by Molly Harper
“Miss Martha saw you in the shower?”
“Out of all that, that’s what ya picked up on?” He frowned.
“I am not going to comment on the three-piece suit, who was asking me out at the moment you walked in. Because I wasn’t interested in him. He was very nice. But I doubt that our ideas of a good time would have matched up. I’m pretty sure he would faint if I handed him a plate of burgoo. And my job, my background isn’t going to change. If you can’t get past what you think I deserve, I don’t know what to tell you . . . except that I care about you and you make me laugh, when you’re not annoying the hell out of me.”
He grinned and bent his head to kiss me, and I ducked my head out of the way. “This is the part where you tell me you won’t freak out and hide from me instead of talking to me when things get difficult.”
“Bonnie, I want to know where this could go. I know it wouldn’t be the same as livin’ in a big city, but I think you could make a home in Mud Creek. And I know for a fact the local government is very historian friendly.”
I reached up and slapped at his chest, even as he kissed me.
“I really, really want to,” I told him. “But my job is here.”
“We’d work it out,” he told me. “There’s no rule that says this has to be your home base, right? You could, what’s it called, telecommute? And when you have meetings, I could drive you here to Frankfort. You know, to prevent roadside fires.” I slapped at him again. “And maybe you could show me what’s so great about living here. Museums, fancy restaurants, being closer to UK games . . . U of L games . . . Murray State games . . .”
“We’re going to spend a lot of time at basketball games, aren’t we?” I asked. Will beamed at me. “Well, as appealing as that sounds, Sadie would never let me get away with it. I just got hired on as a full-time employee, after I basically begged her to give me the position. She’s not going to let me do ‘full-time’ over the Internet.”
“Actually,” Sadie said, poking her head through my door, “I’d be willing to work with you on that. As long as you spent at least two weeks of the month in the office and could teleconference on a regular basis, I think I could get Ray to approve a flexible schedule.”
“Aw, Sadie!” Kelsey exclaimed from behind her. “You big softie.”
“Anything that keeps you happy and productive and prevents further cactus damage to certain valued members of our staff.”
Kelsey dropped her head into her hands. “It was so close to being a nice gesture. Really.” She looped her arm through Sadie’s and dragged her out of the office. “Come on, Ms. Lack of Filter.”
“Thanks, boss!” I yelled after her. Sadie waggled her coffee cup at me while Kelsey made thumbs-up gestures at an unsuspecting Will.
“Please come home with me,” he asked.
“Okay, I will. I’d already planned to come back to Mud Creek.”
His whole face lit up with his smile. “Really?”
“I have to. I’m overseeing the building being moved and the exhibits being reassembled.”
And there went the happy face. “Oh, right. Way to bust a guy’s bubble.”
“And I have been toying with the idea of opening a burlesque museum. Miss Martha has this whole collection of pictures and costumes she’s made over the years. Right now, she’s deciding whether she’ll let me use them. Burlesque is making a bit of a comeback—people are fascinated by strippers who don’t take their clothes off.”
“I don’t know if we want to put a stripper museum in my hometown,” he said, frowning. “It’s not exactly the ‘family friendly’ entertainment that you’ve been pushing.”
“I’m not saying install poles. It’s about the music and the costumes and the glamour. You could restore one of those old boardinghouses where the dancers used to perform. The Washington Street House or the Pink Lady.”
“Pink Lady?”
“You never noticed a three-story house on Third Street the color of Pepto-Bismol?”
“Yeah, my mom said it was used for sewin’ club meetings— Ohhhh.” He frowned. “It wasn’t a sewin’ club at all.”
“Your lack of knowledge about your own town’s history appalls me.”
“So, more restoration?”
I rolled my eyes at him.
He threw his hands up in a defensive gesture. “I’m just sayin’, we barely survived your first project.”
“Well, Miss Martha hasn’t agreed to anything yet, so don’t worry. And I will come to see you, too. But I’m not ready to make any sort of decision yet,” I told him. “We’re just going to have to see how things go when we don’t have the fate of an entire town hanging over our heads.”
“Aw, you do like me, don’t you, Fancy Pants?”
“Jackass.”
“There’s my girl.”
16
In Which I Agree to Sunday Dinner and Inappropriate Lingerie All in One Day
The citizens of Mud Creek had a lot of reasons for celebrating, and I made sure my museum opening provided them an excellent opportunity to let it all hang out. There was a line winding out the door of people waiting to get in. And to keep them happy, we’d fired up the newly refurbished hamburger grill and delivered lunch baskets to them while they waited. Others danced to the strains of the Stringmade quartet, occasionally bumping into the people trying to read the display placards for the exhibits.
Considering the move and multiple packing episodes, the displays had turned out very well. The jukebox could be controlled through smart tablets mounted in several spots around the main room, and played only songs by artists who had graced the McBride’s stage. Wrestling costumes, country-and-western shirts, and a few musical instruments were displayed in Plexiglas cases flanked by video screens and sharp reproductions of old black-and-white photos. Some video panels displayed slide shows of still shots from the performances. Others showed videos we’d transferred from Pearl McBride’s 8 mm films.
They were insanely difficult and expensive to restore, but the effect was great. Will seemed to enjoy the fact that every few minutes in the loop, I’d placed a placard that read “Video courtesy of the McBride Family Collection.”
Mr. Roth walked through the entrance. He looked a bit out of place in his expensive suit, as did his similarly dressed entourage of undie lackeys, but his grin as he walked through the door was undeniable. I was supposed to make a big show of introducing him later, both as a vested sponsor in the museum and the future employer of many of the attendees. He seemed a bit gleeful to be recognized for his part in saving the town. I guess one didn’t get a lot of opportunities for adulation in his line of work.
I felt a bump against my hip and turned to find Brenda, wearing a pretty green church dress that slid over her curves like water. Her hair was piled in shiny blond coils on top of her head, and she’d taken special care with her makeup. It made her look fifteen years younger.
“I’m so proud of you, honey. It turned out so well!” Brenda exclaimed. “Will’s father and grandfather would have just loved this. Speaking of, where is that son of mine?”
“I haven’t seen him yet,” I said, glancing around the room.
“Well, if he doesn’t show up in the next few minutes, I’ll drive to his house and drag him here. Oh, and he’s supposed to tell you that you’re coming to my place for dinner on Sunday. Because he’s afraid I’ll show you baby pictures, he’ll tell me that you have some sort of scheduling conflict, so I’m cutting out the middleman and settling on a date with you.”
“If it makes you feel any better, evasion is a perfectly normal reaction to having your mother invite your lady friend over for Sunday dinner. In fact, you may have doomed our relationship before it even started.”
“Oh, hush, you. Now, who is that man in the suit?” she asked, craning her neck to watch Mr. Roth as he wandered around the exhibits. There was a not
e of tension in her voice, an interest I hadn’t expected. And if the way she was eyeballing Mr. Roth’s backside was any indication, it wasn’t the suit she was interested in.
“How would you like to meet an underwear magnate?” I asked her, fighting to contain my smirk. This would teach Will to be late to an event and leave his mother unattended.
She pinked up prettily, spluttering, “What? No! Who even calls themselves a magnate anymore?”
“He didn’t call himself that, I did,” I teased, elbowing her in the ribs. “Come on, he’s really a nice guy. Once you get past wondering what he’s wearing under the suit, he’s really easy to talk to.”
“Why’d you have to bring up what was under the suit?” she groaned, pressing her hands over her face as I dragged her toward Mr. Roth.
With my possible boyfriend’s mother secured in an extremely flirtatious conversation with Mr. Roth, I had a chance to circulate around the room, check the electronic displays, and wonder where the heck said wayward possible boyfriend was.
“Psst.” I paused. “Pssst.” I looked around to find the source of the impatient hissing and saw Miss Martha waving at me from the rear of the hall. It seemed as if she’d been doing this for some time, because when I finally did notice her, she rolled her eyes and motioned for me to follow her toward the dressing rooms. Frowning, I walked away from the crowd and joined her at the end of the little hallway.
When I’d moved the dressing rooms to the new site, I’d tried to leave them as close as possible to how I found them when I first arrived at the music hall, as if a band had just prettied themselves up and walked out onstage. Miss Martha was waiting for me just in front of the red velvet rope I’d strung across the door to keep people from walking all the way into the space.
“Miss Martha? Did you sneak in the back door?”
“I have my ways, sweetie. You know I don’t like people,” she said, presenting a carefully wrapped box with a bright pink bow. “I just wanted to give you my congratulations. And a little something to mark the occasion.”
“Aw, you didn’t have to do that.” I opened up the box. Inside was a silvery white satin bustier with tiny black seams piped along the corset boning. Dancing between those lines were dozens of tiny music notes that swirled up the corset toward black satin bustier cups. There was a pattern to the notes’ arrangement, a tune I couldn’t quite pick out.
“Is this sheet music to a song, Miss Martha?” Miss Martha nodded, a gleeful gleam in her eyes. “Which one?”
Miss Martha shrugged. “You’re just going to have to wear it for the honorable Mayor McBride and find out for yourself. He’s always been handy with instruments.”
“Wow, Miss Martha. I don’t know what to say.”
“I eyeballed your measurements, but it should fit just fine,” she assured me. “Wear it in good health and think of me.”
“Considering the context of wearing this getup, I’ll try to avoid the ‘thinking of you’ part, if that’s okay,” I told her, wrapping an arm around her. “But I love it, Miss Martha. Thank you.”
“Well, tell Kelsey I’m still coming up with something special for her. And just so you know, we’re having pot roast for dinner tonight to celebrate your big success,” she said. “You can invite your fella if you’d like.”
I smirked. “Are you trying to sweet-talk me into staying at your house permanently, Miss Martha?”
“No such thing.” She sniffed. “I just miss my surrogate cat.”
I snorted. “Well, don’t worry. We’re going to see plenty of each other over the next few months as we put the burlesque museum together.”
“I guess that will do,” she said, barely concealing the gleeful smile forming at the corners of her mouth. “Now, I’m going to sneak back out of here before anybody sees me and expects me to make small talk.” She shuddered. “See you tonight, sweetie.”
I chuckled, watching my elderly former roommate slink out the back door like a ninja. I made a mental note to introduce her to Mr. Roth, because if I could get ComfyCheeks to produce a line of corsets by Miss Martha, I could consider my life’s work complete.
Where the heck was Will? I couldn’t make Mr. Roth’s big introduction without the mayor here. I could use Mr. McGlory in a pinch, but he seemed immobilized in front of the “Lurlene” display.
At the far end of the room, in its own little alcove, I’d set up a display detailing the love story between “Lurlene” and Louis. The centerpiece, of course, was the crumpled first draft of the lyrics. I’d flanked it with a photo of Louis kissing Miss Earlene’s cheek. There was a video interview with Earlene that I’d done in the library, in which she detailed their brief courtship and her thoughts on his success after he’d left her. The strains of “Lurlene, Lurlene” played softly in the background.
Tommy McGlory stood slack-jawed as he watched his sister transform into a blushing schoolgirl, shyly discussing the first time she let Louis drive her home, dropping her off a block from their house so their mother wouldn’t hear the car pull up.
“Fifty years and she never said anything,” he said, his eyes tearing up a bit at the corners. “She could have had a life. She could have married and had kids. She could have—”
“Wait a few minutes,” I told him, knowing that in the next section of the interview, Earlene talked about her reasons for staying in Mud Creek and not having any regrets for her decision. Imagine Earlene McGlory’s surprise a few moments later, when her nearly sixty-year-old brother ran across the room and sideswiped her with a full-body hug.
What surprised me was the number of locals who stopped by to tell me how much they were enjoying the displays and thanking me for my efforts. A few of them, including Fred, Joe Bob, Chrissy, and Rosemarie Fitzpatrick, even apologized for giving me a hard time.
“Just make sure this new article is a little kinder,” I told Rosemarie, nodding toward her scribble-filled notebook. “And that there’s a better picture this time.”
“Oh, honey, you only take good pictures,” a husky voice cooed close to my ear. I yelped, turning to find my wayward possible boyfriend grinning down at me. “Why is my mother flirting with the foremost manufacturer of tighty-whities in the known universe?”
“I was afraid you weren’t coming!” I cried, throwing my arms around him.
“Sorry, I got hung up. Miss Penny decided to spray paint the windows in the town hall trailer black, and we had to do a little cleanup.”
“At least there wasn’t any sewage this time,” I said brightly, making him shake his head at my idea of a silver lining.
“Here, why don’t you and Will get together and I’ll take one of the both of you,” Rosemarie suggested, her tone slightly frosty now as she eyed the way we wrapped around each other. “You might want to strike a more professional pose.”
Will slipped his arm around my shoulders and gave the camera his best panty-dropping smile. “So you know that we’re going to have to get married, right?” he whispered. “I don’t think the people in Mud Creek would think much of their mayor living in sin with his girlfriend.”
Rosemarie’s first picture was of my mouth hanging open and my eyes bugged out in surprise. Nice.
“If that’s a proposal, it’s the worst one I’ve ever heard,” I said, through a carefully composed smile as Rosemarie took another shot. “And who says I’m going to be living with you? Miss Martha has my old room all ready for me. She misses her surrogate cat.”
“I will never understand your relationship with that woman,” he said, shaking his head as Rosemarie wandered away.
“No, you will not.”
“Okay, so no marriage proposal yet,” he agreed. “But please don’t move into Miss Martha’s place. Live with me.”
“Not for a few months. Until you can come up with a much better proposal.”
“Agreed. Fred’s idea was to go back to the place w
here we met. He even agreed to drag the body of your old car out there and set it on fire for us again.”
“How romantic.”
“It was better than Joe Bob’s idea, which involved Flotsam and Jetsam up there,” he said, nodding toward the stuffed possums mounted in the rafters of the balcony.
“No marriage proposal should involve possums, Will.”
“Clearly you’ve never heard the story of how my dad proposed to my mom.”
I scoffed, jostling his shoulder. “You’re making that up!”
“I never joke about history.” He kissed my forehead and pulled me into his arms. “You know me. I have nothing but respect for history.”
Click through for a sneak peek of the next scintillating tale by Molly Harper
How to Run with a Naked Werewolf
Available January 2014 from Pocket Books
1
All the Pretty Pintos
If Gordie Fugate didn’t hurry the hell up and pick out a cereal, I was going to bludgeon him with a canned ham.
I didn’t mind working at Emerson’s Dry Goods, but I was wrapping up a sixteen-hour shift. My back ached. My stiff green canvas apron was chafing my neck. And one of the Glisson twins had dropped a gallon jar of mayo on my big toe earlier. I hadn’t been this exhausted since doing an emergency rotation during my medical residency. The only nice thing I could say about working at Emerson’s was that the owner hadn’t asked for photo identification when I applied, eliminating an awful lot of worry for my undocumented self. Also, I usually dealt with less blood.
Unless, of course, I did bludgeon Gordie with the ham, which would result in a serious amount of cleanup in aisle five.
I only had a few more weeks of checkout duty before I would be moving on, winding my way toward Anchorage. It was just easier that way. Now that I was living in what I called “the gray zone,” I knew there was a maximum amount of time people could spend around me before they resented unanswered personal questions. Of course, I’d also learned a few other things, like how to recognize a guy who planned on following me to my car or how to patch a pair of shoes with duct tape. And now I was trying to learn the zen art of not bashing an indecisive cornflake lover over the head with preserved pork products.