My Bluegrass Baby (6 page)

Never had the office seemed so divided and disconnected, not even during the great
“Kelsey Purchased Decaf Instead of Real Coffee” Scandal of 2010. This tension came
to a head at the monthly staff meeting, when Ray asked us for a progress report on
our project and we had very little to show him except that we’d agreed on which shade
of blue we would be using for the brochure text.

“You’ve been working on this for more than a week and all you have to show me is royal
blue?” Ray said incredulously.

“It’s closer to a peacock blue, really,” I observed just before Vaughn elbowed me
in the ribs.

“What exactly is the problem?” Ray asked. “Because I am almost certain I could turn
this over to the interns and they could have something back to me in a few days.”

Jordie the Good Intern from Transylvania University frowned at the implication, while
Michael the Idiot Intern smirked like he’d been paid a compliment.

“There’s no problem, Ray, just a difference in opinion,” I told him. “Mr. Vaughn seems
to think we can attract people to a new and exciting event by making it look like
every other historical event held in every other state. There’s no reason to take
pains to attend said event because if they miss it, they can always go to the next
one in Tennessee or Virginia.”

“Yes, I suppose that does seem disturbing to someone who wants to draw in a crowd
by making the encampment look like some sort of
National Lampoon’s Vacation
,” Vaughn spat.

I stood, knocking my chair back. “Would I give people the impression their family
might risk having fun? Yes, I would!”

Vaughn stood and slapped his hand against the table. “Of course you would! Because
you believe in wacky sentimentality over proven marketability. And not just for this
project. It’s evident in everything you do.”

“Because proven marketability is boring! It’s proven because it’s been done before.
You’re not creating anything new, you’re just regurgitating some old idea.”

“Okay, let’s talk about new growth. Delacour Jewelers is building a fabrication plant
here. Kentucky would be home to one of maybe three places in the world where they
make their jewelry. Why can’t we draw some attention to that? The jeweler’s public
relations rep told me she’d contacted you three times and you never picked up on any
of the announcements she sent you.”

I threw up my hands. “Oh, sure, let’s campaign for a store where maybe ten percent
of our state’s population can afford to buy so much as a key chain. A store that already
has a substantial advertising budget and doesn’t really need our help.”

“I like their ads,” Kelsey mused. “You don’t see enough male models rolling around
on piles of loose diamonds, in my opinion.”

Ray sighed and buried his face in his hands. “Kelsey.”

“I say we let Kelsey talk,” Michael said, holding up his hand. “Kelsey, are there
naked girls rolling around—”

“Michael!” Ray barked. “Look, Sadie, Josh, let’s all calm down.”

Vaughn ignored him, throwing his arms up in the air. “And building a little goodwill
with a multimillion-dollar corporation would just be tragic, wouldn’t it? You think
I haven’t met hacks like you before? You put together your adorable little campaigns
that make people laugh, but never manage to nudge them off their couches. You love
the underdog, which is easy because everybody loves to root for the underdog. The
problem is that the underdog is usually under for a reason. And you can’t build long-term
success on adorable!”

“Well, I think the Snuggle Bear, the Cadbury Bunny, and that little girl who bared
her ass for Coppertone would probably disagree with you!” I snapped, leaning toward
him. I would not be intimidated by this guy just because he was using his “big boss”
voice on me. I could be just as loud and authoritative and I didn’t need a retro skinny
tie to do it.

“You know, if this is how you behave in a meeting, I don’t know why you’re even bothering
with this ‘competition’ thing,” he sneered. “You’re not prepared to do the job. You’re
not going to come up with a better idea than me. It’s cruel that Ray put you in this
position in the first place. And frankly, I think it’s ridiculous that I have to participate
in this competition at all. I just want to do the job, put in a few good years as
director, and open my own marketing firm. I figured this would be a good place to
develop contacts, not be tormented by some vapid, crazy cheerleader with an axe to
grind.”

I made an indignant squawking noise. He was putting me through this and he didn’t
even
want
the damn job? He’d turned my office into a feuding war zone for nothing? He saw my
dream job as a stepping stone to something
better
? Suddenly a very dangerous idea formed in my head. I crossed my arms over my chest
and tilted my head. And there, in the conference room, I made a vow that I would destroy
Josh Vaughn. And his little suits, too.

Or at least I would make his life very difficult.

“I’m a cheerleader?” I scoffed. “So you’re not intimidated by me at all?”

He gave me a head-to-toe scan that lingered a bit too long for professional behavior.
“Not a bit.”

“So I guess you wouldn’t mind a little side wager?” I slid to a sitting position on
the table, my skirt riding up ever so slightly on my thigh. Vaughn’s eyes were trained
on that tiny expanse of tanned skin and I raised an internal cheer. A distracted man
was a man prone to making stupid promises. “Oh, come on, Vaughn. There’s no chance
of me winning anyway, right? What do you have to lose?” I grinned. “We get through
this Civil War plan with as little fuss as possible. I’ll make my best effort to hold
myself back from my usual snarkiness and do my utmost to be a team player. But all
gloves are off for the state fair campaign. No holds barred, full-on marketing mayhem.
If your campaign is judged better than mine, I will come to work the following Monday
in a cheerleading outfit. UK blue. Pom-poms and all.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eyes when he said, “I’m not really seeing how this
would benefit you at all.”

I hopped off the table and stepped closer. For once, Vaughn was the one to back up.
I beamed at him, sickeningly sweet. “Because if I win, which I will,
you
will come to work the next Monday in a cheerleading outfit. U of L red. Pom-poms
and all.

“And not the male cheerleaders’ outfit, either,” I added. “You will wear the tiny
skirt and everything.”

“And this is a very professional example in front of our coworkers—” He turned toward
the table, where he’d expected to find the rest of the staff. But the room was empty.
Our coworkers and the interns had crept out of the room while we were arguing, and
we hadn’t noticed.

“That seems like an overreaction,” I said, chewing my lip. “Oh, well. Do we have a
wager?”

“You’re nuts,” he exclaimed.

I made none-too-subtle clucking sounds under my breath.

“Fine!” he said. “You’ve got a deal.”

“You’re going to look stunning,” I promised him just as Ray appeared in the doorway.
I whispered, “I’ll get a pretty red-and-black bow for your hair and everything.”

“You two,” Ray growled, with no trace of the playful, fatherly voice to which I was
accustomed. “My office. Now.”

In Which I Push a Colleague out of a Metaphorical Lifeboat

4

Ray was not pleased with us.

I refused to relay the details of our meeting, even to Kelsey, but I will say that
phrases like “squabbling children” and “unprofessional, shrieking fishwife” were used.
But he was looking at Vaughn when he said “fishwife,” so I can’t actually be sure
whether he was referring to me. I think at one point he threatened to ground us.

According to Ray, we were ridiculously lucky that the commissioner was not in the
building during our blowup and if we ever did anything like it again, being named
director of marketing would be the least of our worries. We were told to shake hands
and behave civilly, which we managed to do without squeezing each other’s fingers
too hard, and then we slunk back to neutral corners.

Through the miracle of e-mail, we came up with an idea for the Columbus-Belmont summer
boot camp without actually speaking to each other. While he conceded that a fun, musical
video would be appropriate for students, Vaughn suggested we also use era-appropriate
military imagery aimed at adults. So Dorie Ann, our graphic designer, drew what looked
like a circa-1860s recruiting poster, encouraging people to enlist in “basic training.”
I changed the tagline to “Step into the past, make memories for the future.” We were
only waiting for approval from the state park staff.

In the meantime, Kelsey and I introduced Vaughn to the wonders of our annual Kentucky
Derby party. The tourism commission helped organize several events over the course
of Derby weekend, including a party at the track for high-ranking state employees,
politicians, and members of the press. We tried to lure the horse owners in, but while
the locals usually made a polite appearance, the rest tended to shy away from our
domestic booze and room-temperature cheese. The main goal was to remind all parties
involved how important tourist dollars were to the overall health of the state’s economy
and how the track played into that. And to remind the politicians that we were perfectly
nice people who deserved our jobs, and they might keep that in mind when they were
passing the next budget.

That year, the first Saturday in May dawned bright and clear and cool. I put on my
trim yellow suit with a creamy linen picture hat from Macy’s. The hat cost more than
the shoes and the suit combined. But Derby regulars could spot a cheap hat from miles
away, and it was better not to subject inferior headwear to their scrutiny.

There was always a buzz on the morning of Derby Day, an anticipatory excitement, which
made no sense, really. Few people in the stands had actually ridden a horse, much
less owned one. And unlike in NASCAR, the chances of one of the horses spinning into
the infield were pretty low. There was a strange sense of urgency to the race. The
horses had been training for this since they were born. They only got one shot at
this particular race before they aged out of the running group.

We got caught up in the pageantry, the traditions, and the foods that we enjoyed simply
because it was tradition. What St. Patrick’s Day is to the Irish, Derby Day is to
any self-respecting Kentuckian.

Kelsey and I had arrived ungodly early at Churchill Downs in order to beat the traffic
and to give ourselves time to negotiate the veritable maze that was the racetrack
complex. Spectators were already milling into the infield entrance, leading inside
the track itself, where tens of thousands of rowdy race fans would turn the small
expanse of grass into an enormous, raucous, muddy party.

We placed our bets as soon as the windows opened. The favorite—and potential Triple
Crown contender—was a large chestnut from New York called Rock of Ages. I put my traditional
five-dollar bet on a pretty coal-black entry from Lexington named Instant Karma, who
I only picked because I liked the color of her silks (turquoise and teal). Kelsey,
on the other hand, placed twenty dollars on Lemon Cakes, a Virginia long-shot scientifically
selected as a potential winner through some algorithm provided by her nerd posse.

We chanced a look at both, sneaking through the paddock garden, which was as close
as security would let us. Like all girls, I’d gone through a horse phase as an adolescent.
Of course, the few times I’d ridden a horse, I’d either knocked my head on a low-hanging
branch or led the horse right through a yellow-jacket nest, which was fun for neither
of us. But visiting Churchill Downs always stoked those old pony-crush feelings. The
horses’ freshly washed coats gleamed iridescent and seal-sleek in the morning sun.
Their steps seemed mincing on their impossibly delicate ankles as the trainers led
them back and forth to the warm-up track.

“Makes you want to stamp cute little hearts on their butts and braid their manes,
doesn’t it?” Kelsey sighed.

“I think the owners would probably object to your turning their million-dollar horses
into life-size My Little Ponies.”

I was not at my most comfortable at the track. Before starting with the commission,
I’d attended exactly one horse race, but that involved a pony getting away from a
petting zoo at my grandparents’ church’s fall festival. Little Sammi Teeter and Dusty,
her brave steed, “raced” all the way to the end of the road before anyone caught up
with them. Now I was expected to know a little bit of everything about the history
of the track, the meaning of the various colored silks, and why the race is limited
to three-year-old horses. Because occasionally, the press asked random questions of
people wearing official-looking name tags, and they really didn’t appreciate it when
you said, “I’m not sure.”

Everything was running smoothly in the hours before the official post time, when our
guests had been invited to mill through the respectable suite we’d reserved in the
Jockey Club and watch the preliminary races on the wall-mounted flat-screen TVs. It
was impressive, but not so opulent that people started to question where their tax
dollars were going. Knowing that Ray and any number of potential hirers and firers
were watching us, Mr. Vaughn and I were actually cooperating and speaking civilly
to each other.

Snowy white peonies mixed with the traditional red Derby roses decorated the tables
in low globe vases. The windows framed a sunny view of the Louisville skyline. Spring’s
arrival was celebrated in the traditional way, with purchases of spiffy new suits
and dresses in soft Easter tones. They reflected against the polished wood floors
like fallen blooms, giving the room an impressionist
Water Lilies
look.

The juleps were ice cold, the table linens crisp, and the canapés circulating at just
the right pace. I was chagrined to see that Josh was meeting all the movers and shakers,
but comforted myself with the fact that I already knew most of those people, and I
was pretty sure they liked me better than someone they’d met only briefly while mildly
intoxicated. Everything was going well.

I should have known something was about to go terribly wrong.

Just as I ended a rather pleasant conversation with the director of the Kentucky Horse
Park, I felt a finger trailing down my arm. I shivered, feeling a clammy cold sensation,
like someone was standing over my grave making dick jokes. I turned and groaned at
the sight of the walking phallus in question.

I hated it when people I disliked snuck up on me. Where was the Darth Vader theme
music when you needed it?

Tall and gym built, C.J. Rowley was handsome enough. His thick blond hair and lantern
jaw would have made him gorgeous if not for the cruel slant to his mouth. Of course,
he was dressed impeccably in a black suit and a tie with little horses on it. My hands
itched to reach for it, but strangling a man with a novelty tie in a room full of
witnesses could not be a good career move.

Rowley had succeeded in making my life very difficult, recommending the job to Josh.
He liked to think he had a lot of influence, and he had a vendetta against me for
the whole blackballing thing. He would love to think he got at me through the system.
And arranging for an impressive candidate to interview for the job I wanted was definitely
getting at me. He’d probably shown up at the Derby party to gloat. Asshole.

But I wouldn’t give him any hint of how well his “referral” was working out, because
that would make him happy. And I was willing to devote a lot of time and energy to
not
making Rowley happy.

I thought I’d managed to keep him at a distance so far. How had he managed to sneak
into this party? Had Josh invited him as thanks for getting him the job interview?
Had he snuck in from a gathering on some other level of the complex? Security was
supposed to be checking the lists before letting people through the doors. Kelsey
probably would have flying-tackled him if she’d seen him. Maybe some other disillusioned,
well-meaning guest had vouched for him?

“Mr. Rowley,” I said, just barely separating my teeth to speak. “So nice of you to
join us, have you seen the door? It’s right over there.”

And by “nice,” I meant,
There could be an army of zombie jockeys breaking down the doors to devour us. By
comparison, this situation is nice.

“Well, even though my invitation seems to have been lost in the mail, you’ll find
that I’m still welcome in most circles,” he said, his tone biting.

“I’ll keep that in mind before leaving my drink unattended,” I said sweetly.

“Now, that’s a silly thing to say,” he said, his mouth pressed into a bitter, cold
line. “I wouldn’t go around making ‘jokes’ like that. You know, I am really going
to enjoy watching you make a fool out of yourself. I heard about the hoops you’re
going to jump through to get your promotion. I am going to savor watching you hop
through each and every one.”

“ ‘Savor’ is a pretty fancy verb, Rowley. Did you read it on your word-of-the-day
calendar?”

He sneered, leaning even closer so that he towered over me. “You know, Sadie, if you’d
been the least bit nice to me, I could have made your life a lot easier. I could have
made your career for you. I could have made you marketing director with just one phone
call. But you had to be a bitch, so I made a different kind of phone call. How do
you like working with Josh?”

“He’s an absolute darling,” I lied smoothly. “We get along famously. So well, in fact,
that we’re thinking about stacking our desks like bunk beds so we can share an office.”

I heard a throat clear behind me. “Well, that’s news to me.”

I turned to find Vaughn staring at the pair of us, the expression on his face inscrutable.
“C.J., how are you?” he asked.

Rowley gave him that “manly men together” greeting of the secret handshake and a hearty
slap on the shoulder. To be honest, I had some sort of auditory rage blackout, seeing
two of my least favorite people in one place, and had no idea what was said over the
next few minutes. Rowley was smirking and nodding toward me, his hand slipping down
my arm to wrap around my wrist. Vaughn seemed confused and unhappy to see the two
of us basically holding hands. I wasn’t thrilled with it, either. But the skin-to-skin
contact brought me out of my state and my ears seemed able to tune in again.

“Oh, Sadie and I go way back,” Rowley was saying with this implied intimacy that I
did not find amusing in the least. “I hope you’re enjoying her.”

I tried to shrug off the fingers clamped around my wrist, but his grip tightened almost
enough to bruise. “Behave yourself, Rowley.”

He leaned entirely too close and used a shockingly pleasant tone to tell me, “You
don’t tell me how to do anything. You’re a low-level nobody and you’ll never get any
further than that. I’ll make sure of it. You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

Staring at the way Rowley was handling my wrist, Vaughn moved forward, seemingly intent
on breaking his hold. With his frat bro distracted, I grabbed hold of Rowley’s pinkie
and twisted up. He gave a short barking yelp, allowing me to break free.

“I know exactly who I’m messing with,” I told Rowley. “Someone in dire need of manners
and an Altoid. You have three minutes to get out before I tip off the security guards
that a man fitting your description is actually a militant animal rights operative,
here to free the horses.”

Vaughn’s jaw dropped and he moved closer to me, his arm hovering just below the small
of my back. Whether it was to protect me from Rowley or vice versa, I had no idea.
But Rowley merely chuckled. “This is why I brought Josh in, Sadie. At least he behaves
like a professional.”

I smiled frostily. “You’re down to two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”

“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he walked away.

“Creep,” I shot back quietly, sipping my iced tea.

“Is that how you speak to party guests?” Vaughn asked, though I noticed he didn’t
move his arm from my back.

“It’s how I speak to
uninvited
guests with a tendency to say inappropriate things to my staff, and who make almost
every woman I know uncomfortable.”

“I barely know him,” he said solemnly.

“He got you this job. I didn’t think it was possible that he had that sort of power.”

“He got me a business card,” Vaughn countered. “I got myself the job. I had no idea
he—I mean, he was kind of aggressive with girls at school, but I thought he’d grow
out of it. Most guys do when they get out into the real world.”

“Well, you could have asked.”

Vaughn rolled his eyes. “I could have called the office where I was applying for a
job and asked whether the person who told me about that job was a creep?”

“I know it’s illogical,” I grumbled, making Josh chuckle.

When I saw Rowley cross the threshold, I breathed a sigh of relief and wished for
something stronger than iced tea. But at this rate, I needed all of my brain cells
functioning. At least Rowley was up-front about his hostilities. My issues with Josh
Vaughn were as murky as the Ohio River. He had moments when he wasn’t entirely awful.
But I didn’t know what he was capable of, or how much of his energy would be devoted
to sinking my personal ship. I had a feeling that if he ever figured out I’d been
present for the creative editing of his “pubic” PowerPoint slides, that energy would
go nuclear.