Supreme” to a standing ovation?
Kerry nudged her.
Avery blinked. “What?”
“What are you grinning about?”
“Oh,” she laughed lightly, amused that she was caught in her daydream. “Just thinking about one of the nights I was here with Rafe.”
“Table for two?” the hostess asked.
“Yes. Thank you,” Kerry answered.
She took two menus from the holder on the podium and handed them off to a waitress. “Mia will show you to your seats.”
Avery and Kerry walked several steps behind Mia as they wound their way around the dark circular tables, which were topped with white linen and illuminated by votive-candle centerpieces. The space, which was reputed to be one of the Underground Railroad passages, was rife with alcoves, thick cedar-wood rafters, plank floors and carvings in the wood walls, which urban legend claimed are the names and dates of slaves who had escaped—a testament to their passage. Each area of the two-story restaurant was designated as music, art, science, law, literature and named after a noted black figure, like Sojourner Truth, Nat Turner, Thurgood Marshall, Toni Morrison, Dr. King, Malcolm, Ida B. Wells, Gil Scott Heron, Sonia Sanchez, of course Baldwin and many others. Periodically, the management would switch out a namesake and replace it with another noted figure. On the tabletops, along with the candles, were tent cards with writings from the icons. Coming to Baldwin’s was always an experience, as well as a mini lesson on the wealth of black history.
Tonight, Avery and Kerry were seated in the Thurgood Marshall section, which was off to the right of the stage, but still with great views of the comings and goings of the space.
Avery and Kerry settled in their seats and Mia took their drink orders, promising to be back shortly.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” Avery admitted. She flipped open the menu. “Yes, crab cakes!”
Kerry chuckled but then suddenly stopped.
Avery glanced up from the menu and landed on Mike, who was walking toward their table. She laid the menu flat.
“Avery...my God.” His dark brown eyes widened in genuine surprise, followed by a smile that was actually warm. He took it upon himself, pulled out the extra chair and sat. He leaned in toward Avery. “How are you?” he asked, his voice low and insistent.
Tonight, Avery desperately wanted to get away from everything that reminded her of Paris and what happened. Mike was a big reminder. They were both on duty the day of the explosion. When she came to, debris and bodies were everywhere. Mike was hurt during the blast. Her training kicked in and she began aiding the injured, one of them being Rafe’s father, another was Mike, among the dozen or so others. She and Mike had their standoffs during their time at the Secret Service, both personal and professional, and were both up for the same promotion. Ironic that Mike should be right as rain and she was...
“Good to see you, too, Mike,” Avery finally said.
“Word on the street is that you’ll be back this week. True?”
“True.”
He nodded. “It’ll be good to have you back, Avery. Really.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Well, good to see you. You, too, Kerry.”
Kerry umm-hmmed in her throat.
“Enjoy your evening.” He got up and walked away.
Kerry reached across the table and covered Avery’s fisted hand with her own. “You okay?”
Avery nodded. “Fine.” She pushed out a breath. “Going to have to get back to dealing with Mike sooner or later.”
“I still can’t believe that with all you went through, the heroics not to mention the injuries that you sustained, that Mike is even in the running for the promotion.” Kerry shook her head in disbelief.
“You know as well as I do that this is an old-boys’ club. The fact that women are part of the club at all, and rising up the ranks, still ticks off a lot of the establishment. If they can find anything to disqualify me, they will.”
Mia returned with their drinks and took their dinner order.
Kerry raised her glass. “To kicking butt and taking names.”
Avery tapped her glass against Kerry’s. “All day.” She took a long sip of her frozen strawberry margarita. She would not let anything or anyone stand in the way of getting what she rightly deserved, even if that meant lying to the doctors. No way would she stand down and let Mike walk in the shoes that should be hers. She picked up the tent card and read the inscription. It was a quote from Thurgood Marshall. “A man can make what he wants of himself if he truly believes that he must be ready for hard work and many heartbreaks.” Exactly, and she was ready.
Even after all the time that had gone by, and Miami, Florida, had become her home for the past sixteen years, she still kept up with the news from Louisiana and DC, and of course New York City, from her online subscriptions. It helped in her ongoing recovery to read about things that were once so familiar to her. There were still, even now, parts of her life that she could not distinguish between reality or a false memory. But the one thing she knew for certain was that she had been deeply and irrevocably in love. Now he was in love with someone else, marrying someone else.
His smile still made her soul shift, her heart beat just a little faster. She ran her finger across his face on her computer screen. He looked happy, truly happy...without her.
She lifted her hand and touched the scar that ran the length of her forehead, which she covered with bangs or innovative hairstyles. The burns she’d sustained on her legs had healed well, and were barely noticeable anymore. Some days when the pain was really bad she used a cane, but most of the time the medication the doctor prescribed worked.
She tilted her head to the side, studied the image from an angle. His fiancée was beautiful in an understated way. A part of her knew that she needed to let him and the past go. But the part of her that remembered what her life had been like with him wouldn’t let her. He was the only thing from that time that she truly remembered. Them. The two of them against the world. The memory anchored her, kept her from losing the last vestiges of herself and falling into a dark hole of a manufactured past.
Sixteen years is enough time to move on. Rafe clearly did. She had for the most part. It was best—at least that’s what her parents had told her. She’d believed them even though much of what their relationship had been was more mist than substance. The fact that she’d survived at all was a miracle, the doctors said, and memory loss was the price that she paid for her survival. She’d done years of physical therapy, rounds of plastic surgery, seen countless specialists, but most of her life prior to that day was hazy at best. Except for Rafe Lawson. He was the only constant.
She longingly studied his picture before closing the cover of the computer. Much of what her life could have been was ripped from her, her body altered, her memory stolen. For years she’d been at the
