Part 3 – Los Angeles … The Governor's Awards Banquet
Jack woke to the sound of the plane squealing for the landing. He shifted in his seat and felt a sharp stab of pain in his ribcage. A small groan of pain escaped.
"Are you okay, Mister?" The man sitting next to him gave him a worried look. "You were out the whole flight. The stewardess said you'd been in a car accident in Paris."
"You should see the car," he joked. He tried to remember how he got on the plane, but everything after he was shot blurred together in his brain. Had Sloane extracted him? Somehow that didn't feel right. Someone had taken care of him. He remembered soft gentle hands and dreams of Laura. How long had he been unconscious? He grabbed the hand of the man next to him.
"What day is it?" he asked frantically. Had he missed the banquet?
"Ow. It's Friday. March 24th. You can relax your grip now mister."
"Oh, sorry." He would make it in time. Time. "Sorry to bother you again, but what about the time?"
"The time? Oh. It's one o'clock." He moved his hand behind his back and added, "In the afternoon."
He nodded as the plane skidded to a halt. The walk to customs was slow, as spasms of pain forced him to stop and rest along the way. His car was parked in his garage at home, since Sloane had sent a car for him when he left. He hoped someone would be waiting to take him home once he made it through customs.
A man in a limo driver's suit stood just outside the customs door exit. He bore a small sign with Bristow written in bold letters. Jack gratefully handed his bag over to him. The driver talked non-stop on the trip home, regaling Jack with tales of the famous people he'd met as a limo driver. Jack let him ramble as he rested against the seat.
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Sydney watched with concern as the limo pulled into the drive. The car was an hour earlier than the woman had said and her father still wasn't home. She opened the door to tell the driver he was too early, but stopped in shock. Her father was easing out of the back seat.
"Daddy?" Sydney watched him, white faced. "The lady said you were hurt…"
"I'm okay, Sydney." He frowned. "The dress hasn't arrived?"
"It came this morning, Dad. It's the most beautiful dress…," she pursed her lips. "Mrs. Andrews told me to wait so I wouldn't get the dress all wrinkly."
He nodded and turned to tip the driver. He waved it off. "Already taken care of, sir. I'll be back in an hour to pick you up for the banquet."
"The lady said you would forget about the limo. She told me to remind you that it was all arranged."
"What lady, Sydney?" Jack asked, now curious.
"The one who called from Paris." Sydney giggled. "I think she must be an English teacher and a nurse. I said 'can I' instead of 'may I' and she started to correct me."
"She told you I'd been hurt?"
Sydney nodded. "She said you didn't want me to worry and that everything was taken care of for the banquet."
He stared blankly at his daughter. Who had called? And, more importantly, who had cared for him while he was hurt? Were they one and the same?
"Mr. Bristow? Here, let me take your suitcase for you. You need to save your strength for tonight." Mrs. Andrews picked up his bag and motioned him to follow. "Your tuxedo arrived this morning. Sydney's corsage is in the refrigerator, along with your boutonnière."
"Thank you, Mrs. Andrews. I think I can manage now." He took the suitcase from her and slowly climbed the stairs. When he got to his room, a brand new tux was laid out on the bed. He didn't remember ordering the tuxedo or the flowers. The flowers were on his to do list, but he'd planned to wear his old tux. He'd sent it to the cleaners on his way to work the previous Friday.
He took a quick shower, removing the wet bandages after he finished. The wounds had been neatly stitched together and appeared to be healing without infection. He opened his suitcase and found two vials of medication. One was labeled antibiotics and the other a painkiller. A typewritten note told him when it was safe to take the next round of medication. He tore the note into several pieces and flushed it down the toilet. Whoever his guardian angel was, she didn't want to be found. He owed his mysterious benefactor his life and protecting her was the least he could do.
He walked downstairs ten minutes later. His daughter was waiting anxiously for him at the foot of the stairs. He caught his breath when she looked up. Every day, her resemblance to her mother grew stronger. Looking every inch the young lady, Jack was reminded of another day, another time. Laura. He shook away the memory.
"You look beautiful, Sydney."
She smiled happily. He held out his arm and she placed her hand over his and giggled. "I feel like a fairy princess."
"Shall we see if your pumpkin has arrived?" he teased softly.
She giggled again, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Oh, Daddy."
Mrs. Andrews bustled in from the kitchen. "My but don't you look a pair! You almost forgot the flowers." She opened the box and Jack drew in a sharp breath. The corsage held three roses, with soft yellow petals tipped in pink. The roses were known by many names, but it was more widely known as the 'Peace Rose'.
"Ohhh. We have these in our garden out back. They are beautiful, Dad."
The doorbell rang. "Time to go. Have nice evening you two. Give me a call tomorrow, Sydney and tell me everything."
"Wait. Before I forget." He pulled a strand of pearls out from his pocket. "You need these to complete the dress." Sydney turned and let her father clip the beads in place.
"They're beautiful, Dad."
"They were your mothers. They are yours, now."
"Really? I'll treasure them forever."
Jack smiled sadly, knowing that sometimes forever was far too short.
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"Our final award is for outstanding short story. The third place award goes to "A Day at the Beach" by Alissa Jones. Congratulations, Alissa. Second place goes to "Can I Have a Lifesaver, Please?" by Nathalie Chow. Congratulations, Nathalie."
"And now, our first place award is for one of your own: Sydney Bristow for "Ashes". Well done, young lady."
The audience clapped and whistled as she accepted her award. Jack smiled happily, the pain in his chest momentarily forgotten.
"Your daughter is very pretty. There's a dance right after the banquet. You won't mind if I dance with her, will you?" Jack stiffened. The man had been leering at his daughter all evening. He leaned over and whispered so that only the two of them could hear. "If you touch one hair on my daughter's body, I will slam you up against a wall and choke every ounce of light out of you. Do I make myself clear?"
"Hey, no offense, man. It's just a dance." Jack gave him an icy stare. The man shifted uncomfortably, before grabbing his date's arm. "C'mon, honey, let's find a different table."
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, it's time to dance. For our first dance, we would like all you fathers out there to dance with your daughters and likewise for our mothers and sons."
"Okay, I'm ready to go now, Dad."
"We can't go yet, Sydney. You heard what the announcer said. May I have this dance?"
"Dad," she hissed under her breath. "We can't. I don't know how."
"I'll teach you."
"Here? Now?"
"Yes. Just follow my lead and you'll be fine. One dance and then we'll go."
"Dad?" She had enjoyed her evening, sharing her moment with her father. One dance wouldn't hurt. "Okay. I'll try."
He showed her where to place her arms and slowly led her around the dance floor. "Did I send the perfume, too?"
She nodded. "You don't remember?"
He shook his head. "Anais, Anais. It was your mother's favorite."
"The roses, too? That's why we have them in the garden, isn't it?"
"Yes, she always called them a piece of the sun edged in fire." He smiled down at her. "You look very like her tonight."
Sydney's eyes widened. "Really? But my mother was so beautiful."
"And so are you, sweetheart."
They danced in silence, then "Dad…" Sydney hesitated. "Why don't you ever talk about Mom?"
He looked at her, puzzled. "I've always answered your questions."
"Yes, I know, but that's just it. I always have to ask." Her hand tightened on his. "You never volunteer. Except tonight, when you told me about her perfume."
"Sydney, I wish I could give you back your mother. I can't. And talking about her…it hurts too much." He thought of his dreams in Paris. Eight years and the void in his heart was still as strong as the day she died.
She nodded. "That's what I thought." The music ended and they separated. "Let's go home."
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That night, as Jack fell asleep, he dreamed once more of Laura. He felt her lips on his, and heard her whisper softly, "Happy Birthday, Jack."