by K. A. Tucker
Dad steps forward to take Gord’s hand, saving me from my discomfort. “I’m Ted, Catherine’s father. Lou said you’d be able to give us a good deal?” That’s my dad—right to the point.
“Yes, sir. I have just the vehicle in mind for your lovely daughter. And can I say how lovely she is?” His hands are up and waving again. Gord’s switching into car salesman mode. Or maybe “impress the future father-in-law” mode. I can’t be quite sure. Either way, it’s making my skin crawl.
Gord frowns at my wrist. “Now what’d you go and do to yourself? Did that happen when your car went into the ditch?”
“Uh . . .” I didn’t think to check with Lou on exactly what she told him, but she’s obviously lied for me.
“Poor thing. Aunt Lou said you were having a rough go of things and I needed to be extra nice. Like I wasn’t gonna be, anyway.” He tacks on a big toothy grin, and I press myself closer into my father’s side.
I keep my dad between us at all times as Gord leads us toward a 2010 navy blue Ford Escape with an $8,000 price tag scrawled across the windshield in orange. “Now, I know you said ‘car,’ but I can’t help but feel that a special lady like Cathy, and that precious little girl of hers, should be in a safer vehicle.”
“I completely agree.” My dad is reaching for the door handle.
I’ve already tuned them both out. “This is way out of my price—”
“How many miles on the gallon do you get on this?” Dad asks, cutting me off, scanning the interior.
“Not as bad as you might think. It’s only had one owner, low miles and mainly highway drivin’, no accidents.” Gord has turned all of his attention to my father, assuming he’s making the decision for his “lovely daughter.” “It’s in mighty fine shape. I even considered drivin’ it home myself when it rolled into the lot last week and I took a listen. Thing purrs like a kitten.” A fake laugh bursts out of his mouth as he pats the hood. “A powerful V6 engine kinda kitten.”
“And this price, I assume it’s before this great deal you’re offering us?” Dad’s left brow arches. A trademark move of his that says Gord needs to do better than eight grand if he wants a hope in hell of making a sale today.
Gord waves his words away. “We’ll talk numbers after. How ’bout I grab the keys and we can take it out for a spin.”
Before I can say, “No, thanks,” my dad is agreeing and Gord is ambling toward the office.
“Dad!” I hiss. “I only have twenty-seven hundred dollars and no bank is going to give me a loan. We’re wasting our time, and his.”
“Now, listen.” He pats the air in a calming motion. “Your mother and I talked about it last night. I’m done with my car loan payments and . . .” A stern frown pulls at the deep grooves in his forehead. He had hardly so much as a hint of wrinkles before I left home. “Look, Catherine. I know we’ve had more than our fair share of differences, and sometimes I wonder if we handled everything wrong. In fact, most times I know we did. Your mother just—” He presses his lips together. “We want to help you. You and Brenna. Keep your savings and let us do this, at least.”
“But this is too much.” I look at the price, then the SUV, then him, a knot forming in my throat. Even with all three of us out of the house, I know my parents have always floated in the lower end of middle class. We had decent clothes but always purchased on sale. We went to the local T.G.I. Friday’s for dinner, but only on special occasions and only on two-for-one entrée nights. Between my braces, Jack’s hockey, and Emma’s tuition, my parents are probably still weighed down by debt. There’s no way they have this much kicking around.
“We’ll manage.”
“But I—”
He cuts me off with a gruff, “You can pay us back down the road.” It’s a brush-off, though I can tell he doesn’t really mean it. “You can’t support your family without a decent car. End of story.”
I eye the SUV again. Not a spot of rust on it. Four doors, which makes getting Brenna in and out of it so much easier. But the clincher is a safer vehicle for Brenna. Especially now, after seeing how that sports car crumpled when meeting with a tree.
I nod, because I can’t quite voice the “okay.”
The door jangles as Gord steps out, keys dangling in his fingers.
“You sure you don’t want to give him another chance? He seems to have taken a liking to you,” my dad muses. “Maybe he was just nervous.”
I watch Gord approach us with that odd, oafish lumber of his. “Yes, I’m sure I never want to go on a date with him again.”
“Could mean a better deal today if he thinks he might get a date tomorrow.”
I turn to shoot a glare at my dad, only to see his teasing smile. “Please don’t barter me off like cattle when we negotiate this price down,” I whisper.
“I’ll try not to.” Dad chuckles, roping an arm around my shoulders. It feels unfamiliar.
And so comforting
Chapter 8
“How many times do I have to tell you, go home!”
“I’m fine, really!” I scrub at a spot of ketchup on Table 32 with my left hand. It’s a simple act, but today it feels cumbersome. My right wrist is slowly healing, enough that I was able to grip the wheel to drive my “new to me” Escape today. “I don’t need to write orders down, you know that. And Carl doesn’t mind clearing my tables and helping me carry out food. I’ve already told him I’ll split my tips with him.” Our dishwasher-busboy Carl graduated high school last year—barely—and has absolutely no direction in his life, besides his one life goal to not work at his parents’ gas station.
Lou glares at me, her hands resting on her hips, and I already know that idea’s not being received well. “That boy will take his pay as expected and—”
“I don’t mind, Lou! I just . . . I can’t stay home.” I pause to look up at her, to plead with my eyes. “I will literally go insane.” It’s odd that when you’re constantly on the go, all you want is a day to do nothing. To lie on the couch in your sweatpants and watch TV and stuff potato chips into your mouth. But I’ve had six days of that and I can’t handle one more hour of television and being alone with my thoughts. I’ll start smashing dishes, just to give myself something to clean up.
“For the record, I think it’s a terrible idea.” She huffs a sigh, and I know that I’ve won. “Here. I have something for you.” She reaches into her apron to pull out an envelope.
As soon as it lands within my grasp, I know what it is. I open my mouth to object, but she cuts me off. “When some of the regulars heard that you were in an ‘accident’ ”—she emphasizes that excuse with a wide-eyed look—“and couldn’t work, they started a little ‘Catherine fund’ tip jar. It’s not charity!” she’s quick to add, as I feel my cheeks flush. “They’ve all been there before, and they just wanted to make sure to keep you afloat until you were back on your feet.”
I feel eyes on me and turn to find Steve and Doug, two truckers who meet here every Friday afternoon during their long-haul runs from somewhere in the Midwest, watching. I’d have known that they were two of the regulars who chipped in, even if Steve hadn’t just thrown me a wink and a nod before turning back to his coffee.
“It’s not charity,” Lou repeats. “It’s kindness, and you never turn your nose up at that.”
I finally tuck it into my apron pocket with an embarrassed “Thanks.” At least the diner’s not too busy right now, so I don’t have an audience.
She glances around, then lowers her voice. “Have you heard anything more from the family?”
I shake my head, scooping up a stack of menus and tucking them under my arm. “Nothing since the flowers.” The Maddens still haven’t spoken to the media, leaving reporters salivating and coming up with all kinds of speculation of their own. Reports that have kept me in a constant state of near apoplectic shock—everything from claims that Brett is paralyzed and will never walk again, to lying in a medically induced coma, to having one foot in the afterlife.
I’m sure t
here are critical issues also being covered right now, like the Syrian rebels, and the devastating floods in Argentina, and a world hunger crisis, but I have been watching the Brett Madden Show. All Brett, all the time.
And I’ve learned a ton.
He’s twenty-six. He’ll be twenty-seven on September 2. His father is not a movie star or an NHL player or famous for anything other than being Meryl Price’s husband. Richard Madden was a stagehand who won the actress’s attention while she was filming in Toronto. After a whirlwind romance, they married, and she was pregnant not long after. It was important to both that their children stay grounded, so Richard Madden quit the movie industry and became a stay-at-home dad to Brett and his younger sister, Michelle, while Meryl’s star kept climbing.
It’s Brett’s father, a huge fan of hockey himself, who put Brett in skates at three years old and discovered his uncanny talent. California wasn’t the ideal location to nurture their son’s burgeoning skills, so they bought a house in Richard’s hometown near Toronto, where they could build an ice rink in their backyard during the cold winter months and live in relative peace.
Brett is half-Canadian. Hell, he basically is Canadian; he grew up there. Of course they have places all over the States, too, and the family has moved back full-time since.
The media loves Brett, almost as much they love his mother. Every newscaster makes a point of mentioning how down-to-earth and charming he is, and the countless postgame interviews he grants rink reporters—moments after stepping off the ice, still out of breath and drenched in sweat—show nothing more than a humble guy who counters any praise he’s given with kind words about his teammates’ skills.
He’s generous, too. The video of the charity event he spoke at? It’s for a fund he has spearheaded, helping children from broken and dysfunctional homes learn how to play hockey. The charity even supplies their skates and their gear.
And he doesn’t seem to be all about the money, whether that’s because of his values or that he simply has so much of it that it’s no longer motivating. Apparently he was offered a lucrative modeling contract at sixteen—I’m not surprised—but turned it down. He was also offered a role in a movie with his mother, without any acting experience. He turned that down, too.
He was drafted into the NHL and has been breaking records ever since. Three years ago, he signed an eight-year, seventy-one-million-dollar contract with the Flyers. And now people are wondering if Brett Madden will ever put on skates again.
Some hockey experts have already written him off, assuming that the ambiguous third party–reported injuries to his leg are serious and he’ll never bounce back fully.
Maybe that’s why his family hasn’t spoken out yet.
Lou yanks the menus from my grasp. “I guess that makes sense. They must be preoccupied with worry over him. The last thing they want to be doing is talking to those hounds.”
As if some kismet force is listening and feels the need to respond to our unanswered questions, the news channel cuts to a live broadcast from the hospital in Philly. I feel all the blood drain from my face as Brett Madden is pushed out in a wheelchair by a man whom I now recognize as his father.
“Oh, my God.” Is he paralyzed?
What if falling down the hill paralyzed him? Or how I recklessly yanked at him as I tried to pull him out of the car? What if I caused that?
With a grimace and help from his father, Brett pushes himself out of the chair and my entire body sinks with relief. Crutches appear out of nowhere.
Countless flashes fill the screen as a horde of reporters waits to capture his statement. Meryl Price stands just behind him and to the side, well within the camera’s angle. She’s wearing a simple black blouse and jeans, her bombshell blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and noticeably less makeup on than she has for the red carpet. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days, the bags under her eyes poorly masked by makeup. Still, she somehow exudes glamour.
Brett’s younger sister by sixteen months, Michelle, who’s had several small roles in movies already and is said to have a promising acting career ahead of her, stands next to her mother, looking equally tired.
A week after the accident and Brett Madden’s face is still banged up, both eyes mottled with shades of blue. His sandy brown hair hangs over his forehead, poorly disguising the bandages beneath. Yet he still looks more well put together than any man sitting in Diamonds right now, even with the scruffy facial hair. Somehow I first missed the cast on his left leg, peeking out from a slit in his track pants. That’s the leg that was trapped.
The way he approaches the microphone, his face scrunched in pain, I can tell being out of that chair pains him.
And yet, even in his current shape, leaning against crutches for support, he stands tall, regal, and strong, his shoulders so broad that they dwarf the podium in front of him.
Yes, he definitely must have regained consciousness in those last seconds before tumbling out of the car with me. There’s just no other way I could have gotten him out.
Somewhere in the background, the bell from the kitchen rings to announce a plate of food. I ignore it, gawking openly at the television, my stomach wild with butterflies as I wait anxiously to hear what Brett Madden has to say. Normally, Lou would be hollering by now, never one to let food sit idle under the heat lamps, but she’s standing right beside me, her attention riveted.
“Good afternoon,” Brett says, and the camera flashes explode in the room again. “I will give a brief statement and then answer a few questions for you today. After that, I ask that you give my family and me the space to recover and deal with a tremendous loss in my life.” He sounds somber but calm and collected, his deep voice unwavering. Not at all like a guy who nearly died a week ago. Whose friend and teammate did die.
He swallows hard, the bob in his throat prominent. The only sign that he is affected.
“I should not be standing here today. I count myself extremely lucky to be doing so, after last week’s tragic car accident that claimed the life of my good friend, Seth Grabner. My thoughts and prayers go out to his family and friends, and to the fans of the Philadelphia Flyers and the National Hockey League, who have lost an incredible player and man. I would like to thank the doctors and nurses at St. Mark’s for providing me with such excellent care.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and I can’t tell if it’s due to physical discomfort or because of what he has to say. Not until he blinks away a slight sheen over his eyes several times, and then I realize this is all emotional pain. My heart tightens. “I will be with my teammates in spirit through the rest of the play-offs. They’ve worked hard and they deserve to hold that Cup.” He accepts a bottle of water from his father, and I notice the slightest tremble in his hand. Nodding toward someone beyond the TV camera, he says, “I’ll take a few questions now.”
I strain my ears to hear the first one. “Do you expect to be on the ice at the beginning of the next season?”
Again, I see his throat bob with a hard swallow. I can’t imagine standing in front of these people and fielding their questions. “We remain optimistic that I will make a full recovery. Next question.”
Not exactly an answer as far as next season goes.
Another unseen person shouts a question out, “Can you tell us about your injuries?”
“They hurt,” he answers bluntly, then offers a charming smile as a light chuckle rolls through the audience. “As you may have noticed, I have some broken bones and cuts, but I somehow escaped serious injury. And worse.” He shakes his head to himself. “It’s all rather miraculous, really. They made me sit in that chair over there for insurance purposes while I’m on hospital property, but I don’t plan on spending any more time in one than I have to. Still, the doctors have insisted that I spend the next week or two off my feet. I’m not about to argue with them.” He points at someone.
“Was alcohol a factor in the crash?”
“No.” The word flies out of Brett Madden’s mouth fast and firm and wit
h more than a hint of anger.
“The Flyers are playing their first game of the Conference finals against the Toronto Maple Leafs tonight. Will you be at the Wells Fargo stadium to help bolster their confidence?”
“I’ll be at the games as soon as my doctor permits it. But they don’t need me there to win. There is a whole team of very talented players who will succeed.”
“At any point did you think you were going to die while inside the car?”
“I wasn’t conscious through any of it, so no.” He abruptly stops, presses his lips together.
That same reporter asks, “Reports say that the car was already burning by the time emergency vehicles arrived. How did you get out of the car, then? Did it have anything to do with the unidentified person at the scene of the accident? Did he pull you out?”
The muscles in Brett’s thick neck cord with tension and he nods to himself, as if he were expecting that question.
My stomach tightens. That’s me they’re talking about. They still think it’s a “he.” Good. Let them keep thinking that.
But what is Brett going to say?
What do I want him to say?
A part of me—a big part—would prefer he simply pleads ignorance or outright lie. Maybe use the very useful “no comment.”
I hug the menus to my chest with my good arm, waiting with everyone else to hear about this “mysterious person.”
Meryl Price catches her son’s attention with a graceful hand on his arm. He covers the microphone and leans down to allow her to whisper something. She shoots him a stern look of warning.
Oh, to be a fly on that podium right now.
Removing his hand from the microphone, he seems to struggle with his decision. The camera zooms in suddenly, as if the operator has guessed that whatever Brett Madden has to say will be that much more impactful when viewers can feel the weight of those intense aqua blue eyes framed by a fringe of thick, dark lashes. “Yes, she did.” That smooth voice, that practiced speech, cracks with emotion. “It was a woman who pulled me from the car before I burned to death, and I would really love to thank her in person, so if she’s watching this . . . let the Balsam Sheriff’s Department release your contact information to me. Please.”