Chapter 6
“Geez. Take a breath, sis.”
Sarah sucked air deep into her lungs. She’d had three days to prepare but still didn’t feel ready. This was a big deal. The turning point of her career. She needed to calm her nerves.
“Give me a minute.”
The awards ceremony building was constructed of clear glass and polished aluminum, giving it an ethereal and luminous quality regardless of the darkness. Light from streetlamps bounced off the building, adding to the effect.
Sarah turned to face one of the glass panels. Scared brown eyes stared back from the reflection. She moved her attention to the loose, dark brown curls around her face and the intricate up-style of her hair. Not a strand was out of place by the time she’d finished fussing.
Still anxious, she tilted her head toward Mark, “How does my hair look?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Not too big?”
“No, and before you ask, your make-up is perfect, and so is your dress.”
She peered down at the peachy-pink knee-length dress and smoothed it with her hands. Both Amy and the shop assistant had insisted it suited her peaches and cream complexion. She didn’t know what that meant but assumed it was a positive thing from the looks that had been on their faces when they’d said it.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Let’s go already.” He gave her back an encouraging pat. “You’re going to smash them.”
She nodded, unconvincingly, and let Mark guide her to the doors. The doors that would lead her to her future as a writer. A serious writer. All of a sudden, she found it hard to breathe. Mark seemed oblivious to her discomfort as he shoved her inside the room.
A woman she didn’t recognize said, “Good evening. Names please?”
“Sarah and Mark Woodward.”
The woman grinned, “Ah, our guest of honor. Please, follow me.”
Sarah exchanged an excited look with Mark.
The woman directed them to a table in the middle of the front row. “You’ll be here tonight.”
Sarah smiled, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Woodward.”
There it was again. The use of “Mrs.” She had no chance to correct the term; the four people already seated at the table called out greetings before she could.
After introductions, Sarah discovered they were guest speakers: a famous female British novelist, EWA’s secretary, and their partners. When subsequent arrivals made it almost impossible to speak without screaming, Sarah took the opportunity to inspect the room.
The other tables had the same cream satin tablecloths as her own. Each chair was adorned with a matching chair cover and cream satin bow at the back. She felt her eyebrows rise as she counted the tables. Thirteen. Lucky she wasn’t superstitious. She refocused her attention on her table.
The centerpiece was elegant, yet understated. Five lit candles sat on gray river pebbles at the bottom of a large, glass hurricane jar. The jar had been placed in the middle of a floral wreath made up of cream carnations.
She leaned toward the wreath and drew in a deep breath. A light floral scent filled her nostrils, along with the unmistakable smell of hairspray––used, Sarah knew, from working in her parents’ flower and gift shop as a teenager, to keep the flowers fresh and in position. The familiarity helped settle her nerves.
Beside her, she heard her brother mutter, “It’s a bit flashy, isn’t it?”
She sent an amused look to Mark. “Says the man wearing an electric blue suit?”
He lifted his palms in a mock gesture of insult, “Hey, it doesn’t clash with your dress, does it?”
She laughed, “No.”
“So, you have nothing to complain about, do you?”
Her laughter settled into a smile, “No, I don’t.” She sat back in her chair and placed a palm over her brother’s. “Thanks for doing this for me.”
“Eh, I’m here for the free food.” He winked.
She laughed again and play-slapped him on the arm.
Mark looked around then asked, “When does Joan get here?”
A flutter of nerves shot through her as she replied, “I’m not sure.”
“Will she be sitting with us?”
There had been talk of a private meeting with Joan during the phone call from the mentorship organizers, but the possibility of Joan sitting with her at the ceremony hadn’t crossed her mind. Now that it had . . .
“Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick.” She placed her hand over her stomach in an attempt to halt the nausea.
“Here, have a sip.”
Mark handed her a glass of water. She obeyed, taking a couple of gulps.
He took the glass back. “Feel better?”
She nodded. “A little. Thank you.”
Movement from her peripheral vision made her turn. Her breath caught as she spotted an unknown man making his way to the table.
His black suit showed off broad shoulders and a trim waist. As he walked, he lifted a hand and adjusted the dark blue tie at his neck in a way that showed he regarded it as a noose. The gesture made her smile. Her father felt the same about ties.
His dark-bronze hair had been combed into a side-part style that was somewhat old-fashioned, but neat. He moved closer; Sarah had a better view of his face. A day’s worth of dark stubble flecked his chin. That, along with the frown on his lips, hinted at a subtle danger that made Sarah’s stomach alternate between excited flips and cautious griping. He reached the table after a couple more paces.
He aimed his gaze at the center of the table as he greeted, “Good evening.”
Everybody at the table rose. Should she? She glanced at her brother. He stood, so she did too. The man shook hands and spoke with the others, though Sarah couldn’t make out what was said over the noises in the room. One thing she could make out was how his face remained unchanged––flat and unexpressive––during each exchange.
Bit serious, isn’t he?
The next thing she knew, the man turned to her. His hazel-green eyes seemed to scrutinize her. What was he looking for? She started to hold out her hand for him to shake, but he bowed his head, averted his gaze, and turned away before she could.
She frowned. That was rude.
She lowered back into her seat. From the corner of her eye, she saw him pull out the empty chair next to hers. He sat, crossed his arms, and set his gaze in the direction of the stage. He made no effort to talk to anybody.
Add aloof to his already charming traits.
Sarah pressed her lips together. Serious, rude, aloof. He probably thought he was “mysterious.” She rolled her eyes. This type of man she knew too well. Good looking, emotionally unavailable . . . and nothing but trouble.
She tried to be subtle when she angled her chair away from him.
Her brother leaned toward her and whispered, “He’s a tad intense, isn’t he?”
“Shh, he might hear you.”
Mark shrugged. “He is.”
Sarah grinned but said nothing. In the silence, she noted all the seats at her table were now taken. Joan wouldn’t be sitting with them. The combined relief and disappointment she felt was curtailed when an older woman with large, rainbow-rimmed glasses, and a dress almost as bright, appeared on the stage. She looked familiar.
Before Sarah could place her, the woman spoke, “Good evening everyone. I am Natalia Devereux––” Ah. Natalia wrote psychological thrillers. You wouldn’t know her books were spine-tingling by the look of her! The bright, lively outfit didn’t seem to fit the dark genre. Sarah grinned. Much like books, you couldn’t always judge an author by appearances. “And I’d like to welcome you to the twenty-first annual Emerging Writers of America awards.”
Claps echoed around the room. Sarah caught a glimpse of the stranger. His clap was subdued, like the expression on his face. Mark was right, there was something intense about him. He had to be a crime writer. She chuckled to herself at the thought.
Natalia continued, “Tonight, we are here to celebrate emerging writers in America. This group of talented up-and-coming writers can be found across every race, gender and age group. They’ve worked hard to be included in tonight’s awards ceremony. To start things off, I’d like to welcome popular crime writer Charles Morgan to the stage.”
Crime writer. Sarah’s gaze darted to the man at her table. He stood and adjusted the noose tie. Around her people clapped, their smiles wide and full.
Mark whispered in her ear, “He has a name.”
She nodded, unable to speak, then it hit her . . . had his last name been Morgan?
She watched Charles walk up the stage and stop at the microphone. In the bright lights, Sarah saw him wipe his hands down the front of his suit. Then his gaze flicked over the crowd. One side of her mouth lifted in amusement. He was as nervous as she was. Maybe he was human after all?
He tugged at the tie around his neck one more time before he spoke, “Good evening everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Charles Morgan. I am a writer of crime fiction and the son of romance writer, Joan Morgan.”
Joan’s son.
Cheers and hoots interrupted his speech.
When the noise died down, he continued, “My mother is supposed to be the one up here presenting tonight, however, an unexpected illness has prevented her from being here. I was sent in her place.”
“Oohs” and “aahs” of disappointment came from the crowd. Sarah wasn’t one of them. She was too distracted by the way he’d looked at the floor upon speaking the words. The action told her he wasn’t telling the whole story.
“I’ve been informed that my duty tonight is to announce the winner of the Joan Morgan mentorship program.”
Charles glanced at Sarah then back to the crowd. She felt her cheeks heat at the realization he knew who she was. Why did that knowledge affect her?
As he continued, his words faded into the background. Her heart throbbed like a jackhammer against her sternum. She could feel her entire body shake. Her moment was imminent. The one she’d practiced for two days; the one that started, “I’ve been a fan of yours for years, Joan . . .” Which was now obsolete. Oh crap. She was unprepared for this. What was she going to do?
“There were hundreds of entries. This year’s winner was chosen due to the original story idea she entered, along with the unique voice and potential evident in her writing.” He swallowed hard then peeked up and gestured at her with an outstretched palm, “That winner is Sarah Woodward. Please join me in congratulating Sarah and welcoming her to the stage.”
He clapped a few times, though his face remained stoic, and soon, the cheers and claps were for her. Mark gave her hand a squeeze. Sarah rose then masked her nerves with a smile. Don’t trip up the stairs. All too soon, she was on the stage.
Charles held out his hand when she reached him. She accepted it and had half a second to register the shot of electricity that came from their joined hands before he yanked his free. Her gaze lifted.
He stared at her, shock in his expression. Had he experienced something odd too?
He looked away and mumbled, “Congratulations, Mrs. Woodward.”
There was that word again: Mrs. Had everyone been watching the news? Awareness of the sudden silence filled Sarah’s consciousness. She was alone . . . and spotlighted. The feeling of lead butterflies flying around her tummy increased Sarah’s desire to be off the stage as soon as possible.
But in order to do that, she needed to speak. Okay. She took in a slow, deep breath. All she had to do was focus on Mark and aim her speech at him, just like she’d practiced. Except she didn’t have a speech anymore.
What do I do?
Realizing she was taking too long, she approached the microphone and searched the audience for her brother. As she scanned the table she’d been at moments before, she saw Mark give a subtle wave. His mouth curled in a smile she knew was meant to encourage her.
It did. She smiled.
Just speak from the heart.
She locked onto the thought and kept her eyes trained on Mark.
The words flowed out, “I’d like to thank Joan for choosing my manuscript and giving me this opportunity. I’m honored and look forward to the mentoring program and the insights she can give me. Thank you.”
There. Sincere, unpoetic, and to the point. Just like her writing. Sarah offered a quick smile and walked from the stage. Applause followed her back to the table. She noted that Charles was seated beside her once again. The other people at her table showered her in congratulations and handshakes. Charles offered a nod but no words.
She reclaimed her seat.
Natalia reappeared at the microphone. Sarah didn’t hear the words that followed. Her attention had been drawn back to Charles Morgan, who stood and left after offering a simple bow to the table.
Sarah felt her face scrunch.
So rude!
Possibly bordering on arrogant. Did he think he was too good to stay for the full event?
She’d almost decided that was his motivation when the image of his obvious nerves at the microphone entered her mind. From what she could tell, it had been an authentic response.
Now that she was thinking about it, there was more than one explanation for his behavior. He could be an introvert who was uncomfortable in crowds. Maybe he had social anxiety.
She frowned. It was hard to know what to believe.
She pushed the confusion away. This was probably the one and only time she would have to deal with him anyway. So it really didn’t matter what she thought about Charles Morgan.