Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,52
her grocery order.
Picking up the house phone, she dialed the extension for the concierge, identifying herself and telling the pleasant-sounding woman what she needed. That was easy, she thought, ending the call. Living in the luxury Wainwright high-rise definitely had its advantages. The tenants didn’t have to concern themselves with hailing taxis, signing for packages or building security. An added bonus was having the 24/7 concierge to arrange for drop-off and pick-up of dry cleaning and food shopping.
Tonight she’d decided on a one-pot meal: jambalaya. After a few weeks of living with Brandt Wainwright she’d discovered there were very few things he didn’t eat. Ciara felt a warm glow through her. Brandt was good for her and she was good for him. If there had a different set of circumstances she would have possibly considered continuing their relationship after his full recovery.
Flickering tea lights and votives, millions of stars dotting the clear nighttime sky and track lighting coming from the solarium provided the illumination for a relaxing evening on the rooftop oasis.
Ciara felt cloistered, wrapped in a cocoon where noise, dirt and grime and the social ills that came with millions of people crowding together in a designated space were only figments of her imagination. She’d heard New Yorkers who hung out on the roofs of their apartment buildings refer to them as tar beaches. Eating dinner on the rooftop terrace, while listening to music coming from speakers in the solarium, she now had her own very private tar beach.
Living with Brandt, albeit temporarily, had spoiled her. All she had to do was pick up a telephone and order most whatever she liked or wanted. Never had the schism between the haves and the have-nots been more apparent to her than now. What puzzled Ciara was despite their wealth, the Wainwrights—at least those she’d met—were ordinary people. They hadn’t affected airs of their own self-importance.
She’d worked for families requesting private-duty nurses who, if they hadn’t owned the brownstones or townhouses or hadn’t leased magnificent rent-controlled apartments, would’ve been in homeless shelters, scratching out a daily existence. And because they’d wanted to maintain an image that had been so much a part of a long-ago lifestyle they either mortgaged their property or sold family heirlooms to keep up the facade. But even if Brandt hadn’t been born into a real-estate dynasty, he still would’ve been able to maintain his current lifestyle because he was a celebrity athlete.
Sitting up and swinging her legs over the chaise, Ciara came to her feet. “I better get up before I find myself sleeping here all night.”
Brandt’s rich laughter wafted in the warm night air. “I’ve done that a few times.” He handed plates, silver and serving pieces to Ciara as she began loading the serving cart. She’d concocted the best jambalaya he’d ever eaten. A pitcher of iced tea, brewed with oolong instead of the customary pekoe, and sweetened with honey, was an appropriate beverage complement to the spicy Cajun-inspired dish. “Do you need me to help you?”
Ciara shook her head. “No. All I have to do is rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher. Why don’t you look after your plants? I’d noticed some of the leaves were turning brown.”
“Are you certain you don’t need help?” he asked again.
“I’m good here, Brandt. Go and take care of those pitiful-looking flowers before they die on you.”
Brandt knew he’d neglected his plants. Before leaving for North Carolina he’d reprogrammed the watering timetable so a soft mist fell on the plants and flowers like in tropical rainforests. What he could never have imagined was returning to New York sitting in a wheelchair.
Rolling away from the table, Brandt skillfully maneuvered the chair into the solarium. His gaze shifted to a row of clay pots overflowing with rose-pink cyclamen. There were a number of leaves with brown edges. Some men collected cars, stamps, coins, jewelry—a few he knew collected wives. For him it was plants, swords and antique firearms.
The fascination with plants had begun with a fourth-grade science fair. His decision to build a terrarium was the spark that fueled an obsession that had continued into adulthood. He could identify different grasses, mosses, algae, ferns, poisonous and non-poisonous mushrooms, simple leaves and flowers with a cursory glance, and pruning and cultivating new varieties of plants and flowers filled him with a peace that he was unable to put into words.
He had neglected not just his garden, but also his friends. Aziza had berated him for not returning her brother’s