I frown, taking in the line of media vans with names of TV stations painted on their sides. Local stations . . . Philly stations . . . one from New York City . . . CNN? “Why are there so many news stations? Why would they be here for this?” This isn’t exactly worthy of national coverage.
“Do me a favor and pull that blanket up over your head for a minute?”
I don’t argue because hiding under a blanket sounds like a fantastic idea right now.
Keith hits a button and that odd-sounding “get out of the way” police horn blasts into the night, forcing people to the side so we can pass. After a moment he says, “You can come out now.”
I emerge to a dark, quiet road. “Keith? What’s going on?”
He hesitates, stealing a few glances my way while driving. “The guy you pulled out of the car tonight? He’s not just any guy, Cath. That’s Brett Madden.” There’s a note of reverie in his tone.
“Brett Madden,” I repeat, frowning as I pick through my thoughts. The name sounds so familiar.
Keith shoots a “come on” glare my way. “The Brett Madden. Captain of the Philadelphia Flyers?”
“The football team?”
He chuckles, his deep dimples filling his slender face. “The hockey team. The one that just swept two teams in the play-offs and is practically guaranteed to win the Cup this year. Or was, at least.” He shakes his head to himself.
“I think I heard the guys at work talking about him.”
“Likely. He got a hat trick in last night’s game. The guy’s a legend on the ice. Ask Jack about him.”
My brother, who’s at Minnesota on a hockey scholarship, would definitely have heard about him. “Okay. So he’s a hockey player.”
“No. He’s not just ‘a hockey player.’ He may be the best player the NHL has ever seen,” he corrects.
But I can tell just from Keith’s tone that there’s more. “And . . .”
“And he’s also Meryl Price’s son.”
“Meryl Price?” That’s . . . I gasp. “Oh, my God.” My body flushes as a new wave of shock washes over me. I just watched a Meryl Price movie last weekend. The one that earned her her latest Oscar.
Keith slows the car as we pass through another especially thick patch of fog. “Exactly. He’s a pretty big deal to the media.” I feel his eyes flickering to me. “And you just saved his life. So we can withhold your name, but that mess back there? You’re not going to be able to avoid it forever. They’re vultures, and your fifteen minutes of fame are coming whether you like it or not.”
I shrink into my seat, my stomach turning. “I’ve already had my fifteen minutes. I’m good.”
Keith gives me a sympathetic look. “Not like this, you haven’t.”
Chapter 4
“Mommy?”
Between my lingering shock and the throb in my wrist, I was sure I wouldn’t fall asleep, but I guess I did because when I hear Brenna’s childish voice, it hurts to open my eyes. So I don’t, simply reveling in her warm body snuggled next to mine.
Two hot little hands grip my cheeks. “Why are you in my bed?”
“Just because,” I murmur, smiling.
“Because you didn’t want me getting up and going to your bed?” It’s a nightly ritual, a half-awake girl stumbling from her room to mine, to crawl in with me for the rest of the night. I’ve gotten so used to it, I anticipate the sound of her bare feet padding across the linoleum.
Now I crack open my eyes to take in her rich brown irises up close. I have brown eyes, too, but Brenna’s are a darker shade than mine and they have a ring of hazel around the pupils. She also has an olive complexion to my pale pinkish hue, and thick waves of golden blonde locks to my poker-straight, thin ash-blonde hair. “Because I didn’t want to wait.”
I was almost two hours late getting home last night. Keith took care of paying Victoria for the extra hours—her eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head when I walked through the door all covered in blood and mud—and then because it was too late to walk he drove her home, leaving me to struggle out of my ruined dress. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror before climbing into the shower and immediately regretted it. I looked like I belonged in a horror movie, the fortunate lone survivor of a massacre in the Everglades.
It wasn’t until the water running over me turned cold that the reality of what I had done hit me. Yes, I saved a man’s life. But more important, I risked leaving Brenna an orphan. I risked my life to pull a giant unconscious man—a complete stranger—out of a burning car. What if the car had exploded? I would have been incinerated trying to accomplish the impossible.
Even though, thanks to some God-granted miracle, I did accomplish it.
But first, I gave up. I had walked away, leaving him there to burn.
That’s when my forehead fell against the shower wall and the tears began, first quietly, in a steady hot stream, then mixed in with ragged sobs. I couldn’t describe my emotions at that moment, the relief and guilt so tightly entwined, both flaring for attention.
I bagged my ruined clothes and made sure all traces of the night were gone from the bathroom, a difficult feat with only one operational hand. Once I struggled into my pajamas, I decided I couldn’t wait to be close to my little girl. I couldn’t carry her into my double bed, so I slipped in behind her in her twin, pulling her slumbering hot body close to me, and struggled to keep my body from trembling as the sobs tore from my chest.
She studies me intently now, an adorable scowl line forming between her brows. “Your eyes are puffy.”
“Are they?” I smile, make my voice sound light. “I guess I’m just tired.”
The phone rings from the living room.
“I’ll get it!” she exclaims, scrambling off the end of the bed and tearing down the hall. Ever since she turned five and I told her she was old enough to answer to phone, she runs for it like a dog at the dinner bell.
I close my eyes and smile, listening to her squeaky, childish voice as she tries to sound mature.
And I thank God that I’m still here to hear it.
“It’s Grandma!” Brenna hollers.
I groan as I peel myself off the mattress, checking the clock to see that it’s just past eight. I left a message at Diamonds for Lou last night, explaining in vague terms that I fell and sprained my wrist and apologizing profusely about not being able to make it in this morning. I didn’t bother calling my mother; it was too late, anyway. I simply texted her with the same ambiguous excuse, letting her know that I wouldn’t be dropping Brenna off.
“She’s coming, Grandma . . . yeah.” Brenna’s small, naturally -athletic body is curled up in the forest-green La-Z-Boy I snagged from the local Goodwill store, twirling the old-school coiled phone cord within her fingers, also from Goodwill. I may be the only person in the entire state of Pennsylvania still using a rotary phone.
How long before Brenna demands something from this century to talk to her friends on? A few years, maybe?
My throat thickens with the mental flash of a teenage version of Brenna sitting in that same chair, and for the second time in mere minutes, I thank God that I’m here to imagine that.
“Hey, Brenna, can you get me an ice pack from the freezer?”