~*~
Everybody moved through the kitchen, grabbing bowls and platters on their way to the dining room. Cecily placed a basket full of steaming biscuits on the corner of the table and sat down. “Contributed by Beth, of the soon-to-open Dixieland Biscuit Company.”
Norah started the passing of the food. “The launch plan you laid out is fabulous.”
“It was a lot of fun. I mean, how often did we get to make people happy with what we did at Helios?” she asked, referring to the firm she and Norah had worked for in Chicago. “Biscuits make people happy.”
Reed bit into one and moaned as the fluffy, buttery goodness hit his tongue. “Yes. Yes they do,” he said.
Clearly the work made her happy. She fairly glowed as she told Norah about the rest of what she’d lined up. Reed had never seen her get that spark when she talked about the other prospective jobs she was applying for. Not that she talked about them at all, if she could help it. They’d spent the last two weeks powering full-steam ahead, spending every spare minute together in case those minutes were numbered. He even managed to forget, for a few hours at a time, that they might be.
“Does she need help with anything?” Norah asked.
“No. She’s down to finalizing delivery of the backer prizes and getting the first printing of Biscuit Company t-shirts. Then it should be good to go for the grand opening.”
“You ever gonna tell Beth?”
Cecily forked up some potatoes. “Nope.”
“Tell her what?” Reed asked.
Norah arched a questioning brow at Cecily and everything clicked.
“You were the mystery backer,” he said. Everybody in town had been speculating for weeks, but they’d generally assumed it’d been Gerald Peyton, CEO of the non-profit Norah was working with on a number of restoration projects around town.
“I was.” Cecily said it with the same faintly embarrassed tone she might’ve admitted, “I was the secret admirer.”
Reed tried to wrap his brain around that. She’d told him that she didn’t touch the family fortunes except for charity. He didn’t know what he’d imagined that meant, but dropping five grand as casually as fifty bucks wasn’t it.
“How often do you do this kind of thing?” Aunt Liz asked.
Cecily shrugged. “It’s not like it’s a regular, scheduled thing. Just depends on what presents itself and when. And whether I can do it anonymously. Everyone in my family has pet causes and organizations. But I’ve always been drawn more to the personal. I like seeing the impact, knowing that the money went where it was supposed to go and gets a reasonably immediate return on my investment. It’s a rush.”
“Why anonymous?” Cam asked.
Reed gave him a pitying look. “No self-respecting superhero wants actual credit.”
Cecily’s lips quirked. “And what do self-respecting superheroes want?”
“They’re all in it for different reasons, usually relating to some inner wound. Oliver Queen is driven to right the wrongs of his father and save his city from corruption. Spiderman has to overcome the regret of not saving Uncle Ben, and be the kind of man Uncle Ben would have been proud of. Batman has to clean up Gotham so no other kids have to grow up without their parents.”
Intrigue mixed with amusement. “And me?”
“In your case, with great privilege comes great responsibility. To paraphrase Uncle Ben. You’re too driven to prove yourself—and earn things on your own merit—to be comfortable with the fact that you were born to affluence. But you have it, so you feel compelled to use it to help those who need it—particularly those who may be overlooked by others or who wouldn’t be helped by more conventional means. Recognition of your good deeds would minimize them because then people would be focused on you instead of the person or cause you supported, so you prefer to stay in the metaphoric shadows.”
Her look of flirty amusement slid away, leaving an uncharacteristic vulnerability in its wake as she stared at him. “Is that really how you see me?”
“Am I wrong?” he asked quietly.
“No, that’s…stunningly accurate.” And she looked absolutely flummoxed by it.
“Who knew your addiction to comic books would make you an armchair psychologist,” Cam said, in an obvious effort to lighten the mood.
“Any good student of literature is an armchair psychologist,” Reed retorted. “Literature is all about exploration of human nature. Just because my choice of literature happens to involve a lot of spandex, capes, and ass kicking doesn’t make that any less true.”
Cecily’s phone began to ring. “Sorry,” she muttered. She slipped it out of her pocket and started to send it to voicemail, then hesitated as she read the display. “Excuse me, I need to take this.” Pushing back from the table, she strode out of the room.
“That’s quite the woman you’ve got there, son,” Jimmy said.