Paradise Found

by Mary Campisi

  How does one see truly—with the heart or with the eyes?

  Matt Brandon has it all—wealth, power, looks, and talent. Women want him, men want to be like him. When a freak ski accident strips him of one of life’s most basic needs—his sight—he struggles to accept the possibility that his blindness may be permanent.

  Enter, psychologist, Sara Hamilton, a woman who has known her own share of grief and loss and may just be the one person who can help Matt redefine his new world. Sara is every woman’s woman—she’s not a toothpick or a Cosmo girl, has never been prom queen, or dated the blond-haired god with the big white teeth. She’s honest and decent and real…and lives on the perimeter, applauding her patients’ successes, nursing them through their failures, but never acknowledging or accepting her own lackings. She’s loved and lost once and has been so emotionally scarred, she’s not willing to risk those feelings again.

  Of course, she’s never met a man like Matt Brandon. As Matt and Sara explore the delicate balance between ‘blind’ trust and hope, they will discover that sometimes you have to lose everything to find what you are truly looking for…

  Paradise Found

  by

  Mary Campisi

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Excerpt from The Way They Were

  About the Author

  Other Books by Mary Campisi

  Dedication

  To my brother-in-law, Dennis—a true original with a pure heart

  Godspeed and good health

  And to my sister, Annie—one of the strongest women I know

  Rock on!

  Chapter 1

  “Sara, every man is not your ex-husband.”

  “Thank God.” A woman could only take so many lying philanderers in her life and once was definitely more than enough. Of course, Jeff would remind her that psychologists shouldn’t dissect their personal lives like case studies. Easy for him to say. He had a wife who loved him and a baby on the way. What did she have besides a hurt so deep she couldn’t take a full breath?

  “You’d only be in California until I can get things squared away here. Then I’ll be right out. A few weeks at the most.” His voice softened. “Nina's having another ultrasound today. The bleeding's stopped.”

  Sara pushed past the queasiness in her belly. “I know how much you both want this baby.”

  “The doctor thinks everything will be okay, but I can't leave until we know for sure. But Matt needs help now. His brother said he’s getting worse every day and lately he won’t let anybody near him.”

  “Not even one of those little starlets of his?” If the tabloids were accurate, company, especially the female variety, was plentiful.

  Jeff frowned. “You shouldn't believe everything you read.”

  He was right, of course. The remark was not something a psychologist should say even if she thought it. “I'm sorry, that was unkind. I don't even know the man.” But she’d read a lot about him. Matthew Brandon. Writer. Millionaire. Blind man.

  “He's a decent guy once you get past the trappings.”

  And there were plenty of trappings. Seven months ago, he'd held the key to fame, fortune, and opportunity. One sharp maneuver down a steep ski slope had ended all that. The key was gone and he couldn’t even find the door. Literally.

  “He's been through four psychologists. West Coast brands, though”—he flashed her a grin— “so they don't count.”

  “And you think one East Coast variety, who happens to be female, is going to make him behave?”

  He shrugged. “You might be just what he needs. If all else fails, you can run interference until I get out there and knock some sense into him.”

  “We're talking about a man's life, not a football game,” she said. “And the man in question is more than a little noncompliant.”

  Jeff laughed. “That's Matt all right. He's been that way since college. I sacked him three times during a drill one time. Told him not to try the damned quarterback sneak again or I'd bury him deeper than tomorrow. He didn’t listen. Zipped right past me for the touchdown.”

  “Well, he's not zipping past much of anything these days.”

  “But the point is, he doesn't give up. Matt's the kind of guy who thinks if he tries hard enough and persists long enough, he can make anything happen. That's why he's so successful. He never takes no for an answer. Until now. He believes he'll never see again.”

  “What are the odds he will?”

  “Not good. Getting worse each month. He has to start accepting the fact that he may be blind for the rest of his life.”

  “He doesn't sound like the kind of man who would accept anything he can't control.” She'd read about the multimillion-dollar book deal he and his agent had negotiated for Dead Moon Rising. Four million? Or was it five? There was even talk of another movie. And a lot more money. Matthew Brandon had been a regular in People magazine since his first book, Hard Truths, hit the big screen four years ago. Hollywood had opened her arms and sucked him into her Armani-clad bosom of beauty, wealth, and power. There'd been a string— no, strings—of starlets and supermodels since then. The beautiful people. The ones to watch. He'd become as intriguing as Jack Steele, the character in his books. Men wanted to be like him. Women just wanted him. Most women, that was.

  “Matt's never been very good at settling for anything,” Jeff said. “That's why somebody like you might be able to help him. You've got a quiet strength, determined but not forceful.”

  “I doubt he’ll listen to a woman. He needs a firm hand like yours.” She looked away, ran her fingers down the creases of her linen pants and concentrated on the way they popped back into place when she lifted her fingers. Some people were like that. You could flatten them and they'd bounce right back. She’d bet Matthew Brandon was a survivor and blind or not, he’d pull through.

  “If you think about it, Matt's going through the same thing you did a few years back,” Jeff said in the voice he used to calm his patients. “His identity's been stripped, his frame of reference distorted with the accident. You went through that when Brian left.” He hesitated, his voice dipping lower. “And you lost the baby. In a few months' time your whole world flipped and crashed.”

  I lost my heart. “We have nothing in common.” From what she’d read, he didn’t have a heart.

  Jeff pushed back his chair and moved to the other side of the desk. “I'd say you have a lot in common, and you might be just the one to show him how to survive.”

  “I don’t think I could maintain my objectivity.” There, she’d admitted she couldn’t be objective about a man who reminded her too much of her ex-husband.

  Jeff read her thoughts. “Matt's nothing like Brian. Once you get to know him, you'll see for yourself.”

  She wanted to tell him she had no desire to get to know the man, but what purpose would it serve? Jeff needed her help, and as his partner and friend, she couldn't let him down.

  “Two weeks? Right?” Certainly she could handle fourteen days.

  He nodded and a smile inched across his face. “Give or take a day or two.”

  “Okay then. I'd like to get everything wrapped up here and leave as soon as possi
ble.” No sense prolonging the inevitable.

  “Great.” He leaned over and clasped her hands in his. “I owe you.”

  She shrugged, trying to pretend it was no big deal. “What about my clients?”

  “Jessie can handle them if she needs to. Just get the paperwork in order and let them know you'll be gone for a few weeks.”

  “She's so young,” Sara said, thinking of the perky redhead who followed her everywhere with notebook and pencil in hand.

  “Twenty-five is not that young,” Jeff said. “Of course, she's not ancient, like you. What are you anyway?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “Thirty-six? Thirty-seven?”

  Sara frowned at him. “Thirty-four. The same age as your wife, as if you didn't know.”

  Jeff threw his hands in the air. “So I was off a few years. What does it matter? Thirty, thirty-five, forty? You'll still be beautiful at fifty.”

  “You must be desperate to get me to California if you've resorted to out-and-out lying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He actually looked confused. Okay, she’d clarify it for him. “Beauty has never been one of my greatest attributes. I've always opted for brains.” Though once in a while she had wondered what it would be like…

  “Oh, so now you can choose your beauty like a pair of old shoes?” The look on his face told her he thought she was joking. She wasn't. For much of her pre-adolescent and teenage life, she’d known the sting of being just plain ordinary. Nothing spectacular, except perhaps her eyes—amber-green, almond shaped with a slight tilt. A seductress’s eyes, someone once said. What a joke. She'd never been able to seduce anything, including her husband.

  Brian was the only person who had ever made her feel beautiful with his honeyed words and slow smiles. Until he grew tired of her. Until she balked at cosigning a hefty business loan for him. She'd wanted him to wait until after the baby…

  Can't you just once in your pitiful life say, ‘Screw it? I don't care if it doesn't make sense right now, I'm going to do it anyway?’ His perfect lips had pulled into a thin line. Hell no, you can't. You're so goddamned responsible, it's suffocating. Well then, screw you, Sara. He'd grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the house, leaving her sitting by the fireplace with her swollen belly and her shredded self-esteem.

  No man would ever do that to her again, even if she had to reside in the world of the ordinary for the rest of her life. She was used to looking the other way when an interested male tried to catch her eye or a fellow colleague attempted to escalate their friendship to the next level. Ordinary was safe. Ordinary was what she wanted.

  Jeff interrupted her thoughts with a long sigh. “One of these days, you and I need to have a long talk.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Oh. One of these days, we're going to talk about the incredible job you do with your clients. How you dig them out of a garbage pile of despair, build their self-esteem and send them into healthy new relationships and worthwhile jobs.”

  “I care about those women. And I believe in them.” She had to, for God knew, they didn't believe in themselves, not when the pain and shock of being cast aside reverberated through their souls.

  “You make it personal.”

  He was right. She made it personal because she'd experienced firsthand every gut-wrenching emotion they would ever encounter and she'd survived. “So, why the need for a talk?”

  He pinned her with a blue stare. “Because I want to know how you can have such patience and foresight with your clients and make such lousy choices in your personal life.”

  Oh. So it wasn’t a compliment—it was an accusation. “We've been through this all before.”

  “Yes, we have and we're still hitting dead ends. The day you lost the baby, you gave up on hope. When Brian walked out, you gave up on love. Why is it you can help everybody else, but you can't help yourself?”

  The phone rang just then and saved her from having to conjure up a response. Jeff leaned over and levered the receiver from its base. “Yes?”

  Sara closed her eyes, taking the momentary distraction to pull herself together. Jeff’s words made perfect sense. After all, she spoke similar ones to her clients every day. Why couldn't she listen to her own professional recommendations and open herself up to love again?

  The answer was simple—she wasn't willing to risk the pain. It had almost destroyed her before and she couldn't chance it a second time. That's why she worked so hard with her clients. They were her success. They went on to live again, love again, hope again. She was a part of that and it was enough. It had to be.

  Sara opened her eyes and found Jeff clutching the receiver, his face ashen. “What is it? Is it Nina?” Only one thing could reduce a man like Jeff Sanders to near tears.

  Raw pain coated his next words. “She's bleeding again.”

  ***

  The afternoon sun beat down on Matt, making him drowsy. There was nothing like California weather. Not too hot, never too cold and always just a day away from decent weather, even when it rained. It sure beat the hell out of Pittsburgh with its subzero winters, freezing rain, and ice storms. And the blizzards, they were a real treat. Even summer days with their overcast skies and cool nights left a person wanting. He ought to know—he'd spent enough years there.

  California was different. It was the land of opportunity, a place for high rollers, where risk-takers rode with Lady Luck on their shoulder, smiling their beautiful smiles, making their multimillion-dollar deals and raking in cash by the armored truckload. He used to be one of the elite, one of the high rollers. But that was before he'd rammed into the tree that changed his life forever. He shoved his ball cap down, shielding part of his face from the heat. Blind. That's what he was. What he would be for the rest of his life.

  How many times had he replayed those last seconds on the slope? Two hundred? More like two thousand. If only that kid hadn't been downed right in his landing path. If only he had veered to the right. If only he had listened to Adam and not made the final run. If only that damned tree hadn't been there. If only.

  If only didn't matter, not when he opened his eyes every morning to darkness. That was the hardest part. That, and accepting blindness as a way of life. He'd have to do it. Someday. On his own terms. But he sure as hell wasn't going to put up with any more damned psychologists and their ‘How did that make you feel?’ probing.

  And then there was that last one. The woman. Claire something or other. She'd only been interested in studying the effects of blindness on his sexuality—even offered herself up as part of the case study. Said she wanted to conduct an experiment with him. He'd yanked her by the arm and hauled her out of the house so fast she hadn't had time to button her shirt.

  He was through talking with everybody. Except, maybe Jeff. He'd be here soon, not to pick and probe and dissect like all the others. But to listen. Like a friend.

  ***

  LAX was a maze with only one exit. Men with starched white shirts and purposeful strides balanced cell phones and overnight bags while women in short silk suits with golden tans and sun-kissed hair, pulled compact travel cases behind them. Crying babies clutched their mother's shirts with pudgy fingers, balling the fabric into wrinkled messes, while toddlers wailed and grabbed at moving pant legs. So many people. All in motion. All going somewhere.

  Sara scanned the signs overhead. The noise, the people, the hustle bustle. Nothing like Pittsburgh. Someone pushed her through the huge glass door, onto the hot concrete. The June heat smacked her in the face and stole her breath. She fumbled for her sunglasses, pushed them on her face and looked around. Los Angeles. Hot. Crowded. Smoggy. She dragged her bag forward and studied the sleek line of limousines dotting the curb. There were at least twelve. They were as popular as minivans back home. A man emerged from the line of cars, carrying a sign with her name on it.

  He didn’t look like any limousine driver she'd ever seen. Not that she'd seen many, but she was certain their dress code did not consist of khaki pants and sne
akers. He was a big man, at least six-feet-two, with a solid build except for a bit of a tummy protruding from his checkered vest. His eyes settled on her, and something in her expression must have told him she was the one, because he advanced on her like a grizzly bear stalking a fish.

  “Dr. Hamilton?” he asked, towering over her.

  Sara stared up at the mountain before her and nodded.

  His face broke into a grin as he reached for her suitcase and briefcase. “A tiny thing like you shouldn't be lugging these things around,” he said, taking her belongings from her and shifting them into one hand as though they weighed nothing. Tiny? Her? Sara Hamilton? Wholesome. Sturdy. Healthy-looking. Those were terms she'd heard since her teens. Tiny had never been one of them. That word was reserved for cheerleaders and prom queens, of which she’d been neither.

  “I’m Rex. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hamilton.” He stuck out a large paw and pumped her hand like a seesaw.

  “Call me Sara,” she said, hazarding a smile at the man whose crooked grin transformed him from grizzly to teddy bear. Her smile deepened.

  “Sara,” he said. “Let's get out of here before traffic heats up.”

  She took two steps to each of Rex’s lumbering strides, trying to ignore the honking horns, squealing tires, and roaring engines. And this traffic was before traffic heated up?

  “We're sure happy you're here,” Rex said, once he’d stowed her things and begun the maneuver from the parking lot.

  “Why, thank you.” She wished she could say the same.

  “Things just haven't been the same since the accident.” His voice slipped a notch. “I couldn't tell you the last time I had this honey out for a spin. We miss him, Doc. We want you to get him back for us.”

  She hadn’t missed the sadness and pain in his voice. “I'll try to help him.”

  Rex's big shoulders relaxed against the back of the seat. He glanced at her from the rearview mirror and grinned. “I think you're going to be the one, Doc,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Yes, sir. I think you just might be the one.”