“Hey, HW,” Derian murmured. “I’m here. The
doctors said you’re too tough to die, and I told them I already knew that.”
Emily really wasn’t surprised at the words,
not when she recognized the love in Derian’s tone. Derian’s tenderness
shouldn’t have been unexpected, and she chided herself inwardly for listening
to too much office gossip and believing what she read in the tabloids. A
reminder that others were rarely as they appeared on the surface.
“So I’m missing the first leg of the race for
nothing,” Derian continued, her thumb brushing back and forth over Henrietta’s
hand. “And who knows what kind of other action is going on over there without
me.”
Emily watched the rhythmic sweep of Derian’s
thumb, remembering the way Derian had stroked her cheek. Emily could still feel
it, a strong warm wave moving through her, a gentle, nearly possessive caress
that shouldn’t have had the impact it did. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to
being touched. She wasn’t exactly virginal. Not exactly. She just hadn’t found
physical intimacy so earthshaking that she was pressed to repeat it, not when
she had so many other things to be concerned about. And caresses and other
unimportant things were foolish thoughts to be thinking about right now.
Somehow, Derian had stirred feelings she rarely paid any attention to.
Derian glanced across Henrietta’s still form
and met her eyes. “I’ve got Emily here with me. I snuck her in. I told them she
was my sister.” Derian laughed, her gaze still on Emily. “So not true.”
Emily flushed at the languorous drop in
Derian’s voice. Why did everything Derian Winfield said sound as if she was
being touched by the words? She glanced down at Henrietta and finally reached
over to touch her arm beneath the edge of the white and blue striped gown.
Relief flooded through her, rinsing the taste of fear from her mouth.
Henrietta’s skin was supple and warm, alive. “Hi, Henrietta. You’re going to be
all right—no exaggeration. The doctors are on top of everything. All you need
to do is rest and…”
Henrietta’s lids fluttered and Emily caught
her breath. She glanced at Derian, who was staring at Henrietta with such
intensity Emily almost believed Derian was willing Henrietta to wake up.
“Nothing wrong…with my brain,” Henrietta
whispered, lids fluttering open. Her pupils were pinpoint, her gaze unfocused.
Furrows creased her brow. “Fuzzy.”
“That’s because they doped you up.” Derian
brushed a strand of loose hair away from Henrietta’s eyes. Her fingers
trembled. “They probably didn’t want you bossing everyone around.”
“Ha,” Henrietta muttered feebly.
“What…happened?”
“You had a bit of a spell,” Derian said, “but
it’s all fixable. Nothing to worry about just now.”
“Don’t…snow me.”
Derian grinned. “Heart. Not too bad, but
you’re gonna need some engine work.”
Henrietta’s lids fluttered close.
“You…decide…”
“You got it.”
Emily started. She hadn’t thought about
Henrietta’s next of kin. She suddenly hoped with all her being that it wasn’t
Martin Winfield.
“All out,” Henrietta said with surprising
strength.
“No problem.” Derian’s voice was gentle but
her expression was fierce. “I know all about mechanics. I’ll make sure you’ve
got another hundred thousand miles under the chassis.”
Henrietta’s mouth twitched into a smile.
After a long moment, she whispered, “Take care of…the rest…two of you.”
Derian’s eyebrows rose, and she glanced at
Emily. “Don’t worry. We’ll have it all covered.”
Emily wasn’t sure what Henrietta intended by
that, but nothing mattered now except Henrietta getting well. She wasn’t sure
she could bear too many more days or nights in the hospital. She’d do anything
for Henrietta, except stand vigil while she slipped away. She squeezed
Henrietta’s arm. “It’s going to be all right. Derian will see to it. I love
you.” She backed up, avoiding Derian’s gaze. “I’ll…be outside.”
Silently, Derian watched her go, wondering at
what old wounds put such pain in her eyes.
Burns appeared at the end of the bed. “I have
to chase you out now or the nurses will skin me.”
“Okay.” Derian leaned down and kissed
Henrietta’s cheek. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I love you.”
Henrietta didn’t respond, and Derian forced
herself to step away. Henrietta would be okay, she had to be. Derian said
quietly to Burns, “What now?”
“I don’t expect we’ll know much more until
the CT guys have had a chance to review all the tests. I’ll call you, or
whoever takes over from me will, when we have a plan.”
“I’m her legal next of kin,” Derian said. “I
want to be sure I get the call.”
“I don’t actually know anything about that.
That would be in her records.”
Derian nodded. “Who should I check with?”
“The nurses at the desk can pull up her
admission forms.”
“Okay, thanks.” Derian held out her hand.
“For everything.”
“She’s doing fine,” Burns said as he shook
her hand. “Someone will call.”
Derian waited at the counter until an older
woman with curly gray hair, in a pink scrub suit covered by a smock that looked
like the kind of apron Derian’s grandmother used to wear, turned and noticed
her. “Can I help you, honey?”
“I just wanted to check that you had my
contact information, and to be sure you had me listed as next of kin for
Henrietta Winfield.”
The woman’s brows drew down as she looked
Derian over. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
“Sorry?”
“Derian Winfield. You race cars in Europe or
something?”
“Ah, yeah, something like that. That’s me.”
“Huh. Imagine that.”
Derian didn’t bother to ask how she was
recognized. She made it a point not to look at the celebrity rags that graced
just about every newsstand in the world. There was nothing she could do about
paparazzi. Money attracted them like chum on the ocean drew sharks. She’d
learned to pretty much ignore what was written or said about her, since it was
99.9 percent fabricated to begin with. If she’d had as many women as the
tabloids made it out she did, she’d never get any sleep. Every time she
escorted anyone anywhere, the papers had them involved in some kind of hot and
steamy romance. Sure, she slept with some of them. But definitely not all. But
why bother to try to set the record straight. Who would care? And secretly, if
it pissed off Martin, she didn’t half mind.
“Henrietta is my aunt.”
The woman, whose name tag said she was
Penelope, tapped in some information on a tablet and scrolled with her finger.
“Yup, right here. Next of kin, Derian Winfield. No contact number, though.” She
glanced up. “You want to give me one?”
Derian read off her phone number.
“We’ve also got a copy of her living will and
medical directives.”
Derian frowned. “You do?”
“Yes, it looks like someone was very
thorough.”
Emily.
Had to be her. She struck Derian as the organized, detail-oriented type. Surely
it wasn’t Martin. Derian was definitely in her debt.
“Thanks,” Derian said, suddenly, now that she
knew Henrietta was stable and being cared for, very much wanting to find Emily
before she had a chance to slip away.
Emily thought about leaving. She’d been at the
hospital for twelve hours, and she was bone weary. The waiting, the worrying,
the remembering had taken her back, and the old sorrow had surged anew. At
first glance, this bustling, careworn city hospital seemed crude and unpolished
compared to the luxury and near-grand-hotel opulence of Mount Elizabeth’s, but
as she’d discovered after a few days’ vigil, hospitals were all the same
beneath the veneer of civility—impersonal, often cold places. And wasn’t she
just getting morose, when she’d long ago set that all aside. She gave herself a
mental shake. She’d be fine after she slept. Maybe had a cup of tea and a
package of those cookies she kept for emergencies.
The idea of curling up under a blanket on the
sofa by the big front window of her third-floor apartment filled her with
longing, but Derian had asked her to wait. Or at least, implied that she wanted
her to. Really, would it be so rude to leave? Surely Derian Winfield was just
being polite. And when had she started thinking of her as Derian, as if they
were actually friends? How could they be anything but strangers—they’d met
exactly once before. She remembered the moment quite clearly, when obviously
Derian hadn’t.
To be fair, she
had
been so much younger then, not just in
years, but in so many other ways. A newly minted master’s degree, the first few
months on the job as a real employee, pulling down a paycheck, and not just an
intern on temporary assignment—she’d made it, realized the dream that had
seemed so far away only a few years before. Here she was, in the land of
opportunity where she actually had carved out the life she wanted for
herself—researching, studying, making contacts, pushing to be noticed.
Emily smiled, remembering the first emails
she’d sent to Henrietta Winfield, someone who had no idea who she was and
probably wouldn’t even be bothered to read the message. But Henrietta had read
it, and had even emailed her back. Emily had been a college student then, an
undergraduate at Harvard, double-majoring in English and creative writing,
filling her résumé with everything she could think of that
might make her more marketable in a world that could be viciously competitive
behind the sedate and cultured façade. Positions in literary agencies were few
and coveted, often passed along to those who had some kind of in—a friend or
relation who knew someone who was part of the age-old world of New York
publishing. She’d taken a chance and decided the only way to make an impression
on someone who undoubtedly received hundreds of hopeful applications and
queries every year was to demonstrate she understood what truly mattered. She
hadn’t written to Henrietta about her qualifications or her potential value as
an employee or even her desires and aspirations. She’d written instead about
one of her favorite books from an author Henrietta had shepherded from
obscurity to
NY Times
best-seller status, and what the book had meant to her and why. How better to
make a connection than to share the same passion?
She hadn’t really expected a reply, but then
it had come. Henrietta Winfield had actually emailed her. With the door open a
tiny crack, she’d subtly, or so she’d thought, slipped her foot into it, and
volunteered to do anything that would keep her in Henrietta’s sight. And so it
had begun, a relationship that eventually flowered into a job and most
surprisingly, wonderfully of all, into friendship.
When she’d gone to work for Henrietta, she’d
quickly become immersed in the other side of the literary agency, the politics
of acquisition and promotion and selling. She’d been trained to recognize good
writing, poignant themes, popular tropes, but she hadn’t any experience
negotiating the volatile waters of selling the manuscript to a publisher. Where
were the best places to position a contemporary romance, a time-travel
paranormal, a family saga? What was hot, and even more importantly, what would
be hot next year? What were reasonable contract terms to expect for a first-time
author, and what were the key items to be hammered out to the best advantage
for her author clients? Those first few months she’d worked side by side with
Henrietta and Ron, who’d been senior to her then and had graciously tutored
her.
Part of her rapid-fire indoctrination had
been in the art of networking, one of the things she’d liked the least at
first. She preferred the quiet of her office and the solitude of her desk,
immersed in manuscripts or making phone calls to authors—even contract review
was better than face-to-face schmoozing with strangers. But she’d gone to the
meetings and receptions, because Henrietta insisted she needed to. And there,
at one of those very first too noisy, too crowded, and too false-friendly
congregations, she’d first met Derian Winfield.
Even with dozens of people between them,
Emily had recognized her right away. Derian was hard not to recognize. A few
inches taller than most of the women, she’d stood out from the crowd precisely
because she stood apart. She’d worn a suit, the dark jacket and pants well cut,
not flashy, but superbly fit to her lanky form. Her hair had been fashionably
layered to collar length, expertly setting off her chiseled features and
accentuating the clean, crisp lines of her neck and shoulders. But it’d been
her expression that had really defined her separateness. Unlike everyone else,
she wasn’t smiling, she didn’t appear to be drinking the amber liquid in the
short glass she held in her left hand, and she wasn’t talking to anyone.
“Come,” Henrietta had said, taking Emily’s
elbow. “I’d like you to meet my niece.”
Henrietta had pulled her through the crowd,
kissed Derian’s cheek, and introduced them. Derian’s expression had softened
when she’d seen Henrietta coming, and after a few murmured words Emily couldn’t
hear, she’d glanced briefly in Emily’s direction, nodded to her, and said
something polite and totally impersonal.
After downing the rest of her drink with one
swift tilt of her wrist, Derian had growled, “I think I’ve done my duty here
tonight.” She’d kissed Henrietta once again and disappeared into the crowd.
Henrietta had looked after her with a faint smile and shake of her head before
firmly pulling Emily off to the next group of people she wanted her to meet.
How young she’d been then, and how fiercely
Henrietta had championed her. Emily struggled with the sadness welling inside.
The doctors had said Henrietta would be well again, and that was what she must
cling to. Despite everything, she hadn’t given up on hope.
“I thought you might have left,” Derian said
from the doorway.
Emily started, feeling heat rise to her face.
How did Derian sense so much, when others thought they knew her but rarely did?
“Oh. How is she?”