by Elsa Kurt
After much cajoling from Mitch, Lizzy had ventured an opinion, filled with professional disclaimers like, ‘I can’t diagnose a person I’ve never met,’ and ‘this isn’t an analysis, but I’d guess that maybe, she possibly…’ and so on. Eventually, she’d reluctantly confirmed Mitch’s own, non-professional opinion—the woman had some serious trust issues. When he’d confronted Katharine before the Up All-Night taping, Mitch had been following Lizzy’s suggestion to tell Katharine how he felt. Well, he sort of followed her suggestion.
He recalled what he’d said to her in the dressing room of the late-night show. He’d intended on being soft-spoken and gentle, he really did. He’d gone so far as to rehearse what’d he say: ‘Katharine, I have very strong, undeniable feelings for you. I would like to see where this can go, but I don’t want to pressure you or scare you away, so take your time and let me know.’ Instead, he’d charged in there like a bull and demanded she declare her feelings immediately, and then stormed out when she couldn’t.
That wasn’t Mitch, not the real Mitch Ford. He was a sensitive guy, thoughtful. He wasn’t a bull or—what had Jackson called him—a brute. Yet, somehow, whenever Katharine Evans was around, he lost his cool. She made him want to kiss her one minute, then pull his hair out the next. It was all up and down with her, no middle ground. Was that always how she was? If so, Mitch couldn’t be on board for that. He’d already been with one crazy woman. Leanne. He groaned internally, mindful of Sam beside him. How he had ever let himself get sucked into her vortex, was beyond him. Hard to believe it had been just about two years since she’d packed her backs and moved to Italy. Or was it Spain? No matter, as long as it was far, far away and she took her crazy with her.
They’d met in Aspen. The Rebuilder Show had reached an all-time high in ratings, and as a reward, Mitch was on his first vacation in years—and he was having a terrible time of it. The elite crowd wasn’t his scene, but he hadn’t the heart to tell his boss—who’d generously footed the bill—so he brought his laptop and a book to read by the fire. Every time he’d settled in for the rest and relaxation he’d envisioned, Allen Wakefield—aka the boss—interrupted with ‘someone he just had to meet.’
On day four Mitch had found himself caught in the middle of a group of real estate investors who had great ideas for his next build. They’d found him tucked into one of the lobby nooks, before a roaring fire with his book held high in front of his face. They took this as an invitation to join him. Someone had pressed a cognac in his hand. That’s when Leanne Pearson walked through the ornate doors of the Le Regent. He was taking a sip of the strong amber liquid when Leanne’s eyes met his. She leaned casually against the check-in desk, one hand on her fur coat covered hip, and watched him. There was a small smirk on her lips as she gave a sweeping glance at the men surrounding Mitch. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised, and she tilted her head ever so slightly at him.
Mitch gave a small shrug, tipped his drink towards her, then sighed and took a sip. She took this as an invitation. He watched as Leanne sauntered over to where Mitch and the raucous back-clapping and blustering investors yammered loudly. They all stopped and gaped when the tall, lithe blonde reached them. Her playful sapphire eyes remained on Mitch.
“There you are, darling. You naughty boy, I’ve been looking all over for you.”
She spoke in a haughty, aristocratic English accent. Mitch Ford was instantly enchanted.
“Ah—yes. Right. So sorry… sweetheart.”
“Very well. Shall we?”
She extended her hand, palm down as if waiting for it to be kissed. Mitch stood and excused himself. One of the men brayed, “You sly dog, you.”
Another, “Don’t keep a lady like that waiting, boy!”
The blonde goddess took Mitch’s big hand in her slender one and led him away without a backward glance. When the pair rounded the corner, she pulled him to her with surprising strength. She had a wicked grin on her pouty lips and declared,
“You owe me, Mitch Ford.”
There was no trace of an English accent. In fact, it was entirely American. She wouldn’t tell him her name until he’d bought her a drink in the hotel bar. By the time they’d said goodnight, Mitch was thoroughly infatuated with Leanne Pearson. Sure, she was eccentric. Yes, she was definitely wild. But she was so impossibly beautiful, Mitch overlooked the warning flags. He was having too much fun.
Lizbeth met her once and deemed her certifiable on sight.
“Is that your professional opinion, Lizzy?” Mitch had asked with a laugh.
“No, that’s my personal opinion, Mitchell,” she’d hissed. “There is something off about her. She has crazy eyes.”
Mitch knew Leanne was, well, a bit much, but he’d been taken aback by Lizzy’s harsh assessment. It was unlike her to be so critical and blunt. Mitch cleared the rose-tinted glasses after that exchange and began to see a side to Leanne he’d missed. Or ignored. For one, she tried on accents as if they were shoes she could slip on and off at will. Her temper was quick and often burst out over inconsequential or trivial matters. She never stayed in one place for long. Leanne Pearson was what some would call the ‘idle rich.’ Living off a trust, Leanne had never worked a day in her life, and it showed.
After six months—and with his sister’s comments stuck in his mind—her once charming eccentricities began to wear on Mitch. He was a work hard, live clean, blue-collar man. Leanne expected formal dinners and jaunts to Paris. They were incompatible, simple as that. However, Leanne did not accept rejection well. Meaning, she didn’t accept rejection, period. Mitch had tried to end the relationship with as much kindness as he could. He got twelve stitches in his temple as a thank you. Leanne expressed her displeasure in a most familiar way—she was yet another thrower of things. In Leanne’s case, it involved tantrums, shoes… and one heavy, sharp crystal vase. Women do love to throw things at you, old man.
She apologized, which was very nice of her. She drove him to the emergency room. Also, very nice of her. However, when he came out of the emergency room, she was nowhere to be found. He had to take a taxi back to her place, where his keys and phone still were. Once there, he found both items, but she was gone. A scribbled note sat on the dining room table. The pen had rolled to the floor.
“Mitch—
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
Don’t come after me, it’ll only make things
Harder for us both.
All my love,
-L.”
Perhaps it was the concussion, but Mitch had the distinct impression she was breaking up with him… after he’d already broken up with her. She called twice after that, a month or so later. Both times, she’d left rambling messages. He’d never returned the calls. A slight guilt knotted Mitch’s gut each time, but the fear of welcoming her back into his life validated his decision. Occasionally he caught sight of her in some magazine or other. She’d taken up with a wealthy French businessman and spent her time doing what she loved—spending money, traveling the world, and likely wreaking havoc everywhere she went.
“Okay, well. We’re uh, about ready to board,” said Sam.
“What? Yeah, okay. Great.” Mitch glanced at Sam, then grimaced. He had the sour expression of someone unwilling to hide their annoyance. “What, Samuel? Say it. Whatever it is, go ahead and say it.”
Sam opened and closed his mouth, then clasped his hands together and steepled them under his chin. He seemed to be weighing his words carefully. “Mitch,” he began, “I love ya like a brother, man. You know that. But you’re driving me crazy. One minute, I can’t get you to shut up about her. Then next, we’re together for almost two hours, and you haven’t said more than one sentence. Just call her. Or text her. Let her know you’re out of town for a bit and you want to talk when you get back.”
Mitch blanched. Sam was right. They’d gone from the build site to the inn, and then to the airport. They’d passed through the security checkpoint and strode through the terminal, and Mitc
h couldn’t recall one word having been spoken. He clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry, pal. I know—I’ve been out of sorts. From now on, laser focus. I’ll deal with… things when we come back.”
If Sam had doubts, he kept them to himself and shrugged, “Whatever you say, boss. Here’s your ticket.”
Mitch looked at the ticket, then laughed. “First class, huh? The honchos are sparing no expense these days, I see.”
“Yeah, well, the whole, uh, thing that’s been going on lately has given the show a boost in ratings. A couple new sponsors, too. I guess they want to keep the star of the show happy.”
Mitch rolled his eyes. Though he was grateful for it, the quasi-fame status had always baffled him. As far as Mitch could see, he was a craggily guy remodeling houses for people who’d had a tough break. Sure, he could understand the emotional connection the rebuilds created—people getting a second chance or being rewarded for being good humans—but why he got so much attention was beyond him. If he were forced to say so, Mitch considered himself a decent enough looking guy. He’d add—because calling one’s self decent looking seemed vain—he looked little weather-beaten. The mirror and the camera told him he had some of those crow’s feet lines around his eyes. His nose, once broken, had a slightly crooked notch at the bridge. You’d notice it if you stared long enough, but maybe not right off the bat. It gave his face character, or so he was told. Mitch had also been deemed—by others—to have a strong jaw, and eyes that were a particularly appealing shade of blue. That’s certainly not something he’d say. His height, all six feet, two inches of it, was apparently attractive as well. His body, well, it was the body of a man who did manual labor all his life. Sinewy muscles and a mostly lean frame—heck, he was also a man who enjoyed a good beer here and there. These attributes were all well and good, he determined, but he was no male model. Not by a long shot. Mitch was more like the Marlboro man, except healthy. He was, in a word, rugged. Not that he’d use the word. Leanne summed him up once, calling him the quintessential Man Americana. She also called him the Ford truck commercial guy. She was disappointed when he said he was no relation to the famed Ford family.
“Excuse me, sir? Mr. Ford?”
Mitch had just settled in his seat. He looked up to see a kid who couldn’t have been older than twenty-one looming above him. He was dressed in his Alphas—or Marine base uniform.
“Hey, son. What can I do for you?”
“I want to thank you, sir. You know, for what you’re doing for that Marine and his family? It’s a great thing.”
The young man put his hand out to Mitch, and Mitch stood and shook it.
“You’re a Marine, too I see.”
“Yes, sir. I finished my second tour two weeks ago. On my way home to see my folks. Sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to say my thanks.”
“Where you sitting, son?”
The Marine squinted at his ticket, then said, “Um, seat 32B. Economy.”
“No, son, you’re not. Take my seat. Thank you for your service.” Mitch shook his hand once more and clapped him on the shoulder. The young man stammered his thanks, but Mitch shook his head, smiled and traded tickets with him.
“See ya when we land, Sam,” he said with a tip of his hat.
Mitch settled into his new seat. It was between an elderly woman and a very pregnant woman. He tried to fold himself in as much as possible, but it was a tight squeeze. Fortunately, the flight was short, and before long, Mitch was once again walking through an airport terminal with Sam by his side. This time around, Sam repeatedly shoved his cell phone under Mitch’s nose with a self-satisfied laugh each time.
“Look at this. One thousand,” Sam exclaimed.
“What am I looking at?”
Mitch may or may not have needed reading glasses for the better part of a year. He wouldn’t know because he declined an eye exam. Several times.
“The video. You know, of you giving up your seat for that Marine on the plane.”
Mitch stopped midstride. “The what? Video? Who on earth took a—oh, you did. Geez, Sam. That wasn’t for the show.”
“Relax, Mitch. Besides, I wasn’t the only one. Half the plane was recording it. I had the best angle, though. And held my phone properly for shooting video.” He grimaced at his phone screen and shook his head, “Amateurs.”
“Can I do anything in private these days?”
“Come on, now. Don’t be like that. It’s all a means to an end, right? Publicity equals ratings. Ratings equal more shows. More shows equal more people—like the Marine, for example—that you can help. It all works out in the end, buddy.”
“Hmm,” said Mitch.
Yes, it was all fine and good, as long as he got to do what he’d set out to do all those years ago. Immediately, he thought of his Dad. A Marine himself, a war veteran, too. After the war, Mitch Senior began working construction. He was a talented carpenter and quickly made a name for himself as a reliable, honest builder. Somewhere along the line, Senior had met and then married Mitch’s mother, Deanna, and they had him and his sister. They lived a good, stable, middle-class life. Deanne was a homemaker; Mitch Sr. was the breadwinner. Then, when Mitch was fourteen, Sr. had an accident on the job. He fell thirty feet from some scaffolding and broke his back. It was a year before he could walk again, but he was never able to work again. Not doing what he loved, at least.
The meager government assistance checks were barely enough to pay the mortgage, let alone anything extra. His mother did whatever she could to make money. She sold Avon and Tupperware and even tried her hand at retail. Mitch got his first job at fifteen—bussing tables, then of course, eventually working for Mr. Andover’s construction company. Lizzy babysat the neighborhood kids. They all did their part, without complaint or bitterness. Throughout it all, the Ford’s held their heads high and remained thankful for all they had. They believed no matter how tough they had it, someone else was suffering more.
Mitch admired his parents tremendously. That appreciation had inspired him to develop and pitch the Rebuilder Show concept to an old high school friend of his, who happened to be a top guy at a new cable network called GoodDeed TV, or simply GDTV. Their plan was innovative and impressive—create original series, all with inspiring and uplifting themes. It was a perfect match, and thanks in large part to Mitch’s show, the network was thriving.
“Oh, stop grumbling, Mitch. Enjoy the fame, man. Speaking of that, we’ve got to get you to your first appearance.”
“Can’t we go to the hotel first?”
“No time, they’re expecting you.”
Mitch sighed and let Sam take the lead. “Wonderful. Let’s keep them on task this time, hmm? Tell them I’m only talking about the Atlanta build and nothing else.”
Sam’s bushy eyebrow lifted, but he nodded. He tapped out a text—presumably to Justin—to give the forewarning. Mitch had no interest in playing the role of demanding celebrity, but he had even less interest in discussing the non-existent KatMitch thing. He was determined to think of only business on this trip, and nothing else.
EIGHTEEN
CARY GRANT CURE ALL
Katharine glanced at the clock on the microwave. 11:07. It was the perfect time to pay Mitch a visit next door. Past the morning bustle, but before lunch. An odd time which seemed spontaneous and nonchalant, like she’d just happened to think of seeing him on a whim and not like the hours and hours of planning she’d put into it. She texted Tori:
Ok. I’m going to talk to him.
Wish me luck.
A minute later, Tori responded:
You got this, girl.
Tell him how you feel.
Katharine smiled, then sucked in a great big breath. She let it out slowly, then walked to the back door. Everything tingled, her palms were sweaty, and her insides trembled as if she’d drank a whole pot of black coffee. She wiped her shaky hand on her pants and opened the door. It was bright and hot outside—too hot, too bright—and Kath
arine squinted across the yard at the tree line that separated the two properties. Her senses were heightened and yet she felt foggy, her nervous system had gone haywire. Katharine Evans was about to talk about feelings. Her feelings. There was a first for everything.
Katharine passed through the now well-beaten path between the yards and carefully made her way across the beleaguered lawn. The crew had yet to tackle the front and had in fact added to the mess with their building remnants and debris. They’d begun working on the house itself—the siding was stripped, shutters removed, and battered gutters torn away. Blue and white house wrap protected the bare wood from the elements and a bright blue tarp covered one half of the roof. A long, industrial size dumpster took up most of the cracked driveway. There was a man on the uncovered part of the roof, clad only in faded jeans and work boots. He was tossing sections of roofing into the bins. He nodded at Katharine but continued his work.
“Excuse me? Could you tell me where Mitch is?”
She had to shield her eyes from the glaring sun as she looked up at him.
“Mitch? He ain’t here.”
“Oh. Well, do you know when he’ll be back?”
The man shrugged, pulled a bandana from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Dunno. He’s gone. Got on a plane this morning for Atlanta. Sorry, lady, but I gotta get this done.”
He’d already started back to work before Katharine could ask him anything more. She turned and blindly made her way back through the bushes. Once again in the safe confines of her kitchen, she sank into the nearest chair and put her hand to her throat. Gone. He left without a word. No goodbye. Nothing.
Katharine couldn’t decide if she was numb, or if every nerve in her body was on fire. This was not the scene she’d envisioned. She imagined finding him out in the backyard, calm and commanding as he directed his crew. He’d sense her presence, then turn to face her. A mega-watt smile would shine on his suntanned face, and he’d slowly pull his faded cap off his head. He’d gaze at her, his blue eyes questioning, and Katharine would nod her head, ‘Yes, Mitch. I’m here because I’m in love with you,’ that nod would say. Mitch would then drop whatever he had in his hands—blueprints, or a hammer, or something—and he’d spread his arms wide for Katharine to run to.
