Wild Child (29 page)

“Hey, Sean, can I have some coffee?” she whispered. Silently, he poured her a Styrofoam cupful.

“No milk,” he said. “Or sugar. But I can make it Irish coffee if you like.”

“Black is fine. What’s going on with the show?” she asked, tilting her head toward the TV, where the weather was being discussed.

“Four of the towns have been on already. It’s just us and Alaska left to show.”

“Have we got any competition?”

“This town in Michigan. They got a good story. Real sad and shit.”

Oh Sean, a student of the human condition
.

Because she couldn’t help herself, she glanced around, looking for familiar blond hair held rigidly away from blue eyes. “Where’s Jackson?”

Sean pointed to the very far corner, where Jackson stood. Alone, but surrounded by people.
That’s exactly what his loneliness looks like
.

She’d avoided him all week, easing away to give him room, or maybe to give herself room. Because the friendship thing had been surprisingly harder than the sex thing.

But looking at him now, there was no place she’d rather be than filling that empty space beside him.

Reba and Monica circled the crowd again and got over
to Jackson just as on the screen, Jessica started talking about the Maybream contest again.

“You okay?” she asked.

He shrugged, but she saw his fear in the set of his shoulders. The way he held his arms folded across his chest. Despite keeping some safe inches between them as she leaned against the wall beside him, she could feel his anxiety. Like low-level electricity.

“It’s Alaska,” Cora said, and someone turned up the volume as the package started.

Monica couldn’t see the screen, but the audio was enough. She could imagine through the voice-over’s description soaring snow-capped mountains crowding around a small sea inlet. A remote fishing village along the coast of Alaska that was settled during the Gold Rush. And now, the population was almost predominantly men.

“What we need,” a new voice said from the TV, “is women. We need families. We want families.”

“In preparation for the families they want,” the voice-over said, “the men of Gershaw have gone to drastic measures.”

“We’ve built a new school and community center, and a women’s health clinic. We’ve got a doctor who lives here now, full-time.”

“All of this,” the voice-over continued, “was done through volunteer labor and community donations. But perhaps the most drastic thing they’ve done in their efforts to attract wives and families”—music played, the kind of music one usually heard in the background of porn movies—“is create a website. The Men of Gershaw.”

The people of Bishop watching the TV burst into laughter and hoots, and, unable to resist, Monica stepped away from Jackson until she could see the screen.

Big, burly men, most of them in beards, were stripped down to their work pants, doing a variety of tasks. Building
the new school, hiking through the forest. Fishing. Tending dogs. One guy was baking, half-naked under an apron. As the porn music played he licked a whisk and a giant dollop of batter fell into his chest hair, which was hilarious, and when the guy laughed and tried to get it out, it was only funnier.

Monica had to smile, she really did. The men looked good. But silly. And okay about being silly. All in all, it was pretty damn attractive. The website apparently had information not only about the single men, but the jobs that were available, ranging from nurse to teacher to lumberjack camp cook to fishing boat captain to police officer to mayor.

Monica walked back over to Jackson.

“It’s good?” he asked.

“Only if you like half-naked men.”

He groaned.

“You should have taken off your shirt more,” she said, which barely made him smile.

Hidden from view, she took Jackson’s hand. “It will be okay,” she said.

He opened his mouth to argue but then shut it, and instead squeezed her hand.

Intimacy
, she thought, feeling that squeeze all the way up in her heart.
So weird
.

The citizen of Gershaw kept talking. “We’re a small town and we’re pretty remote, but there isn’t another place in this world that’s as beautiful. And the families that we have up here, they are happy. But we need more, more women, more kids. More families to make the winters warm and the summers happy. We’re a tight-knit kind of place and we want to grow.”

The voice-over went on to discuss Gershaw’s factory—a salmon-canning plant that closed before it really even opened.

The segment ended, and Sean across the room said,
“A website? That’s all they got? Some half-naked fishermen? Please.”

Everyone in the room argued about it through the commercial break. It was obvious the women in Bishop thought the website was pretty appealing. And Monica had no doubt that right at this moment, it was probably spreading across Twitter and Facebook like wildfire.

For a cracker company seeking out great PR, the town in Alaska was a dream.

“I missed you.” Jackson’s whisper sliced through the noise of the garage and stunned her.

“I missed you too,” she confessed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I … I’m not sure how to do this.”

“Me neither,” she admitted.

“Quiet!” Sean cried. “It’s us.”

“Our last semifinalist is Bishop, Arkansas,” the voice-over said. She saw people in the audience holding hands. Mrs. Wiggins in the back bent her head in prayer.

“You don’t want to watch?” Monica asked Jackson.

“I think I’m going to throw up.” The fact that he was holding onto her hand in a death grip meant she wouldn’t be watching either.

“Another small town hit hard by the economy, Bishop is struggling to meet the demands of the future, while still holding on to the heritage of its past.”

“Wind energy for a small town like us is a huge benefit.” It was Jackson’s voice on the TV and half the room glanced over at him. He raised the hand that wasn’t holding hers in a salute, and his smile would have been convincing if she weren’t aware of his sweaty palms. “First of all, government grants pay for the whole thing, and as of 2014, our entire town’s energy will be provided by windmills. Moreover, by 2015 our surplus will be plugged back into the grid and the state will be paying us for the energy we provide.”

The segment went on to cover Cora’s, and everyone cheered. And then the art camps.

“I think what the art camps provide is a way to help a school system with limited arts availability, but it extends beyond that.” At the sound of Shelby’s voice through the speakers, the kids in the front row sat up straighter.
That woman’s got powerful mojo
, Monica thought. “Adults taking art classes, teaching the art classes, bringing their kids, sticking around to help—it’s not about how good you are, but your willingness to try. What an important lesson, don’t you think?”

“Art is a way of giving the things you are scared to say or embarrassed to say or 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 a 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 sleazeball.

“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 in 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, openmouthed, 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.”