Three years. He’d lived here three years and was still treated like an object. By his staff, by his team. By, at times, his wife. He stepped into the house and saw her, through the back window, at the pool.
A photo shoot. He groaned, wanting some alone time with her, to give her the car, a moment without assistants and cameras, a moment that wasn’t going to happen right now. She stood on a rock he had never seen, one brought into their pool area, her spectacular body on full display under the lights, the suit sheer enough that her nipples were visible, their dark buds causing his eyes to sharpen, to take in every photographer present. All men, one of them laughing into her ear as he spread oil across her shoulders. Her eyes met his across the distance, too far for him to read them, the only indication was her chin coming up slightly, and he raised a hand, a smile crossing her face.
Five weeks together—that was all they had. Then she would be headed to Africa, and he would head to New York. The story of their marriage. Bits of time stolen between lives apart.
Maybe he’d drive some more. Burn off some steam. Because right now, for whatever reason, he was angry. Maybe it was the fact that, after half a year apart, he’d come home to find his wife on display. When all he’d wanted, all he’d been waiting for, was to throw her against the wall and thrust out every latent need and desire he’d had for the last six months. Remind himself of how she tasted. How she moaned. How he could make her moan. Without others around. In an empty house, with no one to watch him reunite. He flung open the front door and jogged back down the steps toward her new car.
CHAPTER 4
Someone knocked on our door. I lifted my head from my book and stared at the front door, its clean white surface giving no hint of the mystery behind it. A knock.
The sound occurred again, causing me to sit up, setting Odd Thomas aside, my curiosity growing. In a town as small as Quincy, one where we didn’t lock our doors, a town where there were no strangers, there were two types of visitors:
1. The type of which is considered family, a close friend who could waltz into a house without introduction. I didn’t have any of those anymore.
2. The type of which an introductory, I’m-calling-to-ask-if-I-can-stop-in was required. There were no pop-ins, no swing-bys, no unknown knocks on doors. That was rude. Unacceptable.
I’d been well trained in the social etiquette; we all had. There were rules in the South for a reason—we didn’t spend the last two hundred years cultivating our society for nothing. I untangled my way from my blanket and moved to the door, pushing aside the lace curtain and staring into the face of a stranger. A smiling, waving energetically, as if he isn’t popping by unannounced, stranger. Fairly handsome, actually. Perfect skin, white teeth, a brilliant blue polo tight enough on his upper body to show some gym-grown masculinity. I opened the door.
“May I help you?”
“God I hope so.” At the words, my libido returned to its pit of despair, every syllable on the man’s tongue drenched in an over-affected gay man’s lilt, his slouch against the doorframe filled with such dramatic despair that I almost laughed. “Please tell me you are the owner of this fabulous estate.”
Ha. Funny. I was wearing Keds, the toe cracked from too many cycles in the wash. The watch on my wrist was one that included plastic as its main ingredient, and I was standing in the doorway of the former slave quarters of the Anna Holden plantation. This guy was hilarious. “Nope,” I drawled, crossing my arms. “Why?”
He had the ridiculous reaction of looking perturbed, like it wasn’t my business. As if he hadn’t knocked on my door and interrupted my reading. “Do you have the number of the owner?”
I shook my head. “I’m not handing out the Holdens’ number to a stranger. What do you want with them?”
“I’m not really at liberty to discuss.” He sniffed.
I shrugged. I wasn’t going to sit here and beg the man. He wanted to be all secretive, fine. “Good luck.” I smiled politely and shut the door, interrupting my view of his agitated face. The Holdens were in Tennessee for the next two months. He could pound his manicured hand on every door to their mansion or he could come back with a side of information. The choice was his.
It took three days for the pretty boy to return. I saw him coming the second time, his seersucker suit moving gingerly down the dirt path to our cottage. I looked up from my place in the rocker and gestured to the empty one beside me. “Feel free to take a seat, Mr. Payne. It’s hot out.”
It was hot. The type of humid heat that saps your energy within minutes. The type of heat that brings out crocodiles and snakes—the evil creatures. Everyone with any sense is indoors. Yet, here were Bennington Payne and I, under the eaves of my rented porch, the fan beating a furious tune, creating a waft of hot air just bearable enough to keep me in place. I reached down, dug in the ice bucket at my feet and pulled out a beer. Held it out to him, my own stuck in between my thighs.
He didn’t argue, didn’t give me any sass, just grabbed the beer, took one dubious look at my free rocking chair, then plopped down, twisting the lid off and flashing me a grateful smile. “How’d you know my name?” he asked, delicately wiping his mouth after downing half of the Bud Light.
I rocked back, my hair pulled up and secured by my head. “The way you’ve been stomping around? The cows in Thomas County know your name by now.” I laughed against the mouth of my beer, tipping it back as I glanced sideways at the man. “You can take off that jacket, you know. It’s not earning you anything other than sweat.”
He turned to me, his face studying mine as if I held another sentence inside. Getting none, he set down his beer and pulled off the jacket, folding it over carefully before leaning back in the chair, the jacket protected in a neat package on his lap. It was a smart move. Local police can read crime scene actions just by following the drags and prints in the pollen. It’s our curse of the South. That, and mosquitos and snakes and flying cockroaches and the hundred other minute contributions that scare off Northerners.
“Is that why I’ve been so unsuccessful?” he asked. “Because I’m, as you so politely put it, stomping around?”
“It’s two-fold,” I said bluntly. “You’re stomping around, and you’re not telling anyone why. No one likes that. We are a private town. We don’t really welcome strangers. Not your type of strangers. We welcome honeymooners, vacationers, tourists. You’re here for something else, and that makes everyone very suspicious.”
He sat in silence for a moment, finishing the rest of his beer with one long draw. “I was instructed to be discreet,” he finally said.
I laughed. “Were you instructed to be successful? ‘Cause you can’t be both.”
The sun moved a little lower, to the place where it peeks through the trees and glares on the front porch, the moment of day when I typically pack up and head back inside. I reached over, snagging his empty bottle and dropped it with mine into the bucket, standing and stretching before him. I stuck out a hand. “Summer Jenkins.”
“Bennington Payne. My friends call me Ben. And, at the moment, you’re looking like the only friend I have here.”
“Let’s not label the relationship just yet.” I smiled. “Come on in. I’ve got to put supper on.”
“It’s just unnatural, a girl that age being unmarried. Especially as pretty as she is.”
“Well, what do you expect? You know what happened with Scott Thompson. Summer hasn’t had so much as a breakfast date since then.”
CHAPTER 5
Mama and I lived in the former slave quarters of what was once the largest plantation in the South. I acted as caretaker of the plantation, making sure the groundskeeper kept the grass at two inches or less, kept the pecans picked, and the house spotless. The Holdens spent five months a year at this home, the other seven months hopping between a Blue Ridge cabin and a California home. They were an oddity in Quincy, one of the rare families that took periodic leave of our city limits. I’d heard the snide comments, seen the sniffs of disapprova
l when their seats sat empty at Easter Service. It was ridiculous. The whole town was ridiculous. A bunch of rich folks squatting on their money until they died. Everyone silently tallying up each other’s millions when no one really knew who had what. The core group had all started the same: forty-three initial Coca-Cola investors put in two thousand dollars each in 1934. On that one day, in that one moment, they were all equal. Over the next twenty years, with stock sales, purchases, reinvestments, marriages, divorces, and bad decisions, some networths sky-rocketed, some became paupers.
Now, it’s a guessing game of who’s richer than whom. It doesn’t really matter. It’s all more than any one generation will ever be able to spend.
Six years ago I accepted care of the Holden estate in return for free board and five hundred bucks a month—a very fair trade for a job that takes around ten hours a week. Mother moved into the cottage’s second bedroom and covered the groceries and household items. Yes, I was a twenty-nine year old woman who lived with her mother. One who didn’t do drugs, party, or have sex. I read books, drank the occasional beer on a hot afternoon, and did the Times crossword puzzle on Sunday afternoons. I hadn’t attended college, I wasn’t particularly gorgeous, and I often forgot to shave my legs. On the upside, I could cook some mean dumplings and bring myself to orgasm within five minutes. Not at the same time, mind you. I wasn’t that talented.
And, right then, with whatever Bennington Payne had up his sleeve, I was his best bet. Even if I wasn’t one of the elite. Even if I was a Quincy outcast.
CHAPTER 6
I pulled a chicken from the fridge and placed it in the sink, running water over it to finish its thaw. Turning to Bennington, I caught his study of our home. “Like what you see?”
“It’s very homey,” he said brightly, taking a seat on one of the dining chairs.
I hid my smirk with a turn back to the sink. “Spill, Bennington. What do you need in Quincy?” I yanked open the freezer door, grabbing bags of vegetables.
There was a last moment of hesitation before he spoke, his words suddenly quick on their tumble out, the feminine lilt masked by a briskness that spoke of a big city. “I’m from Envision Entertainment. I’m a location scout. I need to procure spots for—”
“The movie,” I finished, setting aside the chicken and filling a large pot, proud of myself for having at least one piece of information.
“Yes.” He looked surprised. “How’d you—”
“We’ve all known since the day the mayor was called,” I said dryly. “You might as well have put up a billboard on 301.”
“So then there shouldn’t be a problem,” he said eagerly. “If everyone knows a movie’s coming, then I’ll just approach the plantations—”
I cut off his enthusiastic response with a quick shake of my head. “No one’s gonna let you film at their home.”
That stopped him, his face turning an interesting shade of gray that clashed with his blond highlights. “Why not?”
“Why would they?”
“Money? Fame? Bragging rights?”
I laughed. “First, no one in Quincy needs money—present company excluded, of course. And even if they did need money—which they don’t—they aren’t going to broadcast it by allowing your film crews to take over their plantation.” I ticked off the first point on my fingers.
“Second, this is the old South. Fame isn’t a good thing. Neither are bragging rights. The more you brag, the more flash you show—that’s a sign of weakness, of insecurity. You can tell the truly wealthy from their confidence, their grace. People here don’t show their wealth, they hide it. They covet it.”
The man stared at me as if I spoke Greek. “But all the mansions,” he sputtered. “The big gates, the diamonds…” His eyes darted around my humble abode as if my threadbare space would hold some proof as to his point.
“All old wealth,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “Purchases made back when they were cotton farmers with new money. Back when Coke went big and the whole town celebrated their wealth together. That was almost a hundred years ago. Two generations back. Have you seen any new construction in town? Rolls Royces with air conditioning and satellite radio?” I waited, turning off the water and setting the pot on the stove.
“So what do I do? I need a mansion. Preferably two. Fifteen other locations to shoot at!” His voice squeaking, he dug a shaky hand in his pocket and pulled out a bottle of medication, his panic attack occurring without a single wrinkle in his forehead. I looked in fascination and fought the urge to poke it and see if it moved.
“It would seem…” I said slowly, snagging a glass and filling it with water, “that you need a local source. Someone who Quincy knows and trusts. Someone who can target the landholders who would be amendable. Someone to handle negotiations with the local vendors, hotels, and city officials.”
“But that’s my job,” he protested weakly, accepting the glass of water, his throat bulging as he gulped it down.
“And what are they paying you for that?” I leaned back and crossed my arms, staring down Ben in hopes he’d break. I hadn’t really expected him to break. I’d expected him to brush off his girly suit and ignore the question. But I was wrong and I fought to keep the surprise from my face when he answered.
“A hundred and twenty,” he said primly, crossing his legs and straightening the fabric of his pleats, as if he were regaining some semblance of composure by spilling his guts.
“Thousand?” I shouldn’t have even asked; it was a stupid question with an obvious answer. He wasn’t sitting at my scratched table for the price of a vacuum cleaner.
“Yes. But that’s for five months of my time. Negotiations, red tape management, the—”
“I’ll do it for twenty-five, cash.” I stepped forward and held out my hand, my face set, poker-stare in full force.
“Fifteen,” he countered, already rising to his feet and eyeing my outstretched palm.
“Twenty.” I glared. “Remember, I’m the only hope you have.”
He reached out with a smile and shook my hand, his grip firmer than I expected. “Deal.”
I squeezed his hand and flashed my own smile back at him. But, between me and you? I’d have done it for five hundred bucks.
CHAPTER 7
Ben was staying at the Wilson Inn, a mistake, but one I didn’t blame him for making. Quincy has two major lodging options: the Wilson Inn, a three-star motel, and the Budget Inn, a place my cockroaches would turn their noses up at. What lies below the internet’s radar are our bed-and-breakfasts, seven of them in the square-mile radius of Quincy proper. I told him to pack up and booked him a room at the Raine House, the nicest of our B&Bs. We set a date for eight the next morning at the coffee shop on Myrtle Way. I told him to bring cash and I’d bring names.
The next morning, over a cracked linoleum table, I added a little Southern into Ben in the form of grits and gravy. And he added five thousand dollars’ worth of Hollywood into me with crisp green bills. We worked for four hours, ending the meeting with a clear game plan and a schedule for the next week. He drove off in his rental car, and I started calling names on our list.
It wasn’t an easy sell. Say my name in Quincy and a typical upper-crust face will curl in distaste. Try to then wrangle a favor out of them and you might as well be digging into rock with a plastic fork. But I knew my place. I rolled over and played weak. I groveled and kissed wrinkled buttocks and made sure they felt superior. And I got Ben four appointments out of twenty calls made. I hung up the phone a few hours later with a tired smile, happy with the outcome. It was more than I had hoped for out of Quincy. Maybe three years has been long enough, maybe the mud on my face was starting to wear off.
Or maybe, between the movie and the cash, some Quincy residents were willing, for just one quick moment, to overlook my sins.
CHAPTER 8
“Mr. Masten, tell us about your wife.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re familiar with her.” He smiled, and the woman blushe
d. She crossed, then re-crossed her legs.
“When did you know that Nadia Smith was it for you?”
“We met on the set of Ocean Bodies. Nadia was Bikini Babe Number 3 or something like that.” He laughed.
“And you were Cole Masten.”
“Yeah. I walked into my trailer one day and she was stretched out on the bed in a string bikini. I think that was probably when I knew. When I saw this gorgeous brunette, without a shred of self-doubt, lying on that bed as if she belonged there. She’s gonna kill me for telling this story.”
“And that was it?”
“Tracy, you’ve seen my wife. I didn’t really have a chance.”
“You’ve now been married almost five years, which, in Hollywood, is quite a feat. What would you tell our readers is your best advice for a successful marriage?”
“That’s a tough one. I think a lot of elements make for a successful marriage. But if I had to pick one, I think honesty is crucial. Nadia and I have no secrets between us. We’ve always said¸ it’s better to just get things out in the open and deal with them, no matter the consequences.”
“I think that’s great. Thank you for your time, Mr. Masten. And good luck on The Fortune Bottle.”
“Thank you, Tracy. Always great to see you.”
CHAPTER 9
Mama and I had a routine, our life a well-oiled machine that worked. Nights I cooked dinner, she did the dishes and cleaned up. On the weekends, we cooked together. Most of our social life revolved around cooking, growing, or eating food. But that was life, especially for a woman, in the South. Other women might take offense to that, but I liked to cook. And I loved to eat. And nobody made food that compared with what came out of your own garden and kitchen.