by Molly Harper
“But you never found anyone else.”
She scoffed. “I didn’t want to. I’d had my happiness, which is more than some folks can say. And it’s more romantic this way, don’t you think? A fine gothic romance immortalized in song. And I’ve been able to watch Tommy grow up, have his family. I have more than enough honorary grandbabies to knit for. I never spend a holiday alone. I want for nothing.”
And suddenly, I was kicking myself in the butt for not recording this conversation.
“Is there a reason you never told anyone else about this?” I asked her.
“It was nobody’s business but mine,” she said. “And what sort of person would run around town screaming ‘It was me! It was me! I stomped Louis Gray’s little heart into dust!’ Not exactly the image of a responsible young librarian.”
“What about a responsible, mysterious, older librarian who owes me a favor?”
Miss Earlene narrowed her rheumy brown eyes at me. “What are you getting at, Bonnie?”
“Would you let me interview you?”
My Louis Gray display had taken a dramatic turn. With a video display looping Miss Earlene’s interview placed behind the Lucite shadow box framing the lyrics, it was a centerpiece of the museum. Miss Earlene hadn’t been excited about “coming out” as Lurlene, but she was cooperative, sharing sweet little details of her first flirtations with Louis. Theirs had been a fairly innocent romance, in terms of torrid musical love affairs. The day after he’d noticed Earlene at the music hall, he’d found out her address and brought daisies to her front door. They shared sweet, secret conversations on Earlene’s back porch in the hours before her mother returned home from work.
They’d had to hide their relationship from Big Earlene, who had downright puritanical standards when it came to her only daughter, because if Miss Earlene had a life, that meant no one would be around to keep the family afloat. Big Earlene would have gone ballistic at the thought of her daughter “whoring around” and forbidden her from seeing Louis again. At the very least, Miss Earlene was afraid her mother would have some sort of episode that would scare Louis away.
Keeping the relationship secret from Earlene’s mother meant keeping it secret from most of the people in town. The McBrides and Louis’s bandmates were aware of the amount of time they were spending together, but few others were. While shooting the interview, Miss Earlene dressed in that good pink church suit while sitting in one of the prettier corners of the library. The more questions I asked, the more Miss Earlene relaxed and the more stories she shared. Eventually, she began to enjoy the idea of her neighbors seeing this new Brontë-esque side of her.
As for my own sad love life, Will hadn’t had time to follow up on his “cold shower” comments, as he’d had to travel to a Kentucky League of Cities meeting in Louisville the following day. It was his first official act as mayor outside the town. Will had played it off as no big deal, but Brenda said he was pretty nervous about hobnobbing with city officials from other cities across Kentucky. He even packed his neckties, both of them.
I felt bad for Will, all alone in the big city, not really wanting to be so far from home. The first night he arrived at the Galt House Hotel, I was getting ready for bed and sent him a friendly You’ll be fine text, hoping that one, he wasn’t in possession of some giant Zack Morris phone that predated texting, and two, he wasn’t entertaining some cocktail waitress in his room. He texted back almost immediately, Should have let McGlory come. They have those portable chest shocker things now. He would have been okay.
I slid between my crisp white sheets, giggling as I texted back, That’s so wrong.
I plugged my phone into the charger and it immediately beeped. But you laughed. I can tell.
I laugh at cat videos on the Internet. Doesn’t mean they’re funny.
I appreciated the fact that he wasn’t using stupid abbreviated text-speak. At least he liked me enough to spell out full words. He wasn’t rushing through with emoticons and LMFAOs. But as much as I wanted to continue the conversation, I didn’t want to be the one to stretch it out. So I fluffed my pillow, wondering how the heck Miss Martha managed to get the sheets to smell like summers at my Gam-Gam’s house. My phone beeped from my nightstand. Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?
I smirked as I texted back. Who said I wasn’t?
There was a long pause before I received, That’s mean.
And then there was an even longer pause before I got, So what are you wearing?
I snorted. Really? “What are you wearing?” Too easy. It’s beneath you, Will.
Doesn’t mean I don’t want to know.
I was using my personal phone, but somehow I didn’t think sexting with the very public official who was set against my plans for the music hall was the best idea. So I ignored the question.
You not replying is giving me all kinds of leeway, imagination-wise, he texted a few seconds later. And that’s kind of evil.
I glanced down at my purple flannel pajama pants printed with Grateful Dead bears. They’d been washed so many times that the fabric was paper thin and soft as water. A teddy. Purple. I texted back.
I had time to read four pages before he texted back, Evil.
For the next few nights, the texting continued. Most of our discussions did not revolve around my pajamas. At first it was short little updates on what was happening in our respective locations. He wrote, Mayor from Belleville got kicked out of an Arby’s last night in a dispute over a Beef ’n Cheddar. I shot back, Sissie McNabb found Sammy in the arms of Carrie Ann Fuller at the Bowl-A-Rama. The automatic ball cleaner was put to creative, horrific use. And then he moved on to lament not being able to find Ale-8-One, a regional ginger ale specific to eastern Kentucky, as he tended to get cranky if he got overcaffeinated. And the last thing he needed was to get cranky while he schmoozed with city officials. So I told him about a gas station near his hotel that I knew carried Ale-8-One.
And when I couldn’t find anything to watch at midnight while I was finishing up copy for the engravers who would etch the plastic information tablets, Will recommended Dr. Mysterio’s All-Night Fright Fest on the local Fox affiliate. Dr. Mysterio was a local radio DJ with a penchant for awful monster movies from the 1950s. That night’s selection, The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy, was one of Will’s personal favorites, so he made valiant attempts to defend it, but it was still horrible.
It was a little strange that he didn’t call, but I sort of enjoyed the filter texting provided. I didn’t get embarrassed by the slight naughtiness and blabber out whatever verbal pyrotechnics came bubbling up. And I missed him. It was absolutely bizarre that I missed seeing someone who had teased me, berated me, and tattled on me to my boss. Not seeing him every day was sort of weird. It was like I missed the arguing, which was clearly a sign that I needed a new hobby or an ant farm or something.
The benefit of Will being gone was that I had time to get the museum ready for the sponsors’ visit and prep for my trip to Cedar Rapids. While the museum wasn’t entirely ready for public viewing, the renovations were complete, the display sets were going up, and the “Lurlene, Lurlene” exhibit was perfect. I was sure that alone would sell the sponsors.
And if it didn’t, I would talk in circles until they relented.
Joe Bob’s car just barely made it to the Walter County Regional Airport, and frankly, it felt like a waste to leave it in the paid parking lot. But I didn’t want to explain to Miss Martha or Jenny Lee what I was doing in Cedar Rapids. I’d told them I had a meeting with Sadie and Kelsey in Frankfort to take care of some last-minute details before the sponsor meeting.
I wheeled my little carry-on bag behind me, praying that I’d remembered all of the handouts and pictures and everything I would need to impress Mr. Roth. I’d also packed both a push-up bra and the red polka-dotted dress Kelsey called my “impressionable convent school teacher” outfit. Because you never knew.
I cleared security in less than ten minutes, because it was Walter County. There was one gate and I was one of five people on the flight to Nashville, which connected to another flight to Chicago, which connected to Cedar Rapids. And then I would do it all over again within twenty-four hours, so I could make it back in time for the sponsor visit on Saturday. It was the only day they could all make time in their schedules.
There was no bar in the airport, no Starbucks from which to get my fortifying preflight latte. Eventually the gate agent/security guard/luggage loader would call our flight and we’d walk out to the plane. I took out my phone and saw that I had a text from Will. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.
I grinned and typed back. Clearly.
I’ve been thinking about where we left off the night of the party. Finishing what we started.
I giggled. And before I could think it through, I was typing back. It’s negotiable.
So, I’ll see you tmrw when I get home, right?
Wow, he must be eager to spell “tomorrow” like that. Not for another few days, I told him. I’m on my way out of town now.
I didn’t know you could fit a Nooooooooooooo that long on a phone screen.
I hovered in the gray-carpeted hallway, watching the clock as the whopping fifteen-minute window Mr. Roth had scheduled for our meeting ticked by and closed.
This was such a bad idea, I told myself as I waited in Mr. Roth’s sleek, minimalist waiting area with its massive black-and-white art featuring boxers and briefs. If by some miracle I did manage to get into Roth’s office, there was no way he was going to listen to me. I should slink out of the building with my dignity intact before I got arrested for annoying a millionaire.
I almost left. My feet were actually pointed toward the elevator. But then I thought of Will. And Miss Martha, Jenny Lee, Miss Earlene, Fred, Joe Bob, and every other person in Mud Creek I’d be failing if I ran away. Will wouldn’t run away. Will would have charmed the secretary out of her panties and kicked Mr. Roth’s door in by now. I could do that. I should do that.
Except for the panty thing.
I turned back toward Mr. Roth’s office, squaring my shoulders and preparing to march across the waiting room and beat on the door. Just then, the door opened and a thin, harried-looking man in an expensive navy suit fumbled several files as he walked out of Mr. Roth’s office. I heard a brash bass voice growl, “Just get it done!” as the thinner man gathered up his papers.
Right.
I dashed across the waiting room as quickly as I could clip in my little black kitten heels. As the secretary yelled “Hey, stop!” I sidestepped the man in the navy suit, nudging him out of harm’s way as I slammed the office door behind me.
James Roth was a stocky, rough man in an expensive gray silk suit. Sitting behind his huge dark walnut desk, he looked more like a gangster in an old black-and-white movie than a man-panty salesman.
I definitely would not call him a man-panty salesman to his face.
“Young lady, do I need to call security?” he asked.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “I’m Bonnie Turkle. I work as a historian for the Kentucky Commission on Tourism and I’m opening a museum in Mud Creek in McBride’s Music Hall. We had an appointment ten minutes ago.”
He glanced at what looked like a big appointment book on his desk blotter. “You told my secretary you worked for the National Cotton Council.”
“I lied,” I admitted, wincing.
Mr. Roth frowned. “Then I’m afraid you’re wasting not only your time, but mine. Contract discussions with the city have been suspended indefinitely because of an impasse, if I recall correctly, caused by your interference. For you to come here to try to renegotiate—”
“No, no one sent me. No one from Mud Creek even knows I’m here. In fact, I’m pretty sure they would be pissed if they knew I was,” I told him, pulling my file folder out of my bag.
He sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly. “So why should I even speak to you?”
“Because I have good intentions?” I suggested.
He gave me a long, hard stare.
I knew that wouldn’t work.
“Okay, you should listen to me because I know a way to make all parties in our bizarre little hierarchy of needs happy. But it’s going to take a little extra give from your side of the table,” I said. Mr. Roth made a face I could only describe as cautiously intrigued as he motioned me into a chair.
Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out why I was talking like a character from a Martin Scorsese movie. Darn Mr. Roth and his gangster vibe! I could only hope to get out of this without quoting Scarface.
I explained my proposition and the potential benefit of moving the museum to another location—being able to open the museum and the plant, making local residents, ComfyCheeks shareholders, and music lovers everywhere happy. I managed to modulate my mafia tone, focusing on facts and figures and pictures from my information packet.
“According to my estimates, all I’ll need is three hundred thousand dollars to dismantle the museum and move the building and its contents to another location.”
Mr. Roth did some scribbling on a legal pad on his massive desk. He frowned. “It won’t cost that much to move a building.”
“Well, we also have to buy the lot,” I added, laughing uncomfortably. Mr. Roth was not amused.
“Look, we don’t have that kind of money to just throw around, especially when there are dozens of little towns where we could build a factory. Without the public relations hassles.”
“But not with the kind of direct railroad and highway access that Mud Creek offers. And not with a readily available, easily trained workforce. And if you build in Mud Creek, you wouldn’t just be saving a very grateful town with much-needed jobs. You would be saving a town while preserving a much-beloved piece of that town’s history. That shows integrity. It shows heart. You wouldn’t just be a CEO of an undergarment manufacturer, you would be a philanthropist.” His eyebrows perked up at that, so I added, “An ambassador of goodwill to a town full of people who desperately need you.” He seemed even more pleased. “A statesman. You would be ComfyCheeks, the underwear that cares.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“Was that laying it on too thick?” I asked. He nodded. “Dang it.”
“That’s all right. I can appreciate a hard sell. I spend a disturbing amount of time selling grown men on the idea that their wives want to see them wearing glorified bicycle shorts.”
“So really, convincing your board of directors to make a teeny little donation, which hardly amounts to a third of one percent of your annual profit, won’t be that hard for you.”
His thick lips twitched. “A third of one percent, huh?”
I shrugged. “I do my homework.”
“Well, I admire that in someone who forces a proposal on me.” He reached across his desk to shake my hand. “You’ve got a deal, Miss Turkle. Depending, of course, on the full agreement of the town council.”
“I promise you that won’t be a problem.”
I spent the rest of Thursday and the better part of Friday with ComfyCheeks’ legal and marketing departments, hashing out what we would need for the transport and transfer of property, discussing how to spin this situation. Mr. Hunnam, ComfyCheeks’ resident real estate genius, already had several feelers out in Mud Creek for locally available commercial lots. He was able to quickly, quietly purchase the lot just a few hundred yards away from the music hall’s original location. The relocated museum would be placed just outside the ComfyCheeks plant’s gates, standing across the highway on a lot that used to belong to a farming family named Wilkes.
Mr. Roth and I agreed to keep the arrangement quiet for a few days, at least until after my first progress report with my sponsors. It felt wrong to make an announcement regarding a large, generous
donation from a new sponsor when the companies that helped launch the project hadn’t yet received credit for their part. And knowing how the grapevine worked in Mud Creek, I knew I wouldn’t even be able to tell Will about it. But as soon as everything was official, Mr. Roth could make a big splashy announcement.
I didn’t want to toot my own horn, but I’d done it. I’d saved the town. All the problems I had inadvertently created would be solved. The plant would be built. The people in Mud Creek would have jobs. The museum could open. The town’s economic prospects would improve. Will would no longer be the mayor of a dying town. He would be mayor of a going concern . . . which he probably wouldn’t want to leave for some time, which would feel weird when I moved away.
Which I would think about later.
With a promise from Mr. Roth to courier the appropriate paperwork to Mud Creek as soon as his lawyers could prepare it, I hopped an afternoon flight home. I picked up my cell so many times to call Will with the news, but I knew it was better to wait. I wanted to be able to share this with him in person, when the time was right. So instead, I called Sadie in an attempt to remind her that I was an employable, competent person.
“This is great news,” Sadie told me. “Congratulations, Bonnie. You really pulled your butt out of the fire on this one. And mine, too. Those calls from the governor’s PR office were getting more and more ‘pointed.’”
“Well, I’m sorry your buttocks were near the fire in the first place.”
“Eh, it’s nothing worse than . . . okay, it was worse than most of the things I’ve done. But if I add all of those things together at once . . .”
