What a difference, though, between that girl’s family and my parents. I can’t help but wonder what my life would have been like had my mom wanted to “keep things quiet,” too.
I study the picture again. Taken recently, I’m guessing. It’s one of those stiff professional head shots—angled pose, business suit, boring blue background. He looks different from the last time I saw him, his wavy hair cropped short and hinting gray at the sides, his face much fuller, his forehead etched with small lines. Older, of course. It’s been more than seven years since that day he asked me to show him my latest sketch after school and I felt his fingers slide over mine for the first time. He just turned thirty-eight in April.
His eyes haven’t changed much, though. They still have that playful gleam, the one that used to make me blush and stumble over my words.
That he would have used them on a girl half his age makes my skin crawl.
“So he’s going to sell houses.” He once told me he’d rather spend his days shoveling cow manure at his uncle’s farm than work for his mother. “He must be having a hard time getting another teaching job.”
Lou drags over a spare chair and sits down beside me. “You do bad things and eventually it’ll catch up to you. It always catches up with you, one way or another.”
I attempt a smile. “You sure seem to have your ear to the ground about him.”
“Just lookin’ out for you.” A long pause hangs in the air. “Is there anything you need to talk about?”
“Like?”
“Oh,” she says, feigning mild interest, “just anything at all.” Her fingers rap against the desk, a steady drumbeat.
“Brett and I are . . . talking a lot.”
“Well, yes, who else would you be texting nonstop through your shifts.” Her lips twist, but I can tell by her eyes that she’s not really upset by it. There’s a long pause. “If there’s anything else, you know I’ll always lend an ear.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Lou.” I hesitate. “Do you think I’m making a mistake, with Brett? Am I going to end up with a broken heart?”
Lou’s never one to hold back her thoughts, but unlike my mother, she never seems compelled to offer her judgment. She has simply always been there with that unwavering support, a sturdy pillar for me to lean on no matter what direction I choose to take.
She frowns in thought. “I think you’re a long way from seeing the last of him.” Climbing out of her chair just as quickly as she settled into it, she adds, “And hopefully that friend of yours is a short way to seeing the last of that dumb-ass sitting at my table out there.”
“Ugh.” I groan with the reminder.
“I don’t want him stirring up any trouble. I have half a mind to kick him out.” As much as Lou might want to, she’d never offend Misty like that. She may, however, throw enough eye daggers at him to make him uncomfortable enough to want to leave.
I lean forward to rest my forehead on my palms, my elbows propped on the desk.
Acutely aware of those eyes that stare up at me.
Chapter 26
“I heard he’s havin’ a hard time gettin’ clients,” John Sanders says from his stool by the counter. He’s one of our many regulars, a seventy-two-year-old farmer who puts in six hours of work every day before driving to Diamonds for a late-morning plate of eggs and bacon.
He’s not one to gossip idly, either. If he’s saying something, it’s more than likely accurate.
I duck my head and focus on refilling paper napkins in their dispenser, pretending that I’m not listening to people talk about Scott Philips being back in Balsam. But I’ve heard every word, and it sounds like he’s not getting the warm reception his mother may have expected.
He came back on his own, apparently, staying at his parents’ palatial house, no sign of his wife or children. Some speculate it’s because the school year hasn’t wrapped up yet, but others have pointed out that the school year ends earlier down south. That leads some people to believe that Linda Stovers decided she’d had enough. And of course others to insist that she was stupid enough to marry him in the first place, so she must not be bothered.
It’s a swirling pot of gossip.
But, for once, I’m not a key ingredient.
Misty’s phone chirps nearby—a deranged clown laugh that she downloaded for her incoming texts—and she rushes to check it. Her face lights up and I know that it’s DJ. I don’t ask, though. Despite what she said about not wanting to fight, things have been strained between us. And I’m just so horrified that I may be showing signs of Hildy Wright’s influence, I don’t want to risk saying anything to solidify that fear.
“I don’t pay you to be on your phone. Lunch rush is starting soon.” Lou’s face is less than impressed as she strolls past, glaring at Misty.
“Why do I feel like she’s giving me more grief than usual?” Misty moans, more to herself.
Because she is. I open my mouth to lie and tell Misty it’s no big deal, that Lou’s just having a bad day.
“So, have you thought more about that job offer, Cathy?” Gord’s voice booms, startling me. The napkins in my hand scatter over the counter.
Gord showed up about an hour ago, asking to sit in my section. I caught the look Leroy fired through the kitchen window, along with the warning glare Lou threw back. One that said Leroy was not allowed to burn Gord’s eggs.
But by the third time Gord waved me over, not to give me his order but to try and strike up conversations about my Escape, about Brenna, about quitting Diamonds and becoming his personal assistant, I was ready to pay Leroy out of my own pocket to char Gord’s entire meal.
And since Lou won’t bill family, and he’s already mentioned with a chuckle that my tip was worked into the deal on my SUV, I stopped making eye contact after collecting his dirty plate.
“Thanks, but I’m not interested in being an assistant.”
His face splits into a wide grin, but it’s his condescending one. “Now come on, Cathy.” He’s still smiling as he drops his voice and whispers, “I think it’s time you step back and face reality.”
I offer him a tight-lipped smile, trying not to crumple the napkins in my hand too much. “Did you need a coffee for the road?”
Misty’s high-pitched squeal drowns whatever answer Gord gives, startling me. I drop the stack of napkins. Again.
As soon as I see that her wide eyes are locked on the door, I know why, without even needing to look.
Brett just walked into Diamonds.
My heart begins hammering in my chest.
He simply nods at the truckers sitting on their stools up at the counter, their heads tilted to watch him as he leaves Donovan with the hostess and moves toward me.
Gord is saying something, but I ignore him and close the distance toward Brett, my urge to reach out and touch him stifled by all the eyes on us. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, stealing a glance at his good leg, bared in shorts and ridged with muscle. Trying not to focus on his injured leg, which is visibly slender by comparison.