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.”
“Mrs. Wainwright, are you aware that we’ve provided you with two excellent nurses this week? Is there a problem?”
She rolled her eyes at her son. “Yes. The patient is the problem.”
“If that’s the case, then we’ll send someone who is an expert in caring for difficult patients. You’re in luck, because she happens to be available. Her name is Ciara Dennison.”
“When can I expect her?”
“Let me call her, and I’ll call you back.”
Leona flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “Thank you.”
“I told you I don’t want anyone in my home,” Brandt snarled between clenched teeth after his mother had put the receiver back in the cradle.
“What you want really doesn’t matter, Brandt. You’re laid up with two broken legs and you need someone to help you get around, give you your medication and make certain you eat. If you want to lie there feeling sorry for yourself, then I’m going home. After you stew in your own waste for a few hours I’m certain you’ll change your mind about letting someone into your home. Make up your mind!”
Her words trailed off when the telephone rang. Leona picked it up on the first ring. She smiled. “Thank you very much.”
Propping himself up into a sitting position, Brandt reached around to adjust the pillows supporting his shoulders. “When is she coming?”
“Her name is Ciara Dennison and she’ll be here between one and two.”
Ciara Dennison had the advantage when she’d accepted the assignment as a private nurse for Brandt Wainwright. She knew who he was, but he knew nothing of her nursing skills or unorthodox bedside manner. The agency occasionally called her to deal with difficult patients, and she’d earned a reputation as a no-nonsense nurse who provided excellent care.
When the news broke that pro quarterback Brandt Wainwright had been involved in a car accident in North Carolina, the presumption on most sports news shows was that he’d been driving under the influence. Once it was confirmed that there were no drugs or alcohol in his system, it quieted the skeptics and the gossip.
Ciara arrived at a luxury high-rise overlooking the East River, paid the fare, got out of the cab and walked toward the entrance of the apartment building. As the doorman opened the door to the lobby, she was met with a blast of cool air.
“I’m Ciara Dennison. Mrs. Wainwright is expecting me.”
The tall, slightly built man smiled. “I’ll let her know you’re here and escort you to the elevator.” He reached for the intercom receiver under the lobby desk and punched in several numbers. “Ms. Dennison is on her way up.” Ciara followed the doorman past a bank of elevators
