Bougainvillea

by Heather Graham

  “Sherry, you’ve worked all day! I can’t impose—”

  “Get!” Sherry said firmly, settling into the chair by Mark Delaney’s side.

  Kit started to protest again, but Sherry had already turned on one of the lights and opened her book. “You’re ruining my concentration,” Sherry informed her.

  “Thanks,” Kit said graciously. She did need to get out of the room.

  It was late, she realized as she walked down the hallways. Past regular visiting hours, though the fact that the hospital offered all private rooms kept patients’ family coming in and out around the clock. No one seemed to be around at the moment. The hallways were entirely deserted as she walked toward the elevators. “Shades of Halloween II!” she murmured softly as she punched the down button. She hadn’t seen the slasher movie in years, but she could suddenly recall a limping Jamie Lee Curtis being chased along empty hospital corridors. The homicidal maniac coming after her relentlessly. In the movie, the night nurse couldn’t help because she’d been having sex in the hot tub with another hospital employee and the murderer had boiled them both. Kit, however, sincerely doubted, that, should she need help, the hospital staff would all be parboiled in the therapy whirlpool. Sherry would be indignant and furious at such a suggestion.

  Scary movie, though. Jen would probably say that it carried a subliminal message warning employees to avoid sex in the workplace.

  Strangely, she was actually feeling a little nervous. Sure, people would show up if she screamed, but of course, they would think her a maniac, and have her escorted out of the hospital—and possibly admitted into another kind of institution. She had nothing to be afraid of here, and she knew it. It was strange how the mind played tricks. Especially now, when she was so tired. However, the emptiness of the corridors still seemed a bit eerie.

  The cafeteria would definitely be closed, she thought, walking along the ground floor hallway. Maybe Halloween II hadn’t been quite so silly. She’d changed floors and hallways, and still hadn’t encountered another soul.

  “Kit, get a grip!” she said, then realized that she’d spoken aloud to herself several times in the last hour, and groaned.

  “Coffee, I need coffee!”

  She was doing it again. But she spoke aloud often in the hospital room, talking to her father. As long as the graph on his monitor was “blipping,” she was going to talk to him.

  The cafeteria was closed and locked, but she’d learned through experience that, oddly enough, the vending machine in the snack shop made decent coffee, even going so far as to offer a choice of Colombian, cappuccino, espresso, and French roast. Naturally, however, as she stood in front of the machine, she realized she had no change. Ah. The machine took dollar bills.

  Except for her dollar bills, she realized with aggravation as the machine spit back her third one-dollar bill.

  “Dammit! I do have the president facing the right way!” she informed the machine.

  She dug through her bag and tried all five ones in her possession, but the coffee machine continued to spit them back. Frustrated, she swore and kicked the machine.

  “May I help?”

  The deep, slightly amused male voice coming from behind her startled her so badly that she jumped and spun around, her heart in her throat. She almost expected to see the maniac from Halloween II standing there.

  But of course that murderer hadn’t looked anything like the stranger before her.

  This man might have stepped out of the pages of GQ. Jen would say that he was “devastating, to die for.” He wore a business suit, expensively cut, possibly Armani or Versace, she guessed. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore the suit well. It was late, and he had loosened his tie; the weariness about him seemed to add to his rugged good looks. She estimated him to be somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years old, with dark-auburn, collar-length hair. His eyes were true brown, without a touch of hazel, so dark that they appeared black as coal. He was bronzed as though he spent a lot of time in the sun. Strange, Kit thought, since snowstorms were currently plaguing the north from Seattle to Maine.

  She realized that she was just staring at him. And for the first time in forever, she was wondering about her own appearance. Naturally, she was a disaster. Wearing worn jeans and a Museum of Natural History T-shirt with a large dinosaur that appeared to roar. Her hair was probably clean enough, but not brushed. And she wasn’t wearing a speck of makeup, but maybe that would be all right. She was supposed to look a great deal like her mother, and Marina, she had been told, had possessed some of the finest coloring in the world, with hair so dark her father described it as the “ebony of a raven’s wing” and eyes “so blue they were like the sky right when dusk began to turn to twilight.”

  Ah, the human mind! She wanted to explain to the stranger that she was usually halfway decent looking. Then she wondered what difference it made, he was a man visiting a relative, compassionate enough to try to help her get some coffee, and she was here…well, she was here for very serious reasons. How could she even worry about something so superfluous as looks at a time like this?

  “May I help?” he repeated politely.

  Embarrassed, she felt herself flushing. She wasn’t usually dumbstruck at the sight of a man, not even one as imposing as this.

  “I’m so sorry. You startled me. The place is so quiet. Like a morgue.” Bad choice of words. “If you have any more luck with machinery than I do, I’d be grateful for any form of a cup of coffee.”

  He grinned, stepping by her. “It is quiet here tonight,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I wasn’t scared.”

  He looked at her, arching a brow slightly. He clearly didn’t believe her. “Good,” he said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a leather wallet. His bills were clean and crisp and hadn’t been wadded into a messy purse like her crumpled ones. The machine took his dollar instantly. Kit resented the machine and wondered if an inanimate object could have feminine traits and respond to a man.

  “What would you like?” he asked her.

  “What would I like?”

  “Coffee—espresso?”

  “Oh, I’m not just going to get coffee, but the choice the machine promises. French roast, thank you,” she said, flushing again as he pressed the right button. Coffee poured into a foam cup. He reached for it, handed it to her, then put another bill into the machine and hit the same button again. She was still just standing there, staring at him.

  “I—thank you. Oh! How rude of me, I’m sorry. Here’s one of my reject bills—” she began, offering him a dollar.

  He shook his head. “It’s all right. I needed coffee myself.”

  “Thanks so much, but I can’t let you do that—”

  “It was a dollar. Just a dollar. And I got change back, too.” He fingered the coin return, and produced several quarters. “See?”

  “But really—”

  “Are you a raging feminist?” he inquired, a dark brow arched, his smile amused.

  “No!” she exclaimed. “Well, of course, I believe in equal rights and equal pay and—”

  She broke off, because he was subtly smiling at her. Not in a mean way. She didn’t need to explain herself.

  “I’m not a raging feminist,” she said evenly. “Thank you for the coffee.” She could be gracious, and judging by the cut of his clothing, he could certainly afford to squander a few quarters, even on a stranger. What did he do for a living? she wondered. Attorney, she decided. He’d be wicked in court.

  “My name is David Moore,” he said, offering her his hand.

  She smiled, accepting it. “Kit—Katherine, Mr. Moore, and thank you very much for the coffee.”

  He inclined his head slightly. “You’re staring at me strangely, you know.”

  “Am I? Sorry. I’m tired I guess.”

  “You were thinking something,” he prodded.

  She laughed then. “Yes, I was. I was thinking that you look like you should be an attorney.”<
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  “Prosecution or defense?”

  “Prosecution—or defense, either. I admit, in my mind’s eye, I saw you making mincemeat of a witness on the stand. Or…telling a jury with passionate indignation that they can’t possibly convict a man for such a horrendous crime on circumstantial evidence.”

  “Hmm, interesting. Do I look like an ogre?”

  “Fierce. Intense—or possibly cool as a cucumber. Are you an attorney?”

  “I keep up my credentials in the state of Florida, but I haven’t practiced for a while.”

  “Ah, but you were an attorney!”

  “Yep, I worked for the district attorney for several years. And I was with a firm in private practice as well.”

  “But no more?”

  “No more.” He didn’t explain further. Looking at his suit, she wondered if he’d won a lottery. Florida. That explained the tan. It didn’t explain what he was doing in frigid Chicago. “And you?” he asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “What do you do?”

  “Oh. I do a syndicated comic strip.”

  “Great. Have I read you?”

  “Maybe. I’m just beginning to get picked up. I do a little strip called Annie’s Day. Pitfalls of day-to-day life, dating in the twenty-first century and the like.”

  “Ah. Nice.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Yes, I think I have.”

  “You’re just being polite.”

  “I’m seldom just polite.”

  She arched a brow, sipping her coffee, shaking her head. “I can’t believe that. You came to my aid with your dollar bills. Oh, and listen, I’m sorry to have kept you. I imagine you’re here to visit someone?”

  “An old friend, a man I haven’t seen in years. In fact, I believe I’ve made the trip for nothing, so it was delightful to talk with you.”

  “Your friend has passed away?”

  “I just asked about him at the information booth. They said that if I waited, a nurse would be free to speak with me. I may not even get to see my friend. He’s in a coma.”

  Suspicion triggered quickly in Kit’s mind. “What’s his name?” she asked thickly.

  “Delaney. Mark Delaney.”

  “My father,” Kit said softly.

  He arched a brow very high, and seemed to reassess her. Carefully. He smiled. “I should have known. Kit. Katherine. Katherine Delaney. You didn’t say that.”

  She kept staring at him, confused. “How could you have known? Or—should I know you? You’re an old friend of my father’s?”

  He nodded, smiling ruefully. “A voice from the past, actually.” He hesitated. “And I should have known you because you’re the spitting image of your mother. I’m not so sure you’d remember me, but, yes, you did know me. You were very young at the time, but once, you lived at a huge estate called Bougainvillea. On the water. Your mother died when you were just six—”

  “She drowned.”

  He nodded. “Your father was devastated when she passed away. He left Miami—and never returned.”

  “I have a very vague memory of Florida,” Kit said, intrigued. “My father didn’t want to remember a lot. We didn’t talk about it. I do remember a big beach area, ponds, long grass, lots of flowers, a big old house with arches and gables…partially constructed out of coral rock. I had a wonderful room with a tiled balcony. And I remember a vague assortment of people there—but forgive me, how rude, I don’t remember you.”

  “You were a child. And I was the adoptee, you see, away a lot of the time,” he explained, and when she knit her brows in puzzlement, he continued. “Years and years ago, in the late 1930s, my grandfather, your grandfather, and his cousin, Seamus Delaney, started a company called Sea Life Enterprises. They founded it on property bought by the first Delaney to settle there, soon after the turn of the last century. The main business is boats—speedboats and pleasure craft. Anyway, my grandfather was a designer, but he had a falling out with your grandfather and Seamus a few years before I was born, and split from the corporation. After he passed away, my father raced for Sea Life, and raced well—but he was killed one day while out diving. Old Seamus decided he had to take me in, so he did, and then shipped me right off to boarding school at every opportunity. So you probably didn’t see much of me. When your mom died, I was away at school. And your father left Bougainvillea quickly after the accident.”

  “How strange. I don’t remember ever hearing about Sea Life.”

  David shrugged. “Your grandfather had passed away, and your father sold his share of the business to Seamus. Your dad truly adored your mother, and I think the only way he could see clear to raise you was to start over completely. So he severed all ties to the past.” He paused, shrugging. “That’s why I don’t practice law anymore…I wound up heavily involved in the family business. I’m also an avid amateur photographer, so…but, trust me, in business, that law degree always comes in handy.”

  Kit nodded, “Yes, I can well imagine,” she agreed, then shook her head, staring at him pointedly. “I’m grateful for the coffee, of course… But I’m not sure I understand why you’re here. Now. At—at this late date.”

  “I just heard Mark was gravely ill. And I didn’t know if he needed help. I knew, of course, that he had you, but I didn’t know if there was anything I could do. Mark was always so damned decent to me. Seamus was a tyrant. He gave me what I needed—the best education money could buy. While your father…” He shrugged, lifting a hand. “He took me fishing. Taught me to dive. He took me to movies, out waterskiing. The fun stuff.”

  “By chance did you come by my father’s room earlier?” Kit asked, remembering her dream.

  “No, why? Was someone there?”

  “I thought so. I’d fallen asleep…I might have been imagining things. I suppose it was the nurse.”

  David shrugged, then reached for her hand. “You know, I supplied the coffee, but you might be a godsend to me. I’d truly love to see your father. Could we go to him? If you don’t mind me with you?”

  “No…of course not. Except that…I’m not sure what good it will do you. The information you’ve been given is correct…he’s been in a coma for days now and it’s not likely that he’ll come out of it.”

  He bowed his head. She couldn’t see his features, or his reaction to her words.

  “I would appreciate any chance to see him.”

  “Then certainly, come with me.”

  Sherry rose when they entered the room, her eyes round as she met David. She was impressed to learn that he and Kit shared a strange history, and her look fully conveyed to Kit that she should see what she could do to bring the past up to the present.

  “Honey, your dad hasn’t moved, he’s hanging in. He’s due for another shot in a few minutes. And two of your friends called—Jen and Steve. Both just wanted to wish you well and said for you to call them if you needed anything, anything at all.”

  “Thanks, Sherry.” Kit gave the nurse a quick hug. Sherry bid her good-night, leaving her alone with her father and David Moore in the hospital room. David approached the bed. Kit watched his face, but the light in the room was so muted that she couldn’t read his expression. He took her father’s hand—the one without the IV needle.

  He stayed for several minutes without moving or talking, then gently released Mark Delaney’s hand and came to Kit. “I’ll leave you alone with him,” he told her softly. “This is your time, and I am intruding. But, please, when you’re up to it, give us a call. Bougainvillea is your heritage as well.” He produced a business card and handed it to her. “If you need any help—with arrangements, anything—please call.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “But thanks. And sometime… certainly, I will call.”

  He bid her goodbye, taking her hands. His were strong, powerful, and seemed to offer tremendous encouragement.

  “Thanks,” she told him.

  He left the room. Kit sat beside her father on the bed, taking his free hand in hers.


  Hours passed.

  She was nearly dozing again when she felt a squeeze against her fingers. She jerked to attention. Her father’s eyes remained closed, but his lips were moving.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” she said gently. “I’m here.”

  She leaned very close, trying to ascertain what his murmurings meant. She didn’t want him suffering any pain. But she couldn’t understand him.

  “I’m here, Dad, I’m here.”

  To her surprise, her father opened his eyes. Sharp, clear blue, they stared up at her for a fleeting moment.

  “Kit,” he said fitfully.

  “I’m here, Dad.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. So much.”

  He squeezed her hand again. His eyes closed, then opened again. They met hers.

  To her amazement, he whispered one word.

  “Bougainvillea.”

  His eyes closed again.

  His last word.

  * * *

  David Moore walked into the penthouse office. Seamus Delaney was seated at his desk, but his swivel chair was turned toward the windows that overlooked the city. The view was spectacular, south-southeastern, encompassing the brilliant, colorful lights of downtown Miami to the immediate east, and Coconut Grove to the south. The panoramic view offered expressways, glittering water, beautiful residential sections—and the slums that came with any big city, but which were nicely concealed by the dark shadows of night. Night helped hide the sins of the city. Darkness was always kind to what was wicked. Still, David loved the city. Seamus Delaney did, too. It was an unspoken but mutual bond between them.

  “You asked me to come,” David said.

  “Kit Delaney has yet to call, or appear.” Seamus kept his back to David.

  “Mark is barely cold in his grave,” David said.

  “I can read the papers…I saw his obit. He’s been dead almost a week now. What did you do, hang around Chicago?”

  “I went to the funeral.”

  “Was she surprised?”

  “She never saw me. I kept my distance.”

  “You should have asked her right then and there to come home with you.”

  “This isn’t her home.”