I have to go, because you know how ticked Mother gets when she has to wait. Bye, and thanks, Brandt.”

  “Any time, Rissa. Bye.” He ended the call, turned up the volume and settled back to concentrate on the rain-slicked road.

  Brandt had begun spending more and more of his off-season time at his modest two-story, three-bedroom house in western North Carolina. He’d come to value the quiet of his retreat, where he took long walks along foot trails, learned to fly-fish from the locals and caught up on his reading. There were times when he’d believed spending so much time alone was turning his brain to mush. But whenever he returned to the endless noise and hustle and bustle of the city he appreciated the pristine wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains even more.

  He’d purchased the property as a gift to himself for his twenty-ninth birthday. Over the next two years he’d rarely come down to spend time there during the off-season. Then last year everything changed. Not only had he come south several times during the year, but the visits went far beyond his regular weeklong stays. The first visit—a week after the Super Bowl—he’d found himself stranded when a storm downed power lines and trees, making it dangerous to drive on the rural roads.

  Brandt thought himself blessed that he’d been able to survive for a week with his backup generator. The pantry had been stocked with essentials—powdered milk, eggs, canned soup—and the refrigerator and freezer had been stocked with vegetables, fruit, juice, meat and fish. He’d spent the time watching movies and reading. Even after the power was restored and the roads had been cleared, Brandt had come to value his privacy and appreciate his own company.

  This time he planned to spend a week at the vacation retreat before returning to New York and preseason play. He’d participated in the team’s mini-camp several months ago, solidifying his position as the starting quarterback.

  He maneuvered onto a two-lane county road. It was going to take longer to reach his destination, but he was sure not to encounter any traffic delays. The distinctive voice of Michael Bublé’s “Home” filled the interior of the SUV. One second Brandt was singing along, and a nanosecond later a large object appeared on the road in front of the Escalade. It was a deer. Brandt swerved to avoid hitting it, turned the steering wheel to the right and hit the brake. The thud of the deer landing on the hood sounded like an explosion as the SUV skidded off the road and came to a stop, colliding with a tree.

  Brandt didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in the smashed car. He didn’t know what hurt more—the throbbing in his head, the burning in his jaw or the crushing pain in his legs.

  “This is OnStar. We just received a signal that your air bag has deployed. Can you confirm you’ve been in an accident?”

  Brandt heard the voice, but the pain in his jaw wouldn’t permit him to open his mouth except to mumble unintelligibly, “Help me.”

  “Hold on. We’re sending someone to help you.”

  He couldn’t count the number of times he’d been tackled, or felt the impact of the wind being knocked out of him. But that pain did not compare to what he felt in the lower part of his body. Each time he tried to move the pain intensified. Then he gave up altogether. The falling rain sounded a rhythmic beat on the roof of the SUV, and Brandt wondered if he could withstand the pain until help arrived. He drifted in and out of consciousness as the disembodied voice from OnStar continued to talk. The last thing he remembered was the sound of her soothing voice and the wail of sirens before he sank into a comfortable darkness without any pain.

  When Brandt awoke in a hospital a day later, he learned that in his effort to avoid hitting the deer, he’d crashed hi
s SUV into a tree and broken both legs in several places.

  Brandt lay in a hospital bed in his penthouse suite, his legs in plaster casts. He’d spent nearly two weeks in an Asheville hospital before he was flown back to New York in a private jet. Instead of an outpatient rehabilitation facility, Brandt’s personal physician had recommended that he do his rehab therapy at home, since he had all the equipment he needed in his penthouse. The news that he would miss the upcoming football season was enough to send him into an emotional tailspin.

  “Get out!” he shouted at the nurse who’d come into his bedroom. “Get the hell out and stay out! By the way, you’re fired!”

  Leona waved to the startled woman. “It’s all right, dear. You can leave.” She got out of the chaise longue in the sitting area of the bedroom suite and walked over to the bed. Positioning her hands at her waist, she glared at her son. “That’s the second nurse you’ve fired this week.”

  Brandt turned away, burying his face in the mound of pillows cradling his head. “Please leave me alone.”

  “You can’t be left alone, Brandt.”

  He closed his eyes. “Well, I don’t want her here.”

  Leona threw her hands up in exasperation. Her fun-loving son had turned into an ogre. He’d refused to take telephone calls or have visitors, insisting that he didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Leona had spent the past three days sleeping in the guest wing, but knew it was time to go home to take care of her own household.

  She reached for the telephone on the bedside table, picked up the receiver and dialed the number to the private-nurse agency. Normally she would’ve made the call in another room, but Leona was past caring about Brandt’s feelings.

  “This is Mrs. Leona Wainwright. I need you to send another nurse.”

  “Mrs. Wainwright, are you aware that we’ve provided you with two excellent nurses this week? Is there a problem?”

  She rolled her eyes at her son. “Yes. The patient is the problem.”

  “If that’s the case, then we’ll send someone who is an expert in caring for difficult patients. You’re in luck, because she happens to be available. Her name is Ciara Dennison.”

  “When can I expect her?”

  “Let me call her, and I’ll call you back.”

  Leona flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “Thank you.”

  “I told you I don’t want anyone in my home,” Brandt snarled between clenched teeth after his mother had put the receiver back in the cradle.

  “What you want really doesn’t matter, Brandt. You’re laid up with two broken legs and you need someone to help you get around, give you your medication and make certain you eat. If you want to lie there feeling sorry for yourself, then I’m going home. After you stew in your own waste for a few hours I’m certain you’ll change your mind about letting someone into your home. Make up your mind!”

  Her words trailed off when the telephone rang. Leona picked it up on the first ring. She smiled. “Thank you very much.”

  Propping himself up into a sitting position, Brandt reached around to adjust the pillows supporting his shoulders. “When is she coming?”

  “Her name is Ciara Dennison and she’ll be here between one and two.”

  Ciara Dennison had the advantage when she’d accepted the assignment as a private nurse for Brandt Wainwright. She knew who he was, but he knew nothing of her nursing skills or unorthodox bedside manner. The agency occasionally called her to deal with difficult patients, and she’d earned a reputation as a no-nonsense nurse who provided excellent care.

  When the news broke that pro quarterback Brandt Wainwright had been involved in a car accident in North Carolina, the presumption on most sports news shows was that he’d been driving under the influence. Once it was confirmed that there were no drugs or alcohol in his system, it quieted the skeptics and the gossip.

  Ciara arrived at a luxury high-rise overlooking the East River, paid the fare, got out of the cab and walked toward the entrance of the apartment building. As the doorman opened the door to the lobby, she was met with a blast of cool air.

  “I’m Ciara Dennison. Mrs. Wainwright is expecting me.”

  The tall, slightly built man smiled. “I’ll let her know you’re here and escort you to the elevator.” He reached for the intercom receiver under the lobby desk and punched in several numbers. “Ms. Dennison is on her way up.” Ciara followed the doorman past a bank of elevators to one in an alcove. He inserted a card key in the PH slot. “It will take you directly to the penthouse.”

  The doors closed before Ciara could thank him. The car rose smoothly and swiftly, making her ears pop from the rapid ascent. The car slowed, and then stopped. The doors opened to a panoramic view of the East River bridges linking Manhattan to other boroughs. A profusion of flowers in vases and urns crowded a round mahogany pedestal table between the entryway and great room. For some reason she expected no less from a multimillionaire celebrity athlete.

  She was met by a tall, slender woman with hair several shades lighter than her gray eyes. Leona Wainwright was the epitome of casual chic: white silk blouse, black linen slacks and low-heeled Ferragamo shoes. The requisite diamond studs graced her earlobes and a wedding band adorned the ring finger of her left hand.

  Leona’s eyebrows lifted when she stared at Ciara Dennison. The woman at the agency had said she was tough as nails, but there was nothing about the nurse in the artist’s smock that looked menacing. She was younger than Leona had expected and her flawless, dark brown complexion made her appear even younger. The large, clear brown eyes staring back at her behind a pair of glasses reminded her of a cat’s. Her hair was brushed off her face and secured in a tight bun. Nurse Dennison had come highly recommended, and Leona realized she was her last hope.

  She extended her hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Leona Wainwright, Brandt’s mother.”

  Setting a duffel bag on the floor, Ciara shook her hand, finding it soft and cool to the touch. “Ciara Dennison. And before you say anything, I’d like to meet with my patient—alone.”

  Leona knew immediately that Ciara was very different from the other nurses. Both had been so awestruck by their patient’s celebrity that they hadn’t assumed a take-charge position. “Please come with me.”

  Ciara followed Leona through the expansive entryway that led into a great room. A curving staircase off to the left led to another level. “Is he on this floor or upstairs?” she asked.

  Slowing her pace, Leona glanced over her shoulder. “He is in a bedroom on this floor.” She didn’t tell the nurse that the second floor was usually off-limits to everyone. The only exception was when her son hosted parties in the rooftop solarium. She turned down a wide hallway and walked into one of three bedroom suites set aside for guests.

  “I’ll wait out here for you.”

  Ciara nodded and then walked into the room. Brandt Wainwright lay in a hospital bed positioned near the floor-to-ceiling windows, eyes closed, with a sheet covering his lower body, the rise and fall of his bare chest in an even rhythm revealing the steadiness of his breathing. The bedroom was furnished in a traditional style, in contrast to the post-war architecture of the apartment.

  She approached the bed. The rapid pulse of the large vein in his neck indicated that he wasn’t sleeping. Her gaze lingered on his face. He hadn’t shaved and a full day’s growth covered his jaw and chin. Ciara wasn’t into sports, but only someone completely cut off from civilization wouldn’t recognize the NFL’s golden boy.

  His hair was a mess, indicating it hadn’t been combed or brushed. It was also oily, which confirmed it needed to be shampooed. Reaching out, she placed a hand on his shoulder. His skin was cool to the touch. But before she could withdraw her hand, Ciara found her wrist trapped between Brandt’s fingers.

  “Do you usually shake someone’s hand even before you’ve been introduced?” she said, meeting his angry gaze. His eyes were a startling shade of sky blue. “Get out!”

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possi
ble. After all, you are holding on to my wrist.”

  Brandt released her hand. “I’ve let you go. Now get out!”

  Ciara took a step backward, far enough to evade his long reach and folded her arms under her breasts. “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Wainwright. In case you haven’t been counting, I happen to be your third nurse and that means you’ve just about struck out.”

  “Wrong sport,” Brandt drawled, flashing a sardonic grin.

  She inclined her head. “I stand corrected. Maybe I should’ve said the clock just ran out, sport! Game over.”

  He stared at the nurse in the tie-dyed smock that overwhelmed her slender frame. His gaze shifted downward to a pair of leather clogs. At least the dark blue scrubs fit. He wasn’t exactly sure of her age, but he guessed she was anywhere between twenty-five and thirty.

  Brandt had decided on another approach. He knew growling like a wounded bear wasn’t going to intimidate this nurse. “Please don’t take it personally, but I don’t want or need someone taking care of me.” His tone was soft, almost soothing.

  Ciara wasn’t fooled by his sudden change in tone. “Whenever I take care of a patient I can assure you that it’s never personal. You have a choice, Mr. Wainwright. Either you let me take care of you here or you can go to a rehab facility.”

  He snorted. “That’s not going to happen.”

  Her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her black plastic frames. “You think not? If I walk out of here and file my report with the agency my recommendation will be that you see a psychotherapist and go to an inpatient rehab facility. I’m also certain you don’t want to remain on injured reserve next season. And I’m sure you’ve been cautioned about blood clots. We’ll begin by showering and washing your hair. If you want, I can help you shave or you can continue to look like Grizzly Adams.”