I hold that fake smile, ever aware of Hawk’s presence three tables over. He and Vince have taken up residence at Table 7 with bottomless cups of coffee, looking as out of place as one would imagine bodyguards on duty for a waitress might look, even in their golf shirts and khaki pants. “They are.” Aside from the round of applause that I earned the moment I stepped out of the kitchen yesterday morning—unsettling me for a good hour—and the countless questions about Brett that I answer with Simone’s scripted response sent via text of “We’ve become friends who shared a traumatic experience but nothing more,” I guess it hasn’t been too bad. Especially since the photographers who hovered on the sidewalk yesterday were not there when I arrived tonight.
Lou banned them from stepping foot inside Diamonds but wasn’t able to stop them from snapping pictures of me through the window, in uniform and pouring coffee. I did my best to give them only my back, and some of the regulars even tried running interference, standing in their way and going outside to admonish them for harassing me. Though it didn’t help much, their efforts were appreciated.
It shouldn’t be a surprise that those pictures made it to the Internet within hours. Still, it took everything in me to keep my face smooth when Misty shoved her phone in my face to show me an article with the headline “Brett Madden’s Guardian Angel.” At least they used a flattering candid shot of me in my diner uniform.
It was a million times better than the other articles she insisted on showing me: “Meryl Price Threatens to Disown Brett if He Doesn’t Break It off with Catherine,” “Madden Rewriting His Will to Leave Everything to Catherine,” and, my personal favorite from a bottom--feeding tabloid, “Welfare Mom Carrying Madden Baby.”
Lou finally threatened to put Misty on straight midnight shifts if she mentioned one more word about “all that nonsense.”
“Have you met his mother?” Beverly asks.
I sense ears perking up all around me. Another question that’s been asked more times than I can count. “Yes, I have. She’s very nice.” Another standard line, though entirely true.
“And where is he now?” She glances around, as if he may be hiding in a corner.
“Canada, visiting his grandparents.”
“Will he be back soon?” She looks genuinely concerned.
“I think he’ll be in California for the summer.”
“Well, I’ll root for you two, anyway.”
I can’t even bring myself to quote the standard line. “I’ll put your order in now.” I wander over to the computer at the end of the counter.
Misty turns from the screen to show me her pout.
“Don’t start with me again.”
“You should tell him how you feel!”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel. Besides, I don’t even know how I feel.”
“Be careful, your pants are about to catch fire.”
“I’m wearing a dress.”
“What are you two talking about?” Lou’s stern voice from behind us has Misty clamping her mouth shut and darting away before she can get herself into more trouble with the boss.
I start punching in my order as Lou sidles up beside me. “No one botherin’ you?”
“Besides Misty?” Lou’s expression has me backpedaling. “Just kidding. Everyone’s been fine. Nice, in fact.”
“Hmm . . . You’re holding it together well.”
I can’t help the nervous chuckle. “You think so?”
“You just keep your head high.”
“I’m trying. And I’m sorry about all this.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” She pauses, her eyes surveying the area around us, and I sense she has another reason for this check-in. “I know you don’t like talkin’ about him, but I thought I should mention, so no one catches you off guard . . .” She drops her voice. “That thing about Scott Philips bein’ involved with one of his students? Sounds like they’re treatin’ it seriously down in Memphis. There’s going to be a police investigation.”
I stifle the frown that threatens to emerge, just hearing that name. I’m so sick of his looming shadow, returning to haunt me after all these years. “Yeah, Keith already told me.”
She drops her voice so low that I have to lean in to hear her. “Did Keith also tell you that when Scott left Philly to teach in Balsam, it may not have been his choice? There may have been an incident with a sixteen-year-old student.”
“No . . . I never heard that.”
“The girl wouldn’t speak so nothin’ ever came of it, but things are rising to the surface now, with all this noise. As they always do. Not that I wish any of this upon others, but it would definitely shine a light on that bastard for everyone.”
And then maybe they wouldn’t doubt me anymore.
“Also . . . Mr. Philips will be retiring immediately from his job as principal of Balsam High. He was supposed to be there for one more year.” Lou waggles her eyebrows knowingly.
I wonder if the school board had a talk with Mrs. Lagasse. “Something good came of all this craziness, then.”
She nods once, a flicker of satisfaction dancing across her face. “Hopefully not the only thing.” She winks and is moving toward the door before I can ask her exactly what she means.
I turn in time to see her shaking hands with an older man of maybe fifty, his dress pants and button-down shirt marginally out of place for Diamonds. A woman who I presume is his wife stands next to him in a modest churchy-looking peacock-blue suit, her short sandy blonde hair set in perfect waves, her curious eyes roving around the diner.
I don’t remember ever serving them here, but they look familiar. Lou exchanges a few words with them before pointing in my direction. I’m too slow to avoid the eye contact, the man’s green irises locking on me right away.
“Cath, come on over here for a minute!” Lou hollers, waving me over.
I meet them at Table 22—a booth by the window, in my section—and force a polite smile.
“Have you met Mayor Frank Polson and his wife, Clarisse?”
“No, I haven’t.” That’s why I recognize him. Not that I’m political—I’ve never actually voted and I hope to hell he doesn’t ask me if I have—but the man’s face has been pictured in enough ribbon-cutting ceremonies and pancake breakfasts over the years that I should have known who he was.
From what I remember overhearing around the diner, Frank Polson isn’t an educated man, but he is a resourceful one, having worked his way up from laborer to management at the major pulp factory, making countless connections within neighboring communities with each passing year.
He won the mayoral election in 2012 by a landslide and became the first person with no blood ties to the founding Balsam family to hold that position. Last year, he was reelected to a second term.
He extends a weathered hand. “Catherine Wright, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I take it gingerly, followed by his wife’s. “I’m sorry about all the chaos around town; I’m sure the locals are getting annoyed by now. It should die down soon.”
He pauses to consider me quietly. “There’s no need to apologize. You’ve made our community awfully proud. You’re a hero.”
I swallow my surprise. “Do you need a few minutes with the menus before you order? I can come back.”
“Yes, please. It’s been a while since we’ve been here.” He has the decency to look at least a little bit embarrassed at that admission. “And thank you, by the way, for agreeing to come to the ceremony.”
I feel the deep frown settle over my forehead. “Ceremony?”
“We’ve never actually awarded a Key to the City.”