Chapter 10
Ten
Kenny squinted her eyes and pushed the red comforter down to her waist where she was then able to kick it off the bed with her legs and feet.
The Dollhouse was like an oven. She forgot to close the blackout shades, which were nothing more than two black waffle-weave shower curtains that hung from a tension rod.
When she started working at WBS, her first assignment was on the overnight shift, so she needed to sleep during the day.
Expensive blinds for oversized windows were not in the budget for an entry level television producer.
The sunlight that beamed through the window was baking her like a potato—which sounded quite appetizing since she didn’t eat anything the day prior except a bland scrambled egg and few bites of guac.
Whether she wanted to or not, she was literally seeing yellow.
She struggled to push herself up to a seated position while she tried to ignore her pounding head.
She caught a glimpse of the wine glass and stared at it with disgust. It was on the floor next to her open laptop in front of the couch where she sat comatose for hours.
She was still reeling from the events that happened the day prior and knew, at the very least, there would be a steady, dull, constant reminder in her head for a few hours.
Losing the Clinton White interview to NBC, learning that Armchair Detective wasn’t going to be published by Border Books, and being betrayed by the only guy—the only person—she implicitly trusted, stirred up a lethal cocktail that gave Kenny the most severe emotional hangover she ever had.
Marilyn told Kenny emotional hangovers were what she experienced when she was overwhelmed, overstimulated, or drowning in her own emotions.
Kenny knew all the signs. She could see them coming from the Financial District.
Sometimes they were manageable, but when she nursed an emotional hangover with a margarita and bottle of wine, the following twenty-four hours proved brutal.
She popped the Advil and chugged the Gatorade she left on her nightstand before bed and reached for her phone so she could turn off her five alarms before the piercing ring joined the drum beating in her head.
“Oof, too fast,” she grunted as she grabbed her meditation book from under the bed and returned to a vertical position. Her pounding head was now also spinning in circles. She sat completely still for a few seconds and then began the Marilyn-mandated rise and shine ritual.
“Today, I am seeing yellow and feeling hungover,” she sarcastically professed, rolling her closed eyes to the back of her head. “I wonder if that’s on the Wheel of Feelings?”
“Day fifty-one: ‘The mark of a moderate woman is freedom from her own ideas’ by Lao-tzu.”
Kenny burst out laughing. She was anything but moderate. Since she was a kid, it was all in or all out. The current state of her love life and the empty bottle of Clos du Bois were just two glaringly obvious examples of hundreds that she could rattle off.
The notion of being free from one’s own ideas also seemed like a ludicrous concept.
Marilyn would encourage her to do things like “get out of her own head.” Whose head Marilyn thought Kenny should be in, she didn’t know.
In stark contrast, Muffin Evans told her she didn’t have any of her own ideas.
That she reacted to other people’s ideas.
So, which is it? No wonder I’m crazy! she thought.
The one thing making the day’s meditation slightly tolerable was that Kenny would be able to dazzle Marilyn with her knowledge of Lao-tzu. In other words, try to veer the venerable therapist off her course and avoid another lecture about how Kenny should try to live by this quote.
I love Lao-tzu, Marilyn! I find Taoism very enlightening. Have you read Tao Te Ching?
Kenny had zero interest in Chinese philosophy but did remember a brief monologue Marah gave ahead of a restorative yoga class about the Old Master and his theories of harmony and balance.
Unfortunately, the only thing balanced in Kenny’s world was the crippling effects of her two hangovers. They were making her equally miserable.
She hastily filled the percolator with water—she hated when she forgot to make the coffee the night the before—when she was startled by her ringing phone.
It was barely after 7:00 a.m. Unless the world was ending, and her life was about to blow up, she couldn’t think of a reason to talk to anyone at this current moment.
Oh wait. The world did come crashing down—yesterday! And it didn’t come with a courtesy phone call.
She didn’t stray from the task at hand and let the call go to voicemail. She was about to dump a heaping tablespoon of grinds into the pot when the phone started ringing and startled her all over again.
“Shit,” she yelled, throwing up her hands, coffee grinds flying. “I’m not buying whatever you’re selling.”
Area code 304? West Virginia.
Kenny knew the “304” area code very well.
Three years prior she covered the case of two disgruntled, young lovers from Morgantown, West Virginia, who plotted to kill their parents because they didn’t approve of the teen romance.
Jack Smith and Diane Long hatched a foolproof plan that would bring them their happily ever after by the age of fifteen.
The lovestruck pair combined the money they earned from their part-time jobs at Kroger, where Jack pushed grocery carts and Diane restocked produce, to buy zip ties, an aluminum Louisville Slugger, two one-way Greyhound bus tickets to Pittsburgh and a surprisingly inexpensive hitman.
Things went awry when their “hitman” turned out to be an undercover cop who arrested the lovebirds and charged them with attempted murder during gym class at Mountaineer Prep where, ironically, they were playing baseball.
Kenny had been writing letters to Jack and Diane while they were in prison, hoping that they’d agree to an interview when they were released.
She even deposited money into their JPay accounts, the prison system that allows inmates to communicate to the outside world via email or video conference.
She thought corresponding via fancy technology would be more appealing to the Gen Z’ers than an old school snail mail letter or—gasp!
—phone call. Jack and Diane were no Clinton White, but an interview with them would rate well.
Both were coming up on parole hearings, and Kenny thought maybe they were plotting their reentry into society with a splashy interview. She could only hope.
“WBS, this is Kennedy,” she confidently answered, going full speed into interview booking mode.
“Kennedy! Hey there, it’s Hailey. I know it’s early, but I wanted to get back to you as soon as possible.
I was delighted to hear from you. I processed your credit card, as you requested, for the security deposit but wanted to chat about a few things before I go ahead with the rest of the payment,” a sweet, bubbly voice chirped from the other end.
Kenny pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. She could feel every muscle of her face tightening and squinting in confusion.
Who is Hailey and why the hell is she processing my credit card?
Kenny knew she wasn’t having one of her vivid dreams. The coffee grinds she anxiously started thumbing stuck to her fingers, and she could feel beads of sweat sliding down the nape of her neck.
The Dollhouse was hotter than a greenhouse, and she could feel her face getting redder than a tomato with the thought of the stranger on the other end of the line draining her bank account.
“Um, hello? Kennedy, are you still there?” the voice chimed after a long pause. “I’m sorry. I should’ve mentioned I’m calling from Low Country Hospitality about your upcoming stay at Pelican Pointe.”
Oh my God.
“Yes, yes, hi, Hailey. You can call me Kenny.” She forced out a salutation, her voice cracking.
She cast another gaze of disgust toward her empty wine glass and frantically pulled up the message she sent to this Hailey girl.
A month? In South Carolina? By herself? Had she lost her mind? She couldn’t swing that. Personally, professionally, or financially.
“What a cute nickname. So, Kenny, I have you all set to check in on Monday, September 4th. I’ll text you the keypad for the front door when the unit is ready and will have the cleaning service leave your plantation passes on the kitchen counter.
We weren’t anticipating such a quick response to our ad, so the villa still has a few more renovations that need to be completed.
Minor things like power washing the exterior, hanging wall décor, and patching up a few spots on the walls that got nicked when furniture was delivered.
The porch furniture is on back order for another month and the cable and internet provider can’t make a service trip to the unit for two weeks.
But the owner has agreed to knock off $2,000 and throw in an additional week if you can live with the inconveniences!
If the porch furniture is an issue, we can arrange to move up a few pieces from the pool deck.
The grand total will be $2,500 for five weeks.
You are just going to love Pelican Pointe! Do you have any questions?”
Kenny felt like a bobblehead figurine, nodding up and down in agreement, trying to comprehend all that the vivacious speed talker on the other end of the phone said.
Hailey was the Energizer Bunny on steroids with the voice of a sorority girl.
She sounded like Cher Horowitz from Clueless.
Kenny wondered if there was a theory behind her rapid, breathless delivery.
Maybe the quicker she spoke, the quicker people agreed “Sure, OK,” to whatever she said, forgetting they had responsibilities or budgets, because they got lost in the excitement she projected.
“Sounds great, Hailey,” Kenny blurted out.
What?
“I’ve never done anything so spontaneous. Like, ever. But I really need this. When I emailed you last night it was because I washed down a margarita with a bottle of wine after having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. You know, like that kid, Alexander,” Kenny rattled.
Shut up, Kenny. What are you saying?
“But your call, so early this morning, it’s like the universe is sending me a message.”
Now you sound like a sorority sister on speed.
“My best friend, therapist, yoga instructor, gynecologist—even Billy Joel—have been telling me I need to relax, open up, and disappear for a while. This is great,” Kenny concluded.
This is not great. This is not practical. This is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had. This is your clock losing its spring moment. You sound like a total lunatic.
“You know Billy Joel!” Hailey shrieked “That’s awesome!
The only star I’ve ever seen here in West Virginia is some guy named John Mellencamp.
He gave a free concert in Morgantown a few years ago.
Said he was trying to save the reputation of one of his hit songs because ‘kids these days’ were giving it a bad rap. ”
“I don’t actually know Billy, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I do know of John Mellencamp and heard about that Jack and Diane concert.
” Kenny laughed, feeling relieved that Hailey likely didn’t hear or process any of the other ridiculousness that she just spewed.
She also chuckled thinking back to all the hilarious songs, memes, and SNL skits that went viral linking Jack Smith and Diane Long to John Cougar’s 1982 love ballad.
“One question, though: Why are you working for Low Country Hospitality when you live in West Virginia?” Kenny asked, finally reeling herself back in and thinking the journalist in her should ask a question or two to verify she wasn’t being swindled by a scam artist.
“Random right? I’m a tourism and hospitality major at WVU and did an internship with Low Country Hospitality this summer at their Hilton Head properties. Best summer of my life. The boss said if I was able to keep up with reservation inquiries, he’d keep me on during the semester.”
“Good for you! I’ve stayed at the Waterfront Hotel. Right there, on the Monongahela River. It’s run by WVU students, right? It was always a great stay. I feel like I’ll be in good hands if that’s where you’ve been learning the ropes, Hailey.”
“Thanks, Kenny. Reach out anytime you have questions. It’s been nice chatting, but I gotta run. It’s Rush Week. Eek! Have a great day.”