Here I Am. Rochelle Alers
the radio to the playlist in his iPod. He’d left New York City before dawn in an attempt to avoid the morning rush, but had run out of luck when traffic came to a standstill between Baltimore and Washington, D.C. It had taken more than an hour before traffic began to move again.
When he’d stopped in Norfolk, Virginia, to eat a late breakfast and fill up his Escalade, the skies had opened up, with the rain coming down in torrents, flooding many of the local roads. Brandt had considered whether to spend the night in Norfolk or continue on to North Carolina. The decision was made for him when rays of sunlight broke through watery clouds.
The cell phone rang and he pushed a button on the Bluetooth. “Hello.”
“Hi, Brandt.”
He smiled. “Hey, Rissa. What’s up?”
“I did it. I gave Harper back his ring.”
Brandt lowered the volume on the music filling the SUV. “How did he take it?”
“He was upset, but there wasn’t much he could do with Sumner glaring at him. I’d told Mother, Daddy and Sumner what I’d planned to do, and Mother really shocked me when she said she was relieved.”
“You’re shi…you’re kidding me,” he said, before the profanity slipped out.
“No, I’m not. She admitted she found Harper a little too pushy, but hadn’t wanted to interfere.”
“It looks as if you underestimated Leona Wainwright.”
“I know. We’re going out for lunch and I’m going to order a burger with bacon, cheese and grilled onions. And, if I’m not too full I’ll down an order of steak fries.”
“Careful, little sister, or you’ll ruin your girlish figure.”
Clarissa’s lilting laugh came through the speaker. It had been a long time since Brandt had heard her laugh. “I lost whatever curves I used to have. But that’s all going to change. Right now it’s all about Clarissa Odette Wainwright.”
“That’s my girl.” The skies darkened again and within seconds rain splattered on the windshield. Brandt adjusted the speed of the windshield wipers.
“I want to apologize,” Clarissa said.
“What about?”
“Going off on you yesterday.”
“I’ve forgotten about it, so I want you to do the same.”
“Consider it done. I have to go, because you know how ticked Mother gets when she has to wait. Bye, and thanks, Brandt.”
“Any time, Rissa. Bye.” He ended the call, turned up the volume and settled back to concentrate on the rain-slicked road.
Brandt had begun spending more and more of his off-season time at his modest two-story, three-bedroom house in western North Carolina. He’d come to value the quiet of his retreat, where he took long walks along foot trails, learned to fly-fish from the locals and caught up on his reading. There were times when he’d believed spending so much time alone was turning his brain to mush. But whenever he returned to the endless noise and hustle and bustle of the city he appreciated the pristine wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains even more.
He’d purchased the property as a gift to himself for his twenty-ninth birthday. Over the next two years he’d rarely come down to spend time there during the off-season. Then last year everything changed. Not only had he come south several times during the year, but the visits went far beyond his regular weeklong stays. The first visit—a week after the Super Bowl—he’d found himself stranded when a storm downed power lines and trees, making it dangerous to drive on the rural roads.
Brandt thought himself blessed that he’d been able to survive for a week with his backup generator. The pantry had been stocked with essentials—powdered milk, eggs, canned soup—and the refrigerator and freezer had been stocked with vegetables, fruit, juice, meat and fish. He’d spent the time watching movies and reading. Even after the power was restored and the roads had been cleared, Brandt had come to value his privacy and appreciate his own company.
This time he planned to spend a week at the vacation retreat before returning to New York and preseason play. He’d participated in the team’s mini-camp several months ago, solidifying his position as the starting quarterback.
He maneuvered onto a two-lane county road. It was going to take longer to reach his destination, but he was sure not to encounter any traffic delays. The distinctive voice of Michael Bublé’s “Home” filled the interior of the SUV. One second Brandt was singing along, and a nanosecond later a large object appeared on the road in front of the Escalade. It was a deer. Brandt swerved to avoid hitting it, turned the steering wheel to the right and hit the brake. The thud of the deer landing on the hood sounded like an explosion as the SUV skidded off the road and came to a stop, colliding with a tree.
Brandt didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in the smashed car. He didn’t know what hurt more—the throbbing in his head, the burning in his jaw or the crushing pain in his legs.
“This is OnStar. We just received a signal that your air bag has deployed. Can you confirm you’ve been in an accident?”
Brandt heard the voice, but the pain in his jaw wouldn’t permit him to open his mouth except to mumble unintelligibly, “Help me.”
“Hold on. We’re sending someone to help you.”
He couldn’t count the number of times he’d been tackled, or felt the impact of the wind being knocked out of him. But that pain did not compare to what he felt in the lower part of his body. Each time he tried to move the pain intensified. Then he gave up altogether. The falling rain sounded a rhythmic beat on the roof of the SUV, and Brandt wondered if he could withstand the pain until help arrived. He drifted in and out of consciousness as the disembodied voice from OnStar continued to talk. The last thing he remembered was the sound of her soothing voice and the wail of sirens before he sank into a comfortable darkness without any pain.
When Brandt awoke in a hospital a day later, he learned that in his effort to avoid hitting the deer, he’d crashed his SUV into a tree and broken both legs in several places.
Brandt lay in a hospital bed in his penthouse suite, his legs in plaster casts. He’d spent nearly two weeks in an Asheville hospital before he was flown back to New York in a private jet. Instead of an outpatient rehabilitation facility, Brandt’s personal physician had recommended that he do his rehab therapy at home, since he had all the equipment he needed in his penthouse. The news that he would miss the upcoming football season was enough to send him into an emotional tailspin.
“Get out!” he shouted at the nurse who’d come into his bedroom. “Get the hell out and stay out! By the way, you’re fired!”
Leona waved to the startled woman. “It’s all right, dear. You can leave.” She got out of the chaise longue in the sitting area of the bedroom suite and walked over to the bed. Positioning her hands at her waist, she glared at her son. “That’s the second nurse you’ve fired this week.”
Brandt turned away, burying his face in the mound of pillows cradling his head. “Please leave me alone.”
“You can’t be left alone, Brandt.”
He closed his eyes. “Well, I don’t want her here.”
Leona threw her hands up in exasperation. Her fun-loving son had turned into an ogre. He’d refused to take telephone calls or have visitors, insisting that he didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. Leona had spent the past three days sleeping in the guest wing, but knew it was time to go home to take care of her own household.
She reached for the telephone on the bedside table, picked up the receiver and dialed the number to the private-nurse agency. Normally she would’ve made the call in another room, but Leona was past caring about Brandt’s feelings.
“This is Mrs. Leona Wainwright. I need you to send another nurse.”