by Tawna Fenske
Gabe blinks. “You know all of this?”
“I know everything.” Not always, but ever since my personal life took a big nosedive, I’ve made it my business to foresee all possible landmines. Fool me once and all that.
“Anyway,” my brother continues, “she completed our Community Compatibility Questionnaire.” He pauses here and smiles at Mari. “Nice job on that, by the way.”
My sister nods. “Glad to know the psych doctorate is useful to you,” she says dryly.
I give them the universal hurry up hand signal, my duty as the eldest brother. “You were saying?”
Gabe swings his focus back to me. “Vanessa’s answers in the personal information section were really interesting. Under ‘level of interest in finding a spouse or mate,’ she chose negative three.”
I frown at Mari. “I thought it was a scale of one to ten?”
“It was,” she says. “Ms. Vincent somehow found a way to alter the online questionnaire to insert a new answer.”
Noteworthy. Noteworthy and…interesting.
“The rest of her responses were the same,” Gabe continues. “Under ‘I see myself getting married in the next five years,’ she went with negative six.”
Mari clears her throat. “There’s also a write-in answer with that one. It reads, and I quote, ‘roughly the same as the odds I will wake tomorrow with an overwhelming urge to drive a flaming fork through my eyeball.’”
“I see.” I already liked Ms. Vincent’s resumé, but this is giving me a new dimension.
A dimension I relate to on a primal level. The CFO will be my closest working colleague at Juniper Ridge. While a part of this social experiment hinges on participants pairing up, the opposite is vital for me.
“Thank you for the information,” I tell them. “I’ll take it into consideration.”
Gabe glances at his watch and stands up. “Gotta go. Lauren and I are filming B-roll over in the residences.”
Mari follows, her bun flopping slightly to one side. “Good luck with the interview,” she tells me. “Call us when you’re done. I want to go over my proposal for the psych profiles of culinary community members.”
“No crazy chefs,” I tell her. “Or bakers. Or—”
“Yeah, thanks.” Mari rolls her eyes. “Without your input, I’d definitely put psychotic criminals in charge of our food supply.”
She’s out the door before I can retort, which is just as well. I didn’t have anything clever to say anyway. I glance at my watch and see there’s no time left for coffee.
Heaving myself out of my chair, I make my way down the hall and into the lobby. For a former cult compound, this place is pretty nice. Case in point, this lodge with its high ceilings and springy cork floors and enough offices for all six Judson offspring. There’s also an on-site film studio, which I’ll be keeping my distance from as much as possible.
Trudging into the waiting area, I’m struck by its lone occupant. Dark hair with just enough wave to leave it rippling around her shoulders as she taps away on a laptop. Slender curves, which I absolutely shouldn’t be noticing. I can’t see her eyes until she looks up and hits me square in the chest with the full force of liquid brown irises the color of warm cognac.
She shuts the laptop and shoves it in her bag on the chair beside her, then stands with a bright smile. “Hello.”
“Ms. Vincent, I presume?” My voice cracks only a little as I extend a hand and do my best to cover the fact that she’s knocked me off balance. “I’m Dean Judson, CEO. Thank you for waiting. Would you like coffee?”
“Absolutely.” She shakes my hand with a firm grip. “It’s great to finally meet you. My cousin told me so much about you.”
“That would be—Jonathan.” I met him when I first came to Oregon to rescue my brother from himself. Since Gabe wound up marrying into Jon’s family, I can’t claim much credit for how great my brother’s doing.
“I’m glad you brought that up, actually,” I tell Vanessa. “The fact that you’re here—it has nothing to do with any family connection. Your credentials were simply impeccable.”
“Impeccable, huh?” She grins and slings a gigantic purse over her shoulder in a cross-body style. I keep my eyes locked on her face, unaffected by the sight of the strap pressing a soft path between her breasts.
“Impeccable,” I repeat. “Former accounting manager for America’s second-largest television network. Treasurer and CFO for a Silicon Valley startup.” I take a step back, intent on keeping a professional distance between us. “In your last role, you raised more than $50 million in venture capital for a company devoted to establishing sustainable farming practices in third-world countries.”
Vanessa gives a low whistle. “You did your homework. Some of that wasn’t even on my resumé.”
“I believe in being thorough.” There’s an understatement. “Come on. Coffeemaker’s this way.”
I lead her into the breakroom, hoping like hell one of my siblings was kind enough to brew some.
No dice. Lana didn’t even wash her mug that says, “I’m actually not funny. I’m just mean and people think I’m joking.”
I rinse it and set it in the drying rack before rummaging in the back of a lower cupboard for my favorite mug. I’ve had it twelve years and keep it tucked away so it doesn’t end up lost or broken or nabbed by one of my five siblings. Turning to face the coffeemaker, I assess the task at hand. Christ, this thing has more buttons than my HP 12C Platinum accounting calculator.
But if I can mastermind a decade of Hollywood’s biggest real estate deals and filmmaker financing, I can make a simple cup of coffee. I punch a few levers and yank at something that spurts a sharp hiss of steam. Finally locating the part that holds coffee grounds, I dump the soggy ones in the trash and hunt for a new filter.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” I ask.
“Not at all.” Vanessa leans back against the counter to watch me work. “The directions you sent were spot on. This is definitely in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s by design, I suppose.”
“No joke,” she says. “The BONK founders wanted their privacy.”
One of the few things to admire about the former members of the Benevolent Order of the New Kingdom, the former cult that built this place.
I stare into the vessel where the coffee grounds go. How much do I put in here? I could check the filter I just tossed, but it seems in poor taste to paw through the trash with a prospective job candidate watching. And she is watching; I can feel her eyes on me.
“Need help?” she asks cheerfully. “I’ve got some pour-over coffee packs in my purse. Sugar and creamer, too.”
“Nope, I’ve got it.” Noteworthy about the coffee, though. Well-prepared accountants are a plus.
Dragging a flowered tin from the back of the cupboard, I pry off the lid. Coffee grounds. I settle for eyeballing it, dumping in a hefty pile into the fresh filter before slamming the trap door shut. Now where does the water go?
Glancing at Vanessa, I decide to get the interview started. “I assume you’ve been briefed on the concept of Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge.”
I cross my fingers she hasn’t caught on that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Not with the coffee, anyway. I’ve got a handle on the rest.
“Of course,” she says. “Reality television show centered around a thoughtfully planned, self-contained community.” She’s reciting straight from our website, and I admire that. I admire it a lot. “You’re bringing in a diverse group of individuals representing a variety of professions, backgrounds, and lifestyles, and setting the stage for them to create a completely sustainable microcosm of society.”
“Correct.” Seriously, where does the water go? I yank at a lever and end up unplugging the machine. “It’s part social experiment, part entertainment, part a chance to resurrect a piece of property with some questionable history.”
“BONK was certainly one of the more—colorful cults.”
I appreciate that she’s being tactful, but it’s not necessary. “You mean the part where they believed their leader was the progeny of an extraterrestrial prophet and Charlie Sheen, or the part where they touted mass orgies as a means of growing the roster?”
She laughs. “All of it. I take it you won’t be shying away from that history?”
“Might as well let viewers learn from others’ missteps so they’re not doomed to repeat them.”
From the corner of my eye, I see her stiffen. When I look up, she’s dropped her shoulders again. Or maybe I imagined the whole thing.
Turning back to the coffeemaker, I pry off a piece that turns out to be the water chamber. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“The BONK founders created one hell of an impressive town, so we’re just giving it new legs.” Belatedly, I realize I’ve just cursed at a job candidate. But if cursing offends her, she’s unlikely to fit the Juniper Ridge family. Maybe it’s a job test.
Or maybe she’s the one testing me, waiting to see how badly I’ll screw up the coffee thing before I ask for help. I can’t tell from her face if she’s judging. Her expression’s impassive, patient, even serene.
Damn, she’s beautiful.
If I weren’t dead inside, I might notice things like that.
“It’s a clever concept,” Vanessa says, jarring me back to the fact that we’re in job interview mode, even though we haven’t made it to my office. “And financially speaking, there’s high potential for revenue. The files you sent on advertisers who’ve committed—I took the liberty of setting up some spreadsheets, which I’d be happy to show you.”
“That—that would be great.” I glance at her, braced for the coquettish smile I’ve gotten from dozens of social climbing show biz types. The ‘show me your private office,’ or ‘Let me prove how much I want this job.’
But Vanessa’s slipping a pair of glasses out of her purse and setting up her laptop on the breakroom table. As the coffee starts to perk, she opens up Excel and dives right into the numbers.
“In this table here, I’ve factored in the living costs for each member of the cast.” She glances up and lifts a brow. “Are you calling them cast members or residents or what?”
“Community members.” A little dumbfounded, I drop into the seat beside her. “You already started running numbers?”
“I emailed the hiring manger to request some data—Marilyn?”
“Mari.” Who, of course, failed to mention this. “Go on.”
“Anyway, this takes into account the economic contributions of each community member—for instance, farmers, chefs, grocers—everyone who represents the food supply is shown in this column, while those who contribute to safety—police and fire, for example—are represented here on the grid.”
I listen to her rattle off numbers, staggered by how much she’s put into this. We had two other candidates make it to this round, and neither took it this far. I listen with rapt attention, impressed she’s thought of aspects of this that my five siblings and I hadn’t considered in months of planning.
“I’d be happy to email this to you if you’d like a closer look.” She smiles and glances at the coffeemaker. “Smells like that’s ready. Want me to get it?”
“Definitely not.” I jump up like my chair’s on fire and hurry to grab mugs. “If we were to offer you the CFO position, I’d want to be clear you’re not my assistant. You and I would be partners on the business side of this operation.”
She nods and tucks a shock of hair behind one ear. “And your siblings—they’re mostly on the production side?” She accepts the mug I hand her, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic instead of grabbing the handle. “I find the whole dynamic fascinating.”
“Yeah, Gabe’s directing, working with our sister, Lauren. She’s the producer.” I blow on my coffee, conscious of an odd sting in my nostrils. “There’s also Mari—Marilyn—she’s a psychologist. The social component was her brainchild.”
“And Lana.” Vanessa twists the mug in her hands but doesn’t take a sip. “Public relations, right?”
“Yep, and then Cooper. An actor, though he’ll be taking a different role with this endeavor.”
I wait for her to ask about Coop. Most people pry for gossip about the Judson family hellraiser, but Vanessa doesn’t go there.
“You have a lot of talent in one family.” She lifts her mug in a mock toast, then raises it to her lips.
The instant she sips, her brown eyes bulge. “Holy shit!” She sputters into the mug, spraying coffee as she jumps from her chair. “Did you brew napalm?”
I take a sip from my own mug and choke. “My God. It’s like battery acid.”
She’s wiping her tongue with a paper towel, gagging as she does it. “I thought you went heavy on the grounds, but this is like drinking tar.”
Handing me the roll of paper towels, she bends to rinse her mouth in the sink. Swishing and spitting, she coughs as she edges sideways to make room for me.
“Sorry,” I mutter, scraping my tongue with my teeth. “It’s—uh—my first time making coffee.”
“I kinda guessed by watching you,” she says. “But this is beyond awful.”
I finish gulping water from the tap and stand to face her. Water dribbles down my chin, and this is so far from the interview I imagined that there’s no point in saving it. “You knew I was screwing it up, but you didn’t say so?”
She folds her arms over her chest and stares me down. “It’s not my style to micromanage. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt that you had a different way of doing things.”
“And that I wasn’t trying to kill you?” I shake my head, feeling like an asshole. “I really am sorry.”
“Don’t mention it. What kind of coffee is that, anyway?”
I open the cupboard and pull out the flowery tin. “Jovan’s Special Blend,” I read off the label.
“Jovan?” She frowns. “The cult leader? Weren’t they raided like two years ago?”
I sniff the contents of the canister. “What does tear gas smell like?”
Vanessa grimaces and dumps the contents of her mug down the sink. “I think I’ll skip the coffee, thanks.”
“Good thinking.” I start to chuck the whole canister, then stop. “Maybe I should have this tested.”
She sniffs the contents and shrugs. “It smells like coffee. Really bad, really old coffee, but still coffee.”
I smell it myself, and she’s right. So maybe it’s a case of user error.
“Come on.” I put the lid back on and set the canister on the counter. “There’s a coffee shop on the other side of the compound. It’s not fully operational yet, but at least the coffee is drinkable.”
Vanessa cocks her head. “Does this mean we’re continuing the interview?”
She’s already hired as far as I’m concerned, but yeah. I should do my due diligence. Failing to do that has burned me before, and no way am I repeating that.
A chill snakes down my arms, and I wonder if she feels it. The way she’s looking at me is so intense, so intimate, that it stalls the breath in my lungs.
Vanessa takes a step back. “I should tell you up front that I’m here for a fresh start,” she says. “I’ve had bad luck in the past mixing business and—and—not business, so this role would be purely professional for me.”
I stare at her as my subconscious jumps up and down yelling.
You’re hired. You’re so fucking hired.
But I’ve learned not to listen to that asshole.
Clearing my throat, I turn toward the door. “Let’s get that coffee.”
***
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ef Sugarlips
AMBER
“Picture a bunch of twinkle lights in those rafters, and the hay bales over there would be the edge of the dance floor.”
I deliver my most charming smile to the bride and groom before zeroing in on the mother of the bride. She beams like I’ve handed her a puppy and a vodka-laced Frappuccino, and I’m positive I am currently her favorite person in this barn.
I have that effect on moms.
But it’s the bride who needs convincing, so I turn back to her. Julia’s blonde hair is arranged in a stylishly messy French twist, and her outfit is classic college-girl-approaching-the-threshold-of-real-life. I want to ask where she found her vintage Coach bag, but now’s not the time.
“Did you get the Pinterest page I sent with those flowers in mason jars?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says slowly, glancing around like she expects a farm animal ambush. “They’d be pretty with rose gold ribbon.”
“Absolutely.” I flick a hand toward the imaginary tables. “Picture them with little stargazer lilies. Or maybe early-season tulips. Those should be available this time of year.”
Julia’s blue eyes continue a survey of the space, and I know she’s seeing it in her mind.
The rustic wine barrels spilling with wildflowers.
The cute chalkboard signs pointing people to her guest book.
The train of her gown gliding through a pile of fresh reindeer droppings.
The beast responsible for the droppings snorts and rubs her branchlike antlers on a post.
“Tammy won’t be invited to your ceremony,” I assure the bride and groom. “We keep the reindeer penned up during weddings.”
Tammy the reindeer stamps a hoof and keeps banging her antlers on the post. She’s due to lose them any day now, and I say a silent prayer it won’t happen in the next five minutes.
“It’s totally fine, honey,” the mother of the bride assures me. “The whole point of doing a rustic, country-style wedding is having some flavor.”
