EMBER - Part Two (The EMBER Series Book 2) (4 page)

"I received the report from Dr. Foster." She skims through the stack of papers that are attached to the clipboard in her hand. "He says that you're recovering nicely."

He would say that. I'm not sure the man knows how to be impolite to anyone. When I saw him this morning after Dane and I said goodbye in front of the hospital, Ben had removed the cast before he examined my pale, shriveled wrist. He was hopeful and told me that I'd done everything by the book, which meant that soon I'd regain most of the strength in my left arm.

When he'd tenderly touched my side, I had grimaced slightly from the faint bite of pain that still lingers. He'd warned me to avoid marathons which only spurred me on to make a joke about taking too many taxis around the city, and when he finally told me I was free to go, I'd thanked him for taking such good care of me.

He winked and told me that according to Dane, I was capable of taking care of myself. I smiled at the reminder of how he values my independence before I'd left the hospital and taken the subway to the rehabilitation center.

"Bridget?"

I turn to look at the woman assigned to help me over this last hurdle in my recovery. "Yes?"

"My name is Harper."

"It's nice to meet you." I study her face. She's not much older than I am, but the air in which she carries herself makes it feel as though she has an entire decade of life experience on me. Her hair is black and cut in a short bob that skims her defined jawline. Her eyes are a striking shade of green. She's exotic looking and even though she's dressed in scrubs, I feel as though I pale in her shadow. She'd be perfect for…" I'd like to draw you."

"What?" Her lips part slightly in an even smile. "Did you just say you want to draw me?"

I glance at the papers in her hand before I catch her gaze again. This will be the first time I say it to anyone. "I'm an artist."

"You're an artist?" She grins wildly, revealing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. "I love art."

It's a broad statement but one I understand completely. I've been enamored with art, in its many forms, since I was a child. It's rare to meet someone who instantly brightens at the mention of it. "I do pencil portraits."

"Wait." Her hand leaps to my forearm. "Are you the girl who was hit by the police car?"

It's a label I'm hoping won't chase after me for my entire life but it's understandable that she'd make the association given the fact that I'm in her office with the intent of healing my broken wrist and I just told her I do pencil drawings. Images of my work had been splattered across the papers and the news sites online in the days following the accident.

"It is you." Her hand drops to her side. "I recognize you from the picture."

I'm not even going to ask if it she's making that connection based on that unforgiving image of me on the hood of the police car with my dress twisted around my thighs and my head nestled in a bed of broken glass.

"It's me," I confess. "I think you'd be perfect to draw."

"I'm honored that you'd ask me." The tone of her voice doesn't match the sentiment of the words. The fact that she takes a full step back only adds to my suspicions that the idea is making her completely uncomfortable.

"I wouldn't sell it if you're not okay with that," I try to reel her back in. "I just think your face captures so much. It has a story to tell."

Her gaze drops to the floor and for just an instant, I see her shoulders tremble. "I'll think about it."

I don't press for more than that. There are obvious secrets that she wants to keep hidden within herself and I'm not about to push this stranger to give me anything beyond the advice I need to get better. "What do I need to do for my wrist?"

Her entire body shifts with relief once she realizes I've changed the subject. Her index finger slides over the edge of the stack of papers. "I'll show you some light exercises you can do at home and then you'll come back in a few days. I'll evaluate your progress and we'll work our way up to more."

I nod in silence. I'll do whatever she needs me to do. I want to get back to work at the pub so I can move my life forward. I'm ready and as soon as my arm is completely healed, I'll be able to do it.

"There's a vacancy here in our building." Zoe fumbles in her purse. "I have the mailbox key in here somewhere. I can't find it."

I hold out my hands because we've run through this exact scenario before. She doesn't pull her gaze from the depths of her oversized handbag as she starts handing things to me including a package of tissues, a baby bottle, a tube of lipstick and a silver bracelet.

"What don't you have in there?" I peer into the bag.

"My mailbox key."

I laugh as I pull the items closer to me. Harper told me I could use my left hand but not to carry anything that had much weight to it. I try to balance all the items Zoe handed to me against my chest.

"Oh shit." Her eyes dart up to my hands. "You don't have a cast anymore. You can't hold all of that."

I shake my head in protest. I want her to see that I'm doing just fine but she scoops it all back into her bag in a single, swift movement. "Now you're never going to find the key."

"Beck can get the mail when he comes home." She motions towards the expansive lobby. "Do you want me to see if the super can show you the vacant apartment?"

Zoe is caring and kind and at moments like this I can't help but label her as naïve. I have no idea about the financial logistics of her marriage to Beck. I know that once they fell in love with each other, that she had moved into his penthouse apartment. The fact that it has a Park Avenue address means that regardless of how many drawings I might sell this year, I doubt that I'd be able to rent a foot square space in the lobby to stand on. There's no way in hell I can afford to live within a twenty block radius of this place.

"I have my eye on a place in Murray Hill."

"Are you going to have a roommate?"

I shake my head slightly as I wave to the doorman who just nodded at us. "I can live there alone. The rent is reasonable. It's a sublet."

"Is it better than where you're living now?"
              Considering the fact that Zoe used to be my roommate, I'd think she'd have held onto some fond memories of the place I live in. It may not be much to look at but it was my refuge when I arrived in Manhattan and it gave me a quiet and safe place to retire to when the city felt too big and overbearing for me.

"You used to live there too, Zoe," I point out as I fall in step beside her.

She pushes the call button for the elevator. "I miss it sometimes. I love my life now but I miss us hanging out the way we used to."

"You can come to my new place as soon as I move in," I offer as I follow her into the elevator. "I'll have you over for dinner."

"I'll bring the wine."

"You'll drink the wine," I tease.

"Can you feel it, Bridge?" She turns her head to the left to look right at me.

"Feel what?"

"You're on the cusp of great things." Her eyes dart up to follow the lighted pattern of the numbers as we race upwards. "Your life is about to change."

I do feel it and I couldn't be happier.

***

"What's going on with that woman?"

I know who she means. She's talking about Maisy.

When I agreed to come over to Zoe's place for lunch today it was with the sole intention of talking about my upcoming appearance on one of the local news shows. A reporter had left a message at the gallery yesterday, asking me to call him. I had and he wanted to do a human interest piece on me that included details about my life before the accident and my plans now that my drawings had grabbed the attention of so many people. I was both flattered and terrified by the proposition but when I'd called Zoe to run the idea past her, she'd insisted I call the reporter back and agree to the piece. She told me that any publicity would help my quest to further my career. I know she's right but I'm here for not only a sandwich, but also a pep talk on the side.

"What woman?" I ask knowing that it's only going to stall the inevitable for a few seconds.

"Maisy." She turns on her heel to face me. "That's the name of the woman your boyfriend almost married, right?"

Way to push the knife into my heart and twist it twice, Zoe.

I should correct her about the boyfriend part, but I don't. "There's nothing going on with her."

"Is he still living out of a suitcase?"

It's as if Zoe has sucked up all the worried energy from my mother and is now shooting it off in one hurried barb after another. "He's still figuring out his house stuff."

"It shouldn't take this long." She glances towards the hallway. "I asked around at the law office where I'm doing some intern work and everyone thinks it should have been settled by now especially since he owned the house himself."

I can't say that I'm shocked that she dragged my personal business into her workplace. It's all coming from a place of wanting to help but it makes me feel exposed and embarrassed. "I wish you wouldn't tell other people about my life."

"I worry about you." She turns back towards the counter and all the ingredients she pulled from the refrigerator. "Do you want lettuce on your sandwich?"

"I want you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"Bridget," she begins before she lowers the jar of mustard in her hand onto the counter. "I saw with my own two eyes how much he cares about you. He was torn to shreds in the waiting room that night but his last relationship isn't settled yet. I just want you to be careful."

I stare at her back willing her to turn so I can look at her face but she doesn't budge. "I'm being careful, Zoe. I know what I'm doing."

"I hope you do. Your body just went through hell. Don't let him hurt your heart."

I don't respond. I can't find the words to tell her that I'm being as careful as I can be but I'm feeling things I've never felt before.

"You're going to be on television?" Dane's dark eyes sweep over my face. "That's amazing."

It's more terrifying than amazing, but I'll do what I've been doing all week. I'll fake it until I make it, or in my case, I'll pretend to be totally fine with the prospect of standing in the gallery being interviewed for one of the local morning shows, even though I'm doubting whether I'll be able to pull it off.

I skim my hand over my forehead. "Can you still see all those cuts that were on my head?"

He pushes the empty plate in front of him aside as he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. "You're beautiful. There's not a mark on your face."

He's not the best person to ask how I look since he's so biased. When I'd arrived at this Italian restaurant, my hair was drenched, along with most of my body, from the torrential downpour. I had thought about grabbing an umbrella before I left my apartment to stop by the pub to talk to Elliott, but since my hand still isn't as strong as I need it to be, I'd decided that I'd tempt fate and venture into the outdoors with little more than a light sweater and hope. I should have taken the weather forecast more seriously. I guess when they say there's a ninety percent chance of rain, they actually mean it.

"This is a really important interview." I tap my foot against the tiled floor. "I want to showcase my work."

"Your work speaks for itself." He shifts his body so his back is now resting against the wooden chair. "I told you that people would love it."

He had told me that and it's one of the reasons why I'm about to go home to choose more images to frame for the gallery. Mrs. Boudreau called me earlier to tell me that two had been sold just today. As excited as I am to pick up the commission check she has waiting for me, I'm just as thrilled to know that my drawings are now hanging in someone's home or office.

"I'm still shocked at how well they're selling," I say truthfully as I push the fork in my hand on the edge of a piece of pasta in the bowl in front of me. "I'm going to get more exposure when I do the news piece."

"Is it just about your drawings?" He picks up the glass of red wine he ordered when he arrived. He's been nursing it slowly throughout our dinner. I finished my glass even before my entrée arrived. My nerves over the interview had craved the taste of it and before I knew it, I was feeling slightly light headed, but no less anxious.

I cup the fingers of my left hand in my right. "The reporter wants to talk about the night of the accident too."

"Are you okay with that?"

I hadn't considered the question until now. When I first had to face my parents after being hit by the police car, I'd been overcome with raw emotion. I understood the gravity of what had happened to me. I know that if the police officer hadn't slowed when he did, that I might have suffered life changing injuries, or worse. I get that.

Since that night, I've challenged myself to accept that I've been given a second chance. It may not appear that way to the people around me, but I'm stronger now than when I stepped off that curb. I can talk about it. I can recount it and I can honestly tell the reporter that my life has changed since that night.

"I'm fine with talking about it." I am and I don't want Dane to view me as a wounded bird who has yet to find her wings again. I'm back on track and now that I'm going to therapy, I'm going to be back working at the pub soon. Once that happens I can tuck away all the money I'm making on my drawings into my rainy day fund.

"Bridget," he says my name slowly before there's a thoughtful pause while he studies my face. "They're bound to ask why you were on the street. It was blocked off that night."

Everyone is bound to ask that and they have. I've always answered honestly which meant telling my parents, Zoe and even the doctors at the hospital that I was running towards a man I'd been seeing.

"I wanted to see you," I murmur, begrudgingly admitting that my overwhelming need to embrace him on the street that night had landed me in the ER.

His eyes drop to his lap and I feel bereft from the lack of a smile. He doesn't say anything at all.

"Dane?" I tap my right hand against the edge of the table. "What is it?"

He shakes his head only slightly and if I had blinked in that second, I would have missed the motion. "I feel guilty. It tears me up inside that you got hurt because of me."

"I got hurt because of me." I extend my right hand across the table. "I'm the one who stepped out onto the street."

"I've never felt as scared in my life, Bridget, as when I saw that car." He reaches for my hand, pulling it into his. "I just wanted to protect you."

I glance down at our hands, marveling in the way mine fits so perfectly in his. "We can protect each other. I'll help you and you can help me."

"Deal," he says quietly as he leans forward to glide his lips over my palm.

I smile at the sweet gesture even though inside I'm wondering if he's already protecting me from his past and the inevitable consequences it's going to have on our future.