by Lisa Wingate
I drew back in shock. Was this Butch—baby-faced, mealymouthed Butch, the intern, critiquing my work ethic? “It’s my segment, of course I’m …” The second half of what he’d said suddenly registered. “What do you mean ‘go out in style.’ Amber’s not out, and if we do this segment right, she’s not going to be out.”
With a rueful laugh, Butch turned his face away and surveyed the blue wild flowers on the roadside. “You can drop the pretense, Ms. Florentino. I know. I heard Ms. Uberstach. Why do you think I got fired?”
A strange queasy feeling stirred in the bottom of my stomach.
I’d never, ever seen Butch act like this. Butch was always bubbly and enthusiastic, filled with positive energy. “Know … what? Heard what, exactly. What are you talking about, Butch?”
“Come on, I’m not stupid, Ms. Florentino. I was in the media closet, and Ms. Uberstach didn’t know I was there, and I heard her talking to someone on her cell phone. I heard her say it.” His chest rose and fell, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I didn’t have the heart to tell Amber, but I think she’s pretty much got it figured out. She’s smart about people.”
Stomping the brakes, I skidded the car to a halt in the middle of the gravel road. “What are you talking about, Butch? What did you hear Ursula say?”
He turned to me slowly, studied my face, squinting one eye, his lips pressed together in an expression of disbelief—the sort of expression characters on cop shows use while patiently soliciting confessions from perpetrators. Finally, his eyebrows flew upward and his mouth dropped open. “You really don’t know, do you? I just figured you had to be in on it. I mean, you’re an associate producer. You’d have to know …”
“Know what? What did you hear Ursula say?” I repeated. “What?” I felt like a tornado victim, watching the storm come my way, unable to move.
“I heard Ursula promise that Amber would be off the show in week one of the finals—the recording company didn’t want a gospel artist on their label, period, and they couldn’t take the risk of letting Amber get into the Final Showdown, when the vote would be more closely monitored. Ms. Uberstach said Amber would be out next week. It was all arranged.”
“Ursula doesn’t have that kind of power,” I muttered, searching the road ahead, trying to decide how Ursula would pull off something like that. Even if she did arrange things with the judges … “Each week’s show is decided by viewer votes.”
I heard Butch snort. “And what counts the votes?”
“Software,” I muttered. “Dysterco software.”
“Exactly,” Butch said, and suddenly so many things made sense. I’d seen the president of Dysterco in Ursula’s office at least a dozen times this season. He and Ursula came and went from lunches, dinner meetings. Ursula had just hired his niece to oversee our in-house system.
The reality crashed over me like the leading wave of a flash flood, laden with debris. Ursula was planning to get rid of both Amber and me at the same time. When Amber’s hometown segment tanked, it would appear my incompetence, my inability to keep the location confidential, was to blame.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Florentino.” Butch’s voice was a low hum somewhere on the fringes of the storm, like the buzzing of downed electrical wires. “I thought you knew. I figured that was why you were hanging out with a music producer. I figured you were, like, working a deal under the counter for Amber to get on the Higher Ground label.”
I turned back to Butch, tried to tune in, but my mind was spinning in hyperdrive. “Music prod … what?” Ursula’s earlier admonishment that Amber might be secretly negotiating with a recording company other than the sponsor of American Megastar came to mind. “Who are you talking about, Butch? What guy?”
“J. C. Woods,” he said, and I felt myself hit a brick wall. “He doesn’t host ‘Mason County Line’ for the Country Network anymore. He moved back home to Austin and started his own record label—Higher Ground. They specialize in folk and gosp—” The look on my face brought Butch to a stop midsentence. He let his hands fall into his lap and muttered, “Geez, Ms. Florentino, don’t you read the trades?”
I sat stunned in my seat, blindsided as the wreckage of my life tumbled down around me. I couldn’t think about the trades, or anything else. All I could think was J. C. Woods … J. Carter Woods … the writer of at least one of the songs Amber had performed on the show and apparently a music producer, as well.
My boss had set me up and so had Carter, and I’d stood blindly by and let it happen. I had to be the biggest fool in the history of television.
The numbness of shock slowly left me, and I awoke like an accident victim coming to consciousness, suddenly aware of a blinding pain, a seething anger that painted a fine red sheen over the tranquil blue sky, the puffy white clouds, the fields of lazily waving wild flowers. The car idled forward, and I realized I’d taken my foot off the brake, begun moving into action.
“Ms. Florentino, are you okay?” Butch’s voice was clearer now. “Ms. Florentino?”
I stomped on the accelerator and the rear tires fishtailed, then the car lurched forward, careening up a hill and around a corner.
In the passenger seat, Butch took a white-knuckled grip and offered to drive.
I put both hands on the wheel, tightened my fingers until the nails bit in. The Chevy whizzed around an S curve like a car on the Lightning Snake, then splashed through a low-water crossing, hit bottom, and rocketed out the other side.
Butch again offered to drive. By the time we wheeled into Imagene’s driveway, he was looking green in the passenger seat. We’d caught up to the horse trailer, and the crew was just disembarking near the barn. Amber, her rhinestone jacket glinting in the sun, was chattering blithely to the grips as they unloaded equipment and prepared to carry it back to crew vans in front of the house. As usual, Rodney was in the lead, cracking the whip and barking orders. I pulled up near the vans, threw open my door, and got out.
“I’ll … get … the keys,” Butch muttered.
I didn’t answer, just headed across the yard and intercepted Rodney. He grinned, said, “Ah, love, that was brill—” Catching the look on my face, he stopped.
“Did you know?” I ground out. Rodney blinked in confusion, and I added, “Did you know about Ursula’s plan?”
Rodney was unflappable, as usual. “What plan, love?” He glanced at the crew members passing by, then toward Amber and her family, silently indicating that if we were going to argue, I should keep my voice down.
Clenching my teeth, I tried to rein in my emotions. What I wanted to do was yell so loud the reporters would hear it in town. Instead, I lowered my voice, leaned closer to Rodney. “Her plan to manipulate viewer vote counts and take Amber off the show next week.”
The revelation won an incredulous look, then the realization slowly dawned in Rodney’s eyes, as if some loose puzzle pieces were finally fitting together. “If I knew of a plan like that, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” He glanced over his shoulder at Amber, who was still chattering away to one of the grips, explaining something about the horse, which had apparently refused to come out of the trailer. “Ursula wanted me in New York. Cal’s a bore, so I switched assignments with Tony. The little country kitten’s more interesting.” He shrugged toward Amber, who had just spotted Carter getting out of the truck. Carter, his attention focused on the commotion in the trailer, never even noticed Amber fanning her hands and heading his way at a giddy trot. She overtook him, grabbed his hand between both of hers, and began trying to yank his arm off.
Her voice, high and brimming with enthusiasm, jingled across the yard. “Oh my gosh, Mr. Woods. It’s so good to finally meet you. I’m such a big fan. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. I didn’t know it was you until Butch told me after the concert at the rodeo arena. Didn’t you used to have a beard? I’m such a big fan. Of you, not of beards. I love your songs. They’re just … awesome. I’ve been trying to call you all weekend, and …”
The roar in my ea
rs drowned out the rest as I crossed the yard. Amber had her back turned, but Carter saw me coming. He looked like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here.
Amber finally picked up on the change in his demeanor. She turned around, and her face went pale, her mouth dropping open. “Ms. Florentino, I … it’s not what it looks … I didn’t …”
“We’ll talk later,” I ground out. Amber started to protest, to attempt explanation again, but I stabbed a finger toward the house. “Leave.”
Fidgeting uncertainly, she glanced at her grandfather and brothers, then at the confused grip behind the trailer. “I didn’t … I’m … I’m sorry.”
“Later,” I said again. “Just go in the house, Amber.”
Tears filled Amber’s eyes. She hesitated a moment longer, then spun around and ran for the house. Her family went after her, the frightened grip slunk quickly away, and inside the trailer Magnolia quieted, as if even she sensed a powder keg about to blow.
I turned on Carter, the heat of fury, of humiliation, rising in my face. “You played me.”
He raised his hands palm-out, trying to placate me. “Manda, it’s not like that. It’s not what you think.”
“Oh really? Really?” My voice reverberated through the yard. Clenching my fists, I fought to regain self-control, to rein in the volume. By the vans, the crew stood frozen in place. “How? How is it not what I think? You weren’t here to meet with Amber? You weren’t scamming all of us to get close to her? You weren’t using me to …” An enormous lump rose in my throat, shattered, and I felt tears rushing in. Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes, tried to breathe. I wouldn’t break down here in front of everyone. I couldn’t.
“I wasn’t using you.” Carter’s voice was soft, intimate. It washed over me like the warm waves of a peaceful shore, lapping at my feet, trying to lure me into the surf, where a dangerous riptide of need, and fantasy, and loneliness lay hidden beneath the surface.
“Don’t.” My voice quivered, started to bend. “Don’t bother.”
In my mind, he was David, trying to gloss over the reasons for cruising Mydestiny.com.
Carter had even been smart enough, ruthless enough to use my breakup with David to sucker me in. “The guy on the phone is an idiot, by the way. For what it’s worth, the guy’s a fool.”
I was the fool. Like every good scam artist, Carter had found the tender spot. He had discovered the place where I was weak. He had put sweet-smelling salve on the wound, and I’d been putty in his hands.
He closed the space between us, tried to touch me.
“Don’t,” I hissed, my voice trembling with an overspill of emotion. I had to get out of there. I had to get out of there before I fell apart in front of everyone. Turning around, I hurried across the lawn to the crew vans, climbed into the front one, started the engine, and took off, headed nowhere, somewhere. Anywhere but here.
Chapter 24
Imagene Doll
Watching Amber take that stage at the fairgrounds was one of the highest points of my life, not only because Brother Harve, O.C., the Andersons, and I were on the very top of the bleachers, but because when Amber belted out the national anthem and the flag unfurled high above the stadium, it was a moment of pure glory. I could feel my Jack, and all the other soldiers who’d passed on, standing right there with us. They probably had to wipe away tears of pride just like I did. Life has only a handful of perfect moments, and that was one of mine.
And then, no sooner had Amber got off stage than there was Justin Shay, running through the arena in nothing but red shorts, trying to get everyone to look at him. Heaven’s gates! Why he did that, I couldn’t imagine, but at least he got arrested for it. When Buddy Ray took him into custody, Justin Shay was arguing at the top of his lungs, saying no redneck deputy could take him to jail, and he was gonna call his lawyers, and if those reporters wanted a show, they better come to the sheriff’s office to see it.
The reporters went, all right. Harve, O.C., and the rest of us got trapped in the traffic trying to get out of the fairgrounds. Those newspeople drive like they’re on an episode of NASCAR.
By the time we got back to my house, the American Megastar crew was crashed in the living room. Amanda-Lee and Carter were nowhere to be found, and Amber was in the kitchen all alone, wearing a sad look. She was fixing some leftover roast and sliced bread on a tray for the crew to eat. When I walked in, she sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist.
“Well, land sakes, sugar,” I said, putting my things on the counter. “You ought to be happy as a fly in fresh butter right now. How come you look like your dog just died?”
Amber’s shoulders trembled up and down. “I messed up. I always mess up. I’m so stupid. I always open my big mouth at the exact wrong time.” The last word shuddered like the end of a sad song. She stabbed a knife into the pickle jar, pulled out a pickle, and started after it like she wanted to cut it to bits.
I was afraid she’d chop her finger off, so I took the knife away. “There now, hon, don’t take it out on that helpless pickle. Tell Mrs. Doll what’s wrong.”
“I screw everything up,” she blurted with a little hiccup and a sob.
I rubbed her back, and we stood side by side at the meat tray. “Now, that’s not true. No way that’s true. You couldn’ta done better at the rodeo arena. It was a sight to behold. It’s too bad Justin Shay had to go crazy and run around in his unmentionables like that. Is he smokin’ some kind of drugs or something?”
Sniffing, Amber shook her head. “Huh-uh. Justin did that for me so we could get out of there without all the reporters following us.”
“Well, I’ll be dogged.” Time to repent. Lord, in the future, I’ll not be so quick to think the worst of people. I’d jumped to the complete wrong conclusion about Justin Shay.
Amber sighed and wiped her eyes again. “Butch says it’s no big deal—with the lawyers Justin has, he’ll be out by tonight.”
“Well then, what are you worried about? He did a nice thing for you—almost like one of them movie heroes he plays. I bet it made him feel real good to do that, don’t you figure? He maybe didn’t know he had it in him to put someone else ahead of himself. You know that down at the jail, Forrest and Buddy Ray will treat him real good.” My pep talk didn’t seem to be cheering Amber up one little bit. “Buddy Ray’s probably in hog heaven, having all those reporters see him make an arrest. Heck, he might even make The National Examiner or the Austin Statesman. Who knows?”
That won a little smile from Amber, but it didn’t last long.
“What’s really the matter, hon?”
Groaning under her breath, she walked to the hallway door and peeked through to make sure no one was there. “Ms. Florentino’s really mad and it’s my fault. I didn’t mean for it to happen … I didn’t know her and Butch were back. I thought they were farther behind us, but she came around from the front of the house and she heard me talking to Mr. Woods. She told him off right there in the yard and then she got in one of the vans and took off out of here. He borrowed Butch’s keys and went after her, but it won’t do any good. I’ve only seen Ms. Florentino that mad once before, and it wasn’t pretty.”
I had to think for a minute to get all that news into a column. “Who’s Mr. Woods?”
She pointed through the window toward the horse rig. “The guy who drove the truck and trailer for us—Mr. Woods.”
“You mean Carter?” I said, still trying to get things in a row. Sometimes, talking to Amber was like herding cats. “Honey, what in the world would you have said to get Carter and Amanda-Lee in a fight? The two of them seemed to be getting along awful good—real good, if you know what I mean.”
Amber threw up her hands and let them slap back against her thighs. “That’s what makes me feel so bad. Ms. Florentino’s always all uptight and stressed out. I mean, I like her and all, but some people, you know, just don’t seem happy. Then, today when we were having lunch and stuff, she seemed really happy. When Mr. Woods brought the hors
e trailer out of the barn for us to go, I could see why. I thought, dadgum, no wonder Ms. Florentino’s in such a good mood, since she gets to ride up front with a guy who looks like that. And you know, I thought I knew his face from somewhere, but I couldn’t place where. I didn’t know he was J. C. Woods until Butch whispered it in my ear at the rodeo arena.” She held out her hands like she was pleading for me to believe her, which wasn’t a problem, being as I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Whoa, there. We’re gonna have to back up a little bit, sugar. Who’s J. C. Woods?” That name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“J. C. Woods, from the Country Network?” Amber’s voice tilted upward, like she couldn’t believe I didn’t know the name right away. “He hosts the ‘Mason County Line’ show, where they have all the big time singers and songwriters on and stuff—I mean, he doesn’t anymore, but it’s still in reruns sometimes, except on the show he has longer hair, and a goatee.”
I scratched my head. “Carter’s a TV star?” At my house, I only got regular channels, but I was surprised Donetta hadn’t picked up on it, since she watched cable TV all the time. I hadn’t pictured Carter as a TV star. Even though he was sure good-looking enough for it, he seemed like a pretty normal young man. Nothing like that Justin Shay, who I guess wasn’t all bad, either, come to find out.
“Yeah,” Amber went on. “He’s a songwriter and stuff. I sang one of his songs on American Megastar a while back. I wanted to do another one—this song about little boys with toy sailboats, but Ms. Uberstach wouldn’t let me. Ms. Florentino liked it, though.”
“Well, it seems like that’d give the two of them even more in common—Carter and Amanda-Lee, I mean. I can’t figure why they’d have any reason to fight about something like that.” What girl wouldn’t want to be romanced by a country music TV star with a poetic nature?