The Color of Love

Chapter Four

A youngish-looking man with skin the color of cinnamon, a broad jaw lightly dusted with what looked like a day’s worth of beard, and a stethoscope slung around his neck appeared in the hall. The laminated badge clipped to the pocket of his maroon scrubs had a big MD in one corner. He glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand. “Is there anyone here with Henrietta Winfield?”

Derian shot to her feet. “We are.”

The doctor came forward and held out his hand. “I’m Jim Burns, one of the ICU residents.”

“Derian Winfield, Henrietta’s niece.” Derian gestured to Emily. “This is my…sister, Emily.”

Burns gave a perfunctory nod. “This is the first chance I’ve had to speak with anyone from the family. I apologize that you’ve been waiting so long.”

“I understand,” Derian said tightly. So Martin hadn’t bothered to ask about Henrietta’s condition. Probably hadn’t even visited her. She wondered why he’d come at all, but then, he’d want to see for himself she was incapacitated so he could plan his next campaign to force Henrietta out of the business. Tamping down the familiar surge of rage whenever Martin came to mind, she concentrated on what really mattered. “Can you tell us how she’s doing?”

“She’s stable and intermittently awake,” Burns said, “although heavily sedated at the moment. Her CPK and troponin”—he paused, catching himself—“sorry, her blood tests measuring cardiac injury are pretty conclusive. She had a substantial MI…heart attack…and the thallium scan, which is a test to show heart function, indicates a serious area of damage.”

A cold hand squeezed around Derian’s insides. “What does all that mean?”

“We’ve already started her on a fibrolytic agent—an intravenous drug to help break up the clots in her coronary arteries. The cardiologists will repeat her noninvasive cardiac tests, but there’s a very good possibility she’s going to need open-heart surgery within the next day or two to reverse the damage.”

“And then?” Emily asked, her voice steady and calm. “What’s the prognosis?”

Burns regarded her directly for the first time. “Very good, luckily. She got here fast, and we started treatment right away. With adequate reperfusion, the cardiac muscle will likely recover, and once the blood starts flowing again, the heart will return to a near-normal state.”

Emily’s shoulders relaxed. “So we can expect her to make a full recovery?”

“Barring complications, of course, and assuming she follows a reasonable cardiac care plan.”

Derian laughed shortly. “If that includes no stress and a slower pace, that’s not likely to happen.”

“Not uncommon in these patients,” Burns said, “and that’s exactly why surgery is the best approach. If everything goes well, your aunt won’t need to curtail her lifestyle.” He held up a cautionary finger. “However, she’s still going to need significant time to recover from the surgery, rehab, and work back into her full daily schedule. I take it she’s pretty active.”

Emily huffed. “A locomotive headed down a steep incline would be an apt comparison.”

He nodded. “Not surprising.”

“Can we see her?” Derian asked.

Burns glanced at his watch. “For a minute or two. The nurses will be busy getting vitals and labs in ten minutes, but…come with me.”

When Derian moved to follow him, Emily hesitated. Derian glanced back and held out her hand. “Come on, sis.”

Emily’s lips pressed together, the dancing light in her eyes saying she was suppressing laughter. She took Derian’s hand, hers smaller, soft and warm and firm. Without thinking, Derian threaded her fingers through Emily’s. The fit was so natural, she was momentarily disoriented. She wasn’t a hand-holder, but the flow of heat from Emily’s touch steadied her. Filing that disconcerting thought away as an anomaly due to the circumstances, she followed the medical resident down the hall to where he slapped a big red button the size of a dinner plate on the wall. The foreboding double metal doors with the tiny windows that blocked all view of what went on inside swung open with a hiss. She almost expected a warning sign above it: Abandon All Hope…

Derian shuddered. She was more tired than she’d thought.

Emily’s fingers tightened on hers. She was pale, and her eyes had widened, as if she too sensed the despair radiating from the sterile surroundings.

Her own discomfort fading in the face of Emily’s, Derian leaned close, her mouth near Emily’s ear. She caught the fragrance of coconut and vanilla. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Emily said, her voice tight. “I’m fine. Just a bad memory. Don’t worry.”

Derian wasn’t convinced. Emily looked shaken, and her distress tugged at Derian, awakening a fierce desire to ease Emily’s unhappiness that felt so right she didn’t bother to question it. “I’m right here.”

Emily turned away from the too-bright lights and righted herself in Derian’s intense, sympathetic gaze. Derian’s deep, sure voice—her comforting words—shut out the hum of machines and jumble of sounds that struck her like a tidal wave, threatening to pull her under. She wasn’t used to being championed or protected by anyone and, for a few seconds, she basked in the comfort of Derian’s unexpected chivalry. Feeling stronger, and slightly embarrassed, she squeezed Derian’s hand and reluctantly loosened her grip. “Thanks.”

Derian smiled, some of her tension easing away. “No problem.”

The ICU was a long narrow room with a wide central aisle. Beds occupied one wall, separated from one another by heavy white curtains. Opposite them, a bustling nurses’ station with a high counter that held beeping monitors, stacks of charts, and racks of test tubes bearing blood samples was staffed by a handful of men and women. Emily averted her gaze. Cold sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades, but she was steady again. Over a decade since she’d been in a place like this, but the memories were as fresh as yesterday. Her father and Pam in adjacent beds. Her mother gone. She released Derian’s hand completely, afraid she would transmit too much in that touch, afraid to lean too much on the strength Derian so casually offered.

Burns pulled back the curtain at the end of a hospital bed situated in the middle of the long line of beds. A tall, narrow table stood at the end of it covered with printouts and more tubes of blood. Henrietta lay beneath white sheets folded down to midchest, her exposed arms punctured at intervals with intravenous catheters. Red blood flowed out of the snaking tubes, tinted yellow fluids flowed in. Her eyes were closed, her breathing almost imperceptible beneath the covers, her body dwarfed by the IV stands and monitors bolted to the walls on either side of the bed. Tracings revealed the steady blips of the EKG, the smooth rhythmic peaks and valleys of blood pressure, the steady line of oxygen levels. All so familiar and so foreign at the same time.

Emily forced herself to take it all in. She owed it to Henrietta to lessen the horror by sharing it. After she focused and let herself see, she whispered, “She’s breathing on her own.”

“Yes. We took the breathing tube out a couple hours ago. She’s too alert to tolerate it,” Burns said softly.

“That’s so encouraging.” Emily glanced at Derian, whose dark gaze was fixed on Henrietta’s face. Of course the racing enthusiast, world-traveling adventurer would not be afraid to face down death, if that was at hand.

Derian must have felt her staring and smiled at her. “She’d probably pull it out if they left it in.”

“Go ahead,” Burns said. “You can talk to her. She’ll know you’re here.”

Emily hesitated while Derian slipped along the right side of the bed in the narrow space between the rails and the curtain, leaned over, and gripped Henrietta’s fingers below the tape and catheters. Emily eased up opposite her and grasped the rail.

“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.