Here I Am

by Rochelle Alers

  “I really miss sleeping in my own bed,” he said.

  Ciara fluffed the pillows. “I can’t lower it like the hospital bed, but let’s see if you can get in and out of it without too much difficulty.”

  Brandt pushed the chair next to the bed, then hoisted himself up and onto the mattress with a minimum of effort and movement. “Piece of cake,” he whispered.

  “Cocky,” Ciara countered, reaching over and removing his casts before adjusting the many pillows behind his head and shoulders. “Do you have to use the bathroom before I leave?”

  He closed his eyes. “No, I’m good. But I’d appreciate it if you took off my shorts.”

  “What about your shirt?”

  He opened his eyes. “That, too.”

  Ciara knew it wasn’t easy for Brandt to ask her to dress and undress him. He may have been cocky, but he had more than his share of pride. However, there would come a time when he didn’t need her to do anything for him, and that would be when she would walk out of the penthouse and not look back. Clad in a pair of boxer-briefs, Brandt lay on his back while she pulled a sheet up to his chest.

  Reaching up, he caught her ponytail, rubbing the blunt-cut ends through his fingers. “What did you do to your hair?”

  “I flat-ironed it.”

  Brandt released her hair. “I like it when you wear it down.”

  “Maybe another time.” Ciara brushed a kiss over his mouth. “I’ll be back,” she said in her best Arnold Schwarzenegger Terminator imitation.

  Brandt cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss. “How did I get so lucky?”

  She went still, unable to form a comeback. The seconds ticked as they stared at each other. “I’ll come back and check on you after I finish putting dinner together.”

  “I’d like to eat on the roof.”

  “I think that can be arranged. Now please let me go so I can start dinner.”

  He winked at her. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Later, Brandt.”

  Ciara took a quick inventory of the food on hand to prepare the meal. She added half a dozen ears of corn to her rapidly increasing shopping list, along with white potatoes, carrots and green cabbage. Biting gently on the tip of her thumbnail, Ciara tried remembering what else she wanted to prepare before calling the building’s concierge to place her grocery order.

  Picking up the house phone, she dialed the extension for the concierge, identifying herself and telling the pleasant-sounding woman what she needed. That was easy, she thought, ending the call. Living in the luxury Wainwright high-rise definitely had its advantages. The tenants didn’t have to concern themselves with hailing taxis, signing for packages or building security. An added bonus was having the 24/7 concierge to arrange for drop-off and pick-up of dry cleaning and food shopping.

  Tonight she’d decided on a one-pot meal: jambalaya. After a few weeks of living with Brandt Wainwright she’d discovered there were very few things he didn’t eat. Ciara felt a warm glow through her. Brandt was good for her and she was good for him. If there had a different set of circumstances she would have possibly considered continuing their relationship after his full recovery.

  Flickering tea lights and votives, millions of stars dotting the clear nighttime sky and track lighting coming from the solarium provided the illumination for a relaxing evening on the rooftop oasis.

  Ciara felt cloistered, wrapped in a cocoon where noise, dirt and grime and the social ills that came with millions of people crowding together in a designated space were only figments of her imagination. She’d heard New Yorkers who hung out on the roofs of their apartment buildings refer to them as tar beaches. Eating dinner on the rooftop terrace, while listening to music coming from speakers in the solarium, she now had her own very private tar beach.

  Living with Brandt, albeit temporarily, had spoiled her. All she had to do was pick up a telephone and order most whatever she liked or wanted. Never had the schism between the haves and the have-nots been more apparent to her than now. What puzzled Ciara was despite their wealth, the Wainwrights—at least those she’d met—were ordinary people. They hadn’t affected airs of their own self-importance.

  She’d worked for families requesting private-duty nurses who, if they hadn’t owned the brownstones or townhouses or hadn’t leased magnificent rent-controlled apartments, would’ve been in homeless shelters, scratching out a daily existence. And because they’d wanted to maintain an image that had been so much a part of a long-ago lifestyle they either mortgaged their property or sold family heirlooms to keep up the facade. But even if Brandt hadn’t been born into a real-estate dynasty, he still would’ve been able to maintain his current lifestyle because he was a celebrity athlete.

  Sitting up and swinging her legs over the chaise, Ciara came to her feet. “I better get up before I find myself sleeping here all night.”

  Brandt’s rich laughter wafted in the warm night air. “I’ve done that a few times.” He handed plates, silver and serving pieces to Ciara as she began loading the serving cart. She’d concocted the best jambalaya he’d ever eaten. A pitcher of iced tea, brewed with oolong instead of the customary pekoe, and sweetened with honey, was an appropriate beverage complement to the spicy Cajun-inspired dish. “Do you need me to help you?”

  Ciara shook her head. “No. All I have to do is rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher. Why don’t you look after your plants? I’d noticed some of the leaves were turning brown.”

  “Are you certain you don’t need help?” he asked again.

  “I’m good here, Brandt. Go and take care of those pitiful-looking flowers before they die on you.”

  Brandt knew he’d neglected his plants. Before leaving for North Carolina he’d reprogrammed the watering timetable so a soft mist fell on the plants and flowers like in tropical rainforests. What he could never have imagined was returning to New York sitting in a wheelchair.

  Rolling away from the table, Brandt skillfully maneuvered the chair into the solarium. His gaze shifted to a row of clay pots overflowing with rose-pink cyclamen. There were a number of leaves with brown edges. Some men collected cars, stamps, coins, jewelry—a few he knew collected wives. For him it was plants, swords and antique firearms.

  The fascination with plants had begun with a fourth-grade science fair. His decision to build a terrarium was the spark that fueled an obsession that had continued into adulthood. He could identify different grasses, mosses, algae, ferns, poisonous and non-poisonous mushrooms, simple leaves and flowers with a cursory glance, and pruning and cultivating new varieties of plants and flowers filled him with a peace that he was unable to put into words.

  He had neglected not just his garden, but also his friends. Aziza had berated him for not returning her brother’s calls. His cell phone, which had been found in the wreckage of the Escalade, was returned to him along with his credit-card case. Both were in a plastic bag in a drawer in the kitchen. He made a mental note to get the phone and retrieve the messages.

  Chapter 13

  Ciara, removing husks and silk threads from ears of fresh corn, swayed gently to the music filling the kitchen from the built-in radio. She had gotten up early to marinate meat, boil potatoes and shred cabbage. Brandt had been assigned the task of cutting, dicing and chopping the ingredients that would go into the potato salad, slaw and baked beans. Her head popped up when he returned to the kitchen. He’d made a hasty retreat into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face after dicing onions.

  She smiled. “Are you all right, sport?” His eyes were red and slightly puffy.

  Brandt sniffled. “I’ll survive.”

  “I wished I’d known you were going to invite another person because I would’ve ordered more corn.”

  Brandt approached Ciara, resting his hand at her waist. “Don’t stress yourself, babe. We have more than enough food to feed five people.”

  “Have you forgotten that two of the five weigh at least two-fifty?” Brandt had invited one of his teammates t
o join them for dinner.

  “I’ve lost at least fifteen pounds since the accident, so I’m no longer two-fifty.”

  Ciara moved his hand up to her back after it slipped to her hips. “You can’t expect me to cook if you feel me up.”

  Brandt pressed his face to her side, pulling her down gently to sit on his lap. He tightened his hold on her waist when she attempted to free herself. “Don’t move.”

  She went pliant against his chest. Brandt claimed to have lost weight, but his body was still hard, rock-solid. The upbeat song ended and a soft instrumental piece dating from the seventies filled the kitchen. It was one of her mother’s favorites.

  Ciara closed her eyes, enjoying their closeness. They’d slept together without touching—Brandt on his back, legs extended, while she’d rolled over on her side in an attempt not to come into contact with his injured legs. She woke before he did, completed her morning ablutions, and when she’d returned to the bedroom, she found Brandt sitting in bed reading.

  “Had you always wanted to play football?”

  Brandt pressed his mouth to the bandana covering Ciara’s hair. She appeared incredibly young with her bare face, tank top and cutoffs. She’d elected not to wear her glasses, and when he looked at her he felt as if he were drowning in pools of liquid chocolate.

  “No,” he said after a comfortable pause. “It was something I sort of fell into my first year of college.”

  “Where did you go to college?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

  “Stanford. I was an economics major until I was bitten by the football bug. My roommate was a kid from Georgia and he teased me because I watched baseball. He claimed the only sport worth watching and playing was football. Earl was going to tryouts and convinced me to go along with him.”

  “What position were you going to play?

  Brandt chuckled. “I wasn’t going to play any position. I went along with Earl to offer him moral support. The coach saw that I was tall and looked strong, so he had me do twenty-five push-ups and sit-ups, then run the length of the football field twice. I did it without breathing heavily or breaking much of a sweat. What he didn’t know was that I’d always been a fitness fanatic, so his little test was like milk and Oreos—sweet!”

  Ciara placed her hands over the large ones pressed against her belly. “Show-off.”

  “You’re wrong. I would’ve been a show-off if I’d given him fifty push-ups and sit-ups, then run the length of the field three or four times. What I lacked in strength I made up with stamina. I got up every morning, rain or shine, to jog three miles.”

  “Did your roommate make the team?”

  “Yes. We were well-known on campus. I played defense my first year, but when our first-string quarterback was injured during practice, and the backup quarterback was on academic probation, the coach asked if I could step in. My first game I threw three touchdowns. And, as they say, the rest is history.”

  “Are you big for a quarterback?”

  Brandt nodded. “I’m heavier than most quarterbacks, but I use it to my advantage. It’s a lot harder to sack a six-five, two-hundred-fifty-pound quarterback than one who’s six-two and two-twenty. And if I can’t get off a pass, then I run with the ball.

  “My folks thought playing college football was just a phase until scouts from the NFL starting showing up to watch me. They panicked when I was selected as the Heisman Trophy runner-up and lost it completely when I was drafted in the first round. I witnessed my father losing his temper for the first time. When he threatened to withhold my trust fund until I turned thirty, I called his bluff and signed with the Giants. Meanwhile, my mother took to her bed. How was she going to explain to her fake-ass friends that her son had given up a plum position with his family-run real-estate company to become a common ballplayer?”

  “When did you declare a truce?”

  “It was just before I was scheduled to play my first pro game. I’d moved into an apartment near Battery Park, and my mother called asking if she and Dad could come to see me. Of course, I said yes. We reached a compromise. They would respect my career choice, and they wouldn’t pressure my brothers and sister to join Wainwright Developers. And I promised once I stopped playing ball I would consider joining the company.”

  Ciara smiled up at Brandt from lowered lids. “That’s a nice compromise.”

  “You win some and you lose some. But for me it’s a win-win.”

  “What happened to your friend Earl?”

  “He turned pro, but retired after five seasons because of too many concussions. He married a girl from New England, is the father of twin boys and went into business with his father-in-law. They own and operate a dairy farm in Vermont.”

  “It looks as if Earl found his happily ever after.”

  “The last time I spoke to him he said he was happier than a pig in…slop. Gotcha! You thought I was going to say shit, didn’t you?”

  Ciara held out her hand. “You played yourself, Wainwright. Pay up. You now owe the cuss jar ten dollars.”

  “How much do you owe?”

  “Not ten dollars, that’s for sure. You can only run a tab for just so long,” Ciara drawled, smiling. “Now it’s time to pay the piper.”

  Brandt’s hand moved up and covered her breast. “What if we negotiate an equal trade?”

  She frowned. “Don’t tell me that a man of your means doesn’t have ten dollars on him?”

  “Oh, I have a lot more than ten dollars.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Come with me.”

  Ciara slid off Brandt’s lap and walked alongside the chair as he rolled out of the kitchen to the elevator. She followed him off the elevator into his bedroom and to the walk-in closet with racks and shelves filled with suits, jackets, shirts and shoes.

  Reaching up, he placed his right hand on a metal plate with a dimmer switch that changed from red to green. A panel on the far wall slid back to reveal the steel door to a safe. Brandt punched in the code and opened the door. “Plants are my hobby, but I’m also a collector of antique firearms and swords.”

  Ciara moved closer, peering into the open safe. “Is one of your swords a Katana?”

  “Yes. I went to Japan and saw one being made, and I knew I had to have one. I placed an order and it came a year later.” Brandt opened a metal box and took out a stack of bills. He counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills. “I think this should cover me for the next month.”

  Not hesitating, Ciara took the crisp bills. She pushed them into the apron’s large patch pocket. “I have to decide whether to donate this to your favorite charity or mine.”

  “You know about my charity?”

  “I may not follow football, but I do know you’ve set up a foundation for high school kids where every complete pass is worth five hundred dollars and touchdowns are a thousand.”

  Brandt closed and locked the safe. “I’ve been accused of being self-serving, but I really don’t give a damn. Fans come to the stadium to see the Viking, and whenever I suit up I try and give them their money’s worth. I didn’t go into football to make money, but to entertain. Sporting events are entertainment, just like the circus. We wear costumes and put on a show for the spectators who come to see us perform.”

  “Have you always been this cynical about football, or have you changed since the accident?”

  Brandt smiled, flashing straight, white teeth. “Aha! Now I get to see the psychiatric nurse in action.”

  “I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you, Brandt. I merely asked a question.”

  He sobered when seeing her expression. Ciara wasn’t amused. “I play football because I enjoy it. When I stop enjoying it, then I’ll know it’s time to get out. I’m sitting in this wheelchair not because some three-hundred-pound linebacker landed on my legs, but because a deer picked the wrong time to cross the road. Am I angry with the deer? Hell, no, because I was in his habitat. Am I going to miss not playing this season? Hell, yeah!” He held up his hand. “Don’t
bother keeping count because I gave you enough money to cover this month and the next one.”

  “Keep cussin’ and it won’t last until the end of this month.” Brandt pantomimed zipping his mouth, and Ciara smiled at his antics. She didn’t know why, but she wasn’t able to remain angry or annoyed with him for any appreciable length of time. “Let’s go, sport. We still have work to do in the kitchen.”

  “I don’t mind helping you, but I’m not going to chop another onion.”

  “Come on, Brandt. Man up! You claim you watch the cooking channels, and I’m willing to bet you’ve never heard any of the chefs complaining about chopping onions.”

  Brandt shook his head. “Why did you have to go and attack my manhood?”

  “The word is challenge, darling,” she crooned.

  “Watch how you use that word,” Brandt countered. “When a woman calls me ‘darling’ I take it to mean she wants to kick what we have up a notch.”

  Ciara turned and walked out of the closet. “We can’t kick it any higher,” she said over her shoulder. “We’re living and sleeping together.”

  Brandt placed his hand on the plate. The green light was replaced with red and the panel slid closed. When Brandt had had the safe installed, the technician had programmed the open-and-close mechanism with fingerprint recognition. It could be reprogrammed with as many as three sets of fingerprints. In the event of an emergency his mother would be able to open the safe.

  Brandt wanted to tell Ciara she was wrong. There were other levels to take their relationship.

  After all, there was happily ever after.

  The elevator doors opened and Brandt smiled as Aziza preceded her husband and brother. Jordan placed a decorative shopping bag on the side table. He knew his cousin would bring his favorite wine.

  “Welcome. Forgive me if I don’t stand up.”

  Leaning over, Aziza brushed a light kiss over his cheek. “You’re really not a very good comedian.”

  He winked at her. “I thought I was being funny.”