by K. A. Tucker
“She did?” Brett frowns. “Since when?”
“Since she complained that I use too much butter and I refuse to use less.”
Brett chuckles. “You know, she may have a valid argument.”
Richard wraps the half-finished block of butter and tucks it into the fridge as he peers over his shoulder at us, that same mischievous twinkle in his eye as his son has. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I smile around a mouthful, watching the two of them together. They remind me of Jack and my dad.
Brett sighs with exasperation, his gaze on his phone screen.
“What’s wrong?”
“Simone’s annoyed.”
“When isn’t she?” Richard asks. “Who at, this time?”
“Courtney. Apparently she was all over a guy at a club last night.”
“Are there pictures?”
“Of course there are pictures. Simone wants to issue a statement.”
I shake my head. “Why does she have to say anything?” This whole business of having a publicist and making statements about stupid details . . . I don’t know that I’ll ever get my head around it.
“Because it’s better that Simone controls the message than Courtney’s people. Simone knows I don’t want any of this blowing back to you.”
“Would it?” I can’t help the wariness in my voice.
Brett’s face is lined with concern. “Probably not, but . . .”
But he’s so worried about it getting to be too much for me again, and me deciding it’s not worth it.
That he’s not worth it.
I reach out to rest a soothing hand on his knee. “If it does, then we’ll deal with it. We can’t avoid it forever, right?”
A slow smile curls his lips. “Right.”
“So . . . what is Simone going to say in her statement?” I ask, savoring the last chunk of waffle.
“That I’m too busy trying to keep my hands off you to care who Courtney screws,” Brett murmurs, punching in a response.
I nearly choke on my mouthful, my face burning at the cavalier way he said that, especially in front of his dad.
“That reminds me, your mom is supposed to call and I left my phone in my room.” Richard presses his lips together but it doesn’t quite hide the smile as he strolls past us, cuffing Brett on the back of the head on his way by.
“Hey, I’m crippled!”
“And yet still obnoxious,” Richard says, as he disappears down the hall.
Chapter 25
The familiar mix of vinegar and lemons fills my nostrils when I step inside my parents’ house, a fifty-year-old, three-bedroom backsplit that was updated when they bought it thirty years ago and hasn’t seen much besides a fresh coat of paint since. They skipped a formal wedding in order to put all of their savings toward the mortgage, choosing a small and practical civil ceremony in Philadelphia instead. Neither had much family anyway, each being only children whose parents had died before I was born.
The house is old, but it’s well maintained, the lawn always manicured, the floors barely scratched.
Brenna’s heading for the kitchen in a flash. “Grandma!” I hear her exclaim. “Guess what! We slept over at Brett’s house in Philadelphia!”
I roll my eyes. Great.
A few moments later, my mom appears in the kitchen doorway, a dish towel in her hands.
“Thanks for taking her. It’s just for three hours, tops.” Two servers called in sick for the dinner shift, and Lou tried everyone else before calling me. I very reluctantly left Brett’s at two.
“It’s not a problem. I was just about to start dinner and your father is outside in the garden.” She pauses. “So you stayed in Philadelphia last night?”
Brenna just told her we did. “Yeah. The storm was too bad to drive home in.”
“Hmm.” I can see it in her face. She doesn’t approve. I sense the words on the tip of her tongue, the caution she’s desperate to share. She’s deciding how to deliver it, how to get her point across in the most succinct way. She opens her mouth—
“I’m well aware of all the risks, Mom.”
Her lips twist. “I can’t just sit back and not say something. I know you’re old enough now to make your mistakes. But there’s Brenna to think about, too.”
“I’m always thinking about Brenna.”
“She gets so attached to the men in her life. Have you noticed that?”
“Of course I’ve noticed. She’s my daughter.” Jack, Keith . . . They all fill a gap that she doesn’t even seem to be aware exists yet.
But there’s no use having this conversation with my mom. It’ll only end in an ugly fight. “I’ll be back by eight to pick her up.”
I’m out the door before she has the chance to respond.
“Banquet burger, no pickles!” Leroy hollers.
I grab the plate from the warmer and slide it across the counter to Mark, delivering it with a smile. I know it’s the trucker’s order even without looking. He has the same thing every week when he stops in here.
“How are you doin’ these days, Cath?” He nods toward my wrist. “Looks like you healed up all right?”
“As good as new.” I roll my right hand around to prove it.
Mark chuckles, showing off the wide gap in between his two front teeth as he whacks at the bottom of the ketchup bottle. A dollop slips out to land on his fries. “Things are finally back to normal around here.”
“Finally,” I agree.
Mark pauses. “You seem . . . different.”
“Do I?” I shrug, feigning indifference.
“You still hear from Madden?” he asks, stuffing a fry into his mouth.
“Here and there,” I avert my eyes to wipe up some crumbs. “He’s tied up with charity stuff and other appearances, and getting ready for physical therapy . . .” Richard has been busy keeping Brett’s mind occupied again this week, signing photos and hockey sticks and jerseys, charity stuff. He even lined up a few appearances at schools and kids’ sports team events. Richard may not have an official job, but I’m starting to see that he works harder than any employed man I know.
But even with all that going on, I still get messages from Brett from the moment he wakes up until late into the night.
When I dare look up, Mark is chewing his burger slowly, watching me try to control my expression, the look in his eyes saying he sees right through my bullshit.
I duck my head before the stupid love-struck grin can escape.
“Cath, how many tables do you have?” Lou calls out, her arms loaded with a tray of clean glasses from the kitchen.
“Just three. Two are ready to cash out.” The lunch rush passed by swiftly, leaving me with an aching back and a growling stomach.
She drops the glasses on the counter with a loud clatter. “Why don’t you go and grab some food, then. I’ll close ’em out for you.”
“The order for Table Eighteen will be up any minute.”
Eighteen.
Brett’s number.
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes at myself. What am I, a teenager?
“I’ll bring it out to them. And do me a favor . . . check out the paper while you’re at it.”
“Why?” My eyes are immediately scanning the counter, searching for a copy of the Tribune. They’re all with customers, though.
“Because there’s somethin’ in there I think you need to see.” She gives me a knowing look. “I left a copy for you on my— What on earth?” Lou’s gaze lands somewhere behind me, and she’s scowling. “Is that who I think it is?”
I turn.
And watch DJ Harvey stroll into Diamonds, the chain that dangles from his belt loop swinging with each leisurely step. He’s gained weight and tattoos, and the golden blond hair he used to wear long and somewhat scraggly has been buzzed off, but there’s no mistaking those narrow eyes, that thin-lipped smile, or that swagger.
Unease slithers down my spine as Misty skips across the quiet restaurant toward hi
m like Brenna might when excited. She throws her arms around his neck.
“Good grief. Don’t tell me that girl is stupid enough to go back for seconds.”
“I wish I could tell you that.” From the way she’s hanging off him, batting her eyelashes and giggling, it looks like she is exactly that stupid. When did this happen? The last I heard, he had messaged her on Facebook. But she hasn’t mentioned him since. Granted, she’s been doing a stretch of night shifts lately, and I’ve been so preoccupied with trying to avoid all talk of Brett—I still haven’t told her, and I’m likely a horrible friend for that—so maybe there’ve been signs that I missed. It would definitely explain why she hasn’t been hounding me.
Misty catches my eye. “Cath! Look who came to say hi!” Grabbing his hand, she leads him over with a wide grin, oblivious. As if I’d be happy about DJ popping in.
“I’ll be in the kitchen before I say somethin’ I’ll no doubt regret,” Lou mutters, vanishing before they reach us and she’s forced to be civil.
“Hey.” I plaster on a tight, fake smile, trying my best to be polite.
His gaze skitters over me. “How’s it goin’?” On first glance, he hasn’t changed all that much. He still has that cool, indifferent way about him. Like if he has to talk to you, he will, but he couldn’t really be bothered.
Despite his good looks, I never could see what Misty found appealing in him.
“I’m good.” I know this is the part where I’m supposed to ask how he’s doing, but all I want to do is get away from him.
Uncomfortable silence hangs.
He finally offers, “Saw you on TV. That’s one crazy story.”
“Right?” Misty’s eyes widen. “I still can’t believe Cath saved Brett Madden’s life. I was really hoping something more would come out of it.” She gives me a pointed stare.
Yup. So glad I haven’t told her.
Thankfully the kitchen bell dings then. “Hey, Misty, can I get your help with these plates?”
“Sure thing.” She grins at DJ. “Why don’t you grab an empty table. I’ll be there in a sec.”
I wait until he’s gone and we’re by the food warmer. “What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” She frowns.
“He’s a convict, Misty. He’s not a good guy! And have you forgotten that he cheated on you? Many times? Why would you waste your time with him?”
I can already see the shutters closing over her eyes, the ones she is so adept at using to avoid what she doesn’t want to face. “He asked if he could come by and visit me one day and I said yeah. It’s no big deal. We’re just friends.”
“Come on, Misty. He doesn’t want to be just friends. Don’t be stupid.”
She flinches, like I slapped her. A long moment passes, and I can’t read what’s going on inside her head. “So what if I do decide I want it to be more? So what? I’ve always stood by you, Cath, no matter what you’ve done.” She drops her voice to a whispered hiss. “I think you’re absolutely insane for blowing off Brett, but I’ve kept my mouth shut, haven’t I?” I avert my gaze. “And all those months you sat around pining over Scott, even while he was parading around town with his girlfriend, did I ever tell you that you were stupid? No. Even though everyone right down to Whiskers could see the truth of it.”
Whiskers. Misty’s blind cat . . . “You should have said something, because I was being stupid.” I glance over to see DJ seated by a window, his attention on his phone. “I’m saying this to you because you’re my friend and I care about you.”
Her eyes dart around us. “About me? Or about you know who not finding out he’s a father.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, what’s not fair is you standing here and assuming I can’t figure things out for myself. You’re no different than your mother right now.”
My mouth drops open with that well-placed insult. I am nothing like my mother! “I can’t just sit back and watch him hurt you again without saying something. What kind of friend would I be?”
I stifle my own gasp.
The words feel like an echo of what my mother said last Sunday. Am I turning into Hildy Wright?
If Misty notices my shock, she doesn’t let on, a broad smile stretching across her face. “We’re not going to fight about this. DJ just wants to be friends, and if he doesn’t, well . . . I’ll decide what’s best for me.”
Lou plows through the kitchen door then. “Less gabbing, more moving. Those fries’ll get cold.”
“I’m gonna take my break now,” Misty says, reaching for two of the club sandwiches.
“No, you’re not. Cath needs to eat before she leaves to get Brenna. You can go after her and I’ll cover your tables.”
“But DJ—”
“Can sit there and play with his little chain all day long, for all I care,” Lou grabs the other plates in my order. “Cath, get on back there. Leroy set some lunch out. Paper’s on my desk.”
I shrug at Misty and mouth, “Ten minutes,” because Lou is clearly not happy about DJ being here and I’m not about to pick a fight with her when she’s in a foul mood. Plus, I’m growing more curious about whatever it is Lou insists I need to read.
A bowl of soup and a Greek salad wait for me on a prep table. I grab them and offer a thanks to Leroy. He merely smiles before turning his attention back to the grill, humming to himself.
I head for the office and, using my hip to bump the door shut, settle in behind the desk. Leroy’s tomato-basil soup is one of my favorites and I happily shovel a spoonful of it into my mouth.
And nearly spit it all over Lou’s desk when I see Scott Philips’s smiling face staring up at me.
Balsam County Realty—his mother’s real estate firm—took a full-page color ad spread in the local paper to welcome their latest agent to the firm.
Scott is going to be working for his mother
Which must mean he’s moving back to Balsam.
But why? What happened to his job in Memphis?
I drop my spoon into the bowl, sending splashes of soup in every direction. Balsam is too small to have him living here again. But maybe I’ll be lucky. Maybe he’ll decide to live in Belmont, or Sterling.
The door creaks open. I recognize Lou’s heavy sigh without turning around. “I figured you should see it now, in case you run into him in town.”
Run into him, or just see his face splashed all over the place. Balsam Realty dominates this county. Very few properties get sold that don’t have the Philipses’ family fingerprints on the paperwork.
God, I’m going to be seeing Scott’s face everywhere.
“What happened?”
“Well, from what I heard, he made some sort of deal with the school and the parents of the girl to keep things quiet, and resigned. Who knows what happened there.”
Of course he got off.
What a difference, though, between that girl’s family and my parents. I can’t help but wonder what my life would have been like had my mom wanted to “keep things quiet,” too.
I study the picture again. Taken recently, I’m guessing. It’s one of those stiff professional head shots—angled pose, business suit, boring blue background. He looks different from the last time I saw him, his wavy hair cropped short and hinting gray at the sides, his face much fuller, his forehead etched with small lines. Older, of course. It’s been more than seven years since that day he asked me to show him my latest sketch after school and I felt his fingers slide over mine for the first time. He just turned thirty-eight in April.
His eyes haven’t changed much, though. They still have that playful gleam, the one that used to make me blush and stumble over my words.
That he would have used them on a girl half his age makes my skin crawl.
“So he’s going to sell houses.” He once told me he’d rather spend his days shoveling cow manure at his uncle’s farm than work for his mother. “He must be having a hard time getting another teaching job.”
Lou drags over a spare
chair and sits down beside me. “You do bad things and eventually it’ll catch up to you. It always catches up with you, one way or another.”
I attempt a smile. “You sure seem to have your ear to the ground about him.”
“Just lookin’ out for you.” A long pause hangs in the air. “Is there anything you need to talk about?”
“Like?”
“Oh,” she says, feigning mild interest, “just anything at all.” Her fingers rap against the desk, a steady drumbeat.
“Brett and I are . . . talking a lot.”
“Well, yes, who else would you be texting nonstop through your shifts.” Her lips twist, but I can tell by her eyes that she’s not really upset by it. There’s a long pause. “If there’s anything else, you know I’ll always lend an ear.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Lou.” I hesitate. “Do you think I’m making a mistake, with Brett? Am I going to end up with a broken heart?”
Lou’s never one to hold back her thoughts, but unlike my mother, she never seems compelled to offer her judgment. She has simply always been there with that unwavering support, a sturdy pillar for me to lean on no matter what direction I choose to take.
She frowns in thought. “I think you’re a long way from seeing the last of him.” Climbing out of her chair just as quickly as she settled into it, she adds, “And hopefully that friend of yours is a short way to seeing the last of that dumb-ass sitting at my table out there.”
“Ugh.” I groan with the reminder.
“I don’t want him stirring up any trouble. I have half a mind to kick him out.” As much as Lou might want to, she’d never offend Misty like that. She may, however, throw enough eye daggers at him to make him uncomfortable enough to want to leave.
I lean forward to rest my forehead on my palms, my elbows propped on the desk.
Acutely aware of those eyes that stare up at me.
Chapter 26
“I heard he’s havin’ a hard time gettin’ clients,” John Sanders says from his stool by the counter. He’s one of our many regulars, a seventy-two-year-old farmer who puts in six hours of work every day before driving to Diamonds for a late-morning plate of eggs and bacon.