Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
BELLA
“So you think I’m on the right track?” I’m on the phone with my boss, Katerine, who just got the long-winded spiel of all the recent developments—minus the details about Jackson’s record label. I’m back in downtown Fork Lick, walking the sidewalks as I envision the layout of the festival map, which I just sent to her. It’s Sunday, so this is my last-minute preparation before meeting with the town leaders in the morning.
“I think it looks great!” Katerine sounds enthused, but it might be because I told her I got Jackson Bedd to headline. Nothing else matters when the right act joins the show, and she knows it as well as I do. “Listen, you feel out the municipality, get a sense for how best to approach them. But remember, you gotta work this hometown angle. Once you drop Jackson’s name, I’m sure they’ll have no problem approving whatever it is you want.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” I check the stack of papers in my hand, then look down the street at the municipal office. I’d planned to visit a few days ago, but Jackson’s intrusion on my planning lunch derailed everything. But I can’t say that I’m upset about it—he did agree to headline the festival as a result. “I hate name dropping, but I think this might be the instance where it’s helpful.”
“Drop his name,” Katerine insists. “Drop it like it’s hot . Because that man is sexy. ”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t disagree. The only problem is that most of America agrees with her. And the longer I spend sharing his childhood home with him, the sexier I think he is, too.
That’s why for the past few days, I’ve been spending as much time out of the house as possible. Reducing my chances of running into Jackson while exiting the shower = smart. Minimizing the amount of times I overhear him strumming a new chord progression is crucial to my well-being. Because the fact that I’m beginning to learn the ins and outs of his personal routine is not helpful to my status quo.
Turns out, the man takes care of himself, which makes him even sexier. He gets up early to run. He eats well. He kisses his grandma on the cheek each morning.
I can’t know things like this about America’s heartthrob or my own heart will throb right out of my chest.
Now that it seems like he might not actually leave like I was counting on, it’s even more important that I find a way to keep distance between us. Which would be a lot easier if Fork Lick wasn’t the size of a, well, tiny fork.
“What do you think is the most interesting thing you’ve learned about Jackson since staying with his grandma?” Katerine asks absentmindedly. In the background, I can hear her typing on her computer. She works every day of the week, because events obey no schedule.
I frown. “Oh, I don’t know. The fact that his ego actually fits in a regular-sized room?”
Katerine laughs. She’s just as jaded and exposed to the mania of celebrity as I am, but she has a soft spot for Jackson. I’m not sure how. Jackson has been intolerably cocky and off-putting since day one, relying solely on his good looks and his undeniable talent to woo people. The only reason I’m softening up to him now is because I’ve gotten a peek behind the veil.
“He has a lot to be proud of. Hey, Bella, I gotta run. My avocado toast was just delivered. We’ll touch base soon, okay?” Katerine hangs up, and I’m left staring at my reflection in the front window of a yarn shop, which I haven’t seen open once since arriving in Fork Lick. I couldn’t get avocado toast delivered to me in Fork Lick if I paid someone a thousand dollars to do it. I pocket my phone, heading to the northern end of the main street one last time to envision the road closures and make sure I haven’t overlooked anything critical to the town.
As I piece together the intersections and the impacted businesses, visualizing the big stage and how the barren streets will look full of people, I spot a man jogging across an intersection at the far end of the street.
Something about his gait suggests Jackson, but from this distance I can’t quite see his features. About every three seconds, another person crosses the intersection, jogging behind him. At least seven women trail behind him, and I can’t tell if this is his most dedicated fan base or a Fork Lick jogging club he’s spearheaded.
It doesn’t matter to me, though I admire his tenacity in sticking to a workout plan, something I’ve never been able to do. I’m not going to be yet another woman fawning over him and trailing behind him. I have no interest in pumping his ego balloon even larger.
Somebody has to right the scales, for God’s sake.
It’s not even noon, and I’m out of ideas for how to spend the rest of my day that doesn’t include hiding in my bedroom. The weekly family dinner is tonight, which I’ve really come to look forward to. They’re warm and chaotic and remind me of my family back in Bayshore. Staying with Ethel has been a reminder of home in general—what it feels like to have roots and people who care about you on the daily. I guess I’ve been missing that, even though I chat with my cousin and get family updates as often as I can.
I head back to Bedd Fellows Farm, my mind made up. I’ll go see if I can help Ethel somehow. The other day, I caught her filming Baabara, which I thought nothing of until she showed me a well-edited social media video she’d created. Diane has been helping her grow her social media accounts, and it shows—the likes, shares, and comments on her sheep content videos were astronomical.
Back at the house, it doesn’t take me long to find a groove. Ethel is making bread, so I help knead the dough before it rests. Then we move onto veggie prep for the dish she plans to make. We’re slow-cooking the chickens by the time Jackson breezes through, his sun-kissed skin gleaming with sweat.
“Have a nice jog?” I ask before I can help myself.
“Great.” He doesn’t even stop as he heads for the stairs.
“Did you start a jogging club?”
His feet are thumping up the stairs, so I only just catch his response. “Nope.”
I frown. So those were diehard Jackson Bedd fans.
Ethel and I continue to prepare dinner. Hours melt away, until most everything is ready, the places are set, and people are arriving.
Ethan and Lia are the first to arrive, followed by Alex and Molly. Bacon shows up with one baby in his arms, then Sam shows up with the next. Colleen and Diane meander in later, deep in conversation. The house is instantly full of noise—laughter, conversation, chairs scraping, babies occasionally fussing. The only person missing is Jackson. I keep checking to see if he’s coming down, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Lia, do you want sparkling water or alcohol tonight?” I assume my position at the kitchen island as the informal drink preparer. I’ve been supplying new wines, beers and seltzers to try at every Sunday dinner. Beverage making is my love language.
“I want one of your fancy seltzers,” she says, her dark eyes lighting up. I get to work creating one of my boozy seltzers, adding a slice of orange for the rim of the glass and a sprig of mint. She hums happily as she receives it, where I notice the bruise on her arm from a recent infusion for her Crohn’s disease. I get to work offering the rest of the family my bespoke creations. Only Alex and Ethan opt for a can of locally-brewed beer instead—I get it, too fancy for them—and pretty soon, almost everyone is carrying around a cocktail or mocktail that I’m proud of.
“I think it’s time to eat,” Ethel announces, clapping her hands. She heads closer to the family room, shouting in the direction of the staircase. “Jackie Boy! Dinner’s ready!”
I roll my lips inward, tucking away the cute nickname. Jackie Boy. If only America knew about this. I surely won't be the one to tell them. Finding out Jackson doesn’t trust me had stung, though I’d never admit it to him. Not getting along for years is perfectly fine, but considering me untrustworthy? Unacceptable.
“He probably won’t show up,” Alex says in a joking tone, but I can hear the seriousness behind the words.
“Ironic, considering he’s finally not three thousand miles away,” Ethan adds. “But I wouldn’t expect any different.”
My skin prickles as I hear Jackson’s footsteps coming down the staircase. He strides into the room, the air going taut. Even his entrance into the family dining room feels electric. Poetic, even. The way he shakes his hair out of his eyes and scans the room feels like a prelude to an unforgettable show. I jerk my gaze back to the kitchen island where I’m finishing cleaning up from my drink prep.
“There he is!” Ethan says over the din, as everyone gets settled into their spots at the table. “We didn’t think you’d make it.”
Annoyance streaks Jackson’s face, and it occurs to me that every interaction with his family begins like this. I overheard it the day he arrived, and I’ve been hearing it since. I join the table, my gaze falling to the meal in front of me as I realize that I’ve been doing the same to him. The least I could do is surprise this man with his own bespoke beverage. I get to work mixing something that feels very Jackie Boy to me—something like a martini, served in a tumbler, garnished with a slice of orange—and bring it over to him as he’s suffering through his brothers’ inquisition.
“You leaving tomorrow?” Samuel is asking as I plop the drink down on the table in front of Jackson. Jackson looks up at me, question marks in his gaze.
“James Bond-style martini,” I tell him before gliding to my spot at the other side of the table. “Enjoy.” In my head, I’m calling it The Jackie Boy. But that’s not for him to know.
“Thanks.” To his credit, Jackson at least looks touched. Then he turns his attention to Sam. “The plan was to head out tomorrow?—”
“Back to LA, huh?” Sam asks. I’m tuning in, desperate to learn more about Jackson even while telling myself I know everything I need to about him.
Jackson shrugs resignedly. “I guess so. But I’m not sure. I might stick around here a little longer.”
“Jeez, must be so hard living in paradise,” Ethan pipes up. Again, there’s the joking tone to his voice, but the words leave papercuts. Even I feel it. I glance between Ethan and Lia, and I can see Lia elbowing him under the table.
“Wouldn’t mind swapping places with you for a week,” Molly adds.
“You’d never pass as the lead singer of Single Grain,” Alex murmurs. “I hear you in the shower, sweetheart.”
“How did Jackson end up with all the singing talent, anyway?” Colleen asks her gran. “It’s never seemed fair.”
Jackson cracks a grin at that one, but it fades quickly.
“I’ve been listening to all your music,” Diane confides, leaning over the table. “I just love your lyrics.”
“Can we not turn this into an I Love Jackson hour?” Sam mutters. “He gets enough of it as it is.”
Thud.
Jackson’s gaze shifts to the side door in the kitchen. Ethel twists in her seat, following his gaze.
“Oh, heaven almighty,” she says exasperatedly.
Thud.
“Is that Baabara?” Bacon asks, leaning in his seat to peer toward the door.
Thud.
“She’s obsessed with Jackson,” Colleen explains as she checks on the twins. The babies are resting in a twin-friendly travel bassinet they bring nearly everywhere. “But she’s not coming in for dinner, right Gran?”
Ethel doesn’t confirm or deny this, instead clapping her hands together. “Let’s eat, Bedds and Fellows!”
Everyone digs in, silverware clanking as green beans are scooped, chicken is speared, corn is divvied. The sounds of happy slurping on my beverages mix with satisfied hums as food is tasted. I start with the bread, loving the way the butter melts almost instantly as I slather it on. There’s nothing that says farm living more than fresh-baked bread and melty butter.
Thud.
“Baabara, knock it off!” Ethan shouts over his shoulder, really giving the baa sound extra emphasis.
“We should let her in,” Bacon says. “Put her out of her misery.”
“She’s not coming in,” Alex says sharply. “That’s a rule.”
“Definitely not coming in after she ran in here with Colleen’s pregnancy test in her mouth and almost took down Gran’s china cabinet,” Sam grumbles.
Ethel says nothing. Jackson busies himself cutting chicken.
“So how has the festival planning been coming?” Colleen asks me as everyone gets down to eating.
Thud.
“Good!” I glance at the door. I catch the manic eyes of Baabara peering through the window of the kitchen door. She must be craning her sheep neck to see inside. Obsessed is an understatement. “I’m heading to the municipal office tomorrow to present my proposal. Let’s all hope they agree to my plans to completely shut down the center of Fork Lick for this.”
“Well, if Jackson’s attached to it, I can’t see why not!” Colleen laughs, forking some chicken into her mouth.
Ethan looks surprised, turning toward Colleen. “Wait, what did we miss?”
Thud. Molly gasps, turning wide eyes toward Jackson. “Are you going to sing for the Strawberry Jam?”
Jackson grins shyly, activating the dimple that makes women fall forward, chin to palm, and bat their eyelashes. “Yeah. I want to do my part for the festival, you know?”
Thud. The kitchen door flies open, banging against the wall. Hooves clatter against the tile floor of the kitchen. Baabara hustles inside, heading straight for Jackson.
“Dammit, Baabara,” Alex shouts, surging to his feet. Ethan does the same, but Ethel shushes them.
“Sit down! We’re eating,” she says.
“Yeah. Exactly. Which is why she should go back outside,” Ethan says, a duh tone to his voice.
Baabara baas happily as she takes up her position next to Jackson, who just bites back a smile and strokes her body, freshly revealed from the shearing that I spotted out the window earlier that day.
“Let her stay,” Ethel says sharply. “We’ll take her back outside when we’re done.”
Alex laughs incredulously. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. The sheep gets a place at the table now?”
“This is unfair to Gomer,” Sam snaps.
“Not to mention Trixie,” Alex adds.
The Bedd siblings share annoyed looks, but Ethel only chews her food resolutely.
“I said what I said.” Ethel clears her throat. An awkward silence travels through the room, and I get the impression that Baabara being allowed into the house has long been a point of contention for this family. Jackson strokes Baabara with one hand while he forks green beans into his mouth with the other.
“So the festival!” Molly says brightly, realigning the dinner conversation. “Are you really going to perform, Jackson? This will be huge. So much huger than we imagined.”
“Yeah. Of course. How could I not?”
“You gonna play that one song I hear all the damn time in the tractor while I’m plowing?” Ethan asks. “Shit, what’s it called. The one about the wood planks…”
“ Knock On Wood ,” Jackson offers.
“Yeah, that one.” Ethan shakes his head. “Gets stuck in my head. You gonna play that one?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Aw, come on. Why not?” Ethan takes a sip of his beer.
“I love that one,” Lia adds.
“You should play it,” Colleen encourages.
Jackson studies his plate, pushing food around. “I’m thinking of a different type of set list. New material.”
“What if we request it?” Ethan asks.
Jackson shakes his head, which just causes his brothers to complain more loudly.
“You’re gonna hold out on Fork Lick like that?” Alex asks.
“Jackson, you should reconsider,” Sam advises, nodding sagely.
“What’s the point of singing at the festival if you won’t sing the hits?” Ethan wonders.
“I guess we don’t deserve the good music,” Alex adds, reaching for another piece of bread.
“Boys,” Ethel says with a warning tone in her voice. It’s almost as if we’ve been transported a decade back in time. I’m sure this dynamic has existed since childhood.
But it’s somehow worse, being in a room full of adults, and I’m the only one here who knows why Jackson isn’t agreeing to his family’s requests.
He keeps his mouth shut, ignoring their ribbing and complaints. I can tell they’re angling for a reaction, but he doesn’t offer one up.
It kills me that he won’t come clean to his family about the why .
And for better or worse, my curiosity about what’s truly going on inside Jackson’s head is growing by the day.
It’s clear that his family has no idea about his life in LA, nor his record deal. Jackson has kept everything sealed up tight. And there must be a reason.
And even though I might pretend otherwise, I plan to get to the bottom of it.