“Ah, so you think that I could be the best of the worst?” My voice is dripping with sarcasm.
“Something like that,” he responds with a grin.
I’m not so sure but I don’t want to burst his bubble. “Are these people really going to compete? Has Comedy Corner decided that Misty Creek will be the location? Where would all of the people stay? All we have are bed-and-breakfasts—”
Jesse puts up his hands again. “Whoa there, motor mouth. One question at a time.”
“Okay, first tell me, is this a sure thing?”
“Not definitively until today.”
Now, what teenager uses words like definitively? Jesse has been using fifty-cent words since he was a little kid. It occurs to me that winning this money could send him to a fine college that he deserves. “Why today?”
“Well . . .” He starts wiping down the already clean counter so as to avoid looking directly at me. Not a good sign . . .
“Jesse . . .” I say his name in a low-octave voice of warning that used to get his immediate attention. It has little to no effect now but I’m desperate.
“Well, I’ve sort of been showing a couple of big-shot producers from Comedy Corner around Misty Creek for the past week.”
“What?” I squeak two octaves higher and a lot louder. “Why didn’t you tell me about all of this?”
He shrugs. “I guess I didn’t think it was really going to happen so I didn’t want to get you all wound up for nothin’. Comedy Corner had to go through some red tape to get city permits to do the filming and take care of some other legal stuff.”
“But it’s a done deal?”
He nods. “Yep. They’ve rented out Rabbit Run Hunting Lodge. The whole doggone thing. Nothing is in season right now so it was just sitting there empty and there’s plenty of room. The actual dance competition will be filmed live every Saturday night at the Bluegrass Dance Hall.”
“Have all of your suggested contestants signed on to do the show?”
“Except for you. I asked them to wait to approach you since I thought it might take a bit of convincing. Are you willing, Abby?”
I look around the diner that could use some serious updating. I think of my mama, who has worked her fingers to the bone providing for us after my daddy died in a tragic farm-related accident twelve years ago. Without asking for a lick of help she sold the farm to get us out of debt and bought this diner. Yeah, I could send her to a fancy spa for some much-deserved pampering. I think of my old truck that coughs and sputters . . . man, how nice would it be to get a brand-spanking-new pickup with all the trimmings? But most of all I think of my little brother, who deserves the best education that money can buy and who has never asked for a damned thing.
“I’ll do it.”
“Woohoo!” He gives me a very un-Jesse-like whoop and a double knuckle-bump that nearly knocks me over. It’s great to see my laid-back brother so revved up and I’m feeling pretty excited too; but in the back of my head I’m wondering what the hell I just got myself into. While my brain is still trying to wrap itself around this whole thing Jesse is already dialing up someone on his cell phone.
“Well?” I ask when he finally finishes his conversation and hangs up.
“Mitchell Banks, the head producer, wants to meet with you at nine o’clock tomorrow.”
“That’s during the breakfast shift, Jesse!”
“Yes, and he’ll eat breakfast here,” Jesse says patiently. “He just wants to meet you and probably have you sign some paperwork. No big deal, Abby. You can sit a spell with him. Mama won’t mind.”
All of a sudden another thought occurs to me. “What will happen when the show starts? Who will help Mama out?”
Jesse takes a step toward me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Norma can come in early and I’ll work extra hours.”
“No! Not with your class schedule! School comes first, Jesse.”
“I’ve got school under control,” he assures me with a gentle squeeze. “My classes are easy. And if business picks up we’ll hire another waitress. Don’t worry, I won’t let Mama overdo it in your absence.”
I inhale a shaky breath but nod. “Okay. This is just all so unexpected, ya know?”
Jesse grins. “Yeah. It’s about time we had some excitement here in Misty Creek. Things have been rather mundane lately.”
I think mundane means ordinary, so I nod. “When are you gonna tell Mama? Tonight when you get home?”
He takes a step back. “I already have.”
“And she was okay with it? I mean, what if—”
“Abby, stop!”
I’m so surprised by his outburst that I actually quit talking.
Jesse closes his eyes briefly and swallows before saying, “Listen, Mama and I both appreciate all of the time that you’ve put in here at the diner.”
“Well, yeah, it’s our livelihood.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this but it’s making me feel uncomfortable. “Almost sounds like you’re firing me,” I tell him with a laugh.
“Well, you could certainly use a sabbatical.”
This makes me frown at him.
“A break, Abby.”
“I know what sabbatical means,” I hotly assure him with a little head bop . . . and I do, in theory anyway. “So, you and Mama have been discussing the state of my mundane existence?” I cross my arms over my chest and tap my rubber-soled shoe on the floor.
“Ironically, yes, even before this competition was a reality. Let’s face it, Abby. You’ve been in a rut. It’s high time you shook things up a bit and this ballroom competition is the perfect solution.”
“Tell me how you really feel, Jesse. Don’t hold back.” I say this in a joking manner but he doesn’t laugh.
“You deserve a break.”
“We all work hard.”
He nods. “Yeah, but, Abby, you work too damned much. Listen, as much as I want you to win the money, promise me that you’ll have fun with this. If you win, then sweet, but use this as an opportunity to chill . . . have a few laughs, okay? Don’t obsess over winning.”
“Right. . . .” I draw out the word with a shake of my head. “With fifty thousand dollars on the line I’ll just kick back and chill.”
He grins and gives my shoulder a gentle shove. “Okay, you can obsess a little.”
I shove him right back and then tell him, “Go on home. I’ll finish up here.”
Jesse’s grin fades and he gives me one of his usual serious expressions. “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve said that to me?”
My throat sort of closes up but I give him a casual shrug. “Go on . . . get outta here,” I gruffly tell him and give him another shove. I watch him walk out the door all big and grown-up but still my baby brother. I would do anything for him, I think to myself as I grab the broom and begin sweeping, but then I stop in my tracks and lean against the handle. “Me, ballroom dancing on national television? Oh, Lord have mercy.”
2
All Shook Up
0I wake up the next morning in my little apartment above the diner at five thirty on the dot just like I normally do. After I pad across the cool hardwood floor to my bathroom, I attempt to wake myself up with a hot shower and strawberry-scented shampoo. I’m humming a Dierks Bentley tune and squishing my fingers through the warm suds in my hair when I suddenly remember that this isn’t a normal day. My eyes and mouth pop open at the thought, causing some major blinking and sputtering . . . strawberry shampoo does not taste as good as it smells. Good God Almighty, in just a few hours the Comedy Corner guy is going to sign me up for the ballroom dancing show! I decide that I had better shave my legs and armpits even though they don’t really need it and I manage to cut myself twice since my mind is preoccupied with nervous excitement.
Usually, I pull my hair back into a ponytail and apply a minimal amount of makeup for work but today I take some serious pains with my appearance. I go the whole nine yards with eyeliner and three shades of brown eye shadow. I even use th
e eyelash curler even though that contraption sort of scares me . . . always think I might squeeze too hard and chop off my eyelashes. Although I really want to do something nice with my hair I decide to go with the ponytail because of my waitress duties. People don’t take too kindly to having hair in their food.
After taking a deep breath I frown at my reflection in the bathroom mirror looking for something to pluck or slick down, but I’m about as polished as I can get. Even though pretty soon I’ll smell like a walking French fry I decide to splurge with a liberal spray of White Shoulders perfume but then I wrinkle my nose at my uniform wishing that I could wear something more flattering. It’s the old-fashioned white button-up style with the hankie pointing up out of the top pocket. Mama likes to keep a retro look in the diner for the tourists and even though it’s kind of dorky I usually don’t mind. Besides, if they don’t like it, well, they can kiss my grits!
“Oh, crap, it’s getting late,” I mutter after checking my watch. While the lunch and dinner crowd has been down due to lack of tourism, breakfast is still busy with locals. As I hurry down the back steps that lead to the kitchen I can hear Mama attempting to joke with Pete Jenkins, the crusty old cook who looks as old as dirt because of his two-pack-a-day habit. While Pete might be on the grumpy side, he bakes light-as-a-feather biscuits that melt in your mouth. His bacon is always crisp, his eggs fluffy, and his grits creamy so we put up with his sour disposition. Once in a blue moon Mama can coax him into a creaky, wheezing fit of laughter, but not often.
The heavenly scent of freshly perked coffee fills my nose, making me crave a cup. Starting the morning brew is my job and I hate being late for anything, especially work, so I feel a little guilty as I enter the kitchen. Pete’s face is actually crinkled up in a smile from something my mama just said, but when they look up and see me they both straighten up and stop talking, meaning that I’m the topic of conversation. This has been happening a lot lately and I can’t say that I like it.
Mama frowns at me. “Babycakes, why are you dressed like that?”
I glance down at my uniform expecting to see a ketchup stain or something. Mama won’t tolerate anything but a pristine white uniform . . . not an easy task in my line of work, not to mention that I’m a bit on the clumsy side. “What do you mean?”
“You’re in your uniform and that fancy television man is coming.”
“Mama, I’m still gonna work.”
“Well, I suppose.” She purses lips that are lined and glossed a deep red and it strikes me how impeccably groomed Mama is even at this early hour of the morning. Her very big auburn hair is tamed into a classy French twist that’s tight in the back but puffy on top. She looks as fresh as a daisy when most people are still rubbing sleep from their eyes. How she does it, I’ll never know. She frowns at me and says, “I just wish we could dress y’all up a bit.”
“I’m fine like this. After all, Jesse said that they wanted a waitress for the show and, well, here I am.” With my palms up I do a little spin in a circle that ends in a wobble.
“Sure ain’t no dancer,” Pete points out with a little wheezing chuckle.
“I will have professional instruction,” I remind him and would have given him an unladylike gesture if Mama hadn’t been standing right there. No, I’m not giving him the finger . . . I’m too well raised for that! But I’m not above sticking out my tongue.
“We’ll see about that,” Mama tells Pete a bit sharply while she arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow, shutting him right up.
Dang, I wish I were as put together as my mother. In a little while I’ll be blowing loose locks of hair out of my face while waiting tables, but Mama will somehow remain stain-free, sweat-free, and with each and every strand of her hair swept back from her fine-boned face. Although Mama is soft-spoken and tiny she’s a steel magnolia through and through, capable of both southern charm and intense intimidation. To put it simply: don’t mess with my mama.
“You’ll do just fine,” Mama assures me as she slices open a box of coffee creamers with a razorblade knife. I was removed from this particular task after a couple of misfortunate mishaps requiring stitches. “With those long legs you’re built to be a dancer, Abilene. Not only that but you’re a hard worker and a quick learner. You just might surprise yourself.” She gives me a warm smile and then turns around to get the small bowls for the creamers.
Pete snorts and since Mama has her back to me I resort to sticking out my tongue and he chuckles. Okay, so I’m not the most graceful of people. Jesse and I both inherited our daddy’s height and I’ve always had longer arms and legs than I’ve known what to do with. The locals know this and hold on to their water glasses and coffee cups when I serve them. Mama’s right, though, that I am a hard worker and a quick study. I just hope that my dance partner has a lot of patience . . . and a healthy sense of humor.
I’m taking the tray of saltshakers around to the tables when the first customers come in. Of course as luck would have it we’re extra busy on the one and only day when I’m wishing for a lighter morning rush. When I see Mama pouring a steaming cup of coffee to a distinguished-looking man with slate-gray hair, tanned skin, and perfect teeth I gather that it’s Mitchell Banks from Comedy Corner. He’s wearing a soft-looking dark blue sweater with a starched collar peeking out of the neck, neatly pressed gray slacks, and shiny brown loafers with tassels, making him stand out from all of the truckers, construction workers, farmers, and a smattering of tourists. Quite frankly, I was expecting someone young and California hip, not some older gentleman who appears to be . . . flirting with my mama . . .
And she appears to be flirting right back! “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” I whisper. Clutched in one hand is her coffeepot and her other hand is waving in the air in an animated fashion while she chats. Now, don’t get me wrong, my mother is a fine-looking woman and in my opinion doesn’t look her age of forty-eight years. She gets hit on all the time, but in the twelve years since my daddy’s passing I have never even seen her glance twice at another man . . . until now. One might think that she might be kissing up but my mother’s not like that at all. When she turns and motions to me I realize that I’m standing in the middle of the diner gawking at them. Taking a deep breath, I walk over to the booth and paste a smile on my face.
“Abilene, I’d like you to meet Mitchell Banks from Comedy Corner.”
I grasp his hand when he politely stands up. “How do you do?” His handshake is firm and he gives me a warm smile, making me relax a bit. His eyes are a gorgeous shade of light blue accentuated by his deep tan and I can see why my mother is smitten.
He gestures to the bench seat that’s cracked and patched with duct tape, reminding me how important this interview really is. “Please join me, Abilene.”
“I’ll leave you two to discuss your business,” my mother tells him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Banks.”
“My pleasure,” he responds in a deep voice that has Mama all a-flutter. She blushes a pretty shade of pink that makes her appear young and sort of . . . wistful. My throat closes up when it occurs to me that my mother has been such a rock for Jesse and me and deserves to enjoy the softer, sweeter side of life.
As I slide into the cool vinyl seat, I notice that Mitchell Banks watches Mama walk away from the table, not in a leering kind of way, but with male appreciation. What makes me smile, though, is that my mother has just a hint of sway in her hips that I’ve never noticed before. “So, Mr. Banks, tell me about this ballroom dancing competition.”
“You can call me Mitch,” he says before taking a sip of his coffee. “Wow, this is good.” He seems surprised, making me guess that fancy Starbucks is his usual choice.
“We use one hundred percent Colombian beans, real cream, butter, and fresh eggs here at Sadie’s Diner,” I inform him with a measure of pride. “Mama is a firm believer in using the real thing. She never cuts corners or sacrifices quality in order to turn a profit.”
“Smart woman,” he says with a smile.
I give him a serious nod but I’m feeling a bit foolish about my little speech. I’m not quite sure why I just told him all that other than the fact that I still don’t really like that Misty Creek is going to be made fun of.
“You’re proud of this town, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I admit to him even though I’m not sure where he’s going with this.
“And you’re not too keen on being laughed at.”
With a slight hesitation, I nod again, realizing that I may have just given the wrong answer.
“But the chance of winning fifty thousand dollars is too good to pass up.”
Feeling the color rise in my cheeks I give him an honest nod of my head.
“Do you ever watch Comedy Corner, Abilene?”
Crap. “I don’t get the opportunity to watch much TV,” I tell him, which is pretty much true. I decide to leave out the part about not liking or understanding some of the shows. “My brother is a big fan, though,” I quickly add, trying to remember some of the buzzwords Jesse used yesterday. Oh yeah . . . “He enjoys the political satire and the . . . um . . . parodies and spoofs on pop culture.” I give him a serious frown and lean forward to show my sincerity. I notice that his lips twitch and I wonder if I pronounced one of the words wrong . . . I do that sometimes. “Did I say something amusing?” I ask but then almost clamp my hand over my big-ass mouth. Oh, why did I have to go and say that?
“No, not at all,” he assures me smoothly with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle. “I’m just enjoying your southern drawl. I love how you give words extra syllables.”
“I do?”
He chuckles. “You doo-oo.”
“Yankees love makin’ fun of how we talk,” I say with a sigh. “They think that having an accent means that you’re stupid.”
He takes another sip of his coffee and then says, “I’m not making fun, Abilene. I’m enjoying it. There’s a big difference.”
“Okay,” I tell him with a shrug. “No offense taken.”
“None intended. Listen, on Comedy Corner we poke fun at just about everything, sometimes just for laughs but more often than not to prove a point. Dancing with the Rednecks is supposed to be a spoof on reality television and how insane our culture has become. But you have to be willing to laugh at yourself, too.”
Dancing Shoes and Honky-Tonk Blues Page 2
