The Color of Love (5 page)

Emily stared. “Ms. Win—Derian, please. You
have nothing to apologize for, under any circumstances, and certainly not
these.”

“I don’t agree, but I won’t argue with your
absolution.” Derian sighed. “I just tried to see my aunt and the attendants
tell me I have to wait half an hour until she can have more visitors.
Apparently my father just left.”

“Yes. You must have missed him by only a
minute or two.”

“Believe me, that’s not a hardship.” Emily
looked shocked but Derian didn’t bother to explain the last person she wanted
to see was Martin, and he probably reciprocated. She hadn’t told anyone she was
coming other than Aud, who wouldn’t bring it up with Martin or his family
unless she had to. “Do you have any word on Henrietta? How is she?”

Heat flared in Emily’s eyes and was quickly
extinguished. “No, I asked your father, but…”

Derian clenched her jaw. “I don’t suppose he
was very forthcoming.”

Emily managed to look sympathetic. “No, but
I’m sure he is very worried and has a lot on his mind.”

“And you’re very kind and diplomatic.”

“I wish I knew more.” Emily glanced down the
hall toward the ICU. “I’ve been trying to get word, but I’m not family and this
is the first time I’ve seen your father. Or…anyone.”

“She’s been in here for ten hours and he
hasn’t been by?” Fighting off a wave of fury, Derian closed her fist until her
nails bit into her palm and washed away the red haze clouding her thoughts.
“Still the same old bastard, I see.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Don’t worry. I know how things work. I got
here soon as I could.” Derian rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. “I didn’t
know she was sick. We haven’t talked in a while.”

“I’m not sure she was aware either. I think
she might have told me, had she known.”

“You’re close, then—I mean, friends?” Derian
tried to pinpoint the last time she and Henrietta had done more than exchange a
quick email. Last year before the race in Sochi? Time blurred, a repetitive
loop of hotels, soirées, and meaningless
conversations. Henrietta was the only person she ever really opened up to, and
she hadn’t done that in a very long time. If she had, she’d have to put words
to things she didn’t want to own.

“I think we are,” Emily said softly. “She
means the world to me—of course, we’re not fami—”

Derian scoffed. “Family is an overrated
concept. I’m glad you were with her. And I’m glad she has you.”

“You must’ve broken some kind of record
getting here—weren’t you somewhere in Europe?”

Emily gripped her forearm, an unexpectedly
comforting sensation. Derian regarded her curiously. “How did you know?”

Emily wasn’t about to confess that she often
followed celebrity news, mostly for entertainment and relaxation to break the
rigors of the concentrated work of screening manuscripts and studying
production layouts. Whenever Derian Winfield was mentioned, usually accompanied
by a photo of her with a race car or some glamorous woman, she took note. She’d
always thought Henrietta’s niece was attractive, but the glossy photos hadn’t
captured the shadows that swirled in the depths of her eyes or the sadness that
undercut the sharp edges of her words. “Perhaps Henrietta mentioned it.
Somewhere in Europe, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. Fortunately, I had access to a
plane.” Derian winced and took stock of her appearance. “Although I look somewhat
like a street person at the moment.”

“No,” Emily said with a faint laugh. “You
most certainly do not. You do look tired, though.”

Derian touched a finger beneath Emily’s chin
and tilted her head up. “And you look beyond tired. How long have you been
here?”

Emily stilled, the unfamiliar touch of
Derian’s hand streaking through her with the oddest blaze of heat and light.
She’d never realized tactile sensations could be in Technicolor. “I’ve been
here since Henrietta arrived. I rode in the ambulance. The EMTs were kind
enough to let me.”

Derian frowned. Realizing after an instant
she still cradled Emily’s face, she brushed her thumb gently over the tip of
her chin before drawing away. “Then I’m in your debt. As soon as I’ve seen her,
I’m taking you to get something to eat.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure you’ll
want to get together with your family.”

“No, that would be the last thing I want to
do.” Derian glanced toward the hall in the direction of the intensive care
unit. “The only member of my family I care about is in there.” She glanced back
at Emily. “You and I share that, I think.”

“Henrietta is easy to care about.”

“You see, I told you, you were diplomatic.”
Derian smiled. “Henrietta is a hard-ass, but she knows people. And when she
cares about you, she’s always on your side. If you’ve survived this long with
her, you’re tougher than you look.”

Emily ought to have been insulted, but she
laughed. She didn’t hear criticism in Derian’s voice and imagined there might
actually have been a hint of respect there. “I’ll have you know, I’m plenty
tough.”

“Then you’ll be tough enough to wait until
I’ve seen her. Agreed?”

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m glad Henrietta has you. She deserves
someone like you at her side.”

Emily found the statement odd and Derian’s
voice surprisingly wistful. All she knew of Henrietta’s niece was that she was
often referred to with raised eyebrows among the agency’s staff and had never
taken any interest in the business. The press made her out to be something of a
reckless, privileged playgirl. But whatever the rumors and innuendo regarding
Derian Winfield might be, she had dropped whatever she’d been doing and flown
halfway around the world to be by Henrietta’s side. And for that, she’d earned
Emily’s respect. Her curious urge to know what had put such pain in Derian’s
faraway gaze and the unexpected heat Derian’s touch ignited were something
altogether different.

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.