Chapter 4
Aside from the occasional flutter of butterflies in her tummy, the flight to New York had been uneventful. Mark had been happy to listen to music and read his magazine, so Sarah had managed to catch up on the sleep she’d lost from her night shift.
After getting through airport security, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled at her brother as she said, “It still feels like a dream.”
He smiled back and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Have I told you I’m proud of you?”
“Only a dozen times.”
“Good. Still have a few up my sleeve then.”
She chuckled but felt her smile slip the instant they stepped through the automatic doors leading to the arrivals reception. Indecipherable questions, a swarm of people, and camera flashes rushed them.
Protective instinct made her take a step back. Under her breath, she muttered, “What the hell?”
Beside her, Mark said something a lot more colorful and pulled her closer to him.
As her brain struggled to grasp what was happening, a woman in a black uniform pushed her way through the crowd and stopped in front of them. “I’m your driver, Ms. Woodward. Keep your head down and come with me.”
Sarah couldn’t respond before the woman grabbed her arm and yanked her through the crowd. Every few steps, the woman shouted, “Clear the way, please.”
Some members of the crowd complied, making it easier to move. The driver took immediate advantage, moving them faster toward the exit doors. Before they could reach them, more people appeared. These seemed more like interested bystanders than the . . . whoever these others were. Reporters? Paparazzi? Again, the space closed in on her and Mark.
Sarah felt her brother’s grip around her shoulders loosen. Another couple of paces, he was separated from her. She tilted her head to search for him. He wasn’t there. Panic stretched across her chest. What the hell is going on? Thanks to the driver, Sarah was tugged forward again. She flicked her head around, trying to locate her brother, and spied him behind a person to her left.
“Mark!”
She reached her hand out to him. He shoved his way back to her side. This time, he held onto her with both hands: one around her waist, the other on her upper arm.
A camera flash went off in Sarah’s face, making her squint. She shielded her eyes with her free hand. Even so, she could make out the continued flashes as she walked. The questions came again too.
This time she understood one of them. It came from a man, somewhere in front of her, “Ms. Woodward, what do you have to say about reports naming you as the winner of the Joan Morgan mentorship?”
How did they know that?
She kept her mouth shut as the driver, who still had her by the arm, yanked her the opposite way. It started to hurt. But what was the alternative? If she struggled, she’d get swallowed up.
Another question, from a shrill female voice, asked, “Ms. Woodward, have you met with Joan Morgan yet?”
Sarah didn’t answer. The automatic exit doors slid open and the driver tugged them outside. A black limousine was parked at the curb. She didn’t have time to admire it.
The driver ordered, “Give me your bags,” and took a checked bag and carry-on from Mark, as well as a carry-on from Sarah. Thank goodness they’d packed light! “Get her in the car.”
Sarah saw her brother nod at the driver, then he used a gentle, but forceful, shove to get her inside the limousine. He followed soon after, to more camera flashes and screamed questions in the distance. She peered out the darkened windows and saw that airport security had become involved. They were holding the press and onlookers back.
“That was insane.”
She turned to her brother. “I know. Are you okay?”
“Better than you by the looks of it.”
The sound of the trunk opening stopped Sarah from answering. Three distinct thumps followed. Their luggage was safe now too. A slam indicated they were ready to go. The woman who’d helped them escape the fiasco jumped into the driver’s seat, locked all the doors, and sped off as though the airport was about to explode.
Sarah peered through the dark-tinted window at the back of the car. Nobody followed them. Nobody she could see anyway. She took a deep breath, not realizing she’d been holding it until that moment. It was over.
Turning to the front, she asked the driver, “What was that all about?”
“Somebody must’ve tipped off the press about your arrival.”
“Oh, great.”
Who could it have been? She’d told four people––her parents, Amy, and Mark––all of whom had sworn they wouldn’t tell a soul. They were the only people in the world she completely trusted. Why would any of them tip the media off anyway? None of them needed the money such news would garner. Fame couldn’t be a motive either, as tip-offs were notorious for their anonymity. She screwed her nose in confusion.
The driver gave her a sarcastic, though not malicious, smile through the rear-view mirror, “Welcome to New York . . . and congratulations.”
Sarah maintained a blank expression and answered, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
The driver laughed, “An expert in handling unwanted questions already.”
Sarah grinned.
“I hear it’s quite prestigious?”
Mark answered, “It is.”
In the past twenty years, the mentorship had produced some of America’s top writers. Joan was an excellent mentor. At least, she had been . . . until the controversy with Linda last year. Doubt resurfaced and crept over Sarah. The space in her chest tightened. What had she gotten herself into?
***
Charles watched the scene unfold on the news. Sarah Woodward shielded her face from the camera flashes and answered none of the questions directed at her. He squinted. It was clear from the woman’s open-mouthed expression that she was shocked by the fuss. He sensed it was not a rehearsed response.
Not like Linda . . .
As he pushed those memories away, he refocused on the television. Sarah was shuffled into a waiting limousine out the front of the airport and driven away. The drama died down. He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist.
Even though he knew from experience there would be more to see when Sarah reached the hotel, if he wanted to catch his flight on time, he needed to leave now. Resigned, he flicked off the television, picked up his luggage, and left.
***
All hopes Sarah held of a reprieve were dashed as they drove closer to the Royal Hotel. Sarah peeked through her dark-tinted window––now she understood why celebrities loved them: privacy and security––and spotted an area that had been sectioned off with orange barriers. People pushed against the barriers, but men and women wearing identical black suits lined with gold buttons stood in front of them. Their presence prevented anyone from crossing over.
Mark gave her a nudge to the ribs and pointed out his window. “Look at that.”
She followed his finger and gasped at what she saw. “Wow. That is too beautiful.”
In the middle of the hotel’s driveway was a fountain. The size of it meant their limousine had to veer a little to the right so they wouldn’t hit it. A few feet more and their driver pulled to a stop at the glassed-front entrance of the hotel. More barriers, people pressing against them, and gold-buttoned staff were on either side of the entry doors.
The driver peered over her shoulder, “When your door opens, duck your head and run. I’ll sort out your luggage.”
Sarah had no time to react before her door was opened.
A hand stretched toward her, “Welcome. Please, come with me.”
She took the offered hand without looking and jumped out. Then she did what she’d been instructed: ducked her head and ran. Behind her, she heard Mark follow. Just like at the airport, indiscernible questions and the glare of intrusive camera flashes came. Her stomach swirled with anxiety until she was ushered into the foyer and the commotion was gone. The hand around her own loosened. She exhaled and looked up.
A man with sincerity in his brown eyes smiled, and said, “I’m Francisco, the concierge. Are you all right, Mrs. Woodward?”
She nodded, not bothering to correct the honorific he’d given her. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
He aimed his gaze on a spot behind her, “And you, Mr. Woodward?”
“I’m good too.”
Francisco gave a faint smile and kept his attention on her brother. She felt her eyebrow lift. Was he checking her brother out?
A second before the extended eye contact would have seemed awkward, Francisco focused back on her, and said, “Let’s get you both checked in. You must be exhausted.”
“Yes, we are.”
Francisco glanced at her brother again, smiled, then turned. “Please, follow me.”
As they walked, Sarah was struck by the grandeur. She noted the gold-colored tiles on the floor as well as the cream and burgundy tiled compass pattern set into the middle. The ceiling was raised at least two levels. There was a hotel bar, and a lounging area filled with deep burgundy sofas and dark wood coffee tables. Men and women in business suits dotted the area. Most of them sipped from wine glasses.
Francisco came to a stop. He stepped aside and stretched an arm in the direction of a desk made of the same black and white marble as the fountain.
“I hope you enjoy your stay with us at the Royal.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Woodward.” He looked beside her, “Mr. Woodward.”
Again, he kept his eyes on her brother for a second longer than was usual before walking away.
Mark stared after the man then asked, “Do I have something on my face, or what?”
Sarah chuckled, “I think he’s interested in you but isn’t sure whether I know you’re gay or not.”
He groaned. “You always come up with the most romantic motive possible, don’t you?”
“I’m a romance writer, can’t help it. What would your explanation be?”
“Maybe I have something in my teeth?” He gave them a quick rub then turned his opened mouth toward her, “All clear?”
She flashed him a cheeky grin, “All except that ugly mug attached to the teeth.”
He pulled a face and slugged an arm around her shoulder, “Come on, smarty-pants, I need a bath and sleep before tonight.”