by K. A. Tucker
And I know exactly what he’s thinking right now.
The Catherine Wright.
Gord may be a decade older than me and from the much larger Belmont, but I’d be stupid to think he doesn’t remember the stories from way back when. That he hasn’t heard all about me. Or at least the troublesome teenage version of me. The one who couldn’t possibly have changed enough after all these years for people to just forgive and forget.
Hell, for all I know, that’s why he agreed to this blind date. Maybe he’s banking on the hope that I haven’t changed at all and that he has a chance of getting laid tonight. I’m betting it’s been a while for him, too.
“Yup. That’s me.” I meet his gaze with a hard one of my own. One that says, “I dare you.” Actually, I do want him to dredge up things better left in the past. It’ll give me a good excuse to walk out and end this train wreck of a date.
I see the decision in his eyes a moment before he averts his gaze to the bottle of ketchup on the table, his fingers wrapping around it absently. “My aunt Lou says you’ve been working at Diamonds for seven years now.”
I guess we’re not taking a trip down memory lane just yet.
“Six and a half years.” Since the day after I found out I was going to have Brenna, through my entire pregnancy.
I was carrying a plate of grits in one hand and an open-face turkey sandwich in the other the day that my water broke. As far as truck stop owners who have to deal with amniotic fluid all over their tile floor during the dinner rush go, Lou was pretty sympathetic.
He lets out a low whistle. “I don’t envy you, on your feet all day, servin’ tables for tips. I mean, Aunt Lou’s doin’ all right, but that’s because she owns the diner. But I see those older ladies who’ve been workin’ at it awhile and”—he ducks his head and glances over his shoulder for, I assume, our waitress—“they don’t weather well in that kind of job, all haggard by the time they hit forty.”
Working at Diamonds when I’m forty is not something I want to be thinking about right now, so I push that fear away and offer a tight smile. “It’s a job for now.” It’s more steady than seasonal work at the resort, more stable than the Hungry Caterpillar café or the Sweet Stop or the dozen other little tourist stops in Balsam, and it pays a lot more than a place like Dollar Dayz. I shudder at the thought of standing behind the counter at the local dollar store all day, ringing up discounted nylons and aluminum foil for the local elderly, for $7.25 an hour.
Sure, between the housing subsidy, the food stamps, and other government help I qualify for each month, I’d still get by, but just barely.
Gord drags the last of his Dr Pepper through his straw, making a slurping sound. “Not exactly a dream job, though.”
“Some of us don’t have the luxury of chasing after our dream job.” Our parents don’t hand us businesses and futures. Truth is, there aren’t a lot of career options in Balsam, Pennsylvania, to begin with. Sure, we’re the county seat, but we’re a tourist town of three thousand—a lot more during the summer and winter seasons—with one grocery store, one gas station, two schools, two churches, a few inns, a main street of tiny shops, cafés, and restaurants that operate on limited hours throughout the week. Oh, and a pool hall to give the locals something to do. Plus, I didn’t exactly win over Balsam-area employers enough early on in life with my “false accusations” to warrant much consideration from anyone who’s hiring. I still count myself lucky that Lou ever gave me a chance when she did.
He frowns, obviously picking up on the edge in my voice. “I just meant that you need something better for the future. You have that little girl to take care of.”
Despite his condescending tone, his words—just the mention of Brenna—make me smile. The one bright spot in my life, in the form of a rambunctious five-, soon to be six-year-old. “We’re doing fine.”
“I hear her daddy ain’t around.”
I force my smile to stay put. “Nope.”
He leans in, as if he’s got a secret. “So, he’s a drug dealer?”
This is the problem with where I live. Small towns, small lives.
Big mouths.
I clear the irritation from my throat, hoping he’ll take the hint that I don’t talk about Brenna’s father.
Sliding a toothpick between his front teeth, he works away at a piece of dinner. “You know, some people still think you and that teacher had somethin’ goin’ on after all, and it’s his kid.”
Gord has not taken the hint.
I glare at him until he averts his gaze to the ketchup label.
“Course, they also say it wouldn’t make much sense what with timing and all, now would it?”
“Not unless I had the reproductive system of an elephant.”
He scratches his chin in thought. “He moved out of state, didn’t he?”
“No idea.” Just after Christmas of that horrible year. To Memphis, Tennessee, with Linda—his ex-girlfriend, who he had reconciled with about two months after charges were dropped. The woman who is now his wife. They’ve since had two children together. A few of the more spiteful Philips family members still love to talk out loud about Scott every now and then, when I’m passing by them carrying plates to customers, or in line at the bank or grocery store. I think it’s their polite way of saying, “Look how happy he is despite you trying to ruin his life.”
I do my best to ignore them, because I’m not pining over a man who hurt me so deeply, who cared more about saving his own skin than protecting mine. It took a few years for me to understand how badly Scott used and manipulated me, to accept that I was a vulnerable and infatuated teenage girl that he took full advantage of.
Now I just count my blessings that he’s far enough away from me that I don’t have to see him. I heard he’s come around a few times at Christmas, but otherwise his visits seem rare. Shockingly—and thankfully—I’ve never once run into him.
“So your daughter’s daddy . . . he don’t even want to see his little girl?”
“Nope.” If he’s somehow heard that she exists, he’s made no efforts to reach out, which is exactly how I want it to be.
“I’ll tell ya, you need to be gettin’ money out of him, is what you need to be doin’,” Gord says, poking at the air with a stubby index finger in a scolding manner.
“I don’t want his money and I don’t want him in our lives.” And I don’t need this guy—or anyone, for that matter—telling me I should want otherwise. We can do this on our own, Brenna and I.
Gord pauses to stare at me, and I feel him weighing my words. “Well . . . I guess you’re your own woman.”
“I’ve learned to be.”
“I do like that.” Gord winks at the waitress as she delivers his slice of pie. Scooping up a forkful, he shoves a large chunk in his mouth before continuing, bits of crust tumbling out. “You gettin’ on with your family now? Aunt Lou said you had a rocky go of things with them. Didn’t they boot you out or something?”
I don’t bother to hide the flat stare at him, though in truth I’m more annoyed at Lou. Sure, she’s the reason I’m standing on my own two feet right now, but that doesn’t give her the right to discuss my personal past at length with her nephew before sending him off on a date with me.
Gord’s hands go up to pat the air in a sign of surrender. “Okay . . . okay. No need to get your panties in a bunch. I didn’t mean no harm.” Gord waves his fork in the air between us, a smile filling his face. “You know . . . there just might be a job for someone like you at Mayberry’s. I’m thinking of hiring my own personal assistant. Play your cards right and you could find yourself with a bright future ahead of you. You know, benefits and stuff. You wouldn’t need no welfare.” He pauses, watching me, waiting for my reaction.
I think this is the part where I’m supposed to start gushing and thanking him profusely for saving me from my lackluster future.
I force a smile and remind myself that this is Lou’s beloved nephew that she speaks so highly of, and I have to
bite my tongue.
He eats his pie and rambles on about his town of Belmont, twenty-five minutes south of Balsam. How it’s got a Target, a movie theater, and shopping mall, and four grocery stores instead of just the one Weiss; and it’s closer to route 33 South, which gets him to Philadelphia in an hour and twenty minutes; how there’s more opportunity and I should seriously consider leaving my stagnant little tourist town and move closer to him.
I smile and pretend to listen, happy not to be answering any more questions about my personal life. When the waitress drops off the check and he quickly collects it, I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s going to pick up the tab. This night has already cost me a dinner shift and a babysitter.
“Halfsies is twenty each,” he announces, leaning his bulky body to the left to pull his wallet from his pocket.
Right.
Except he had pie and a bottle of Bud to go along with his Dr Pepper and full rack of ribs, so it’s not really even. Not even close. I could argue, but instead I count out the bills because I want to be done with this guy as quickly and politely as possible, and get home to Brenna.
He grins as he collects the money and sets it next to him on the table. I know what he’s doing—making it look like he’s paying for the full check. “That was one heck of a meal.”
I should tell him about the purple chunk of blueberry skin sitting on his front tooth.
I really should.
Instead, I climb out of the booth and slide my arms into my black faux-leather jacket. It’s early May and the days are growing longer and warmer, but there’s still a chill to the air.
Though I try for a quick wave and getaway at the restaurant door, Gord insists that I need an escort to my car at the back of the parking lot. So I spend the entire way hugging my purse, clutching my keys, and praying to God that he doesn’t try to kiss me. There is no way in hell my lips are going anywhere near this guy.
“This is me,” I announce, stopping in front of my black Grand Prix.
He shakes his head with mock dismay, his eyes roaming the body, settling on the rust that eats away at the rear wheel well. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It still works.” Thanks to the help of my friend Keith, who knows enough about cars to fix whatever ails it and takes payment in the form of beer IOUs. I owe the guy about twenty cases by now.
Gord slides a business card out of his pocket and hands it to me. “You need to come by my store. I’ll get you into a good, safe car for a steal. As little as five.”
“Five hundred?” That’s more than what I paid for this car, a 2000 model with a hundred and thirty thousand miles on it.
He chuckles, but it carries a superior twinge. “Well, I guess we could see what arrangements can be made for the woman Gord Mayberry is dating.”
Oh, God. He just referred to himself in the third person.
His hot, sweaty hand closes over mine, and I immediately tense. “I had a great time tonight, Catherine.”
“Really?” Were we on the same date?
“Oh, believe me, I had my reservations. Plenty of people warned me about you when I told them we were going out. You know, especially because of that whole Philips thing.”
That whole Philips “thing.”
Gord’s gaze lingers over the simple black dress that peeks out from beneath my open jacket. I chose it because it flatters my slim, toned frame and, back when I was getting ready for my blind date and had real hope for Lou’s “tall, successful blond” nephew, I wanted to look good.
“I’d like to do this again,” he says, taking a step closer.
I plaster on my friendliest smile as I take a big step back. “How about I call you?” I am never calling him. Ever.
If he realizes that’s a standard blow-off line, I can’t tell. “I’ll be waiting. Anxiously.” His green eyes drift down to my mouth and he hesitates for a second before swooping in, so fast that I barely have time to turn my head. His wet lips land on my cheek.
With an awkward giggle, I pry my hand from his grip and duck into my car, slamming my palm against the door lock before he gets the foolish idea to try again.
Ugh. Thank God this night is over.
Chapter 3
March 2010
“Go to hell!” I kick my shoes off at the door, purposely leaving them astray.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that! I am your mother. You will respect me!” My mom is hot on my heels as I storm into the kitchen.
“Why should I? You don’t respect me. You don’t give a shit about me.”
“I did what I had to do.” She grabs my arm, pulls me back to face her. “He was going to ruin your life!”
“No, you have ruined my life. If people at school hear about this . . .” I shudder at the thought. Balsam High has a total of six hundred students, and they have nothing to do except gossip. Plus, I swear, half of them are in love with Scott.
“You didn’t seem to care what anyone at school thought when you were sneaking out and whoring around.”
My mouth drops open. Did my mother just call me a whore? Anger wells deep in my throat, and I blink back the tears. “Well, we can’t all be a frigid bitch like you, I guess.”
The slap she delivers is biting, and I’m sure the sound carries past the kitchen in this 1950s backsplit. It’s the first time she’s ever hit me. I’m stunned with surprise, frozen as the sting blossoms on my cheek.
And then my hand is swinging, the sound equally cringeworthy.
She reaches up to cup her reddening cheek, her face filled with shock.
“No wonder Dad’s never home. He can’t stand you either.” I spin on my heels and march up the stairs to my room, ignoring the fear on Emma and Jack’s faces, as they sit perched at the top, listening to every word.
“What was that you said? I can barely hear you over that noise.” There’s just the faintest twinge of a German accent in my mother’s voice, a remnant of her life in Berlin before she moved to America with my grandparents at ten years old, but you have to listen hard to catch it.
I let my car coast toward the stop sign. “Sorry. It’s a crack in my catalytic converter. Or something like that.” Keith says he doesn’t have the equipment to fix it and it’s going to cost me a small bundle at the shop. Maybe I should take up Gord Mayberry on that deal for a new car, after all. “I said I’ll be by at six thirty with Brenna.” My parents take Brenna every Saturday, giving me a chance to pull an all-day shift on the busiest day of the week without losing a large chunk to a babysitter.
She sighs. “Why don’t you just drop her off on Friday nights from now on, so she’s not sitting at the diner while you work?”
“I don’t want to impose on you and Dad any more than I already have.”
“She’s our granddaughter, Catherine. It’s never an imposition.”
Right. Then why does she make it feel like it is, every Saturday that I pick Brenna up and she goes through all the things she couldn’t do that day because of Brenna’s short attention span. That’s always been my mother’s MO: offer the help and then not so subtly complain about it. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”
“We’ll be here.”
My shoulders sag with relief as I toss my phone to the passenger seat. I have that same reaction after every conversation with her. I can’t see us ever growing to be friends, but at least we’re on speaking terms again. There was a long stretch of time—almost five years—where I would have nothing to do with her, or Dad by default.
Gord used the term “rocky relationship” earlier. I’d call it more “volcanic.” I’m still trying to work around the rock-hard layers of mistrust, wariness, and resentment that formed after it finally exploded.
Our issues started long before the day my mother brought me to the police station. I remember questioning her rules as early as nine, when my best friend at the time, Mary Jane, invited me to a sleepover and my parents wouldn’t let me go “because they said so,” even though all of my friends were go
ing and there was nothing about Mary Jane or her family that would warrant concern. My father left the parenting—and most decisions—up to my mother. He worked steady afternoons on the line at the paint factory, leaving before I came home from school and asleep for breakfast.
My mother didn’t see value in things like playdates and sleepovers, cuddling and bedtime stories. That was American culture fluff that she didn’t have when she was young, and she “turned out well.” She valued good grades in school, which I could never quite achieve, and a strict regimen of household chores, which I never could do to her satisfaction. She believed that it was her job to deliver constructive criticism with a heavy hand, and that coddling her children with praise would spoil them for adulthood.
In many ways, my mother was thirty-five going on seventy for as long as I can remember: strong-willed and unable or unwilling to adapt to change. Couple that with her old-world European values, taught to her by parents who had her in their late thirties, and we were destined for failure.
It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I truly rebelled. I could never measure up to her expectations, and I guess I decided to make a point of intentionally not trying. By the time I hit sixteen, they were at their wit’s end with me. I was skipping school and failing classes, missing curfew because I was out somewhere getting high and meeting boys. More, they were terrified of how I might influence Emma and Jack, my younger siblings. Emma, three years younger than me, was about to enter high school and had been groomed for the role of honor roll student and future class valedictorian.
And then I met Scott in my junior year and I started settling down—on account of his good influence, ironically.
None of that mattered, though, when Mom found out about us.
Now . . . we’ve come to an understanding. She was right in one sense—Scott never really loved me.
I’m sitting at the corner of Rupert and Old Cannery Road—the quiet route that will get me back to Balsam—and pondering my tumultuous relationship with my parents when a red sports car zips past in a noisy blur.
