by Elsa Kurt
It was going to look like an old, black and white movie, with Katharine ending up wrapped in his strong arms, looking dainty and perfect. She’d throw her head back to look into his adoring eyes, and he’d have kissed her the way Cary Grant kissed Deborah Kerr in An Affair to Remember. It was a perfectly scripted happily ever after ending. Or beginning, really. Only, Mitch was gone. There was no classic, golden age of cinema, romantic scene. There was only Katharine, sitting alone at her kitchen table with only the muted hum of her dryer tumbling her bedsheets down the hall.
Katharine stared at her phone. It was silent, but an incessant blue notification light flashed repeatedly. Someone had left a message. Her heart lurched, perhaps it was Mitch. Katharine grabbed it, almost knocking it to the floor in her haste. The screen illuminated, showing two messages. One was from Tori, the other from Janie. They both wanted to know how it had gone with Mitch. She wasn’t ready to talk to them, or anyone for that matter.
She stood and wandered throughout the house. First, the kitchen. Was she hungry? No. But she could clean out the refrigerator. That would keep her busy for a while. So, she set about her task, discarding two-week-old hummus and the curry chicken she’d had every intention of reheating, but never did. A rock-hard lime had gotten wedged in a far back corner of the fruit bin, and a half-empty bag of grapes had begun to grow whiskers. Katharine discarded all the definites and most of the questionables, all the while repeating the mantra in her head, ‘don’t think about him.’
Maybe he— she shook her head.
Don’t think about him.
How could he— she slammed the lime into the garbage can.
Don’t think about him.
On and on like this she went until the refrigerator was gleaming, but near bare. The garden was overflowing with vegetables and herbs, so out she went with a basket slung over her arm. One task led to the next, and by four o’clock she’d run out of energy to find more things to do. Katharine considered going up to her office to write, but this was about the time she usually finished writing, not began it. She was usually an 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. writer—treating it as if she were going into an office job—rather than traipsing through her house in her pajamas. Mitch—or the lack of him—had disrupted her workflow, and now she was unmoored and drifting listlessly. She glanced up at her reflection in the foyer mirror.
“Oh, my God. Stop being such a—a girl. Go find something else to do.”
She took her mirror image’s admonishment and grabbed her water shoes. A late day paddle around the lake would be perfect. Only, when she stepped out onto her back deck, she found the sky had begun to swell with ominous clouds. Low and dense, they curled and billowed above the lake. The muttering rumble of distant thunder trembled the air. The scent of impending rain filled her nostrils, and Katharine groaned.
“Really?” she called up to the sky.
She spun on her heel and stomped back inside. As she closed the back door, her doorbell rang. Despite herself, she hoped, and half expected it to be him. Instead, it was Janie. In one hand she held up a large bottle of wine, in the other, a packet of microwave popcorn.
“Hi, honey! I figured maybe you could use a girl’s night. What do you say—you, me, this bottle of wine, some popcorn and a Cary Grant movie marathon.”
Katharine looked from the bottle to the popcorn, to Janie, then grinned. “I love you. Get in here.”
Katharine opened the wine and poured them each a glass, then tossed the popcorn in the microwave. After she hit the ‘start’ button, she gave Janie a suspicious stare.
“Okay, spill it. How’d you know I’d be needing this,” she waved her hand at the offerings, “and how’d you know I was a Cary Grant fan? Oh, and where is your gaggle of menfolk?”
“Let’s see. Last question first—Jim took the boys to see the latest Transformers movie, so I’m free for the next three hours. Next, you have three framed movie posters in your living room— all with Cary Grant, and you mentioned it in the interview you did for that magazine—I forget which one now—so, it was pretty easy. As far as your first question—don’t you ever look at your social media?”
Katharine shrugged. No answer necessary.
“Well, Mitch was all over it today,” Janie continued. “Or videos of him were, I mean. Here, look.”
Janie tapped her phone screen a few times, found what she was looking for, and turned it to Katharine. It was a shaky phone-camera video of Mitch on an airplane, talking to a tall man in the aisle. The phone’s owner zoomed in and out a couple times, causing the image to blur then sharpen once he finally got the right perspective. Katharine knew it was a man holding the phone because he gave commentary.
“Okay, so that’s Mitch Ford—the guy from the Rebuilder Show—and the guy he’s talking to is a Marine. I think he’s giving him his seat.” Slightly muffled, he says “Dude, that’s awesome, right?” Then back into the phone’s built-in microphone, “This guy is the best, man. Mitch Ford is giving up his first-class seat to a Marine.” Again, muffled, “Yeah, yeah, I’m getting it, relax, man.”
He zoomed in and out again, then the video ended right after Mitch walked by him. Without saying a word, Janie scrolled to yet another video of the same incident. This one was clearer and closer, taken from behind Mitch. Katharine knew even without seeing him, it was Sam holding the phone. Mitch’s voice came through clear as day.
“Thank you for your service.”
Katharine had an urge to see more videos, from any and every angle, but she pushed the phone back to Janie.
“He’s amazing, isn’t he? Don’t answer. I know he is amazing. I pushed away the most remarkable guy I’ll ever meet, and now he’s gone. Over before we’ve begun.”
“Oh, honey, now don’t say that. You don’t know that. Not for sure, at least. He’ll be back soon enough, and you can talk to him then.”
As much as Katharine wanted to believe Janie, she had her doubts. “Maybe it’s for the best, Janie. I mean, every time—and I mean every time—we get close to, you know, getting close, something happens to ruin it. Maybe we’re not meant to be, and like, the universe is trying to tell us that. I think it’s time to… move on.”
Janie opened her mouth to say something, then gave Katharine a new, appraising look. “Well, I’m not so sure about any of that. I do know that your…experience is, well, on the minimal side of the spectrum. I happen to have the perfect practice date for you.”
“A…practice date?” Katharine eyed her with skepticism.
“Yes, you know, a date with a guy that you can practice your social skill on. Now, before you say no, hear me out. Jimmy works with a guy in Troop F, he’s a sweetheart. His name is Ryan. He’s divorced, no kids, and he says he’s ready to start dating again, but he’s so not over his wife. He’s perfect practice material. Why don’t I set it up?”
“Ugh. I don’t think so, Janie. You’ve seen what a disaster I am. Besides, I’m not anywhere close to being—”
“Over Mitch. I know, silly. That’s why he’s the perfect guy. You’ll both dip your toes in the water, build up your confidence. There’ll be no one-sided love connection, so no worries. Let your hair down. Like, literally—wear your hair down when you go out. It makes you look more…approachable.”
Janie blinked and smiled sweetly at Katharine. Katharine grabbed a bowl from the cabinet by the sink and then filled it with the popcorn.
“Bringing Up Baby or The Bachelor and the Bobbysoxer?”
“Ah, avoiding the question, are we? Fine, be that way. Bringing Up Baby, please. I’ll grab the wine. Hey, looks like that storm fizzled out.”
They talked through most of the movie, stopping for Katharine’s favorite parts, then resuming whatever meandering conversation they fell upon. They avoided talking about anything to do with Mitch, and they both left their phones in the kitchen. Temptation avoided. After Janie went home, Katharine had no more excuses to not look at her phone. So, she did what any slightly drunk, lovesick, and desperate woman would
do—she cyber-stalked Mitch Ford like a teenager with a crush.
She skipped over social media, went straight to her search bar, and typed in his name. A laundry list of articles, interviews, and YouTube links of his show dominated the page. But it was the first one that caught her eye. It was dated that day and had a still shot of a beautiful blonde hanging on Mitch’s arm and smiling for the camera. Mitch’s mouth was open as if they’d caught him in the middle of speaking, and one hand was extended toward the camera. He was trying to block the photographer’s shot.
Katharine’s brows knit together, and her jaw clenched as she studied the blonde. She looked like a movie star, lithe and perfectly made up. Her hair was cut in a tidy bob that barely grazed her tan, narrow shoulders. Her arms were wrapped possessively around Mitch’s arm—the one not extended out. No, this hand was wedged into the pocket of his jeans. She looked again at his face. He seemed neither pleased nor displeased. If anything, Katharine would say he looked surprised.
Yeah, surprised to be caught with another woman. Guess he moves on quickly. Katharine was hurt and feeling hurt made her angry. Without clicking on the article, she closed out her browser and opened her text messages.
Two can play that game. She tapped the screen’s keyboard harder than necessary:
set up the date
With the Trooper.
I’m ready to get out
There and practice.
She hit send and stormed upstairs with the remainder of her wine and started a bath. If he could move on like that, then so could she. KatMitch was no more. Not that it ever really was a thing. She spent an hour arguing with herself and having imaginary fights with Mitch. In each scenario, she won the argument, and he slinked away like a kicked puppy. In most, she threw something at him, and in some, she punched him right in the gut.
None of it actually made her feel any better, though. What did make her feel slightly better, was the realization that she hadn’t reverted to the old Katharine the moment someone hurt her. The old Katharine would’ve shut down and sworn off people. This new and improved Katharine jumped in an entirely different direction. She was going to go out on a date. With a complete stranger, no less. She wished she could feel more excited about it all.
NINETEEN
ONCE A TROUBLEMAKER
“What is it, exactly, that you’re doing here, Leanne?”
Mitch’s teeth gritted as he spoke. Leanne had ambushed him, and someone had helped her do it. By the guilty look on Sam’s face, he was able to guess easily. He’d have to deal with him later. For now, he had to get Leanne’s claws off him—literally—and make his escape.
“Mitch, darling, I thought you’d be happy to see me. After all its been at least a year. Come on now, give your Le-Le a proper kiss hello.”
“Leanne, I have never once called you…Le-Le. And it’s been two years. Now, what—” Mitch took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. He softened his tone and forced a small smile. “What brings you to Atlanta, Leanne.”
Leanne pouted and finally released Mitch’s arm. They were in a park across the street from the last rebuild. It was late afternoon, and they’d just finished taping a filler segment for the upcoming broadcast. She strolled casually toward the pond in the center of the park and looked over her shoulder at him as if she were a runway model. He’d never noticed before how calculated her every move was. Now it was clear as day. The way she walked, the way she stood—all put upon, like her many accents. She was acting out a role, performing a show. How Mitch ever found her enchanting was beyond him.
“Oh, Mitchell, if you must know…I missed you. I miss us. Say you’ve missed me, too. Come on, just a little bit?”
“I find that a little hard to believe, Leanne. What happened, did your French businessman get tired of your antics?”
“Jon Paul? No, silly. He’s in Tokyo. Or is it India? No matter, it’s over. Leaving you put a permanent scar on my heart.”
Mitch scoffed, “Scar on your heart? Really? Let’s talk about the twelve stitches I had to get on my forehead. That left a real scar, Leanne.”
“You were supposed to have ducked. How could I have known you wouldn’t duck, for goodness sakes?”
Mitch blinked at her. Now that he didn’t see her through those rose-tinted glasses anymore, it was evident Leanne was intentionally goading him. There was no possible way she was as obtuse as she acted. She had the terminal illness that most idle-rich people were afflicted with—boredom. Leanne loved a good fight, it gave her an excuse to throw things and yell. Once upon a time, she was very good at baiting Mitch, but no more. Mitch was not going to fall into her trap ever again. He bit back the retort on his tongue and instead repeated his question.
“What are you doing in Atlanta?”
“I told you, I—”
“Leanne.”
“Oh, fine. I’m in Atlanta because Daddy is opening another hotel. And a little birdie told me you’d be here, so—”
“Who is the ‘little birdie’ Leanne?”
“I-well, it was Sam. But don’t get all mad at him. I tricked him into thinking I was from corporate, He’s still the most gullible man on earth, I see.”
She laughed in the girlish giggly way she always did in public. It was affected, not her real laugh. Mitch knew both. Her other laugh had a mean, Cruella Deville cackle, and burst out of her when no one was around. It was the laughter of a bully.
“Anyhow,” she continued, “I decided it would be fun to have a little visit with my Mitchie. You know, for old time’s sake, hmm?” Leanne’s gaze on Mitch was steady. One perfect eyebrow lifted, and a smirk tugged at the corner of her pink lips as she added, “Your little bookworm girlfriend doesn’t have to find out.”
Now Mitch knew what Leanne’s game was. She’d seen the tabloids, and she was jealous. Not because she wanted Mitch back, but because he was in the limelight which she craved. It was time to end her charade.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Leanne. It was…nice to see you. You take care now.” Mitch turned to leave, but Leanne called out and took his arm.
“Mitch, don’t leave like that! Come, give me a proper goodbye.”
“Leanne, I—”
“Hey, Mitch! Over here!” Mitch looked to the sound of the voice. A photographer, great.
Mitch began to say, “No pictures, please,” but it was too late. The rapid shutter clicks were audible, and the man took off before Mitch could stop him. The moment he left, Leanne released her grip on his arm with a Cheshire cat grin. Mitch was disgusted. Not only with her and her antics, but with himself for ever desiring her.
“Happy now? Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame. It’s the last you’ll ever get with me. Goodbye Leanne. Don’t come around again.” Mitch strode away, leaving Leanne pouting by the pond. But as typical of her, Leanne had to get the last word. She called out to his retreating back, “Have fun with your boring little book girl. Hope she won’t be too mad about our photograph. My, we do look cozy in it!”
He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing his surprise and dismay. Could their picture already be hitting the internet? Mitch waited until he was safely ensconced in the confines of the courtesy limo before pulling his phone from his pocket and checking the web. Sure enough, the first thing that came up in his search was the picture of him and Leanne. Her arms were linked around one of his, and she wore a coy smile for the camera. Mitch was caught between two expressions—startled and dismayed. His hand was out, trying to block the photographer’s shot. It gave the impression of a man getting caught in a clandestine meeting. He tossed his phone onto the seat beside him and slumped down, causing the smooth leather to make an unpleasant sound. The driver shot a glance at Mitch though the rearview mirror.
“I didn’t—it was the leather.”
The driver averted his eyes and said nothing.
Great, that’ll end up a tabloid story, too. Agitated, Mitch picked up his phone again and called Sam. The moment he answered, Mitch laid into him.
“Sam, what the—”
“I know, I know. Sorry, man. I don’t know how she—well, anyhow, I’m gonna call Justin and we’ll get him to do damage control.”
“Really? How’s that, Sam? You know what, don’t tell me. This isn’t what I signed on for, buddy. You realize that, right? My dream was to rebuild houses for people on hard times, not be a-a celebrity. I mean, I’m a builder, for Christ sakes. Not an actor.”
“I know, Mitch. I know,” said Sam.
“Stop trying to pacify me, Samuel. I am not a child.”
“No, Mitch. You are not a child. I understand completely.”
Mitch yanked the phone from his ear and rattled it in front of his face. The driver gave another furtive glance in the rearview mirror. Remembering that he was not only being watched but listened to as well, Mitch composed himself.
“I’m hanging up now, Samuel. I hope the next time I look at my phone—which will not be until after I’ve showered and slept—it won’t be plastered with images of Leanne and me. Goodbye.”
Sam managed to squeeze in, “I’ll pick you up at eight a.m. for the reshoot of—” before Mitch disconnected.
To the driver, Mitch leaned forward announced, “I’m not usually this…tense. Long week, you know?”
“Uh, yes Mr. Ford.” Several nervous glances from the mirror to the road followed, then “Um, Mr. Ford? It’s only Tuesday.”
Mitch rubbed his eyes with the tips of his callused fingers, flopped back into his seat again and said, “So it is, son. So it is.”
For the life of him, Mitch couldn’t figure out how everything got so out of hand. One minute he was just a guy on a relatively popular reality-based television show, doing what he loved—building things and helping good people. He’d even been able to start his highly successful Mitch Ford Future Tradesman Scholarship fund, thanks to that show. When people recognized him and asked for the occasional autograph, he was both honored and happy to oblige. Now, suddenly, he was Mitch Ford the television personality. For the first time in his career, Mitch wondered if it was all worth it—living his life under a microscope, losing some of his anonymity for—