Chapter 6 #4
I wondered, briefly, if she was missing her hair tie. The one that was currently in my pocket.
Pointing toward the jukebox once more, Joan offered, “You wanted a hint? Well, here you go: nothing from the last two decades.”
I smiled and went back to browsing, putting the topic of innocent mementos and inconvenient gratitude behind us. But that didn’t stop all the feelings warming me from the inside out.
I could detect Joan’s attention on the side of my face, and, as a result, I didn’t register a single song title until my eyes randomly caught on something I recognized.
The buttons clicked as I selected J-85, and a moment later, the rhythmic sounds of piano keys filtered through the ancient speakers.
“Oh, now that’s really cheating,” Joan told me before giving my shoulder a playful shove.
I grinned and didn’t let myself draw attention to her teasing or the comfortable way she’d just put her hands on me.
Dolly Parton launched into the opening verse of “9 to 5” as we made our way back to join the others at the table where our night had begun.
“Good choice, man,” Brady called. “Everybody loves Dolly.”
My gaze slid to Joan when I replied, “I know.”
She rolled her eyes, taking her seat next to me.
“Now, Ian, this is kind of important,” Mac said, looking serious all of a sudden. She’d loosened up pretty quickly over the course of the evening, the starstruck awe had faded into curious glances, and finally to nothing but playful camaraderie once she’d beat me at darts nearly every round.
“Oh, right. The warning,” Brady echoed, and everyone turned to look at me.
I straightened, suddenly worried. “What?”
“You can’t tell the other actors or the crew about Mattie B’s,” Mac said sternly.
“Why?”
“This is a local bar,” Brady admitted. “And we’ve worked hard to keep it that way. We let you in on the secret because we like you.”
Oddly, that made me feel really nice.
“Thanks, bro,” I said, sincerely.
“No problem, bro,” he replied.
I heard Joan mutter “Jesus” under her breath.
“What do you mean, you worked hard to keep it a local bar?” I wondered.
“We tanked the online reviews,” Mercer offered.
A shocked laugh burst out of me. “You did what?”
“We review bombed Mattie B’s. Strategically and intentionally, over months,” Mac added. “Hell, years. All the leafers stay over at Magnolia now.”
I looked around the table at the five very serious faces regarding me. This was crazy.
“Wait, what’s a leafer?” I asked.
“Tourists,” Candace explained. “The ones who come to see our fall foliage and visit the farms.”
“You’ve seen them,” Mac said, a slightly derisive edge to her words. “They don’t use the crosswalks, and they don’t drink the local beers on tap.”
“They ask you to take their picture in front of every damn thing,” Joan added. “They litter on the hiking trails.”
“And they call our town ‘quaint’ or ‘old-fashioned’ or ‘picturesque,’” Brady said, with air quotes. “They wear a puffy vest no matter the weather.”
“You wear a puffy vest all the time,” Mac accused.
Brady shot her a betrayed look. “Yes, but only when the temperature drops. I dress weather appropriate, Macchiato.”
She rolled her eyes at her boyfriend and his dramatics.
“Is it just the fall people? The ones who visit in the autumn,” I asked, trying to understand the term. I’d heard of leaf peepers before, but this didn’t seem like the same thing.
“No,” Candace replied. “It’s a year-round identifier. We call them all leafers, even if they’re spring tourists.”
My eyes widened, and I placed a hand on my chest. “Am I a leafer?”
I got three yesses, one maybe, and one adamant no—thank you, Brady.
“But I’m here for work. Isn’t that better?” I asked.
One yes, one no, and three people said, “Same difference,” in unison.
“I don’t want to be a leafer,” I argued.
Joan snorted, and I shot her a glare. That only made her laugh outright.
“Ian, it’s okay. Not all leafers are bad,” Candace said calmly.
“They just have a reputation for treating servers like crap and not appreciating the land they come to ooh and aah over. But there are plenty of nice leafers. Have you met Becca? She’s Will Clark’s fiancée and she was a leafer, too, before she moved here.
And we all love her.” Candace smiled like that made everything all better.
“We need the tourists,” Mac said before shrugging.
“So it’s a weird love-hate relationship.
Without them, this tiny town would dry up and blow away.
And yes, some of the folks who visit the farm are real sweet.
We’ve seen lots of families visit regularly for years, watched their kids grow up, even.
They’re not all bad. Don’t take offense, Ian. You’re one of the good ones.”
Now that was something I could understand—the strange dichotomy, the love and hate. I had fans, and I needed those fans. My entire career was built on people across the world liking me and keeping me relevant. If Dorian Masters was no longer popular, I wouldn’t be in demand for roles.
And while I appreciated the people who supported my career, I also had open case files with my local police for two stalkers and three more for restraining orders on fans who’d taken things way too far.
Being a celebrity meant being in the public eye—being a commodity.
People thought they knew me because they saw me on their television screen or watched me give interviews on social media.
Lines got blurred often. It was why I fought so hard to keep my private life private, in order to keep Georgie safe.
So I could understand the push and pull between needing and wanting the strangers you depended on, and I didn’t begrudge the people of Kirby Falls their well-meaning resentment.
“Mac’s accepting you now,” Brady teased. “But if you take her regular table at Apollo’s or snag the last piece of Japanese cheesecake at her favorite bakery, that’ll be a different story.”
Everyone laughed, including Mac.
“Well, I solemnly swear to never reveal the hidden treasure that is Mattie B’s. And if pressed, I’ll say I got food poisoning here, and the owner tried to grope me,” I told them.
“Fine by me!” Mattie called from behind the bar. “But at least describe me as the hot owner.”
I grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
Our party broke up after that. Brady and Mac walked down the street to their apartment. Mercer had nursed one beer all night, so he was driving Candace back home.
That was how I found myself alone with Joan, walking in the direction of her car.
“Are you this way, too?” she asked, pointing north down Main Street.
“Yep,” I lied.
A comfortable silence descended as our shoes scuffed along the wet sidewalk. Streetlamps glowed warm and bright, lighting up Main Street. This looked like the kind of place that went all out for holiday decorations. I was excited to see if that was the case in the coming weeks.
“Tomorrow’s Thursday,” Joan said suddenly. “I’m still happy to take George in the afternoon, if you want.”
Guilt had me swallowing hard. Georgie wasn’t Joan's responsibility. It wasn’t her fault he’d taken a liking to her and was sneaking away from his nanny in order to spend more time over at the orchard.
She’d gotten so irritated earlier when I’d offered to pay for what was essentially babysitting.
I didn’t understand why Joan would agree to something like this.
“I feel like I’ve maybe forced myself into your life enough already.”
“What?” she mused. “By stalking me at my work—”
“Okay, we established that you were the one stalking me.”
“Practically chasing after me—”
“Rude. I call that jogging.”
“And stealing my favorite coffee mug at my parents’ house.”
I winced. “Sorry, I didn’t know about that one.”
Joan stopped walking, so I did too.
“I’m just giving you a hard time,” she said. “Yes, you weaseled your way into my life and my farm and my parents’ group chat. But George . . . he’s not a bother. He’s funny and sweet . . . and he wants to be a farmer.”
Joan smiled then. It was barely there, a tiny whisper of amusement, but her eyes were so soft in the glow of the streetlights that I felt my throat go tight.
I didn’t know Georgie wanted to be a farmer. Couldn’t even imagine him initiating a conversation where we talked about what he wanted to be when he grew up. But clearly, he’d confessed his dream to someone. And she was staring at me like that was, maybe, the best thing she’d ever heard.
As much as the knowledge hollowed me out, I was grateful my nephew had a safe space to make those confessions, to share those dreams. Even if it wasn’t me.
I cleared my throat. “He does?”
Joan’s tender expression lingered as she nodded. “Yeah. And if he wants to learn, I’ll teach him. He’s a good kid. He won’t be any trouble.”
Georgie’s nanny, Sophia, was on my payroll. She got a salary, vacation days, and time off. I paid her overtime if I was forced to travel on my own for an interview or an appearance and leave George behind. Darren protected my nephew and watched over him, too. But he was paid to do it.
Besides me, Georgie didn’t have anyone in his life who wasn’t compensated for their time and attention. I knew Sophia cared about him. Darren, too. But it sure was nice to stand here in the cold and hear what a good kid he was from someone who wasn’t paid to think so.
I nodded because I couldn’t speak.
In the last eight months, I’d been thrust into this role of guardian, afraid of not being enough, of doing everything wrong. For the first time, it felt like I might have done something right.
Joan probably couldn’t understand all the feelings practically bowling me over right now, but she must have gathered some of it because she took her hand out of her pocket and squeezed my forearm.
“Besides,” she said, some mischief entering her expression. “You’re all the trouble I can handle.”
Grateful for the reprieve, I grinned down at my shoes. My emotions loosened their grip enough for me to glance up and say, “So, you think you can handle me?”
Joan rolled her eyes and whacked me on the shoulder. “We’re running three miles Saturday, and you’re going to wish you hadn’t just said that.”
I laughed, relieved and grateful that she wanted to see me again—even if it was three days away.
Shaking her head, Joan resumed walking. I started to follow, but she called back, “I know your car is parked around the corner, you liar. I’ll see you Saturday.”
I made sure to raise my voice so she could hear me. “I can’t wait!”