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After serving all her orders and following up to make sure her customers’ needs were met, Hope paused by the register to catch her breath. How could she have said yes to Steve? Was she insane?
“Hope,” a woman said.
Hope turned. Brie was approaching her. Was something wrong? Hope had served breakfast. She’d brought Steve a slice of apple-raisin-pecan pie. She’d readied the bill and delivered the change. The Waldrens had even made their way out of the café. Through the window, she spied Steve air-sparring with his brother on the sidewalk. Both were laughing, so what was the problem?
She brushed a hair off her cheek. “Yes, Miss Bryant?” She gripped the register to steady herself. “Is everything okay?”
“Please, call me Brie.” She glanced over her shoulder and back at Hope. Softly she said, “You can trust Steve to get you the extra money.”
“Really?”
“Yes, your story is newsworthy.”
Panic shot through Hope. “What? No, no, no. I won’t agree to a story. That’s not part of the deal. Steve didn’t mention a story. I can’t—”
“Everything okay, girlfriend?” Zerena asked as she whisked past Hope with an armload of breakfast plates.
“Uh-huh. Yes.” Her heart was hammering her chest. “Go deliver your order. I’m good.” When Zerena departed, Hope said to Brie, “No. If this is contingent upon Steve telling my story or anything about my living situation, he may not. There will be no pictures of my kids. No photographs of the camper.”
“But—”
“No. Do you hear me, Brie?” Hope blew a hair off her face. “No, no, no. On second thought, we don’t want the prize.” She slashed the air with one hand. “I withdraw my acceptance.”
With two hands, Brie clasped Hope’s mid-air. “Calm down.”
Hope yanked free. “If publicity is part of the deal—”
“Please. I didn’t get to say everything. Listen. This is important. You represent so many women in this country. Single women working hard to make ends meet. Women with kids and a job and no savings. Our audience needs to hear about you. Connect with you.”
“Your audience likes sports,” Hope countered.
“Not my audience. I do human-interest stories. And KRPL has hundreds of thousands of viewers who want to know about their neighbors. Their successes. Their struggles. People who will find inspiration from heroes like you.” Brie’s gaze glistened with tears. “You’re keeping afloat. Your kids are happy and balanced. I meant what I said last night when I said, ‘You rock!’ Other women will feel the same as I do.” She offered a supportive smile. “Here’s what we’ll want to know. What happened? To your family? To your husband? Gabe said he left you. Why? Where is he now?”
“No.” Hope swallowed hard. She would not demean Zach. He was still the father of her kids. If her story went public, Zach, wherever he was, would take the heat and her kids would suffer. None of them deserved that. “No. N-O.” She brandished a hand. “We don’t want the trip. We don’t need it. Our lives are private and off limits. That’s final. How could Steve even think I’d go for that?” She strode toward the kitchen, seething with anger. At herself, for being duped. At Steve, for enticing her with empty promises. Did he think by offering extra money he could persuade her to share her story for TV ratings? Uh-uh, no way.
“Hope, wait.” Brie pursued her. “Steve didn’t—”
“Save it!” Hope whirled around and touched the snood at the nape of her neck. Strands of hair were loose. She must look a mess. Frantically, she tried to stuff them in and failed. She glanced out the café’s windows. Steve had stopped sparring and was peering into the café. He waved to her and grinned broadly. She didn’t respond. “Look, Brie, I’m sorry, but I can’t—I won’t—do this.”
“Listen, we don’t have to discuss your marriage, okay?” Brie spread her arms wide. “We can focus on your dreams. You have dreams, don’t you? Waitressing isn’t your end-goal, is it?”
Hope thought of her meager savings. On the ten dollars a week she was saving.
“Maybe a little exposure would make your dreams become a reality,” Brie said.
“Like going to Disneyland, where dreams come true?” Hope sniped.
“I was thinking, what if we talked about your dreams and investors came forward?”
Brie seemed so intent that Hope wanted to trust her, but the rational side of her brain screamed Impossible!
“I’m talking about sharing the dream you had when you got married,” Brie said. “Or before you got married. The dream that fizzled when life came at you fast. You’re still trying to make it happen, aren’t you? C’mon. I know you are. What is it?” Brie clasped Hope’s arm and peered into her eyes. “What is your dream?”
“I used to own a bakery in Portland,” she whispered, surprised to give voice to it. “When my husband . . .” She shook free and shivered. “No, I’m sorry, Brie. If telling my story is what it will take to get KPRL to cover all the expenses, then we’re out. We won’t accept.”
“But Steve will lose his job if you don’t.”
Hope gasped. “So I was right last night?” She recalled the horrid things she’d said to him. Now, they didn’t sound so awful. He’d been in it for himself after all. She peered out the café’s window. Steve had his arm around his brother and was happily chatting with his parents, looking for all intents and purposes as if he had this prize deal—his job security—all sewn up. Well, he didn’t. Not by a longshot. Hope refocused on Brie. “Now, it makes sense. This is all about Steve. Not me. Not my family. Him. His job. His future. He sent you to be his emissary.”
Brie shook her head. “You’re wrong. I was the one who—”
“I don’t owe Steve anything.” Hope planted her hands on her hips. “If protecting my family’s privacy negates the deal, then so be it. Good-bye.”
“Hope—”
Zerena drew near. “I have mace, girlfriend.”
Hope smiled weakly. “Please inform Gabe that I need a breather.” She untied her apron, tossed it on the counter, and bolted through the kitchen and out the back door.
