Again, I assume it has to do with the infinite amount of money at his disposal growing up and a certain social grooming that comes with being in the spotlight, but there isn’t a hair out of place, a tooth crooked or yellowed—or missing, as is apparently the case for many hockey players according to Jack. And his eyes are a dazzling aqua blue with green flecks circling his pupils. They’re much like his mother’s eyes, which have won over millions on screen.
It’s hard to picture him as Meryl Price’s offspring. Where she is slender, almost to the point of frailty, he towers over the male reporter holding the microphone to his mouth, his jacket tapering at a slender waist in comparison to his broad chest, the sleeves straining around his arms in that way that tailored suits tend to around built guys. Where Meryl Price’s nose could be described as almost hawkish, his is strong and bends ever so slightly to the right, likely broken at some point. I guess that could be considered his one flaw, but it only makes him look more masculine.
He must take after his father. Who is his father, anyway? Another movie star? There was a time, long ago, that I was actually in the know on the latest celebrities. The young, hot ones, anyway. Never sports, though. From the buzz around Diamonds today, I heard that Brett was a first-round draft pick out of high school, not spending even a day playing for the farm team. I would have been sixteen. Already well on my way to troubled pastures.
The segment on Brett Madden ends with the sportscasters offering their condolences to the family of Seth Grabner, and then the news cuts to a special broadcast on the conflict in Syria.
And I begin to flip through the channels, in search of every last scrap of information I can find on Brett Madden.
Chapter 7
“You’re still in your pajamas! Get dressed! Scoot!” I usher Brenna toward her bedroom on my way toward the front door, doing a visual sweep of all the things already out of place in our tiny house, silently cursing my parents for being fifteen minutes early.
“Keith?” I frown, peering over the massive bouquet of white flowers that fills the doorway—lilies and roses and a half dozen other flowers I can’t even identify—to the blond boy-next-door haircut peeking out from behind. He needs two hands to hold the vase.
“I have to put these down. Seriously, they’re giving me hives,” he complains, forcing me back as he steps in and heads for the kitchen table.
I shake my head at the cruiser parked out front. That’s twice since Friday that I’ve had a cop car parked at my house. “You can’t keep showing up here in that thing. People will talk.” People like Gibby, the gangly twenty-six-year-old busboy standing next to Rawley’s Dumpster, his eyes glued to me as he takes long drags of his smoke.
“Yeah, well, when I took my oath to serve and protect, I don’t remember agreeing to be a florist delivery boy.” Keith sneezes.
“You’re allergic to lilies, aren’t you?”
“Is that what those things are?” he grumbles, dusting his hands against his uniform, only to sneeze again. “Great. My car is full of it.”
I pluck the white envelope that sits perched on top and rub my thumb over the Philadelphia florist stamp with curiosity. “Who are these from?”
“Who do you think?” He grabs a tissue and blows his nose. “Madden’s family has been harassing us since yesterday for your name, and since you refuse to let us give it to them, a truck showed up at the station this morning with orders to deliver these to ‘the woman who saved his life.’ ”
“You told them I’m a woman!”
Keith shrugs. “You didn’t say we couldn’t do that.”
I spear him with a glare before shifting my focus back to the card, nervous flutters stirring in my stomach.
“Well? Open it!” He pushes, turning to grab Brenna in a hug as she launches herself at him. “Hey, Squirt.”
Just as quickly, she dismisses him in exchange for the flowers, reaching to touch the nearest petals. “Who are those from?”
“Some people your mom helped. Nice, huh?”
I tune out their chatter as I fumble with the envelope to peel it open. A standard card sits inside that simply reads,
Eternally grateful,
The Madden Family
Okay, so it’s . . . short and sweet. But a nice gesture. Probably arranged by their publicist. But it’s the thought that counts. And they did go to some trouble to get them to me. And there isn’t really an appropriate way to express yourself through a third party–written two-by-three-inch card. And I’m sure they’re all still at the hospital, overwhelmed and unable to focus on anything but Brett.
“Can I see? Can I see?” Brenna’s little hand grabs for the card.
I lift it out of her reach. “Brenna, can you go straighten your room before Grandma gets here?”
“But, I already—”
“Shoved everything under the bed. Go on.”
She grumbles under her breath as she stomps back the way she just came.
“Have you heard more? How is he?” I ask.
Another sneeze. Poor Keith. “Still in stable condition, last I heard. His mother was filming in Australia so she just got in late last night on a private jet. They brought in heavy security, too. Reporters are all over the hospital, but they’re not giving them any information.”
I nod toward the arrangement. “This was a nice gesture.”
“You really should let me tell them who you are. I mean . . .” He glances around at my house, then at my hand. “You saved the guy’s life. He could at least buy you a new car.”
I treat him to a flat stare, earning his sheepish grin.
“Yeah. So your mother may have stopped by and asked me to talk to you.” He shrugs. “She’s not wrong, though. If someone pulled me out of a burning car, I’d want the chance to at least say thank you. My conscience would need that closure.”
I shrug. “Maybe not everyone’s like you.” It’s a weak argument, I realize, as I find myself agreeing with him. If roles were reversed, not being able to thank the person would likely drive me crazy.
“Word is he’s a decent enough guy.”
“I’m not worried about him not being a decent guy.”
Keith looks at me through soft, knowing gray eyes. “What can they say that hasn’t already been said?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “Seven years ago, yeah. Do you really want Brenna hearing that her mother tried to seduce her teacher? Or that her dad is in prison for dealing drugs?” I was right to think that people would remember seeing me with Matt and put two and two together to make “Cath is having that scumbag’s baby.” I took Lou’s advice and didn’t confirm the rumor one way or another, the likelihood that Matt would ever hear about it almost nonexistent. After all, he was from New York City and in jail. DJ—also in jail—was his only tie to Balsam, and DJ’s family moved out of the area not long after their son’s arrest.
But now, with all this media attention . . .