Chapter 18
Vivi pushed open the swinging doors of the Drunken Rooster and nearly stumbled backward. What should have been a one-horse, dusty-town dive looked like a flamingo and glitter bomb had a very loud baby.
Pink neon lights stretched around the walls, giant martini glasses dangled from the ceiling, and bubble machines hissed and sputtered, coating the floor in sticky rainbows.
Her heart thudded, nerves prickling like static electricity.
In the sunlight, Bridlewood was quaint and safe, completely predictable.
Inside the Drunken Rooster, it was Vegas dressed in sequins.
Only the patrons were dressed for Sunday service—sundresses with clutch purses, kitten heels and cashmere cardigans.
Vivi, on the other hand, was dressed like a ranch hand who'd just cleaned up after shoveling horse shit for the better part of the morning.
Which she had. With gloves this time.
The door slid shut and she felt every eye snap to her, like she'd just floated down from Jupiter and forgotten to wear a Hi My Name Is sticker.
Spud had told her the fastest way to drum up help was to become part of the town itself. And the fastest way to do that was to throw one back with the Bridlewood Regents.
The meeting was already in progress, so Vivi took a velvet-covered seat in the back and told herself she was just there to observe small-town customs. She perched on the edge, nearly toppling over, clipboard balanced precariously on her knee, trying to look like she belonged.
"The hotdog contest needs a referee," someone hollered toward the back of the room. "Any takers?"
Not a single hand went up and a heavy silence settled over the room like overcooked gravy.
A sixty-something woman at the front in a crisp yellow pantsuit, clutching her pearls like they were six generations old, stood with an entitled confidence that told Vivi she was Maribelle Whitmore, who according to the agenda she’d picked up on the way in, was the presiding General of the Bridlewood Regents.
"Surely we must have someone who can help," Maribelle said.
"Last year was a disaster," said a plump woman behind the bar, whom Vivi assumed was Lottie. She was dressed in a pink pantsuit from the Charlie's Angels era, with flyaway platinum-blonde Farrah Fawcett hair. "I think it was because of the management."
"She's just saying that because I was running it."
It took Vivi a moment to realize the voice was coming from the large-screen television that hung over the bar, between a life-sized neon pink flamingo holding an umbrella and a chalkboard listing the Happy Hour specials.
According to the sign, Happy Hour began at noon and ran until six—half-off 'tinis and eight-dollar wine flights.
Below that were the bar's specialty drinks: the Cluck-a-Colada, the Coupe de Grace, the Picky Chickie, and finally the Cock-Will-Doodle-You—which came with directions, a bib, a warning, and was served in a mini trough.
The face behind the screen—a dead ringer for Lottie and therefore almost certainly Dottie, was dressed like a biker who was likely packing, with long silver hair tied in a braid and sun-chapped skin earned from years of riding at high speeds in the high afternoon sun.
"She's just saying that because I was running it," Dottie repeated.
"Can someone remind her," Lottie began, refusing to look at the screen and speaking as if her twin weren't in the bar next door on Zoom, "that some fool ate so many dogs he ended up hurling all over the judges?
I'm talking—splat—all over the ribbons, the tablecloth, the judges' shoes.
Never seen anything like it in my life, and I've been going to that fair longer than most of you've been walking upright. "
A few of the older ladies clucked their tongues in agreement.
Vivi blinked, mouth half open. "That actually sounds horrifying," she muttered under her breath—clearly not as quietly as she thought.
"Exactly my point!" Lottie barked, slapping her hand on the table. "We should just cancel the whole thing before we have another splat-fest."
The room buzzed with murmurs. Maribelle held up her hand. "All in favor of nixing the hotdog-eating contest this year?"
A chorus of "aye!" rang out.
"Opposed?"
Dottie's arm did not go up, but she wasn’t happy about it—and the way she flipped her switchblade open to clean her nails told the room exactly how she felt about the vote.
"Well, that's unanimous," Maribelle declared. "Hotdog-eating contest is canceled. Looks like we're saving our judges' shoes this year, ladies."
Vivi exhaled and scribbled a note on her clipboard: No hotdog disasters. Good town. Respectful judges. Maybe I can survive this after all.
"On to face painting!" a familiar voice called out. It was Rea and she was at the front, perched on a barstool like it was a throne.
Maribelle clutched her hand to her chest in horror. "It is tradition that the General Regent presents the next item on the agenda."
Rea didn't even look at her. "Tradition is simply peer pressure from the dead."
Maribelle gasped. "You cannot say things like that aloud."
"And yet, here we are."
"This is a formal event," Maribelle insisted. "There is an order."
"Yes," Rea said, finally meeting her gaze. "And the order is that the children get bored and I refuse to watch them riot."
Maribelle sniffed. "Face painting is frivolous."
"So is the General Regent."
The crowd smothered laughs. Maribelle did not.
And so the discussion went on—cake walk, ring toss, vendors. Vivi was scribbling notes when a stunning redhead in her early twenties caught her attention.
She sat on the neighboring bench, a beautiful kid balanced on her knee like it was the most natural thing in the world to bring a tiny person into a place that smelled faintly of gin, olives, and industrial-strength cocktail blenders.
Vivi glanced at the toddler, who had a smattering of freckles across her nose so pronounced it was like a Where's Waldo of constellations. She was currently trying to smush a graham cracker into her mother's collarbone.
The woman caught Vivi's look and sighed before Vivi could even pretend she hadn't been staring.
"I know," she said, lifting one hand in preemptive defeat. "Kid in a bar—classic bad mom optics. But I didn't know who else to leave her with. Sitters off Craigslist aren't my thing, I don't know a soul here, and I figured the best way to meet the town is to just show up."
"Honestly?" Vivi said, just loud enough for her to hear. "She's behaving better than half the grown adults in this place."
"That's not reassuring," the woman whispered back—but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
"I'm Vivi," Vivi said, quietly extending her hand, so as not to be caught socializing while the meeting was in session.
"I'm Sutton." She untangled her hand from a stuffed pony on reins that seemed to regenerate every time she moved. At the last second she paused. "Warning: it's probably sticky with peanut butter, yogurt, or toddler spit. Possibly all three. She's a multitasker."
"A little spit never hurt anyone," Vivi said, taking her hand.
"This is Lynlee," Sutton cooed, giving her daughter a kiss on the forehead.
Lynlee giggled, showing off her teeth—which there were only two.
"We're just passing through and trying to see if this is somewhere I can picture settling down.
If it's a good place to raise a kid. Not sure yet.
We leave for Big Sky tomorrow. Another maybe-town on the list."
But something in the way she said it—soft, fragile at the edges—told Vivi there was nothing casual about Sutton's visit. Not really. People searching that hard for home didn't pass through a town like Bridlewood. Heck, the dot on the map must be the size of a tack point.
"I'm in the same boat," Vivi said. "Came here for an Eat, Pray, Love experience."
"And?" Sutton asked, bouncing the toddler gently as she gnawed on her mother's necklace.
"I ate a lot of biscuits," Vivi said. "Prayed never to be a doormat again. And I guess I fell in love."
Sutton's brows arched. "Fell in love?"
Realizing what she'd said, Vivi backpedaled. "Not with a man. With this town."
"Then you're staying?"
Vivi stared at the row of liquor bottles behind the bar, the neon lights caught in the glass like little trapped galaxies.
"My life's in New York. My job, my family, all the expectations I spent years trying to live up to. And I've spent my entire adult life chasing one dream after another—only those dreams always belonged to someone else. This trip was supposed to be about finally choosing my own. Not a man."
Sutton nodded slowly, the kind of understanding that only comes from hard-earned experience passing over her face. "Sometimes the thing you didn't plan for is the thing that was meant for you."
The toddler squealed triumphantly and slapped her cracker-coated hand on the table.
"And sometimes," Sutton added, resigned, "the thing you didn't plan for is just carbs."
"Ladies, are we interrupting you? " Maribelle asked pointedly.
"No, ma’am. So sorry, please continue,” Vivi said, thinking about what a great first impression she’d just made.
"Now." Rea clapped her hands and brought the room back to order. "We need two more hands for glitter application. And someone who doesn't scream at the kids when they smear it all over the walls!"
Several hands shot up at once—so fast Vivi swore she heard a collective shoulder pop—and suddenly the room erupted into a full-blown bicker-fest over who deserved to work with the kids this year.
"I did it last summer and those little angels still ask for me by name!" the Postmaster, Mrs. Landry, said.
"You bribed them with marshmallows."
"Well excuse me, Karen, for understanding child psychology!" Mrs. Landry shot back.
"That's against the rules."
"Show me the rules, Karen. Show me."
"For the last time, my name is not Karen."
"Could have fooled us with that hairdo and inbred entitlement of yours," Mrs. Landry said. "Next you'll be out measuring Mr. Hodge's lawn again to make sure it's not more than three inches high."
Vivi leaned back in her chair, watching the melee like it was a nature documentary on territorial sparrows. The sheer enthusiasm was impressive but also slightly alarming.
Okay, she noted in her mental field guide to Bridlewood. This town loves kids. Fiercely. Possibly to the death.
"Ring toss!" Dottie shouted from the television; volume turned to maximum. "We're one volunteer short unless we're aiming for pure mayhem."
Vivi forced a polite smile, clipboard trembling in her hands. She told herself she was just observing, just getting a feel for the town—until they got to the pie fundraiser.
"How many pies do we still need for the Pies for Paws pie walk?" Lottie asked.
"We're still short a dozen iced lemon pies, a dozen blackberry pies, and a dozen peach pies."
"Ten pies a piece? That’s practically recreational," Rea said, scanning the room like a hawk. Then her gaze landed on Vivi's and the older woman smiled. "Who's taking on peach pies?"
Vivi's hand shot up before she even knew it.
The General Regent squinted and put a hand over her eyes. "You in the back. Can you please stand and introduce yourself?"
Vivi went stock-still, every muscle locking up like someone had just flipped her internal breaker.
No one else had been forced to stand or introduce themselves.
Of course not, because she'd apparently volunteered for the Hunger Games version of community service.
She regretted raising her hand so fast she could practically hear the screech of her own brakes.
"I can do it," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "My grandma has the best peach pie recipe in the world."
The room froze for a long, tense beat. Then came the chorus of disapproval and tongue-clucking.
Someone sucked a breath through clenched teeth. “Ain’t she that city slicker?”
"I bet she uses frozen pie dough," someone else said.
"No ma'am. It's my grandmother's recipe. No frozen anything." God, she hoped Grandma didn't use frozen dough.
"Any canned peaches in there?" Dottie asked from the screen.
"Not to my knowledge. She was a from-scratch kind of woman."
Maribelle, arms crossed like she was about to cross-examine a suspect, said, "I don't care if your grandma is the Queen of Georgia Peaches herself, if it ain't homemade it ain't coming to our table."
"Now, if I wanted a pie that tastes like a tin," Ms. Kitty said, "I'd go to my in-law's house. Sinful, if you ask me!"
"I understand, ma'am," Vivi said, biting back a grin. "From scratch. Promise."
"Well, honey," Maribelle leaned forward conspiratorially, "you better make it good or I'm personally setting a timer and eating one slice before the fair even opens."
"And I'll be right there with you," Ms. Kitty added. "You mess up the peach pies, and you'll have me to answer to. Don't think I won't cancel you like that Kevin Spacey. You ain’t heard of him since the day the internet called him over."
"And aren't you that city girl who's staying at the Callahans'?" Maribelle snapped, implying nefarious things were afoot.
"She's staying with me," Rea announced as if she'd just decreed Vivi her official apprentice.
"Just for another few weeks," Vivi added. "I'm renting the ranch and Boone is staying in the barn quarters," she clarified and whispers broke out across the bar.
Lottie had to clap her hands to restore order.
"Which brings me to why I'm here today," Vivi began. "The Callahans need your help. They're turning their bunkhouses into a travel destination for city folks, who want a real taste of Bridlewood."
She stopped herself from going any further because Boone was a private man and would hate having his personal struggles aired in public.
"Anyway, I'm here asking for volunteers to help turn that place into a real getaway. I know how much this family has done for this town, and I'm asking you to give back. Who can I count on?"
Nearly every hand in the room went up.
Including her new friend, Sutton.