Wild Child

by Molly O'Keefe

  Brian shook his head and left, closing the door behind him with a definitive click.

  Jackson stared at the intricately carved door of his office. Honestly, he thought, apropos of nothing, who carves a door like that? What is the point of a door like that?

  Something restless roared through him and he wanted, ferociously, to see Monica. To bury his discontent in her discontent. To find, in all the expectations that the world seemed to have about them, the truth, as only they could define it.

  But then the moment was over, and he got up and walked to the door.

  One thing he had learned coming back to this town was that when things were really bad, when he wanted to close his eyes and drown in the problems that rose around him, nothing worked like movement. Forward motion. Not always the best thing, but sometimes the only thing.

  Ms. Watson—not Pam, not Pamela, but Ms. Watson—the secretary who came with his job, who had worked at the desk on the other side of that stupid door through the terms of four mayors including his father, looked up expectantly.

  “I’m going to go to Cora’s,” he said. “You want something?”

  Ms. Watson declined; Ms. Watson always declined. Jackson shrugged. “I have my cell if anyone needs me.”

  Ten minutes later, as he crossed the street to Cora’s, the front door to the café opened and Cora stood there, her eyes wide and lit with manic excitement. No scarf in her hair today, and she wore chef whites. Very professional. Something was up.

  “He’s here,” she said.

  “Who is here?”

  “The cracker guy.”

  “He is?” He glanced through the plate-glass window. Inside, the café seemed filled with regulars. But all the regulars were staring at the corner booth, obscured by the door.

  He followed Cora into the restaurant, and the expectations he’d felt on Friday were doubled at least. It was like walking into a giant web.

  “Coffee, Cora?” he said, and she walked away nodding. He took a deep breath and turned to face the man in the corner booth. Dean Jennings, in the flesh, wearing an ordinary summer-weight suit and button-down shirt, but somehow making it look glamorous.

  “Hi,” Jackson said as he approached the tall, blond man. “I’m Jackson Davies, mayor of Bishop.”

  “Oh, right.” The man stood partially and shook Jackson’s hand. “I was going to make my way over to your office in a bit. Dean Jennings, CEO of—”

  “Maybream Crackers, of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean.” The man’s handshake was firm and swift. Chalk another point up for Dean, Jackson thought.

  “Well, I don’t want to interrupt your breakfast—” He let it dangle, banking on the man’s manners being as powerful as his own.

  “No, please join me. I was getting a bit wigged out with all of these people staring at me while I ate.”

  Jackson sat. “You get used to it.”

  “I’m not sure why I would want to.”

  It seemed those moments that just put a pin in the way his life was lived here were coming in fast succession. Those things he took for granted as immoveable realities just got kicked aside by other people, as if they were nothing.

  Why get used to people watching you eat, indeed?

  “It’s sort of a small-town thing.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Dean looked back at the people staring at him, as if they were the ones in the zoo. It was effective; most people looked away.

  “Where are you from?” Jackson asked.

  “New York, born and raised.”

  The word came with a cool breeze, a whiff of the exotic. Skyscrapers and counterculture coffee shops. Good pizza on every corner, music spilling out of grungy clubs. A city that never sleeps. He imagined himself there in one of those slick skinny suits, going to art galleries with fashion-model girlfriends.

  Cora arrived with his cup of coffee. “Usual?” she asked Jackson but stared at Dean.

  “That would be great, thank you, Cora.”

  “And you?” she asked Dean.

  “I’m fine,” he said, and she left. Rather slowly, truth be told.

  “When does the America Today crew get in?” Jackson asked, getting comfortable.

  “Tomorrow. They’re finishing up the shoot in Alaska.”

  “Alaska?”

  “One of the semifinalists. I arrived yesterday, drove in from Little Rock.”

  Jackson burned to ask about the town in Alaska but refrained. “Well, I hope everything has been satisfactory so far?”

  Dean grinned down at his nearly empty plate as if he had a little secret. “No complaints.”

  “You’re at the Peabody, right?”

  “Yeah, I am. It’s very nice. Inviting.”

  The conversation stalled into silence. Christ, this guy didn’t make anything easy. “So, tell me about your decision to move your factory.”

  Dean rubbed his face. The bell over the door kept ringing as word got out that Dean was here and everyone in town suddenly got very hungry for Cora’s. “I wouldn’t call it a decision, really. I had to do something. Nabisco is trying to buy us out and the board of directors is breathing down my neck to take the deal. So, this is my last kick at the can.”

  Dean looked up and laughed at Jackson’s slack-jawed face. “Not quite the story of patriotic industrial leadership you were hoping for?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Right. Well, the thing Maybream shares with every town in this contest is we’re all in trouble. We’re all—”

  “Swinging for the fences,” Jackson supplied.

  “Exactly. So … when can I get a look at your factory?”

  “Anytime, really.”

  Dean stabbed the last bite of his pancake and ate it, groaning. “Well, so far you guys have the best food of any of the towns.”

  Jackson’s heart rate spiked, but he had excellent playing-it-cool abilities.

  “Did you have the peach?”

  “Pecan.”

  “Either way, you can’t lose. You know, after the factory, I’d love to show you some more of the town so you can get a better idea of our community. Shelby Monroe’s art camps—”

  “Listen, Jackson, I’m going to stop you right there. I could give a shit about the community—excuse my language. That’s the America Today angle. They force me to tag along to that crap. But I’m interested in the town with the factory that won’t bankrupt me to retrofit and the state that will give me the best tax break.”

  Jackson blinked, stunned, trying to keep up with this sudden turn in conversation. The bell rang again and it set his teeth on edge. “But … what about your employees?”

  “They’ll go to Timbuktu if it means the company stays alive and they get to keep their jobs.”

  Thank God, Cora arrived with his breakfast sandwich on an English muffin, because he had nothing to say to Dean. Nothing good. He felt like he’d been duped.

  “No pecan pancakes?” Dean asked.

  “When Cora first opened I gained about ten pounds. She was doing this pulled-pork fried-egg thing.… It nearly killed me.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Jackson forced himself to laugh, to pretend his stomach wasn’t sitting in his shoes. “It was.”

  The front door opened again, setting off the bell. Honestly, Jackson was thinking of starting a petition to have that bell removed.

  “Jesus Christ, is that—”

  Jackson looked up and there, looking like a slightly grumpy forties pinup star, was Monica.

  Her black hair was pulled back in a bun and she had a wide blue-and-white polka-dotted headband on. She wore a man’s short-sleeve tan shirt over black leggings. A very sexy Rosie the Riveter.

  “That’s … Monica Appleby, isn’t it?” Dean asked. Jackson nodded and tried not to stare. He’d worked very hard not to think about her yesterday, instead finding about thirty very strenuous jobs to do at the Big House, but it didn’t stop him from dreaming about her last night like a fourteen-year-old boy.


  Jackson took a bite of his breakfast sandwich—the tomato exploded in his mouth, tasting like summer—and nodded.

  “Is she … does she live here?”

  “For the moment, I suppose,” Jackson said after he swallowed.

  Dean’s mouth hung agape. “Oh. My. God. The book. The book about her father’s murder. She’s here to write it.”

  “No. No.” Jackson shook his head but his denials had no impact; Dean was digging through his briefcase. “Where … where did you hear that?”

  “There.”

  It was the Sunday New York Times book section. A small side piece. Jackson read it out loud.

  “‘Can Monica Appleby do it again? Wild Child author to write nonfiction account of her father’s murder at her mother’s hands in a small Arkansas town.’” Jackson sat back; so much for keeping it a secret. It was in the goddamn Times.

  Monica glanced over at him, her hand lifting in a half-wave, and he gave her a sick smile. It was not his finest moment, but there was a disaster looming. Cold sweat formed under his collar, reawakening the smell of chlorine on his skin.

  “She’s …” He wasn’t sure how he was going to finish that. Not a part of this town. A dirty secret. Every single thing I want and can’t have right now?

  “Beautiful,” Dean said. “Way more beautiful than in her head shot, despite that ugly shirt. Have you read her book?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Hot shit, man. That woman is seriously hot shit. And she’s here! Now I find myself a bit more interested in your town.” Dean bobbed his eyebrows like a cartoon lecher and Jackson dropped his sandwich. The firm handshake had been a ruse.

  “Are you joking?” Jackson asked.

  “Hey, don’t look at me like that. You want people to vote for your town—she’ll help. The world loves gossip and scandal, and her family has that in spades.”

  Some awful voice in Jackson’s head said, He’s right. People would give us the vote just for Monica Appleby.

  “If just half the things in that book are true …” Dean muttered, his eyes running all over Monica’s body with a hot, insulting sense of ownership.

  “Then what?” Jackson asked, his voice hard. He might contemplate using Monica for his own gain, which truly was one of the more despicable things he’d thought of in recent years, but he wasn’t going to sit here and listen to Dean speculate about what she might or might not have done in her past.

  Dean blinked at Jackson and then smiled. “You want to duel over her honor? Hardly seems worth it. She threw it away years ago, along with her underwear. I’m just going to go have a chat with her.”

  Before Jackson could say anything, Dean stood and crossed the café to the front booth by the window where Monica sat. A few people at the counter twisted on their stools to watch.

  Monica had her laptop open and a pair of headphones on, the big fancy ones that he thought only hip-hop artists wore. She glanced up when Dean approached and slipped the headphones off, pulling some of her hair out of the headband she wore, and a fat curl bounced down over her eye. Jackson smiled when she batted it away.

  They shook hands, and Jackson was somehow relieved to see that fake smile she gave the world on her face.

  Good, he thought, let’s see you get past that, Dean.

  She glanced over at Jackson, her eyes unreadable, and the world dropped away for just a moment. Just long enough for him to remember with painful clarity the loosening of her body against his the other night. It felt like a secret between them, something special, perhaps like her frowns. Just for him.

  She looked back up at Dean and shook her head. She laughed and gestured to the restaurant. And he could practically hear her saying, I’m not really a part of the town. I’m not a part of the competition.

  And he was hit by two waves of equal size, one of relief and one of regret. Thank God, and what if she really is the key to winning?

  Christ, could nothing be simple?

  He expected Dean, having been rebuffed, to head back over to rejoin him. But instead he kept talking and then, Monica was frowning. Frowning at Dean, and then Dean was sitting down across from her. Jackson watched as the man’s knees touched Monica’s and she shifted to accommodate their length.

  Jackson had to look away, embarrassed by his jealousy. He was in no position to monitor her knees and whose knees they touched. He was planning his great escape. He was going to be an art snob in New York.

  He dug into his sandwich, which no longer tasted like summer, but he couldn’t leave it. If he was honest with himself, he couldn’t leave at all, not until Dean did.

  She threw it away with her underwear.

  A different man would have punched Dean’s face for those words. Jackson couldn’t tell if that different man was better or worse than himself.

  Again, the bell over the door rang and Jackson fought hard not to roll his eyes. But on a wave of sunshine and sweet air, Shelby Monroe walked in, wearing a green sundress her blond hair pulled back in a tight, straight ponytail. She saw Jackson immediately and walked over, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. They were good friends, and for a brief period of time after he’d moved back, he’d planned on marrying her. It seemed like a no-brainer: she was here, she was solid, and she would have been hugely helpful with Gwen.

  But one drunken kiss between them dispelled the thought for both of them. They had about as much chemistry as siblings.

  “Hey, Jackson,” she said. “How are you?”

  “Good. How was your conference?”

  For some reason the question made her blush, and she dug into her briefcase. “I have the final registration numbers for the camps. Better than last year. Not a whole lot, but still better.”

  “Good. Hey, since you’re here, I need the factory keys back from your mom. Dean Jennings is here and wants a tour.”

  Jackson pointed over at Dean and Shelby turned to look. Sensing the attention, perhaps, Dean looked over, a wide smile on his sharp-featured face, but when he caught sight of Shelby, the smile dropped almost as fast as Shelby’s purse dropped from her arm.

  “What—?” Jackson reached for the purse, then for Shelby, who seemed somehow unstable. Her face scarlet, she grabbed her purse.

  “Sorry. I .… ah … forgot something.” And then she was gone, the bell over the door ringing madly at her exit.

  Jackson glanced back at Dean, who was watching her go, his mouth agape.

  Did I miss something? Jackson thought.

  And then Dean was on his feet, headed toward his table.

  “That was Shelby Monroe,” Jackson said.

  “Really?” Dean looked far more stunned than the information warranted. “The art camp woman?”

  “I think she prefers ‘teacher.’”

  “Right. Whatever. I’ll just … well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to get a sense of the community.” He grabbed his stuff and tossed some money on the table.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Jackson said. “When the America Today crew comes in, let’s meet in my office. I can help get you all set up.”

  “Okay,” Dean said. “That … that would be great.” And then he was gone, the bell over the door ringing in the silence his departure had created.

  The restaurant seemed suspended in time for a moment, as if the drama had them all frozen. Neighbors glanced at each other, and then life resumed.

  Jackson watched as Monica put her headphones back on.

  Don’t, he told himself. It’s not really your business. And she probably won’t even tell you.

  But in the end, he couldn’t help it. He got up and crossed the café to see what Monica and Dean had talked about.

  Shelby knew he—the man from the side of the road, the CEO of Maybream Crackers—was following. Her skin told her and that was weird, a first for her. So weird in fact that she stopped, and the man from the side of the road caught up with her.

  “Hey … hey,” he panted, coming to stand next to her, filling the air with a certain vi
tality. A focused energy, focused on her. He was somehow even better-looking at this moment, chasing after her. “I can’t … I can’t believe it’s you.”

  What do I do? she wondered. Pretend like nothing happened? That was hardly mature. Jackson—hell, the whole café—was probably still staring out the window, mouth agape after that little scene.

  “Shelby,” she said and put her hand out like a barricade. The tips of her fingers ran into his stomach and he stopped. “My name is Shelby.”

  “I’m …” He stepped back and glanced down at her hand before slipping his palm against hers. Strange, the ripple over her skin. Shocking, a little. She felt worry. And desire, yes. Lots of that. She couldn’t stop thinking about where that hand had touched her. And as if the thought had flipped a switch, the back of her thigh pulsed with heat. If she looked, she had no doubt but there would be a glowing handprint on the back of her leg. “I’m Dean.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, clinging out of sheer force of habit to her manners.

  “I’d say.” His smile was not polite, and now even more of her skin was pulsing. It was sending trails across her neck and down her chest where his lips had touched, his fingers.

  She was a light-up map of that sexual encounter.

  “You … you’re the CEO of Maybream.”

  “I am … and you’re the art camp organizer.”

  “I am.”

  The conversation jumped off the cliff into silence.

  “Look, Dean—” she said at the same time he said:

  “Shelby, I’m—”

  They stopped and he smiled, and that smile was nothing but invitation. He was going to ask her out, to coffee, to bed, to the backseat of his car, she wasn’t sure where, but she was totally sure he was going to ask.

  “Dean,” she said, stopping him. “What … what happened between us was an anomaly.”

  “Is that what you guys call it down here?” he joked, the invitation still looming. Lord, how did she get into this kind of mess? Other women had flings. Indiscretions. Peccadilloes. Why did hers have to be with the man who could help save this town? That added some steel to her spine. This contest was a big deal and she couldn’t jeopardize it.