by K. A. Tucker
Then, a year and a half ago, a loose real estate flyer landed on our doorstep. It was for a sprawling Victorian house down on Jasper Lane that I knew well. I’d fallen in love with it as a child on a cold winter day when my parents packed us into the backseat of their car and we toured the town, admiring the Christmas lights.
It was Christmas at that time again, and though Brenna was only four years old, I bundled her up and we drove down so I could see the place. It had a FOR SALE sign on it and they were hosting an open house.
I couldn’t help myself. We went inside.
It was everything I’d imagined, and more—with tall windows and detailed moldings, polished rosewood floors and delicate wallpaper. It was huge—three stories and enough space for ten people to live comfortably.
Brenna said it looked like a gingerbread house and asked if we could move there. I laughed and asked her what the two of us would do with such a giant house. She shrugged and said that we didn’t need to use all of it. We could let others borrow it if they needed a place to stay.
“What, like a little inn?” I asked.
Her face scrunched up. “Can you have a dog at an inn?”
“It’d be ours, so I guess we could do whatever we want.”
“Okay,” she said, a twinkle of excitement in her eyes. “Then let’s buy it and make it an inn.” So simple.
If only I had the money to pay the astronomical price they were asking.
I chuckled, though inside me frustration swelled. This was just another thing on a long list of things that I would never be able to give Brenna.
Every night for the next week, Brenna asked me questions about our inn. What would her room look like? Would we eat with the guests? Where would she put her toys? Could she have a playroom? What would Stella’s doghouse look like?
A week later, I was in Dollar Dayz, cutting through the art supply section, and I noticed this twelve-by-twelve-inch sketchbook.
I bought it.
And that night I began to draw the Gingerbread House for Brenna.
If I could give her nothing else, I could give her this—a way to imagine it.
A year and a half later, it’s brimming with drawings. Of cottage gardens and lush bedrooms, of grand wraparound porches with people sitting around bistro-style tables, drinking their coffees. Of a kitchen sizzling with home-cooked meals. Of a peaceful lakefront, quiet in the morning and full of laughter in the afternoon.
Somewhere along the way, I found a part of me that I had lost. I found the ability to dream again. And the Gingerbread House became my dream, too.
Of a beautiful house that was so impeccably decorated that guests would be in awe as they stepped inside. Of a life where I could sit on that porch and watch Brenna roll through the grass with the dog she asks Santa for every single Christmas.
For years, I’ve hated Balsam. Not for its quaint main street, lined with charming shops and decorated by a canopy of mature trees and overflowing planters. Not for the picturesque landscape that surrounds it, nestled within a valley south of the mountains and surrounded by forest and lakes. Not for the odd sense of calm in the air, even as the streets come alive on weekends with countless tourists.
At first it was simply because I was a teenager, and most teenagers don’t fare well in small towns like this. And then it was because of how the people in this quaint, picturesque little valley town treated me.
Now that I’ve come to terms with my life—I’m probably never leaving here—I’ve been able to step back, to look at Balsam through a different lens. To try to convince myself that maybe it’s not so bad. The children’s parks are clean and well maintained, the streets are quiet and safe. Keith complains that his shifts consist of driving drunk tourists back to their hotels and listening to the same people try to finagle their way out of speeding tickets, but that’s not so bad. I may have wanted to escape, but then again, all these people are desperate to leave their big city lives to escape here. Maybe I’m the lucky one. Maybe there’s a way I can still make a great life for Brenna and me, here.
I realize that the inn is an impossible dream, but it has given me something to think about besides paying bills and work, and worrying about whether or not I’m a good mother. It’s almost therapeutic, working on it at night, when I’m bone tired from a busy shift and sitting alone in my living room.
Only silence comes from Brenna’s room now, so I tuck away the sketchbook in the side table drawer. Taking a deep breath, I do what I’ve been dying to do all day: I hit the Power button on the remote control, my stomach rolling as I scroll through the channels to find the news, afraid of what I might hear.
That Brett Madden took a turn for the worse.
That he didn’t make it.
I finally stumble on a Philly news channel. It’s a generic sports recap. The dull buzz of two commentators arguing over a referee call fills my tiny living room. It reminds me of weekends at home when I was younger. There was always a sports channel on in the background when my dad was around.
Someone says “Brett Madden” on the television and everything else fades into to the background. They’re showing a hockey game, the last game the Flyers played, and the camera follows a man wearing a construction orange-and-black jersey with the number 18 and the name MADDEN printed across the back in white, as he weaves around players like a dancer, his movement graceful but lightning fast. Once, twice, three times, he sinks a puck into the net, and the crowd goes wild.
Despite my father being an avid fan and my brother a talented player, I don’t know hockey. I don’t like it much, either, and yet even someone as ignorant as me can see that Brett Madden is truly gifted.
Because it’s not enough to be born into extreme wealth and family fame.
They show several seconds of the team colliding into a tangle of sweaty bodies at the end, the joy they feel palpable. The camera pans to a shot of two men embracing on the edge of the rink. It’s impossible to identify them if not for their jerseys, which read MADDEN and GRABNER.
My stomach clenches. This was their last game before the accident.
Twenty-four hours later, one of them would be dead.
The camera flips to the newscasters again to discuss the accident, highlighting the main details as if everyone hasn’t already heard them a hundred times. I keep waiting and hoping for more information on how Brett Madden’s doing, but they have nothing more to give and seem more focused on his contract and what this devastating loss may mean to the Flyers’ chances at a Stanley Cup.
The screen then flips to a taped interview of Brett. I stare at the broad-shouldered man filling the screen, dressed in a black tuxedo and wearing a dazzling smile, his wavy sandy brown hair combed back to curl at the ends. He’s answering questions about his children’s charity work with eloquence while flashes go off. He has a deep, smooth voice, the kind you feel in your chest.
I have no idea what a typical hockey player looks like, but he looks every bit the movie star right now, facing the camera with the comfortable ease of someone who has spent time in front of it. And I suppose he has, being Meryl Price’s son.
This man . . . I stare at him and think he cannot possibly be the same man hunched in the passenger seat of that crumpled car, unconscious and bleeding profusely from his forehead.
He cannot be the same man I begged and pleaded and screamed at, to please get out of that car.
He cannot be the man I tumbled with into the swampy ditch.
He cannot be the man I saved.
He’s utterly flawless.
Again, I assume it has to do with the infinite amount of money at his disposal growing up and a certain social grooming that comes with being in the spotlight, but there isn’t a hair out of place, a tooth crooked or yellowed—or missing, as is apparently the case for many hockey players according to Jack. And his eyes are a dazzling aqua blue with green flecks circling his pupils. They’re much like his mother’s eyes, which have won over millions on screen.
It’s hard
to picture him as Meryl Price’s offspring. Where she is slender, almost to the point of frailty, he towers over the male reporter holding the microphone to his mouth, his jacket tapering at a slender waist in comparison to his broad chest, the sleeves straining around his arms in that way that tailored suits tend to around built guys. Where Meryl Price’s nose could be described as almost hawkish, his is strong and bends ever so slightly to the right, likely broken at some point. I guess that could be considered his one flaw, but it only makes him look more masculine.
He must take after his father. Who is his father, anyway? Another movie star? There was a time, long ago, that I was actually in the know on the latest celebrities. The young, hot ones, anyway. Never sports, though. From the buzz around Diamonds today, I heard that Brett was a first-round draft pick out of high school, not spending even a day playing for the farm team. I would have been sixteen. Already well on my way to troubled pastures.
The segment on Brett Madden ends with the sportscasters offering their condolences to the family of Seth Grabner, and then the news cuts to a special broadcast on the conflict in Syria.
And I begin to flip through the channels, in search of every last scrap of information I can find on Brett Madden.
Chapter 7
“You’re still in your pajamas! Get dressed! Scoot!” I usher Brenna toward her bedroom on my way toward the front door, doing a visual sweep of all the things already out of place in our tiny house, silently cursing my parents for being fifteen minutes early.
“Keith?” I frown, peering over the massive bouquet of white flowers that fills the doorway—lilies and roses and a half dozen other flowers I can’t even identify—to the blond boy-next-door haircut peeking out from behind. He needs two hands to hold the vase.
“I have to put these down. Seriously, they’re giving me hives,” he complains, forcing me back as he steps in and heads for the kitchen table.
I shake my head at the cruiser parked out front. That’s twice since Friday that I’ve had a cop car parked at my house. “You can’t keep showing up here in that thing. People will talk.” People like Gibby, the gangly twenty-six-year-old busboy standing next to Rawley’s Dumpster, his eyes glued to me as he takes long drags of his smoke.
“Yeah, well, when I took my oath to serve and protect, I don’t remember agreeing to be a florist delivery boy.” Keith sneezes.
“You’re allergic to lilies, aren’t you?”
“Is that what those things are?” he grumbles, dusting his hands against his uniform, only to sneeze again. “Great. My car is full of it.”
I pluck the white envelope that sits perched on top and rub my thumb over the Philadelphia florist stamp with curiosity. “Who are these from?”
“Who do you think?” He grabs a tissue and blows his nose. “Madden’s family has been harassing us since yesterday for your name, and since you refuse to let us give it to them, a truck showed up at the station this morning with orders to deliver these to ‘the woman who saved his life.’ ”
“You told them I’m a woman!”
Keith shrugs. “You didn’t say we couldn’t do that.”
I spear him with a glare before shifting my focus back to the card, nervous flutters stirring in my stomach.
“Well? Open it!” He pushes, turning to grab Brenna in a hug as she launches herself at him. “Hey, Squirt.”
Just as quickly, she dismisses him in exchange for the flowers, reaching to touch the nearest petals. “Who are those from?”
“Some people your mom helped. Nice, huh?”
I tune out their chatter as I fumble with the envelope to peel it open. A standard card sits inside that simply reads,
Eternally grateful,
The Madden Family
Okay, so it’s . . . short and sweet. But a nice gesture. Probably arranged by their publicist. But it’s the thought that counts. And they did go to some trouble to get them to me. And there isn’t really an appropriate way to express yourself through a third party–written two-by-three-inch card. And I’m sure they’re all still at the hospital, overwhelmed and unable to focus on anything but Brett.
“Can I see? Can I see?” Brenna’s little hand grabs for the card.
I lift it out of her reach. “Brenna, can you go straighten your room before Grandma gets here?”
“But, I already—”
“Shoved everything under the bed. Go on.”
She grumbles under her breath as she stomps back the way she just came.
“Have you heard more? How is he?” I ask.
Another sneeze. Poor Keith. “Still in stable condition, last I heard. His mother was filming in Australia so she just got in late last night on a private jet. They brought in heavy security, too. Reporters are all over the hospital, but they’re not giving them any information.”
I nod toward the arrangement. “This was a nice gesture.”
“You really should let me tell them who you are. I mean . . .” He glances around at my house, then at my hand. “You saved the guy’s life. He could at least buy you a new car.”
I treat him to a flat stare, earning his sheepish grin.
“Yeah. So your mother may have stopped by and asked me to talk to you.” He shrugs. “She’s not wrong, though. If someone pulled me out of a burning car, I’d want the chance to at least say thank you. My conscience would need that closure.”
I shrug. “Maybe not everyone’s like you.” It’s a weak argument, I realize, as I find myself agreeing with him. If roles were reversed, not being able to thank the person would likely drive me crazy.
“Word is he’s a decent enough guy.”
“I’m not worried about him not being a decent guy.”
Keith looks at me through soft, knowing gray eyes. “What can they say that hasn’t already been said?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “Seven years ago, yeah. Do you really want Brenna hearing that her mother tried to seduce her teacher? Or that her dad is in prison for dealing drugs?” I was right to think that people would remember seeing me with Matt and put two and two together to make “Cath is having that scumbag’s baby.” I took Lou’s advice and didn’t confirm the rumor one way or another, the likelihood that Matt would ever hear about it almost nonexistent. After all, he was from New York City and in jail. DJ—also in jail—was his only tie to Balsam, and DJ’s family moved out of the area not long after their son’s arrest.
But now, with all this media attention . . .
Keith sighs. “Consider this your second chance. A way to redeem yourself, if you feel like you need it.” With a glance over his shoulder toward Brenna’s room, he lowers his voice and adds, “She’s gonna hear it all one day. Let this become part of the story. Let it overshadow the rest.”
Keith always has a way of making me look at things in a different light. How did I get so lucky to have him as a best friend? It was random, really. Two weeks after buying my Grand Prix, it broke down in the grocery store parking lot. I was eight months pregnant and fighting tears, not sure how I’d pay for whatever was wrong with it. Keith was there, picking up snacks for a party at a friend’s. I barely recognized him, it’d been so long since our awkward make-out session, and we never ran in the same circles. He was into soccer and volunteering at his church. I was into boys and art and general mischief.
Turned out it was the battery. He boosted my car for me so I could get home and offered to bring by an extra one he had sitting in his garage. A new one was going to be a hundred bucks—might as well have been a million to me back then—so I agreed, assuming he’d be by the next day. He showed up in my driveway with the battery an hour later, along with soda, chips, and a double-chocolate cake for the pregnant girl.
He’s been my best friend ever since, an even better friend to me than Misty if I’m being honest.
I sigh. “Look, I’ll probably let you release my name to the family. Eventually. And not because I expect anything from him.” I hesitate, reading the card once more before setting it on t
he table. “I’m just not ready yet. But if they call again, you can pass along my thanks for the flowers.”
A knock sounds on the door then, and Brenna flies out of her room screaming, “I’ll get it!” before I can take a step.
My dad steps in first, his arms filled with a large box. “What’re you doing here?” He quickly sets the box onto the floor and holds out a hand. If there was ever a guy my dad wished I would marry, I’m sure it’s Keith.
“Keeping the streets safe, one flower delivery at a time,” Keith answers dryly. “I gotta get back to the station, now. See ya, Squirt.” He rubs Brenna’s head on his way past, nodding toward my mother. “Hi, Mrs. Wright.”
“Now, Keith. I’ve told you about calling me Hildy.” She smiles and winks before the floral monstrosity on my table steals her attention. “Who are these from?” She collects the card from the table, reads it, and sniffs with mild dissatisfaction. “Well, I guess that’s a start.”
I roll my eyes and nod toward the box in the middle of the floor, frowning. “What’s that?”
“A coffeemaker that won’t kill your guests.” My dad waves toward the door. “Come on. Let’s hit the road.”
“So you decided to take me up on my offer.” Gord’s smile is smug as he approaches, sliding his hands around the inside of his pants to tuck in his button-down shirt, the buttons pulling across his belly. The twinkle of satisfaction in his eyes makes me wary, makes me think that he’s sure I’m here for more than just a car.
Suddenly, I’m afraid that Gord might dive in for another kiss, so I step in close to my father until our shoulders bump together. He heard all about the horrible date on the drive over, and he promised to play interference. I didn’t even want to come to Mayberry’s, but I have five hundred dollars in my purse from Lou, and while I intended on giving it back to her, reality says I’ll need it if I want to buy something that doesn’t leave me stranded on a dark road late at night. In that case, there’s really only one car dealership I can spend it at.