Wild Child

by Molly O'Keefe

  “Art is a way of giving the things you are scared to say or embarrassed to say or are too big to say a voice.” Monica blanched at the sound of her own voice. “The kids and adults who take part in these art camps, they’re lucky people. I wish this camp had been around when I was kid. Maybe I could have found a better way to say all the things I needed to say. And I’m really proud to be a part of it.”

  Across the room, Shelby met Monica’s eyes and she nodded. Monica pretended to do a little curtsy, and Shelby smiled.

  The voice-over continued to discuss the Okra Festival, and Monica realized at one point nearly everyone in the room started looking at her and Jackson.

  “What?” she asked.

  Sean pointed at the screen, and Monica jumped forward in time to see a shot of her and Jackson at the float build, talking in the corner, eyes only for each other.

  It was obvious something was going on between them. While they’d never said they were keeping things a secret, it was a pretty safe bet Jackson wouldn’t love the whole town knowing she and the mayor had a thing.

  It seemed awfully messy for a guy like Jackson. She looked back at him and winced. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

  “Shhhh!” Cora shouted. “They’re judging.”

  She felt Jackson come up beside her and the whole room held their breath while Dean, in a slick suit, talked about his top three choices. Monica glanced over at Shelby, who was looking at the screen as if she were slightly sick to her stomach. Monica felt bad for the woman. Dean was a seriously good-looking sleaze-ball.

  “The first finalist,” he said, “is Gershaw, Alaska. My company employs a lot of women and they were pretty excited by those fishermen.” Jessica Walsh laughed, and the citizens of Bishop groaned. “But it’s not only because of the website, which is brilliant. Truly, it’s probably already viral, and I can only hope those men find love on cyberspace. But it’s also because of the environment they live in and how they care for it. I’ve been to Gershaw and the man wasn’t lying—it’s one of the most beautiful places on earth. And the factory would work great for us.

  “The second,” Dean shifted on his stool, “Is Ludlow, Michigan. When you think of areas hit hard by American manufacturing leaving the country, you think of towns like Ludlow. Their tire factory and the skilled labor in the town makes it a shoo-in.”

  Shoo-in seemed dire. Monica felt all her organs contracting and she was suddenly shocked to realize she was invested in this outcome, not just for Jackson, but for everyone in the room. Sean and Shelby. Gloria and Cora.

  It was painful caring, but it was too late to stop it.

  “And your third choice?” Jessica asked.

  “Bishop, Arkansas,” Dean said with a shrug and laugh. “Beautiful town, beautiful people, a factory that will suit us, but really it comes down to Cora’s café. They had me at pecan pie cake.”

  The room exploded. The sound was deafening. Jackson behind her wheeled back, as if suddenly light-headed, and she grabbed his arm only to be pulled into a hug so tight she couldn’t breathe. And then she was let go and Jackson was high-fiving and shaking hands and hugging people. Cora, across the room, stood stock still, tears running down her face. Sean lifted the woman in the air.

  “Let me down, you idiot!” she cried, but she was laughing.

  It was like standing in a room filled with helium. Never in her life had she been a part of so much joy and relief. It was astonishing. She was humbled.

  And she was really, really glad for everyone.

  “Thanks, Monica.”

  Monica turned to find Shelby, her face pink, her eyes damp. “Those were lovely things to say about the camps.”

  “Well, they were true. You should be very proud of yourself.”

  “The whole town should be.” Shelby laughed. “I can’t believe we made it to the finals.”

  “Okay!” Jackson yelled over the noise. “All right. First of all, congratulations. All of you. I’m so …” His voice broke, and Monica had never in her life been attracted to a man more. “I’m so proud of all of you. I really am.”

  Cheers roared through the room.

  “But,” he added, lifting his hands, and the room quieted again. “Now we’ve got two weeks to get ourselves together for the Okra Festival and the live show. We’re ahead of schedule, but let’s not get lazy. Let’s make it the best festival ever and win this thing!”

  More cheers. Sean opened up a bottle of champagne only to realize he didn’t have any more Styrofoam cups. “Everyone,” he cried, “let’s go next door. First round is on the house.”

  No one seemed to mind that it was barely ten a.m. They all turned toward the door only to freeze.

  Silence settled over the room.

  “Well, will you look at this. A party, and no one invited me?”

  There, surrounded by a camera crew, dressed in angelic white and looking more beautiful than any woman should, was Simone Appleby.

  Mom was back in town.

  Chapter 19

  It was as if everyone had been jerked backward. People stared, open-mouthed, shock chasing the celebration out of the room. All of which was enough to piss Jackson off, but the look on Monica’s face, the stone-cold fear and disbelief, as if she were watching a nightmare become real, drove him to action.

  “You can’t film in here,” he said, pushing through the crowd toward Simone and her crew.

  “Yeah, she totally can!” Sean said, no doubt thinking of free publicity on her reality show.

  “Not … not without permits.” Jackson met Sean’s eyes and jerked his head backward at Monica, who was still rooted to the spot. Sean shut up. Shelby stepped out of the crowd to stand beside Monica.

  Simone’s eyes missed nothing. “Permits? Really?”

  “Yep,” Jackson said, improvising as he went. “Lots of them. Very expensive, too.”

  He was just a few feet from her at this point and honestly, her beauty was a tangible thing. An aura that surrounded her. She was ageless. Her blond hair and white pantsuit gave her an angelic air. But those eyes were dark and full of sin. He knew it was ridiculous, but he actually thought if he got too close, he’d get caught in some web of hers.

  “You’re joking,” she said, trying to call his bluff, but Jackson had been gambling so long and so hard with every single aspect of his life that she had no chance at winning.

  “Mom,” Monica said, obviously coming out of her shock. He felt her approach to stand near him, close but not too close. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Filming,” Simone said, her eyes cold, her smile practiced. Monica’s mother was a stone-cold shark.

  “Is this how you think you’re going to stop me from writing the book?”

  “Please honey, I am just here to film.” Simone was all innocence and Monica stepped forward, lunged actually, like she was about to snatch her mother bald. As Jackson put up his hand to stop her, he felt the fabric of Monica’s tee shirt and then the taut muscles of her belly underneath.

  She was trembling. Shaking. And the whole situation felt one word away from being out of control.

  “You do need permits, actually.” Brian Andersen stood up, smiling, and Jackson could have kissed him. No doubt, Brian was thinking about how much he could charge this crew to use their cameras in town. “If you’ll follow me to City Hall, I’ll get you set up.”

  Simone’s eyes flashed over Jackson’s shoulders toward Monica, and he got so angry so fast that for a moment, he was worried what he might do to this woman on Monica’s behalf.

  But Monica was back in full form, and she needed no one to fight her battles for her.

  “Get out of here, Mom,” she said. “You’re not welcome at this party.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly made yourself at home here, haven’t you?” Simone asked. “Talk about a twist I wasn’t expecting.”

  He felt Monica ramping up behind him, and the only way to stop a good, old-fashioned screaming match in front of camera crews and most of the p
opulation of Bishop was to get Simone out of here.

  Braving her aura, he stepped closer until Simone turned her purple eyes to him. Physically, those eyes were so much like Monica’s. The color, the shape, the fringe of black lashes. But Simone’s were empty of all the things Jackson had grown to admire in Monica’s eyes—the fire and heart. The intelligence and wit. The deep-seated pain that this woman had inflicted upon her.

  “You want to talk to your daughter, now is not the time,” he whispered. “Go, or I’ll get my police chief to escort you out.”

  She blinked, the shark flinching for a moment.

  “Aren’t you clever,” Simone said and then nodded at her cameraman, who swung the camera off his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Simone and her crowd left, taking with them the oppressive tension that had filled the garage, and everyone behind him started to buzz again, but a pin had been stuck in this town’s victory. And he couldn’t stand for that.

  “Let’s go over to The Pour House, second round is on me!” he cried, and people rolled past him out the door. Smiles were back on their faces but he could tell they were rattled, focused on Simone Appleby and not their victory.

  “Weird day, huh?” Sean asked on his way out the door. “You want to give me your credit card for that round?”

  “You know where I live,” he said, then turned back around to see Monica surrounded by an almost empty room. Shelby stood next to her at a respectful distance, a surprising ally if not a friend.

  Reba sat looking up at Monica, all the hair on her body twitching.

  Shelby and Jackson shared a brief look and Shelby walked out the door too, pausing first to squeeze Monica’s arm. Monica seemed startled at first to find someone next to her, but then smiled—unconvincingly, but she gave it a shot.

  “I’m … I’m sorry,” Monica said, when they were alone. “She totally … totally ruined the party.”

  “No. It’s fine. The party is just getting started, I’m sure.”

  It was awful seeing Monica so beaten. So outside of herself. It was like seeing Sean when his mother died—all the fire in him had been banked. Lost. And now Monica sat in this empty garage looking like she’d been kicked in the stomach.

  “I’m going to walk you home.”

  “No, no, you should go … go celebrate.”

  Oh, those eyes, they just killed him. The truth was, he should go celebrate, because he wasn’t the man she thought he was. He wasn’t the man anyone thought he was.

  Avoiding her, as he had for the last few days, was undoubtedly the right thing to do in the long run. The safe thing. Because the closer they got to each other, the worse it would be when this was over. What had started as sex had turned into something well beyond his control.

  But he couldn’t look in her eyes and leave her like this.

  “I’d rather walk you home,” he told her with a smile, and he found it to be unalterably true.

  It was shock. It had to be shock. This numb feeling, as though her feet were in ice and her head was floating off her body. It felt … like she’d been caught without her shell. All her doors had been thrown wide, her windows open. She’d been vulnerable and … happy. Standing in the corner of the garage, holding Jackson’s hand, watching the show and everyone celebrating, and feeling a part of that. Feeling that she had something to do with it. And to have Simone walk into a moment so sweet, so pure, and destroy it with her blackness—Monica had been unprepared.

  Once they got to her hotel room, she couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand the room, the memories, the fact that her mother was somewhere in this town waiting for her. That she’d come here to ambush her. To force Monica to bend and twist and change so that Simone would get her way.

  Monica tossed her key on the desk and walked over to the window, cranking it open, letting in a hot breeze that didn’t make the room feel any bigger.

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen your mom?”

  “Years. Three. Maybe four years.”

  “You okay?” Jackson asked quietly.

  “Okay?” she cried. It was as if he’d pressed play on the internal monologue building in her head and heart. “No. No. I’m not okay. I’m never okay when she’s around. I should have known. I should have known she would do something like this.”

  “How could you have known?”

  “She called,” she said, realizing she hadn’t told him this. They’d shared so much, and yet somehow not much at all. “After that night at The Pour House, I came back here and she’d called the hotel. Tracked me down. She asked me not to write the book. Told me it would ruin my life.”

  His eyes opened wide.

  “But I think what she meant was that if I tried to write this book, she would ruin my life.” She stared at the curtains, the sheers, fluttering in the sticky breeze. There was only one thing to do. “I’m going to leave.”

  She grabbed her suitcase from the closet and flung it open on the bed.

  “Leave?”

  “I have enough to get the work done. I don’t need to stay here, and it would serve her right.”

  “You’re going to run away again?” Something in his voice infuriated her.

  “Run away?” she asked. “From what? I wasn’t going to stay here. This wasn’t going to be my home. I don’t have one of those, Jackson. I was here for a job. That’s it.”

  He flinched and she knew how she sounded, how she’d reduced him and what they’d shared—the same way he’d reduced her the other day. For something that was supposed to be easy, they kept screwing it up.

  “I’m not talking about Bishop, Monica. I’m not even talking about me. I’m talking about your mom. You’re going to run away from your mom again? You’re thirty years old—how many times do you think you can do that?”

  “As many as it takes.”

  “You’re tougher than that. Smarter than that.”

  No! she wanted to cry. I am exactly this stupid. Exactly this weak. But his eyes saw right through her.

  “You don’t know me,” she said, railing against him. Against the truth in his words. “And you don’t know my mom. If I stay, she stays. How is that going to go over?”

  “Well, I imagine right now Brian Andersen is making them pay a pretty hefty price to film here, so I’m okay with it.”

  “What about the Okra Festival? If she’s here, she’ll ruin it. She ruins everything.”

  “It’s two weeks away. We can deal with that then.”

  Jackson reached over and touched her arm, which, because she was angry and wound up, she pulled away. “You called me a coward, remember?” he asked. “When I wouldn’t talk to my sister?”

  “Are you calling me a coward?”

  “I’m saying you have a whole lot of unresolved issues with her that I think, for your own peace of mind, you should resolve. What if she finds you someplace you don’t want to leave? Are you going to let her chase you around all your life?”

  She wanted to say yes; she wanted to hold on to this grudge, this anger. She wanted every protective shell she’d ever crafted to keep her safe and warm. But the truth was a very sharp spear, and it cut through all her bullshit.

  When she collapsed onto the bed, her suitcase toppled to the floor. Jackson sat next to her and she groaned, embarrassed by her inability to keep her shit together.

  “Go ahead, Monica,” he breathed in her ear. “Go ahead.”

  He put his arm around her, his big hand cupping her shoulder, his fingers touching the skin of her arm beneath her shirtsleeve. The solid warmth of him made it worse, and her face crumbled in an effort to keep from crying.

  Silently, he kissed her forehead, pulling her close. And Monica, her face averted, broke into tears.

  Loud, messy, awful tears, and Jackson didn’t say anything. He didn’t shush her or calm her or in any way try to comfort away the storm that raged in her heart and head.

  These new memories that had resurfaced while she was here, talking to people about that night Si
mone shot JJ, had made a mess of her. Of her strength and her anger toward her mom. They turned everything she knew by heart on its head. And she hated that.

  Jackson seemed to understand, and he just let her rage until the rage was gone. All gone. And then she sat there, limp, next to him, held upright by his big hands. His strength.

  Another first, she thought.

  Orgasms, flowers, friendship, and now this. Jackson was her conquistador, the first foreign man on all her untouched shores, and he didn’t even know it.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, using the hem of her shirt to wipe at her eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said, and she laughed, all snotty and messy.

  “For what?”

  “For this morning, during the show. Standing beside me.”

  She glanced up at him, somehow both embarrassed and emboldened by it all. Weird how vulnerability was addicting. It was so freeing not to pretend all the damn time. “You looked like you needed a friend.”

  “I needed you, and you were the only person in the room who knew that. Thank you.”

  “I’ve been avoiding you the last few days,” she confessed.

  “I know. I … I’ve been avoiding you, too.”

  She leaned away from him, from the intimacy and this budding … need of him.

  “Maybe we should … stop, you know?” She gestured limply toward the bed.

  “I don’t want to stop. I want to be with you, however long it lasts.”

  In her lap her hands were knotted together, the knuckles like white flowers. A bouquet of bones.

  I want to be with you.

  Was there anything more lovely?

  “I want to be with you, too,” she said and his hand covered her knuckles.

  “You’re a bit of mess, you know that, right?”

  “Must be why we get along so well.”