Wild Child: A Novel

by Molly O'Keefe

  “Hot girls would be nice.”

  “You want your kids—”

  “I don’t have kids.”

  “But you will someday, and you’re not going to want to bus them to school an hour away, are you? If we don’t change our tax base, we lose the schools. That’s it. A chance like this might not come again. The town is in a bad way, Sean. A third of our population has left—”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” Sean held up his hands in surrender, but he didn’t lose that scowl.

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  If Jackson were the punching kind, he would have punched Sean Baxter years ago. In kindergarten, maybe. And probably another hundred times since. For that face alone. Always the doubting Thomas. Always the fly in the soup.

  “Remember when we played baseball in high school?”

  Jackson shot a “can’t you help me here, he’s your brother?” look at Brody, who only went back to sanding. “Of course I remember, Sean. We had the worst record in the state.”

  “We sucked. It’s true. But you know what I remember about you?” Sean asked.

  “I can’t even imagine.”

  Sean leaned over the bar, through sunlight and a snowstorm of dust in the air, catching Jackson in the crosshairs of his light blue eyes.

  “You swung for the fences, every time. Even when a base hit would have sufficed, you went after that ball like it had insulted your mother. Like the fate of the world rested on you knocking the leather off that damn thing.”

  “That’s why I led the team in home runs.”

  “And strikeouts.”

  True.

  “What’s your point, Sean?”

  “I thought you were nuts when you decided to run for mayor, but I supported you. But this show … this idea … It feels like you’re swinging for the fences.”

  Jackson stepped forward and poked his old friend in the chest. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, Sean. And I’m doing it right now.”

  He glanced at the wall and memorized the website he’d scrawled there.

  The whole texture of his day had changed. He had to get on that application process, and quick. He wasn’t even sure who had keys to the factory. Shelby Monroe’s mother used to run it; maybe she had the keys. He grabbed his wallet from the windowsill where he’d left it and walked out of the bar into the bright Arkansas morning.

  As mayor of Bishop, population 4,200, he’d been working hard to fix what was wrong with the community, all so that he could leave it.

  And this show might just be his ticket out of here.

  Chapter 2

  Present Day

  Friday morning, when Jackson stepped into Cora’s, the bell over the café door rang and twenty pairs of eyes swung toward him. Every morning, all week, they’d been gathering here, waiting for him to arrive with the mail. City council, business owners, Ben at the newspaper—they looked at him. Wanting. Waiting.

  For this moment.

  Jackson held up the letter, his smile victorious. “We’re in!”

  The diner erupted in cheers, his back was slapped, his hand shaken. Ben sat him down in the corner booth, while Cora brought him a piece of rhubarb pie.

  “So?” Ben asked when the celebration died down. Everyone settled into chairs and booths with their backs to the counter, facing him. Jackson pushed away the pie; he hated eating while people were watching. “What happens next?”

  “Well,” Jackson began, tapping the edge of the letter against the table, a sharp snap. Definitive. He liked the sound, so he did it again. “In the next week, Dean Jennings and a camera crew from America Today will come to town. Dean will check out our factory, and the camera crew will be putting together a package to air on the show.”

  “What kind of package?” Cora asked. She had her arms crossed over her Don’t Mess With Me, I Haven’t Had My Pie tee shirt. Her black hair, short and natural, was hidden under a wild silk scarf tied in intricate knots around her head. She looked equal parts ironic and tribal. A force of nature.

  “A package about us. About Bishop. It says in the letter that it will tell our story.” Dean’s words from America Today—a good, hard look—made him sweat, but he couldn’t let anyone see that. There were already enough skeptics in the room.

  Morning sunlight poured through the big windows, making the chrome shine; the red vinyl of the seats nearly glowed. But the faces in the room were worn. Weary. Hope was in short supply in Bishop these days.

  “Shelby Monroe’s Art Camps, the Peabody, Cora’s.” He spread his arms, doing his best Vanna White, showing off the restaurant they all stood in. Its retro diner vibe and excellent southern cooking had been getting noticed in food magazines. “We’re a good story. An amazing one.”

  “That’s right,” Cora said. “We oughta be proud of ourselves. We oughta be shouting how hard we’ve worked from the rooftops.” Cora, bless her heart and rhubarb pie, had been one of his best supporters. She understood that winning this competition would be good for Bishop. And, considering the work she’d put in on the diner, she was heavily invested in the increased tourism this competition would bring to the town.

  Jackson picked up the letter and read the next part.

  “After they’re done filming, all the segments will be aired on America Today at the end of July. Dean Jennings will pick three towns for the finals. Camera crews and reporters for America Today will return to the three towns for a live taping—”

  “At Honky-tonk Night at The Pour House,” Sean announced, always looking to drum up business for his bar.

  “Honky-tonk Night will be put on hold until this competition is over,” Jackson said. It was a booze-fueled nightmare, and there was no way in hell it was part of their “story.”

  “Who are you?” Sean shouted. “Stellan?”

  “You mean Stalin, and I’m not.”

  “What about the Okra Festival?” Gloria, the police chief, asked.

  “What about it?”

  “The festival is at the beginning of August. People are already getting their floats organized for the parade and the girls are getting ready for the pageant.”

  “I’m working on my chili recipe,” Sean said, prompting most people to groan.

  “I don’t see why that has to stop,” Jackson said. “In fact, it’s probably a nice addition to our story. We should move it up to the last weekend of July.”

  People around the room nodded. It was the hundredth year of the town’s festival and despite the fact that there wasn’t a single commercial okra factory left in the entire state, it was a beloved tradition.

  “So?” Cora asked. “What do we need to do?”

  “Everyone get the cars off the lawns. Water the grass, plant some flowers. Clean up your porches.” He stared at Gloria, whose husband couldn’t walk by a garage sale without picking up a bike he was sure he could fix and sell. Their yard looked like a bike graveyard.

  “It’s not just us,” Gloria said.

  “No, it’s everyone,” Jackson agreed. “I need to repaint the trim on my house. I know a lot of you are in the same boat.”

  “Who is going to pay for that?” Jim Shore asked. Jim had been mayor when the okra-processing plant finally gasped its last breath and closed, putting half the town out of work. It had given him a heart attack. There were days Jackson was pretty sure he would follow in Jim’s footsteps.

  “Everyone … everyone just do what you can. Ask for help if you need it. I know Sean would love to help paint houses.”

  “Very funny, Jackson,” Sean said, and everyone laughed.

  “I don’t know when Dean and the producer are going to show up, sometime in the next few days, but let’s … let’s show them our best face. The best version of ourselves. Let’s show them that we are the right town for this second chance, that gimmick or not, we’re worth noticing. We’re worth believing in.”

  He’d been practicing that rallying speech for a few days now (modified slightly in case they didn’t make the semifinals
), and from the way the faces in the room had lightened, it had worked.

  Mel Gibson in Braveheart had nothing on him.

  “Thank you, Mayor,” Cora said, lifting a coffee mug in toast to him. “For all you’ve done.”

  There was a smattering of applause. Even Sean put down his fork long enough to clap his hands.

  Uncomfortable with the attention and accolades, Jackson sat back down in the booth and stared at the rhubarb pie. He loved rhubarb pie, and Cora made the best he’d ever had. A tangy, sweet, artery-clogging delight.

  But surprisingly, despite the victory, he couldn’t eat.

  Please, he prayed. Please don’t let me fail them. Not now, not when it really matters.

  If this worked, the town would be self-sufficient and he’d be free. Free to walk away from Bishop and the sticky webs of expectation and duty. He could move to Vegas, look at beautiful women who wouldn’t be prompted by the first sign of his interest to bake him a casserole and start talking about a spring wedding. He could have sex with a lot of women. A few at the same time if he wanted. He could sleep in, or even not sleep at all. Drink too much. Jump out of airplanes. Hell, get a tattoo.

  He could do whatever he wanted.

  But if this all failed …

  It’s not going to fail, he told himself, not feeling at all like Braveheart anymore. You will make this work, like you have made everything else work.

  There were harder things than pulling a town back from the edge of bankruptcy.

  Taking care of Gwen was harder. Giving up his life. Knowing that he couldn’t fix what happened and being reminded of that failure every time he looked at her. That was much harder.

  Cora slid in across from him, her brown eyes alight.

  “What’s wrong with the pie?” she asked.

  “Nothing, not a thing.” Jackson pulled the pie toward him and took a big bite, despite a stomach full of everyone’s expectations.

  “Is that a dog?” asked the girl behind the desk. She had the dewy skin of youth and apparently X-ray eyes.

  “Heavens, no!” Monica Appleby, without hesitation, went right for the lie. “Why would you think I have a dog?”

  “Because that’s a dog carrier.” Gwen, according to her name tag, pointed at the hot-pink bag with mesh sides that Monica, in her fog of grief and weariness, had put right on top of the check-in desk.

  Monica stared at the bag as if she’d never seen it before, ready to follow this lie to the ends of the earth if that was what it took to get her within falling distance of a bed.

  After the worst funeral ever recorded, a hellacious redeye flight (during which the non-dog in the non-carrier whimpered and cried like it was being tortured by terrorist cats), and an epic dawn drive to this backwater town in the middle of nowhere where years ago her life was torn apart by a bullet, she wasn’t going down because of a dog.

  “Is that what that is?” she asked innocently.

  “It’s okay. The Peabody allows dogs up to twenty pounds.”

  Of course they did.

  “Well, if I had a dog,” Monica said, “that would be a welcome relief.”

  The girl was on to her—her straight face gave Monica all kinds of shit—but Monica felt compelled to hold onto the story. One thing. I need one thing to go my way tonight.

  Finally, Gwen nodded as if accepting the fact that Monica was just going to lie.

  It said something about how low Monica had sunk that she wanted to hug the girl.

  “What name is the reservation under?”

  “Monica Appleby.”

  It took all of ten seconds for Monica to regret using her own name. Gwen looked up at her, mouth slightly open. The teenager stared blatantly at Monica’s rather famous chest, her face, her hair, and then, as it all seemed to check out against that picture most of the world had in their head of her, squealed.

  “Ohmigod, you’re—”

  She nodded, forcing her lips to curve past a grimace into a smile. “Monica Appleby, I just told you.”

  “Ohmigod!” Gwen lifted her hands, waving them in front of her face as if fending off the vapors.

  “Keep breathing,” she said, managing to smile in earnest. It was the face-wave thing, always an entertaining reflex. “We’ll get through it together.”

  “I loved your book.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “Did you really sleep with all those rock stars?”

  “They slept with me, actually—an important distinction.”

  “Totally,” Gwen sighed as if she understood. But Monica had her doubts. “You look different.”

  “Rocker goth chick is a hard look to carry when you’re thirty.” Even Joan Jett had cleaned up, after all. And Monica was no Joan Jett.

  Again, Gwen nodded sagely, as if from her post behind the Peabody check-in desk she’d seen it all before.

  “So … my room?”

  “Oh right, sorry.” Gwen clacked around on her computer and Monica turned slightly, put the dog carrier on the floor, and looked around. According to the website she’d used to make the reservation, the Peabody was not only the only hotel within a thirty-mile radius, but had the dubious honor of being the last standing antebellum plantation home in the state.

  Even in her crappy mood, Monica had to admit the place was beautiful. The cut-crystal chandelier caught the sun streaming through the rose windows and sent it sparkling around the domed ceilings, across the paintings of dogs and horses and cotton fields at rest. Wainscoting was bathed in rainbows, hardwood floors were splashed with sun.

  There were elegant cherrywood chairs gathered in small groups, just waiting for the chance to host high tea. An old-world drink cart was set up in the corner, where guests could help themselves from decanters of booze that glowed like amber in the sunlight.

  There was no music piped in anywhere, and she could hear the sounds of birds. Of quiet.

  It was beautiful, all that carefully restored antebellum detail.

  And it made her skin itch, her lungs tight. Claustrophobia wasn’t going to be far behind.

  It will be okay, she told herself. You did the right thing coming here.

  Not that she’d had much of a choice in the end.

  The silence suddenly registered and Monica realized that Gwen was watching her, probably waiting for her to say something.

  “It’s beautiful,” Monica said, pushing her sunglasses up higher onto her nose.

  When in doubt, compliment. That particular piece of Jenna’s advice had never steered her wrong.

  “It’s been a true labor of love,” Gwen said, her voice as southern as pecans and peaches, as if she were suddenly reading the script of a southern belle. Front-desk staff probably had a speech they had to memorize.

  “Whose?”

  “What?”

  “Whose labor of love?” It was hard to imagine someone loving this place like that. Her feelings about Bishop, Arkansas, were deeply, firmly situated on the other side of the spectrum.

  “Jackson Davies.” Gwen nodded, some of the teenage eagerness hardening. “He’s the mayor. He got all these historical societies to invest. It was a real big deal.”

  “Cool.” Monica pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead, digging at her gritty eyes as if she wished she could just pull them out and be done with it.

  “I like your mom’s show,” Gwen said. Oh God, this conversation was going from bad to worse. Monica wanted to tell her that watching Simone’s reality show, What Simone Wants, was not only going to rot her brain with its sheer stupidity, but it would not endear Gwen to Monica.

  The last forty-eight hours rolled over her and she sighed heavily. “Can I … just get my key?”

  Gwen’s face fell as if Monica had squashed a bunny right in front of her.

  Monica hitched her laptop backpack high on her shoulder. She was being rude; she totally understood that. The sunglasses, her tone, lying about the dog, even the torn collar of her Sex Pistols shirt seemed boorish. But she had nothing left
in the tank for a starstruck teenager who wanted to talk about Simone’s antics.

  I’m sorry I’m not what you expected, she thought. I can’t be what everyone expects every single second of my life. I’m tired and I’m sad and I just want to go to sleep.

  Gwen blushed to her eyebrows and started to fumble around, gathering keys and brochures.

  “I’m sorry, Gwen. I’m just super tired.”

  “Totally, I totally get it.” She waved her hand in front of her face to imply it didn’t matter, but Monica felt like a capital-A asshole. “Oh, you know? I think this is for you.” Flustered and bright red, Gwen held out a folded piece of thick ivory stationery.

  Monica stared at the paper as if it were a snake. “Me?”

  Gwen nodded, shaking the paper.

  Monica carefully unfolded it, as if the wrong move might make it pop.

  Welcome, the note said, I would love to personally welcome you to Bishop. After you’ve settled in please accept my invitation for a light dinner at my home. Sincerely, Jackson Davies.

  Wow. Just.… wow.

  “How did Jackson know I was in town?” she asked.

  “Jackson?” Gwen shrugged, one of those eloquent teenage shrugs that spoke a complicated ancient language. “He knows everything. It’s a small town.”

  It was that damn Rolling Stone article. She’d told the reporter that she was coming down here to write about her father, a jazz musician of very little success but, thanks to the way he died, some cult status. Jackson must have read the article.

  Maybe he wanted to help her set up interviews. Get her the police files.

  Or maybe her editor had called and paved the way with the locals.

  Either way, it was the kick in the pants she needed to start working.

  Thank you for the invitation, I’d be delighted, she scrawled across the bottom of the note before refolding it and handing it back to Gwen.

  “Can you see that he gets this?”

  Wide-eyed, Gwen nodded.

  Monica grabbed the key and picked up the dog carrier. Inside, Reba barked once, the sound unmistakable. Gwen, bless her heart, ignored it.

  “Top of the stairs to the left,” she said, and Monica turned. But Gwen kept talking, clearly unable to let her just walk away. “Why are you here? I mean, no one like you ever comes here.”