by K. A. Tucker
At least there isn’t a line.
I let my gaze wander over the various counters—over the decadent handmade chocolates and French macarons, over the blocks of fudge and cupcakes—and I inhale, relishing the scents of icing sugar and freshly brewed coffee. I haven’t been in here in years. My parents used to bring us once a year on our birthday, as a special treat. I always looked forward to it.
“Catherine?”
I spin on my heels at the voice.
“It’s me! Krystal? Remember? From English class?”
“Hi.” Yeah, I remember Krystal from English class.
October 2010
The push isn’t hard, but I’m drunk and caught off guard. I stumble into Dixon Teller, who merely shrugs me off. Assuming it was an innocent bump, I wipe the spilled beer from my jacket and get set to move on.
“Why are you even here?”
I guess it wasn’t an innocent bump.
I turn to meet the voice.
Krystal. Quite possibly my biggest enemy. She sneers as I pass in the hallway, loudly whispers behind me in class. It’s like she’s made it her mission to make my life hell. More than it already is.
Cold green kohl-lined eyes spear me with hatred. “No one invited you. No one likes you. No one wants to touch you. You’re a whore.” And then, as if to emphasize her point, her mouth twists. And she spits. The beer-tinged gob lands on my cheek.
Something inside me finally snaps.
I drop my cup and lunge for her, my fingers grasping for her neck, her hair, intent on inflicting pain.
Strong arms rope around me and pull me back before I can find purchase. DJ’s friend Matt, a nice enough guy who smells faintly of weed and cigarettes, is hauling me away, kicking and screaming.
The last seven years have been kind to Krystal. She looks more grown up now, the heavy black liner and red lipstick replaced by subtle taupe shadows and pink gloss, her sun-bleached hair now a shiny golden blonde.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” She makes it sound as if we’re old friends, catching up.
What am I going to do, or say, standing in the middle of an ice cream shop with my daughter next to me?
I smile politely. “It sure has.”
Another young man wearing a pointy white cone hat appears behind the counter for her. “Yes, hi, I’m here to pick up an order? Maxwell,” she tells him. While the guy disappears into the back, Krystal turns her attention back to me. “I’m in town for my mother’s birthday.”
I glance back at Brenna, who has made it to the far left of the chiller now, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in that unconscious way she does as she reads the labels. At least the guy waits on her with a hint of amusement now. “So . . . what have you been up to?” Not that I care.
“I’m living in Philadelphia. I just got my first teaching job. High school English. Go figure, right?”
“Right.” Glad to know she’s molding young minds.
“Oh! And can you believe it?” She lifts her manicured hand to show off the sparkly diamond on her ring finger.
“Congratulations.”
“Yes!” She holds her hand in front of her to admire her own ring. “He’s a lawyer, on track to be partner.”
“Mommy, I’ve decided. Dutch chocolate, please,” Brenna tells the guy.
“Is this your daughter?” Krystal asks, peering down at her. But Brenna’s too busy watching the guy to make sure the scoops are full so she doesn’t turn.
“Sorry, she takes her ice cream seriously.”
“Well, she has her priorities straight, then.” Krystal chuckles. “So, I watched that interview. I said to Justin, ‘I went to school with her!’ ”
And what else did you tell him? All I can do is smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes.
It doesn’t dissuade her from talking, though. “And ho-ly. Brett Madden.” She whistles softly. “He’s gorgeous.”
I guess I can’t fault the world for noticing his looks before anything else. I’m no better. But he’s so much more than just a handsome face. “He’s a really nice guy,” I acknowledge, smothering my sadness.
I never did respond to his message. He’s called twice since, once to see if I really didn’t need Hawk and Vince anymore. A second time “just to touch base.” The first call I genuinely missed, the second I left unanswered. Both times, I fell asleep listening to the voice mails.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to call him back yet. So much for being brave.
I reach into my purse to get my wallet.
“Oh no, please. Put the little girl’s ice cream cone on my bill.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes! Please. It’s done. It’s done, right?” She looks expectantly at the guy.
I don’t want to argue and cause a scene, so I mumble a thanks and grab a handful of napkins instead. “Well, it was great seeing—”
“I was really hoping you two would . . . you know . . .” She sighs dreamily. “What a fairy tale ending to an incredible story.”
I feel heat crawl into my cheeks as other customers perk up. “They must have been looking to boost ratings or something, spinning it that way.”
“Sure didn’t look like it.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
Brenna tugs on my sleeve to get my attention. “Can we go now? I have to pee.”
For once, I’m thankful for Brenna’s impatience and tiny bladder. “Yeah, it would have been.” I put my arm around her, pulling her close to me. “It was good seeing you, Krystal. Good luck with the wedding.”
“Yeah, okay.” She opens her mouth as if to say something but hesitates. I use that chance to shuttle Brenna out the door, toward Keith.
But a few moments later, she comes running out. “Hey, wait!” She looks tentatively from me to Keith, to Brenna, who’s already sporting streaks of chocolate on her nose and chin, and then back to me, her face full of uncertainty.
“Come on, Brenna.” Keith leads her to his truck and out of earshot.
Krystal’s lips press tight. “I just . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for how horrible I was to you in high school. I’m mortified by it, actually.”
“That’s . . .” I stop myself before I brush it off with “that’s okay.” Before I brush it off as no big deal because I just want to avoid all of this and move on. Instead, I find myself asking the question I’ve thought of asking so many times. “What did I ever do to you?”
She sighs and looks down. “I heard you fooled around with Darin the weekend after he broke up with me.”
“Darin?” I frown.
“Darin Metcalfe. He was the quarterback. We dated for two years.”
“Oh.” Right. I did fool around with him. It was at that crazy house party that got shut down by the cops. I was drunk and he was hot, so when he started flirting with me . . .
She hesitates, as if considering her next words. “And Mr. Philips was a flirt. I mean, he smiled a lot at me. I guess I thought he and I might . . . well, I guess I was jealous. Turns out I dodged a real bullet there.” She offers me a sympathetic smile. “Not that that’s any excuse for how I treated you. Anyway, I’ve thought about you sometimes, hoping I’d get a chance to apologize one day, and that you might forgive me. That’s . . .” She clasps her hands together in front of her, her gaze flickering away before meeting mine again. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
I’m speechless. If someone had said I’d run into Krystal Maxwell and get a stumbling, nervous apology from her, I would have laughed in their face.
Is this because of the interview? Now that I know Brett Madden, does she just want to be on the right side of my fence?
Or is it just because she actually does feel bad and truly is sorry?
Can I simply forgive her?
She turns to head back into the store.
“Hey.”
She peers back at me with bright blue eyes, nothing but sincerity in them.
<
br /> “Thank you for saying that. It means a lot to me.”
Her face breaks out in a wide, genuine-looking smile, and she heaves a sigh, like she was holding her breath. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe.”
She disappears into the store, the group of teenagers sitting at the table watching us intently. I climb into Keith’s truck.
“You look like you’ve been slapped.” He nods toward the spot where Krystal and I stood moments ago, dropping his voice. “What was that about?”
“Some closure, I think.”
For both of us.
“Hey, I’ve been here before!” Brenna squeals with excitement as we turn into the long winding driveway of Lander’s Mill.
Keith casts a slight wave at the police officers standing at the entrance, busy in conversation with the reporters parked on the road, trying to gain access.
“Yeah?” Keith engages Brenna as I quietly steel myself for what is to come.
“Yeah. They used to cut down trees here and make furniture out of them!”
“Well, not right here. But you’re right, this building was made using the original mill.” The real Lander’s Mill—some twenty miles north, still within Balsam County—thrived in this area for more than a century before shutting down in the 1980s. The large barnlike structure ahead of us, of weathered pine and factory windows, was constructed from salvaged materials. It was dismantled and transported here as part of a deal between local officials and developers, after the developers bought the land under the defunct business, with the intent to tear down and parcel off estate properties. Local officials fought them for years, deeming it a historical landmark and refusing to approve the necessary zoning paperwork, all while the original buildings fell further into disrepair and were finally condemned.
And then a smart businessman stepped in and offered a solution: If the developers were willing to foot the bill to salvage and help build this main structure, and the town officials were willing to provide a grant to fund the operation of a museum, he would invest in the Lander’s Mill we’re now facing—a piece of history, as well a picturesque event facility. It’s been voted the Best Wedding Venue in the region by Cosmopolitan.
And it’s a place where there are currently too many cars for my anxiety level.
“Stop fidgeting,” Keith mutters, pulling his pickup truck into a spot marked RESERVED.
“Easy for you to say.” I smooth the silky material over my thighs. “Are you positive this is okay?”
“It’s fine,” he assures me, his gaze flashing to my outfit—a flowing, floral maxidress—before sliding from his seat.
I sigh as my toes hit the gravel drive and I hold the door open for Brenna.
She scampers out, the hem of the dress my mom bought her last week, just for this ceremony, swaying like a bell cup around her lithe frame, nothing but excitement oozing from her. “Is Uncle Jack here yet?”
“Probably.” There are a lot of people—some I recognize as local business owners, others are strangers—milling around, throwing curious glances my way. A lot more than I’d have expected for “a quiet, small ceremony.”
I finally spot my mom’s blue Subaru, right next to Lou’s black-and-tan Chevy pickup. My mom had tried insisting that we arrive together as a family, but Keith helped me avoid that mess, knowing I wouldn’t be able to handle the added anxiety that comes with Hildy Wright. And Jack assured me he’d herd her inside so I don’t have to deal with her “helpful” suggestions before the ceremony.
Keith stops beside me, his gaze following mine. “Notice the news vans on the road?”
I spear him with a knowing look. As if I wouldn’t.
“Notice that there aren’t any here?”
“How’d you manage that?”
“It’s a private event, invitation only. I told Polson that this is the only way you’d agree to it. He was okay with it, actually. He wants our local papers writing the story.”
To make sure it reflects well on Balsam, that cynical voice inside my head whispers. “That’s . . . Thanks.”
“It does mean you may have to smile for one or two of them. Maybe even answer a question.”
“Fine.” After The Weekly’s interview, I think I can handle that much.
Brenna tugs on my arm. “Come on! Let’s go!” I pull on the stylish ruby red jacket that I borrowed from Misty—in case the spaghetti straps of this dress felt inappropriate—and brace myself as we head for the heavy wood doors.
We step into the anteroom, which tastefully display artifacts from the original mill while also serving as a welcoming entranceway to the larger event room. The faint waft of cut wood and age still permeates the air.
And a familiar cologne.
I gasp at the sight of stunning aqua blue eyes.
Chapter 20
I hold those eyes for a long moment, before noticing anything else. Like the fact that his face is clean shaven, his jawline even more sharp and masculine than I imagined it to be. He’s obviously been spending some time outside because his skin has a slight glow to it, the kind you get with forgoing sunscreen on a hot spring day. Other than his leg still being in a cast and the thin pink line across his forehead, he looks perfectly normal. Well, more like breathtakingly handsome. The pre-accident Brett.
“Good, I’m glad you made it! You look lovely, dear.” Clarisse Polson’s voice is soft and soothing, her thin hand cool against my sweaty palm as she pounces on me. “A few more minutes until everyone is ready. We’ll have you seated on the dais and . . .” She talks quickly, walking me through the basic steps for the ceremony, not giving me a chance to adjust to the shock of seeing Brett here. “Frank is just chitchatting out front, but I’ll let him know you’re here. We’ll start in a few minutes.”
I do my best to acknowledge her words with a smile and nod, and then my gaze quickly shifts back to the man leaning against his crutches.
What is Brett doing here?
I search out my dear friend and find him darting through the door to the main room rather quickly.
Of course Keith knew Brett would be here.
“. . . and this is what they used to chop the trees,” Brenna says, her childish voice carrying over the low buzz of voices from the other side of the wall as she points out the axe, followed by the two-person saw mounted along the wall above it. “And this is what they used to cut the wood into smaller pieces back in the really olden days. But they used those machines in the picture in the olden days that weren’t really olden. And this is . . .” I think Brenna could rival Clarisse on pouncing speed. She wasted no time, marching up to Brett and—possibly without so much as a hello, knowing her—beginning to walk him through all the displays, regurgitating everything she remembers from her field trip.
Brett patiently hobbles alongside her and lets her babble away, a small genuine smile touching his lips as he gives her his undivided attention. He’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit today, the pant leg cut to accommodate his cast, the gold tie against a crisp white shirt a sharp, stylish look.
I can’t peel my eyes off him.
“You have a future historian there.” A deep voice pulls my gaze to my right. The man I saw on television the day Brett addressed media for the first time after the accident stands before me, also in a suit. They really dressed for the occasion.
“Hi, Catherine. I’m Richard, Brett’s father.” For a moment I think he’s going to hug me as his wife did. He doesn’t, but he does seize my hand in both of his, holding it tight. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I manage to get out. He looks so much like Brett, only older, his build smaller.
“I would have come for the Weekly interview, but we thought it might be too overwhelming for you.”
“It was a bit overwhelming,” I admit with a laugh, making him smile. He has the same devilish twinkle in his eye and strong jaw as Brett. I can see why Meryl fell for him.
I like him immediately
.
Two men close in next to him. One, I recognize as the Flyers coach. The stony face I watched on TV has softened somewhat, though he still looks like the type of guy who spends his days yelling at grown men with ease. Even in this heat, he wears that same black Flyers jacket that he wore during the postgame interview—a jacket you’d wear at a rink rather than at an event where everyone else is in suits—but something tells me this isn’t any more his thing than it is mine.
“Catherine, this is Coach Adam Roth,” Richard introduces us. I get a firm handshake and a gruff “Hello” by way of greeting, before Richard’s attention shifts to the looming man next to him, having well over a foot in height and I don’t dare guess how much weight on me. “And this is Sid Durrand, the Flyers owner.”
Just looking at this guy, in his well-cut suit and his sparkling watch, the lights from above catching the embedded diamonds, I can see that he has money. More than Richard, though? Possibly not, and yet I note that Richard doesn’t ooze his wealth. In fact, I have to remind myself that this man is married to the Meryl Price. Not because I don’t think he’s handsome or distinguished enough. He is both, in a Robert Redford The Horse Whisperer kind of way. But he has a quiet air of sophistication about him that I feel from Brett, too.
“They said you were tiny, but I didn’t believe it,” Sid says with a wide smile and a thick Kentucky accent. He shakes my hand so hard that I’m afraid he might reinjure my wrist, and I struggle not to wince from the sizable rings digging into my flesh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Brett hasn’t shut up about you.”
I feel my cheeks flush as I steal a glance over to the other side of the room. Brett’s back is to me and Brenna is still blabbing away, but there’s no way he missed Sid’s booming voice.
Clarisse pokes her head in. “All right, we’re about to start. We have seats waiting at the front for you, Richard—and your daughter, Cath. If she could come with me?”