by K. A. Tucker
I wander over to retrieve the rag, shaking my head and feeling the flush in my cheeks as I push reality aside and allow myself to dream again, even for just another moment.
Me and Brett.
Brett and me.
My fingers lift to graze my lips, remembering the feel of his on them. He kissed me on Wednesday night. It was fleeting, but it was still a kiss.
And the way he was looking at me through that entire interview . . .
I don’t know how much time I lost in that daydream, but I went deep enough that I jump when a knock lands on my door. It’s followed by a second, and a quick third, and an “I know you’re in there, Cath!”
I should have known that Misty wouldn’t be brushed off so easily this time.
The moment I open the door, she pushes past me, her orange Diamonds uniform carrying with it the faint waft of coffee grinds and fried food. Hawk is standing at the bottom of the steps, offering me an apologetic shrug, even as his eyes trail after her.
“Coming straight from work?”
She tosses her purse on the couch. “Have you talked to him since the interview?”
“No.”
“So call him.”
“I can’t call him right now!” The fact that he hasn’t messaged yet speaks volumes. He must be feeling the exact same way I do: awkward.
“I knew you would be like this!” Misty’s eyes, already enormous, look like they’re about to pop out of their sockets. “You have Brett freaking Madden drooling all over you on national television and you’re going to pretend like it’s nothing.”
“It’s just a story. It’s not real!” Even still, my heart leaps at her words.
“I can almost hear your mother’s voice when you say that.” She rolls her eyes at me. “I know what I just saw on TV and that was a guy who is infatuated with you.”
“Maybe . . . For now.”
Her groan of exasperation is loud enough to wake Brenna, I’m afraid.
“Why are you so angry with me?” As ditzy and bubbly as Misty can be, in the rare moment that she has a bone to pick, she doesn’t mince words. I’m almost afraid to hear what might come out of her mouth.
“Because I know you, Cath. You won’t give this a chance, even if you want to. You push away every guy who ever shows any interest.”
“What guys?”
“Exactly! You don’t even notice them! And now Brett Madden is majorly into you and you’ve basically scared him away.”
“What?” I can’t help but laugh. “No, I haven’t.”
She folds her arms over her ample chest in that condescending way. “Do you realize how many times you said that you just want everything to go back to normal during that interview?”
“Because I do?”
“ ‘Normal’ doesn’t include Brett. It will never include him. You basically told him you don’t want him in your life. Is that what you really want?”
No, that tiny voice screams inside my head. I think back to our goodbye two nights ago. I’ll make sure you get your life back, if that’s what you want. He did say that, and that questioning look that came along with it . . . Is that what he meant?
But he also said that he needed to clear his head, that he wasn’t thinking straight.
Staying far away is for the best.
I sigh. Explaining this to Misty will be impossible, though. There’s no point even trying. “I need to be smart.”
She shakes her head. “If this is being smart, then you need to be stupid. Be an absolute idiotic moron. Be like me.”
I’m flipping through my sketchbook when my phone chirps. I scramble for it, holding my breath against hope that it’s not Misty, messaging me with yet more grief. As if I didn’t get an earful from her already tonight.
My heart skips a beat when I see Brett’s name.
They promised us they’d spin a positive story, but I didn’t see that coming.
I chew my thumbnail, trying to decide how I should respond. It’s been two hours since the interview aired, and he’s only messaging now. Does he sound bothered by what they said? Finally I decide on:
Yeah. They definitely spun a story.
I anxiously watch the three dots dance on my screen, telling me Brett’s typing.
Simone thinks it’ll blow over fast enough, but she’s already working on killing it.
An unexpected wave of disappointment floods me. Obviously, that’s what he wants. To kill the idea that the two of us would ever be together. And why does it even bother me so much that Kate Wethers insinuated something might happen between Brett and me? Is it because it’s not true?
Or because I wish it was?
I can’t think of any answer except Okay, so I type that out.
We’ll fix this, trust me.
With a heavy sigh, I set my phone aside.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I go back to work at Diamonds.
Tomorrow, I face whatever shit storm this is going to produce.
Because I’ve been here before and the only way to get past it is to just try to forget and move on.
Chapter 17
“Fries or salad with that?” I stand with my pen to pad, poised, waiting for Beverly to make up her mind.
“Oh, I think I’ll have . . .” Her crooked finger is on the side salad options that come with the burger, as if she’s seriously considering them. She does this every time she comes in with her husband for dinner on Sunday night. “Fries,” she finally whispers, as if afraid to admit she wants the unhealthier option.
I pretend to add it to the order, though I’ve already penciled it in. “Coming right up.”
“Thank you, dear. Oh, and I saw you on the news.” Every wrinkle on the woman’s eighty-something-year-old face lifts with her grin. “You were so wonderful for saving that young man.”
I offer her a small nod and smile, the one I’ve perfected in the last two days of being back to work, along with the standard “I just did what anyone would have done.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that, I’d have enough to pay rent this month and maybe next.
“Are things back to normal for you?”
I hold that fake smile, ever aware of Hawk’s presence three tables over. He and Vince have taken up residence at Table 7 with bottomless cups of coffee, looking as out of place as one would imagine bodyguards on duty for a waitress might look, even in their golf shirts and khaki pants. “They are.” Aside from the round of applause that I earned the moment I stepped out of the kitchen yesterday morning—unsettling me for a good hour—and the countless questions about Brett that I answer with Simone’s scripted response sent via text of “We’ve become friends who shared a traumatic experience but nothing more,” I guess it hasn’t been too bad. Especially since the photographers who hovered on the sidewalk yesterday were not there when I arrived tonight.
Lou banned them from stepping foot inside Diamonds but wasn’t able to stop them from snapping pictures of me through the window, in uniform and pouring coffee. I did my best to give them only my back, and some of the regulars even tried running interference, standing in their way and going outside to admonish them for harassing me. Though it didn’t help much, their efforts were appreciated.
It shouldn’t be a surprise that those pictures made it to the Internet within hours. Still, it took everything in me to keep my face smooth when Misty shoved her phone in my face to show me an article with the headline “Brett Madden’s Guardian Angel.” At least they used a flattering candid shot of me in my diner uniform.
It was a million times better than the other articles she insisted on showing me: “Meryl Price Threatens to Disown Brett if He Doesn’t Break It off with Catherine,” “Madden Rewriting His Will to Leave Everything to Catherine,” and, my personal favorite from a bottom-feeding tabloid, “Welfare Mom Carrying Madden Baby.”
Lou finally threatened to put Misty on straight midnight shifts if she mentioned one more word about “all that nonsense.”
“Have you m
et his mother?” Beverly asks.
I sense ears perking up all around me. Another question that’s been asked more times than I can count. “Yes, I have. She’s very nice.” Another standard line, though entirely true.
“And where is he now?” She glances around, as if he may be hiding in a corner.
“Canada, visiting his grandparents.”
“Will he be back soon?” She looks genuinely concerned.
“I think he’ll be in California for the summer.”
“Well, I’ll root for you two, anyway.”
I can’t even bring myself to quote the standard line. “I’ll put your order in now.” I wander over to the computer at the end of the counter.
Misty turns from the screen to show me her pout.
“Don’t start with me again.”
“You should tell him how you feel!”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel. Besides, I don’t even know how I feel.”
“Be careful, your pants are about to catch fire.”
“I’m wearing a dress.”
“What are you two talking about?” Lou’s stern voice from behind us has Misty clamping her mouth shut and darting away before she can get herself into more trouble with the boss.
I start punching in my order as Lou sidles up beside me. “No one botherin’ you?”
“Besides Misty?” Lou’s expression has me backpedaling. “Just kidding. Everyone’s been fine. Nice, in fact.”
“Hmm . . . You’re holding it together well.”
I can’t help the nervous chuckle. “You think so?”
“You just keep your head high.”
“I’m trying. And I’m sorry about all this.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” She pauses, her eyes surveying the area around us, and I sense she has another reason for this check-in. “I know you don’t like talkin’ about him, but I thought I should mention, so no one catches you off guard . . .” She drops her voice. “That thing about Scott Philips bein’ involved with one of his students? Sounds like they’re treatin’ it seriously down in Memphis. There’s going to be a police investigation.”
I stifle the frown that threatens to emerge, just hearing that name. I’m so sick of his looming shadow, returning to haunt me after all these years. “Yeah, Keith already told me.”
She drops her voice so low that I have to lean in to hear her. “Did Keith also tell you that when Scott left Philly to teach in Balsam, it may not have been his choice? There may have been an incident with a sixteen-year-old student.”
“No . . . I never heard that.”
“The girl wouldn’t speak so nothin’ ever came of it, but things are rising to the surface now, with all this noise. As they always do. Not that I wish any of this upon others, but it would definitely shine a light on that bastard for everyone.”
And then maybe they wouldn’t doubt me anymore.
“Also . . . Mr. Philips will be retiring immediately from his job as principal of Balsam High. He was supposed to be there for one more year.” Lou waggles her eyebrows knowingly.
I wonder if the school board had a talk with Mrs. Lagasse. “Something good came of all this craziness, then.”
She nods once, a flicker of satisfaction dancing across her face. “Hopefully not the only thing.” She winks and is moving toward the door before I can ask her exactly what she means.
I turn in time to see her shaking hands with an older man of maybe fifty, his dress pants and button-down shirt marginally out of place for Diamonds. A woman who I presume is his wife stands next to him in a modest churchy-looking peacock-blue suit, her short sandy blonde hair set in perfect waves, her curious eyes roving around the diner.
I don’t remember ever serving them here, but they look familiar. Lou exchanges a few words with them before pointing in my direction. I’m too slow to avoid the eye contact, the man’s green irises locking on me right away.
“Cath, come on over here for a minute!” Lou hollers, waving me over.
I meet them at Table 22—a booth by the window, in my section—and force a polite smile.
“Have you met Mayor Frank Polson and his wife, Clarisse?”
“No, I haven’t.” That’s why I recognize him. Not that I’m political—I’ve never actually voted and I hope to hell he doesn’t ask me if I have—but the man’s face has been pictured in enough ribbon-cutting ceremonies and pancake breakfasts over the years that I should have known who he was.
From what I remember overhearing around the diner, Frank Polson isn’t an educated man, but he is a resourceful one, having worked his way up from laborer to management at the major pulp factory, making countless connections within neighboring communities with each passing year.
He won the mayoral election in 2012 by a landslide and became the first person with no blood ties to the founding Balsam family to hold that position. Last year, he was reelected to a second term.
He extends a weathered hand. “Catherine Wright, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I take it gingerly, followed by his wife’s. “I’m sorry about all the chaos around town; I’m sure the locals are getting annoyed by now. It should die down soon.”
He pauses to consider me quietly. “There’s no need to apologize. You’ve made our community awfully proud. You’re a hero.”
I swallow my surprise. “Do you need a few minutes with the menus before you order? I can come back.”
“Yes, please. It’s been a while since we’ve been here.” He has the decency to look at least a little bit embarrassed at that admission. “And thank you, by the way, for agreeing to come to the ceremony.”
I feel the deep frown settle over my forehead. “Ceremony?”
“We’ve never actually awarded a Key to the City.”
“A what?”
“Yes, we’re all excited to see Cath recognized for her bravery.” Lou ’s stern glare stills my tongue. “We’ll let you look at our menu and then Cath’ll be back in a few minutes. I’d recommend the fish and chips special. We just got some wonderful haddock in. Customers have been raving.” Nudging me away, she leads me out of earshot.
“Did you know about this?”
“Keith may have phoned to tell me that the mayor was coming in.”
Keith . . . Of course his fingers are in this pot. I’m shaking my head. “I don’t need a key to Balsam. I don’t even know what it is!”
“It’s just a symbol to show that you’re an important resident of Balsam. Don’t worry, it’ll be a small, private affair. Nothing flashy, nothing too painful. Lord knows you’ll have a coronary otherwise.”
I open my mouth to argue more.
“I don’t insist on much, Cath. I’m insisting on this.”
“Why?”
“Because this is a good thing, and you deserve good things in your life, whether you’ll accept that or not.”
I brush that away. “Or maybe this is just the town’s way of quickly saving face after how bad The Weekly made it look?”
“The mayor may have mentioned that he’s ashamed of how this community treated one of its own in a time of need,” Lou says carefully. “But who cares if part of this is about the town saving face? You live here, Cath. Your roots are here. They will always be here, and I think you’ll be much happier if you can find a way to make peace with the place. There’s nothin’ worse than hating your home.”
“I guess.”
“Call this Balsam’s way of finally makin’ amends.” She drops her voice. “Lord knows Mayor Polson isn’t a fan of the Balsams, even though he played the right game during elections.”
I huff a sigh. “So, when is this ceremony anyway?”
“Two Sundays from now. In the afternoon.” She strolls away, throwing over her shoulder, “And don’t even try tellin’ me you have to work that day.”
“Can we call the boat ‘Stella’?”
“I thought the dog’s name is going to be Stella.”
Brenna peers up at me with those rich brown eye
s, her little body tucked into her sheets. “But I really like the name.”
“Okay. We’ll name the boat Stella. Where should the name go?”
Brenna’s index finger draws a line on the hull of the sketch. “Is that a good place?”
“Sure, it is.”
She smiles down at the page, and I can see her imagining herself standing on skis and clutching a rope while the boat tows her around Jasper Lake.
“I’ll add it in tonight. But you need to go to sleep.”
“Why couldn’t Jack babysit me tonight?”
“Because Jack and Grandpa went to the hockey game.” The Flyers managed a miracle by winning last Saturday’s game, bringing the series back to Philly tonight. I thought Jack was going to start crying in the voice mail he left for me, after Dad finally revealed the tickets.
“Brett’s hockey team?”
“Yes.”
“Did they win?”
I smile. “They did.” I’m so relieved for Brett. Just one more victory and they’ll be in the play-offs, even without their two best players.
“How long are the workers going to stay?”
I struggle to follow her scattered train of thought. “The workers?”
“Vince and Hawk and . . . that other guy, who was giving them a vacation.”
“Oh. Right.” We’ve avoided using the word “bodyguard” or “security” around her, not wanting to make her think that there is any danger. “I don’t know. A few more days, maybe? Good night, Brenna.” I give her a knowing look that says to stop with the questions.
I’m almost out the door when she calls out in her innocent little voice, “Do you know who my daddy is?”
I inhale sharply. She’s asked me about her dad before. She’s asked me where he is.
She’s never asked me this, though. “Of course I do. Why would you ask that?”
“Because Jerry Baldwin in fourth grade said that for someone who doesn’t even know who my daddy is, you sure hit the jackpot. What’s a jackpot?”
If a kid is saying that, it’s because he’s repeating what he heard at home, from his asshole parents. “It’s kind of like saying that someone won a big prize.”