by Molly Harper
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MY BLUEGRASS BABY
Molly Harper
Pocket Star Books
New York London Toronto Sydney New Delhi
Don’t forget to click through after
MY BLUEGRASS BABY
for an exclusive sneak peek at Molly Harper’s next delightful novel
A Witch’s Handbook of Kisses & Curses
Available June 2013 from Pocket Books
Contents
Acknowledgments
1. In Which I Sing Praises to the Porcelain Goddess
2. In Which I Smile Like a Serial Killer
3. In Which I Turn My Workplace into Animal Planet
4. In Which I Push a Colleague out of a Metaphorical Lifeboat
5. In Which I Am Stranded with Ho Hos
6. In Which I Learn New and Disturbing Acronyms
7. In Which Josh Is a Tease
8. In Which I Lose My Bloomers
9. In Which Murdering Kelsey Seems Like a Viable Option
10. In Which Our State Fair Is a Great State Fair
11. In Which I Touch Potential Employees Inappropriately
Afterword
A Witch’s Handbook of Kisses & Curses Excerpt
Acknowledgments
This book series came about because my agent, Stephany, frequently sends me links to news stories about Kentucky—usually about something bizarre, like a man being treed by a possum or someone eating aluminum siding on a dare—asking, “Have you seen this?” with a note of amusement/amazement. In fairness, she also sent me a story in which a possum was trapped in a New York City subway car.
It’s difficult for outsiders to understand what it’s like to grow up in the Bluegrass State. I’ve said before that living in Kentucky is a mixture of the sublime and the ridiculous. I love my home state. I love my neighbors. But I will admit that we seem to have more quirkiness per capita than any commonwealth has a right to. And somehow, we manage to get through life with humor and bite.
This story is set in a highly fictionalized version of a state tourism office. I’m sure actual state employees would behave much more responsibly than my characters. Some of the festivities described herein reflect real events, while others have been altered because of timing or to protect the innocent. I’d like to thank the Kentucky Department of Travel for the information provided by their offices and Jeffrey Scott Holland, author of Weird Kentucky, for confirming that my state is just as weird and wonderful as I have always believed.
And of course, thanks go to my parents, who moved me to Kentucky in the first place.
In Which I Sing Praises to the Porcelain Goddess
1
If one is going to spend her afternoon singing hymns to the great porcelain goddess, she might as well do it in a really plush ladies’ room.
Stupid fear of public speaking.
I slumped against the expensive inlaid-marble floor of the McBrides’ overdecorated bathroom, careful not to wrinkle my peridot-colored skirt. Margene McBride, grand dame of Louisville society and a heavy hitter in the circles that still respected that sort of thing, had informed me that the ungodly pink marble had been imported from Italy while she and her husband were building the house. Apparently no other flooring perfectly matched the pink-and-gold Barbie princess toilet.
Rich people are weird.
Fabulously decadent or no, the marble hurt my knees just as much as plain old home-improvement-store-brand tile. Groaning, I cupped my face in my hands, careful not to smudge my artfully applied eye makeup. Held nearly a month before the Kentucky Derby, the annual Derby Hat Parade and Auction raised a considerable amount of money for Louisville’s homeless charities and was the unofficial kickoff to the Kentucky Commission on Tourism’s busy season. As the KCT’s assistant director of marketing, it was my job to find new and interesting ways to lure visitors and vacationers to the state’s parks, campgrounds, museums, and strange little roadside attractions.
While I wasn’t the keynote speaker by any means, it was my job to introduce the lieutenant governor’s wife as she opened the runway show. And, more importantly, I would be announcing the commission’s marketing campaign for the Kentucky Derby, which I’d designed from start to finish on the theme of “A Rose by Any Other Name.” The Derby was known as the Run for the Roses, so I’d designed a series of ads and displays discussing odd names of Derby winners past, such as Funny Cide, Mine That Bird, and Genuine Risk. (How do you justify betting on a horse named Genuine Risk?) It was the first project I’d put together entirely on my own, without the input of my mentor, marketing director Ray Brackett. It was undoubtedly my baby. I’d labored for hours, selecting the most interesting horse names and just the right images from the Kentucky Derby Museum’s archives. I’d bugged the absolute hell out of the staff at Churchill Downs, asking for their feedback at various stages of the development. And I was sinfully proud of my work.
The campaign was playful, informative, and intended to bring in longtime horse enthusiasts and first-time infielders alike. And I couldn’t wait to share it with people. I’d beg forgiveness for saying it myself, but it proved that I was ready to step into Ray’s shoes. This was the part I enjoyed about the creative process, watching people get it, that flash of amusement across their faces as a humorous tagline hit its mark. I loved that wow moment when they gleaned some fascinating new factoid about Kentucky from something I’d written.
My Derby campaign was being used as a springboard for the commission’s summer program lineup and my promotion to director of marketing. Ray was retiring after nearly twenty years with the commission and had informed his superiors that I was the only person he trusted to run it after he left. Since the promotion was just a matter of my signing a few papers, Ray had already planned a nice celebration to take place as soon as we got back to our offices in Frankfort. I just had to survive this afternoon.
Dozens of local debutantes waited in the wings just off Margene’s impeccably manicured gardens, eager to model elaborate milliners’ confections of architecturally unlikely bows, feathers, and silk flowers that made the royal family look like headgear amateurs. The hats, contributed by design students from Western Kentucky University, were all up for auction, with the proceeds sponsoring various shelters and food pantries. The headwear models were waiting for me to get it together long enough to step out in front of the crowd.
This always happened before I spoke in front of large crowds. The anxiety, the imagined scenarios involving tripping as I took the podium or realizing my skirt was tucked into the back of my panty hose, always wound me up to the point of nausea. Once I got out there, I would be fine. I would be charming and funny, without a tremor or hitch to my voice. It was just a question of working up the nerve to approach the mic.
“Come on out of there, woman,” an exasperated voice called from the other side of the mahogany bathroom door. Heaving myself up from the floor, I stumbled into the beautifully appointed seating area and plopped onto a mauve silk settee. Cool, slim hands brushed my hair away from my face and pressed a mini-bottle of wintergreen Scope into my palm.
Ray’s assistant, Kelsey Wade, carried these things for me in her giant Mary Poppins purse. Kelsey was one of those “Jack of all
trades” people. She had been hired a few years after me, fresh out of college. Though she’d only worked with the team for a little more than a year, she knew a bit about everything and seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to anticipating our needs. The third month we’d worked together, I found a new bottle of Midol in my desk drawer and we had to have a talk about boundaries.
With Ray’s retirement approaching, we’d been transferring her responsibilities to my side of the office more and more over the past few months. She and I were the perfect office team. Though she appeared to be a mess due to occasional clumsiness and atrophied verbal filters, she was actually organized to a fault, whereas I was a classic swan. As calm and poised as I might seem, I was paddling and twitching like mad under the surface. So she made sure I was prepared for meetings, and, in return, I was the first to tell her when she had a Post-it stuck to the back of her skirt.
“I love you, Kels, I really do.” I sighed before swigging the Scope.
Kelsey ignored my toadying. “We’ve discussed the fact that there are therapists or hypnotists who could help you deal with this, right?”
“I’ve tried; doesn’t work,” I grumbled after spitting the mouth rinse into the pink-and-gold sink. “I actually started smoking for a while after the hypnotist appointment, which was counterintuitive. Once I get out there, I’ll be fine. It’s just the anticipation.”
I blew out a long (freshened) breath and surveyed the damage in the beveled glass mirror. I brushed a little blush over my pale cheeks and spread a fresh coat of pink gloss over a wide, slightly pouty mouth. I knew I was pretty. That wasn’t vanity talking. It was just the one area I knew I had covered. I had slim lines, a delicate bone structure, and wide, almond-shaped hazel eyes framed by subtly highlighted chestnut hair. Said hair required a thorough combing, as it had frazzled out of its low French twist while I was “indisposed.”
I was polished and presentable, but Kelsey was built like one of those pinup girls they used to paint on World War II airplanes: abundant dark waves and cornflower-blue eyes fringed by thick lashes, not to mention high, full breasts and a rear that made delivery men volunteer for our route just to ogle. Perhaps this sounds like I’ve given an unusual amount of attention to a coworker’s body, but we’d discussed her body-image issues many times over one too many glasses of wine during our “woe is me” single-girl chats. She thought no one took her seriously because of her age and what she saw as “extra weight.” I suggested perhaps it had more to do with the fact that she sometimes had fistfights with toner cartridges and had been known to yell Game of Thrones quotes at unruly baristas. She told me I would pay the iron price for my insolence. Which only proved my point.
I ran a nervous hand over my white silk shell and Kelsey helped me slip back into my light green suit jacket. “I also brought extra shoes, just in case—” She peered down and saw that my consignment-store Manolos were splash free. “Nope, we’re good. You’re getting much better at this.”
She handed me an extra-wide light green picture hat, which I pinned carefully over my dark hair. I wondered momentarily whether I’d be able to clear the door without tilting my head. I certainly understood why women wore these things when they were fashionable. In addition to the drama and elegance they practically forced on the wearer, they were even better than lace fans when it came to obscuring pesky emotions or avoiding the gaze of an undesirable. This was not my preferred mode of dress. At home, I wore an assortment of increasingly shabby yoga pants and T-shirts stolen from old boyfriends. For work and official gatherings, however, I had a wardrobe of elegant, boring-as-hell two-piece suits and silky shells. I picked up this pastel rainbow of sophistication at Unique Repeats, a high-end consignment shop owned by Angela Moser, a college classmate. The irony of Angela’s business was that the worse the economic climate, the better her inventory and sales. The Louisville ladies who lunched weren’t about to stop shopping, but dwindling clothes budgets had them discreetly reselling last season’s clothes for quick cash. I did worry I would run into the woman who’d sold the clothes in the first place. My only defense was making the outfits less recognizable through creative scarf use, my grandmother’s old costume jewelry, and the designer shoes Angela scoured from department store remainders and boutique returns.
“One of these days you’re going to get pregnant and combine morning sickness with this pre-speaking phobia stuff. And on that day, I will quit and move to Bolivia,” Kelsey informed me solemnly. “Because there are limits to what I will put up with in the name of a paycheck.”
“You have to have sex to get pregnant,” I retorted as she moved closer to the mirror and pulled out her own makeup bag. “Stop laughing, none of this is funny.”
She stopped painting her full lips bloody-murder red long enough to retort, “That’s where you’re wrong.”
• • •
As gorgeous and well tended as Margene’s garden was, I’d been concerned about holding the Derby hat show there. April weather was notoriously fickle in Kentucky. It was either sunny and hot or cloudy and cold. When I suggested a rain plan, Margene looked at me as if I were slightly daft. The clouds wouldn’t dare gather over a Margene McBride event, she said. And she was right. The sun shone from a perfect robin’s-egg-blue sky, casting perfect golden light over the well-dressed crowd as they milled around the velvety green lawn.
I was starting to suspect Margene McBride had some sort of supervillain weather machine.
Like many indecently rich people in Louisville, Margene’s husband was a horse enthusiast. The courtyard directly off the back of their showplace was a perfect replica of the gardens below Churchill Downs’ twin spires, down to the purple phlox flower beds centered around a copy of the bronze statue of Aristedes, the very first winner of the Kentucky Derby. Our plan was to let the debs/models strut down the stone walkway around the statue and then take a turn in front of the assembled lawn chairs, then go back to the house to change. There were open bars flanking the garden, which should get the ladies who lunch in a bidding mood.
Well, that, and the fact that Kelsey was going to be wandering around the crowd pretending to be a guest and starting bidding wars over certain “must be sold or will be burned” specimens. And while there were several of those—a pink silk monstrosity involving cabbage roses and magenta ruching, for example—most of them were going to sell like hotcakes. The students had certainly gone all out this year. I wasn’t allowed to bid, but given the opportunity, I couldn’t decide whether I would throw in for the lemon-yellow confection with the wide white brim and the white-and-yellow-checked ribbon or the slanting sapphire Gainsborough with the birdcage veil.
I stood at the small portable bar, waiting for the black-tied bartender to fill my order and discreetly going over my notecards.
“I’m sorry, but what the heck is that?” a voice sounded to my left. I turned to find one of the best-looking men I have ever seen in this or any lifetime. Blue-on-blue eyes, cut-glass cheekbones, and a beestung, brooding mouth rarely seen this side of telenovelas. His sandy hair was artfully styled in that intentionally careless way that required more product than I used in my own. His suit was slate blue and tailored, hugging a tall, muscled frame.
My face dropped out of its practiced gracious smile and I made an incredibly undignified squeak. The beautiful man flashed a million-watt grin and if I wasn’t mistaken, his eyes were trained directly on my drink, a strange, sickly yellow soda mixture garnished with a lime slice.
That was disappointing.
“G-ginger ale and Sprite with lime,” I stammered. “Old family remedy.”
“Nervous, huh?” He clucked his tongue sympathetically. When I started to halfheartedly object, he added, “Shaky hands, slightly pale under your makeup. You have a very interesting tell, by the way. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth and sort of worry it back and forth.”
I frowned up at him. “How
closely have you been watching me?”
“Pretty closely,” he said, giving me that lopsided, boyish grin. It was almost enough to put me off filing the necessary restraining-order paperwork. “So, are you with the Ladies Auxiliary?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Josh Vaughn.” He stretched his hand toward mine and it seemed like he was going to honest-to-God lean over it and kiss my knuckles. I was caught between ingrained female instincts to flutter over such a gesture and the urge to yank my hand out of range. This seemed awfully intimate, pressing your mouth against someone’s fingers when you didn’t know them or their hand-washing routine very well. I resolved my confusion by bobbing my hand up and down in a shaking movement, making it a moving target.
“Sadie Hutchins,” I said politely, withdrawing my hand.
There was a flash of recognition in his eyes and the corners of his mouth sagged. “Sadie Hutchins? You’re Sadie Hutchins?”
I tilted my head, scanning his face again to jog my memory. The brim of my hat nearly caught his chin, but he didn’t even flinch. There was no way we knew each other. Surely I would have remembered someone who looked like him. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
Just then, Ray appeared at my elbow, eyeing Josh Vaughn with something close to panic. “Sadie, can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Ray.” Josh smiled warmly and extended his hand for a shake. “Good to see you again.”
Mr. Perfect Pants knew my boss? How did Mr. Perfect Pants know my boss? What was going on here? I could tell that there was something wrong. Ray was using his big, fake, “I am trying to prevent a scene” smile. The last time I’d seen that smile, we’d had to fish a comptroller’s wife out of a duck pond.
Ray gave our new “friend” a curt nod and looped his arm through mine, leading me toward the patchwork of rosebushes. Rail thin from frequent marathons and sporting a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, Ray was more than just a boss; he was a father figure, a friend. I was sorry to see him retire. But I was really looking forward to getting his office. I liked my cozy, feminine office with its refurbished walnut desk, biscuit-colored walls, and cardinal-themed knickknacks, a salute to my beloved alma mater, the University of Louisville. But Ray’s office had a window. I had been working in artificial lighting for far too long.
