Chapter Nineteen

Walker

With great effort, I’ve been able to dodge the relentless hounding of the reporters and photographers. I slip in and out of side and back doors, keeping strange hours and never taking the same route twice. School is out for the winter break, so I don’t have to worry about that, but I do have to forgo my shifts at the pub for now.

Instead, I haunt movie theaters—sitting in the back row and watching the larger-than-life image of Mason’s mother, Lydia Larkin, fill the screen. I go to malls, melting into crowds of happy people in search of holiday deals. I even take a long, wandering drive up around Lake Superior all the way to the Canadian border and back.

But the truth is that it’s not just the press I’m hiding from—it’s my family with their well-intentioned concern. It’s Father Romance, who thinks that a nice cup of tea and a prayer can heal all wounds. It’s the friends and neighbors whose lives have been upended by the presence of strange men and women snooping around, asking questions and taking pictures—displacing and discouraging a lot of the Christmas season business that usually floods into the town.

Finally, it’s my brother-in-law, Bryan, who manages to track me down—though I have no clue how—as I sit on the bench in the cemetery where my parents are buried, sipping a tepid latte that I had to buy two towns over so I wouldn’t be recognized.

He approaches the bench, stopping in front of me—a broad-shouldered guy who blocks out the sun with his very presence.

“Hey,” he says casually.

“Hey.”

“Mind if I join you?”

I give him my “It’s a free country” shrug, and he takes a seat.

“It’s pretty cold. How long you been sitting out here?”

Another shrug, this one my “Who knows? Who cares?” one.

He tries again. “You okay?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Really? ’Cause you don’t look so fine to me. And your sisters are off-the-charts worried about you. You should check in once in a while, let them know you’re still alive.”

“How do you think he knew?” When I glance over at him, I see the confusion on his face. “The reporter. How do you think he knew I was there with Mason? And why did he even care?”

“Oh yeah. Um, well he probably didn’t know. I’m guessing he got a tip that Mason had a new girlfriend and took the initiative to come track you down at the pub. The fact that Mason was there at the time was a bonus, I’m sure.”

“It was all just so…so…”

“Infuriating?” Bryan supplies. “Invasive? Entitled? Frightening?”

“All of the above,” I mumble. “I know I didn’t exactly make it easy, but still, why wouldn’t he just find a way to tell me?”

“My best guess? He doesn’t tell people at all—in general. He’s not the celebrity. He’s clearly not interested in being the celebrity. So people either know who he is, or they don’t. Of the ones that do…well, yeah, sure, he has to be concerned about people looking to get close to him for money or access to his mother and Hollywood…whatever. So, how can he tell who his real friends are? How does he know which girls like him for him—and not who his mother is? Walker, I think it’s not unusual for him to keep that little tidbit to himself. With you…he just waited too long to tell you.”

I’m staring forward, not feeling able to meet Bryan’s eyes. “That’s what he said.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I want to.”

“You do?” he asks, sounding a little incredulous.

Now I turn to face him again. “Why does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know. But it’s a good surprise. It tells me you haven’t written the guy off yet…in spite of everything that’s happened.”

“I don’t think I can do it, Bryan. Even if I could forgive him, I don’t think I can live like that with people in my business all the time.”

He shakes his head. “They don’t usually go after someone so tangentially related to a celebrity unless they’ve sniffed out a story—like Cassandra Cartwright, Hollywood starlet getting engaged to a hockey superstar. If Mason had been the one to answer the door and he’d told the guy that you’re very happy for her…or if he’d even just said ‘no comment,’ this likely would’ve ended there. But he didn’t. And it didn’t. And here we are.”

“So when I came at him with the bat…”

He offers up a wry smile. “You made it news. Suddenly, Mason’s dating an unstable barmaid from the middle of nowhere as he nurses his broken heart over Cassandra moving on with her life. Boom. TMZ is salivating.”

“But that’s all totally bogus!” I object. “How can they get away with lying like that?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. But they can. And people love it.”

“My sociology professor—the one who offered me the chance to work with her on her grant next fall? She called to tell me she couldn’t put my name in until all this settled down. Apparently, my little scandal might jeopardize her funding,” I tell him miserably.

He’s the only person I’ve confided this to, and now he wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives me one of his big, burly side hugs.

“I’m so sorry, Walker. But this will all blow over, I promise. In the meantime, though, just remember, not everything is as it seems, okay? My best advice—don’t make any final decisions yet. Think about it. Sleep on it. I think your gut will tell you exactly what to do. And, whatever it is, I happen to know for a fact that there are a lot of people who love you. Who have your back. And I’m one of them.”

I nod, looking down at my mittened hands in my lap. “Yeah. Okay.”

…

Within twenty-four hours of “Batgate” a second wave of reporters showed up, skulking around town. But the good people of Mayhem have had enough, and they do not take kindly to strangers messing with their own. Suddenly, there’s literally no room at the inn—the Pink Lady Slipper Inn, anyway. Janet Lahti has started taking reservations at the Little Slice of Heaven Pie Shop with no walk-ins. Interestingly, she seems to be perpetually booked when it comes to out-of-towners.

Unfortunately, it’s a little hard to turn people away from a church. Not that Father Romance would ever do such a thing. So, on this particular Sunday morning, as I sit between Jameson and Bailey, I can’t help but notice several strangers among the parish. I do my best to ignore the gawking, rubbernecking, and surreptitious camera-phone usage.

Surprisingly enough, I’ve been the one to remain calm through all of this. While my sisters have been furious and indignant on my behalf, as the Mayhem Gazette has countered every malicious rumor, and this mass lockout of the press has taken hold across the town. No comments. No pictures. Everyone is doing their part to starve the flaming scandal of oxygen.

“I can’t help but notice we have many new faces in the congregation this morning,” Father Romance is saying. “As is our custom, we’d love for you to stand and introduce yourselves to the rest of the parish.” He smiles out into the pews benevolently.

Our custom? He’s never once done this. My sisters and I look at one another and the rest of the regulars who appear to be equally perplexed. There’s some uncomfortable shifting as no one makes a move to stand or raise a hand or give any other indication that they’re a guest.

“Well,” the priest says, “as the old saying goes, ‘If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.’” With that, he walks to the end of the third row and points to the redheaded journalist I now know to be named John Tavis. “Sir, please stand and tell us your name.”

“No, I’m good, thanks,” he says, holding up a hand and waving the priest away.

As if.

Father Romance stands and smiles. And waits. And waits. And waits.

“Son,” he says at last, “I’ve got the strength of God holding me up every moment of every day. I can wait as long as it takes for you to stand up and face this congregation.”

Our eyes grow big. All of our eyes. Mine, my family’s, and every other member of this parish. While we all know Father Romance is not a man to be trifled with, very few have ever witnessed him in this state.

After a full two minutes, the lanky reporter gets to his feet.

“John Tavis,” he mutters, looking as if he’d like to bolt, but he can’t. At least, not without trampling on the eight people sitting between him and the aisle. If they don’t move, he doesn’t move. And they’re not moving. An inch.

I expect that Father Romance, having made his point, will just move on to the sermon, but he doesn’t.

“Mr. Tavis works for Startrust Press. They publish Hollywood Life magazine. He’s the gentleman who posted the video of Walker O’Halloran after forcing his way into the pub. When she brandished a baseball bat to help him out the door, he turned the video into a destructive little piece of propaganda aimed at hurting Walker and the people she cares about.”

“Oh, now just wait a minute—” Tavis half stands but stops as Father levels one finger at him.

Like the finger of God.

“Son, you had your chance to stand and say your piece. That time is over. Now. Sit. Down.”

“But you’re lying—”

“Am I, Mr. Tavis? And before you say that again may I remind you of the fact that I was there that morning to bear witness. Or perhaps you didn’t realize that?”

“Holy crap!” Henny leans across Bryan to hiss at James, Bailey, and me, who are staring, jaws hanging open.

But Father Romance isn’t done. Not by a long shot. One by one, he walks the aisle, pointing out the paparazzi. He doesn’t bother asking them to introduce themselves anymore because he’s doing it for them. Somehow, at some point, he’s memorized the names, faces, and positions of each and every one of the “visitors” in our midst this morning. All eighteen of them.

“Now,” he says, returning to the front of the sanctuary, a placid smile on his face, as if he hasn’t just eviscerated the majority of the press corps reporting in the state of Minnesota at the moment. “Believe it or not, that little diversion from our usual order of the mass was part of this week’s sermon. It was not meant to embarrass anyone—though, should anyone have felt embarrassed to stand in front of a church full of kind, compassionate, welcoming worshippers, then I would urge them to consider what it is, exactly, that has caused them to feel shame in our midst.”

He paces back and forth for a few moments, turns his back on us long enough to look up to the crucifix hanging at the front of the church, before facing us once more. He hangs his head slightly, rubbing his chin as if he’s deep in thought. We all sit, frozen, watching his every move.

At last, he sighs and raises his hands as if he’s being robbed at gunpoint.

“I,” he starts, “am human. I am a flawed sinner—as are we all. It is not my job to judge anyone. Including the people who have come to this community in search of the salacious lies they intend to peddle to a gossip-hungry world. It is my job to remind you of God’s love. To shepherd you on your journey through this life. And to help anyone—anyone—in need of a little grace. So, to all of you who have come here this morning not to worship, but, instead, for self-serving purposes, I will direct you to the Book of Luke, Chapter four, verse eleven:

Brothers and sisters, do not slander one another. Anyone who speaks against a brother or sister or judges them speaks against the law and judges it. When you judge the law, you are not keeping it, but sitting in judgment on it.”

He lets this sit for a moment before speaking again.

“Mr. Tavis, Miss Roach, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Kean, Mrs. Meyers and the rest of you who have come here today with less than pure intentions. You will be in my prayers today—and every day, because I fear for your souls. Just as we are told not to judge one another, we are also warned in Matthew 7:2,

For with whatever judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with whatever measure you measure, it will be measured to you.

Put in more secular terms, those who live by the sword, die by the sword. Ladies and gentlemen, what the members of this parish know—and that which you either do not know or do not care about—is that you have already chosen how you will be held accountable. You will be judged by the very words you have used to judge others. And, considering the words you have chosen to write, were I you—I would be scared. Very, very scared, indeed. Now, let us pray.”