Chapter 8 Sebastian #2
Daddy for a Super Bowl halftime show.
“Hey, Seb, can you take an extra shift Tuesday night?” Cole leaned through the serving window. “The PTA group is coming over
at five thirty.”
“Ooh, they like when you’re behind the bar,” Laila said to him as she returned her tray to its spot. “I don’t get nearly the tips you do from them.”
Sebastian knew that was probably true. The PTA ladies were a usually laced-up group of moms who behaved respectably when you
met them on the street. But once a month they got together at Cassidy’s for “a glass of wine.” A glass of wine begat a daiquiri,
and a daiquiri begat tequila shots, and before the night was over there were usually at least a couple of them downing Fireball
and stone-cold stingers.
PTA Night was also a successful enterprise for Valet Forge. By 10:00 p.m. it was all hands on deck.
Those ladies may have been respectable when you met them on the street most days, but if you happened to meet them the day
following the PTA gathering, they were also wearing sunglasses and refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
“Sure, I should be available...” His voice trailed off. Well, shoot. Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he couldn’t have asked for a better segue. “Well, I think so, anyway. I can’t imagine there
would be anything happening that late. You know, I’m chaperoning this week.” He rolled his eyes for effect. But also because
having to babysit Brynn Cornell was eye-roll worthy.
Laila’s eyes flew open. “I didn’t want to ask, but since you brought it up... How’d it go? How is she?”
How’d it go ? How is she? Such simple questions, at least in theory.
Cole had nonchalantly mentioned Brynn once or twice through the years, and he seemed weighed down by neither resentment nor
nostalgia. Cole was a pretty matter-of-fact guy. Kind, generous, and really funny... but levelheaded. Sensible.
Laila was all those things, too, but she did seem to wear her heart on her sleeve more than Cole. Cole liked to tease her
about how easily she cried at movies, but even Sebastian wept while watching President Whitmore’s speech in Independence Day and pretty much every single time James Earl Jones said the word baseball in Field of Dreams .
And how could anyone’s eyes stay dry when All the President’s Men ’s Ben Bradlee risked his career and reputation by saying he was going to “stand by the boys” and let Woodward and Bernstein
run with their story? Sure, maybe that one meant a little more to Sebastian than most, but he still believed the only people
who didn’t cry were cold, unfeeling robots whose hearts and tear ducts had been replaced by microchips and cynicism.
Sebastian had never really talked to either one of them about Brynn, but he knew enough to know they’d all been friends once
upon a time. He had no idea how they felt about her now—in response to Brynn’s twenty years away or her hot-mic reentry into
their lives. He would need to be careful and proceed with tact, sensitivity, and careful consideration.
“She’s just the worst,” he blurted out before listening to any of his own good advice about decorum. Well, okay, then. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be so quick to characterize her that way. I don’t really know her.” Although he certainly knew all he
ever cared to know. “I’m sure deep down she’s.
..” What? How was he intending to finish that sentence?
I’m sure deep down she’s every bit as artificial and annoying as she is on the surface?
No, that wouldn’t do. “...maybe not the worst?” That was the absolute best he could come up with, and if he’d been hooked up to a lie detector test, he still
would have failed.
Cole responded with a sigh from the service window. “I was afraid that was the case. How do you go on national television
and say all the things she said if you’re not basically the worst?”
Laila echoed Cole’s sigh, though hers was heavier. Sadder. “I just don’t want to believe that. I want to believe there’s some
sort of explanation. You know? I mean, an explanation apart from her being the worst.” She and Cole shared a sad smile, and then Cole turned his attention back to his kitchen.
“I’m assuming she hasn’t always been the worst?
” Sebastian asked. If he was going to survive the next few days, he was going to need some help believing that she was more of a misunderstood villain than a purely evil one.
He could suffer through a few days of Severus Snape or Inspector Javert.
He’d just have to be careful not to turn his back or steal a loaf of bread.
But if she was a Hannibal Lecter, he might need to track down one of those caged mask things.
The downcast smile was still on Laila’s lips. “No, not at all.”
“Her mom was, though,” Fenton volunteered.
Laila nodded. “That’s true. All in all, I guess it’s sort of a miracle she turned out as well as she did.”
“What was so awful about her mother?”
“You name it, really.” Fenton continued watching the TV and chewing on onion rings as he answered the question.
“She was horrible to her.” Laila spoke quietly. Sadly. “She blamed Brynn for ruining her life.”
“How?”
Laila shrugged. “By being born. She’d done some modeling when she was younger—not runway or anything, but department stores
and stuff. Then she had Brynn, and that was the end of that. Either because she didn’t have the same figure or no one wanted
to hire a single mom back then. Maybe just because her look went out of style. Who knows? Regardless, it was all Brynn’s fault
as far as Elaine was concerned.”
“But Elaine wasn’t even the worst part,” Fenton contributed with a full mouth.
Laila began studying her fingers as she drummed them on the counter.
“It was so awful for her, Seb.” She sniffed and looked up at him.
Apparently it was awful enough that the memories and compassion for her former friend brought tears to her eyes all these years later.
“Elaine seemed to think each new guy was the solution to all her problems. You know? And Brynn was expected to just welcome each of them into her life.” She shook her head, as if trying to shake away the ancient details in her mind.
“They were usually just passing through. The somewhat decent ones got scared off by Elaine being obsessed with them, but trust me . . . there weren’t very many decent ones. ”
Cole walked up behind Laila, wiping his hands on a towel hanging from his waist, and then slung his arm over her shoulder.
She leaned into him. “She never talked about it very much, even to us,” he said. “But we all knew.”
Laila nodded. “For the most part, we just did what we could to keep Brynn away from home. Away from home, she was safe.”
Sebastian couldn’t say for certain yet if Brynn Cornell was misunderstood, but he was beginning to lean a little more toward
her being a villain of the Half-Blood Prince variety rather than the sort who enjoyed fava beans and Chianti.
The bell over the door jingled, and Laila, Cole, and Sebastian all turned to greet whoever was entering with a welcoming smile,
which they had each quickly adopted. The gravity of the subject they’d been discussing had to take a temporary back seat to
the Cassidy’s customer service Cole demanded.
“Hey, Doc,” they all said in unison. Fenton kept his eyes glued to the TV and his mouth full of burger but raised one hand
in greeting.
Laila headed back out to check on Roland and his family.
“Good evening,” Doc called out to the room at large, since Roland and his wife, Paula, had said hello as well.
Laila didn’t bother offering him a table. At least a couple nights a week, he came in for dinner alone and sat at the bar
to chat with Sebastian, Cole, or whoever else was working that night. And almost always Fenton, of course.
Cole reached out and shook Doc’s hand. “What can I get you tonight?” Unlike Fenton and a lot of the regulars, Doc was usually
one to mix it up.
Doc looked over at Fenton’s plate. “That burger looks good, but you know . . . I’m really craving a steak.”
“You want the sirloin off the menu, or do you want me to surprise you? I’ve been playing around with some flavors—”
A wide smile spread across Doc’s face as he raised his hand to silence the chef. “Cole Kimball, you’ve known me your entire
life. Do I really have to answer that question?”
Cole laughed. “No, sir. On it.” He headed back into his kitchen.
“Anything to drink?” Sebastian asked.
“Just a decaf coffee, thanks.”
Well, that was going to require a bit of teasing.
“Decaf, huh?” Sebastian asked as he poured and then glanced at his watch. “I’ve always sort of imagined you kept an IV drip
of dark roast going all night so you didn’t get decaffeinated while you slept.”
“I’m grateful for women, Seb. I am. Their hearts and their instincts and their wisdom. The way they care.” Doc took a sip
of the decaf and then scrunched up his nose at it and returned for another round. “But right now, women are ganging up on
me and trying to tell me they know what’s best. I don’t take too kindly to that.”
Sebastian set the orange-rimmed coffeepot back on the burner. “Jo?”
Doc nodded. “Of course. And Addie, long distance.” He exhaled. “Mostly Jo.”
Sebastian rested his hip on the counter and crossed his arms. “You don’t take too kindly to it, and yet you’re forcing down
decaf.”
“Well, like I said... I’m grateful for women. Certainly for the women in my life. And sometimes you have to be willing
to take one for the team to make sure they feel appreciated.” He grinned, and Sebastian laughed.
“So tell me.” Doc forced down another gulp. “How’s the new lady in your life doing?”
Laughter exploded from Cole in the kitchen, and Sebastian flashed a glare over his shoulder.
“Oh, great. She’s just... swell.” Sebastian gave two thumbs up in front of him.
“Can I take it she doesn’t come across much better in person than she does on television?”
Sebastian gave that some serious consideration. Truth be told, she came across so much worse in person. Last Friday aside,
of course. On TV it was at least possible to see what people saw in her. Why she was so well liked. He himself had never partaken
of the Brynn Cornell Kool-Aid, needless to say, but he didn’t hold everyone else to his own discerning standard of journalism.
He’d never been a regular viewer of any of the morning shows, but he probably respected Sunup least of all. For one thing, he’d known Mark Irvine for a lot of years, and each of those years had presented increased evidence
that Irvine possessed all the personality and individuality of a water molecule. In contrast to him, and so many of the institutional
figures like him, Brynn Cornell was a breath of fresh air. Or at least he could understand how viewers might regard her that
way.
It was easy enough to judge her for not actually being what he considered a journalist, but in fairness, he knew that wasn’t
what she was hired to be. No, he couldn’t imagine her in a war zone or even in a yellow slicker trying not to be blown away
by rain and hurricane-force winds, but there were other people out doing that. She was paid most likely a great deal of money
to be the woman who men wanted to go out with and other women wanted to be friends with. Who college students would aspire
to be and who parents would dream of their sons marrying. Who put celebrities at ease and who made “normal” people believe
that if only they had the good fortune of running into Brynn Cornell on the street, she’d walk away actually remembering their
name.
But in real life? In real life, Brynn Cornell boasted all the three-dimensional authenticity of a coloring book.
The Mark Irvines of the world were almost better.
They were the same dreadful drips in person as they were on the air.
They didn’t go about deceiving their audience so much as deceiving themselves into believing they were brimming with talent and charisma.
In reality, people liked them because they were human ranch dressing.
You wouldn’t want a bowl of them by themselves, but they went with everything.
Brynn Cornell was no ranch dressing. She was matcha, or some other bitter ingredient that the world had somehow been tricked
into believing should be added to everything. All it actually did was ruin the taste and occasionally upset your stomach.
But she was also a victim of her upbringing, from the sound of it. He didn’t have to like her, but Sebastian had to admit
that learning a little about her past made him at least want to give her the benefit of the doubt a little while longer.
“She’s fine, Doc. Today was a little rough, but maybe tomorrow will be better.”
Heaven knows it couldn’t be any worse.