“I was . . . Things were hard for everyone at that point. I thought my life was ruined.”
“I’ll bet.” A knowing look flashes through her eyes. “Listen, I’ve driven past plenty of schools where the girls have their kilts rolled up to where they’re more like booty shorts. Should they do that? No. But that’s not a pass or an excuse for teachers to flirt with their students, or take it farther. What you wore to school or how you felt about Scott Philips, or even what you may have said to him, is irrelevant. We shouldn’t even be talking about it now.” She turns to the camera. “I know people at home are probably wondering what happened to Scott Philips. My sources confirmed that he has been teaching art class at a private high school in Memphis, Tennessee, for the last six years. The parents of students at that school were unaware of his past until now, thanks to Catherine Wright’s story breaking late last week.”
Kate’s smooth, melodic voice is so soothing despite the topic that, for a brief moment, I nearly forget that we’re being filmed. But then she turns to me, breaking the spell. “Cath, do you think Scott Philips should be allowed to continue teaching?”
I know she wants me to publicly condemn him, to punish him on this open stage.
“I guess it depends on the parents of the students he’s teaching.”
“Do you regret recanting your statement?”
Had I not . . . Scott and I would have been done either way. But how much worse would it have been, dealing with a trial and lawyers? I nearly shudder at the thought. “All I know is that no one can run from their mistakes forever. But I would really just like to move on from mine.”
Genuine sympathy shines in her eyes. “I agree that it’s time everyone focus on the incredible side of this story, that you risked your own life saving this man beside you. From my brief conversation with Brett’s mother, I know that the Madden-Price family can’t sing high enough praises for your bravery. Did you know whose life you were trying to save that night, Catherine?”
I shake my head.
“No idea at all?”
“None.”
“And when did you find out that the man you had saved was a superstar?”
“When Keith—I mean, Officer Singer—was driving me home and I saw all the news vans on the road. I thought it was a bit strange, that much attention for an accident.”
“And? Were you shocked?”
“Yeah. But, I mean . . .” I look to Brett, smile sheepishly. “I don’t watch hockey, so I still didn’t know who you were anyway.”
Brett’s eyes twinkle as he laughs along with Kate.
“I bet that’ll change as soon as Brett’s back on the ice, right?” She winks at me and then smiles at Brett.
I feel him stiffen, but he hides any evidence of discomfort from the camera with a charming grin. “I’ll have her passing me the puck in no time.”
He’s going to teach me how to play? As in, he’s going to be around once this all blows over? Or is that just a line, part of this act for the public?
“So what’s next for you, Catherine?”
“Uh . . .” I shrug, somewhat caught off guard by this question, still stuck on the idea of Brett being a part of my life. “I don’t really know. I plan on going back to work as soon as I can, and raising my daughter. You know, driving her to and from school without reporters camped outside my door. That’d be nice.”
Kate smiles. “You’ve been raising your daughter on your own this entire time, have you not?”
“Yes.”
“And what has her father had to say about your recent bravery?”
“Nothing, he’s . . . He’s not a part of our lives.” It’s a roundabout way of bringing up Brenna’s father and I didn’t expect it, making me stumble over my words.
“Has she ever met him?”
“No.”
“Does he know about her?”
This is off-limits and she knows it. It’s my own fault for answering in the first place. I seek out Simone from behind the center camera.
“No more about the child,” Simone states abruptly.
“You tried going into work a few days ago. How was that?” Kate asks, so smoothly changing topics, as if she were testing the waters to see how far she could get before I or Simone pulled the plug. Her sources must have fed her the local rumors about Matt.
It takes me more than a few heartbeats to regroup. Brett leans into my side ever so slightly, to remind me that he’s there. “A disaster,” I admit. “There were a lot of people, taking pictures of me. And reporters asking me terrible, inappropriate questions. I had to leave right away. I can’t work like that, and if I can’t work, then I can’t pay my bills. So I’d appreciate it if people would give me some room to breathe. That’s why I agreed to this interview. We figured that we’d give everyone the story once, and then I could go back to my regular, quiet life. It’s the only interview I’m willing to do.”
“Kind of hard for people not to want to meet you, what with your heroic efforts and all.”
“I’m just thankful that Brett’s alive.” I glance over to find him watching me with an odd, sad smile.
“Well, I think I can say, on behalf of all Americans, hockey fans, and women everywhere”—she winks playfully at Brett—“thank you for your incredible bravery, and for risking your life. Your daughter has quite the role model to look up to. Brett, when will we see you on the ice again?”
“As soon as my doctor gives the okay.”
“And your fans look forward to that day.” Turning to the camera, Kate ends with “This is Kate Wethers, bringing you an exclusive interview with Catherine Wright and Brett Madden from Balsam, Pennsylvania.”
Catherine and Brett.
“And we’re out.” Rodney cuts a switch and the red light shuts off. “I wouldn’t touch that.”
“I agree. You were both great,” Kate purrs, already out of her chair and collecting her jacket as if in a sudden rush. She reaches out to shake my hand, her grip firm and smooth. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to meet you. I hope I helped give you some closure.”
“You did. Thank you.”
Her eyes flicker between the two of us, and a secretive smile touches her lips. “People are going to eat this story up.”
“When is it airing?” Brett asks.
“Friday night, eight P.M. eastern.”
“This Friday?” As in, two nights from now? I guess that’s better than waiting idly for weeks. Still . . . Now that the interview is over, my anxiety over being filmed is quickly shifting to the reality of countless strangers watching me on television. I hope I didn’t sound stupid.
The living room studio is dismantled in fifteen minutes, and the team is packed and out the door in twenty.
Meryl, who has been virtually invisible through the entire filming session, now checks her phone and stands. “I’m sorry to rush out the door, but I have a plane to catch.”
“You’re filming a movie in Australia.” I remember Keith mentioning something about that.
“Yes. And now that Brett’s out of the hospital and on the mend, I can’t ask them to hold off production any longer. So, unfortunately, I have to go.” She reaches out to take my good hand in hers, a broad smile filling her lips. “You were wonderful. People are going to love you.” There’s something about her breathless voice that’s completely soothing.
“I don’t know about that. But do you think it will stop them from camping out by my driveway?”
She chuckles, leaning in to give me another warm hug. “With a little bit of time, things will be back to the way you want them.” Her gaze flickers to her son. A long, knowing look passes between the two of them. I wonder if it has anything to do with the whispered conversation they shared in the kitchen while the crew was packing up, too quiet for me to hear, but the air around them seemed charged. “I’ll be waiting in the car for you.”
Simone fills the space Meryl just vacated in front of me. “Here’s my info.” She thrusts a small white business ca
rd into my hand. “Lay low until after the interview airs, and don’t answer any question about Brett or the accident without running it by me first. In fact, don’t talk to reporters, period. They have a way of twisting your words to tell their own story. Got it?”
“Yup.”
“What are you not going to do?”
Why do I suddenly feel like my five-year-old child? “Talk to reporters?”
“At all.”
“Right.”
“I’ll issue a public statement that you’ve given The Weekly an exclusive interview and you won’t be giving any more. We’ll see if they listen.” She turns toward the door but then stalls. “Oh, and stay off all social media. No matter how curious you are, do not read comments, do not look for reactions. Nothing. Understand?”
“That will be easy. I’m out of data for the month.”
Finally satisfied, she slings her purse over her shoulder and is on her phone, heading out the door behind Meryl.
I fumble with Simone’s card, tucked between my fingers.
Brett nods toward it. “Put that number into your phone and make sure you use it whenever you think you might need to. Even if it’s really simple. She wants you to call her, trust me. It’s easier than sorting out anything afterward.”
Simone on speed dial. “Can’t wait.”
Brett chuckles. “I know she can be a bit brash, but she’s really good at her job.”
“Seems like it.” I take a deep breath, glancing around my space. I can’t believe it held that many people and didn’t burst at the seams. “It’s so quiet in here now.”
“It’s nice.” He peers down at me with soft eyes. “Breathing better?”
My shoulders lift with exaggeration as I inhale and exhale deeply. I am, actually. “I’m so glad that’s over.”
He smiles. “It gets easier.”
“I’ll take your word for it. That’s the only one I’m ever doing.”
He stares down at me with those intense blue eyes of his, something unreadable passing through his gaze.
“What?”
He hesitates. “I’ll make sure you get your life back, if that’s what you want. But it won’t be overnight.”
“Thank you, for all your help. I’m sure you want to get back to your life now, too.” A life that doesn’t belong anywhere near Balsam, Pennsylvania.
“Right.” He pauses. “My dad and I are hitching a ride to Toronto with my mom on her jet tonight. My grandparents live up there, so we figured we’d hang out with them for a week.”
“So you’ll be home in a week?” A twinge of disappointment stirs in me.
“Actually, I think I’m going back to California with him for the summer. If I can’t travel with my team, I may as well be with my family.”
“Oh, that’s . . .” Toronto, tonight . . . California, for the summer . . . That’s so far away. And so soon. It’s not like he needs to tell me these things, but he didn’t even mention it this morning, when he was arranging the interview. “Did you know you were going before you set this up?”
“No. It was a last-minute decision.” He opens his mouth as if to say more, but halts.
Silence lingers as I search for an answer that won’t show my growing dismay. “I’m sure it’d be good to put some distance between you and all this.” And me.
“Yeah, I guess.” A frown flickers over his brow. “It’ll give me a chance to clear my head. My mom is convinced I haven’t been thinking straight. Maybe I haven’t.”
“I’m not sure I have, either.” I’ve been too busy fantasizing about you. But . . . Brett is going to be gone for the whole summer? That’s three or four months. My spirit sinks doing the math.
“It’ll help things for you, if I stay away. Though I kind of feel like I’m abandoning you.” Tender blue eyes settle on me, and I sense a question behind his words.
I wrap my arms around my body to help shield off the sudden chill I feel. So quickly, so unintentionally, Brett invaded my life. And just as quickly, he’ll be gone, leaving me in turmoil. I can’t be angry with him for it, though. He’s right. The best thing he could do to help my life settle is to get far away. But I wish it weren’t the case. “Don’t worry. Hawk and Vince are great.”
He nods. “Keep them until things are calm again.”
This has become too awkward. I’m not sure what else to say except, “I guess this is goodbye?”
He shifts on his crutches. And grimaces.
“You really should get off your feet.”
“That’s what my doctor keeps saying.”
“Well, you want to heal as fast as possible, don’t you?”
“Yeah. It’s just hard, being cooped up. I’m not used to it.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I chuckle. “Well, minus the broken bones.”
He reaches for my injured wrist, gingerly taking it in his hand, his thumb rubbing over the bruised part. “Still hurting?”
“Hardly.” Not right now.
Brett’s phone vibrates in his pocket, so loud that I can actually hear it. “That’s my mother. We really do have to catch a plane.” I expect him to hobble past me with a simple farewell, but instead he adjusts his weight on his crutches and hooks an arm around me, pulling me into his chest, just like he did the first night we met. Only now my hair doesn’t smell like burned fish batter and I’m not in loose sweats. And, oddly enough, though we’ve had barely any time together, I feel like I know him.
“I’m sorry for disrupting your life. You’ve already been through enough.”
I close my eyes and let myself sink into him, thinking how very not sorry I am. Not about this part, anyway.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine.” What if I simply want to hear his voice?
How did this so quickly go from Brett being the man I pulled out of a burning car to him being the man I wished was actually part of my life? Whose mouth on mine I wished I had license to tip my head back and feel?
Heat crawls up my face at the very idea that Brett might be able to sense what’s going through my head. He’s showing affection to the woman who saved his life. And I want to show an entirely different kind of affection right now.
He pulls away far enough to lean down and plant a lingering kiss on my cheek, just an inch away from my mouth.
I close my eyes, wishing that he’d shift to the right just a touch.
And then he does.
For only a second his lips are on mine and then they’re gone with a sigh, long before I can shake my shock and unfreeze. Did he mean to do that?
He maneuvers toward the door on his crutches and glances back at me once, to smile.
I want to beg him not to go.
To run to him and throw my arms around him so he can kiss me again, for real this time.
I want him to fall deeply and madly in love with me.
But I press my lips together and root my feet to the ground before I manage to humiliate myself.
And then Brett Madden is gone.
Chapter 15
“You ‘told,’ not ‘telled,’ ” I correct Brenna, testing my right hand as I unload the dish rack of mugs. I should be back to carrying plates of food without too much difficulty by Saturday, which is good because that’s when I’m scheduled to return to work.
“I told Owen that he shouldn’t say mean things about Brett because it was an accident and accidents happen, and hockey is just a game. But he said that his daddy said it was Brett’s fault if they don’t win.”
I roll my eyes, but quietly pray to God that the Flyers do somehow miraculously win the next four games, which is what my dad said would need to happen for them to make it to the final round. Apparently it’s a long shot, especially without their two best players.
“Who is this Owen kid, anyway?”
“Owen Mooter. He’s in grade one.”
“Mooter?”
“Yeah. He’s new.”
“I figured.” I’d remember that name a
round town. “Don’t listen to Owen Mooter. He’s just repeating what his dad said, and his dad is an idiot.” I quickly add, “But don’t tell Owen Mooter that I said that. And don’t call anyone an idiot. It’s not nice, and I don’t want another call from Mr. Archibald.” I’ve already heard from the principal more in the last three days than I have in the entire school year. Once, to tell me to get Brenna back to school. Then to ask if I’d have Brett come to talk to the kids at school assembly. And again today, hoping to get play-off tickets for him and his son.
“Okay, Mommy.”
“People will stop asking you questions soon. I promise.” I shouldn’t make that promise. With the interview airing tomorrow night, it might make things worse.
“I don’t care if they ask me questions.”
I sigh. But I do, if those questions veer into other topics. “Did you pick out a book?”
“I can’t decide between these two.”
It’s a nightly occurrence, the great dilemma of which book we should read, as Brenna stalls the inevitable bedtime. “So read one to yourself right now, and I’ll be in to read the other one. Hurry up, Brenna. It’s almost nine thirty. You should have been in bed an hour ago.” Everything is off around here these days.
But instead of turning around and heading into her room, she wanders over to the front window. The slats of the blinds are now permanently bent where her little fingers pry them open to peek outside.
“Leave Hawk alone, please.”
“I don’t see any people behind Rawley’s.”
“Good.” Between having Kate Wethers’s crew roll in here last night—signaling that I’d granted an interview with a national broadcast—and the public statement that Simone issued on my behalf that I will not be granting any more, Keith says the swarm of vultures has thinned somewhat.
“Start reading. I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Okay, Mommy,” Brenna says in her cute singsong voice, skipping back to her room. It makes me smile as I open the kitchen cupboard to stack the clean dishes, and wonder how much longer she’ll be so agreeable.
I frown at the white envelope lying on top of the dinner plates. I don’t remember putting it there.