by Peggy Jaeger
Trey and I had known one another since our mothers met while we’d both been in cloth diapers. They’d been seated together at a society luncheon, found out both were first time mothers, and the instant bond indicative to the breed reared forth. Before you could say knockoff Bergdorf’s they’d become thick as thieves, their husbands joining in and a family friendship bond cemented.
I secretly suspected my mother and Bitsy Bookman wanted their only children to marry and form a financial and social dynasty. Unfortunately for our parents, Trey and I had never felt that way about one another. Once he met Phil in kindergarten and then they’d become an exclusive couple in middle school, our mothers gave up their quest to get us hitched.
I could never have been Trey’s girlfriend even if Phil hadn’t come into the picture. From the time he was a little boy James Bookman the Third had been temperamental, selfish, and at times more emotionally turbulent than a pre-menstrual girl.
I hate drama and try to avoid it whenever I can, so I felt keeping Trey on the friends side of the balance sheet was the way to go.
Phillipa, on the other hand, loved the drama.
Tonight though, not so much, and I really wondered why she didn’t break up with Trey once and for all, especially if she had a new guy waiting in the wings.
“Are you drunk?” I asked him. When his head shot back up and his brows tugged together I added, “Because you’re acting loaded and you’re as jittery as I’ve ever seen you.”
He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t tell me he was, either. He simply stared at me, silent and if I had to guess, brooding.
If he wanted to be an asshole, so be it. I had guests to visit with, a party to enjoy.
“You know what? Forget it. You do you. I’m gonna party.”
I flipped on my heel and went back to my guests, determined to have a good time.
The dance floor was packed and I shimmied my way into the mix.
Minutes later after grabbing another flute of champagne from Killian Beggs when I exited the dance floor, I spotted my best friend standing with a guy over in a back corner. His back was to me but I knew it wasn’t Trey because a suit coat covered the man and Trey had been wearing a three hundred dollar designer t-shirt. Phillipa had a wide-eyed look of panic on her face as she flapped her hands in the air, her gaze darting from side to side as she spoke. The guy moved in closer and I lost sight of her.
Was this the mystery man? Had he made an appearance? I couldn’t explain any other reason Phil would look so freaked out, because if Trey’s behavior was any kind of a measuring stick, I’d been correct in thinking there might be a problem with the two of them meeting. This guy was about Trey’s height, but his hair was lighter and clipped much shorter than Trey’s.
A second later Phil moved away from him. I could see the guy in profile now, but with the strobe lights blaring from the stage and the lowered ceiling lights, I couldn’t get a good view of his face. He didn’t follow her, so I figured she was okay.
I drank some more champagne, then set my half-filled glass back on a tabletop.
The DJ played another twenty-minute set of heart pumping and thigh jiggling tunes. Sweaty, energized and loving every minute of the music pumping through the club speakers, I forgot all about the Phil and Trey drama train. I danced and danced, not caring if it was with a partner or all by myself.
This, this is what I’d wanted for my birthday party: fun, vats of bubbly, and to dance the night away. You’re only twenty-one once, and I wanted to make it a night to remember.
The sound of Killian’s voice broke through at one point, calling for everyone’s attention. I made my way back to my table, needing a drink to cool down. Phillipa, Trey at her side along with several other people were all standing around the dance floor.
“Let’s wish the birthday girl a happy 21st!” Killian called out.
The room exploded with cheers and congratulations.
Smiling broadly and happy to be the center of attention, I reached for one of the filled champagne glasses on the table.
“Happy birthday, Rory!” Killian toasted.
The room echoed him.
With a grin, I blew him a kiss and then downed my drink.
After that, the room went dark.
Chapter Two
Fifteen Years later – present day. NYC
“We’ve sold every ticket,” Dabney Spring said, her voice shaking with delight. “Do you know what that means?”
“I have a pretty good idea, yes.”
When I laughed, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I really don’t think you have any idea. This is going to be the best fundraiser we’ve had yet, and it’s all because of you, A.J.”
I was still getting used to being called by my initials and not my given, more infamous name, so it took a half second to return her smile and squeeze back.
“I tend to think it’s because of all the hard work you and the Board have done for the center, and nothing I’ve really done,” I said. “Well, aside from providing a big mailing list.”
This time she laughed with me.
“Your mailing list is made up of some of the deepest pockets in this city,” she said. “I can’t tell you how many times I sent solicitation letters to most of the people on it, only to never hear back from the majority of them. You gave us the in, the name cache, we didn’t have before.”
“My father’s credo has always been it’s not what you know in business that will get you ahead, but who you know and who knows you.”
“Truer words.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t begin to thank you enough for your help.”
“It’s been my pleasure, believe me. Now, let’s hope every item up for auction goes for more than face value.”
“Oh, good Lord. From your lips to God’s ears.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that blew from me. “Someone very near and dear to me says that a lot.”
I slid a glance down at my watch. “I need to be someplace in a bit so if there’s nothing else I can do for now…”
“You’ve done more than anyone else ever has,” she told me, her eyes growing misty. “You’re actions are going to help so many women who need it.”
“I tend to think it’s those deep pockets and open wallets who will be bidding on the donated items that will do that.”
With a promise to arrive early to help with the event registration, I left her.
“The rehab center next, Miss?” my driver asked as he held the car door open for me.
“Yes, Murphy, please. Hopefully, midtown traffic won’t be too miserable this time of day.”
“Your mouth to God’s ears, Miss.”
I shook my head as I got into the car. If I were a betting kind of girl I would never have wagered on hearing that phase again so soon after Dabney said the same thing.
I would have lost any bet placed, which goes a long way in describing my life.
The Arthur E. Tillingsworth Rehabilitation Center, better known to one and all as the Till, was, as usual, brimming with people. Whenever I walked into the building that had become my second home my breathing always got a little more intense and I found myself flexing and extending my hands while I walked up the three flights to the gym.
With my day clothes stored in a locker and my workout outfit of old sweats and a loose fitting t-shirt, I made my way through the myriad of top of the line treadmills, flex equipment and stationary bikes to my physical therapist’s office.
“Right on time, as usual,” Sam Chang said with a smile when I knocked on his glass door.
“Good manners were grilled into me as a child,” I quipped, extending my hand to shake his. “If I was so much as five minutes late for anything I never heard the end of it. My parents thought being prompt was a sign of respect.”
“And I thought only Asian parents were strict about stuff like that.”
“I think the word parents says it all. What’s on tap for today?”
“You feel up to a run to warm up? Yo
ur legs recovered yet?”
I nodded.
The weekend before I’d run my very first half marathon, after participating in dozens of 5ks and training for longer runs over the past year. Sam had been a good friend – as well as an amazing PT – and had joined me on my first long contest run to ensure I made it over the finish line, upright, and intact and without doing any damage to the legs and muscles he’d spent the past five years working to make strong again.
He set me up on a treadmill at a fast walking pace of four miles an hour and after ten minutes, sped me up to a good six mile an hour pace to jog.
When my body was warmed, a slight sweat beading my face and t-shirt, we got down to the hard part of the four-times a week workout: core strength.
From a five minute plank to heavy rope work, squats, wall sits, and graduated pushups, I spent the next ninety minutes building up the inner strength that had been eradicated a decade and a half ago.
My memory of the night of my twenty-first birthday had been eradicated as well. I had no recollection of the day at all, everything I knew now having been told to me by my private physician, my mother, or Maeve.
My celebratory glass of champagne had been dosed with an almost lethal mixture of ketamine and rohypnol.
The two drugs individually can cause all kinds of effects such as amnesia, depressed breathing, and loss of inhibitions.
Apparently, when mixed with alcohol, the effects are enhanced.
Unfortunately for me, whoever added them to my champagne had no way of knowing that I would have an almost deadly allergic response to the mixture of booze and drugs. Nor that it would put me in a comatose state for the next ten years. I’ve been told I died twice in the ambulance and once in the Emergency room before the docs were able to stabilize me.
My arms were jiggling like unset jello when Sam finally called time on the plank. I dropped to my knees, my arms shooting out to my sides as I dragged a huge bolus of air into my lungs.
“Explain again why I like you,” I said from my prone position on the mat. “Or even tolerate you. ’Cause my memory’s not what it used to be.”
Sam chuckled in the quiet way he had and tossed a towel at me. It landed over the back of my head.
“My winning personality and the fact that I don’t baby or pamper you like every one else.”
“I’m not pampered. I’m merely well loved.”
He chuckled again. “Hit the showers and I’ll see you in my office when you’re done. We need to plan out your training schedule for the marathon.”
It took me a few seconds to think of a witty retort, but when I slid the towel off my head, he was gone.
Dragging up into a sitting position shouldn’t have been hard as it was. If my body had been a normal thirty-five year old one, it would have been easy.
Tendon creaks and muscle snaps had become fairly common noises after Sam worked me to the bone. When I’d first woken five years ago I hadn’t been able to do a blessed thing for myself. It was only through intensive, daily, and vigorous training from Sam and the group of therapists my mother had hired to work, one on one, with me that I was able to do anything physical these days.
The younger version of myself, pre-coma, would have whined and taken comfort in champagne to dull the pain.
But I wasn’t twenty any longer, so even though every bone, muscle, and tendon in my body was on fire, it was way better than the alternative. Besides, a few minutes under a hot shower spray usually eased all of those little annoyances.
Showered, dressed, and no longer smelling like something a feral cat found in a dumpster for dinner, I packed up my gym bag and made my way to Sam’s office.
As I came out of the locker room, my cell in my hand while I scrolled through my messages, I wasn’t watching where I was going and came to a shattering stop when I barreled straight into someone. The force of the hit was strong since I was going one way, the person I bumped into going the opposite, and I ricocheted backward. I would have fallen flat on my ass if strong arms hadn’t reached out and kept me upright.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered at the same time a rich, deep voice said, “Steady.”
When I’d knocked into him my phone fell from my hands to land on the carpeting between us. I glanced down at it then up into a pair of the darkest green eyes I’d ever seen, zeroed in on my face. Thick brows were pulled together over them as he peered down at me.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
A weird sense of loss shuttled through me when he removed his hands from my upper arms. Tall, at least six-two, he was clad in a chest hugging workout shirt that accentuated the bulk in his biceps. His forearms were wide and corded, giving evidence he spent some time in the gym, and he was built like an upside down hanger, broad in the shoulders, trim in the waist and hips.
I blinked when it dawned on me he was waiting for a reply.
“Yes. Yes, and again, I apologize. I wasn’t paying any attention to were I was going.” I stooped and picked up my phone, noting on the way back up how long his legs were.
“I owe you an apology as well, since I wasn’t either. No damage, I hope.” He pointed his angular jaw at my phone.
“No. No, it seems to be okay.”
His face relaxed from its quizzical expression, and a tiny uptick grew in one corner of his full mouth. Wrinkles blossomed and fanned at the edges of his haunting eyes giving his face a softer, sociable mien.
Well, now.
Something stirred deep down inside me when he grinned and it took a moment to realize it was interest.
Maybe, if I was really going to analyze it, desire.
My eyes batted a few times when the notion hit me. Desire of any physical kind had been alien to me for some time.
While he stared down at me I did the same to him.
His tawny colored hair was cut short, not quite military style, but close. It had a subtle wave twining through it, telling me that if he wore it longer, the ends would curl.
My fingertips did a little tingly fandango, almost as if they wanted to thread through it.
He smelled clean and fresh, like a soap that didn’t have a twenty-dollar name attached to it. I disliked cologne on men and had smelled quite a few guys here at the gym who felt it necessary to douse themselves before a workout and after. This guy smelled, well, like a man should and not like a bottle of designer liquid.
He wasn’t sweating, indicating he hadn’t started his workout yet.
And standing here ogling him was going to keep preventing that, so…
“Well, again, I’m sorry for being so”—I flipped my free hand in the air—“unobservant. Enjoy your workout.”
I took a step around him and slung my workout bag into the crook of my elbow.
Once upon a time I would have glanced over my shoulder and given him a sexy little side wink. But that was twenty year old Rory behavior not thirty-five year old A.J.
“You, too,” he called after me.
Without even thinking, I turned my head and smiled.
I guess there was still a little of the younger version nestled somewhere inside me.
After meeting again with Sam and finding out my punishing training schedule for the next month, Murphy drove me back home where I knew a nutritious and delicious lunch waited for me.
“How are you feeling?” Maeve asked when I came through the front door of the townhouse I’d grown up in. “Was Sam his brutal self today?”
I laughed as I handed her my gym bag. “Of course. When have you known him not to be?”
Maeve nodded. Her once light hair had gone snow white while I’d been…sleeping. A short, no-nonsense bob covered her head, the color accentuating the bright periwinkle color of her eyes. At fifty-six, Maeve was still a lovely woman, blessed with unlined skin and a trim build that bordered on scrawny. I’d asked her why she never colored her hair like most women her age did and her response had been, “Why would I? This is how the good Lord made me.”
“Well, whatever
he’s done,” she said, “has worked. Your limp is gone and you’re standing straighter every day.”
When I’d first woken from ten years of immobility, the muscles in my legs had given me the most difficulty. I was confined to a wheelchair for the first six months, unable to lift to a standing position without help. When I was upright, my legs were too weak to support me. Sam and his team had worked tirelessly day after day to build my upper body strength to some semblance of normal. Once my arms were stronger and I could lift myself I was able to use a walker on my own to help my legs get back their strength.
More nights that I could stand to remember I’d broken down, frustrated at my lack of progress and in serious pain. Maeve and my mother had brokered no whining, though, reminding me often that I was a fifth generation Brightwell and strength and intestinal fortitude were our bedrocks. Maeve had massaged my aching muscles while my mother had become an expert on nutrition and health management.
My coma had been caused by an allergic reaction to the drugs I’d been given, so I was unable to take any prescribed meds for the almost continual pain. I learned to grit my teeth and work through it with Maeve and mom’s help, and today I was relatively pain free.
There’s something to be said for generational fortitude and grit, I suppose.
I grinned at the woman who’d been with me since birth and who, I knew deep in my soul, I couldn’t live without.
“Mom said the same thing about standing straighter the other day. I never knew my posture was so bad before.”
I didn’t need to clarity what before.
Maeve tilted her head. “Not bad, if truth be told. But the way you slouched at times had me worrying you were going to have a dowager’s hump by forty.”
“Can’t have that, can we.”
God forbid any Brightwell woman slouched, especially in public.
“I’m starving. What’s for lunch?”
As I walked toward the kitchen, Maeve started up the stairs carrying my gym bag.
“Your mother’s prepared you a new smoothie. She found the recipe on-line.”
I tried not to roll my eyes but it was hard not to.
“What’s in this one? Some herbs and roots found only in the jungles of Borneo, rumored to restore life and vitality in those close to death?”
