The Promise of Change (22 page)

On the crowded southbound Piccadilly line, her mind was not where it should be: her upcoming meeting with Elizabeth. Instead it was on Alex. She was hurt that he didn’t tell her the truth, that he’d led her to believe it was all a coincidence, that he was merely a member of the cast, but was that the only reason she was upset?

She’d always had trouble accepting help. Even as a child, she’d stubbornly refused help tying her shoes, or doing her homework . . . or learning to ride her bike.

She thought if she didn’t do it by herself, without assistance from anyone, she hadn’t succeeded. This didn’t change as she grew older.

Was that part of the issue here? Did it really matter who produced the movie? Did it lessen her satisfaction of having written her first novel? After all, she likely wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t asked for Sam’s help.

Instead of making her doubt her success, his investment of time and money should reinforce her accomplishment. He loved her, but she didn’t think he would throw good money after bad if he didn’t believe in the project. He was too driven for that.

She also realized that she found great satisfaction in working with Alex. His insight into the characters she developed, his creativity in fleshing out the scenes, and his ability to lift the story from the pages of her book to make it compelling and real were a gift. They made a great team.

Then there was his acting. She could watch him all day, except for the romantic scenes with Brooke, and never tire of the experience. He was so . . . believable. Genuine. That was the word.

The train stopped at Green Park Station, but instead of emptying, more people got on, jostling for space in the tiny, crowded car. Reluctantly, she stepped closer to the man behind her.

There was still the little issue of trust. If they were going to have a relationship, she needed to know he was secure in her love for him that he could tell her anything.

Maybe that was her fault, too. Maybe he hadn’t told her because he was afraid she would react, well, exactly the way she did. She didn’t have the best track record with him. Clearly, she needed to work on her fight or flight response.

She groaned, eliciting an apprehensive look from the well-dressed businessman holding the strap above her head. She met his frown with a tentative smile, and he returned to his newspaper.

As soon as her meeting with Elizabeth was concluded, she’d call him. Of course she’d only get his voice mail, but she could at least tell him that she loved him and that she couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow.

That issue resolved for the moment, she pulled the fax copy of her contract for the book deal out of her tote. There were a few provisions she wanted to discuss with Elizabeth. She bet Elizabeth just loved having a former lawyer as a client.

The next stop was Hyde Park Corner, one more stop before Knightsbridge. The car’s doors opened, expelling most of its commuters, still not enough for Sarah to take a seat.

The train had barely pulled away from the station before a series of explosions shook the tracks, filling the car with acrid smoke. The train ground to a halt with an angry jolt.

Screams erupted, followed by deafening sirens. Sarah lost her grip on the handle and her world seemed to turn on its side. There was a sickening crack as her head hit the seat behind her. Just moments after landing on the floor of the train, someone fell on top of her, forcing the air out of her lungs with a
whoof.

Her last thoughts were of Alex, and regret. She wished she’d kissed him goodbye. Then darkness . . .

Alex paced his brother’s office, scrubbing his hand through his already disheveled hair. “Damn it, Robert! I’ve got to find her.”

“Calm down. We’ll find her. Just give my people time.” Robert walked over and closed his door on the chaos outside his office. People running about, phones ringing off the hook.

“You don’t understand, the last time we saw one another we’d had . . . words.” Alex sat down, his head in his hands.

Robert walked around his desk and, reaching out, tentatively touched his brother on the shoulder. “You love her, don’t you?”

“Oh God, Robert. I love her. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” He looked up at Robert, his face tense with worry and uncertainty.

Thoughtful, Robert sat in the chair next to Alex. This was a side of his brother he thought he’d never see. For his brother’s sake, he fervently hoped Sarah was safe.

She floated up from the murky depths to a shaft of light shimmering above her. It reminded her of summers spent in the tea-colored lake in front of the family’s vacation house.

Diving down to the lake’s gloomy depths, she would let the buoyancy slowly lift her to the surface, challenging herself to hold her breath. Only this time she didn’t feel the water’s weightlessness, only heaviness. Her body ached with the burden of gravity.

The light grew brighter, forming a pinpoint that sent a stabbing pain to the back of her head. She wanted to retreat into the darkness, away from the pain, but a sweet, familiar voice coaxed her up to the surface.

“Sarah. Sarah, sweetheart?” Alex sat beside her bed, urging for her to come to.

She felt someone squeeze her hand. Memories flashed through her brain, adding to the pain. Some memories were visual, others auditory, and still others olfactory. They were jumbled, out of order: acrid smoke burning her lungs before the air was forced out of them; a series of loud bangs; flickering lights; screams; violent lurching; pain; blackness.

“Sarah.” The sweet voice again, closer this time, tinged with concern. She wanted to comply, to respond. She wanted desperately to break from the confines of gravity, but it was too strong. Her eyelids felt as if they had been sealed shut.

“Allow her to come to on her own. Her brain will determine when it’s ready,” the nurse said as she came into the room.

“Alex.” Her voice was raw and scratchy. She swallowed, trying to clear her throat, but her mouth was so dry. He’s here, she thought. A tear leaked out, sliding down the side of her face. He still loves me.

Alex shot out of his seat as if he’d been ejected. “Sarah,” he breathed close to her ear.

He sounded relieved.

She groaned, and his voice grew anxious again. “Are you in pain?”

She ignored his question. She had more pressing matters. “Where am I? What happened?” She furrowed her brow and the pain in her head returned.

“You’re in hospital, Love. You don’t remember what happened?”

“No,” she replied, wincing again as she tried to remember.

“There was an accident on the Underground tube. From what the media reports have said, there was a massive power surge, causing a series of explosions. There was chaos at first, with rumors of a terrorist attack.”

Train. She vaguely remembered being on the train . . . going somewhere . . . the only thing she could really remember was the noise, the smoke, the pain.

“Mr. Fraser, please excuse me while I check her IV.”

He released her hand reluctantly before moving to the other side of the bed.

His hand was replaced by the gloved touch of the nurse. “How are you feeling, Ms. Edwards? Can you open your eyes for me?”

Sarah tried, but only succeeded with a couple of ineffectual blinks. The light was painful. Someone flipped the light switch, turning off the light, taking the sharper pain with it. “How’s that? Better?” the nurse asked kindly. She had no accent. American, Sarah wondered?

“Yes.” Her voice croaked again. “Could I have some water?” She opened her eyes, hesitantly at first. All she saw was a blurry face, surrounded by red hair. Blinking some more, the nurse came into focus. She had a plain, but kind, face, and her nose was covered in freckles. No offense to her, but she wasn’t who Sarah wanted to see. “Alex?”

“I’m here, Love.” Taking her unfettered hand, he held it to his lips. Though his brow was creased with worry, he wore a small smile.

Sarah was so relieved to see his dear, sweet face. A face she thought she’d never see again. Closing her eyes, she licked her dry lips. The nurse held a straw to her mouth, cautioning her to take small sips. It was so cool and sweet as it passed down her raw throat, she wanted to gulp it, but the nurse pulled the straw away.

“You can have more in a few minutes. The doctor will be in soon,” she said, stepping away from the bed.

“How long?” She hoped Alex understood her disjointed question. Her throat still burned.

“The accident was yesterday. You’ve only been out a little more than twenty-four hours.” He brushed his free hand tentatively across her cheek, his other still holding her hand.

“How many . . . hurt?” Another inarticulate question.

“About a hundred, but most were treated and released. Cuts, scrapes, things of that sort. Only a few were hospitalized.”

“Any . . . dead?”

“No. They’re saying it’s a miracle the injuries weren’t worse.”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Edwards.”

Sarah tried to turn her head in the direction of the voice, but the pain returned with a vengeance and the room tilted slightly.

“I’m the neurologist, Dr. Smithwick. It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling today?” He stood on the side of the bed opposite Alex, Sarah’s chart in his hand.

He appeared old enough to be her father, with a shock of white hair, and pale gray eyes. His face looked worn, but friendly.

Awake? Just barely. She felt like she could sink into the darkness again at any time. “Fine. My head hurts. My throat burns. My body aches.”

“Sounds about right. You’ve suffered a concussion. You’ve got a nasty bump at the base of your skull. Do you remember hitting your head?”

She winced as the memory of the sound of her head hitting . . . something . . . reverberated in her brain. “Yes.”

“Your throat is likely raw from the smoke inhalation. That should go away soon. You’re sore both from the fall and from cushioning the fall of a rather burly gentleman.”

The doctor had a lovely bedside manner and a pleasing sense of humor. Too bad Sarah didn’t feel like laughing.

“Do you remember anything about the accident?”

“Not really. Just disjointed images, sounds . . .” Her voice trailed off as she tried again to remember.

“Some level of memory may return, or it may not return at all. It’s nothing to worry about either way. Despite your harrowing ordeal, you are in good shape. Your head CT shows no signs of bleeding in the brain. No skull fracture.”

“That proves it,” she croaked, with a slight smile. “Becca always said I was hard-headed.”

“Well, in this case, I’m grateful for your hard head,” Alex said, a smile flickered around his mouth.

“X-rays are negative for any broken bones, just some pretty ugly bruises.” He put Sarah’s chart down, reached into his pocket and pulled out a pin light. “I’m just checking those baby . . . greens,” he said as he shined the light into her eyes.

Sarah winced.

“I’m sorry. I know the light is painful. It will only take a second.”

He finished his examination. “Everything looks fine. You may have some dizziness and headaches, possibly some memory loss of the events surrounding the accident, but otherwise, you should be fine. The light sensitivity will recede as well.”

He made notes in the chart. “We are going to keep you one more night for observation. If you feel nauseated,”—he turned to Alex—“if she seems uncharacteristically confused, or if her speech becomes slurred, let the nurse know right away. Any questions for me?” He looked at Sarah and then Alex.

“No. Thank you,” Sarah said.

“Can she have something to drink?” Alex asked. “She’s very thirsty.”

“Yes. I think we should stick with water for the time-being. See how she keeps that down. I’ll be back tomorrow before we release you.”

“Thank you, Dr. Smithwick.” Alex picked up the cup Sarah had been drinking from before and held the straw to her parched lips.

Grateful, she took the cup from him and carefully sipped the water as instructed by the nurse.

Alex leaned his hip against the bed watching her carefully. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of calling Rebecca and Ann. I rummaged around in your purse, I know,”—he held up his hands— “a woman’s purse is sacred, but I found your mobile and looked up their numbers . . .”

“Thank you.” She had hoped they would be blissfully unaware, but she supposed the story had been on the news, and they both knew she was supposed to be in London today, or rather, yesterday. “How did they react?” She could just imagine: Ann would be frantic, while Becca would be worried, but all business.

“Frantic and concerned. They’d tried calling you, but your battery separated from the phone, apparently when your purse hit the floor, so they couldn’t get you, which made them even more frantic. I assured them that you were okay, but of course they both offered to fly over. I told them I would leave that up to you.” He softly stroked her hand.

“I’m fine. They don’t need to leave their families to come over here.” They were both silent a moment.

“Tired?”

“You have no idea.” She tried to laugh, but winced instead. “But I want to talk to you.”

“Later. You need to rest. Would you like me to read to you?”

“You have nothing to read,” she said, pouting.

“All right, how about I recite to you then?” He flashed his brilliant smile.

“Okay. But I want you to lie next to me.”

“Sarah, I don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“Yes. It’s what I want.” She sounded like a toddler who wasn’t getting her way.

He chuckled, but lowered the bed rail and climbed in next to her, gingerly wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “What should I recite? Shakespeare?”

“Hmm, that would be lovely,” she answered drowsily.

He was silent, deciding which of the countless beautiful sonnets or soliloquies to select. He inhaled, and then in his beautiful voice, softly spoke the words of Sonnet 116:

“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no, it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.’”

Alex had chosen this poem deliberately. Even with her scrambled brains, it’s meaning was clear. True love–their love, was deep enough that circumstances, unkind words, or age would not disrupt it. He was right. They would work out their issues.

His silken voice continued, softer now as her eyelids fluttered closed.

“‘Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come: