Page 13 of Held-
The mayor's face turns an impressive shade of crimson, making the veins in his neck bulge like he's about to have an aneurysm right here in front of the pumpkin spice muffins. His little posse of golf buddies shifts uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in their coffee cups.
“Our family supports many worthy causes,” he says stiffly. “We simply chose to redirect our generosity this year.”
“Right. To 'worthy causes' that don't involve my father’s church. I guess that explains why none of your closest friend donated either or that Mr. Miller at the grocery store suddenly changed his mind on his food box donations. You know, the donations his family has made since the store opened in the 1950s.”
I don't know what I expected to happen when I challenged him, but it wasn't this. His face goes from red to white to red again, like a patriotic mood ring.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he sputters, but the guilt written across his face says otherwise. He absolutely did strong-arm his cronies into pulling their donations.
“Don’t I?” I take another step forward, and he actually steps back. “Because it seems awfully coincidental that every single business owner in your golf foursome suddenly developed amnesia about their usual Christmas donations.”
The silence stretches like a rubber band about to snap. I can feel the weight of everyone’s stares, can practically hear them composing their texts to spread this juicy gossip. But for once, I don’t care. I’m so tired of being the victim in everyone else’s story.
“It’s sad, really, that children are paying the price all because I divorced your cheater of a son.”
“How dare you,” he hisses, stepping closer. “My son made one mistake?—”
“One?” I laugh, the sound sharper than I intend. “I stopped counting after his secretary. But please, enlighten me about this mythical ‘one mistake.’”
Someone in the back of the café snickers. Kincaid’s gaze darts around, suddenly aware of our audience. Nothing travels faster in San Salona than gossip served with a side of public humiliation.
“This is hardly the place to air your marital grievances. Though I suppose discretion was never your strong suit.”
“Maybe you should have taught your son how to be discreet. Seems the lack of discretion may run in your family, Richard.”
The mayor's face twitches, and I know I've hit a nerve. Rumors about his own affairs have circulated for years, though no one dares mention them aloud. Until now.
“You little—” He catches himself, aware of the audience hanging on his every word. “I've always thought Thomas failed as a father, letting his daughter grow up with such a loose grasp of Christian values. Now I see I was right.”
“At least my father taught me that charity isn't a weapon to hurt people with.”
“No, he just taught you to welcome criminals into your church,” he shoots back, disdain dripping from every word. “Those…bikers are nothing but trouble. Drug dealers, thugs?—”
“Those ‘thugs’ did more for the children in this community yesterday than you’ve done all month,” I cut in, steady despite the tremor in my limbs. “Maybe you should ask yourself what that says about your Christian values.”
The café falls into a hush so complete you could hear a sugar packet hit the floor. Everyone here is watching the mayor of San Salona get called out. This will be all over town before lunch.
“I don’t have to justify myself to you. The church board will hear about this,” Kincaid snaps at last, anger making his hands tremble. “About your father’s poor judgment in accepting donations from criminals, and about your…outburst here today.”
“Good,” I say, surprised by how steady I sound. “I’ll be there to tell the truth, not whatever political spin you try to sell. Bring your popcorn, Richard—I plan to put your ‘generosity’ on full display.”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. For once, I’ve left Richard Kincaid without a ready retort. It should feel more satisfying.
“Cece Montgomery, I swear to God—” the mayor manages at last, but it’s too late. I’ve already turned toward the counter.
“Two large coffees, black, and whatever pastry hasn’t been contaminated by the mayor’s hot air,” I tell the barista. Her face goes blank with wide surprise. She nods and hustles off.
My hands are shaking, adrenaline skittering through me like lightning. I can’t believe I just did that. In public. With witnesses. My father is going to kill me.
“You’ll regret this,” Kincaid hisses behind me, the threat low and meant only for me. “Your father’s position isn’t as secure as you think.”
I don't turn around. “Neither is your next run for mayor. Family scandals and all. Oh, the family secrets I could tell, Richard.”
The collective gasp from the café patrons tells me my parting shot hit its mark. I shouldn't feel so satisfied, but damn if I don't. Years of playing nice, of turning the other cheek—it feels good to finally bite back.
The barista slides my order across the counter, her expression a mixture of terror and admiration. “On the house,” she whispers.
“No, I insist on paying.” I make a show of placing a twenty in the tip jar, then grab my coffee and head for the door.