Pamela Bauer - Daddy's Home

As they pulled into the parking lot across from an old warehouse in downtown Minneapolis, Kristen felt her muscles tense. Neon signs identified several bars and restaurants in the building. Tyler led her through a door with an overhead sign flashing Eddie’s in red lights with an arrow pointing up.

They climbed two flights of stairs before he pushed open a door that led into the restaurant. The atmosphere was casual, the lighting dim. Piano music drifted across the room, muting the sound of clinking silverware. They checked their coats at the small counter inside the door, then waited to be seated.

Judging by the maitre d’s enthusiastic greeting, Tyler was a regular guest. Their host led them to a table for two in a corner of the room, smiling knowingly as he held Kristen’s chair for her.

Before she could sit, however, Tyler said softly, “Why don’t you take this one. That way you can see the piano player.”

Kristen knew a better view wasn’t the real motive for his suggestion. In his chair, her left side would be hidden from the other guests.

“Thank you,” she said, changing places with him. Suddenly self-conscious, she fumbled with her napkin, adjusted the silverware and took a drink of water. Then she glanced across the room to where a woman sat at a piano playing a medley of pop tunes. “This is an interesting place.”

“I like it because you can hear yourself talk and because Eddie makes the best clam chowder in town.”

“Then you come here often?”

“Not anymore. At one time, Brant Electronics used to be just around the corner, so we spent a lot of time here.”

They hadn’t been sitting there long when a couple walked by. Kristen reached for her purse on the floor.

When she straightened and looked at Tyler, he asked, “What bothers you more? That they’ll recognize you as the Channel 12 anchor or that they’ll see your scars?”

She looked into his eyes expecting to see pity, but there was none. There was merely an interest she found comforting.

“Both,” she answered honestly. “Before the accident I knew people often thought I looked different from the way I looked on television, but maybe now they’re wondering if that difference isn’t because of the accident. Everyone knows I’ve had plastic surgery.”

“That sounds like a normal concern someone in your situation would have.”

“I haven’t been out in public much since the crash.” She toyed with her silverware again and finally said, “Look. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”

“Wait Give me a couple of minutes,” he said, getting up from the table. He was only gone maybe two or three minutes before he returned with the maitre d’. He bent and whispered in her ear, “We’re moving.”

They followed the host to a door marked Private. It was a banquet room with several long tables. Tyler pulled out a chair for her at the end of one of them, as the maitre d’ left only to return moments later with a tablecloth, silverware, wineglasses and a bottle of sparkling wine. When he finished setting the end of their table, he poured them each a glass and said, “I’ll send someone in to take your order.”

As soon as he was gone, Tyler asked, “Is this better?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Another silence stretched between them and again Kristen had to wonder why he’d brought her to dinner. Not once on the way over in the car had he mentioned the crash, and from the sober expression on his face, she wondered if he wasn’t regretting his invitation.

Finally, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For your having to sit in here. You can’t hear the music.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t come for the music.”

“Why did you come?” she couldn’t resist asking. “Or maybe I should ask why did you bring me?”

His eyes met hers. They looked uncertain, something she was convinced was a rarity. Tyler Brant appeared to be a man who knew what he wanted. “Maybe I just don’t like to think of anyone eating soup for one.”

She lowered her eyes. He felt sorry for her. That was the last thing she wanted to hear. “I’m usually not alone. You forget I have a fiancé.” She waved her diamond solitaire in front of him.

“Then the crash hasn’t delayed your wedding plans?”

“No. Why should it?”

“KC’s column in the paper said—”

“Do you always believe what you read in a gossip column?”

“I usually don’t read the gossip column.”

“Good, because it’s very often just based on hearsay.”

“Then you haven’t put your personal plans on hold?”

“No, nothing’s changed,” she answered, knowing perfectly well that her answer wasn’t the truth. However, her relationship with Keith wasn’t something she wanted to discuss with Tyler Brant. She lowered her eyes, worried that what she was thinking might be reflected in her eyes.

“That’s good,” he answered.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed with a false confidence. “What about you? I know that you were on your way to Hibbing to survey the damage from a fire to one of your plants that day. Is your life back to normal again, too?”

“Yes. Busy as usual. Never enough hours in a day, it seems.”

“You have a daughter, right?”

“Yes. Brittany. She’s six.”

“What’s she like?”

He smiled affectionately. “Precocious. Knows far too much for a six-year-old.”

“Does she know about the plane crash?”

He nodded grimly. “She saw my picture on the front page of the newspaper when she was at the grocery store with my mother.”

“Did it have any lasting effect on her?”

“No, she’s fine,” he answered.

“What about you?”

“I’m fine, too.”

Kristen felt a wave of disappointment. She’d been hoping he’d give her some hint that he, too, hadn’t completely recovered from the emotional trauma of the crash.

“You’re lucky,” she told him.

Any warmth that might have been in his face disappeared. He looked her straight in the eye and said, “No. I wouldn’t exactly call myself lucky.”

She wanted to ask him what he meant, but the appearance of the waiter preempted any further conversation. At Tyler’s suggestion, Kristen chose the evening special along with a cup of clam chowder.

When the waiter left, Tyler asked, “Do you know when you’ll return to work?”

“Is that your way of asking me if what KC said about my losing my job is also true?”

He gave her an apologetic smile. “Is it? Is there a chance you might lose your spot on the news?”

She shrugged. “I shouldn’t, but working in television is not like going to work in an office.”

“Are you saying they can replace you because you’ve had to take some time off to recover from the accident?”

“No. But as I said before, I don’t know how viewers will react to the way I look now. And in TV that’s what counts. The viewing audience can be fickle. And no station manager likes to see the ratings drip.”

Again, she wasn’t being quite truthful. But she was reluctant to admit that the issue wasn’t simply one of whether or not the station would replace her, but rather one of her own loss of confidence in her ability to be successful in the anchor spot.

“However, my boss assures me I have a job whenever I want to return.”

“I’m glad to hear that. You’re good at what you do.”

His compliment gave her a warm, tingly feeling. “So you’ve seen me on the air?”

He smiled then—a wonderful smile that turned the tingle into a shiver of pleasure. “I doubt there’s anyone in this area who hasn’t. You look like you were born to sit in that chair.”

“I guess it’s really a dream come true. As a child, I always wanted to work in television. I just never thought it would happen.”