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"Hi." Sabrina walked over, and sat down. "You look exhausted. Have you been here long?"
"Hmm?..." A vague glance at her watch. "About four hours, I think. After a while, I lose track of time. One minute blends into the next."
The slight quaver in her voice made Sabrina tense. "Is everything all right? There hasn't been a turn for the worse, has there?"
"No, nothing like that." Susan put down her cup. "I guess the aftermath's just hitting me hard. It feels like months, not days, since Carson was shot. And I still can't seem to absorb it. He's such a vital man. I can't stand the thought of him lying there, fighting, not even knowing if he'll make a full recovery." She waved awa
y her own words. "Anyway, the bullet's out. Whether or not it was the cause of the infection, we'll have to wait and see."
"From what I hear, Dr. Radison is the best. He'll figure out the source of the infection. Then he'll eliminate it."
"And then what?" Susan ran a shaky hand through her frosted blond hair. "God knows how much damage was done, how many more complications will crop up. There's also this crisis with his kidneys. I still can't believe..." She broke off, shot Sabrina a rueful look. "I'm sorry. You didn't come by today to hear me go on and on like that." A puzzled knit of her brows. "Actually, why did you come?"
Sabrina was half-tempted to just blurt out the truth. After all, the press would soon be all over this, so what was the point of keeping it a secret, especially from someone as close to Carson as Susan was?
On the other hand, Susan looked too out-of-it to process a story of this magnitude. And Sabrina wasn't really up for launching into a blow-by-blow recounting of her conception.
So she settled for providing a fragment of the truth. "Carson's having some kind of meeting with Dylan. He didn't supply the details, but he did ask me to participate."
"Makes sense." Susan's half-smile was tender. "I should have guessed. From what Dylan told me, you're no average management consultant. You're exceptional. And Carson? He's the heart and soul of Ruisseau. He worries about it like a father worries about bis child. Not just the company, the employees, too. They're like his family. He's probably trying to think up ways to keep morale high and productivity at a peak while he's recuperating. You must have tons of experience in that area. I'm sure he's counting on that."
A father worrying about his child. That reference carved a hollow ache in Sabrina's gut, one she steeled herself against. She didn't want to go there—not now. "You're probably right," she replied instead. "And, yes, I do have experience working with teams who need guidance to stay focused and unified. Losing a team leader—even temporarily—can be disruptive to group morale and, as a result, to group performance. I'm sure Carson's well aware of that, which is why he's concerned."
"Only Carson would worry about his company when his life's on the line." Pride laced Susan's tone. "He's one of a kind."
One of a kind. Funny, those were the exact same words Dylan had used to describe Carson. What an amazing man to have such a profound effect on those he was closest to.
Sabrina inclined her head, studying Susan thoughtfully. Her devotion to Carson was obvious. As was her respect, which bordered on awe. She'd scarcely left the hospital, or Carson's side, for days. Just how serious were they?
Even as she cautioned herself that she had no right to pry, that Carson's love life was none of her business, Sabrina heard herself ask, "Have you and Carson been together long?"
"About a year and a half." Susan didn't seem the least bit put off by the question. "We met at a charity function I was hosting. I've hosted dozens. Never have I been so impressed by a contributor before in my life."
Sabrina took a sip of coffee. "Impressed how? It doesn't sound like you're referring to the sum he donated."
"I'm not. Although the check he wrote was exceptionally generous. But contributing money is easy when you're rich. Caring enough to contribute your time, to offer your personal involvement, that's something else."
"I agree." Sabrina's interest was piqued, once again, by learning more about Carson Brooks. Each story let her glimpse another facet of him. This time, it was Carson Brooks the philanthropist. "What charity are you affiliated with, and what kind of personal commitment did Carson make?"
"YouthOp." Susan settled back as she warmed to her subject. "It's a combination mentoring and educational program for troubled, low-income kids. We're still in our embryonic stage. But we're growing. So far, we've initiated a work-study program, a big brother program, even some cultural and recreational activities. Our teenage volunteers are referred to us by schools and social services. They donate time and emotional guidance—not professional guidance, but a been-there-done-that kind of approach—to elementary school kids. In return for helping the younger ones get their heads on straight, they get opportunities to intern at our participating companies, and educational assistance—either in working toward a high school equivalency diploma or going for a college degree. The latter includes scholarship money."
"What a wonderful organization. Do you have any government funding?"
"On a local level, yes. We're still lobbying for state and federal funding. Until then, we have to rely heavily on personal and corporate contributions."
"And Carson is one of those contributors." Sabrina understood the scenario better than Susan realized. She knew what Carson had done for Dylan; this kind of thing was right up his alley.
"Not just a contributor," Susan amended, confirming Sabrina's speculation. "Carson opens the doors of Ruisseau to the teenage mentors. He offers them internships, scholarships, even chances to make pocket money. As for the little ones, he's a major supporter of the big brother program. He sponsors trips to amusement parks, movies, ball games." A grin. "He's even been known to attend a few of those ball games, when he can tear himself away from Ruisseau. Oh, and then there's the annual camping weekend."
"Carson goes camping?"
Susan chuckled at the disbelief in Sabrina's voice. "You mean the tough city boy? Yup, he sure does. The last weekend of June every year. I can vouch for it, since I'm there, too."
Okay, now that vision was even more incomprehensible than the last. The thought of Susan Lane, the ultimate cosmopolitan woman who wore every one of Gloria Radcliffe's most expensive, high-end designs, marching through muck and mire and sleeping on a cot or, better yet, in a sleeping bag? No way.
"Are we talking about camping-camping?" Sabrina tried. "You know, hiking, sleeping in layers so you don't freeze, roughing it in the great outdoors—that kind of camping? Or is there another, less rustic kind I'm unfamiliar with?"
"No, that's the one." Susan's eyes twinkled. "Gotcha, didn't I? Well, not only do I go, I help run the event. I also hike four miles, pitch a perfect tent, and build a mean campfire. And I cook dinner over that campfire, all weekend long. That's three whole days with no designer clothes, no soft mattress, and no makeup. Impressed?"
