Rhythm and Bluegrass (9 page)

“Really, that’s how I should make connections with the community?” I scoffed. “Being your fake girlfriend?”

“Hey, I never said ‘girlfriend.’”

“You have pretend commitment issues, surprise, surprise,” I said drily.

“I’m just saying, you leaving like that made me feel weird,” he said, his tone a bit more serious. “Like I’d hurt you or you were scared of me or something. I didn’t like it.”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. “I just needed to get back to the city and regroup, get some more clothes. I’ll be back soon.”

“Be sure you do,” he said, clearing his throat. “Joe Bob, he worries about you.”

I chuckled. “Joe Bob, huh?”

“Mmmhmm. Not me, of course.”

“Fibber.”

I ended the call and drifted back to sleep. Eventually Kelsey woke me to say that Darrell was staying at a friend’s, so it was safe for me to come out of the guest room. Though she was supposed to be helping Sadie at some historical reenactment, Kelsey took a personal day—something she never did during the busy summer season, so clearly, I was more disheveled than I thought. After gathering a few days’ worth of my “second-tier” clothes, plus my backup reading glasses and some toiletries, I let Kelsey drag me to Sweet Eats, a bakery in Frankfort’s historical district. Sweet Eats was known for cookies the size of dinner plates and cupcakes filled with mysterious and wonderful concoctions of liquor, cream, and jam. Al McKinney, the owner, was like Willy Wonka without the political Oompa-Loompa metaphors. Or you know, the children maimed in industrial accidents.

“You are the only person I know who has a problem with
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
,” Kelsey informed me as we entered the fragrant, cozy shop with its low white tables and deep-cushioned pink-and-green chairs. I was wearing a yellow sundress that Kelsey had coerced me to buy from a secondhand shop and pretty white sandals, which had helped my outlook a little.

“That can’t possibly be true,” I said, asking Al for a softball-size chocolate cupcake covered in toasted marshmallow and coconut.

“Wow, a Mississippi Mud Mountain?” Kelsey winced as I sliced my selection in half, revealing the marshmallow center inside dense chocolate cake. I had already eaten the toasted marshmallow topping. “This must be serious.”

I glanced down at her dessert, one of Al’s low-cal key lime tarts. They were Al’s, so they were still tasty, but they were tiny and they just didn’t leave you with that happy, accomplished feeling that finishing one of his cupcakes did. I didn’t have to ask to know that either Darrell or her mother had made some crack about Kelsey’s weight in the past twenty-four hours. Kelsey only turned to diet food when one of them tried to convince her that her bombshell figure was something she should “work on.”

“Apparently I jiggled a little too much the last time we were in bed,” she said, before I could so much as raise an eyebrow. “He said it was distracting. I mean, he’s the only one that sees me naked, so he does have some vested interest in what I weigh.”

“Did you hear the words that just came out of your mouth? Why are you doing this to yourself? I don’t get it. If this was any other guy, you would have told him to suck one of the many objects in your insult repertoire, and maybe burned some of his stuff in your yard.”

“Who else is going— I mean, I haven’t exactly been raking in the male attention lately.”

“Is that what he tells you?” I hissed quietly. As angry as I was, I wasn’t about to embarrass Kelsey by letting one of the other customers hear our conversation.

Kelsey poked at her tart with her fork. “Not him.”

“Your mother? You know what I think of your mother.”

“It’s not worth breaking up with him. When I do, my mom freaks out and e-mails me all these articles about rising rates of spinsterhood and ticking clocks and tells me how I’m not getting any younger. And how I haven’t exactly been careful with my appearance, so how am I expecting to find someone better?”

Someone better immediately came to mind. Charlie Bennett, the KCT’s resident genius statistician, was a math prodigy with several doctorates from perfectly respectable schools and for some reason had eschewed legitimate academia to design, distribute, and decipher surveys on Kentucky tourism. Kelsey had been secretly, achingly, head-over-heels in love with him for two years.

Aside from his enormous intellectual endowment, Charlie was lean and sleek with a smile that verged on naughty on the rare occasions we saw it. Charlie seemed curious about the rest of us, but unsure how to join in our wacky antics. Kelsey usually translated office conversations into nerd-speak and vice versa. And in return, he brought her fancy coffee at least two days a week.

I had tried to talk Kelsey into admitting her feelings for Charlie I don’t know how many times, but she was so afraid of losing the friendship she had with him that she wouldn’t even flirt with him. And Sadie told me once that without a large billboard directly outside his bedroom window, Charlie would never realize that Kelsey liked him. So she stayed with a man who loafed at home all day playing Guild of Dominion while Kelsey worked her butt off to support both of them.

“I know that Darrell is not a great boyfriend,” she mumbled. “But it’s not like he hits me or anything.”

“That’s our standard now?” I demanded. “He’s never gone all Ike Turner on you, so he’s okay?”

“There are more contemporary domestic violence references, you know,” she said, completely ignoring my observation. “I think you’re spending too much time doing your musical history research.”

“Don’t change the subject . . . even though you’re probably right,” I said. “What I’m saying is that if you waste your time with Darrell, you’re not going to be open and available when you do meet someone who deserves you. Someone nice and sensitive, who loves animals and recycles and holds your hand during the scary parts in movies and has current car insurance.”

“I don’t want to meet him. He sounds like a weenie.”

“He does,” I grumped. “But that doesn’t change the fact that Darrell doesn’t deserve to lick the bottoms of your shoes.”

“Eh, he’s not into the kinky stuff anyway,” she said blithely.

As I twitched in horror at the mental images that brought up, Kelsey asked, “So what’s going on with you?”

“The weather hates me. It knocked my rental trailer over on its side last night, so I won’t be able to get to my stuff for a couple of days. Also, as you know, I have nowhere to live. And I have a feeling that once people figure out what I have planned with the museum, there’s no one in town I would trust enough to let me stay with them without them shaving my head while I sleep.”

“Yikes. So what do you plan on doing?”

“I plan on taking up drinking. Not professionally or anything. Just enthusiastically,” I said.

Kelsey rolled her eyes and tossed a napkin at me, which I used to wipe chocolate frosting off my upper lip.

“So your overall problem isn’t the building, it’s the location, right?”

I frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the locals don’t care what you do with the building. They just don’t want it to get in the way of the plant. And the people who want to build the plant will only do it if they can get that location. Quonset huts are basically one big piece, right? They can be moved. I mean, we’ve seen hundred-year-old log homes get moved from one place to another. Surely we can kick a big tin can around.”

“But not without considerable expense and a specialized contractor to get it done without damage to the building. And I don’t have that sort of money. I certainly can’t go to my sponsors and say, ‘Hey, I know you’re already giving me an indecent amount of cash, but can you pony up a little bit more to bail me out of a jam of my own making?’”

Kelsey shrugged. “So go to ComfyCheeks and ask them for the money to move the building. And since our office has contact information for most of the transport specialists who would be qualified to move the music hall, you could probably get a pretty good discount.”

And in that moment, I was reminded why Kelsey had not only kept but flourished in her position at the KCT, despite her questionable verbal filters and occasional threatening of interns. She was brilliant. I’d been so focused on the building, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees, so to speak. There was an empty lot right across the road from the original McBride’s site, some former family farm that had gone bankrupt. The only reason that ComfyCheeks wasn’t interested in that location was that it didn’t have the railroad access that the McBride’s lot did. Moving the building would be just a question of careful dismantling. Heck, half of the appeal of Quonset huts was that they could be assembled quickly without skilled labor. Surely taking them apart and moving them a few hundred yards wouldn’t be that much harder, right?

I leaned across the table and kissed Kelsey soundly on the cheek.

“Well, you just gave Al a thrill,” she muttered, glancing over the bakery display case to its grinning proprietor.

“You’re a genius and I love you,” I told her, grabbing my purse and scampering toward the bakery’s front door.

“Hey, where are you going?” she called. “You can’t just leave a Mississippi Mud Mountain half-eaten! We leave no cupcake behind!”

9

In Which I Earn a Scarlet Letter of My Very Own

I spent most of the drive back to Mud Creek rambling notes into my tape recorder. I’d found that scribbling notes on paper while driving tends to upset the other drivers.

Sweating profusely thanks to the wheezing, useless air conditioner, I made lists of tasks. I would need to check the availability of the lot across the street from McBride’s, and if it was unavailable or too costly, who to call for other lots that might suit. I reminded myself to measure the lot and the building to make sure I had the right specs ready, so I wouldn’t look like an idiot when I called the movers for estimates. And I listed all of the other information I would need before I could even think about approaching ComfyCheeks with a proposal.

I would have to keep this quiet, I told myself. If I gave any hint of Kelsey’s Hail Mary plan to anyone in town, miscommunications and misunderstandings might ensue that could bring said plan toppling about my ears. I could end up raising false hopes if it didn’t work out, which would damage my credibility with the townsfolk even more. Once all of the pieces were in place, I would present my complete plan to Will, hopefully with the enthusiastic cooperation of the good people at ComfyCheeks.

Apparently, in all of the excitement to get back to the music hall and start outlining logistics, I drove faster than was advisable in a rusted out, yellow-and-Bondo-colored VW bug, because Jenny Lee pulled me over as I rolled past the city limits.

“Speeding or endangering other drivers through the possible disintegration of my car?” I asked her as I rolled down my window, license in hand. Jenny Lee, looking fairly badass in her uniform and mirrored aviators, waved it away.

“Neither.” She chuckled, handing me a frosty-cold can of Barq’s Root Beer through the window. “Joe Bob warned me that your air conditioner would be on the fritz.”

“God bless Joe Bob.” I sighed, gulping down the cold soda as I climbed out of the car. It was actually cooler outside the car than it was inside, though the heat radiating from the blacktop provided a sweaty contrast.

“You are in an awful hurry to get back into town,” she noted, leaning against the FrankenBug.

“I may have rushed my return, considering I have no idea where I’m sleeping tonight,” I mused, wondering whether the hamburger counter at the music hall would be comfortable enough to double as a bed. “Threw myself right into a situation without thinking. Totally unlike me.”

She grinned at me. “Oh, no worries about that. I have strict instructions to take you to your new lodgings.”

“I can’t wait to find out where that will be,” I muttered into my can of soda.

“So, I hear you and Will are sleeping together,” she said, making me spray root beer all over her face.

“Clearly, it was your poise and graceful manners that drew him to you,” she added as she wiped the sticky fizz from her sunglasses.

“Why—what—why— Why would you say that?” I stammered.

“Well, Fred picked you up from your walk of shame at Will’s house the other morning,” she said. “And Fred’s wife, Nancy, has a big mouth. Word gets around.”

“There was no shame. We didn’t . . . shame,” I said, shaking my head.

“Good. I don’t think there should be any shame in two consenting adults doing the horizontal bop. But, in the interest of full disclosure, Will and I used to be a thing,” she told me. “A pretty serious thing.”

“I didn’t realize Will had ‘things’ with anybody.”

Jenny Lee shrugged. “He didn’t always. Could you please stop pacing? Look, we were engaged once upon a time,” she said. “Right after high school. I hurt him. Badly. I got a wild hair to leave town, go to college, find myself, all that bullshit.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Well, I assumed that Will wanted the same things, which just goes to prove what happens when you assume. And when I got into Ohio State, he was shocked and hurt that I wanted to leave. Like I wasn’t just leaving town, I was choosing to leave him. He proposed, thinking that would help, somehow. We tried to do the long-distance thing that fall, but it didn’t work out. I graduated with my criminal justice degree. I married my Roy. Will ended up changing his plans a little, but he never dated anyone seriously again. He ended up taking over the small repair business that belonged to his mom’s brother. And that was that.”

I drained the last of the soda from the can. “I’m having a really hard time understanding what this has to do with me.”

“My point is that I still care for Will, a lot. I want him to be happy. And if you’re just planning to pull up stakes and take off the minute your project is finished, you should leave Will alone. He doesn’t show it, but gettin’ left hurts him. And if you do hurt him, I will destroy you and everything you ever loved, slowly, deliberately, and with relish.”

I pursed my lips and nodded. “I understand. I can appreciate a healthy destructive urge just like the next girl. But again, I did not have sex with Will.”

“Well, you’re going to have a hard time convincing any adult in Mud Creek with full hearing capacity otherwise.”

I thunked my head back against the car. “I’m going to have to sew a big red A on all of my clothes.”

Jenny Lee shoved my slutty behind in my car and led me to a house hidden behind a cache of live oaks off Main Street. If she hadn’t led me to it, I never would have found it. The three-story Victorian was old but stately. It reminded me of a moldering wedding cake, faded white covered in a fine layer of grayish-green, like something from Miss Havisham’s bridal feast. Jenny helped me carry my spare bag to the porch, where a thin woman with broad shoulders and graying blond hair waited.

“Martha Smallwood, this is Bonnie Turkle.” Miss Martha was not pretty—more like formidable. She had even, handsome features not at all softened by the short, mannish haircut or the little beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. She wore an oversize denim button-up shirt over baggy khakis and men’s work boots. Her bifocals hung on a chain around her neck. She extended a bony hand to me and I shook it, wincing under the power of her iron grip.

“Bonnie Turkle, this is Miss Martha,” Jenny Lee said, adding, “your landlady.”

Miss Martha opened the door, her expression just a bit more sympathetic. “Jenny Lee called me about you. Will and his boys have done everything they can to set the trailer to rights, but the insurance companies only move so fast, you know.”

“I was hoping that you might have some other property I could rent?”

“Nope, they’re all taken, I’m afraid.” Miss Martha looked to Jenny Lee, confused. “You haven’t told her yet?”

Jenny Lee shook her head, looking sheepish.

Miss Martha snorted. “Well, don’t just stand there, letting out all the bought air.”

“What is she talking about?” I asked Jenny Lee.

“Will wanted to make sure you were in a safe, reputable location, and those are sort of few and far between in this town. So Miss Martha has generously agreed to let you live here in her house as a boarder.”

“What?” I yelped. “But, Miss Martha, you don’t even know me!”

“Eh.” Miss Martha took my bag from Jenny Lee without the wincing or straining involved when I tried to lift it. “Your credit score and criminal check came back clear.”

“You ran a background check on me?” I gasped.

“Jenny Lee’s my niece. She owed me a favor.” She ushered us both into an old-fashioned parlor with a fireplace, mauve velvet settees, and a massive sewing machine in the corner. One entire wall was covered in a carefully stacked rainbow of fabric bolts. Miss Martha appeared to be a very organized textile hoarder.

I turned on Jenny Lee. “I thought we were friends.”

“She’s blood,” Jenny Lee said quietly. “And she got me out of hosting Thanksgiving last year. I did owe her. Oh, speaking of which, I’ll be right back.” With that, Jenny Lee jogged back to her cruiser and began fishing around in the backseat.

“You’ll have an upstairs bedroom and an attached bath all to yourself,” Miss Martha told me.

“Well, as long as the house is right side up, I can’t really complain,” I said, making Miss Martha snort.

Jenny Lee emerged from her squad car with a laundry basket stuffed with towels, socks, Mud Creek Mustangs sweatshirts, laundry detergent, a spare toothbrush, and other toiletries. “Florence down at the Dinner Bell put this together for you. A couple of the customers chipped in what they could.”

“Really?” I cried, squeezing the basket to my chest.

“Well, you were the only one in town to get waylaid by the storm,” she said.

I pressed my cheek against one of the secondhand towels, which smelled pleasantly like spring meadow fabric softener. I blinked back the moisture that was gathering in the corners of my eyes.

“Are you crying on me already, girlie?” Miss Martha demanded.

“No,” I sniffled, wiping at my eyes. I patted the towel back into place in the basket. It was such a nice gesture. It was so sweet that people who were struggling to get by themselves were sharing what they had. I felt welcomed, like I was a part of Mud Creek. Even if I was bouncing around town like a Ping-Pong ball, I might actually be able to call it home for a while.

“Well, you’re a little thin-skinned, but I could use the company and someone who can climb a footstool without ending up calling the ambulance. And it will be nice having someone in the house to talk to. I never did have the patience for a cat.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “So I’m your surrogate cat in this scenario?”

“Take the victory while you can, sweetie.”

Grunting, I dragged the fallen tree limb across the gravel parking lot of McBride’s. Well, I tried to, but with my pitiful upper body strength, it was more tugging uselessly and stomping my feet. Normally I would have left this sort of thing to burly workmen, but the limb was blocking the side entrance. I figured I would need that door eventually.

My head turned as Will’s old truck crunched over the gravel and slid to a stop right in front of me. His official duties helping the townsfolk recover from the storm had kept me from seeing him in the two days since my midmorning walk of undeserved shame.

“Will.” I sighed as the truck door opened. “Thank goodness. I have the upper body strength of a T. rex. I need your manly arms.”

It took me a few seconds to recognize that the usual boyish charm was all but gone from Will’s expression as he slammed his truck door. Without preamble, he said, “I got a very interesting phone call this morning, from the manager over at Mud Creek Savings and Loan. Apparently the National Parks Service has requested a review of the deed to the music hall because it’s being considered for designation as a historic landmark.”

Even though my stomach seemed to be dropping through my feet, all I could think was,
Wow, when a park ranger says she’ll fast-track something, she doesn’t kid around.

But what I said was, “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure it was going to go through.”

“So you were just going to let me go on with my silly little plans to invite a major manufacturer here to create the jobs needed to save my town. Do you have any idea what this does to my credibility with the people at ComfyCheeks? Or any other manufacturer who’s going to hear this when it gets around?” he demanded as I peeled off my work gloves and led him inside the music hall. “You were only here because you were going to clean out a bunch of old junk. And now you want the whole building? Why?”

“It’s going to be a museum,” I told him, showing him a copy of the floor plan I’d come up with for the exhibits. “And it’s going to be a great one. My handwriting analyst confirmed that those lyrics were written by Louis Gray. It’s highly likely that he wrote the original draft for ‘Lurlene, Lurlene’ while he was playing here. This building will be a time capsule containing some of the great musical moments in our history, including the composition of one of the most beautiful, poignant pieces of music in the American songbook. This place deserves to be saved for other people to enjoy, Will! It would be a terrible
waste
to just tear it down. I know you’re upset with me, but I don’t see how we’re on different teams here. All I want to do is preserve a little bit of your history. How can you protect your town and not care about your own family identity?”