by Susan Sands
A tiny familiar emptiness crept up before she could shove it back down. Being alone had its advantages, but right now it was hard to name them. What would her life have been like had her ex, Tad, not turned out to be such a big turd and she’d met someone nice to spend her life with? She really couldn’t go there, because that place was an angry, dangerous one filled with ugly emotion and foggy frustration. Emma was all about control.
Sipping her wine, she flipped through the mail, the television muted in the background. Big Al nosed his stuffed squeaky squirrel at her feet. She really did have lots to be thankful for. She hardly thought about dating, or any of the other stuff these days.
Chapter Two
‡
On his way out the next morning, Matthew stopped at the tiny quick mart and picked up a package of antihistamines. Determined to begin today as he meant to continue, improving his physical symptoms were tantamount to getting off to a better start mentally. No matter how annoyed he was with this assignment, he couldn’t compromise the quality product of his work.
Plus, the people around would believe him a whiny jerk—probably already did. He was nothing if not a consummate professional. A little prickly at times, yes, but his exacting personality bore technically excellent shows. He had a reputation to maintain. And yesterday’s performance hadn’t been up to standard.
After the convenience store stop, he swung by the local diner for coffee and a quick breakfast. “Well, aren’t you a fancy pants? What can I get you, baby?” The hundred-year-old waitperson, Thelma, if her nametag was to be believed, asked with a cackle. Great. This morning was beginning with a bang.
“I’ll just have black coffee, two scrambled egg whites on a whole wheat English muffin and well-done turkey bacon.” Thelma’s near-toothless smile slipped.
Her smoker’s mouth puckered into a million wrinkles as if sucking on a dill pickle while smelling something vile.
“We call that a ‘stick up your ass’ breakfast,” Thelma informed him.
“Do you serve those here?” Matthew raised a brow and asked, mildly amused by her judgment of his dining choices.
She continued to eyeball him with disdain. “We do, but we don’t like it.” She spun on her old, scuffed orthopedic shoe and shuffled toward the pick-up window.
“Oh, Thelma—” He called after her.
She turned and cut him off, “Yeah, yeah, you’re in a big ole hurry, too, aren’t you, slick? The ‘stick up your ass’ comes with a rush. Nobody who orders it takes the time to sit and enjoy their food. Goes with the territory. It’s a ‘type,’ you know?”
Before he could respond to her rudeness, the bell on the door jingled, distracting him.
Emma Laroux appeared, fresh as spring rain on a daisy. Her long, blonde hair was pulled up in some sort of floppy bun construction with wisps trailing on either side of her face, a contrast to her startlingly clear hazel eyes and inky, arched eyebrows. She was wearing well-fitting jeans and a white cotton sweater with an equally flattering neckline, which made him swallow his very hot coffee a little too quickly. That made him cough and sputter. She quite literally took his breath away.
He was halfway hidden behind his newspaper, but she spotted him immediately, perhaps due to the noises he was making. Judging from the small furrowing of her brows and pout on those lovely wide lips, she still held a grudge from yesterday.
As she approached, old Thelma brought his breakfast to the table, dropping it from about a foot above the surface. It clattered deafeningly. “One stick-up-your-ass, hold the butter, hold the jelly, and hold all the possibility of the joys of living.”
“Hi, Miss Thelma.” Emma giggled.
Thelma turned at Emma’s approach. “Oh, hey, baby. What can I get you? The usual?”
“That would be great. Thanks.” Emma grinned at the old bag, who pinched her cheek and crowed, showing all five of her teeth.
Emma turned and looked down toward him, eyeing his rather dry breakfast. “I see you’re making friends with the locals.”
He lifted a brow, a little surprised she hadn’t slung the nearest mug at his head. He took a chance and motioned with a hand for her to join him across the booth.
*
She wouldn’t have considered joining him after yesterday’s dramatic exit, if not for the need to keep peace for Cammie’s sake. So, against her instincts, she sat.
The moment she did, Thelma swooped back in. “Emma, dear, do you know this young man?” Nothing like everyone in town looking out for you.
“It’s fine, Thelma. Mr. Pope is the producer working on Cammie’s show. We have some things to discuss.” This answer seemed to satisfy the older woman enough so that she shuffled away after giving them both a speculative glance.
“Is she your grandmother or something? Why the security measures?” Matthew asked.
“It’s a small town.” She shrugged, as if that was all he needed as explanation.
He reached toward the inside of the booth and snagged a container of sugar-free fruit spread. Emma cringed as she watched him smear it on the dry English muffin.
He noticed her reaction. “You have something against bread?”
Before she could answer, Thelma approached with two, large blueberry cake donuts and a steaming cup of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream. Emma smiled her thanks.
“No, I love bread. I just hate cardboard with no sugar.” She sank her teeth into the heavenly indulgence. Thank God for her fast metabolism and good genetics. Plus, she was in constant motion, running her own business—not to mention the yoga and Pilates workouts. For a small town, Ministry had a kick-butt workout studio.
She licked her finger, eyes closed. This was the only way to start the day. When she opened her eyes, Matthew was staring at her with an odd expression.
He cleared his throat. “Well, some of us have a care for our health.”
Better to just jump right into this. “Have you had a visit from the mayor yet?”
“No. Is there a reason why I should?” He asked.
“He, uh, has a way of wiggling himself into anything happening here in Ministry. He’ll be be a pain in your butt soon enough. But don’t tell him I warned you. But I’m warning you.”
She noticed his jaw clench. “Problem?” She asked.
“No. I just don’t like people getting in my way while I’m working.”
“Well, just smile and grit your teeth. He’s not worth making an enemy of.”
“Good to know. Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Hmph.” He apparently wasn’t sold.
Thelma showed up, checking on her customers. “Everything okay here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Matthew answered.
“At least he’s got some manners,” Thelma said to Emma. “Haven’t seen you sit with a young man at one of my tables in here besides your brother in quite awhile. Surprised me.”
Emma realized that no one in town ever expected to see her with anyone male. It was kind of a thing.
Emma glanced over to see Matthew studying her intently. She fought back a near-overwhelming urge to stick her tongue out at him. But part of being a Southern beauty queen was leading by example. What if one of her girls or their parents was to happen by? So she smiled with all her teeth and said, “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to get going. See you at the set.”
“I’m headed there now.” She just noticed his lack of allergic activity. “You aren’t sneezing today.”
He pulled out the small packet of Benadryl from his pocket.
So she added, “I left Big Al at home.”
A tenuous truce had been declared. For now.
She sailed out the front door, not waiting for him to pay his check. She’d already handed Thelma a ten for her food.
*
The woman was a force of nature. She’d breezed in and out, and left him reeling. Something in her warning about the mayor gave him pause. She’d gotten fidgety as she’d warned him. Was he some old han
dsy geezer? Or some corrupt politician?
Matthew couldn’t help but wonder why she’d gone out of her way to bring up the mayor in conversation unless he played a really big role in things in town, or in Emma’s life.
As Matthew drove past the ice cream shop, Scoops, with it’s red and white striped awning and tables and umbrellas out front, he had a faint memory of stopping here with his grandmother as a kid. They’d passed through Ministry on their way to Birmingham before the interstate was built. After that, he couldn’t say he’d ever been here again.
It was a nice, old town, small and neat with lots of green space. The main street was well maintained. From a producer’s point-of-view, it would make a terrific movie set. There was little new construction in the downtown historic district, and most of the buildings had been restored to some degree. Even though he’d escaped the South with the ferocity of a bat from hell, he could appreciate a visually appealing setting.
The social aspect of it, not so much. Nosy neighbors, backward, narrow-thinking and extra syllables added to words raised his blood pressure and made him nearly break out in hives. His breathing became heavier, his heart rate increased, and he began to sweat. The physical symptoms he’d believed a part of his distant past suddenly threatened to choke him. Matthew rolled down his window, trying to get some fresh air. He pulled over at the nearest parking space.
Trying to tamp down the rising sensations of impending doom and certain death, he breathed hard and heavy. “You’re not dying, dumbass. Relax.” Not exactly a positive affirmation. But he did as he’d been taught. He breathed deeply, trying to slow down his hammering heart before it actually beat out of his chest.
“Hey, mister, are you okay?” A young boy of about ten years old stopped beside Matthew’s window on his bicycle. He had carrot-red hair and freckles.
Matthew focused on the kid in front of him for a second and thought, Oh good, Opie’s here. Then he shook his head to clear it. “Yeah. I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”
“You don’t look too good. My mom tells me to drink some water when I don’t feel good. Maybe you should try it. Bye.” He pedaled off just as quickly as he’d shown up.
Matthew gave the retreating kid a weak smile, and pulled out a water bottle to affirm that his mother was a smart woman.
He was fine now. The distraction was all it took to snap him out of it. He couldn’t remember if he’d registered a truck backfire, some other loud noise, or if he’d simply talked himself into mentally unraveling in the middle of town.
Pulling out of the parking space, Matthew again let out a ragged breath. He was sapped of energy and considered for a split-second returning to the cozy little house he’d rented for the next couple months, and flinging himself in the oversized chair that resided on his back screened-in porch. Whether or not he enjoyed living back in the South, he really liked that porch, and the chair.
But he had a down-home Southern cooking show to produce. Thankfully, today it would be minus one big, furry dog on the set. With his heart rate and breathing returning to normal, Matthew could move forward with his day. Those who knew him would likely laugh their asses off if they’d witnessed his panic attack. Unless they’d ever experienced the sensations themselves. Matthew could only imagine how that must appear to anyone unfamiliar with one.
He’d seen a counselor after his second trip to the emergency room, where the doctors had assured him once again he’d live to see another day, in fact, many more years if his vitals were to be believed, barring any unforeseen accidents. They’d suggested he reduce his stress levels and that he see “someone” to determine the source of his panic trigger.
He knew the trigger. Fear wasn’t manly, and Matthew was pretty manly, at least he considered himself so. But he’d gone ahead with the counseling, realizing he’d needed to get control of this thing. Nothing good could come from paralyzing fear of death at a given moment when one lived and worked in New York City. It certainly wasn’t good for his reputation as an up-and-coming producer and current director at the network, not to mention his man card.
The idea that this could happen in the wilds of rural Alabama was simply not acceptable. He’d have to figure out what the trigger was besides the horror of coming back here that had set him off. For now, he felt nearly normal and was eager to get his mind on something else. Work. He was in control at work. He could kick work’s ass.
*
Emma had left Matthew at the diner and driven straight to Cammie and Grey’s farmhouse fifteen minutes outside of town. Where before, Matthew had appeared rested, sharp, and neatly groomed, he now had an edgy, restless look about him. Besides just his generally untidy exterior, he seemed unsettled somehow.
He even moved differently now, with less confidence and control.
People and food camera operators, techs working the color-accurate monitors, and assistants to the talent—everyone was in place and waiting for direction. This seemed to annoy Matthew instead of pleasing him, like he’d come in shame-faced late to a party and he was the host.
“What’s everyone staring at?” He snapped as soon as he entered the large, equipment, lighting, and people-cluttered room. Everyone looked away, busying themselves with sound checks and whatever else they could.
Cammie thus far had held her tongue at his rudeness, but this was her show, and Emma was wondering when she would step up and act like she had some say in how things went along. It took every bit of Emma’s self-restraint to keep a hand slapped across her own mouth when he’d barked at them all.
Emma was highlighting Cammie’s cheekbones when her sister’s face tightened, and her jaw became rigid. Uh oh. Cammie was a peace lover by nature, and she couldn’t stand for anyone to get a raw deal. She’d had enough of that in her past, and Emma saw the shit about to hit the fan around here.
Emma had been working off to the side on Cammie’s makeup in front of the lighted mirror area they’d set up for that purpose. They were inside a section of the barn that had been renovated into a replica of a farmhouse kitchen. Grey was a historical architect who did renovation work, and that had worked out perfectly. The barn’s high ceilings allowed for easy transporting of large camera and lighting equipment without breaking any personal belongings.
Cammie stood and pulled off the cape that covered her clothing. “Excuse me, Mr. Pope. Could I have a word with you in private?” Cammie’s tone brooked no argument, and, even if no one else recognized it, Emma was quite familiar with it, having lived in the same household together growing up. Cammie was a few years younger, but when she stood up for herself, she suddenly became everyone’s elder.
Matthew’s head swiveled in her sister’s direction. His eyes narrowed as if he deliberated taking Cammie’s head off with a verbal tirade, but he took a visible breath and obviously reconsidered.
“Of course.” He stood and followed Cammie into her home office, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence among the assembled professionals.
Emma hadn’t yet finished Cammie’s makeup, so she took a seat and waited. What had changed between the diner and his arrival here? It was like a Jekyll and Hyde thing with him.
Emma tapped her long nails on the arm of the high folding chair vacated by her sister and waited, and waited. Apparently, those two were having quite a come-to-terms behind closed doors, because it was another ten minutes before they emerged. Cammie’s expression bore no visible signs of upset and neither did Matthew’s. They appeared as if they’d had some sort of unemotional contract agreement, by the look of them.
When Cammie made her way back over to the makeup chair, Emma was dying to know what had transpired.
She hissed under her breath, “Well, what the hell happened in there?”
Cammie turned and furrowed her brows. “We’ve come to an understanding.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?” She glanced over where Matthew was peering through a camera lens to check a shot before they began filming.
Cammie shrugged
. “We have a business relationship, and what’s said behind closed doors stays put.”
Emma knew when to push and when to let up. “Well, fine. Close your eyes. You need more shimmer.” Emma responded, highlighting her lovely sister’s brow bones.
At least the storm in Matthew’s presence had passed, thanks to Cammie. Still, she wondered what had happened to get him so worked up.
Emma sat back and watched as the filming began, still amazed that her little sister was such a rock star. It wasn’t that she was famous, because she was; it was that she totally rocked it. The girl cooked during filming like she was born to do it. Despite the unfortunate hair fire incident with Jessica Green last year, which had likely worked to her advantage in the end, Cammie charmed the audience while whipping up a lovely crawfish etouffee and bread pudding with bourbon sauce.
The kitchen area smelled divine, despite the fancy updraft, and Emma hoped she could score some of the dish to take with her for lunch at her own studio. She had a couple private lessons early in the afternoon today. The older gals, Sadie Beaumont and Judith Dozier Fremont, the Mrs. Alabama contestants from the area, had approached her requesting a little tune-up practice. Both were thirtyish, each had a child, and were still reliving their pageant queen glory days. Emma wasn’t foolish enough to turn down the business and she certainly wasn’t foolish enough to refuse Tad Beaumont’s wife, Sadie. Emma knew better.
Sadie was great friends with the Dozier-Fremont twins. They were local old-moneyed sisters who’d married more moneyed brothers from over in Greenville. Judith and Sadie had lessons, but Jamie always came with to offer her snide remarks.
It was the Doublemint twins meets the Sugarbakers. Too bad Emma couldn’t slam a quick shot of strong bourbon before they arrived to settle her nerves. Those two mixed with Sadie Beaumont were enough to weaken the strongest resolve not to run screaming naked out into the street after about ten minutes.
When one thought of mean girls in small towns who never realized there was a global community beyond their own first world problems of hair, nails, and popularity, these were the poster children. Sadie was a puzzle to Emma. She’d appeared to have promise as a compassionate and caring person when Emma remembered her from school, though obviously materially spoiled by her parents.