Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
BELLA
“Cream, Bella dear?” Ethel’s warm voice startles me out of my early morning reverie. It’s Monday, the day I approach the municipality. We’ve just finished eating pancakes and are wrapping up breakfast with some coffee. I’m supposed to be rehearsing my talking points and boosting my own confidence, but all I can think about is the sizzling moment in Jackson’s bedroom last night. I stop staring out the window at the rolling soybean fields.
“Yes, I’d love some. Sorry.” I rub my forehead as Ethel pours a little creamer into my still-steaming coffee from a ceramic cow. It looks like it’s puking milk into my mug. It’s part of a huge collection of farm-themed accessories that crop up continuously in this kitchen.
“You’re heading to town this morning, aren’t you?”
“I am.” I clear my throat, trying to put Jackson’s fiery gaze out of my head once and for all. He made it impossible to fall asleep last night, and I spent the wee hours reliving the way his gaze had scorched over my body. He’d infiltrated my dreams, and now he’s threatening to ruin my Monday.
Hooking up with America’s Sexiest Bachelor is not on my Fork Lick agenda.
In fact, it seems like the actual worst idea I could conceive of. I don’t know much about Jackson’s dating history, but I sure know mine—and as a result, I’m single but totally not ready to mingle. Three long-term boyfriends in adulthood had all resulted in dumpster fires of broken hearts and mismatched expectations. My takeaway? I’m perfectly capable of attracting a man, but keeping him just isn’t in the cards. Deep down, I think it’s something about me that’s driving these guys away.
And even though every inch of my body would kill for one sexy night with Jackson Bedd, my heart knows better.
I’m done getting duped, disappointed, and dumped.
“I hope it goes well. You let me know if you need anything.” Ethel’s voice once again jerks me out of my relentless thoughts about her too-sexy grandson. I can still hear the melody he was playing last night. It will probably echo in my head for the rest of my life. “All you have to do is call and I’ll march right down there and say whatever you need me to.”
“Do you think they’ll give me trouble?” I ask, just as Ethan’s tractor and plow pulls into the northern field.
“Oh, they won’t give you trouble, exactly…” The way she trails off isn’t reassuring. “They’re just a group of hard-headed old codgers, is all.”
Great . I sip my coffee, surveying the rolling fields out the dining room’s big bay window. It’s peaceful here, and I’ve come to appreciate our morning routine. Since it’s late April, Ethel informs me that Ethan is prepping a new field of strawberries, getting them planted and covered with netting. We’ve been watching him prep the area each morning for weeks.
But there’s something else in this bucolic farm morning that snags my attention.
Jackson Bedd. Yet a-freaking-gain.
He’s running down the farm lane, kicking up dust as he sprints from the depths of the farmland. There’s no gaggle of fans behind him, likely because this is private property, though I wouldn’t put it past some of them.
“Ahh, there’s Jackson,” Ethel muses to herself, as though there’s anything else I could possibly be aware of other than him.
“I didn’t realize he was such a runner.”
“He never used to be. In high school, he mostly mucked around with his creative friends. The ones who would wear eyeliner and paint their nails. Eugene couldn’t stand them.” Ethel chuckles to herself.
“I’m sure Eugene would be proud of how far Jackson has come.” I watch as Jackson slows as he comes up to the house. He stops near Baabara’s palace, almost out of view from us, to visit with the sheep. He gives her a good head scratch before using the wall of her palace to stretch his calves and do some twists.
“Oh, he was. Even though he couldn’t fully show it.” Ethel slowly turns her coffee mug in her hands as she speaks. “That affected all the boys, not just Jackson.”
“But you let him paint his nails and wear eyeliner with his friends?” I ask.
“Of course,” Ethel laughs. “His brothers hated it too, mostly because we’d been so strict with them. But by the time Jackson was growing up, I’d loosened the rules a little. Besides, I could tell my Jackie Boy had the hardest time with losing his parents. Don’t get me wrong—it was hard on all of them. But he needed some extra rope. I wanted to give him that.”
I’d picked up on the slightly different dynamic between Ethel and Jackson compared to his older brothers. Colleen seemed to exist in a category all her own, perhaps just by virtue of being the only girl.
The kitchen door opens, and Jackson comes in. His square shoulders and powerful frame fills the doorway. I can feel the air grow taut as soon as he shuts the door behind him. He grabs a pancake from the stove as he passes, taking a bite.
“Morning,” he mumbles.
“How was your run, honey?” Ethel asks, gesturing for Jackson to sit with us. He pauses at the end of the table instead.
“Good.” He rips off another bite of pancake, then downs the whole thing. He goes back for another one, then returns to his spot at the end of the table. “Brisk.”
“Are you heading back to California today?” Ethel asks.
My insides grow tight. I’ve been both dreading and desperate for this answer. I want him to stay; I want to see where things go between us. Almost as badly as I want him to disappear back to LA and not return until mid-June.
“I’ve decided to stick around a bit longer, Gran.” He cocks a half-smile, squeezing her shoulder as he rips another bite from the pancake. “If it’s okay with you, that is.”
“Ohhh, Jackie Boy.” Ethel’s face is pure joy as she pats his hand on her shoulder. “I’d love nothing more.”
“I’ve got some things to work on, and I’m getting a lot done out here. I’ll be working, but I’ll be around.”
“I love having roommates,” Ethel says. “Especially since all of your siblings have run off and fallen in love, leaving the farmhouse empty.”
“You don’t have to worry about that while I’m here. I’ll stay until the Strawberry Jam,” Jackson says, his gaze sliding over to me. Static electricity fills my chest, and I’m rooted to my seat, unable to do anything but return that desirous stare he’s dishing out.
“You just have to promise to help me get the plants in the ground,” Ethel tells him. “I need all the help I can get.”
“I can help too, if you need,” I blurt. “I grew up in a farming family.”
Both Ethel and Jackson look at me with surprise. “I didn’t realize,” Ethel says.
“Yeah. I love to get dirty.” The dual meaning of my words sinks in, and I glance involuntarily at Jackson. A smile is curling the corner of his mouth, and my cheeks begin to burn. “I mean, get my hands dirty…”
“What does your family grow?” Ethel asks.
“Mostly corn,” I tell her. “Sweet corn, specifically. But my aunt always kept a huge garden, and my cousins and I would help her get the seeds in, weed the garden, all that good stuff.”
Ethel nods, her brows knitting together. “And your aunt…did you visit her often?”
“Oh, she raised me,” I say, sipping my coffee. As I set the mug down, I add, “I lost my parents when I was little, so my aunt took me in.”
Ethel reaches across the table to squeeze my wrist and we share a sweet smile. I can feel Jackson's gaze sizzling on me again.
“The grace of good family members can make all the difference in a young person’s life,” I say, glancing over at Jackson. He’s watching me so intently I feel like I might melt on the spot.
“That’s the truth,” Jackson says, dipping down to kiss his gran on the cheek. “Like this one right here. I’m off to take a shower.” He grabs another pancake, then thuds up the staircase. Ethel chuckles, smiling wide.
“That’s my Jackie Boy,” she says with a sigh.
I try to keep the same grin from overtaking my face. I might not have been the biggest fan of Jackson Bedd over the past several years, but Jackie Boy was a different story.
I drain my coffee and excuse myself, ready to start my day away from Jackson. I hurry to grab my things while he’s in the shower, and I manage to escape without any sexually charged encounters derailing my sanity or my future.
The drive to Main Street is quick and uneventful. I waltz into the office at nine a.m. on the dot, moments after the office clerk has unlocked the door. The interior is spartan and underwhelming, as if they hadn’t done a major upgrade since the building was constructed in the 1960s. At the main counter, two women watch me suspiciously as I set my folder down and beam brightly. Beside me, wire baskets line the counter, each one helpfully labeled. Water bills go here. Electric bills go here.
“How can I help you?” the blonde woman asks. Her name tag says Lucy.
“I’m here to meet with the members of the municipal board,” I inform her. “My name is Bella Keegan. I’ve been in contact with the office about plans for a festival here in Fork Lick, and I’ve got a meeting on the calendar for today.”
Lucy gasps. “Oh, that’s right. The festival! Gosh, it sounds so exciting. I’ll let Paul know you’re here.”
While she heads into a back room, the other employee sizes me up. She’s older, gray streaking her brunette hair.
"You should probably know they’re not fans of things like that,” she says in a conspiratorial whisper. She straightens her back when Lucy returns, two men in tow.
“This is Paul Fletcher and Frank Weingart, both members of the board,” Lucy says quickly, before resuming her position at her desk. Both men regard me briefly, nodding, barely making eye contact. It seems odd that they’re meeting me out here, as opposed to inviting me into an office, but I’m not sure how things work in Fork Lick quite yet.
“Good morning, Paul, Frank,” I say brightly, offering my hand to shake. “I’m Bella Keegan, we’ve been chatting via email?—”
“Did you bring your plans?” Paul asks, his gaze flicking to the folder on the counter.
“I—yes. They’re right here.” I open the folder, pulling out the map I’ve drawn up and the supporting documents. I hand them over, and they begin to review everything. “I was hoping we could sit down somewhere and chat about what I’m planning. This stands to be a big venture, but an even bigger boon for the area.”
“And you’re imagining a live concert as part of this?” Frank looks up at me, squinting over the top of his bifocals.
“Yes. With a major name headliner. Someone who has proven to bring in the crowds.”
Neither seem interested in hearing the name of the act. Paul sniffs, flipping between the map and the other documents. “So you propose a festival that will bring in crowds. Do you know how many people will be in attendance?”
“I’m imagining several thousand,” I say, “with the potential of hitting ten thousand if all goes well.”
Paul grunts, looking over at Frank. I can tell my proposal is not landing the way I’d hoped, so I hurry to add, “The amount of commerce that will come to the area will benefit the local economy enormously.”
Frank closes the folder, sliding it my way. “I’m afraid we can’t authorize this event as written. Not only does Main Street have a noise ordinance that goes into effect at six p.m., the number of people you mention is way beyond capacity for what Fork Lick can reasonably support.”
My jaw drops. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I’ve barely been here five minutes—we haven’t even gone into an office, for God’s sake—and they’re already pooh-poohing the idea.
“Wait.” I laugh softly, holding up my palms. “Maybe there’s been a misunderstanding. I know Fork Lick is small, but I have a plan laid out for supporting a crowd of this size. Furthermore, this is a festival with important economic benefits?—”
“Unfortunately, with the way our codes are currently written, this proposal will need to be scaled back and modified to fit within the footprint of our downtown area.” Frank clears his throat and nods at me. “Scaled down to at least a quarter of the size, let’s say. We can have Lucy here print out the current codes for your review.”
I open my mouth to respond but Paul cuts me off. “We might suggest something more…acoustic, as well. For the noise ordinance."
"Acoustic,” I reply.
“Good luck,” Paul says, and they both retreat into the back office.
I’m left slack-jawed. Lucy and the other employee grimace, and then Lucy slides a packet across the countertop for me to take.
Of all the potential outcomes of this meeting, I hadn’t envisioned this one . Sure, I know Fork Lick is small, but I have three pages of workarounds and support plans laid out. Not that they matter anymore. Scaling this event down to a quarter of the size means the Bedds won’t even break even. That’s a no-go for everyone. I mumble a quick thank-you to the ladies and stumble out onto the street.
There has to be a way around this. I could try name-dropping…starting a petition…collaborating more closely with Frank and Paul’s enemies…I storm to my car, the brainstorming process churning to life.
Paul and Frank can’t clothesline this event—the Bedds are depending on me.
And so is my promotion.