I recognized his voice as he moved the hair off my shoulder and placed a kiss there.
It surprised me as the tension fell from my body and I relaxed instantly against him. Rarely did I feel so at ease in the presence of a man as I did with this one. This was perhaps a change in me that I could get used too.
He turned me in his arms and I smiled. “You look better in person than you do on my television set,” I teased.
His laugher was deep and hearty.
I liked the way he laughed.
Tucking me into his side, he grinned. “I’m glad you think so.”
I was about to speak, when Beau sighed, looking down at me sympathetically. “I’m sorry about this.”
There wasn’t much time for confusion as people began to bombard us one after another. Some were interested in his political views; others just seemed to enjoy his company. Regardless, he introduced me to each of them and praised the work I’d done with Henry’s charity.
Many of the people we spoke to praised my speech and offered condolences for my untimely loss. It was kind, but I’d always hated sympathy, and each time someone mentioned it, I thought of the masked man and how small he’d made me feel.
Beau handled the crowd with ease and practiced discipline.
I was in awe of him.
He seemed to accept everyone for who they were without any hesitation. He boasted about the accomplishments of his loved ones proudly, and I felt at ease by his side.
We wore out the evening together, talking and laughing. Though, we didn’t dance. I noted some time ago that he’d stopped drinking rye, switching out to tonic water at my benefit.
He was a gentleman through and through, his small gestures surmounting to a great deal of thought.
My evening high was replenished in full by all that was Beau Callaway.
“He’s… wow,” Leighton whispered, eyes wide, as Morgan and Beau went toe-to-toe over golf scores.
Leaning into his side, I smiled at her. “Yeah.”
I didn’t know what to say. Beau was definitely wow.
The guests started to trail out, and before long, a member of his security team requested they make their exit soon.
“I’ll be out of town for a few weeks for the campaign.” I frowned at this and he laughed. “When I get back, I’d very much like to take you out on that date you owe me.”
His thumb trailed my jawline lightly. It was nice.
“You know where to find me.”
He kissed my forehead. “That I do.”
Then he lifted my hand and spun me in a little circle before kissing the top of my hand.
“Goodnight, Charleston.”
“Safe travels, Beau.”
I didn’t watch him go, not this time.
Instead, I settled into a chair next to Kevin, rested my head on his shoulder, and rode out my high.
I felt wanted, again.
I felt lethal.
I liked that.
“Venti vanilla misto, no foam, for…” Pause. “Charles.”
I rolled my eyes behind my sunglasses, picking up the coffee and twisting it to face me.
Charles was inscrolled in barista handwriting across the side. Close enough.
Deep down, I swore the doctors and baristas of the world were pulled aside during school and taught the art of creating nearly illegible script for public consumption.
Like every year on the Sunday following the gala, I was headed to the ‘burbs to spend the day with my family to recuperate. Thus, I was running on less than five hours sleep at 7:30 in the morning and picking up my second Starbucks of the day.
My parents lived in Tsawwassen, a small beach town suburb just an hour outside the city, in the home I grew up in. Together, after much discussion, they made the conscious decision each year not to attend the gala. I had supported their decision four years ago, and I still supported it now. It was hard enough to lose a loved one, never mind a child, and be reminded of that loss on every holiday, birthday, and anniversary, but it was another to have that loss publically exposed for the greater good.
It was painful. So, in lieu of that, we spent this day together instead.
The drive took another twenty minutes, post coffee stop, until I pulled the SUV into the half circle driveway of my childhood home.
It still looked the same, save of course for some upkeep here and there, but still, the same. The outside was a pale blue, naturally faded from a lifetime of summers by the sea. Windows were framed with white shutters, and the last of mom’s flowers cascaded over the window boxes on the bottom floor of the two-level beach house. Five steps from the driveway brought you up onto the wraparound porch that was painted a washed out Cape Cod grey, and sitting in the swing Dad built her was my mom.
I settled the engine and grabbed the flowers alongside my purse from the passenger seat.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom called.
She’d been waiting on me.
“Hey, Mama.”