Sugar (33 page)

The latter shout out came from Cole. Standing below the bookstore’s event stage, he positioned his Nikon to snap yet another series of photos for Twitter, Facebook, her website—who knew. Even before there’d been any inkling that her memoir,
Sugar
, would make
The New York Times
and
USA Today
bestseller lists, he’d boasted to anyone who’d listen that his “girl’s” book was bound to be a blockbuster.

Flanked by her editor and in-house publicist, Sarah slid a book off the dwindling stack, and held it up, smiling down at him as he clicked away. Earlier she’d given a reading, her first, to a standing room only audience. The program had ended with a short Q&A and now the autographing. Twenty minutes in, the queue of customers still waiting to have books signed stretched all the way from the back of the store to the stage steps.

Beneath the cloth draped event table, Sarah pinched herself, the only way she knew to prove she really was awake and not dreaming. What a difference a year could make. Not only was she a newly minted
New York Times
bestselling author, but she was also a soon-to-be bride!

Her and Cole’s wedding would take place the following week, a low key celebration for close friends and immediate family. Afterward, they planned to honeymoon in Paris, staying at her pied-à-terre in Saint German des Pres. It would be her first time visiting the City of Lights with her beloved beside her. As thrilling as the past whirlwind weeks had been, she could hardly wait for them to be alone. Beyond the three book deal she’d just signed for an erotic romance trilogy—it seemed all those years of reading romances between set takes had paid off!—she had even bigger news to share.

They were having a baby!

Smiling to herself, she bent her head to sign yet another hard cover copy from the dwindling stock, her Art Deco era diamond engagement ring flashing fire as the felt tip pen moved over the first sale page.

“May your future be as sweet as . . . Sugar,” she wrote and then signed beneath, not as Sugar but with her real initials, SLH—Sarah Lorraine Halliday.

“Thank you so much for coming. I hope you enjoy it,” Sarah said, closing the book and handing it back to yet another excited-to-meet-her reader.

Flexing her stiffening right hand, she looked down to the rows of folding chairs, picking out her friends’ faces—Peter and Pol, Brian and Honey, and Liz. Even her father had turned out for this, her first public appearance as an author. Neither of them would ever forget the past but his coming to the bookstore and then out to dinner with them all afterward was a big step toward building a happier, freer future.

Catching Liz’s eye, she mouthed, “Five more minutes?” Holding up one hand, she smiled.

Her personalized pre-signed book balanced on her knees, Liz smiled back. “No rush,” she said or so Sarah surmised.

In full remission, Liz had finished her final reconstructive surgery the previous month. With her short cap of glossy black curls, grown in eyebrows, and sparkling dark eyes, she looked more like herself every day. After the wedding, she and Jonathan would celebrate by taking off for an all-expense paid week long vacation to Disney World courtesy of the Canning Foundation.

Somewhat to Cole’s chagrin, his mother had declined to make good on her threat to disinherit him. Apparently his engagement to a notorious porn star, while galling, had proven to be a big fundraising boon for the foundation, drawing out other infamous celebrities to donate their time as spokespersons.

Bypassing the line, Cole bounded up the side steps and onto the stage, the yoked camera bouncing against his chest as he made his way over to her. As always, her heart beat picked up pace as he closed in. The combination of anti-anxiety medication and talk therapy had made a huge difference in their lives. Smiling and clear-eyed, he insisted he’d never thought to feel this good again. The PTSD was still with him but these days it was more of an infrequent visitor than a permanent houseguest. He wasn’t quite ready for a dog, so they’d compromised and gotten a rescue cat instead, a loveable marmalade tabby they’d agreed should be called Kirby.

Casting an apologetic look to those still waiting, Cole slipped behind Sarah’s chair. Brushing his mouth over her ear, he whispered, “The text message just came in from my fundraising director. You’re never going to believe this, but an anonymous donor just gifted us two
million
dollars. And the best part—the money’s earmarked for my new mentor program.”

Like surprises, secrets weren’t always bad, Sarah thought. Schooling her eyes to innocence, she shifted to smile up at him. “That’s wonderful, baby. I know how much that program means to you. Now you can launch the pilot as soon as we’re back from Paris.”

Ocean blue eyes scoured her face. “Why do I suddenly have the feeling this isn’t exactly news to you?”

Biting her lip, Sarah hesitated. Now that he was sleeping through the night, he was impossible to get anything over on—almost. “Maybe you’ve been watching too many movies?” she suggested weakly.

His searching look eased into a smile, which grew into a grin. Heedless of the shuffling feet and fuming looks directed his way, he leaned down and planted a smacking kiss on her startled mouth.

Titters sounded from the line and the other side of the table. “What was that for?” she asked, feeling the familiar pull of desire despite their being in a public place and surrounded. Then again, their doing very private things in very public places was sort of their forte.

Stepping back and dropping his voice several decibels, he said, “For making my real life a hundred times sexier and happier than any movie, no matter the rating.” His solemn eyes focused on hers left no doubt that he meant every word.

“Does that mean no more movie nights?” she asked, pulling a pretend pout. Now that they’d gone through all her films, they still regularly repeated scenes from their favorites.

“Hell no,” he said with a hearty shake of his head, forgetting to lower his voice, though at that point it didn’t much matter. “If I have anything to say about it, and I’m pretty sure I do,
Mrs. Canning
, you and I will be doing movie night—with
all
the flavors—until our bodies are too brittle to bend.”

—THE END—

E
mergency Room, NYU Hospital

“Let’s go through this again, shall we . . .”

Dr. Marcus Sandler surveyed the female patient perched on the edge of his exam table, a standout in an ER otherwise flooded with victims of the flu. Honey Gladwell, if that was even her real name, which he seriously doubted, didn’t have so much as a sniffle. What she had was a whole lot harder to fix.

Someone, an intimate someone, most likely a man, had battered her. Even coming up on the end of a twelve hour shift, not the eighthour rotation standard for third year residents, there was no mistaking a textbook case of domestic violence such as this.

The x-rays and MRI results were in. Ms. Gladwell had been lucky— this time. A fractured wrist, a chipped front tooth, a broken nose, and a blow to the left eye so severe she was lucky the orbit hadn’t fractured were the worst of her injuries, the physical ones anyway. Assessing the psychological trauma of being used as a punching bag wasn’t his bailiwick, but it couldn’t be good. Whoever had done this to her was one sick son-of-a-bitch.

Beneath the patchwork of cuts and bruises, she was probably pretty though her face was too swollen for him to say for certain. What he could tell with certainty was that she was small, 5’2 without the ridiculous pencil thin heels she’d hobbled in on and one hundred and five pounds according to her triage vitals. The one-size-fits-all hospital gown swam on her. They might as well have given her a tent to wear. And she was young—twenty-six as of last week based on the birth date she’d given. Without a driver’s license or photo ID of any kind, he was left with having to take her word on it.

Looking up from the chart he held, he tried again. “Can you walk me through how you got hurt?”

She lifted her chin, a classic symbol of defiance even if, like her loyalty, the ballsy attitude was badly misdirected. “I told the nurse already. I fell. Down some stairs,” she added as if on afterthought.

Falling down the stairs, talk about your clichéd cover up. Marc would have laughed if he wasn’t so fucking sick of the same old story playing out yet again. Growing up in Harlem, he’d dealt with domestic violence victims aplenty, including his own mother. Why couldn’t these women see that covering for their abusers was as good as giving the sick sons-of-a-bitches a license to kill—
them
?

“Where?” he asked, his fingers tensing on the clipboard.

Twirling a hank of brown hair that had escaped the once elaborate upsweep, she bit her bruised bottom lip. “At home.”

He looked from her ring-less left hand back to her chart. Forty-one Park Avenue, one of those overpriced Midtown high rises that invariably announced itself with a water feature in the lobby and boasted a crap load of amenities that hardly anyone ever used. Her apartment was likewise easy to picture: a featureless one bedroom or junior efficiency with nine foot ceilings and a private terrace with a partial view. It was the sort of building where a man who could afford it put up his mistress. The wife, if there was one, would be ensconced in a “classic six” in one of the esteemed prewar buildings above 61
^st
but below 96
^th
Streets. Go even a block higher and you were in Upper Manhattan, included the once dreaded Washington Heights neighborhood where Marcus still lived. Real estate really was all about location. Nowhere was that truer than Manhattan.

“Forty-one Park, huh? Sounds like an elevator building to me. Standards must be seriously slipping.” He softened the sarcasm by shooting her a wink.

No dice. She glared at him. Her eyes weren’t plain brown as he’d first thought but brown shot with amber—at least the one not swollen shut. The gold flecks crowding the iris told him she was angry—and that for now it was easier and infinitely safer to focus that emotion on him.

“The elevator is being replaced . . . I mean, repaired. We . . . I had to take the stairwell. It’s a whole . . . thing.”

Whatever else she was, she was a terrible liar. His God-fearing, church going, Bible quoting Aunt Edna could spin a better yarn than that without so much as blinking. In contrast, this poor kid was all but unraveling.

“Hmm, I’ll bet. You should demand the management company return your monthly maintenance fee.”

No response. She pressed her lips together, and he had a fleeting wish to know what they looked like when they weren’t cut and puffy, raw and red. Right now her mouth looked almost as if it was turned upside down, the top lip fuller and wider than its bottom mate. Intriguing.

Not yet ready to give up, Marcus asked, “Do you live with a . . . roommate, someone who can help you out for the next few days?”

She stopped playing with her hair and shook her head. “No, I don’t have . . . It’s just me.”

The best lies were half-truths. He’d bet his precious vacation leave she was a kept woman, a mistress, her rent and other living expenses picked up by a man who breezed in and out of her life on a whim— his—and who apparently got off on hitting women.

“Who did you say brought you in?”

His question prompted more glaring. “I didn’t say.”

He couldn’t help but smile. She hadn’t given an inch or shed so much as a single tear since he’d started treating her. She was totally brave and mind numbingly stubborn. He couldn’t help admiring both even if they were summoned for all the wrong reasons.

“I’m just trying to make sure you get home safely,” he said gently.

Her slender shoulders slumped as though she were finally succumbing to the exhaustion. “My . . . boyfriend, but he . . . had to go.”

“He left you . . . in this condition!” Whatever slim benefit of the doubt he might have been prepared to tender the son-of-a-bitch evaporated in that instant.

She shrugged, wincing as if the minor movement hurt her which he was sure it did. “He has a very important job . . . in finance,” she added with obvious pride.

So the culprit was some single-malt swilling hedgie or Wall Street trader, a suit who vented his frustrations with the recession economy by pummeling little girls. Ms. “Gladwell” wouldn’t be the first woman to bear the brunt of a money man’s high stakes, high stress lifestyle.

“I can take care of myself,” she said suddenly, her shoulders straightening.

Obviously that was not the case but as his attending was forever reminding him, he was a doctor, not a social worker and most definitely not a cop. Rather than refute her, he focused on her chart. The head wound would justify a full admission if he chose to go there. Who knew, maybe the down time would give her the space she needed to rethink her story—and her life choices.

Pulling the ballpoint from behind his ear, he said, “You sustained a nasty head wound. I’d like to keep you overnight for observation.”

“I have to stay here overnight!” The way she said it made it sound like he’d sentenced her to Sing Sing.

“A twenty-three observational period,” he corrected. “That way the hospital won’t charge you for an overnight stay.” Despite the couture clothes she’d come in wearing, she hadn’t listed having any insurance.

Her good eye shuttered. “That would be okay, I guess.”

A nurse pulled back the curtain and poked her head inside. “Dr. Sandler, dispatch just called in a notification: nineteen year-old male, GSW to the chest, intubated in the field, hemodynamically stable but might have a developing pneumo from a cracked rib.”

Marc sighed. A gunshot wound—yep, typical Friday night. And he still had an ER packed with puking patients. As much as he might like to linger, he had to move on.

“Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.” He waited for the curtain to close again before glancing back at the girl. “So, we’re set then. We’ll get you into a room as soon as possible. It’s a little intense right now with all the flu suffers, so hang tight and try to rest.”