“Bull.”
“You sacrificed the other town beauties’ hopes to win this Buttercup crown, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know I was doing that!” she protested.
“Maybe not. But you should ask yourself this: would you do it again knowing now what you claim you didn’t know then? Would you have jettisoned a few milkmaids’ dreams for your ambition?”
Would she? She didn’t know. It seemed like a random question. She hadn’t known. And she didn’t like what-if games. They were too dangerous, like opening Pandora’s box. What if her parents had gone to Palm Springs instead of Las Vegas? What if her grandfather had owned a lodge in the Catskills instead of Minnesota? What if she’d gone with Tess on winter break …?
A sudden commotion outside drew Jenn’s attention to the far right side of the crowd gathered around the freezer. A huge guy in a leather biker’s vest had started pushing his way through the crowd.
“It needs to be etched,” Steve was muttering, “and something with lights. Maybe …”
Jenn wasn’t listening anymore. She was too busy watching the biker. He wasn’t pushing now. He was shoving, bowling through the crowds of bystanders, his expression fierce.
“Geez,” she said uncomfortably. “Where the hell does he think he’s going?”
Halfway through the crowd now, the biker raised his huge paw and pointed straight at the freezer window. “You are mine, bitch!”
Jenn’s jaw dropped; her eyes popped wide. She’d heard about weirdoes like this, men fixated on beauty queens or movie stars. The biker thrust an old lady and her corn dog out of his way, his steel-toed boots punching the ground, the chains on his hip bouncing.
“Oh … my … God.” Jenn jumped off the stool. “Steve!”
She looked around for a savior only to see Steve look up, spy the biker, and instead of doing something like barricading them in the freezer, go back to attacking the butter head with renewed fervor. He gouged a hole in the butter head with his grapefruit spoon again.
She wasn’t about to wait around and see why. She headed for the freezer door, but before she reached it, the door slammed inward and the biker burst into the tiny booth. His mouth spread in a wide, evil grin. Outside the cubicle, someone shouted and someone else screamed.
“Your ass is mine!”
“Holy shit,” Jenn whispered, her mind filled with images of becoming this guy’s Butter Head Bride right in front of all these people.
She scrambled for the corner, snagging a sculpting knife on her way, and wheeled around.
The biker guy ignored her.
All his attention was fixed on Steve, who was still fiddling with the butter head—filling in the hole?
Poor Steve, he’d lost it. He looked way too nonchalant for someone whose ass purportedly belonged to a two-hundred-fifty-pound guy in black leather. Her own heart was galloping and the hand holding the sculpting knife out in front of her was shaking uncontrollably. Outside the freezer, people were yelling and pointing.
“Bounty hunter?” Steve asked, finally turning around.
“Yeah.”
Bounty hunter?
The biker reached behind his back and pulled out a set of manacles. “The bounty hunter who got here ahead of the cops and you’ll witness that, won’t ya, Toots?”
He glanced at Jenn, who was trying to disappear down into the neck opening of her parka as the biker grabbed Steve’s forearm and snapped the manacles closed on his wrist. “Won’t ya, Toots?”
“Ah, yeah. Yes, sir …”
“Good. And here’s Minnesota’s finest now. Right on cue,” the biker said as a confused-looking cop ducked through the door, his hand on the butt of his gun.
“Officer, I’ve made a citizen’s arrest of this man, Steve Jaax, for jumping bail and fleeing the great state of—” The biker frowned.
“New York,” Steve provided helpfully.
“Whatever,” said the bounty hunter and pushed him into the waiting arms of Minnesota’s finest.
“What the hell is going on here?” Ken Holmberg appeared at the door, took one look at Jenn, and squeezed into the booth with the rest of them. A lump of gratitude swelled in Jenn’s throat. Maybe Ken wasn’t so bad, after all.
“What do you think you’re doing, Jenn?” he scolded. “You were due over at the KMSP building fifteen minutes ago.”
“But the police …”
“Officer, do you need this young lady to stay here?” Ken demanded. “She’s supposed to be on the set of Good Neighbors right now.”
“Really?” The officer looked impressed. “You better go, then. If I need her later, I guess I know where to find you, huh, Miss—”
“This is Miss Fawn Creek, Jennifer Hallesby,” Ken supplied. He grabbed her upper arms and started pushing her toward the door. In doing so, his foot caught the dais, setting the butter sculpture teetering ominously.
“Watch it, man!” Steve yelped. “That’s art!”
“Oh gosh.” Ken half turned. “Sorry. You bet …” He trailed off.
Behind Jenn, everyone fell silent. Still hanging in Ken’s grip, Jenn craned her neck around to see what everyone was looking at and so, for the first time, got a full-on view of the sculpture.
At first glance, the sculpted face was pretty enough. The smile was winning, the features symmetrical and pleasant. But when you really looked at it, you saw something else. Something vulnerable, something defeated. Even the prow of bangs springing from the forehead looked forlorn.
And then it hit her: This was it. This was all she had to show for all her months of effort. She’d traded the few weeks she could have been with Tess for a butter head.
“It’s … radiant,” the bounty hunter whispered.
“Exquisite,” one of the cops opined.
Radiant? Exquisite? The word choices coming from two traditionally tough-type guys caused Jenn to look at the butter head again. She couldn’t see it, though. All she saw was a waste of time. The face of a loser.
Well, not anymore. Not ever again.
Chapter Six
1:00 p.m.
Twenty-one years later
Tuesday, September 19
The Park Plaza, New York City
The room seemed surprisingly crowded for a press conference introducing an unknown lifestyle maven to the jaded New York media until you took into account who had done the inviting: megaconservative, ubercontroversial multi-billionaire Dwight D. Davies Junior. Dwight was an intolerant man, the list of things of which he disapproved including, but not limited to, smoking, drinking, gambling, swearing, illicit-drug use, and any kind of sex—unless it was between a married (and definitely heterosexual) couple. He openly admitted that making up for the excesses of his youth had led to his zeal for reforming decadent American society, leading some wags to speculate that at one time old Dwight must have been one helluva guy to party with.
As a businessman, Dwight was notorious for his Pharisaical policies. He’d been known to come in, after taking over multinational corporations, and decimate entire upper managements simply on the basis of “inspired intuition,” a practice that made both political parties leery of accepting his donations. All of which made him daily fodder for every newspaper cartoonist and editorial writer in the country.
Dwight didn’t care. He had a whole lotta work to do before he died. Mostly reforming things. And (some said not coincidentally) making a whole lotta money doing it. Lately, he’d turned his attention to reforming America’s television-viewing habits.
A year ago he’d proclaimed his mandate to eradicate America’s love affair with sex, drugs, and violence. He’d bought himself a successful cable network and renamed it American Media Services to accentuate his view that he provided the public a service, not just an entertainment. Then he hired a slew of like-minded men—or at least men who said they were like-minded and who could not be proven to be otherwise through an intense background check—and rebuilt it.
It should have been a joke, but ol
d Dwight wasn’t stupid (quite the reverse). He was just a dogmatist. When he did something, he did it right. Whether through sophistry or luck—and those who knew him best weren’t saying—Dwight had tapped into a huge reservoir of baby boomers wanting to rekindle their Leave It to Beaver days, Gen Xers looking for a little moral substance to pad their financial portfolios, and young Americans worried about being blown up.
Last month, Dwight had begun unveiling the lineup for the spring launch of his new, “values-oriented” programming, and today, AMS was introducing Jenn Lind, the star of Dwight’s pet project, a biweekly lifestyle magazine entitled Comforts of Home (debuting concurrently with a monthly magazine and iPod cast of the same name). Dwight had personally supervised the vetting process that had brought Jenn Lind from the Midwest, where she’d been enjoying an impressively robust popularity based on a weekday morning show, regular contributions to women’s magazines, and guest appearances on several of the Food Network’s most popular programs. With a sardonic nod to her home state of Minnesota, the media had already dubbed her “Martha ‘Nice.”’
So yes, the level of interest rose when AMS’s president, Ron Patella, trim, diminutive, and dapper, appeared from a side door and approached the podium.
“Good afternoon and thank you for coming,” he said. “You all have your bios and other material? Good. Then you already know you’re in for a treat.”
He gestured with an open palm toward the door. “It is with great pleasure that I introduce Jenn Lind, the star of Comforts of Home.”
He clapped as a tall blond woman in a powder blue sweater dress walked without hesitation or haste to his side and shook his hand. Ron had to look up. Pens started scribbling.
Jenna Lind was a good-looking woman, a quarter past young but holding well, her soft cashmere dress flowing over a curvier figure than other television personalities allowed themselves. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in an old-fashioned French twist, à la Tippi Hedren in The Birds, which accentuated her high cheekbones and clear gray-blue eyes.
With the modest dress, the pastel colors and the upswept hair, there was definitely a late fifties vibe going on. But then, just when the reporters were ready to tack “vintage” on Jenna Lind, she stepped out from behind the podium and revealed a pair of tawny Christian Louboutin stilettos on the end of a rather spectacular set of gams. She shifted and the little satin tassels set at the back of the ankle strap shimmied.
“Hello” she said, detaching the wireless microphone from its holder and approaching the reporters as Ron melted back among the AMS executives. She had just a hint of an accent, something round and soft. Like oatmeal with maple syrup. Nourishing and sweet. More reporters started jotting notes.
“First,” Jenn said, “let me say how delighted I am to be here and how happy I am that you’ve made room in your busy schedules to come down and visit with me.”
Visit with her? Who was she kidding? They were here because of Dwight Davies. And yet there wasn’t a trace of guile in her expression. “I’m sure you have some questions, so by all means, let’s get started, shall we?”
An old tabby renowned for making talking heads cry cleared her throat. “You’re being touted as the next Martha Stewart. I assume you don’t want to be another clone. So what makes you different?”
“I don’t crochet.”
A ripple of surprised laughter ran through the group. The subtle reminder of Martha’s prison record was unexpected, cute, and a little wicked. Dwight might not have approved.
Jenn smiled. She had a wonderful smile. It belonged to the ultimate girl next door—well, maybe not. She was a little old for the girl next door, but in this era of aging baby boomers, she might be something better. For women, the best friend next door I never had time for, and for men, the mature second wife who understands that aching joints sometimes sideline even the most sexually active mature male.
“Okay,” the old tabby said, clearly not as amused as her associates. “You’re squeaky clean, duly noted. Considering who your boss is, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you? But there is a glut of lifestyle shows on the networks and cable today. What are you bringing to the mix that makes you worth watching?”
The playful smile turned thoughtful. “I’m not going to try and make a room over for one hundred dollars or turn tuna cans into napkin rings. I’m interested in comfortable, stylish, and affordable living. Sometimes that takes more than fifteen minutes with a glue gun.”
The door in the back of the room suddenly swung wide open and the man himself, Dwight Davies, entered. Every reporter in the room grew instantly alert. This was what they’d come for.
Dwight was a big man, barrel chested and long legged, all six foot three of him covered in an expensive hand-tailored dark navy suit. He had a big, balding head and a set of peculiarly delicate features squished into his big, blocky face. Right now those features were serene, but his little eyes whiplashed around the room. He held up his hands—they were big, too, the fingers sausagelike, a thick band of diamond-encrusted gold around his pinkie.
“Go ahead with what you were saying, Jenn. Sorry to interrupt.” His voice was not big; it was a tenor in a bass body.
A very young woman in Manhattan’s ubiquitous “Take Me Serious” black suit decided to be noticed and piped up. “But most of us don’t have the time to donate ten hours to a project. At least here in New York.”
“Now,” Jenn said with a soft smile, “you have no idea how hectic life can be on the tundra.” A couple people chuckled. The young reporter blushed. “It’s true some of my projects take time. For those unable to devote a day or a weekend, I design the projects to be spread out over the course of a week or even a month.”
“Excuse me.” Dwight Davies moved to Jenn’s side. “I’m sorry to break in but I just want to clarify that Miss Lind will keep in mind the resources and skill sets of her audience, and her projects will reflect her consideration. Right, Jenn?”
“Of course, Mr. Davies,” she said, smiling at him like they were old friends meeting at a cocktail party. “I am always mindful of my audience.”
“Isn’t she a peach, folks?” Dwight said, slinging a long arm around her and giving her a friendly hug. “You can take some pictures now.”
Cameras appeared out of nowhere, the sound of snapshots being taken filling the air like rifle reports at a shooting range for precisely forty-five seconds. “That’s enough. I just wanted to come and tell you a little about Ms. Lind and why I handpicked her to be the central figure in AMS’s daytime programming. Ms. Lind comes from Minnesota, where she’s enjoying her eighth straight year as the Midwest’s most popular media personality. The viewership for her show has risen 480 percent since she took over the spot. She’s going to be big, folks. Bigger than big. You might say I’m betting the bank on it.” He checked the Rolex strapped to his broad, hairy wrist. “I got time for one question, so make it a good one. You in the first row.” He pointed at a ready-looking guy.
“Mr. Davies, you’re spending a lot of money launching your network and you’ve tagged an unknown to be the star. Isn’t that a gamble?”
Dwight gave the man a flat look of contempt. “I don’t gamble. And you shouldn’t either. None of you. Gambling is for fools and wastrels, and I am neither. Jenn Lind is a bona fide lady who will make all of us at AMS proud.” Then he gave Jenn another little squeeze and, having bestowed his official blessing, left.
A few reporters checked their watches. Three minutes.
Jenn turned back to the group. “I can see I’m going to have to get him a ‘Minneapple’ mug,” she said, brokering a few polite laughs.
“You clearly love Minnesota. Is there anything Minnesotans do poorly?” someone asked.
“Well,” she said, “Minnesotans are not known for public displays of affection. Not that they aren’t passionate. For example, I knew an old Swedish couple that went out to dinner for their fiftieth anniversary. He looked across the table at her and saw in her eyes the pretty young gir
l he wed, and in her smile the tender mother with whom he raised four kids, and in the gentle lines on her face the grandmother who so generously shared her wisdom. And he thought of all the years of companionship and joy they had shared, and how very, very much he loved her. So much, in fact, that he almost told her.”
A riff of light laughter arose from the group.
“Miss Lind, it says in the material here that you got your start at age seventeen when you stepped in to pinch-hit for a local morning show hostess. Would you expand on that?”
“Certainly,” she said. “I, along with the other finalists in a local pageant, was scheduled to appear on Good Neighbors, a program being broadcast live from the Minnesota State Fair. When we arrived on the set, we saw the star of the show, Sharon Siverston, being taken away in an ambulance. She’d had an accident in the previous segment at the Baby Barnyard Petting Zoo.”
“What was that?”
“A calf bit her,” she said with a small sigh, as if calves biting people were a common but unfortunate occurrence in Minnesota. “Her next spot was a cooking one and the producers were trying to decide how to fill the sudden eight-minute gap. I had just won a blue ribbon for baking, so I volunteered to do the segment.
“Shortly afterward, I was asked to do a regular spot. When Sharon stepped down a few years later (the poor dear’s nose never did look quite the same)”—here she paused and, by God, she really did look saddened—“they asked me to replace her and there I have been ever since.”
“You were Miss Fawn Creek?” a voice from the back abruptly asked.
She looked around to find the speaker. “Yes.”
“Your hometown must be very proud of you.”
“I hope so.”
“Do you ever get back there?”
“Oh, yes. As I always say, I’m very fond of the Fawn” Her press release credited her upbringing in Fawn Creek as the inspiration for many of the “heritage” recipes used on her show. “My folks still live there. So, yes, I get back quite often.”
God, you had to love a gracious, mature woman who called her parents “folks” and did so without a hint of self-consciousness.
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