Kiss Me Awake

by Julie Momyer

  She didn’t want Laurel to see her like this. She took a few calming breaths and practiced smiling as if it mattered. Happy or sad, her mood would go unnoticed. And if today turned out to be one of Laurel’s bad days, she wouldn’t notice her at all.

  With a manila envelope tucked under her arm, Jaida walked past the main desk. On the other side of the chest-high blue laminate counter, a nurse and two aides conversed. The tall one in print scrubs waved at her as she passed.

  Jaida nodded back, her mouth only lifting slightly with a smile then headed toward Laurel’s room. She exhaled a nervous breath then drew in another, inhaling the fresh pine scent. The maintenance crew kept this place near to immaculate. And the staff was exceptional. They treated the residents like family.

  This facility was a cut above the home her Grandpa Payne spent his final days in, but then social security didn’t cover much. Spencer had researched the corporation that owned this place and interviewed the director thoroughly before he signed on the dotted line. He always provided the best for those he loved.

  Jaida turned the corner at the connecting hallway and clutched the envelope tighter to her chest. She would show this to Laurel. She had to ask. She’d been there. Why had she never said anything? If the memory was still stored in her mind, if this was a good day and she could process the question, and if she could just form the name on her lips…

  She laughed at herself. Look at me. I’m a fool, a desperate one. Did she honestly expect to be pointed in the right direction by a woman who could barely communicate? A woman whose lucidity wavered from one minute to the next? But with her case against Gale falling apart, what alternative did she have?

  “Well, look who’s here, Roger. It’s Miss Martin.” Jaida turned. Mary, one of the full-time aides was gaining on her with a wheelchair.

  “Where are you off to?” Jaida asked.

  “Roger just finished rehab for the day,” she said. Mary’s passenger beamed up at Jaida, his wide smile yellowed with age and nicotine.

  “He is such a flirt.” Mary laughed then wheeled the chair around the corner.

  Jaida stepped inside the open door to her left. Bright with sunlight and buttercup colored walls, Laurel’s room held warmth. She was seated quietly in the center of the bed with her back to the door. She didn’t move, didn’t turn from the window. The hummingbirds hovering over the feeder had her spellbound.

  “Good morning.” The words came out raspy, and Jaida cleared the thickness from her throat.

  Laurel shifted and then pivoted her head on a delicate neck. She raised her chin to get a better view of Jaida, but her glassy gaze went straight through her as if she wasn’t even there.

  It would be one of those days. The visits were getting harder. It was a cruel twist of nature to watch someone you cared for deteriorate until there was nothing familiar but the shell.

  She was told this was to be expected. According to the medical world, any improvement at this point was impossible. So why did she always come expecting more?

  On the upside, Laurel’s quarters were cheery. There was a twin bed, a whitewashed nightstand and matching dresser with a beveled mirror mounted on top. Like the room, the attached bathroom was private.

  Jaida sank down on the bed beside Laurel and opened the crumpled envelope she brought. She slid her hand inside and for reasons she couldn’t explain, bypassed the newsprint, her purpose for coming today, and pulled out a frame with tiny orange stones encircling the perimeter.

  It was a color print of the two of them standing arm in arm in Laurel’s yard. Brilliant yellow flowers blooming on the sweet acacia tree dominated the background. She held it out for Laurel to see. “I framed this for you. It’s a picture of the two of us.”

  It was one of the last pictures of Laurel before she’d been disabled by the stroke. Jaida watched her face, looked into her eyes. Was any of it familiar?

  Laurel’s jaw worked up and down, her larynx straining but turning out only a grunt. Her eyes flicked up at Jaida then dropped again to the frame.

  Again her jaw worked. “J-J-aida.”

  She said her name. The words were pinched and garbled, but she knew who she was.

  Jaida lifted Laurel’s hand and pressed it to her cheek joy swelling inside of her. “Yes, it’s me. It’s Jaida.”

  Laurel jerked her hand away and tucked it close to her side. Like a pricked balloon her joy deflated. It was a reaction, not a rejection, she told herself.

  The bed creaked when Jaida stood. She set the picture on the dresser, tilting it enough so Laurel could see it. The photographs arranged on the wall were different than when she was here last. Spencer must have changed them up when they painted.

  The grin on his face in one of the pictures sparked something inside of her. She touched the tip of her finger to his lips. A smile touched her own then quickly slipped away when she considered the state of his humor the last time she saw him. But could she blame him?

  The door swung open behind her, and she turned. For one insane moment, she expected to see him standing in the doorway instead of the chunky blonde aide.

  “Sorry to interrupt but it’s time for lunch.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bring her down,” Jaida said. She picked up Laurel’s sweater folded at the foot of the bed and draped it over her shoulders.

  “All righty.” The aide ducked out and closed the door.

  Jaida glanced up once more at the picture of Spencer thinking how odd it was that she’d never run into him here.

  She helped Laurel into the wheelchair then picked up the envelope she brought with her. For now, the newspaper clippings would have to wait.

  10

  Hidden by the slant of afternoon shadows, Lance sat back in the wrought iron chair on Jaida’s front patio and looked up at the two-story Mediterranean. It was prime property. The front and sides were loaded with arched windows offering high dollar views. A shack on the beach would sell for a few million, and this was no shack.

  On her salary, Jaida couldn’t afford this house even with the top-notch broker she laid claim to. He smiled to himself recalling the line she’d fed him about her investments. She was quick and sharp. He appreciated that in a woman. Soon he would see just how quick and how sharp.

  The rumor making its rounds at the agency was that she inherited the house, but she could have ingeniously circulated that tale herself. He hadn’t yet confirmed it as fact and even if it proved true, it didn’t shed light on where the brand-new BMW came from or how she maintained her high-end wardrobe, or where the funds came from that she’d used to build her stock portfolio.

  But public records had exposed one of her secrets. On a personal level the revelation was a bombshell, but it didn’t bring him any closer to his objective.

  Did Gale know? He’d briefed Lance on the basics, but when it came to Jaida’s personal life he got the impression that he wasn’t forthcoming. The more information he had on her, the easier this would be.

  There was a rustling sound, and Lanced looked up, a smile catching his mouth. And here she is. The gate clanked shut, and he stood. “Hey there, beautiful.”

  She let out a startled cry. “You scared me to death! What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.”

  “Lucky for you I wasn’t armed.”

  He looked her up and down, taking in the yellow bikini. “Don’t know where you’d carry a weapon in that.”

  Judging from the look on her face, his comment didn’t go over too well. She dragged the beach towel from her shoulders and worked it over the ends of her wet hair.

  “How’s the water?” he asked.

  “It’s decent. Did you come for a swim?”

  “Maybe. Are you inviting me?”

  “It’s a free ocean.”

  His company wasn’t expected and it showed. He guessed she didn’t like being caught off-guard and wasn’t big on surprises. Ironic, since he was going to be her biggest surprise yet.

&n
bsp; “Come on inside,” she said. He followed, but before she reached the door he took her by the hand and pulled her into his arms. Her body tensed at his touch. He was losing his in with her. Not good. He needed her to cooperate, and he would rather persuade than demand.

  She pulled away from him. “I’m getting you all wet.” She dabbed her towel at the water spot she left on his navy blue button-up shirt.

  He took it from her, caught hold of her wrist and turning it over he pressed his lips to the delicate skin. “It’s fine. It’ll dry.”

  She shrugged, a silent ‘whatever’ implied. What was up? They had connected. Why was she pulling away from him? She opened the front door and at the crook of her finger he followed her inside.

  And what an inside it was. He looked down at his loafers. The soles of his shoes were tracking dust on the gray-veined, Italian, marble floor…expensive, Italian marble floor. Did she have a maid too, to sweep it up?

  Vaulted ceilings, custom wrought-iron handrails along the stairs, he took it all in, marveling at the opulence. She disappeared into a hallway at the back of the first floor. Bedroom?

  He edged his way toward that same hall. “Is this a bad time?” he called out then bit down on his tongue the second the words were out of his mouth. Stupid question. What if she said yes?

  Jaida emerged from a doorway off that same hall absent her towel. Must be the laundry room. “Do you want anything to drink?”

  “Coke or Pepsi’s good.” Lance observed the sculpture displayed on a pedestal at the bottom of the stairs. He lifted the porcelain piece and checked the mark on the bottom, the white patina catching the light. He was no art aficionado, but he knew enough to determine the piece was not a cheap reproduction. Everything was top shelf. He carefully set it back down. No yard-sale junkie lived here.

  He did another quick scan of the living area and mentally calculated the cost of the furnishings. It was just an estimate, not exact figures, still he winced at the sum. He didn’t think it was possible, but maybe she could blow eight and a half million that quick.

  His chest tightened in what was the nearest thing to work-related stress he’d experienced to date. Gale expected his money, at least the majority of it. If Jaida owned this house outright it was likely all gone, every penny.

  He startled at her sudden presence then composed himself. She handed him a full glass with the ice still crackling. “So, this is your place?” he asked then took a drink of the soda.

  Jaida looked it over as though seeing it for the first time then nodded, an odd look in her eyes. “Do you like it?”

  “I heard you had a nice house, but I wasn’t expecting anything quite this…posh. Are you moonlighting or what?”

  “Or what,” she said with a wink. It was another one of her vague non-answers. It was deliberate, this ambiguity. Just as it was the last time he’d probed.

  He gave her a half grin. Don’t you worry little Miss Jaida, I have ways of getting what I want.

  She picked up a stack of magazines from an end table and unloaded them into a cabinet. “Carina asked me to host a little get together here for her friends tonight. You’re welcome to stay.”

  She was fast tracking him to another subject but he played along. “I thought you two weren’t on speaking terms?”

  “We weren’t, but Carina apologized. That’s just how she is.”

  Lance sat on the couch, propped a throw pillow behind his head, and patted the seat beside him. “There’s plenty of room.”

  He frowned when she shook her head and moved away. “I need to rinse off and change. I don’t want to be caught looking like this.”

  “Looks all right to me,” he called after her, but she was already halfway up the stairs.

  Lance chugged down half the Pepsi then set the glass on the table. Carina knew how to work Jaida. He had her pegged as a user the first time he laid eyes on her, and she had proved him right.

  His own motives could be misconstrued as such, his actions placing him in the same category as Carina, but for him it was different. It was business. You did the job you were hired to do.

  The sound of running water reached his ears. It was his signal to move. Lance stood and took himself on an unguided tour of the mock Italian villa.

  Gale was convinced Jaida had his money, but he wasn’t. Not until today. From what he’d seen, it wasn’t looking too favorable for her. The offshore account opened in Gale’s alias was emptied, the full sum electronically transferred to another offshore account with a bogus name and no valid contact information. The second account was emptied as soon as it went from the clearing account to the recipient’s. And Jaida was sitting pretty, rolling in the dough.

  He moved down the hall, heard the low hum of the dryer and found the laundry room right where he thought it would be. And across from that was…what? He pressed his palm on the half-open door, swinging it open. Bingo.

  He switched on the light and sat down at the desk. Sweet. Constructed of solid mahogany, it was a work of art. The woman had impeccable taste. He opened the top drawer and sifted through the contents but found nothing of import. He went on to the next one.

  The tape was equal priority. Gale wanted his money, but he also needed assurance that he wouldn’t be linked to his advisor’s death. A scandal would ruin his shot at the governorship. Lance had personally deleted the video footage on the agency’s computer and destroyed the disc it had been burned to, but he had yet to track down the original.

  Marcus Dennison, Gale’s advisor, was the subject of that tape. Before he died, he’d forwarded all account numbers and passwords to Gale’s offshore accounts to the Baseel Agency, and more specifically, to Jaida Martin.

  Dennison had been on a mission to expose Gale and take him down for money laundering. The man lay six feet under, but if Lance didn’t get the job done, Dennison could still destroy Gale from the grave, taking his fifteen percent commission right along with it.

  Quietly, he rolled the second drawer closed and reached for the third. His breath hitched at the neatly organized cache before him. Bank statements, checkbook registers. He switched on the desk lamp then flipped through Jaida’s financial records noting the fat balances at the end and the beginning of every month. If this was Gale’s money keeping Jaida so comfortable, he would be happy to know that she hadn’t spent all of it, but unless she had the rest stashed somewhere else she had devoured one hefty chunk.

  He unfolded the deed to the house and held it under the light. What was this? Two names. Joint ownership. He made a quick perusal of the room and shook his head. Imagine that. This place was on the upscale end of the market, and it was paid in full. Maybe she did inherit it.

  Lance looked back down at the deed. Spencer Gordon. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen that name printed next to Jaida’s. It was time he found out more about this man. He wrote down the account numbers, the bank name, and other pertinent information before tucking the items back inside the drawer.

  One task in progress, he shoved the paper in his pocket and stood. The tape had to be here. He had picked her office clean at work and found nothing except notes on Gale along with her hostile opinions of him. But that was all they were—opinions. Not much damage she could do with those.

  Jaida took her cases personally; at least this one she did. Was it possible the two of them had been romantically involved at one time? Is that what Gale was keeping from him?

  Jealousy rippled through him. For a man on the downside of fifty, Gale took reasonable care of himself, but he was still too old for her. Lance gave his head a shake and chuckled to himself. He was getting way too involved. What was it to him if she was looking for a daddy? And a sugar daddy at that?

  He turned off the lamp and put the chair back where he found it, his attention gravitating to the unit along the wall behind him. The shelves were custom built, teeming with books and paper-filled folders. This would be an all-day job. He threw a quick glance toward the door, guessing at how much time he had left before
Jaida came looking for him, then turned back to the shelves. Where to start?

  Lance picked a random spot and ran his hands over the tops and sides of the books then slid them inside the folders one at a time. “Come to Papa.” He had landed one sweet deal when he was offered this gig. The woman, the money…

  He tucked his hand behind a messy stack of folders. His heart charged when his fingers grazed the plastic edge of what felt like an 8mm tape. He smiled to himself and silently cheered his victory when he pulled it out and read the name, William Gale, scrawled along the side in blue ink. He raised it to his lips and kissed it. Tonight was his night.

  “What are you doing?” Lance stiffened at the voice behind him.

  Keep your cool, your back is to her, she can't see anything. He eased his open fingers a fraction to the right and latched onto a figurine of a small child then dropped the tape into his front pocket with his other hand.

  He turned then and flashed her an artless grin. “Just touring your home since the owner didn’t offer.” He feigned an interest in the stone piece he held in his hand before setting it back on the shelf.

  “Nice,” he said, rubbing the inside of his wrist.

  “Would you like to see the upstairs?” she asked. “Or have you already been up there?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “No, I haven’t been up there, and I would love to see it. Great Italian flavor, by the way, you must have been thinking of me when you decorated.” He caught her by the shoulders before she turned and brushed her lips with a kiss.

  Lance followed her up the stairs. Her white cotton capri’s skimmed her hips, a fine line of tanned skin peeking out between the waistband and the pink shirt she wore. The label stitched on the back told him they were as pricey as everything else he had seen today. Maybe it was a good thing this was a temporary relationship. He couldn’t afford to keep her.

  “This is the guest room.” She swept a hand into an open doorway and he poked his head inside. It was sparse, but nicely furnished with a hint of the old world complementing the décor.