Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two

by Stephanie Taylor

  Holly takes off her hat and runs a hand through her long hair. The morning already feels like it’s been three days long. “I just—I don’t know. It kind of feels like psychological warfare,” she admits, setting her beloved baseball cap on top of the desk between them.

  Wayne huffs. “It’s standard reality show mechanics. We manipulate the players and then edit the show to tell the story we want to tell.” He laces his fingers together and wraps his hands around the knee that’s resting on top of the other one. “Surely you didn’t imagine that a television network would invest millions of dollars in a program where they just rolled film and watched a bunch of people bumble around and do whatever they wanted to.”

  “I’m not sure what I imagined, but…it wasn’t this,” Holly admits. The stuff she’s seen on-set so far looked like standard reality show competition fare, but the manipulations of the players’ personal items that she’d seen before the cast arrived, and the request to have background info on Jake in order to force him and Bridget into a pseudo-relationship have her feeling concerned.

  “Listen,” Wayne says, his smile widening to reveal a mouth full of white teeth. “Nothing that’s going on here is out of the norm—I can assure you of that. And the network loves this island; the dailies we’re sending back are knocking their socks off,” he says, square hands held up in surrender, his smooth palms facing Holly. “You all have a great thing going here, and we can’t wait for the finale when we bring the last two competitors over to this side of the island. It’s going to make for great TV when they see Main Street and have a romantic dinner on the patio at your little bistro.”

  “How do you know it’s going to be romantic?” Holly asks defiantly.

  “Because, Holly, we know how this is going to end,” Wayne says firmly, dropping his own chin in response to her movements. It’s an interesting show of body language between them, and Holly refuses to be the first to look away as they stare at one another across the desk. “And it’s going to end with a proposal between Jake and Bridget.”

  “So you’re asking me to do what?”

  “I’m asking you to arrange an engagement party at that bar on the beach.”

  Holly shakes her head and looks out the window. Saturday morning on Main Street is as busy as any other day, and she watches as Ray Bradford parks in front of North Star Cigars and steps inside. Through the big picture window of Cap’s store, she can see him step from behind the counter to greet Ray, Marco perched on his shoulder as usual. She looks back at Wayne.

  “It feels weird. And wrong.”

  “It feels like what you agreed to, Mayor.” Wayne pats the top of her desk. “Look at it this way: you help us make a great show—I mean, really compelling TV—and we’ll edit the show to make this island look like the paradise that it is. You stand to reap the rewards of us making a hit, which was your goal all along, no?”

  Pucci stands up from his dog bed and slinks across the office to sit at his mistress’s feet.

  Holly shrugs. “I suppose so, but this feels like the wrong way to do it. What happens when the cameras stop rolling and the show is over?”

  “Ideally we’ll have a follow-up wedding to televise, but if not, we’ll at least end this show with a blowout surprise engagement that will leave the audience completely satisfied.”

  “And these two humans whose lives you’ve doctored just to get ratings?” Holly asks, picking up her hat and folding the bill between her hands absentmindedly. “What happens to them?”

  “Bridget is an actress, Holly. She’s in for a penny, in for a pound here,” Wayne says confidently. “And Jake is a grown man who can handle himself. Besides, who are we to say it won’t work out between them?” He offers this bon mot as if it ties the whole package up in a neat bow.

  Holly opens her mouth to protest, but instead ends up stammering incoherently.

  “Think it over—weigh the pros and cons,” Wayne urges, pushing back from the desk and standing. “This isn’t some devious, evil plan to ruin the lives of unwitting innocents,” he says, slipping one hand into the deep pocket of his cargo pants. “Anyone who gets involved with a reality show knows the risks and the expectations. We’re creating entertainment here; performance art, if you will.”

  Holly tosses her Yankees hat back on the desk and sets her elbows on the chair’s armrests.

  “Just swing by the set and have a look. If anyone appears to be under duress, I’ll let you off the hook and handle it all myself.” He looks at Holly with dark, flashing eyes full of challenge and amusement. “But if you see that everyone is there competing freely, then I’d ask you to consider lending a hand. It’ll pay off in the end for you, I promise.” Wayne looks at her for a long minute before he turns and walks out the door.

  Chapter 18

  The chosen space for Ray and Millie Bradford’s salon, Scissors & Ribbons, is the site of a former denture shop inside Poinsettia Plaza. So few of Christmas Key’s residents wore dentures that the shop never really took off, but H. Gerald Biggins had always hoped that it would. Finally, with the passing of his old friend Frank Baxter and at the behest of his eldest daughter, he’d decamped to Maine and left his equipment behind. Now, there’s a big, empty room to be filled with all the accoutrements of a beauty salon, and a small area in the back that can be turned into an office just as soon as the Bradfords get the denture fitting and repair machinery removed.

  Millie has invited Fiona to stop by after closing up her own office in the building on Wednesday evening, and she’s also asked Holly, Bonnie, Iris and Emily Cafferkey, and the triplets to come over and check things out with her. The women of the island have been eyeballing the empty storefront eagerly ever since Millie announced her intentions at the last village council meeting, and they can’t wait to hear her plans.

  “I’m so excited about this,” Millie says, smoothing her hands over the thighs of her jeans. “I want the hair dryers to be lined up along that wall,” she says, pointing at the far wall that she’ll share with Fiona’s doctor’s office, “and a mani-pedi station over in this corner.” Millie paces across the room and stops, indicating the spot where she’ll set up a table for her nail polishes and acrylic supplies.

  “I’m sure the men of Christmas Key will thank you, darlin’,” Bonnie says, observing the empty space. “When’s the last time a gent around these parts got to pass an evening with a professionally coiffed woman in his arms?”

  Glen giggles and pats her own neat, blonde bob.

  “Not to mention the pedicures,” Holly adds. “There are way too many sandals and flip-flops running around this island for us not to have a callus grinder and a foot soaking tub on hand.”

  “And you’ll do big business at Mother’s Day and Christmas, doll,” Bonnie says. “The men will line up to buy gift certificates.”

  Millie grins, her eyes full of possibility as she looks around the big, empty room. It’s been years since she’s had her own storefront, and the hustle and bustle—the creativity and companionship—will be good for her and for the island.

  “How long do you think it’ll take to get this all set up?” Fiona asks, walking over to the dusty floor-to-ceiling window that looks onto Main Street. She rubs a spot on the glass until she can see the B&B’s front door across the street.

  “I’m not sure,” Millie admits. “I need to make sure my licensure is all set up in Florida, and I’ll have to think about hiring someone to work the front desk. And then there’s the issue of whether I want to do everything myself, or hire someone to move out here and offer services with me.”

  “You mentioned massage,” Bonnie points out. “Are you licensed for that?”

  “No, that would be something I’d have to hire out for. Maybe I could get someone to come over once a week and do a full day, you know? I bet that could work.” Her face is flushed with excitement.

  “This is going to be awesome, Millie,” Holly says. “I don’t think we should put off the celebration one second longer.” She pulls
a foil-wrapped bottle of champagne from her tote bag. “Do you have the cups?” Holly turns to Bonnie and holds out a hand.

  “Of course—I wouldn’t fall down on an important job like that,” Bonnie says, handing over a stack of red plastic cups from the B&B’s kitchen. Holly passes them over to Fiona to hand out.

  “Then let’s make a toast,” Holly says, struggling with the bottle as she unwinds the wire cage that surrounds the cork. With a small twist and a grimace, Holly manages to get the cork to pop. “I didn’t even spill!” she crows, setting the mouth of the bottle over the cup that Gwen holds out to her. Holly moves around the small circle, making sure everyone has champagne frothing in their plastic cups. “Okay,” she says. “We want to welcome Scissors & Ribbons to the island, and to offer our love and support as you open your new business here on Main Street.” Holly holds her cup in the air.

  “Yes, let’s all thank Millie for making us sexy again!” Bonnie hoots, holding her cup of champagne aloft next to Holly’s. “I mean, let’s thank her for making the rest of y’all sexy—I’ve been that way all along,” she says, breaking into a hearty laugh.

  The women give a whoop of joy. Holly and Bonnie touch the lips of their cups together knowingly, watching as Millie goes back to showing everyone around the room, describing her imaginary set-up in detail once more.

  “We’re doing it, Bon,” Holly says quietly. “Every day is a new step on the path to a bigger, better Christmas Key.”

  “Don’t I know it, sugar.” Bonnie drains her champagne. “Got any more of that bubbly?”

  “I do. Why don’t you share it with everyone and make sure Millie gets home safely in case she gets tipsy.”

  “Where are you off to?” Bonnie’s looks at Holly over the rim of her cup.

  “I need to run to the set this evening.”

  “Everything okay over there?”

  Holly pauses. She wants to tell Bonnie that yes, everything is wonderful, but between Coco’s short visit (she’d left the island on the supply delivery boat without another word to anyone on Saturday), Cap’s aggressive mayoral campaigning, and her discomfort over getting roped into the network’s manipulations and orchestrations with regards to Jake and Bridget, the truth is that things aren’t fine.

  The other women are oohing and aahing over talk of shampoo bowls and semi-permanent hair colors, so Holly drags Bonnie over to the doorway where they can talk out of earshot.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about this,” she starts, looking around as if the walls might have ears.

  “What, sugar? What is it?”

  “Well…they’re trying to create a relationship between Jake and this, this—woman,” Holly says. “And it really bugs me to see him being used like that.”

  “How do they ‘create’ a relationship, doll? Either there is one or there isn’t.”

  “That’s what you might think,” Holly says, holding up a finger, “but then you’d be wrong. In the world of reality television, all they have to do is starve you and deprive you of sleep, and then they can get you to do anything they want.”

  “So, wait just a cotton-picking minute here and let me get this straight: are you telling me that these fancy TV people are doing something to make Jake fall in fake love?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he could be falling in real love.” Her face is serious. “But that’s not my business. I just don’t want them to use him and throw him away like he’s not a real person.”

  “I know, sugar: you don’t want them to make him look like a fool.”

  “At least not any more than I already have,” Holly adds softly.

  “You did no such thing, Holly Jean Baxter. You two were good and broken up when River came to town. Don’t go around trying to take the weight of the world onto your own shoulders—there’s no call for that,” Bonnie says reproachfully. “Now what proof do we have that they’re using Office Zavaroni as a made-for-TV love machine?”

  Holly snickers at Bonnie’s description of Jake. “Well, they basically blackmailed me until I agreed to break into his house and find some juicy details they can feed to Bridget so that she can reel him in.”

  “Ooooh, sugar. That’s not good,” Bonnie says in a stage whisper. The triplets are circling the room, and Holly moves in closer to Bonnie. Both women have been on the island long enough to know that even your closest neighbors and friends can carry a torch of gossip and start a wildfire without meaning to.

  “Want to take a walk?” Holly nods at the door leading onto Main Street.

  “Sure, let’s tell Millie we’re going.”

  The women toss their champagne cups in the trash and give Millie congratulatory hugs before heading out into the autumn evening.

  “So, how in the world did they blackmail you? I’ve never known a person with less dirt to dig through than you,” Bonnie says.

  “It’s dumb. They acted like the network was going to be furious that I ruined their picture-perfect Thanksgiving dinner by giving them vegetarian food instead of a giant turkey to put on the table.”

  “Wait—that’s it? That is dumb,” Bonnie agrees. “I’m surprised that was enough to convince you to hand over details about Jake’s personal life.”

  “I already feel like an ass, so thank you for confirming it.”

  “Honey, I’m not trying to make you feel worse.” There is concern on Bonnie’s face. “Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

  “Nah, it’s okay. You’re allowed to tell me when I’m being an idiot. But now I have to make it right,” Holly says definitively. “I can’t let these people swoop in here and play Jake for a fool just to get ratings.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I think I’m probably thinking what you’re thinking,” Holly ventures with caution. “But not if it involves Wyatt Bender doing belly shots off you on top of the bar at Jack Frosty’s.”

  Bonnie stops on the sidewalk and reaches for Holly’s arm as she throws her head back and hoots. “Oh, sugar! The things you come up with, I swear.” Bonnie bends forward at the waist, one arm holding her stomach as she laughs. “Me on top of a bar—that’ll be the day!”

  “You can’t honestly tell me it would be the first time.”

  “Well,” Bonnie says, breathless as she tries to compose herself. “Between you, me, and the fencepost, Holly Jean—I might not say no to a little whisky-and-Wyatt combo, but there’ll certainly be no body shots, doll. And I’m not confirming or denying whether or not this derrière has ever been on top of a bar.” Bonnie pats her round behind with a mischievous smile.

  “Hey, you can’t blame a girl for having an imagination.” Holly puts an arm around Bonnie’s shoulders now that she’s finally stopped laughing. “Okay, what were you really thinking?”

  “Before you got me all hot and bothered thinking about cowboys and booze?”

  “Am I really supposed to believe you didn’t already have cowboys and booze on the brain?”

  “Good point,” Bonnie says as they start to walk again. “Anyway, I know you’re thinking what I’m really thinking.”

  They look at each other and nod. “Emergency village council meeting,” the women say in unison.

  “You got it,” Bonnie confirms, serious once again. “Let’s get this ball rolling.”

  “Perfect. I’ll swing by the set first thing in the morning to see what’s going on,” Holly says.

  “And I’ll call a meeting for Friday morning. Sound good?”

  “Not as good as cowboys and booze,” Holly cracks, “but better than what I’ve got so far.”

  “It’s a deal, sugar. Now go on home and do your naked video chatting thing with that hunk from Oregon.” Bonnie gives her a light shove.

  “Oh, Bon.” Holly rolls her eyes as they peel away from one another at the B&B. Holly’s parked her cart in the lot at the inn, and Bonnie’s golf cart is just down Main Street in front of Mistletoe Morning Brew. “This ‘naked video chatting’ business is definitely a figment of y
our imagination.”

  “Hey,” Bonnie laughs as she turns on the sidewalk to face Holly. “You can’t blame a girl for having an imagination!”

  Holly walks up the path to the set of Wild Tropics around ten-thirty the next morning. She’s left her shoes on the seat of the golf cart so she can trudge through the cool, powdery sand barefoot.

  Wayne Coates nods at Holly from his director’s chair by the fire pit. He’s got a clipboard resting on his crossed legs, and he’s holding a walkie-talkie to one ear. This visit is unplanned, and Holly is surprised at how casual everyone is when they see her. The cameramen give her familiar smiles, and even Leanna glances over and waves as she sets up a shot inside one of the tents.

  At Wayne’s behest, Holly had visited the set over the weekend to see if anyone appeared to be acting against their will, but the competitors had been off shore, paddling furiously in two-person kayaks when she arrived. Holly had shielded her eyes, staring at the primary colors of the boats on the horizon, a little skiff with a motor following close behind to catch the action on camera. With no Jake and no Bridget to observe, she’d made a perfunctory tour of the set, saying hello and asking polite questions about how the crew was enjoying the island before leaving the beach and Wayne’s smirking face behind.

  Now, with the competitors kicking a soccer ball around in the sand, doing yoga stretches, and ducking in and out of tents, Holly pulls her Mets hat lower over her eyes and approaches the closest crew member—a guy named Ryan with gangly limbs, smooth skin, and the dark, floppy hair of a teenager.

  “Hey. You here to drop off more tofu and bran disguised as real food?” Ryan asks, one side of his mouth turned up. He’s winding an orange extension cord around a spool, his tan forearms lean and roped with veins.

  “Nope, no fake food this time. I’m just here to visit,” Holly says, digging in the sand with her right foot. She reaches for the back of her baseball cap and holds her palm flat against her head. “Hey,” she asks, voice low and confidential. “Let me ask you something. Do you think the contestants are weirded out when a strange face pops up here?”