Here I Am by Rochelle Alers

floor is still under construction. Brandt’s private quarters have been completed, but the opposite wing is an open space. He said once he’s married with children he’ll have a contractor build several bedrooms and a nursery.”
    Ciara was too enthralled by the sight of a rooftop solarium to respond. Palm trees and exotic flowers made the space seem like an oasis in the middle of Manhattan. She stared at the exotic orchids spilling out of baskets, a riot of color in hues ranging from the deepest purple to pure white.
    â€œWho takes care of the plants?”
    â€œBrandt,” Leona replied smiling.
    â€œIt appears he has quite the green thumb.”
    Leona laughed. “He installed a programmable irrigation system similar to the ones in supermarket produce sections where a spray of water keeps everything hydrated. The exception is the cacti.”
    Ciara smiled. Brandt’s mother had unknowingly given her something she would use to motivate herpatient. If Brandt liked working with his plants, then it was something he could do while still using his wheelchair.
    The atrium took up half the rooftop. The other half was open to the elements. Tables, chairs and love seats with weatherproof cushions were set up for dining and entertaining outdoors.
    She didn’t know what to expect when she walked into Brandt’s private suite, but it wasn’t a loft-like space with brick walls, aged plank floors, massive beams crisscrossing the ceiling, support columns and crystal chandeliers. A pair of French doors opened out onto the roof, which was filled with large potted palms and exotic plants. The style was bohemian yet elegant and masculine.
    Ciara’s shoes made soft swishing sounds on the polished wood floor as she walked beyond an area where a chessboard sat on a leather ottoman between straight-back upholstered chairs. She stood under the arched entryway, staring at a collection of swords mounted on a wall. Her eyes were drawn to one that looked very much like a samurai sword. Moving closer, she admired the intricate carving on the handle and scabbard.
    â€œHis bedroom is to your left,” Leona said behind her.
    It was apparent that Brandt Wainwright was more complicated than Ciara thought. His apartment was a retreat high above the noisy city streets.
    â€œWhere did he get the columns and architectural cornices?” Ciara asked.
    â€œMy daughter works at a gallery dealing in architectural elements from old buildings. Some of thecolumns come from Hollywood movie sets; the wooden arch support is from a cathedral in Montreal and the lion heads are from an old library.”
    She and Leona retraced their steps, taking the wrought-iron spiral staircase instead of the elevator to the first floor.
    A fully functional gym, home theater with a large, wall-mounted screen and an expansive living room made up the next floor. The library furnishings were unexpected for a professional athlete. There were no trophies or photos, framed newspaper articles or magazine covers. It appeared lived-in, a place were one came to read and relax. Espresso-colored leather chairs and a love seat, a massive antique mahogany desk and dark built-in bookcases completed the room.
    Ciara stood at the window, staring down at the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching its way along FDR Drive. They looked like miniature cars from more than thirty stories above the street. “I’d better check on Brandt,” she said when Leona joined her at the window. “I have your numbers, so if there’s any change in his condition I’ll let you know.”
    Leona smiled. “I know I’m leaving him in good hands.” She let out a soft sigh. “Now that you know where everything is, it’s time I go home and make certain my household is still intact. I just want to remind you that the cleaning service is scheduled to come tomorrow, and the physical therapist will call to let you know when he’s coming.