Hot Dish

by Brockway, Connie

  “Look, I have forty thousand dollars—”

  “And I need fifty,” she finished in exasperation, “in less than two hours. This is the only way. Besides, you told me that revenge was sweet. How much sweeter could this be? Ken Holmberg is a pompous ass. He deserves what he gets.”

  “I just told you, Jenny, the whole revenge thing … it’s a waste of time. And besides, it’s not like Ken is the only person who’ll suffer if you do this. What about his employees? What about the town? Heidi told me that if his hockey stick plant folds, the town will follow.”

  The domino effect. She knew all about it. She hadn’t lived in Minnesota, listening to the virtues of small-town life for twenty years, without understanding the economic realities that faced most small towns. On the surface, fifty families might not seem like a lot, but in the delicate ecobalance of a small town, it was immense.

  But she wasn’t going to feel sorry for them. No way. Her gaze shifted away from his. “I don’t see how this is my problem. What do I care if Ken Holmberg goes belly up and chooses to close shop? What do I owe these people?”

  He reached up, balancing her chin on his fingertips and tenderly turning her face toward his. He gave her a lopsided grin. “Everything. Think, Jenny. I know you try to ignore it or discount it or whatever else you want to call your denial of this town and what it means to you, what it’s done for you, but stop trying to look past Fawn Creek and look at it.”

  His hands fell lightly to her shoulders and he dipped a little at the knees so he could look her squarely in the eye. “They made you. If Jenny Hallesby hadn’t come to Fawn Creek, there wouldn’t be a Jenn Lind. Just like if Fabulousa hadn’t screwed me over there wouldn’t be a Steven Jaax. You learned how to cook here, how to appreciate good food, right? You learned how to appear calm and confident by copying these people here, right? You got on television the first time because of this town, right? And now the fate of Fawn Creek is in your hands.”

  She didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t want the fate of Fawn Creek in her hands. And it wasn’t! If Fawn Creek was on the verge of imploding, it was Fawn Creek’s fault. She bent down to pull the wedge from under the door. He straight-armed the door shut. She looked up at him, her face taut.

  “Jenny, what are you doing here?”

  “Trying to make sure my life is on track. Trying to guarantee myself a little security.”

  “What life, Jenn?”

  His words hit her like a slap. Her head even tilted back as though she’d received a blow. “Ouch.”

  “And you want security? Commit a crime and get a prison cell. But if you want a life, walk away from this, from AMS, and start working toward a dream, not a goal.” He flung out the words she’d thought the night of the blizzard like he’d read her mind. Oh, man. He didn’t play fair. But then, she wouldn’t expect him to.

  “I have plans. I don’t have a dream,” she said, trying to sneer the word but only managing to sound lost.

  “Then it’s time to find one.”

  “Tournament players, please return to the table” a male voice piped in through the loudspeaker system said. “Tournament players, please return to the table.”

  “Life isn’t secure, Jenny,” Steve said. “You can’t control it and there are no guarantees. People are born, people die, and in between, they take chances. Sometimes there’s a big payoff and sometimes they go bust. But one constant holds true: the unexpected happens. Like you happening to me and me happening to you. Whatever you decide to do, that’ll stay true.” He gave her his crooked smile.

  “Last call. Last call. Will the tournament players please return to the table now? Play will begin in five minutes.”

  “I have to go,” Jenn said.

  “I’ll be in the bar.”

  She made it back to the table just as the other contestants were taking their seats. She was waiting at the velvet rope for the guard, who was occupied with doing something for Ken, to let her in when a female voice whispered in her ear, “You beat the pants off him, Jenn.”

  Caught off guard, she swung around. Missy Erickson was standing next to her, smiling encouragingly. The last time she’d spoken to Missy had been in the sauna ten years ago.

  “Excuse me?” Jenn asked.

  Missy leaned forward and pitched her voice so only Jenn could hear. “Don’t know why you’re in disguise but we figure you must have a good reason so that’s okay by us. But we want you to know we’re behind you. It’s about time someone took old Holmberg down a peg.”

  Jenny, caught between amazement and despair, felt her mouth opening and shutting like a guppy’s. “We? Us?” she finally managed.

  “Sure,” Missy whispered back, looking amused. “Most everyone from Fawn Creek knows who you are. How couldn’t we? We’ve known for years. You’d have to be a blind, self-centered idiot not to realize who you were—like Ken. You don’t got to say nuthin’. Just wanted to wish you good luck, is all.” And with that, Missy melted back into the crowd.

  The guard finally saw Jenn and hurried over to unsnap the rope and let her through. Would Missy feel that way if she knew what Ken’s loss would mean to her father, who Jenn knew worked at Stixs, or the rest of the town?

  Jenn took her seat. Her thoughts scattered in disarray, she glanced around. It was weird seeing so many faces she knew in that crowd: Greta Smelka, Einer Hahn, Missy Erickson, Leona Unger and the Jorgenson twins, the guy who owned Hank’s Hardware, and at least a dozen others, and she saw it now: they did know her, unlike the AMS guys sitting at raised tables toward the back, watching with bored detachment. They kept smiling at her and nodding encouragingly, turning the prick of conscience into a stab.

  “What’s wrong, sugar puss?” Ken said, drawing her attention. “Getting cold feet? You don’t want to quit, do you?”

  “No,” she said, steeling her resolve.

  Half an hour later, the Asian guy, the old lady, and the kid from St. Cloud were out of the game, and true to her predictions, Jenn found herself sitting across the table from Ken Holmberg. He kept taking off his stupid mosquito: the minnesota state bird cap, swatting his thigh and putting it back on. And smirking at her. Once he’d even said, “Don’t worry, sugar puss. I’ll buy you a real dress once I’ve won.”

  In front of him were twenty thousand dollars in chips. In front of Jenn were twenty-five. The game was Texas Hold ‘Em. Seven cards in all, each player first receiving two facedown, then “the flop,” where the dealer laid three cards faceup on the table, and finally two cards dealt faceup by the dealer, one at a time, called the river. Each player would make the best hand possible out of the cards available.

  “Shall we begin?” The dealer slid out the preflop cards. Jenn tipped the corners of her cards up. Two kings. Ken opened with a thousand-dollar bet. She called.

  The dealer turned over the three flop cards. A king of spades, an eight, and a ten of clubs.

  For the first time since she’d begun playing last night, Jenn’s body reacted to her hand. Her heart thundered in her chest. She could win this whole thing. Right now. All she would have to do was go “all in.” Ken would call, because Ken would never let a woman bluff him, and she would win. She could walk out of here, pay off Dunkovich, and return to the life she’d known.

  And Fawn Creek could die.

  She looked up, a little light-headed.

  “Your bid, Ms. Uri,” the announcer prompted.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, taking another peek at her cards. She sighed and the Poker Network’s camera swung toward her like an accusatory eye.

  She looked up and saw Paul LeDuc rubbing his hand over his face, looking careworn and nervous. Leona Unger and the guy from the hardware store stood nearby and—Good Lord, Heidi was here, too, right behind Missy Erickson. Heidi blew her a forlorn little air kiss for luck, and Jenn smiled until she realized that it was a kiss that had landed her here.

  She’d never been embarrassed by the fact that she’d kissed Heidi. She’d felt a little guilty becau
se Heidi had been so obviously mortified by all the attention, but she’d never been embarrassed. Just like she wasn’t embarrassed by her friendship with Heidi and never had been. That friendship would have to be carefully monitored from now on, though. AMS and Dwight Davies would be watching her from here on out. She’d have to be careful not to do anything suspect or open to speculation. She guessed that included sex in fish houses, too.

  Jenn frowned, troubled by the thought of living life according to Dwight Davies’s rules. Why hadn’t this seemed like such a big deal last week? She’d made compromises before and managed to live with them in order to achieve that Holy Grail called security. But in the few days since she’d been here, she’d been more relaxed, more irritated, more surprised, more comfortable, more engaged, and more herself than she had in years. Wasn’t … wasn’t that security of a sort?

  What had Heidi said? It’s not a matter of choosing a home as much as accepting where it is.

  Was Heidi right? Could Fawn Creek really be Jenn’s home? This crappy little place filled with back-stabbing, gossiping, holier-than-thou small-town elitists?

  In all the years I’ve known you, the only place you are relaxed, the only place you’re not worried about making an impression, the only place you wear comfortable clothes and no makeup, the only place you swear is here. Why?

  Because no one here cares.

  No, Heidi had said. Because they know you.

  Damn it. They did know her. Far better than Dwight Davies and Bob Reynolds and even Nat. They knew her. No, that was not what Heidi had really meant; she’d meant that warts and all here they accepted her.

  “Can’t make up your mind, sugar puss?” Ken asked, his voice dripping with confidence. “If you can’t stand the heat, stay of out the kitchen.”

  Like he could afford to … Behind the dark glasses, her eyes widened. Dear Lord, she realized, Ken was reenacting her father’s path twenty-four years ago. It was like she’d been plunged into some bizarre world where someone was doomed to repeat the same bad decisions over and over again, and she was doomed to be a spectator. She wondered faintly if Ken had a teenage daughter, and if she’d hate wherever they ended up as much as she hated … No, she didn’t hate Fawn Creek. She’d used it as a scapegoat, an excuse to be afraid of taking chances or exploring options.

  She’d told herself she’d lost her best friend because of this town, but the truth was, she’d found her best friend. And her parents, who’d been nothing but vague, benign presences in Raleigh had become full-fleshed people here. And then there was Steve….

  “Ms. Uri.”

  “I’m thinking!”

  Fawn Creek wasn’t a great place. It was provincial and patriarchal, and it had a huge small-town chip on its shoulder, but it was … her town. Her hometown, she guessed. And she couldn’t be part of its extinction. She just couldn’t.

  Abruptly, she reached down and swept a quarter of her chips out onto the table. “I’ll bid five thousand.”

  Ken’s brows nearly climbed up to his cap, and she knew he had a good hand. He was a lousy bluffer. He made a show of vacillating, finally raising her bid by five thousand. She practically threw her chips into the center. She had nine thousand left. Ken had fourteen.

  The dealer flipped over a jack of diamonds. Ken bet seven thousand. Jenn called. The crowd buzzed. The commentators hummed. Ken called.

  The final card turned over. It was a king.

  She had four kings. She bit her lip. She tapped her nails on the table.

  He went all in. She called with the last of her money. He turned over a straight, king high.

  With a magnificent show of feigned disgust, she surged to her feet and threw her cards facedown on the table. “Congratulations,” she said.

  The crowd went nuts. Ken surged up out of his seat, pumping his stubby arms in the air, making a weird “Whoop! Whoop!” sound and looking like he might stroke out at any minute. His round face had flushed the color of federal bricks, and his comb-over flopped limply against the back of his neck. Missy Erickson stared at her, disappointed but sympathetic. Paul looked relieved. Heidi nodded.

  Ken, grinning like an idiot, started to reach for her cards but she slapped his hand away. “Nah-uh,” she all but spat. “You won. I concede it, but you are not going to see my cards. I called your bid and the person who calls never has to show their cards. Right, dealer?”

  The dealer must have felt the laser-like lash of her glare because he nodded nervously. “That’s correct.”

  “Ah. Come on, suga—”

  She swept the cards from the box and shoved her kings deep inside. “Bite me, sugar puss,” she said succinctly.

  Her insides were trembling, and she felt light-headed, almost giddy. Maybe regret would set in later but right now she felt amazing. Relieved. Free.

  She’d done it. There was no way she could buy the butter head now. Dunkovich would in all likelihood sell the photo to some tabloid rag, Dwight Davies would fire her as well as try to blacklist her, and she was fairly certain she’d be replaced by a younger woman on Good Neighbors. On the other hand, the view in her rearview mirror had never looked better, and though she couldn’t quite make out every turn and curve in the road ahead, she had no doubt it was going to be an interesting route.

  With a luxurious sigh of relief, she casually took the wig off her head and tossed it on to the poker table, followed close behind by her dark glasses. The Poker Channel cameraman swung toward her. She reached the rope separating her from Heidi and leaned over it, capturing her friend’s face between her palms and giving her a big, fat kiss on the mouth.

  “Thanks, Heidi,” she said and, hiking up her pink satin skirt, stepped over the rope.

  She was halfway to the bar when she heard someone hail her. “Jenny Hallesby.”

  She stopped and turned to find Karin Ekkelstahl of all people bearing down on her, a grim, determined look on a face made for grim, determined looks. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform.

  “Yeah?” Jenn said, still walking as Karin fell into step beside her.

  “I had to come by and tell you something.”

  “So tell me”

  “I’m Mr. Dunkovich’s nurse. And I told him about you and Heidi kissing at homecoming. I swear I didn’t think it would do any harm but he was watching you on the television and he was all gaga over you and he’d been sort of flirting with me and”—her lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappeared—“well, you took the Fawn Creek crown from me.”

  “And you didn’t want me taking him,” Jenn said.

  “Yup. But turns out he’s not worth having,” Karin said roughly. “I heard him blackmailing you. That’s … wrong.”

  And as they all knew, Karin Ekkelstahl was not one to tolerate “wrong.”

  “And the picture?”

  “He lied. There is no picture.”

  Jenn waited for the outrage to hit, the realization that all this had been for nothing and that she’d jettisoned a career for no reason at all. But there had been a reason, and it didn’t have anything to do with that stupid butter head.

  She patted a miserable, defiant, and guilty Karin on the arm. “Ah, hon. Don’t knock yourself out over it,” she said and left her behind.

  Steve wasn’t in the bar. He was in her dad’s truck waiting right outside the front of the casino, listening to the radio.

  She scooted in and he grinned at her. Prince, aka Bruno, lumbered up off the floor and popped onto the bench seat between them. Jenny draped an arm over his huge neck and gave him a hug.

  “Are you a hero?” Steve asked casually.

  “Yup.”

  “No one will ever know.”

  “Nope.”

  His grin got wider. “Seems like you’re not the only hero in Fawn Creek. I just heard on the local radio station that some snowplow driver risked his life to dive in after some idiot snowmobiler whose machine broke through the Lake. Saved the guy’s life.”

  “Screw it up or save it. That�
�s the Fawn Creek way,” Jenn said as Steve turned out onto the road, the end of the truck nearly slipping into the ditch as they fishtailed. She would probably need to make him pull over and take over the driving duties in a short while, but he was so obviously having fun and no one else was on the road.

  “So,” she said, trying to find the right tone, “when are you going to be moving here? Because I think I ought to notify the state patrol, since I’ve become so civic minded and all.”

  “Moving here part-time,” he said. “Not full-time. I couldn’t live in a place like this full-time. Neither could you. I mean, we’d go nuts.” He glanced over at her, a little too casually, to see how she reacted to his use of the plural pronoun.

  We. She leaned her head against the seat. She liked it. She might even love it. “You’re probably right. Where are we going now?”

  “Anywhere you want.”

  “What do you say we just head off for a while and see where the road takes us?”

  “Good idea.” Steve smiled at the road ahead.

  “And later,” she said, feeling the contentment spreading through her, “later, we’ll go home.”

  Dear Reader,

  Yes, there are busts made out of butter at the Minnesota State Fair, but not of the fictional “Buttercup finalists” put on by the equally fictitious Minnesota Dairy Federation. Instead, the butter sculptures are of the young women vying for the title “Princess Kay of the Milky Way,” a competition with a long tradition sponsored by the Midwest Dairy Association. No little girl who’s ever visited the “Great Minnesota Get-Together” ever passes up the opportunity to see one of the princesses sitting in her refrigerated kiosk being sculpted.

  Likewise, the northern part of my state has many small towns struggling to find their place in the modern economic climate. Many, unhappily, have already faded into history, while others have reinvented themselves and flourished. There is no Fawn Creek and no Oxlip County, but they have their progenitors in the small towns where I spent long, lazy summer months “up at the cabin” and later those where I lived as an adult. Like my heroine, Jenn Hallesby, my fondness for small towns is based on late-blooming appreciation, respect, a jaundiced eye, and a wry smile.