by Ellen Riggs
“I don’t know what any of this means,” Evie said, “but it’s just a matter of time till I find out. I’ve contacted every friend in film and media.” There was a pause as her phone pinged. “Hang on. Oh. Oh no.”
A big pile of fries flipflopped in my gut. “Oh no what?”
“Someone’s already stolen your thunder,” she said. “A mid-sized network is doing a reality show about a former executive who runs a hobby farm and inn. They’re shooting some scenes on location in Clover Grove.”
I let out a strangled squawk that startled a senior citizen. I reached out just in time to stop her from falling and it felt like we were waltzing for a second. My phone hit the icy pavement and the woman accidentally kicked it a few yards. I could hear Evie yelling, “Ivy? Ivy! Are you okay?” Her words were muffled by Keats’ mouth as he retrieved the phone and carried it back.
The woman not only ignored my apology but also gave me a dirty look before going on her way. As if I’d choose to hug a grumpy stranger on Main Street.
I took the phone from Keats and rubbed the saliva off with one glove before holding it to my ear.
“I’m here. I’m fine. Mostly.” Pushing my hat out of my eyes, I said, “Tell me more about this reality show.”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“I don’t want to know, but I need to know. If they’re prying into my life.”
“Well, the show’s working title is ‘Faraway Farm.’ My friend sent a graphic and the ‘m’ is falling off the sign.”
The old iron sign over my lane read “Runaway Far” because the “m” had long since rusted out.
“Are you kidding me? They’re copying my life? They didn’t even ask me. Don’t I get a say?”
I didn’t need to see her head shaking to know it was happening. “They’ll say any resemblance is pure coincidence. Or that the show is inspired by you and Hannah and others. City girls who bite off more than they can chew with a farm.”
“I was born and raised in Clover Grove, remember.”
“Then maybe they’ll position it as a homecoming homesteader,” she said. “I don’t have all the details yet.”
“This is ridiculous. I’ll sue them.” Keats and I crossed at the last corner and I deliberately slowed to finish the conversation before reaching my destination. “Do you have a good lawyer?”
“Sure, but they’ll say shows like these are experts at avoiding litigation. They’ll say that ideas can’t be copyrighted. That it was in the zeitgeist, which I told you.”
I plucked off my hat and threw it at a parking meter. “They’ve practically stolen the farm’s name, and they’re asking about what I eat and wear. Isn’t that proof it’s about me? What if they start asking about my other activities?”
“Of the crimefighting variety?” Evie asked. “They’d be walking on very thin ice. Kellan would put a stop to that.”
“Can’t you do something, Evie?” Keats brought back my hat, too. He held onto it long enough to infuse me with calm from his warm brown eye.
“All I can do is keep the lines of communication open with my contacts and gather information. You know Cori is going to freak when she hears this. The last thing anyone needs is a camera crew popping up expectedly.” Evie laughed lightly. “Unless I’m directing of course.”
Cori Hogan shared leadership of the Rescue Mafia with Bridget Linsmore and they were no strangers to lawbreaking when it came to saving animals. They were already cautious about coming to the farm because of Kellan and Asher, although a reciprocal exchange of incriminating information had thawed what began as chilly antagonism.
“Is it too late?” I asked. “Could we take control of the message by staging our own show?”
I could sense her red curls shaking again at the other end. “They beat us to the punch, Ivy. We may just be hearing about it now but they’ve been working on it for months, I bet. Plus they have a big budget. I should have pitched you long ago but I was so sure you’d say no. And now someone’s stolen your thunder.”
“My thunder? They’ve stolen my life.” I looked down at Keats and sighed. “Probably wasn’t easy finding a border collie with one blue eye.”
Evie finally laughed. “They’ll just pop a contact lens onto any old dog. There’s nothing real about reality television.”
After saying goodbye and hanging up, I shook my head. “Did you hear that, buddy? Even you can be faked.”
I opened the door and he made a big show of rolling his blue eye at me as he passed. They could fake me, they could fake my farm, but we both knew they could never fake a dog like Keats.
Chapter Four
“Darling,” Mom said as I stepped into Bloomers, the unisex salon she ran with my sister, Iris. “I’ve called you half a dozen times.”
“Make that thirty,” I said, waving to Iris, who was behind the counter working on a laptop. “I reported you to the police for harassment.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” Mom said, starting to wipe down her red vinyl barbershop chair with disinfectant. “You still think you’re funny. It’s so strange with all that’s happened.” She tossed me a wry smile. “How many murders will it take?”
“Humor’s all that keeps me going sometimes. Aside from my manure pile.”
I didn’t bother unzipping my parka before collapsing into the other empty styling chair. Like the crime business, pampering dropped off in winter. On the whole, though, their joint venture was going well.
Mom straightened and rested one hand on the hip of her monogrammed Bloomers smock. “Please don’t go on about dung explosions when the cameras are rolling. The rest of the Galloways deserve better.”
“Our family name is already mud,” Iris said. “Oddly, it helps business. People come in to see if we’re as crazy as the rumors.”
“We’re not, are we, handsome?” Mom asked Keats as he pranced in front of her, white paws pumping. He didn’t court attention often but he had plenty of love to spare for the biggest thorn in my side. “Although I suppose a whiff of crazy makes for good TV.”
“How’d you hear about the show?” I asked. “Clients?”
“Jilly, of course,” Mom said, going back to her cleaning. When I was growing up she’d left all matters of hygiene to my eldest sister, Daisy. Now that she had her own business, Mom was always buffing and polishing like a guy with a collectible car. After all the jobs she’d cycled through, it was a relief to see her thriving. “She said you turned down Evie Springdale but people are talking about camera crews, so I assume you changed your mind. Sounds like you made the right decision even without my help.”
I used one boot to spin my chair and Mom bent over to mop up the water and salt I’d left behind. “I said no to Evie, but there’s another show coming to town. It’s called Faraway Farm and features a former executive turned hobby farmer. She cooks, too, according to Evie’s grapevine. Sounds like the star is Jilly and me rolled into one.”
Mom froze with her cloth on the floor and Iris stopped tapping the keyboard. The lull before the storm.
“Pardon me?” Mom shot out the comment as she stood up. Her eyes narrowed into hazel slits. “Are you saying this production is—?”
“Based on my life, apparently. Suddenly Hollywood has recognized the appeal of homesteading.”
“But that’s outrageous! How are they compensating you for this?”
“All I can hope for is that they leave me alone while they’re reimagining my life in a studio somewhere. I assume they’ll only show up for some exterior footage. The town’s already atwitter.”
“How are we the last to know?” Mom said.
Iris came around the counter. “Because people walk on eggshells around us. They never know when you’re going to blow up, Mom.”
“Blow up!” Mom directed her spray bottle at Iris. “I am the model of professionalism in this salon.”
I snorted. “You threatened someone with a straightedge razor in this salon, Mom.”
“Why is it you kids only
remember occasional misfires? I’ve done plenty right in my life, too. Like producing the original Ivy Rose Galloway. And if someone’s blatantly stealing your identity, you need to sue.”
It made more sense to let things go. To pretend it wasn’t happening. Protesting would only attract more attention.
“If they think farm life is so fascinating, they can knock themselves out,” I said, placing a still-snowy boot on her barbershop chair as a circuit-breaker. Mom’s loop would repeat endlessly, otherwise. She was like a flustered hen when she got going—pecking and flapping until she forgot the original cause. “Evie said they’ve cast a midlist actress as lead. If she has delusions of sweet country life, I guarantee it will not end well for her.”
Mom shoved my boot off her chair with enough force to make me slide off my own seat. I caught myself before my butt hit the footrest and ended up on the floor in the puddle she hadn’t finished mopping. Keats circled around me, mumbling anxiously.
“You okay?” Iris asked, coming over.
“Yeah yeah. I do worse all the time,” I said. “I’m fine, Keats. Why so worried?”
The dog was panting and it wasn’t the happy one. His ears flicked back and forth and then he went into a point just before the door opened. A cold wind hit me in the face and chilled the water beneath me.
Standing in the doorway was a tall woman backed by two men, each of whom had a camera resting on one shoulder. I stayed where I was. If I wanted to keep a low profile, it couldn’t get much lower than this.
“Hello, everyone,” the woman said. Her voice was rich and melodious. Professionally trained, no doubt. “I’m Vivian Crane. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“No,” we all said at once, and Keats added his voice to the chorus.
“Really?” Vivian sounded incredulous. “The Cupcake Millionaire? Find That Diamond?”
Mom spoke up. “Are those… stores?”
“TV shows.” A smaller woman stepped forward. She reminded me a bit of Cori Hogan, with short dark hair and a sporty Audrey Hepburn look. “I’m Becky Bower, Vivian’s producer. She has a huge following in the reality show space.”
“I don’t watch TV,” Mom said. “But welcome to Clover Grove. I’m Dahlia Galloway, and these are my daughters, Iris and Ivy.” She turned to me. “Get up, darling. We have guests.”
Mom stepped a little closer, taking Vivian’s measure. The actress was of similar vintage to Mom, with a shiny dark bob, striking blue eyes, and a very slim build. She was wearing a gorgeous purple coat, with a matching ruffled scarf, and heels to beat Mom at her best.
Stepping back again, Mom slithered out of her Bloomer’s smock. Under it, she was wearing a red knit dress and matching pumps. Somehow, despite the other woman’s glamor, my petite mother managed to rival her presence. But then, all the world was a stage for Dahlia Galloway.
“What can we do for you today, Vivian?” Iris asked. “Hair? Nails? Or just some product?”
“We have a wardrobe department,” Vivian said. “Such as it is. These shows never have a big enough budget, but I make do.”
“We’re here scouting locations for Vivian’s new show,” Becky said. “It’s called Faraway Farm.”
Mom made a choking sound and clutched her throat. It looked theatrical but sounded legit. “Is this the show we’ve been hearing about that’s modeled on Ivy’s life?” She gestured to me, still seated in the puddle with my arm now wrapped around Keats, who had the faintest hint of a growl rolling in his chest.
“Not at all,” Becky said, creating a human barrier in front of Vivian. “Although we enjoyed the videos of Ivy and the donkey singing Christmas carols.”
“Absolutely adorable,” Vivian said. “The network was looking for something fresh and charming, with a Hallmark feel to it. I’m known for my cooking, entertaining and décor, so it was a perfect fit.”
“A perfect fit?” Mom stood a little taller but fell far short of meeting Vivian eye to eye. “My daughter, whose life you’re stealing, is half your age.”
“Hardly,” Vivian said, evaluating me. “Rest assured, my character is a mix of all the happy homesteaders flooding social media. People crave simplicity and comfort in these difficult times.”
“Farming is far from simple,” I said, from my seat on the floor. “It’s the most complicated thing I’ve ever done. But maybe that’s just me.”
“Tell us more, Ivy,” Becky said. “In fact, we’d love to have you on board as a consultant. We don’t have a lot of farming experience.”
One of the cameramen snickered. “Make that none.”
He was tall and attractive if you liked the arty type, with a wisp of a goatee and a swoop of dark hair that kept falling in his eyes.
“Ray,” Becky said. “Enough. You too, Eric.”
Ray exchanged a look with Eric, who was at least a decade older and had probably worked in the sun too much. It was clear that they didn’t enjoy their place in the pecking order.
“Thanks, Becky, but I’m afraid I’ve got too much work on my hands as it is,” I said.
“We’d negotiate a fair fee,” Becky continued. “Enough to offset some of your problems on the farm.”
Keats mumbled something and I nodded. “How kind of you, but all is well at Runaway Farm. Lots of people will be thrilled, though. Your show will attract attention to our humble town. More power to you.”
Mom turned again and glared at me. “Get up and face these people right now. They’re stealing your life and selling it and you’re just sitting there clutching your dog like a teddy bear.”
I looked straight at Ray’s lens. “Mom gets a little riled when she’s defending her family.”
“Sometimes she even turns on the family,” Iris added.
Mom threw up her hands in disgust. “Ivy, speak up. Earlier you said, ‘If she wants to steal my sweet country life, I guarantee it will not end well for her.’”
“Mom!” I pushed myself up off the floor and initiated damage control. “All I said was that anyone with delusions of sweet country life might get a rude wake-up call. It’s mostly dirty, hard work. My day starts and ends with manure. Do they pay you enough, Vivian?”
“Oh, it won’t be like that for me,” she said. Her blue eyes were alight now that I was on my feet and providing the conflict Evie told me every show needed to keep viewers’ attention. “Nearly everything takes place in studio and we’ve done a lot of shooting already.”
Becky moved around Mom and beckoned the guys. I turned at the same time to keep my eyes on the camera.
“The props team is making over our exterior location here in town right now,” Vivian said. “We’ve leased a century-old farmhouse and they’re building a barn.”
“What house is that?” I asked, suspicion dawning. Keats’ ruff had come up and his ears flattened.
“It belonged to someone named Vinnie Swenson,” Becky said. “I believe you met recently.” She gave Ray a signal that was probably a request to zoom in on my reaction.
“Vinnie passed before I could meet him,” I said. “But I did inherit Bocelli, his wonderful donkey. The one you’ve seen online. And a miniature horse named Clippers. So I think rather fondly of Vinnie, despite the supposedly colorful life he led.”
“I do hope you’ll come for our launch party,” Vivian said. “And bring your chef. Billy Whitewater, I believe.”
“Jilly Blackwood,” I corrected. “I wish we could, but we’re so busy. Running a real farm and inn is nonstop work.”
Vivian started circling and I rotated, too. Now the camera crew managed to slip behind me.
“Is this the famous dog I’ve heard so much about?” Vivian asked.
“This is Keats. My sheepdog. Couldn’t run the farm without him.”
Normally he loved a compliment but he was spinning, too, trying to keep an eye on Vivian and the crew.
“It can’t be,” Vivian said, crouching to take a closer look at the dog. His ears were still back and he turned the full force of his eerie bl
ue eye on her. It didn’t faze the star one bit. She glanced up at Becky. “You got the wrong dog. Again. That beast is four times the size.”
“It’s a sheepdog,” Becky said. “Or so the breeder said.”
“There are lots of herding breeds,” I said. “Keats is a border collie.”
“Oh Becky, seriously,” Vivian said. “The dog is critical to the show. If you can’t get a simple thing like that right, how can I trust you for anything?”
Becky wilted. “We’ll get him a blue contact lens. It’ll be fine.”
“So then we’ll have a blue-eyed bear?” Vivian grumbled as they all headed for the door. “I’m surrounded by incompetents.”
Becky held the door for Vivian, who called back, “See you at the launch, Ivy. Mayor Martingale put you on the list. She’s been wonderful about all this, and the network is very pleased about the tax breaks.”
“I hope it goes well for you,” I called, directing a bright smile at Ray, who was already lowering his camera.
“Did you get the jeans?” Becky asked him as they left the salon.
“Oh, Ivy,” Mom said, as I tried to look over my shoulder. “It looks like you wet your pants. What will people think?”
“I’m tired of worrying about what people think.” I looked down at Keats and sighed. “See, I knew they couldn’t fake you, buddy.”
Chapter Five
In the parking lot at the late Vinnie Swenson’s place, Daisy, Iris and Violet orbited Mom as if she’d been named Planet Dahlia. Keeping her out of trouble at the launch of the Faraway Farm show was going to be a bigger challenge than pretending this whole situation didn’t annoy the heck out of me. I suspected Becky and her crew would be tailing me throughout the event for reaction shots. I’d even considered leaving Keats at home to deny them access. Our relationship was mostly private and completely magical—at least in the day-to-day sense of the word—and I didn’t want to share a single moment of his time. In the end, I couldn’t leave him behind because I needed help to play my role today. This would be one of my bigger tests since leaving Flordale Corp, where my talent for downsizing staff and destroying their lives had gained me the nickname “Grim Reaper.”
