Sidetracked

by Lola Karns

  Sidetracked: A Small Town Contemporary Rom-Com

  Lola Karns

  Published by Lola Karns, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SIDETRACKED: A SMALL TOWN CONTEMPORARY ROM-COM

  First edition. October 13, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Lola Karns.

  ISBN: 978-1393824299

  Written by Lola Karns.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Sandy’s Cream Cake

  Author’s note and Acknowledgements: Sidetracked

  Sign up for Lola Karns's Mailing List

  Also By Lola Karns

  About the Author

  In memory of Grandpa Roy and his dribble glass.

  Chapter 1

  September fifth

  For the fourth time in five minutes, James Fordham straightened the knot of his skinny tie and patted the suit pocket with his emergency Tums. The allegedly “tasteful” high-gloss corporate wall art served as a makeshift mirror. One month of prep was insufficient for this life-changing opportunity. For the last weeks, he’d spent every waking second—well, those not occupied with wingman duty and packing for his temporary relocation to Podunksville, Fly Over USA—researching the energy industry so he’d know what to do with this particular miserable waste of space. The knowledge gained hadn’t slaked his quaky gut.

  He knew retail. Fordham, Fordham and Schmidt specialized in privatizing and revamping retailers on shaky financial footing. Even though he was one of two junior members of the team, he knew when to use a scalpel and where to use a chainsaw to maximize profit. Even in the corporate talk of diversification, they discussed restaurant chains, etailers, and oil change services—never utilities. Yet here he stood in Adena Energy’s headquarters, one shake-up away from becoming partner.

  The partners, his dad, his uncle, and the soon-to-retire Schmidt, arrived in person to introduce him to the company he would get to revamp. He stood behind them in a long hallway with an opulent paint job and scruffy linoleum floors. Someone along the way put more money into appearances than in functionality. He’d fix that. The picture frames might be worth some money on the salvage market even if the photographs of landscapes and toy trains were pure trash. The place was typical of companies that overran expenses during the good years, making the building pretty and sending employees end-of-the-year gifts. They forgot the core business and how to make money. Maybe the utility industry wasn’t so different after all.

  The “town” sure was different. Until two days ago, Main Street only existed in old Hollywood black and white movies or as a marketing tool—2D nostalgia to convert wishful thinking into money. Mythical Main Street was not a place with parking meters and potholes, both of which, Belkin, Ohio’s literal and nominative Main Street had in abundance.

  The sooner James destroyed this company, the sooner he would become a wealthy man living in the urban jungle of restaurant choices. One with his own apartment so he wouldn’t have to share with Danny, his older cousin by a mere three months and his rival for this promotion. But first, he needed to clean house in Ohio, all by himself. Without back-up. This was his test. If he could do this, his new address would be Easy Street.

  He peeked around the corner. The partners stood before the crowd on a makeshift platform in the company’s foyer. They spoke in upbeat terms about ensuring the company’s future, but he heard the double talk often enough to know that the company’s future meant little to those people he’d eliminate in the name of efficiency. Usually they met with the higher-ups of the doomed company, but this time, the partners invited everyone to the change of authority ceremony. If Danny didn’t get the same treatment at the bookstore chain he got to dismantle, then maybe the partners recognized the uniqueness of the energy industry. Or perhaps the partners believed in his inevitable triumph and wanted to see how he handled ceremony. Or they rolled the red carpet over the edge of the abyss. The path to hell paved with pomp.

  Thomas Fordham’s voice echoed through the cavernous space. “Our goal is to make you profitable by the end of the fiscal year. To that end, we’d like to introduce you to the man who will make that happen. Ladies and gentlemen, Mister James Fordham.” James took one last swig and then tucked a bottle of Mylanta in his suit coat. Showtime.

  He tightened his abs as he walked in the room, hoping to squeeze those butterflies in his stomach into submission. Just another day of being the new kid, at school, at work, at life. Hundreds of faces stared at him. He drew a deep breath as he walked toward the microphone.

  His dad, his uncle, and Mr. Schmidt made a show of shaking his hand before retiring to the three empty chairs at the back of the stage. James approached the podium and scanned the sea of bald spots and helmet hair. He avoided faces until the deed was done. There was always one savvy person in the audience who saw through the bullshit. He didn’t need that person’s vitriol to put him off his game.

  “Thank—” A loud squeal echoed. He flinched. Most of the audience probably did too.

  “Get closer,” his dad hissed in a tone that implied two missing words –you and idiot.

  James cleared his throat and leaned over the podium. “Thank you.”

  He squared his shoulders to the audience. Someone in that crowd had set him up for failure with poor equipment, so he wouldn’t apologize for the feedback. The audience didn’t deserve an apology. He pinched his pointer fingernail into the soft part of his thumb to remind himself of the next line of his prepared remarks.

  “Over the next weeks and months, we will need to make some hard decisions, ones that will improve Adena’s future. We of Fordham, Fordham and Schmidt want to keep Adena local and strive to secure good jobs, your jobs, right here in Ohio. It won’t be easy, but I will meet with many of you to discuss what is truly important for the company and your ideas will help guide the future. I look forward to the opportunity to work with you and to make Adena Energy the successful, stable company we all want it to be.”

  The well-rehearsed lie rolled off his tongue. He expected the applause. Most people clapped to be polite when they feared for their job. But as he glanced across the room, he let his gaze slip a little too low. The expressions on most faces were decidedly worried, and with good reason. The sooner he fired these small-town yahoos and sold off the company in bits and pieces, the sooner he’d be back home in New York City with a shiny new job title in hand.

  NINE BUSINESS DAYS and thirty interviews later, James had yet to fire anyone of import. Mailroom workers and secretaries didn’t count. Nor did he count the contract workers who had come up for renewal during that period. He was still at the office on Friday night, but he had nothing better to do. It wasn’t like there was a gallery opening or new restaurant or new bar to check out.

  His phone kicked out a few bars of a rap song, interrupting the quiet. This was the last person he wanted to talk to.

  “Hey, Danny.”

  “Hey, Cuz. This is the first time I’ve gotten VIP passes and you aren’t here to enjoy them. Sucks.”

  “Yeah. Where to?” James di
dn’t want to know. Asking was habit.

  “New place. Opened last weekend.”

  “It will probably go under before I’m back.”

  “You got shafted that’s for sure.”

  “Seriously. Why did you suggest this place?”

  “Eli, remember him from Blake’s divorce party?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We were drinking.”

  “That was the point of the weekend.”

  “Yeah, well he made a killing on energy out in California. This had the same kind of credentials.”

  “Except location.” He’d add Eli to his list of personal contacts with industry knowledge, bringing his list to a total of three people.

  “Better you than me, although doesn’t sound like there’s much out there. Seriously bro, I checked the tinder pickings out there.” James could almost hear Danny shake his head. “Ah, it will all be over soon, and you’ll be back here.”

  “There are no tap rooms or sushi bars. If I asked for sake, I’d probably get a plastic bag. Put all that together, and December is a long way off.”

  “This partnership thing will be done before then. I cut twenty percent of payroll this week. It’s not hard.”

  James picked up the liquid Mylanta from his desk. There was a half a swig left, insufficient to get the job of settling his gut done. He’d gotten the short straw in this deal. Energy wasn’t as simple as retail, not that retail was a cakewalk. Oh sure, he identified and eliminated a few pieces of dead weight—the whole R&D department seemed useless as producing innovation—but it was clear that he would have to battle the union to cut benefits. Danny had it easy.

  “Good for you. You have something to celebrate tonight.” He wondered if Danny picked up on his lack of shared joy. Probably not or if he did, Danny probably considered winning the head game another victory to celebrate.”

  “I’d tell you to give me a champagne toast tonight but from what Dad said after going out for your introduction, you can’t even get real scotch.”

  “Oh yea. The two bars serve beer, beer light, and knock-off schnapps. Neither place knows how to make a decent Moscow Mule or even a pathetic Old Fashioned.” James may have exaggerated the severity, but neither craft beer nor craft spirits had found a footing in Belkin.

  “At least you don’t have any distractions.”

  “Just you calling.” Danny guffawed like that was the best joke ever. If he became partner before James, Danny would be absolutely insufferable.

  SATURDAY MORNING, JAMES climbed into his car and drove through the town of misery, or what passed for a town. He waited three minutes at a stoplight but didn’t see another car. As much as he wanted to take his foot off the break and roll through the intersection, he didn’t dare because last week, another car was on the road when he went through. A police car driven by Officer Un-friendly, who happily issued him a ticket.

  “Useless place.” James shook his head as the light changed. On the side street, he spied a police officer hanging out the window of his car aiming some crazy radar thing at him. A few minutes later, the vehicle appeared in his rear-view mirror. This town of 800 people was even boring to the police who worked here because they had nothing better to do than to follow him around in hopes of issuing a ticket.

  The police force must be in desperate financial shape and James was not going to help them one bit by getting a silly ticket for going two miles over the speed limit. The police would have to settle for picking up drunks on the weekend and that would not be him. The closest thing to a DJ in a nightclub was the jukebox at the bar—or rather the choice of two jukeboxes—one at each drinking establishment. The more tolerable one served beer in cans and featured music by Elvis and the Beatles, but the jukebox was only plugged in if a game wasn’t on. The other bar had five beer on tap. Customers had a choice of beer or beer-light and a musical choice of country or western.

  The town seemed entirely populated by old men, families with young children, teenagers understandably anxious to leave this cesspool, and Adena workers who feared for their jobs. The few shops seemed to sell used goods to cheap customers. He imagined the interiors of the antique stores had a layer of dust on the inside to match the filth of the window. The barber shop had a classic red and white pole, but specialized in comb-overs, not hot shaves. Belkin was not the best scene—social, retail, dining, whatever—to be stuck in for the next few months. There was no scene.

  At least he’d discovered the shiny vinyl and chrome affair known as The Diner, his destination for the day. The food was more inspired than the name. He never came on Sundays, only Saturdays because it wasn’t as crowded. He’d learned the hard way not to come on Mondays and that they didn’t serve dinner on Tuesday or breakfast on Thursday. He sat with the New York Times on his tablet, a cup of coffee, and a big breakfast with an overstuffed Denver omelet. The cash register and a spare change collection box rested on the counter beside him, guaranteeing a buffer if the place got crowded. An empty stool sat on his other. He liked the counter. The locals with their loud kids didn’t give him the stink eye for taking up a booth. The counter also came with Jo, the waitress. She kept his coffee cup full and didn’t act as if her job depended on the power plant. He scooped up a fork full of hash browns.

  “Want a little more?” Jo interrupted his reading and nodded at his nearly empty cup.

  A full pot of blistering hot coffee awaited his approval. It wasn’t particularly good coffee, but better than nothing. The cost reflected the quality. He tolerated the stuff for a mere buck and a half, but damn, couldn’t the town have a Starbucks?

  “Sure.” He shoveled in the potatoes that managed to be both crisp and fluffy. He wanted a swig of coffee or two to cleanse his palate before having another bite of jam-laden biscuit, but Jo paused, coffee pot dangling precariously over his cup as the main door released a pneumatic sigh behind him.

  “Hi, Stranger. I wondered when you’d be back from the big city. I had five bucks on five-oh-five.” Her words weren’t meant for him.

  “Sorry I’m early. What can I say? Too little to do there.” What a voice! The speaker lacked that irritating twang he heard too much of around here. Instead, she, because the owner was certainly female, projected lyricism with a hint of huskiness.

  “You mean no one to do”— Jo’s brassy voice carried through the building.

  “Please. I’m a dull girl.”

  An eruption of noise from the booth of older men in the corner cut her off. He’d forgotten they arrived shortly after him. He recognized one guy from Adena’s office but didn’t know any of the others. Why bother?

  “We’re back here.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Now I know where not to go.” She reached across the counter and gave the waitress a one-armed hug.

  As the old men laughed, he turned on the stool to take in the newcomer. She wasn’t as vamp as her voice. The pockets of her cargo pants bulged, contrasting the tight fit of her t-shirt. A blue and silver scarf wrapped around her neck and matched a streak of blue in the dirty blond hair pulled into a ponytail. Her lips were full and hinted with a smudge that suggested she liked red lipstick. She looked as out of place here as he did.

  She flopped on the stool beside him without asking if the seat was taken.

  “Can I get a tuna melt to go?”

  How someone could eat tuna at seven in the morning was beyond him. His stomach clenched in horror. Tuna should not be served with cheese.

  “Sure thing. I can get you French fries, but no extra veggies. The Dispatch had an easy tomato sauce with carrot recipe. When Alice made this week’s delivery, she said she had to hold back some stock for me, or else people would have bought out the harvest. What there was of it, anyway.”

  “So not a good summer here?”

  “Hot and dry, which was fine by me but so-so for the tomatoes. When did you get back?”

  “Just now. I didn’t want to spend another night in the hotel room, not when there’s so much to do here. I loade
d up my tools in the trailer yesterday afternoon and bugged out after the gala.”

  Gala? Belkin wasn’t that type of town and she didn’t look like the high fashion, high society type he saw at the ones he’d attended.

  “Only you would hate going to a party.”

  “Trust me, you would have been bored to tears. I had to smile and be polite while letting the big money folks know I don’t do boats, not even yachts and no, I haven’t been to Cabo in December, but I’m already booked.” She put on a posh accent that sounded like some of the society wives he’d bumped into at networking events. He stifled a laugh.

  The woman slapped her hands on the counter. “Jo, you should have seen the looks I got when I went to change in the gas station bathroom. Enter glam, leave like a human being.”

  “What did you do with the dress? Beverly’s always looking for dresses she can resell for homecoming or prom. Belkin’s homecoming is two weeks.”

  “It’s draped across the back seat. I’m sure it’s wrinkled, but if anyone can fix it, she can.” A huge yawn escaped her mouth and mint filled the air.

  One of the old guys shouted, “When are you opening the shop?”

  The out-of-place goddess bumped into his arm as she leaned back to look across the room. “A week from Wednesday. Say eleven am? I have to unpack and clean up whatever chaos you created. Sorry.” She spoke the last word softer, for his ears. He nodded an acknowledgement, although she barely grazed him.

  “Can you make it eight? Or better yet this weekend? Some of us have day jobs.”

  All this yelling made it hard for him to concentrate on his paper, although the blonde was doing her part to distract him with her mere presence. The dramatics were so typical of this area. He made a show of straightening his tablet. Not that anyone noticed. The shiny screen made a half-way decent mirror. The woman beside him was more interesting than a law to regulate ride-shares. She looked like a city dweller, with a confident lift to her shoulders and chin. She smelled nice too, not all overwrought and flowery; more sophisticated, slightly peppery.