Talk of the Town (4 page)
“Well, Bob, I didn’t know she’d ever left ’em. She’s still dating Buddy Ray, down at the sheriff’s office. Why, I hear they call back and forth all the way to California so she can keep up on the Daily happenings. Seems like if she was coming home for a visit, she’da told Buddy Ray.” I gave Bob a blank look. You can get away with a lot by acting old and addle-brained.
Huffing, like talking to me was too much effort, Bob turned back to the fry grill. “I swear, Ima, you don’t know a thing about Hollywood.”
“Could be,” I said, delivering the plates to the countertop crowd. Doyle gave me a grateful nod for bowing out of the argument before Bob could hop onto one of his soapboxes, talk everyone’s ear off, and burn the breakfast food.
Bob was, clearly enough, disappointed that I didn’t have more fight in me these days. Time was, we went toe-to-toe about a lot of things. None of it seemed to matter much anymore. Mostly, I just wanted to get through my day at the café, go home and crawl into bed, and wish I could wake up the next morning in heaven with Jack.
“You can mark my words, Imagene,” Bob said, slinging the spatula and scattering grease that Maria and I’d have to mop up later. “Once all them TV watchers see Amber’s humble beginnings—poor orphaned girl with three little brothers, livin’ in a falling-in trailer house with her old grandpappy, her mama and daddy dead in a terrible car wreck—America’s gonna vote our girl straight to the top. You don’t believe me, just hop on out front and take a gander at that banner they’re hangin’ over Main Street. We’re gonna put Daily, Texas, right back on the map.”
Across the street, a woman walked out of a café next to what looked like a turn-of-the-century hotel with a hair salon downstairs. Standing under a sign that said
Daily Café
, she held down her fluffy gray ’do with one hand and shaded her eyes with the other. She studied the workmen, who had folded up their ladders and were now admiring their new banner—the one that Ursula would hang me with as soon as she heard about it. She would be certain this was somehow my fault, that I’d botched my secret mission and let the country kitten out of the bag, so to speak. She would never believe that by the time I got to town, word was already hanging over Main Street in big blocky letters.
As if on cue, my cell phone rang. Leaving the phone hooked to my purse strap, I tucked the Bluetooth into my ear to answer. Ursula was on the other end. No doubt she could smell fear and impending devastation all the way from California.
“Manda, daah-ling,” Her deep voice held a false, sugary lightness that slipped through the earpiece, ping-ponged around my brain, and instantly wrenched my stomach into a twist. She only called me
daah-ling
when she was about to heap a load of Swedishaccented poop on my head. “Your trip is goingk vell?”
Oh yes, it’s wonderful
, I thought
. You’ve dropped me on a secret reconnaissance mission into
The Andy Griffith Show
. Barney and Gomer just finished hanging Amber’s news on a big fat sign across Main Street, and Aunt Bee is standing on the curb. My cell phone has attracted her attention. Now she’s watching me. She’s wondering what I’m doing. Can I come home now?
“Fine, so far. I did an aerial tour of the staging site at the fairgrounds and rodeo arena this morning. Announcing Amber’s hometown return and having her do a few songs at the afternoon performance of the rodeo should be perfect. I think we can also get some good shots on Main Street—you wouldn’t believe this place. Most of the activity this weekend will be at the fair, but I’m going to poke around this afternoon and scout some downtown locales. There’s no real hotel here—just an old place on Main that may or may not still be operational, so we should stage from the nearest decent-sized town. I’ll book something on my way back to the airport tonight.”
“No-no-no.” There it was, the dreaded rapid-fire no, which meant that Ursula had already planned this caper and I was just here to be her puppet. “I vant you to book rooms in ze town. Ve must be present every minute, so as not to be scooped by ze tabloids.”
As usual, my mind rushed to translate the Ursula-speak into regular English. The first few sentences were always hard. After that, things started to come in loud and clear, whether I wanted them to or not.
“We cannot have them gettingk footage we do not want them to have. Am-beer must be carefully handled on this hometown vis-eet, and
you
will be her handler.” Overhead, a thundercloud clapped, punctuating Ursula’s newest plan. I stumbled back under the laundromat awning, momentarily dazed.
No. No, I will be back home in sunny LA, making wedding plans and perusing coastal maps with David, selecting exotic and luxurious ports of call, and figuring out how to survive almost three weeks with a tiny closet, no Jacuzzi tub, and no dry land in sight
. “What? No. Amber has a handler. Butch.”
Butch, the baby-faced intern with a crush on every woman in the office—remember him?
“Butch is Amber’s handler.”
“Butch izz gone.” The words were short and quick, as if Ursula were taking a bite out of a big, juicy steak. Butch is gone. Chomp. Who would like to be next?
Even though experience told me now was the time to shut up, I heard myself blurt, “Why? What happened? Amber likes Butch. She listens to him.” Actually, I liked Butch, too. He was a nice midwestern kid from some obscure film school. He had big hopes and dreams and was patient with Amber, even when she wandered off without telling him, landed herself in the tabloids, and landed him in trouble. Now that Amber’s uncanny talent for attracting controversy was translating into ratings, Butch was Ursula’s favorite boy.
Accent on
was
, apparently.
“Butch izz gone.” The Swedish singsong had vanished from Ursula’s voice. “Apparently, Mandee-lay, you have not seen
The National Examiner
today?”
No, sorry, I’ve been in cabs, airplanes, helicopters, and rental cars since three a.m.
“I don’t think they have
The National Examiner
here.” I added a nervous little laugh, trying to make it sound like a joke. Ursula was not amused.
Overhead, another clap of thunder boomed across the sky, and a gust of wind twirled the Amber banner into an unreadable tube. Maybe the storm would blow it down. . . .
“On the front cover are pictures of Am-beer with this playboy, Justin Shay,” Ursula growled into the other end of the phone. “She izz with him at the beach, in the café, in the convertible on Sunset Boulevard, huggingk in front of the studio, and at a rally for his Shokahna religion. Vhere, I ask you, was Butch while this was goingk on? It izz one thing for Am-beer to step into harmless trouble, or even to date some playboy who izz old enough to be her father, but we cannot have her seen entertaining thee Shokahna idea. She izz gos-peel singer. The impression that
Ameri-keen Megastar
has turned her from her religious convictions, vhatever they are, could be bad for ratingks. When she comes to hometown, there must be careful management of theese issue. If this Justin Shay arrives there with her, you must make sure zhere are no bad reflections upon ze show. Do you understandt?”
“I . . .”
Ay-ai-ai
. How in the world could I promise that? Justin Shay’s own handlers couldn’t keep him under control. He’d been in and out of jail for the last twenty years, for everything from drug abuse to compulsive gambling and hiring prostitutes. “I’ll do my best.”
“You vill do the job.” Thunder added a silent
or else
.
Aunt Bee was coming across the street, one hand still holding down her puffy hairdo, and the other waving at me. “Hey there. Do you need some help?” she called.
“No . . . uhhh . . . thank you,” I hollered over the rising wind.
“Vhat!” Ursula screeched in the earpiece. “Vhat? You are tellingk me no?”
“Are you lost?” The woman on the street cupped her hand near her mouth as a sudden gust blew her sideways three steps.
“No,” I answered, adding a friendly wave that I hoped would send her back to her own side of the road.
“Vhat!” Ursula screamed.
“I mean, I’m not. I’m not saying no,” I muttered, holding my purse and the phone near my face, while trying to look inconspicuous.
“Pardon?” Aunt Bee cupped a hand to her ear, shuffling the last few steps across the street and stepping onto the curb.
“No. I’m not lost, thank you.”
“Mandee-lay. Vhat is goingk on?” Ursula’s voice had risen three octaves and was now vibrating with irritation. The Swedish accent was getting thick again.
“Someone’s here,” I whispered, turning my shoulder to the street. Aunt Bee moved closer, looking curious. “I’d better go.”
“You understand this—vhat I have told you to do izz not optional. You understand this, correct?”
“Yes, I understand. I’ll take care of it.”
I hope
.
“Very good. Good-bye, Mandee-lay.” Was it my imagination, or did that good-bye have a note of permanence in it? That didn’t sound like the see-you-in-a-few-days kind of good-bye. That was the good-bye of a first-class passenger waving to a peasant on the deck of the
Titanic
.
Lowering my purse, I turned around. Aunt Bee was watching me inquisitively with her hands folded over her flowered Daily Café apron.
“I’m sorry.” Pulling the Bluetooth from my ear, I pointed to the phone hooked on my purse strap. “I couldn’t hear over the wind.”
“Ohhh,” she breathed, blinking at the Bluetooth looped around my finger. “Well, lands, that thing’s tiny. I thought you were over here talkin’ to yourself.”
I had a mental picture of how I must have looked, carrying on a conversation with my purse. “No, I was talking to my, uhhh . . . friend.” No point letting the locals know I was here on business. “My boyfriend, actually my fiancé.” As usual, nervousness caused me to blurt out something idiotic. I’d never been a good liar, or quick at inventing diversionary dialogue under pressure—a shortcoming that had ended my college on-camera internship almost before it began. The producer of the morning show quickly moved me behind the scenes and convinced me that production was where I belonged.
“Oh, well bless your heart. Idn’t that nice?” Leaning from under the canopy, she checked the sky, then fished a plastic hair bonnet from her apron pocket and unfolded it like a tiny parachute in the wind. “I just wondered if you were all right over here. It’s fixin’ to come a toad strangler, and the washateria’s closed on Thurs-deys.” “ She nodded over her shoulder toward the darkened building behind us. “Come about five minutes from now, you’ll be stranded like a horned toad on a high rock.” Tying her bonnet into place, she squinted up and down the street, her faded hazel eyes narrow and perceptive. “You got a car near here somewhere?”
“Around the corner.” I thumbed vaguely toward the alley, where I’d parked so as not to be noticed while I conducted my undercover surveillance for Project Amber. Clearly, the CIA would not be calling me with a job offer anytime soon.
The woman craned to look past me, searching for my car over the top of her half-moon glasses. “It break down or somethin’?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” A gust of wind blew me forward, and I had a sudden vision of the Discovery Channel’s
Tornado Alley
series. What time of year did those things usually happen? I couldn’t remember, but that would be my luck. Less than three months from my wedding to the perfect guy, I’d be swept off the face of the earth and deposited in Oz, where the dating prospects were limited to bald wizards, scarecrows, and tin men.
“Oh goodness!” Aunt Bee grabbed my arm, waving vaguely toward the north. “Here it comes. Hurry!” Motioning frantically for me to follow, she turned and stepped off the curb, starting across the street in a flatfooted shuffle-jog.
“Wait! What . . . Is it. . . ?” A clap of thunder drowned out my tornado inquiry, and I poked my head from under the washateria awning just in time to see what looked like a wall of rain overtaking the Buy-n-Bye convenience store at the edge of town. In thirty seconds or so, it would engulf my car, and about fifteen seconds after that I was going to be stranded like a horned toad on a high rock. Faced with that prospect, I dashed across the road after Aunt Bee. Being younger and more spry, I passed her up at the center line and was waiting under the canopy of the Chamber of Commerce when she arrived. We stood watching as the leading edge of the storm swept over Main Street like the Red Sea falling back together after Moses got through with it. Overhead, the Amber banner flapped in the wind, the deluge slowly turning the letters into an unintelligible but rather interesting tie-dye.
Aunt Bee shook her head. “Guess the paint wadn’t set.”
“Guess not.” One problem solved. That was easy.
“Figures.” Shaking her head, she stepped back into the building’s doorway, where the cement was dry.
Sheets of water blew horizontally under the awning, driving me into the alcove with her. “Does it always rain this hard?” I asked, and she nodded. My mind spun ahead to this weekend, the location shoot, and what I was going to do if this storm continued until then. If the Daily Reunion Days were rained out, how would we show Amber returning to her birthplace in a splash of hometown glory? Other than the high school gym, the community building, and an old movie theater that appeared to be closed down, there wasn’t a building big enough to hold a decent-sized crowd. We’d already booked the community building, under the pretense of a fiftieth anniversary celebration, for Amber’s surprise hometown appreciation concert. “The rain seems to be slacking off a little,” I remarked hopefully, and the woman nodded, studying the clouds with a practiced eye.
