by K. A. Tucker
“I’m sorry to say this, but he’s right. They’re all lookin’ to be the first to talk to Catherine Wright. The faster they hear your version, the sooner they’ll move on to being a nuisance to someone else.”
“Can’t we just kick the reporters out?”
“If I thought it would help, I would. But it’s all the damn customers, too! I guess I could threaten to boot them out if they take pictures of you.”
“No, don’t do that.” The last thing I want is for this to negatively impact Diamonds. I sigh. “I guess I’ll head home now.” Another day without work. And I need to put in twenty hours a week if I want to keep collecting my subsidies. How long before they cut me off?
“Here, dolly. It’s your favorite, and looks like you could use a good meal.” Leroy sinks two Styrofoam take-out containers into Keith’s hands, weighed down with what I’m sure are his famous blueberry pancakes.
I doubt I can stomach a single one.
Lou gives my forearm a pat. “Remember, you did a good thing for that man. I just wish things were easier for you because of it.”
“I guess it could always be worse,” I mutter, heading for the back door.
Five reporters and as many cameramen are waiting for me right outside, shoving their microphones in my face, shouting at me. The clicks and flashes of cameras make me wince and flinch, capturing every unflattering impression of me that they can.
“Are you currently collecting welfare?”
“Are you still in contact with your former art teacher and lover?”
“Reports suggest Scott Philips has been romantically involved with a seventeen-year-old student in Memphis. What do you have to say about that?”
“Who’s the father of your child?”
“Did you save Brett Madden knowing how much he was worth?”
“Was Seth Grabner swerving to avoid your car when he drove into the tree?”
“Is it true that you’re suing Brett Madden?”
“What?” I explode, spinning around to try to find the ones who asked those last questions. “No! No! And no! Stop making things up!”
Keith’s arm ropes around my shoulder protectively as he pushes past them to his truck, ushering me into the passenger side and shutting the door. They trail him, firing off questions his way, too—specifically, who he is and who he is to me—but he smoothly ignores them, rounding the truck and climbing in, inches from slamming his door on a microphone.
“Did I know how much he was worth? Did I cause the accident? Am I going to sue him?” I shriek, a fresh wave of tears welling in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. “What kind of disgusting people are they?”
“They’re idiots, Cath.”
“I know that. But do people believe them?”
The truck jerks to a stop several times as Keith struggles to back out around the reporters without running them over. “Other idiots probably do.”
I’m so frazzled, it takes me a moment to focus. “Did I hear one of them say that Scott is with a student?”
Keith’s lips press together.
“Seriously?” Is he that stupid to try it again?
“I don’t know if it’s true or not. One of the guys told me about it last night. I guess some hockey fans following the story recognized their art teacher. He’s been working down at that private school for five years without anyone knowing about what happened up here.”
“Is he going to get away with it again, if it’s true?”
Keith shrugs. “I’ll let you know when I hear more.”
I sink down in my seat as we speed out of Diamonds’ parking lot. “You know what? I don’t even want to know. I have enough problems.” My stomach is churning. “I can’t have them making up all this shit. What if it gets back to Brenna?”
“Until they hear your side, they’re going to latch on to any bullshit shred of a story they can and run with it.” He gives me a look as he turns onto the main road. He doesn’t have to say it.
Give them the goddamn interview.
It takes me thirty minutes of staring at Brett’s number on my phone to collect my nerve and hit Call. I hold the phone to my ear, clearing my throat several times.
He picks up between the third and fourth rings, and answers with a groggy “Yup?”
My eyes shoot to my alarm clock and widen with panic when I see the bright numbers. It’s only seven thirty in the morning Shit. I completely forgot. I’m a second away from hitting End, when I hear, “Catherine?”
I wince. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I went to work today and it was a total circus so I came home, thinking I could call you. I forgot how early it is.” I’m rambling. “I’ll call back later.”
“No! It’s okay. Seriously. Just give me a minute.”
“Okay.” I hold my breath and listen to Brett on the other end, to his groan and quiet curse. A pill bottle rattles. He must be in a lot of pain first thing in the morning, with his meds having worn off in the night. I try my best not to picture him lying in bed, but I fail miserably and end up playing a silent guessing game of “What does Brett sleep in?” while he, I assume, takes his medication.
That game has my cheeks heating up. I’ve seen the pictures Misty sent me and I have a pretty active imagination, deprived of the real thing for too long.
His muffled sigh fills my ear, like he’s settling back into his pillow, and it sends a warm shiver down my spine. “How many monkeys were there and did they dance?”
“What?” I frown, replaying his words. Is he delusional? What kind of meds do they have him on?
“You said you’re at a circus.”
“No . . . I mean I went to work. And it was . . . I—”
His throaty chuckle cuts off my words. “Sorry, bad joke.”
“Oh!” I finally clue in. I’m usually quick to the draw on comebacks. Why does he make me so flustered?
“I’m sorry I never responded to your last text. I ended up passing out. I’ve been in a bit of a fog these last few days. These painkillers are strong.”
I swallow a sigh of relief. “So you weren’t ignoring me. You were just high.”
“Basically.” He sighs. “Makes it easier to watch my team lose.”
“I’m sorry.” They lost again last night. I’ve learned enough about hockey to know that one more loss and the Flyers are out of the playoffs.
“So, I take it there were a bunch of reporters ordering the diner’s breakfast special this morning?”
I guess he doesn’t want to talk about his team. “And every local who didn’t have somewhere else to be.”
“Heroes draw big crowds. Especially pretty ones.”
“I’m not . . .” I roll my eyes, but I’m also fighting a smile. Brett Madden thinks I’m pretty. “Please don’t call me that.”
“What? Pretty?”
“No. A hero.”
“So I can call you pretty?”
“Yes. I mean no! I mean . . .”
“All right. It’s early. I shouldn’t be teasing you yet.” I can hear the smile in his voice. Is he always such a flirt? Or is he just trying to make me comfortable?
There’s no time for either right now. “Can we do that interview you were talking about? Something really simple and quick and small to get them off my back. ”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Soon?” I wander over to my bedroom blinds and peek through. A tall, brambly hedge divides my backyard from the one behind it. You’d think no one’s getting through that, and yet I could swear I saw the glint of a camera lens in the sunlight more than once. Maybe I’m just paranoid. “I’d really like to get this over with so I don’t have a hundred people videotaping me serving fries and filling ketchup bottles in my hideous uniform.”
“I’ll get right on it.” The grogginess in his voice has cleared. “You’re home now?”
“Yeah. I lasted at Diamonds all of twenty seconds.”
“Okay. Give me a few hours. We’ll get this set up and make it as easy as possible, I promise.”
The
guy barely survived a car wreck less than two weeks ago. He’s got broken bones that have left him in agony. I just woke him up, and now I’ve got him arranging a freaking interview, when he should be lying in bed and watching a Netflix marathon and not moving. “I’m sorry to be saddling you with all this so early. I just—”
“Don’t apologize.” There’s a sharpness to his tone that catches me off guard, but he follows it up with a soft “Don’t ever apologize for any of this. I want to help you in any way that I can.”
I smile. There’s a sincerity about Brett Madden that I have to believe is impossible to fake. Plus, talking to him makes me feel like everything is going to work out.
Still, him calling me a “hero” makes my stomach churn. Would he call me that if he knew I almost left him? I hesitate. “Brett?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Shoot.”
I open my mouth. No, not over the phone. I’ll wait until I see him again. “Thank you.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, okay. I’ll call you back. Do me a favor and don’t answer any numbers you don’t recognize.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already learned that lesson.”
“Talk to you soon.”
I end the call and then let my body flop backward onto my bed, closing my eyes. Soon. Things will be back to normal soon.
Who am I kidding?
I have a feeling nothing will ever be normal again.
I must have dozed off, because I’m startled awake by my phone’s ringer. As soon as I see Brett’s name, I perk up. “Hello?”
His smooth voice fills my ear and instantly warms me. “We’re all set.”
“What?” I frown at the clock. It’s eight thirty-seven. It’s only been an hour since we talked.
“The interview. It’s all set.”
I pull myself up. “Really? Already? Oh, okay.” I pause, wondering what the right next question should be. “When? Where?”
“So, here’s the thing. I know you said you wanted something really simple.”
Unease slips into my stomach, churning it, as I wait for Brett to elaborate.
“But Kate Wethers of The Weekly called my publicist this morning and—”
“The Weekly? That’s . . . that’s not small. That’s not simple.” I’m already shaking my head before the firm “no” manages its way out. That’s pretty much the journalistic news broadcast. They report on major stories, like wars and political corruption. Lou always has it on the TV at the diner on Friday nights, until the regulars start bitching about wanting to watch sports. Why the hell would they want to report on me?
“I know. I was originally thinking People or Us Weekly, because this is more their thing—”
“People? Us Weekly?” My head is still shaking. No, no, no. Small and simple, I said. I did say that, didn’t I?
“Okay, hold on, Catherine. Just hear me out before you refuse. Promise?”
I heave a sigh. “Fine,” but it’s not going to matter. He’s not going to change my mind.
“Okay, so Kate Wethers thinks this is the kind of heartwarming, happy-ending story that the world needs right now. She’s smart, and she’s fair, and she hates shitty journalism, which is what she sees when she reviews the media surrounding this story. All the crap about that high school teacher—”
“I can’t talk about that with her, on national television!”
“Why not?”
“Because I recanted my statement.”
“Are you saying that nothing happened between you two?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to lie to Brett. “I’m not saying that,” I finally admit.
“You just didn’t want him to go to jail, did you?”
“Right.”
“I didn’t think so,” he says softly. “And I think you should talk about it. Just a bit. Just enough to let viewers see that a thirty-year-old teacher with a lot of ties to the community manipulated a seventeen-year-old high school girl and then tried to cover his ass. It wasn’t right, what happened to you. I mean, hell! The local newspaper made him look like a victim!”
I swallow. “How much did you read?”
“Honestly? All of it. Every article I could find online.”
I close my eyes as my embarrassment takes over. “I was a different person back then. I don’t want you to think that I’m . . . like that anymore.” How do I make him understand without saying the actual words?
“I don’t care if you nailed the entire football team, if that’s what you’re getting at, Cath,” Brett says bluntly. “It doesn’t change what I think of you.”
What exactly does he think of me?
“Kate wants to set things right. She wants you walking out of this interview able to hold your head high, because that’s what you deserve. Are you with me so far?”
“Yeah. I think so,” I answer reluctantly.
“The great thing is that they’re based here in Philly. The team can be at your place by three.”
“Whoa. Wait. Today? Here?”
“Yeah, they want to come to your house to film. It gives the entire story a much more personal, everyday human touch. You’ll also be more comfortable, in familiar surroundings. Trust me, I’ve done plenty of interviews, so I’m speaking from experience. Plus, I told them you likely wouldn’t be willing to leave your daughter. So if you two could spare a few hours—”
“You mean me and Brenna? No. There’s no way she’s going to be a part of this interview.”
“But they think—”
“I’m not exposing my child to this. I don’t want her on camera, or pictured, or even named. In fact, she’s not even going to be here.” I don’t know where she’ll go, because Keith has court this afternoon. But I don’t care. “This is nonnegotiable.”
A long pause meets my words. “You’re right. I’ll have Simone communicate that to them. But you’re willing to do it otherwise?”
I wander out of my bedroom and into my main room to survey the shabby curtains, the worn floors, the cupboard doors that don’t quite hang right. If this is what they want—to show the world the life of the single mom and diner waitress who saved their superman from certain death—and if it gets the rest of the circus off my back . . .
But. “There are things I won’t talk about.”
“Like?”
“Like my relationship with my parents. We’re finally at a point where we’re talking again, and I don’t want to ruin that with this interview. They’re the only family Brenna knows.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Brenna’s father. That’s off-limits.”
Brett hesitates. “So he’s not in her life at all?”
“No.”
“Got it. I’ll make sure they know those two things. And I’ll be there the whole time, too, just to make sure. If that’s okay?”
“Of course it’s okay!” Too eager, Cath. “Yes. I mean, yeah. I’m glad. I mean, you should be a part of this.” I’m rambling again. Because mixed in with my dread over this interview is excitement. I’m going to see Brett again. Today.
“Good.” I hear the smile in his voice. “See you this afternoon, then.”
We hang up and I begin surveying my house, wondering if I can actually make it, and myself, presentable in time. And figure out what to do with Brenna.
Maybe Vince would babysit an almost six-year-old.
Chapter 13
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I tell my mother as she fusses over the fresh bouquet of plum-colored tulips that she brought, now sitting on a side table.
With Keith in court and Brenna’s regular babysitter in school, I was desperate. Almost desperate enough to ask Vince. But I decided to try my mother first, fully expecting her to say no because taking Brenna at three would require missing work, and her boss is the type to dock pay for each hour lost.
Surprisingly, she not only agreed, she left work at noon to hit up the Belmont Target for some décor items to “spru
ce up” my place. If I wasn’t so frazzled about this interview, I might be insulted.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You needed help.”
“Thank you. I was afraid I’d have to leave her with Vince.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded.”
“It’s not her I was worried about.”
“Hand me the scissors, please?”
My mom came not only with flowers but also with thick, warm gray wool curtains, her reasoning being that the current blinds and sheers don’t offer enough privacy against all these reporters. She can “almost” see into my living room from the outside, even with them closed. I don’t believe her, but on the off chance that she’s right, I’m not going to argue.
“There.” She steps back and eyes the living room, where we assume the filming will take place. “It’s not my style, but it doesn’t look bad with these added touches.”
That’s Hildy Wright’s way of offering a compliment. I’ve learned that I can’t take offense to it. And I have to admit, her added touches work well with my eclectic “décor.”
That doesn’t mean I want her here when Brett arrives, which is any moment now. I’ll have maybe thirty minutes alone with him, at most, before the news crew gets here.
It’s my only chance to talk to him, to tell him exactly what happened that night.
“You should probably head over to get Brenna. I called the office to let them know you’d be picking her up.”
She checks her watch with a frown. “It’s a five-minute drive, Cath. What am I going to do? Linger in the parking lot, twiddling my thumbs?” She grabs Brenna’s coloring kit and stuffs it into the end drawer, right on top of my sketchbook.
It’s obvious that she’s stalling. “Fine. I’ll be in the bathroom.”
“I could probably get your father to take off work and mind Brenna at home, so I could be here with you.”
“No, that’s okay.” That may have come out a tad too fast, but there’s no way in hell I’m doing this interview with my mother in the same room.
She nods. I can tell that’s not the answer she was hoping for, but this isn’t about her.
I turn toward the hall.
“Wait.”
She just stands there for a moment, her fingers tapping against her thigh. “I suppose you’ll be talking about Mr. Philips?”