Here I Am. Rochelle Alers
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was another matter.
“Brandt’s going to be all right, Leona. It’s just that he’s going through a rough time now. Give him another few weeks.”
“I’m trying to be patient, but every time he lashes out I don’t recognize him. Of all of my four children he is the free spirit, the most fun-loving. When he told me he wanted to be a professional football player, it was the darkest day in my life. I had visions of him being carried off the field or spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair paralyzed from some freak accident. Little did I know that he would still end up in a wheelchair.” Leona sniffled, then dabbed at her nose with a napkin. “I’m sorry about becoming weepy. I’m usually not so emotional.”
Ciara gave Leona a warm smile. “You’re entitled, because that’s what mothers do when there’s something wrong with their children.”
Blinking back tears, the older woman managed a weak smile. “Even when that child is thirty-three?”
“Yes. Even if that child is fifty or sixty-three.”
Leona stared at the young woman sitting opposite her. “Do you have any children, Ciara?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Would you like to have children one day?”
“Perhaps one day,” Ciara confirmed, staring into her cup of tea.
She’d thought about having a child, but only if she met the right man. Unlike some women, she didn’t want to be a single mother and raise a child by herself. Her parents had divorced the year she’d celebrated her tenth birthday, and not having her father in her life had had a negative affect on her relationships with men. Sometimes she hadn’t chosen wisely, and when she did choose to commit to a long-term relationship it was for the wrong reason. At the time, Ciara had wanted to prove to her mother that not only could she get a man, but she could also keep him.
William Dennison was in and out of her mother’s life so often that Ciara thought he’d worked for the CIA and that he’d had to go undercover for long periods of time. What she didn’t learn until she was in her early teens was that her father was living a double life. Although married to Phyllis, he’d also married another woman. His job as regional manager for a major beverage company kept him on the road, so he was able to divide his time between two households with relative ease. Although a bigamist, William never fathered a child with his second wife.
“You’re young, so you have time before you have to decide whether you want to have children.”
Leona’s soft voice broke into her musings. Thirty-three wasn’t that young, Ciara thought.
After wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin, Leona placed it on the countertop. “I think it’s time I show you where everything is.”
They walked out of the kitchen, passed a laundry room and entered an area off the pantry. The elevator, large enough to accommodate four, was next to a wine cellar filled with bottles of wine too numerous to count. Ciara smothered a gasp when the elevator door opened to a wall of glass, running the length of the hallway and spanning the width of the penthouse.
Leona turned to her left. “This floor is still under construction. Brandt’s private quarters have been completed, but the opposite wing is an open space. He said once he’s married with children he’ll have a contractor build several bedrooms and a nursery.”
Ciara was too enthralled by the sight of a rooftop solarium to respond. Palm trees and exotic flowers made the space seem like an oasis in the middle of Manhattan. She stared at the exotic orchids spilling out of baskets, a riot of color in hues ranging from the deepest purple to pure white.
“Who takes care of the plants?”
“Brandt,” Leona replied smiling.
“It appears he has quite the green thumb.”
Leona laughed. “He installed a programmable irrigation system similar to the ones in supermarket produce sections where a spray of water keeps everything hydrated. The exception is the cacti.”
Ciara smiled. Brandt’s mother had unknowingly given her something she would use to motivate her patient. If Brandt liked working with his plants, then it was something he could do while still using his wheelchair.
The atrium took up half the rooftop. The other half was open to the elements. Tables, chairs and love seats with weatherproof cushions were set up for dining and entertaining outdoors.
She didn’t know what to expect when she walked into Brandt’s private suite, but it wasn’t a loft-like space with brick walls, aged plank floors, massive beams crisscrossing the ceiling, support columns and crystal chandeliers. A pair of French doors opened out onto the roof, which was filled with large potted palms and exotic plants. The style was bohemian yet elegant and masculine.
Ciara’s shoes made soft swishing sounds on the polished wood floor as she walked beyond an area where a chessboard sat on a leather ottoman between straight-back upholstered chairs. She stood under the arched entryway, staring at a collection of swords mounted on a wall. Her eyes were drawn to one that looked very much like a samurai sword. Moving closer, she admired the intricate carving on the handle and scabbard.
“His bedroom is to your left,” Leona said behind her.
It was apparent that Brandt Wainwright was more complicated than Ciara thought. His apartment was a retreat high above the noisy city streets.
“Where did he get the columns and architectural cornices?” Ciara asked.
“My daughter works at a gallery dealing in architectural elements from old buildings. Some of the columns come from Hollywood movie sets; the wooden arch support is from a cathedral in Montreal and the lion heads are from an old library.”
She and Leona retraced their steps, taking the wrought-iron spiral staircase instead of the elevator to the first floor.
A fully functional gym, home theater with a large, wall-mounted screen and an expansive living room made up the next floor. The library furnishings were unexpected for a professional athlete. There were no trophies or photos, framed newspaper articles or magazine covers. It appeared lived-in, a place were one came to read and relax. Espresso-colored leather chairs and a love seat, a massive antique mahogany desk and dark built-in bookcases completed the room.
Ciara stood at the window, staring down at the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching its way along FDR Drive. They looked like miniature cars from more than thirty stories above the street. “I’d better check on Brandt,” she said when Leona joined her at the window. “I have your numbers, so if there’s any change in his condition I’ll let you know.”
Leona smiled. “I know I’m leaving him in good hands.” She let out a soft sigh. “Now that you know where everything is, it’s time I go home and make certain my household is still intact. I just want to remind you that the cleaning service is scheduled to come tomorrow, and the physical therapist will call to let you know when he’s coming. However you plan to deal with Brandt…” Her words trailed off when Ciara gave her a look that spoke volumes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tell you how to do your job.”
“It’s okay. I’ve had to deal with much more difficult patients than your son.”
Brandt Wainwright would probably yell, but Ciara doubted that she would have as hard a time handling him as some of her other patients.
She waited for Leona to leave and then went to see if Brandt was still asleep. Walking into his bedroom, she saw him lying on his back, arms above his head. At first she thought he was asleep, but as Ciara moved closer to the bed she realized he was staring up at the ceiling.
“How are you feeling?”
Brandt turned his head slowly. He’d tried to remember the timbre of Ciara Dennison’s voice, but couldn’t because of the drug that managed to not only dull the pain racking his body but also his brain. He didn’t like taking it because it tended to impair his speech and ability