Sydney didn’t know how Mildred Wolburg’s accident had leaked to the press, but by Tuesday afternoon her office was flooded with calls from reporters. A few of the more enterprising staked out the lobby of the Hayward Building and cornered her when she left for the day.

By Wednesday rumors were flying around the offices that Hayward was facing a multimillion-dollar suit, and Sydney had several unhappy board members on her hands. The consensus was that by assuming responsibility for Mrs. Wolburg’s medical expenses, Sydney had admitted Hayward’s neglect and had set the company up for a large public settlement.

It was bad press, and bad business.

Knowing no route but the direct one, Sydney prepared a statement for the press and agreed to an emergency board meeting. By Friday, she thought as she walked into the hospital, she would know if she would remain in charge of Hayward or whether her position would be whittled down to figurehead.

Carrying a stack of paperbacks in one hand and a potted plant in the other, Sydney paused outside of Mrs. Wolburg’s room. Because it was Sydney’s third visit since the accident, she knew the widow wasn’t likely to be alone. Invariably, friends and family streamed in and out during visiting hours. This time she saw Mikhail, Keely and two of Mrs. Wolburg’s children.

Mikhail spotted her as Sydney was debating whether to slip out again and leave the books and plant she’d brought at the nurse’s station.

“You have more company, Mrs. Wolburg.”

“Sydney.” The widow’s eyes brightened behind her thick lenses. “More books.”

“Your grandson told me you liked to read.” Feeling awkward, she set the books on the table beside the bed and took Mrs. Wolburg’s outstretched hand.

“My Harry used to say I’d rather read than eat.” The thin, bony fingers squeezed Sydney’s. “That’s a beautiful plant.”

“I noticed you have several in your apartment.” She smiled, feeling slightly more relaxed as the conversation in the room picked up again to flow around them. “And the last time I was here the room looked like a florist’s shop.” She glanced around at the banks of cut flowers in vases, pots, baskets, even in a ceramic shoe. “So I settled on an African violet.”

“I do have a weakness for flowers and growing things. Set it right there on the dresser, will you, dear? Between the roses and the carnations.”

“She’s getting spoiled.” As Sydney moved to comply, the visiting daughter winked at her brother. “Flowers, presents, pampering. We’ll be lucky to ever get home-baked cookies again.”

“Oh, I might have a batch or two left in me.” Mrs. Wolburg preened in her new crocheted bed jacket. “Mik tells me I’m getting a brand-new oven. Eye level, so I won’t have to bend and stoop.”