Chapter 20
“Sorry, Ma’am, but only one visitor is allowed back.”
“I am her one visitor,” Camille retorts, fighting to keep her emotions in check. It’s been too long of a day. “I talked to her parents on the way here. They’re at her house getting a bag packed with all the stuff she’s wanting. I should have a good hour with her before they make it back.”
The young woman in scrubs behind the hospital’s reception counter shakes her head. “Ms. Sykes already has a visitor with her.”
This is it. She’s about to reach her breaking point. With her luck, she’ll end up in the psych ward. Don’t all hospitals have those? “Can you at least tell me how she’s doing? She isn’t answering her phone. I need to see her.”
It’s a fight to keep it together. The failed trip, Evelyn’s injury, the last-minute conference that she’ll no doubt have to attend alone, and now she can’t even see her best friend. She sniffs back snot as it fills her sinuses.
The nurse gives her a sympathetic look, and Camille assumes she’s probably used to seeing emotionally fragile people. She rises from her seat. It dawns on Camille as the woman walks to the open door behind the reception counter that whoever she’s speaking to could be security or the person in charge of admitting to the psych ward. The young woman straightens, returning to Camille.
This is it. I’ve never been kicked out of a hospital before.
A large woman emerges from around the door. Camille takes one look at the lady’s scrubs, the thoughts in her head changing. I’ve never seen the inside of a psych ward either. Camille holds her breath and wonders what one has to say to get out of being admitted involuntarily. I’m not crazy. I just want to see my friend. The woman takes a right toward the electronic doors down the hall.
“She’s going to let her know that you’re here,” the nurse behind the counter says gently. “You can have a seat.”
Camille eyes the woman disappearing behind the sliding doors and wonders if the nurse is telling the truth. She could be going to get a male nurse to help sedate her. Reluctantly, Camille collapses into a chair a few seats away from a man doubled over with his elbows on his knees, holding a barf bag inches from his mouth. She can tell that he’s waiting for it to happen, and she doesn’t care.
Sure enough, when she looks back at the hospital doors, the woman is already walking out, a petite blonde nurse behind her. At least it’s a female nurse and not some burly male nurse. Camille looks her over. She could totally overpower her if it came down to it. The heavier-set woman stops at the reception desk, pointing the nurse to Camille.
“Ms. Lee,” the nurse says, hurrying up to her.
Camille stands. “Yes?”
“Come with me.”
The nurse spins around, jetting right back to the doors she’d just walked out of. For little legs, the nurse sure can move. Camille has to nearly jog to keep up. They walk through the doors, and the nurse points at the sink on the wall.
“Hands and wrists,” she instructs, stopping at the end of the sink to give her an impatient stare.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A quick, thorough, sudsy wash, and she’s following through another set of doors, drying her hands off on a paper towel. The patient rooms are divided into two hallways that meet at the nurses’ station directly ahead of them.
Camille frowns at the nurse when she sees her going straight to the mounted hand sanitizer pump on the wall. “Hey, why couldn’t I use that?”
A dollop of foam drops into the nurse’s hand. She glances back at Camille. “You can use it, but you still have to wash your hands when you come in.” The nurse rubs the hand sanitizer in with both hands. Camille stares at her, silently reminding herself that she could still end up in the psych ward if she pisses the nurse off by pointing out that hand sanitizer must be pretty effective if she’s using it instead of washing her own hands.
“Third room on the left. Try to be quiet, she’s resting.” The nurse veers off down the hallway.
“But I thought she had a visitor with her,” Camille begins, but the nurse is on the move veering off down the opposite hall. “Wait,” Camille calls, “can you tell me how she’s doing?”
The nurse looks over her shoulder. “She’ll make it. No worries.”
“No worries,” Camille repeats under her breath, wishing it were true. She practices her calm face. You can get through this…I’m here for you. What do I do at the meeting Monday if you can’t make it?
Rounding the corner into the third room, she stops inside the doorway. Evelyn is passed out in her bed with her mouth drooping open. Her left arm is wrapped up, resting on top of a pillow they have lying at her side. It’s bandaged from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder. The small room is empty besides Evelyn, and the machines attached to her. So much for having a visitor, but maybe one of their girlfriends is here, and they went to the cafeteria or something. Evelyn easily could have called Jasmin or Gretchen to come and sit with her. Jasmin would be who Camille would call if Evelyn couldn’t make it. Something about the stories Jasmin tells about her family back home in China always has a way of taking her mind off life’s daily stresses. She sure could use one of those stories right about now…
“Let me know about the room situation,” a male voice is saying in the hallway.
Camille freezes.
“The surgeon should be here by morning.” Footsteps stop in the doorway behind her.
She turns around to see Wade standing next to a doctor.
“Can you give us a minute?” Wade says to him.
“Of course,” the doctor nods, continuing his path down the hall.
Wade takes a cautious step closer. Camille watches his Adam’s apple pulse as he swallows. “How was your flight?”
His eyes find hers.
“Why are you here?”
His eyes flicker past her a brief second to Evelyn. “I came over to check on her once I got in.”
She squints her eyes at him, heat rising to her cheeks. “You came to close the deal with her when you realized I wasn’t going to sign.” She shakes her head at him. “Too bad I own half of Integrity Heights.”
“It’s not like that—”
“Don’t,” Camille says over him, her words louder than she’d intended, “I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I’ve already discussed it with Evelyn. We’ve already set up another meeting with the Lichtenstein brothers.”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it.
Camille shakes her head as tears begin to pour from her eyes. “Just leave.”
He raises his hands, reaching for her shoulders.
She pulls back before he can touch her. “Go.”
Camille goes to the foot of Evelyn’s bed and doesn’t look back. She stares down at Evelyn’s feet under the thin hospital covers. Several long minutes pass before she hears Wade walk away. Evelyn’s feet rub together under the covers.
“He came here for you, you know.”
Camille’s gaze moves up to Evelyn’s face. “You’re awake.”
Evelyn shifts uncomfortably, trying not to move her left arm. “You were yelling. You should have let him talk.”
“I wasn’t yelling.” Camille rolls her eyes, walking around to Evelyn’s uninjured right hand. “How are you feeling?”
“As good as I look, I reckon. Your Mr. Bloom called me asking about you shortly after they started rewrapping my arm. It took me a little while before I was able to call him back.”
“You told him to come here?”
“No,” Evelyn says slowly, “he wanted to know where you’d be going once you landed.”
“What he wanted,” Camille says, “was to talk himself back into our good graces.” She gently squeezes Evelyn’s hand. “But it doesn’t matter.” She glances over at her arm. “How’s your arm?”
Evelyn forces a grin. The act seems to take some effort on her part. “The blisters are pretty impressive, but I wouldn’t recommend being splashed with hot grease if you can avoid it. The pain medicine they give you only lessens the throbbing, burning sensation. Nothing seems to fully alleviate it.”
Camille grimaces.
Evelyn exhales, glancing at her injured arm. “But at least it only hurts when I’m awake.”
“I’ll mark the hot grease bath off of my list of things to do today,” Camille says, forcing a chuckle. “Have they told you how long you’ll have to be in the hospital?”
“Another night for sure. Longer if there are any signs of an infection. Silly me didn’t think about it when I threw a dirty dishtowel over my arm after it happened. I thought I was going to have a reptile arm, but,” she raises her brows at Camille, “your boy toy showed up, and now I have a specialist flying in from Chicago.”
Camille purses her lips, looking at Evelyn’s hand in hers. “Your burns must be pretty bad if they’re calling in a specialist from out of state.”
Evelyn squeezes Camille’s hand, causing Camille to meet her gaze. “Wade is the one flying him out, Cammy. He’s the one who found the guy.”
“That’s great,” Camille murmurs, using her free hand to whip her face.
Evelyn shakes Camille’s hand. “You look tired. My parents will be back tomorrow and so will the specialist. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?”
“I’m not going to leave you.”
“Coming to you as a friend,” Evelyn scrunches her nose, “you should really take a shower and change out of those sweats. You aren’t in college anymore.”
Camille releases Evelyn’s hand to step back from the bed.
“I’ll have you know these sweats were handpicked by the owner of a multibillion-dollar company.” She runs her hand across the soft fabric on her belly.
Evelyn stares at her, unimpressed. “I’m sure they’re great. They just … don’t look that great. Go home, drop off your stuff, get cleaned up, and if you still want to stay the night in a boring hospital, by all means, come back.”
Camille leans down, planting a kiss on her best friend’s temple.
“Okay fine,” she relents. “I’ll drop off my luggage, take a shower, and be right back.” She walks around to the foot of the bed and sees Evelyn breaking out into a smile as she watches her go. “They must be giving you some really good drugs.”
“They are,” Evelyn admits, wincing a little as she presses the button to incline the back of her bed. “Make sure to call me when you get there.”
“Are you wanting me to pick you up food or something?”
“No, my parents should be getting me everything I need,” Evelyn says, toning down her smile, “well, maybe, but just call me when you get there.”
Camille nods, wondering how much pain medicine it takes for a burn patient to smile.
Camille grimaces as she lifts her luggage out of the trunk of her car, her bags feeling exceptionally heavy compared to how they felt this morning. A delivery man carrying a large vase of red roses is already waiting for the elevator inside her apartment complex. She stops beside him, inhaling deeply.
“Those smell lovely,” she exhales.
The delivery man looks over the bouquet in his hands. “Two dozen Mister Lincolns better smell good.” The elevator door opens, and they step inside.
“Never knew roses were called anything other than roses,” Camille admits, pressing the button for the fourth floor. “What floor?”
He looks at the button already lit on the panel. “Same as you.” He turns his attention back to the flowers. “There’s all kinds of roses, hybrid reds have a more pungent fragrance, but as far a beauty, besides the Gertrudes, Lincolns are my favorite.”
Camille nods along as if she knows what he’s talking about. On the fourth floor, the florist lets her exit first as she pulls her luggage. She takes a right out of the elevator and hears him behind her. As they get closer to Camille’s apartment, she slows.
“Who’s the lucky apartment?” she asks, glancing back at the delivery man.
He doesn’t even have to look at the card on the bouquet. “419.”
Camille stops and faces him. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” he grins.
“I’m 419.”
He looks her up and down, surprised. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” she repeats, looking him over with heightened interest. Who would be sending her flowers?
He stops in front of her, her apartment door only a few feet behind her.
“I’ll take them,” she offers.
“You got some sort of I.D.?” he asks.
Camille narrows her eyes. “I don’t care how many of Mister Lincolns roses you’ve got. I’m not going to give a stranger my I.D.”
The man stares at her, and for a long minute, they stand in a deadlock.
“Look, this is my last bouquet. I’m not about to mess it up, but if you got the key that fits the door to 419, then it’s yours. How does that sound?”
Camille gives him a hard look. “It sounds like a good line for a serial killer.”
“Pfft, a serial killer wouldn’t buy the most expensive roses from my shop,” he plucks the card from the bouquet. “Does your last name start with,” he looks at the card, “an L?”
“My last name is Lee,” she confirms, feeling less apprehensive and more interested in finding out who sent her flowers.
He hands her the card. “They’re yours.”
She takes the bouquet from him. “Camille Lee” is written on the small white envelope. She flicks it open, taking out the card.
Now you can pick your favorite—Wade.
“Alright,” she sighs, raising her hands to take the vase.
The florist eyes her luggage. “Want me to hold onto it until you get your door open?”
She doesn’t object and sticks the key in the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. She looks over at the florist. He’s watching her with an amused expression, standing several feet back.
Her jaw drops. She sees why he didn’t want to give her the bouquet.
Her apartment is full of flowers.