by Beverly Long
She opened it. Inside, on plain white tissue paper, was a perfectly lovely sapphire necklace.
“I don’t want you to feel obligated to wear it,” he said. “It’s just...I thought it would look nice with your eyes.”
His voice was soft, uncertain. And she felt a piece of her already-damaged heart break off.
“It’s lovely,” she said. She lifted it out of the box, flipped open the catch, and put it on. It felt warm against her skin. She brushed the stone with the tips of her fingers.
“Thank you,” she said. Her throat felt dry, her lips stiff.
“I was right,” he said. “It’s the same blue.”
Another chunk of her heart broke off.
“I can’t be late,” she said and walked out the door.
Chapter Seven
The cab ride to the hotel was uneventful but Cruz could not shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. It was no wonder. They were walking into an unsecured venue, with multiple access and egress points, and Meg, looking even more beautiful than usual, would be the center of attention. There would be lots of noise, lots of movement, lots of strangers.
In other words, a cluster of the most significant magnitude.
The driver made a sharp turn and pulled up close to the entrance. A uniformed doorman hustled over to open the door. Cruz didn’t miss the appreciative glance that the man sent Meg’s direction.
The smokers were milling around the entrance, puffing away their anxiety. Cruz wrapped an arm around Meg’s shoulder, ignoring the startled look that she sent his direction. He guided her through the doors and across the lavish lobby.
There was a large poster advertising the event and a woman dressed in a long black dress with black gloves up to her elbows was waving people toward an elevator. “Fourth floor,” she murmured.
In the elevator, Cruz maneuvered Meg into the corner and stood in front of her. The space was crowded—men in black tuxedoes, white shirts and ties. An occasional handkerchief in the pocket or brightly colored cummerbund around the waist was the only differentiation. Not so with the women. All colors of dresses, some to the floor, some to the knee, and one whose butt was barely covered. They wore lots of makeup and at least one of them smelled like burnt cinnamon toast.
The ballroom was straight ahead. Four sets of double doors were open and flanked on both sides by women in long dresses handing out programs. Before they had a chance to take a program, Beatrice Classen, wearing a long green dress and matching jacket trimmed with peacock feathers, swooped down upon them.
“Meg, Meg, this way. Oh, my, you look so lovely. Just like Annette Benning in that movie, you know, The American President.”
Cruz remembered the movie. He and Meg had only been married a year or so. It had been her turn to pick the movie and he’d made the obligatory groans and moans about watching a chick flick. But it had been worth it when Meg had agreed to watch it in bed and they’d had to DVR a portion of it to allow for a brief intermission of rainy afternoon sex.
He’d been fond of Annette Benning and Michael Douglas ever since.
Meg let the woman kiss her on both cheeks. Then she pulled back just a little and waved a hand in Cruz’s direction. “Beatrice, Cruz Montoya. I understand you met this morning.”
“Yes, yes. Nice to see you again, Mr. Montoya.” Beatrice turned to Meg. “All this time and I never realized you were married.”
“Cruz is actually my ex-husband,” Meg said.
“Oh.” Beatrice looked even more like a bird with her puckered mouth and furrowed forehead. “I’m...I’m...”
Cruz looked at Meg. Now what?, his eyes seemed to ask.
Cruz was probably right. It would be easier just to pass him off as her current husband. Easier tonight. But definitely more difficult the next time she met anyone from A Hand Up. They’d ask about her husband and at some point, she’d have to give the difficult explanation. We’re divorced. Have been for some time. Just friends now.
She’d still be lying.
Meg put her arm around Beatrice’s shoulders. “It was really nice of you to be able to get him a ticket at such late notice. He’s in town for just a short while.”
“Happy to help,” Beatrice said, her lined eyes full of speculation. But to her credit, she didn’t probe. In her sixty-some years, she’d probably seen a lot of things. Maybe this wasn’t that odd. “Let me show you to your seats,” she said.
She led them through the large, dimly lit ballroom that was filled with round tables for ten. The overall effect of the starched linens, gleaming silverware, candles and flowers was stunning. Meg could feel her chest tighten up. This was a big deal. A Hand Up was an offshoot of one of the more high-profile charities in San Antonio. She really hoped she didn’t screw up too badly.
Beatrice pointed to a chair. “Here we are.”
Place cards were already at the table. Meg Montoya. Cruz Montoya. Silver script on a pale blue background. Almost seven years earlier, there’d been very similar cards. The room had been smaller, the tables less lavish, but there had been laughter and love and great anticipation.
At their wedding.
When she’d been packing to leave Chicago, she’d come across the place cards. Unable to destroy them, unable to leave them, she’d stuffed them into the side pocket of her suitcase. When she’d arrived in San Antonio, she’d left them there. Sort of the same way all her things from her office in Chicago had been left in a box when she’d arrived in San Antonio. She couldn’t bear to part with them, nor could she bear the daily reminders of the life she’d left behind.
Her spot was next to the podium, with Cruz to her right. There were three more chairs on their side and on the other side of the podium, a matching five. Ten spots at the head table. Places for Beatrice and her husband as well as for the other three directors of A Hand Up and their guests.
A cocktail server approached with a tray of champagne glasses. Meg took one, Cruz shook his head. She sipped and glanced around the room. “Big place,” she said.
“I think that’s what I tried to tell you,” Cruz agreed. He was scanning the room.
“Got the exits identified?” she asked. Since their very first date, the pattern had been established. They’d go to dinner, a movie, heck, even the zoo. Cruz would choose his chair or spot with care. He’d have at least a couple escape routes in his head. Just in case there was fire, flood...locusts.
She’d teased him that he was ready for everything but nuclear fallout. But secretly she’d appreciated his common sense. She had always felt safe with Cruz.
The other directors arrived and Meg shook hands and made introductions. She kept it simple. “This is Cruz. He’s visiting from Chicago.” Then it was time to eat.
And Cruz, being Cruz, caused just a minor disturbance when the servers tried to deliver their plates. He shook his head when the server tried to give Meg her dinner. “We’ll take two off that tray,” he said, pointing at a tray that another server was carrying. The young man looked at him, started to protest, then apparently recalled the part of his training that said the customer is always right. He nodded and fetched two plates from the other tray.
Meg figured the waitstaff would be talking about them for weeks. Making jokes about the weird things people did. “I really don’t think there is somebody in the kitchen trying to poison me,” she whispered.
Cruz simply shrugged and buttered his roll.
The chicken might have been delicious. But Meg was too nervous to really taste it. She cut it and her roasted potatoes and asparagus into teeny bites and ate a little but mostly pushed the rest around her plate until she gave up altogether. Public speaking always made her nervous but she’d gotten used to it. For many years now, she’d been regularly speaking at shareholder events or at employee meetings.
But this was different.
These people were strangers and they’d paid five hundred bucks a plate to hear her. Plus, she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of Charlotte
and Scott and the other staff who rounded out the BJM table. As promised, they were near the front. Charlotte wore a beautiful silver gown and Scott, like Cruz, had on a tux.
He looked...nice. Not hot and alpha like Cruz who seemed to simply own his space. Scott was polished, sophisticated. And that certainly wasn’t bad. He and Charlotte had arrived late, just as the salads were brought out. She knew Cruz had seen them arrive. Heck, the man saw everything. But he didn’t say anything and didn’t acknowledge the table.
He hadn’t talked to her during dinner, either. But once the server cleared her plate, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Calm down. You’re going to do great.”
“This could be a disaster,” she whispered back.
A disaster. Yeah. Maybe so. He wasn’t worried about Meg’s speech or her ability to deliver it. She’d always underestimated herself while he’d always known just how smart and talented she was.
He probably should have tried to talk her off the ledge during dinner. But while he’d made it appear as if his greatest interest in the world was a piece of chicken that could have used some salt, he’d been busy studying the room.
They’d whipped the place into shape. It looked way different than it had earlier this morning. They had dimmed the lighting slightly, making it more intimate. It also made it more difficult for him to see more than a hundred yards out. Even so, he still had a view of the tables he was most interested in. He figured if somebody intended to harm Meg, they’d have a spot near the front because the logical points of escape were the side doors on the left and right side of the room.
Meg was right. He had checked out the doors when he’d been here earlier. The rear doors led to the lobby. If anyone tried to escape that way, too many people would see or maybe even try to apprehend him.
The side door on the left led to a hallway that led to the kitchen. There were stairs midway that led to a street-level exit. The side door on the right led to a bank of elevators that went up twenty floors to guest rooms. If someone had a good head start in either direction, they’d be hard to find.
What he saw when he looked around the dining room didn’t concern him too much. When Meg had left his room earlier to get dressed, he’d taken five minutes to review the photos of all the employees who’d been termed by BJM Hotels within the past year. None of the faces at the tables looked familiar. Of course, now he was looking at the backs of a whole lot of heads. Once the program began, he figured people would turn their chairs and he’d get a look at their faces.
Waitstaff came around with dessert. Meg declined and the server, proving he was a fast study, allowed Cruz to pick one off a tray. It was angel food cake, strawberries and whipped cream, layered in a tall glass. The presentation was nice and it tasted significantly better than the chicken.
Then Beatrice pushed her chair back and came up to the podium. She was so short that she had to pull down the adjustable microphone or it would have conked her in the forehead.
“Thank you so much for coming. You’ve demonstrated a great commitment to A Hand Up. When we contemplated this program a few years ago...”
Blah, blah, blah. Cruz kept his eyes moving, watching the crowd. He’d been right. The people with their backs to the stage were turning their chairs. He scanned the room and didn’t see anything that worried him.
Saw a bunch of things that annoyed him, though. People were checking their phones and a few were chatting to the person next to them. A couple even had their eyes closed, taking a short snooze. Idiots. They’d dropped serious change to be here and they couldn’t even pretend to be interested.
His dear mother would have smacked them up alongside their heads. Be respectful. She’d drilled it into her children’s heads. If somebody is talking to you, be quiet and listen. If someone older comes into the room, get up and give him your seat. If you can hold the door for someone, do it.
He hadn’t always embraced the lessons. In Chicago, especially on the south side of the city, kids grew up quick. At ten, he’d been a troublemaker. At eleven, a punk. At twelve, on the fast track to juvie. His mother had worried and pleaded and prayed. His father had yelled and drank and yelled some more.
Then he’d left.
And life got even harder for the Montoyas. If not for his mom, and the strength of both her character and her back, as she worked twelve-hour days cleaning hotel rooms, he might well have ended up on the wrong side of a jail cell, like the young men in this room who either had been or were currently clients of A Hand Up.
“...a great honor to introduce a wonderful partner to A Hand Up. She is a woman who understands the importance of giving others purpose. She has the rare ability to encourage others to reach for the stars while making sure that the ladder they’re standing on is nice and steady. Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome Meg Montoya.”
Meg pushed her chair back. He wanted to squeeze her hand or pat her back—something to reassure her. He kept his hands down. Those days were gone. Now, a touch, his touch, would just throw her off her stride.
“Good evening. It’s a pleasure to be here. It has been my privilege to partner with A Hand Up to give hardworking individuals an opportunity for a better future. I first became...”
Her voice was strong, confident, and he could see people in the audience responding. Phones got put down, side conversations ceased, people listened.
“...and while I hope that the program participants benefited, I know with great certainly that BJM Hotels is better for having had the opportunity to work with these four individuals. Michael worked in our purchasing department and he...”
Cruz heard the scrape of a nearby chair. He turned his head slightly and from the left side of the room, a man was running toward the stage, his eyes fixated on Meg. He was young, white and had one arm raised, like an Olympic torch bearer.
There was no torch, no flame—just the glint of a steel blade from a dangerous-looking knife.
Chapter Eight
Cruz shoved his chair aside. “Get back,” he yelled at Meg. He jumped up onto the table, sending dishes and glasses flying, and leapt toward the man who was less than ten feet away.
He knocked the man to the ground, they rolled, and in seconds, Cruz had the idiot facedown, spread-eagle, with the knife safely secured under the heel of his shoe.
People were screaming, running from the room. He ignored it all. Just turned his head to make sure that Meg was okay.
She was back at the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen. Please return to your seats. For the safety of everyone, sit down and remain calm. There is no danger. Everything is fine.”
Her voice was not as steady as before but it did the trick. People stopped screaming. They sat down. Order resumed.
Two male security officers arrived, looking slightly green. Cruz figured they probably hadn’t had much experience handling knife-wielding maniacs.
Fortunately or unfortunately for him, he’d had his share of experience. But never before had he been so absolutely terrified. He’d looked into the man’s eyes, realized Meg was the intended target and his heart had about stopped.
“Police are on the way,” the younger security officer said.
“Thank you,” said the other. “This could have been bad.”
It could have been horrific. He could have lost Meg forever.
Four San Antonio police officers arrived. Cruz identified himself, gave a brief recap of what had happened and stepped back, grateful to let them take over. He wanted to stand next to Meg, smell her rich scent, hear her sweet laugh.
But that was going to have to wait. Meg, always the consummate professional, asked the police if she could give her statement once the program was concluded. The cops agreed. So after bagging the knife, they quietly escorted the man from the room. Cruz saw one of the officers pause at the table where the man had been sitting and exchange a few words before leaving the room. The door was barely closed behind them when Meg launched back into her speech. She kept it short but gave a brief
description of the contributions from each of the four individuals from A Hand Up. Each man was asked to stand. Cruz noted that Oscar Warren didn’t even look in his direction.
Finally, there was applause and closing remarks from Beatrice Classen and the event was over.
It had been the longest ten minutes of his life, full of frustration. He desperately wanted five minutes alone with the attacker but knew the San Antonio police weren’t going to let that happen. Professional courtesy only got a person so far. They’d be crossing a line if they let him get too close to the investigation.
He wanted Meg away from the ugliness. Didn’t want her goodness soiled by the tediousness of what needed to happen next. The police would have questions, maybe even the press, depending on whether it was a slow news day or not.
The people at the attacker’s table remained seated. Cruz figured the cop had told them to hang out after the program ended. Even if the man had acted alone, he may have engaged in some dinner conversation that would help the police with their investigation.
The rest of the attendees were bookin’ it toward the doors at the rear. Unfortunately, Slater and Charlotte were swimming upstream, headed toward Meg.
“Gracious, Meg,” said Charlotte. “That was certainly unexpected.”
Cruz gave the woman a look. Her tone was almost chiding, like it was somehow Meg’s fault. But Meg didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, the good news is I imagine I won’t have to worry about being next year’s keynote speaker,” Meg said. She was working hard to keep it light but Cruz knew her too well. She was shook.
“Do any of you know him?” Cruz asked.
Meg, Slater and Charlotte all shook their heads. Slater put his hand on Meg’s arm. Cruz balled his fist, desperately wanting to knock him back a step.
“I sure hope this ends all the craziness,” Slater said. “He’s got to be the guy behind the letters and the damage to your car and your apartment.”
“I imagine he is,” Meg said. “I mean, how many people could hate me?” She smiled, still trying to keep the mood light.