Woke Page 3

  “Nothing as dramatic as that, Aurora,” my mother said from behind me.

  Oops.

  “It’s simply a blend of spinach, pears, apples, and blueberries, all antioxidants and good for overall health.” She pierced me with her famous take-no-prisoners gaze, the one that always made me squirm as a kid.

  Still did.

  A slight laughing noise wafted down the stairs from Maeve. Traitor.

  “Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to sound flip.”

  When her left eyebrow rose, an indication she knew I was fibbing, I felt just like I had when I’d been seven and had been reprimanded for resting my elbows on the dining room table during dinner.

  I kissed her cheek, taking in the subtle and familiar scent of Shalimar.

  “The smoothie sounds terrific. You know I love all those foods.”

  I’d just never had them all blended together before.

  The eyebrow went back to its resting position.

  While I sat at the kitchen counter she pulled a pitcher from the industrial steel refrigerator and poured me a glass, her movements, as always, economical and precise.

  Calinda Joan Callahan Brightwell had been born into luxury and wealth, married into more of the same, and viewed the New York Social Registry as her personal DM list. I didn’t have one memory of her where she was anything but perfectly dressed in the season’s finest designer wear, not a tendril of naturally ginger hair out of place, or without a full face of makeup accentuating her beautiful blue eyes and high cheekbones. Today was no exception to that rule. At fifty-seven and without the use of fillers or dermal paralytics, she was a beautiful woman who ruled her world with order and taste.

  I can’t imagine her being any other way.

  Surprisingly, the smoothie tasted terrific.

  “It’s sweet,” I said, after taking a long draught. “I can really taste the apple.”

  My mother nodded. “Knowing your penchant for sweet things I thought you might like it and not turn your nose up at it like you have some of the other recipes I’ve made.”

  She wasn’t wrong in supposing this. I mean, who actually likes beets and broccoli or liver and rutabaga? Not me, that’s for sure. But my mother had foisted them on me in various prepared ways, declaring their natural healing properties were beneficial for getting me back to my full strength again. And while I preferred a cheeseburger and some fries with a side order of apple pie or chocolate mousse, I’d done my due diligence and eaten every new thing she’d given me.

  I didn’t like it, but I knew the reasons why she fed them to me.

  “So, how was your morning?” she asked, taking a seat opposite me, a cup of herbal tea in front of her.

  “Good. The auction is all set at the center. I volunteered to help work with registration so I need to be there a little early. You’re coming, right?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Mimsey Goldman is going with me as my guest, and Charlotte Maitland and Kitty Poratney are coming, too,” she told me, mentioning a few of her society friends, who were also life long buddies. All four of them had attended Miss Porter’s School back in the day and had remained friends throughout the years.

  “Make sure they bring their checkbooks.” I took a sip of my smoothie.

  She waved her free hand at me and said, “Of course.”

  “I don’t know if I told you but I was able to get Charlie Ainsworth to donate one of his paintings. It hasn’t been displayed at the gallery yet, so I’m hoping it will bring in a ton of money.”

  “Will he be a guest?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  She took a sip of her tea, her gaze lit on me, her head tilted a bit to the side in a familiar position. When I’d been a kid this look usually meant she was going to quiz me on something.

  She surprised me when she said instead, “I’m very proud of you, Aurora, for what you’ve done.” She reached across the counter and slipped her hand into mine. “When you woke up, just having you back with us was a blessing especially when the doctors had led us to believe it was never going to happen.”

  I couldn’t begin to imagine how horrible it had been for my family for those ten years.

  “Your father and I had resigned ourselves to never hearing your voice again, or have you put your arms around us for a hug.” She shook her head and sighed. “I wish he could have lived to see you wake up.”

  While I’d been in the coma, life had gone on around me. Presidents were elected, natural disasters occurred and my father died after collapsing at the kitchen table. He’d never been sick a day in his life.

  “But you’ve scaled such insurmountable peaks these past few years, no one, least of all me, would be upset if you just retreated from the world and lived a quiet life here at home.”

  “Can you really see me doing that?”

  Her lips lifted in a smile that reached her eyes. “No. You’re your father’s daughter in that regard. You could never just sit still and…be. Even before you left us, I knew once you graduated college you were going to do something meaningful with your life.” She shook her head and stared down at her cup, her voice turning wistful. “You’ve accomplished so much I’m in awe of you on a daily basis. I don’t know if I could have done a tenth of what you’ve been able to do. You have a spine and a will of steel.”

  I squeezed her hand.

  “Who do you think I got them from?”

  She lifted her head and smiled.

  “Being involved with the women’s center gives me a purpose, Mom. A reason to get out of bed every day and do something good for people less fortunate than we are. It’s like…I don’t know.” I lifted my free hand and flipped it in the air. “I’ve been given a second chance. A chance to do something worthwhile with the life I’ve gotten back, and not waste the gift I’ve been given. I feel blessed, so blessed, and I want be a blessing to others who haven’t had the chances and opportunities I’ve had. Does that make any sense?”

  Moisture clung to her eyelashes and she squeezed my hand again. “You’re my gift, that’s for sure. And yes, it makes a great deal of sense. I love you so much, Aurora.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I finished my smoothie, she her tea, and then I went to rest for a while before I needed to get dressed for the event. I’d need all my strength for the long night ahead of me and I wanted to be fresh.

  Chapter Three

  “Almost everyone has checked in,” I told Dabney Spring hours later. “I just have one reservation left. A”—I glanced down at the sheet of names—“Kincade Enright.”

  “That would be me.”

  I looked up and found a deep pair of green eyes that looked hauntingly familiar.

  The guy from the Till. The one I’d almost fallen flat on my ass barreling into.

  “Well.” A broad smile danced across his face. “We meet again. Talk about coincidence.”

  Dabney looked from me to him, a knowing smile lifting the corners of her lips.

  “There’s someone I need to talk to,” she told me. “I’ll see you inside.”

  Before walking again she mouthed Oh my God to me.

  She wasn’t kidding.

  Goodness. The man had been appealing in workout clothes, all hard muscle and lean mass on display, but wearing a perfectly fitted, midnight colored, double breasted suit that I knew sold for over five thousand dollars, he was absolutely…mouthwatering.

  And there was a phrase I hadn’t used, nor thought of as a description, in almost two decades.

  I returned his smile and handed him an auction brochure along with his table number.

  “It never ceases to amaze me how small a city with eight million people can actually be,” I said.

  His smile grew.

  “The silent auction has already started. It’ll close when dinner is served in about,” I checked my watch, “twenty minutes, so you have some time to look around. The live auction takes place during dinner.”

  He flip
ped through the brochure and stopped at one of the pages. “The Charles Ainsworth painting is on the live auction, yes?”

  I nodded. “Are you a fan?”

  “I am. I’m not bidding on it for myself, though, but for a client.”

  “A client? Are you an art dealer?”

  He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card.

  Enright Investments/Management

  Kincade Enright, MBA, PFS

  “So, you’re a stock broker?”

  “No, I’m in personal finance. I manage investments and portfolios for my clients, one of whom wants an original Ainsworth. So,” he lifted his hands in the air.

  “Well, I hope you can make your client happy tonight, Mr. Enright, and in doing so, you’ll both be benefiting the women’s center, so I’ll thank you in advance.”

  “You’re welcome, and it’s Cade.” He stuck out his hand to shake mine. “And you are?”

  My gaze took a quick dip from his grinning face to his outstretched hand. Manners had been ingrained in me from birth, both by my mother and Maeve, so I slid mine into his, ready to give it a perfunctory shake. The moment his fingers wrapped around mine, though, a bolt of lightning flashed between us and paralyzed me to my spot.

  His eyes flickered, telling me he’d noticed it, too.

  Warmth steeped through me and flowed all the way to my core, heating it like a nuclear coil. His skin was soft and smooth, like he wasn’t used to manual labor, but by no means was he weak. Strength and power surged from his grip. Instinct told me this was a man for whom character, depth, and a strong sense of self were integral parts of his makeup.

  All intriguing qualities in a man.

  Intriguing, and wildly alluring.

  While he stood in front of me, still holding me hand, I realized I was supposed to answer him.

  I blinked a few times to try and refocus myself just as I had at the Till, before finding my voice.

  “A.J. Callahan. Sorry, I’ve got a lot going on up here”—I pointed to my head with my free hand—“and I’m thinking of fifty things at the same time.” Lame, I know, but I was really caught off guard by his touch.

  He pumped my hand once, then let it go. For a hot second I fantasized about pulling it back and maybe even wrapping it around my waist.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to them, then. It was nice seeing you. Again.” He grinned.

  “Enjoy the auction and the dinner. Bid often and bid high,” I added. “It’s for a worthy cause.”

  With a salute, he made his way into the crowded ballroom.

  Well, that had been…unexpected. Serendipity or not, both times I’d been in his presence I’d been rendered a bit off kilter.

  Before the coma I hadn’t been a nun. Far from it.

  I’d dated—and slept with—my fair share of handsome, rich, socially acceptable guys. None of them had ever made me want to spend forever tied to them. They were merely a way to have fun and explore my own sexuality. I couldn’t remember one guy, though, whose simple touch against my skin had caused such a powerful reaction in me.

  The five years since I’d woken I’d been concentrating on getting my life back to some normalcy. That meant focusing on me and me alone. While the number of my former friends had dwindled considerably, the new ones I’d made through my charity work and other endeavors I kept at a relative distance. Very few of them knew I was the former Rory Brightwell, party-girl and society scion. I used my mother’s maiden name now as my own and my initials to introduce myself.

  I liked A.J. Callahan. A lot. And I didn’t miss the old me too much.

  But some things I did miss, like…sex. I hadn’t met anyone recently who gave me a tingle in that department.

  Until today.

  I glanced down at his card then tucked it into my clutch.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  As the silent auction was about to close and Dabney announced dinner service was starting, I found my mother and her bestie, Mimsey, standing by one of the auction tables. From the stern and intense expressions on their faces and the way they were blocking the table edge I immediately knew what they were up to. One of them, maybe both, wanted one of the items listed and were trying to prevent any last minute guests from writing their number on the auction sheet and out-bidding them.

  I had to laugh. These two had individual fortunes bigger than the GNP of some successful countries. They could buy anything they wanted and never needed to ask what it cost. There’s something about an auction though, that brings out the competitive in people, no matter how rich they are, and these two pedigreed society mavens were uber-competitive on a good day, never mind at an auction.

  “Mom. You’re hovering.”

  While her eyes tracked a gentleman making his way slowly down the table and inspecting the items, auction brochure in hand, my mother’s cheeks turned a little rosier under her foundation.

  Mimsey slipped her arm into the crook of mine and whispered, “Don’t chide her, dear. You mother is just helping ensure I get that Tiffany bracelet. I want it for my granddaughter. She’s turning six next week and I know she would just love it.”

  I could debate the idea a six year old would much prefer a book or a toy than a $10,000 diamond bracelet, but I knew whatever I said would fall on deaf ears. This was the woman who’d given her first born a Mercedes convertible when the kid had turned ten. The fact he couldn’t drive it for another six years wasn’t an issue. Mimsey did, though, telling mom she was breaking it in for her son.

  “Why don’t you just buy her one if you think she’d love it so much?” I asked.

  My mother shifted and leaned back a bit, resting a hip on the table as the gentleman made his way towards us. She kept her eagle-eyed gaze glued to him, as protective of the auction item as any lioness would be of her cub.

  You have to admire that kind of commitment.

  “The silent auction is now closed,” Dabney announced.

  My mother didn’t move away from the table until the man did.

  To answer my question, Mimsey said, “It’s so much more entertaining to do it this way than to simply shop. And I’d much rather fill the coffers of the center than Tiffany’s cash register.”

  I couldn’t argue with that kind of logic, so I kissed her cheek and thanked her for her donation to a worthy cause.

  My mother turned, finally giving up her guard post when volunteers began picking up the donation sheets from the tables.

  “It’s yours, Mims,” she said. “I was worried Duncan Caldwell was going to place a bid at the last second. That bracelet would be perfect for his new wife. Number four, I believe. And she’s younger than you, Aurora.”

  Mimsey patted her arm. “Bless you, Callie.”

  “Come on, let’s go find our seats. I’m hungry.”

  My mother’s gaze raked down my face to my mid-section and then back up again, one eyebrow grooving with concern. I knew that look and the worry causing it.

  Since I’d woken, my mother’s fret level had exploded to levels I don’t remember as a child. If I so much as coughed or rubbed my neck, her expression turned into to a troubled frown or a pinched brow in a heartbeat. Every ache was analyzed, every sleepless night evaluated for any sign I was regressing.

  I couldn’t be mad or annoyed at her for this behavior. I can’t imagine watching your only child exist every day in an unresponsive state for ten years had been something she’d cherished.

  “I’m fine, mom.” I slipped my arm around her shoulders. “Just hungry. That smoothie, although delish, wasn’t very filling. Come on.”

  Thankfully, she didn’t press the point.

  We stopped along the way to greet people, and in my case thank them for attending. It took a good ten minutes to cross the room just to get to our table where the first course awaited us.

  Surprise jumped through me when I found Kincade Enright seated in one of the chairs, chatting with Dabney, a salad fork in his hand. Our eyes met as I got closer and a playful smile pulled on his lips
.

  Since I’d been on the committee to plan out the table seatings, I knew for a fact he wasn’t at mine.

  “Hello everyone,” my mother greeted, as she and Mimsey sat together. That left the only available chair right next to Enright.

  This was a little too convenient to chalk up to serendipity.

  “Mr. Enright,” I said when he stood and held my chair. “Thank you.”

  He sat after I did, earning an approving, eyebrow raised perusal from my mother. Manners are something, she laments often, people are lacking in these days. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was the twenty-first century and I could pull my own chair.

  “You’re welcome, and it’s Cade,” he said, his head tipping close to mine. The subtle scent of man and soap drifted over me and I had to restrain myself from leaning in closer to him for a more thorough whiff. A warm, masculine scent is always so much more appealing than aftershave or cologne.

  While I put my napkin in my lap, he kept his head inclined and said softly, “You’re probably wondering how I wound up at your table.

  Without glancing at him, I lifted my water glass and before taking a sip said, “It had crossed my mind since I know for a fact you were at table twenty. Since I don’t see Dominic Dupont I’m guessing you switched with him.”

  His gentle exhale sounded…amused. I snuck a side eye his way and saw I was correct. The corners of his mouth were pulled in and up and for the first time I noticed a tiny dimple wink back at me.

  “Dominic’s father is one of my clients,” Enright said, “and when I told him I wanted to sit at your table he agreed to switch.”

  “How did you know this was my table?”

  “I asked Ms. Spring.”

  I peeked over his shoulder to see Dabney chatting with the person on her right. Some crazy kind of mental telepathy must have wafted her way because she turned, caught me staring at her and grinned, her eyebrows wiggling as she darted her gaze at Enright’s back.

  Turning my attention back to the man, I asked, “Why?”

  “Why did I ask her, or why did I want to sit at your table?”