“Well, that is some story,” said Kenneth Upton, the chairman of the National Milk Association. He and the association attorney sat across the conference room table from Brian, his attorney and his manager.
Brian had just finished reading the statement the three of them had crafted last night after Angela had spotted Andrew Brogg. The statement fell considerably short of what Brian had wanted to say, but covered the basics of his sight loss and the reasons for it, including his abuse of anabolic steroids early in his career. He steadily met Upton’s gaze, remembering how pleased he had been when they had offered him a position as spokesman four years earlier. His poster was featured prominently on the conference room wall with other celebrities far more famous than him.
“That’s all Mr. Upton has to say at this time,” said the association attorney. Brian turned his head slightly so he could see her. Her hair was styled in a smooth, severe cut and she was dressed in a black suit and red blouse that Brian knew was supposed to make her look powerful and invincible. A comparison to Angela’s soft eyes and the curling wisps of hair around her face feathered through his mind, a look he far preferred over this woman’s sophistication.
“We expected no more,” said Brian’s attorney, GilYork.
Personally, Brian would have preferred both of the attorneys and his manager to have taken a hike so he and Kenneth could have a conversation without everyone worried about protecting their respective positions. Had his sight been intact, a discussion over the fourth tee at Castle Pines Golf Club would have been about right.
Kenneth smiled slightly as though he’d had a similar thought, his expression far different than the stoic one of his attorney.
“How much sight do you have left?” he asked, his tone absent of the soft pseudo-sympathy that drove Brian nuts.
“Very little,” he replied. “I gave up driving a while ago.”
“But you don’t use a white cane yet,” the attorney said.
Brian turned his head so he could see her. “No. That would be going public with my sight loss, and I wasn’t ready for that.”
“And just how do we know all this is true?” she asked.
Brian nodded toward Gil. “Give her the copies of the medical records.”
Gil set his briefcase on the table and snapped it open, taking out a sheaf of papers. Pulling a pen from the inside pocket of his suit, he handed both to her. “Please sign the top sheet that you’ve received these and that this information is to be kept in confidence until after Brian has issued a press release.”
She read the cover sheet, drew a line through one phrase and initialed it, and said, “We’re not going to agree to wait a month.” She signed at the bottom. “If what you say is true, this secret is already out of the bag.”
“Yes, it probably is,” said Brian’s manager, Dwight Davidson. “We believe it’s in everyone’s best interests to wait—”
“For you to put a ‘positive spin’ on this?” the association attorney interrupted.
“You have my word we won’t leak this,” Kenneth said, standing. “But we all know how the media gets when it smells a story. So, my strong advice is for you to get your ducks lined up.”
“We’re doing our best.” Brian stood and offered the association president his hand. “I wanted you to hear this from me before it hits the papers.”
“I appreciate that.” He shook Brian’s hand.
“I want you to know…being your spokesman is something I’ve been proud of.”
The association attorney came around the end of the table. “You do realize this may alter our commitment—”
“We understand that,” Dwight interrupted the other attorney. “But we still expect to shoot the commercial next week as planned.”
“Might as well, since it’s already scheduled,” Kenneth said, tone mild. He nodded toward Brian. “And we’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll make a copy of this and be right back,” the association attorney said, waving the cover sheet.
“Good luck to you,” Kenneth said, following her down the hall.
Gil and Dwight made small talk while they waited for the attorney to return with the cover sheet. The instant they were out of the office and into the elevator, their demeanor changed.
“I told you this was a mistake,” Gil said as the elevator doors closed and the car began its descent.
“I thought it went pretty well,” Dwight said.
“Are you crazy?” Gil exclaimed. “Their counsel is going to be poring over the contract looking for the breach that we just provided. We’re going to be left holding the bag.”
“It was the right thing,” Brian said. “We all know what’s going to happen over the next couple of weeks if Andrew Brogg jumps to conclusions. It’s going to be a circus. And I want the fallout to be right here.” He tapped the middle of his chest. “If they want to go public with this first, I don’t care.”
“It could hurt your foundation,” Dwight said. “You’ve already got problems there thanks to the arrest of that kid—”
“That ‘kid’ has a name. Ivan Fletcher.”
“Dwight is right,” Gil added. “That ‘kid’s’ arrest is trouble, no matter how innocent he wants to make you think he is.”
“I think he’s telling the truth,” Brian said. He had personally talked with Ivan, shooting hoops with the kid in an effort to get him to relax and open up. He denied the accusation that he’d sold drugs to an undercover cop. His older brother and two other young men had been arrested along with Ivan, so Brian figured the cops had decided he was guilty by association.
“That’s because he reminds you of yourself, by your own admission,” Dwight said as the elevator came to a stop.
“You can’t compete with the lure of gang life and easy money,” Gil added.
“Don’t be telling me I’m on a fool’s mission,” Brian said, stepping out of the elevator and facing the two men. He’d been listening to variations of the same warning since he’d first started the program. One of its risks came with working with kids from low-income families and a rough-around-the-edges life. “I don’t want to hear it.” He looked around the big lobby of the building, a bank on one side and a Starbucks on the other. “Do you see Sam?”
“Right there in front of the Starbucks,” Gil said.
Brian turned his head twice before spotting him, the black void larger than his field of vision. He looked back at Dwight and Gil, knowing both men were doing their jobs in trying to protect him with their dire warnings about coming clean with the NMA and about Ivan Fletcher. “Thanks for coming with me today.” He tapped Gil on the shoulder. “And stop worrying.”
“You pay me to worry.” He waved, moving away. “Talk to you in a couple of days.”
“Two words for you,” Dwight said.
“Only two?”
The manager grinned. “I’m running late, so yeah, only two. Get the mess with Ivan straightened out.” He took a breath. “And don’t underestimate Andrew Brogg. He’s mean to the bone, and he’s got a particular grudge against celebrity athletes.”
Doing her best to clear her mind of the disastrous meeting with Andrew Brogg, Angela drove up the winding driveway of Brian’s home, which was in a gated community southwest of downtown. Far better to think of Rachel, who had surprised her last night by inviting her to Thanksgiving dinner. Though she and Rachel had once catered to wealthy clients in Aspen, it had been a long time since she had been in so grand a neighborhood.
“Would you look at that?” she murmured when the house came into view. French-inspired architecture took advantage of the view of Mount Evans, which rose west of Denver. In the morning light it was brilliant with a recent snowfall, and it took no leap of imagination to visualize this home in the Alps instead of a few miles outside of Denver. She parked the car and got out, taking in every detail that she could. She had imagined Brian living in a house that had modern, clean lines rather than this one that inspired visions of a French château. Opening the door for Jasper, she looked back the way she had come. The yard was inviting and surprisingly cozy given its scale.
What drew her attention, though, was a Nativity scene that looked so lifelike Angela first thought she was looking at real people. The tableau had been set up so it faced the house. She turned her head toward it, wondering if the window that overlooked this area was the breakfast room. And she admitted it surprised her since Brian hadn’t struck her as a religious man.
The house itself was decked out in Christmas splendor, including pungent cut evergreens artfully arranged in a window box and a simple wreath on the front door, which was recessed inside a circular entryway. The place was one of the most beautiful homes she had ever seen.
Her smile faded as she thought of the man it belonged to—a man who wouldn’t be able to see its splendor much longer.
She rang the bell and heard the chimes ringing inside.
Next to her, Jasper cocked his head as though listening to sounds from inside that she couldn’t hear. After a long minute, she rang the bell once more.
When no one came to the door after another minute, Angela tried the door, which, to her surprise, opened.
“Hello,” she called, stepping into the foyer. “Is anyone home?”
No sound but the echo of her own voice. The foyer was huge and so perfectly put together it could have been featured in Architectural Digest. As she called again, she fleetingly wondered if anyone played the grand piano tucked beneath the arching staircase or if it was purely ornamental.
Next to her Jasper whined softly, his attention fixed on a hallway off to the left.
“Brian?”
“I’m in the kitchen.”
She followed the sound of his voice, going through a butler’s pantry next to a dining room that would comfortably seat twenty and into the kitchen. It and the adjoining, sunlit and inviting breakfast area, were easily as big as her whole house. She didn’t see Brian.
“Where are you?”
His head came up from behind a large island in the middle of the room, his expression filled with frustration.
“Hi,” she said, coming around the corner. Broken china was scattered across the ceramic tile floor. He was on his hands and knees, sweeping up the shards. A plant was lying on its side, the pot broken and soil spilling onto the floor. Of more concern was blood smeared over the floor.
“Stay,” she said to Jasper, making sure he was well away from the shards spread across the floor. She knelt next to Brian, picking up pieces of the china and dropping them in the wastebasket. “You look like you could use some moral support.”
He gave a quick bark of laughter. “That’s an understatement.”
“Are you hurt?”
He shook his head even as she saw blood dripping from a cut on his hand.
“You’re bleeding.”
He brought his hand in front of his face, a sure sign to her that his sight was nearly gone. He stood and moved toward the sink, his mouth tight with irritation, blood dripping along the way and shards crunching under his feet. At least he wasn’t barefoot.
He yanked open a drawer, and, seeing that wash-cloths were neatly stacked inside, Angela reached for one, then his hand. “You need some pressure on this, but first let’s make sure the wound is clean.”
“I can do it,” he snapped.
This wasn’t the first time she’d had a client be upset with a situation surrounding the loss of control that came with a disability. This was, though, the first time the irritation felt personal.
“Fine.” She took a step away from him. “Where do you keep the broom?”
“My mess, my problem,” he said.
“True, but yelling at me and pushing me away doesn’t help.” She wanted to soothe the tension radiating from him but had the feeling he was spoiling for a fight. “Take your pick. Let me help you bandage up your hand or sweep the floor.”
He turned toward her, and her sympathy for him grew as she watched him search for her before his gaze lit on her. “Since I’m unlikely to bleed to death…” He sighed as though what he was about to say didn’t please him. “The broom is in a closet in the laundry room.” He waved at a door on the far side of the room.
“Stay,” she said to Jasper as she headed for the closed door.
Brian watched her go before turning his attention back to the cut on the side of his hand. He probed at it, satisfying himself that nothing was in the cut. Applying pressure to the cut, he turned around and looked at the mess he had created. What he could see of it was revealed to him in small bits as he slowly turned his head, his vision gone except for a tiny hole that was like looking through a hole about the size of a nickel.
His remaining vision was a fraction of what it had been when he’d gone to bed last night. He hated that his sight was nearly gone, and his chest had felt like he was buried beneath a couple of NFL tackles all day. He hadn’t told his grandparents about the sudden reduction in his vision, but he’d put in a call to the ophthalmologist shortly after they had left for their weekly lunch date with a retired crony of Gramps’s. The ophthalmologist had reminded him they had talked about how his sight could stabilize or be gone within a few days.
Brian knew now that it would be gone soon. The out-of-control feeling that had been spiraling like a wild Slinky toy tumbling down the stairs made his palms sweat and his heart pound. And it didn’t go away no matter how much he pretended he was fine. He wasn’t prepared for this.
He heard Angela returning to the kitchen and lifted his head to find her. She looked in his direction, and though he couldn’t see the broom, he heard the swish of it on the floor.
“What happened?” she asked a moment later.
“I was getting the Christmas dishes out of the top shelf of the cabinet and I slipped,” he said, wishing he had ignored Nonnie’s request to get them down. “My grandmother is going to kill me.”
“These were hers?” Angela asked.
“Were?” He shook his head. “They still are. My grandparents live here with me. These dishes have been her pride and joy every year for as long as I can remember. Each Christmas she’d buy another place setting.” Vividly, he remembered the year he’d saved enough of his allowance to purchase her a set of salt and pepper shakers, and he wondered if they had been among the casualties when he had lost his balance and dropped the dinner plates.
He couldn’t hear the broom, so he turned his head until he found Angela, who wasn’t sweeping, but instead was watching him.
“What?” he asked.
“Do your parents live here, too?” she asked.
“No.”
She started sweeping again. “I think this pattern is open stock.”
“You think?”
“I can make the call for you, if you want.”
Some of the pressure in his chest eased. “I’d appreciate that.” He hadn’t gotten that far in his thinking. The china was expensive enough that it had been collected over many years. Ironically, he could afford to buy Nonnie whatever she wanted…and though he intended to do that, he knew it wouldn’t be the same since she knew the origin of every chip and scratch.
“How long have your grandparents lived here?”
He heard the tinkling sound that indicated she had swept the china into the dustpan and dumped it in the wastebasket.
“Since I bought the house. They raised me,” he said.
“My mother died when I was seven,” she said.
He lifted his head to look at her, unable to see anything of her expression since her head was bent.
A moment later she raised it, her face pink, her gaze seeking his. “I didn’t mean to tell you that. You know—make it sound like my childhood was worse than yours. I just meant that I know what that might have felt like.”
“Mine abandoned me. She didn’t get around to dying until I was in college.” He had no idea why he was telling her this. He didn’t talk about his mother. “If that sounds bitter, well, that’s just the way it is.”
“I remember feeling that way.” She picked up several shards of china that were under the kick plate next to the sink. “Do you want the stuff in the wastebasket taken to the garbage can?”
“I can do it,” he said.
She stared at him without saying a word, and he stared back at her through the small hole of his vision. Sighing, he gave in. “It’s in the back of the garage.”
She smiled. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” She headed once more toward the hallway. “Take a load off and talk to Jasper.”
Brian had forgotten about the dog, which embarrassed him. He found the dog lying on the floor next to the table. He crossed the room and pulled out a chair. “You’ve been a patient boy,” he told the dog, who rose to a sitting position when Brian sat down. He hadn’t given a bit of thought to the potential dangers all this glass represented. That fast, the constriction in his chest was back. He hadn’t considered the responsibility of making sure the dog was safe, or the hazards a simple thing like broken glass could present to the animal.
Mostly though, his mind remained on Angela’s confession about her mother’s death. He stood, his attention fixed on the hallway, waiting for the moment when she would appear out of the dark void and into his line of vision.
At once, there she was, her light brown hair mussed in comparison to the sleek sophistication of the National Milk Association attorney. Angela smiled when she realized he was watching her, and he absorbed everything about the expression. He could spend a lifetime studying the nuance of her expressions. Except he didn’t have a lifetime. He might have only today.
“When did you stop being bitter?” he asked, knowing his tone sounded too demanding but needing to know.
“When I stopped living in the past.”
Her answer was immediate, automatic.
“That simple?”
She chuckled, and he realized she often did at his direct questions instead of taking offense as most people he knew would have. “Simple? Yes. But not easy. The simple things rarely are.”
“How did she die?” He knew the question sounded too blunt, too intrusive, but he wanted to know what made her tick, where her seemingly deep reservoir of calm came from.
“Leukemia.” Angela raised her head and looked outside.
Brian followed her line of vision and saw that she was looking at the Nativity scene in the side yard.
“The funny thing is,” she continued, “that I didn’t know until after I was an adult and read her death certificate. I don’t remember her being sick until about two or three weeks before she died. One day she was there, and the next she was in the hospital, and right after that she was gone.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy expression, but one turned inward. “And since Dad stopped eating dinner with me after that, I was sure her dying was my fault and that was why he never came home.”
Her lips tightened as though she had revealed more than she intended. Brian watched her as she sat down, relating to what she’d said since his mother hadn’t loved him enough to stick around.
“And so, the obvious answer to that was to be in control.” She lifted her head then and looked at him. “Make sure no one can ever make me that vulnerable again.”
Her eyes were bright with emotion, and his own felt gritty with it. She could have been talking about him.