by K. A. Tucker
I was wondering when she’d finally ask. “Kate Wethers will likely bring it up.”
She swallows hard. “I need to say something.”
Here we go.
What is she going to do? Give me a script? “Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t say anything disparaging about you. I told them that our relationship was off-limits.”
She sighs. “I was going to tell you that your father and I are one hundred percent on board with your decision to do this interview. And I hope you say whatever you feel you need to say to be able to hold your head up high. Just keep in mind that you recanted your statement, which means you have to be careful. Knowing that family, they’d launch a defamation suit against you. I . . .” She purses her lips. “If I could go back and do it all again, I still would have reported that man. But I’d like to think I would have done other things differently. I know you and I will never be best friends, but I hope one day you’ll see my intentions for what they were.”
I think that’s as close to an apology as I’ll ever get from her.
She turns to peek out the window. “I noticed that the toilet paper roll was near empty but I don’t know where you keep your extras. You should change it so your guests aren’t put out.”
“Right.” I leave her to do a quick scan of my tiny bathroom—and, yes, to replace the roll. And then I do a scan of myself in the mirror, of the silky powder-pink three-quarter-sleeve blouse and dark blue jeans I decided on after wrestling into everything in my closet, some things twice, wishing I still had my little black dress, a real miracle find for a secondhand store. I’ve run my flatiron through my hair and I’m wearing more makeup than I normally do, but I figured that the camera will dull it anyway.
All in all, I look a thousand times better than I did when Brett showed up at my door five days ago. Am I really ready for this, though? The tightness in my chest would suggest otherwise. In truth, I feel the overwhelming urge to call him and cancel the whole thing.
“A black Escalade just pulled up!” my mom hollers from the front window.
Too late now.
My stomach does a flip as I hit the light switch and approach, to watch my mother smoothing her hands over her dress and running a finger through her hair as she watches through a crack in the blinds.
“Wow.” She peers over her shoulder at me with a look. “He’s . . . Wow.”
“Yeah. I’ve noticed,” I say, tugging on the front of my blouse again.
She turns her focus back to the driveway. And suddenly her mouth drops open. “Holy shit!”
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. My mother never swears. Never. “What?”
“Did you know she was coming?”
“She?”
The porch steps creak, and my mom drops her voice to a whispered hiss. “His mother!”
Meryl Price is here?
I simply stare at the door, frozen in place as a knock sounds.
Thankfully, my mother has her wits about her, heading to flip the dead bolt and open the door. “Come in, come in!” She ushers them through, her voice more high-pitched than normal, her fingers that dangle at her thigh trembling slightly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her flustered.
Holding my breath and my bladder, I quietly watch as a giant bulldozer of a man—seriously, he had to have been a linebacker in a previous life—dressed in all black, his jacket open to reveal the handgun holstered at his side, steps in and offers a nod to me as he passes by, sticking his head into each of the bedrooms and the bathroom, an earpiece tucked into his ear. I hear him say, “All clear,” to no one that I can see. There wasn’t this security rigor on Brett’s first visit. It must be because of her.
Brett eases in on his crutches, immediately searching me out. The bruising around his eyes has improved some. He’s dressed in a black crewneck shirt that hugs his chest in a flattering way, and charcoal pants that hug the rest of him in an even more flattering way, the one leg rolled up to allow for the cast.
He’s removed the bandage across his forehead and I can now clearly see the angry red seven-inch scar just below his hairline. His hair is styled like it was at that charity event, in thick waves combed off his face, and even though he still has a full face of scruff, it looks like it’s been tidied up.
Brett simply stares at me for a long moment, that same awestruck look still in his eyes. I wonder if it’s a reflection of the awe that’s surely in mine. Despite everything, a bubble of excitement erupts inside me.
I’m so happy to see him again.
“Hi, I’m Hildy Wright, Catherine’s mother.” My mom’s voice pulls his attention away.
He offers her a handshake and that genuine smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” God, he’s so charming, even when he’s not doing anything out of the ordinary. I can practically see my mother melting into a puddle. Hobbling to the side, he gestures a hand behind him. “Mom?”
The epitome of glamour strolls through the door.
Meryl Price.
In my home.
She’s wearing a figure-hugging ivory dress, and that figure is as hourglass perfect in real life as it is on the screen. As is her silky shoulder-length hair, the color of corn silk, and her flawless face. The only jewelry she wears is a rather modest diamond wedding ring. I wonder if she even has to try to look that good and, if so, how long it takes. My mother came straight from work, so she’s still wearing her office attire—a navy blue pencil dress and simple but classy pumps, some costume jewelry that pulls the whole look together. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is curled at the ends and her makeup is light. She’s always been naturally striking, and yet next to Meryl Price, her hair and complexion look dull, her dress faded and ill-fitting.
Meryl Price offers my mother—for once, speechless—a small, warm smile and handshake, before quickly moving on, searching me out just as her son did moments ago.
And when her gaze locks on me, her impeccably made eyes immediately well up with tears. By the tightness in her jaw, she’s trying to keep them at bay as she strolls toward me, her matching ivory heels clicking against my worn floor. I’m sure this linoleum has never been graced by such expensive shoes before. “Catherine,” she utters breezily.
I’m terrified of saying something stupid, and so I say nothing, simply offering my uninjured hand when she reaches for me. She ignores it, pulling me into a hug, her glossy hair caressing my cheek, her exotic floral perfume filling my nostrils. Her slender arms, as defined as mine are though she’s in her early fifties, squeeze me tightly.
“I don’t know how to adequately thank you for saving my son’s life.” I open my mouth to downplay it, but she cuts me off. “You have a child, too. So you must be able to appreciate how grateful I am.”
That gives me pause. What if our roles were reversed? What if it had been my child trapped inside a car wreck and this woman wrapping her arms around me had risked her life to pull Brenna out?
I would never have been able to find the right words.
It’s odd that I never looked at it from that angle before, but Meryl Price is right. Brett, that giant man leaning against his crutches for support, broken and bruised, will always be her child.
I’m finally able to return her squeeze, a new, wordless understanding passing between us.
We part just as Brett’s driver walks through the door, carrying another elaborate floral arrangement. A short, curvy woman with a jet-black bob storms in after him, her arms laden with several sizable containers of what appear to be catering trays, her eyes scanning my house. “Over there for now, Donovan.” She juts her chin at my coffee table on her way past, heading for my kitchen table to unload her arms. “I’m Simone, Brett’s publicist.”
“Hi.” I frown at the trays.
“Brett mentioned how much you liked the last bouquet of flowers. And I know how draining these types of things can be, so we brought food with us to make things easier for you,” Meryl says, patting my forearm. “I hope you don’t mind.”
She has a gra
ceful way of speaking. I think she could convince me of just about anything.
“No, of course not.”
Simone pops off the lids and the waft of freshly baked bread catches my nose, reminding me that I haven’t actually eaten today. There’s easily enough food here for fifteen people.
“Catherine, perhaps they’d like something to drink?” my mom hints.
“No need. We brought that, too,” Simone chirps, and Donovan reappears just then carrying a Starbucks-branded carafe.
“You’re really . . . prepared.” And considerate.
“That’s why I keep her around.” Brett throws a wink at Simone.
“You’re lucky that you’re still in pain or I’d smack you, the hoops you ask me to jump through,” Simone fake-complains on her way past him to stand in front of my couch, hands on hips, assessing the area. It takes her all of three seconds to notice. “You have no family photos.”
“No, I put them all away.” I glance to Brett, looking for support.
“It’s fine, Simone. The Weekly already agreed to it.”
But Simone frowns. It doesn’t seem to be fine with her. “They agreed to not having the child here. But we need something. A couple framed photos on the side table. You must have one of those?”
“I have a bunch, but they’re in a drawer where I put them.” I can’t help the irritation from creeping into my voice. The child?
She heaves a sigh. “Look, I know you want to protect your daughter. But part of this is building a more positive media image for yourself. I’m sure you’ve already heard some of the less than flattering things that have been said about you—”
“Many times.” I quickly cut her off in case she felt the need to begin listing them.
“Well, the best way to—”
“I will not put my child’s face on national television for publicity efforts.” I’m struggling to keep the emotion out of my voice.
“But—”
“No.”
“You heard her, Simone,” Brett says, and that serious no-nonsense tone is back. His eyes flicker to me and I silently thank him with a small smile. “Besides, I think people will fall in love with her just as she is.”
Simone’s mouth clamps shut. She glares at Brett, clearly unhappy about my stance and his support of it. But she also knew what it was before coming here. She must have thought she could sway me.
My mother seems to have found her tongue and her nerve. “For what it’s worth, I think my daughter is doing the right thing by keeping Brenna away from the spotlight, and if Kate Wethers wants this interview to go ahead, you had better let her people know not to try to go against Cath’s wishes.” She reaches for her purse. “I have to pick up Brenna. It was so nice to meet you.” She smiles first at Brett, and then Meryl.
But Meryl rushes over to take her hand graciously. “We’ll see each other again. I’m sure of it.”
My mom purses her lips and nods. She’s trying to keep her cool. I wonder if she’s going to call her girlfriends the second she’s out the door and shriek like a thirteen-year-old girl at a One Direction concert. I almost wish I could be there to witness that.
“Keep an eye out for any reporters tailing you home from Brenna’s school,” I call out after her as she makes her way out the door.
With that, she’s gone, and Simone’s lips are puckered as she looks for another angle. “Do you have any family pictures you’d be willing to put up? You, and your parents, your brother and sister . . .” Simone pushes. “We really need something. A personal, family-oriented touch.”
The woman is relentless, but I have to believe she knows what she’s talking about.
“I have a few old ones in a shoe box. I could dig them out.”
Simone’s phone starts ringing. “Great, let’s do that,” she says, seemingly appeased, answering her phone with a clipped “Simone Castagan.” Donovan trails her as she heads out the front door to take the call.
Leaving Brett, his mother, and me alone.
Meryl starts emptying the plastic bag of paper cups and lids and creamers—and I lose myself staring at her for a long moment, because for just that moment she appears to be any other ordinary mom and human—before I remember myself. “Here, let me get some real cups, at least.” I rush for the cupboard, searching for my best mugs, the ones that aren’t chipped or cracked or covered in tacky slogans. Basically, anything that doesn’t say, “garage sale find.”
“You have a very nice place.”
I barely keep the snort down. I live in a hovel compared to what they’re accustomed to, and I know because I found pictures of their Malibu house online. She’s just being polite. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“I mean it. It’s so quaint and . . . cozy. You’ve made a lovely home for your daughter.”
When I turn back, I see her eyes wandering over the space. She has such a honest way about her that I almost believe her. But then I remind myself that she’s an award-winning actress.
“May I?” she asks, suddenly moving in beside me and gesturing to the soap, her diamond ring sparkling, even under my dull lights.
“Yes. Of course. Make yourself at home.” I silently thank my mom for insisting I run an SOS pad over the sink.
“And Brett, darling, please sit. You shouldn’t be on your feet,” she adds over her shoulder in that airy voice.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“No, you’re pale, and the doctor told you to stay off your feet. Sit.” She softly chastises him, wandering over to drag a rickety chair out for him.
He is sort of pale. But still drop-dead gorgeous.
He offers me a sheepish look before easing himself in, grimacing in pain.
Guilt overwhelms me. I shouldn’t have pushed him to get this done right away. He shouldn’t be here. “I’m sorry, we should have waited a few weeks to do this, until you’re better.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Did you take your pills?” Meryl asks.
“I will after the interview. They make me sleepy. You know that,” he says in an overly patient manner, as if he’s anything but.
“You should get some food in you.” Meryl peels back a lid and pulls out a plate and cutlery from the plastic bag. I’m guessing they’re disposable, but they’re nicer than the porcelain dishes I have in the cupboard. “Egg salad, right?”
Brett’s face pinches, and she shakes her head at herself, chuckling. “It’s your sister who loves egg. I always get you two mixed up. Here, ham and cheese. And some carrots on the side.” She plates everything for him and sets it in front of him, like a doting mother would do for her small child.
When he looks up, when he sees me pressing my lips together to try to hide my smile, his face breaks into a wide grin. “You’re thinking about how you do this for your five-year-old, aren’t you?”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing.
Meryl winks at me, then kicks off her fancy heels and demands, “Eat! Before I have to hand-feed you like I would a five-year-old.”
Something about watching them interact—the all-powerful and glamorous Meryl Price treating her son like a regular overbearing, worrying mother would; the sexy, strong Brett Madden scrunching his nose at eggs—puts me at ease for the first time since before the accident.
“Let’s have you sit back all the way . . .” Rodney peers through the lens of the camera that’s angled on my ugly floral couch. It’s one of two cameras, the other poised to record Kate Wethers, who will sit in one of my rickety kitchen chairs to the left of us. The one that’s been glued back together several times. I swear, they chose the worst one intentionally.
The crew arrived in a Suburban with a THE WEEKLY decal on the side forty-five minutes ago and have since turned my living room into a stage.
I follow Rodney’s instructions, scooting all the way until my back hits the couch.
“Okay, good. And I want you to turn your body into Brett.”
Turn into Brett? I’m practically on top of Brett.
This love seat feels more like an armchair now that he’s sharing it with me. They’ve insisted that they want us beside each other for the interview, though.
“More. Let’s have your knees touching.”
I offer him a nervous smile as I nudge his right knee with mine. If the close contact bothers him, he doesn’t let on. He leans back in my couch, the picture of calm, as if he’s done hundreds of these interviews before. He probably has.
“Yeah, that’s perfect. Jess? I need the screen adjusted a half inch my way.”
His assistant scurries to shift the shiny silver screen as directed. Brett explained that it helps angle the light to avoid unflattering shadows and glares. “Good?”
Rodney gives two thumbs-up. “Just like the studio. Aside from the mikes, we’re all set. Katie, how much longer do you need?”
Kate Wethers, the prime-time news celebrity and striking brunette who I’ve seen gracing the television screen for years, stands beside my kitchen table and chats with Meryl as if they’re old friends—and maybe they are. Or maybe it’s just that Meryl is so easy to talk to.
“Give me ten.” She waves over the makeup girl, though I don’t know what more she needs done, given that she looks camera-ready.
I’ve already been dusted and rouged. Brett just laughed and shook his head when she tried to minimize his bruising.
Ten minutes.
Even with Brett next to me—where I can feel his presence, his warmth, his support—I don’t know if I can do this. Especially because I never had a chance to talk to him privately. We haven’t had a moment alone, what with Meryl here, and then the rest of them, and now the sweat is beginning to trickle down my back at the prospect of him touting words like “hero” and “incredible” and “I owe her everything,” and of the look on his face when he hears the entire story.
“Hey.” He gently nudges me with his elbow. “You need a quick breather before we start?”
“Yes.” It comes out in an exhaled sigh. “But am I allowed to move?”
He chuckles. “You can do whatever you want.”
