My Bluegrass Baby (3 page)

“Sadie,” he called. “Would you mind coming in and having a seat? I asked Ray to lead
me through some of your, uh, work, so I would know where I need to start.”

The tone of his voice implied that my work was some catastrophic knot of media relations
that had to be undone before he could even start thinking about his duties. That stung
a bit. But rather than make excuses or jump to explain myself, I arched an imperious
brow and gave careful consideration to his rather fabulous gray pinstripe suit and
light blue shirt. Clearly someone had told him that wearing blue brought out the color
of his eyes, because he seemed awfully partial to it. Between that and the hair, he
looked like a model selling cologne for upwardly mobile, emotionally unavailable men.

Still, he was completely out of his element, overdressed and uptight. He was the new
guy. He had no idea how things worked around here. I had the home-field advantage.
He didn’t know how to work within the mind-melting bureaucratic maze that was state
government. And he was too damn fancy for his own good.

I smiled beatifically . . . because making the rude gesture my hand seemed to be forming
on its own would surely merit a reprimand in my personnel file. I slid into the seat
across from him with my special mug, a Christmas gift from Kelsey that read
BENHAM, THE TOWN THAT INTERNATIONAL HARVESTER, COAL MINERS, AND THEIR FAMILIES BUILT
. After Kelsey gave it to me for Christmas, I made her a custom mug that read
BENHAM, HOME OF THE LONGEST TOWN SLOGAN IN THE WORLD
.

This was one of many mugs I kept in the office emblazoned with city slogans and pictures
of odd attractions. I had
BOWLING GREEN—CORVETTE CITY, USA;
PATTI’S 1880S SETTLEMENT—HOME OF THE MILE-HIGH MERINGUE PIE,
and a mug that displayed the many ways to pronounce Louisville (
LOUIE-VILLE, LUH-VUL, LEWIS-VILLE,
etc.). I tried collecting shot glasses at first, but Ray objected, saying it wasn’t
professional to keep them around the office. I even tried describing them as tiny
educational juice glasses, but he wouldn’t budge.

I sipped from my mug and behaved as if this were any other meeting on any other Monday,
which would not involve leaping across the table and throttling the new guy. I was
not going to rise to the bait, I told myself. I would not respond to the way he referred
to my samples with implied air-quotes around the word “work.” I would get through
the morning with grace and dignity. I would paste on the sort of guileless smile Gran
said would get me through any situation, even if I felt like committing a felony.
And I would not refer to Josh as “Lord Gel-demort.”

To his face.

“Did you have any questions for me?” I asked, as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

“Oh, I have lots of them,” Josh promised me, his eyes lingering on the neckline of
my camisole even as he shuffled through some papers. I crossed my arms over my chest
and returned his stare. I would not be intimidated by a well-coiffed boob ogler.
Grace and dignity
, I told myself,
at any cost
. Even if that cost was an awkward, prolonged silence.

Just as Josh managed to open his mouth again, there was a light knock on the door
frame.

“Sadie, I processed those new reports you asked for,” a smooth voice sounded from
the doorway. “It turns out that closed bridge in Marshall County might have actually
increased the number of campers in the Kentucky Dam area last summer . . . Oh, I’m
interrupting. I’m sorry.”

Dr. Charlie Bennett, our resident genius, stood in the doorway, giving Vaughn a confused
stare. Charlie was some sort of
Beautiful Mind
math prodigy, with several doctorates from perfectly respectable schools but without
the sinister imaginary roommates. And for some reason, he had eschewed legitimate
academia to design, distribute, and decipher surveys for our department, determining
customer satisfaction levels with various state park facilities, events, and attractions.
He could break down his survey results by age group, profession, and preference for
Coke or Pepsi if we asked him.

Aside from his big sexy brain, Charlie was lean and sleek with a refined bone structure
and curly dark hair. Unfortunately, without a large billboard directly outside his
bedroom window, Charlie would not recognize that Kelsey was not-too-secretly in love
with him. And Kelsey just didn’t have room for a billboard in her budget.

Even socially inept Charlie seemed to recognize that he was walking into a time bomb
of a room (one possible clue being my making big air-traffic-control motions toward
the door).

“Never mind,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away from the conference room
as quickly as he could. Oh, how I envied him.

“I’m assuming that was Dr. Bennett?” Vaughn said, looking over what appeared to be
a staff list. “How exactly can we afford our own statistician?”

“His position is grant-funded,” I told him, a bit defensive. “Securing the federal
money was one of the first things I did when I took over the assistant director position.”

Vaughn seemed almost impressed with this, but schooled his surprised expression back
into one of bland disinterest. “Dr. Bennett is not our only grant-funded employee,
correct? We also have a Bonnie Turkle on staff.”

I nodded. “Bonnie is our multimedia historian.”

“What exactly does a multimedia historian do?”

I chewed my lip. Bonnie looked like Snow White and spoke like a preschool teacher,
which was handy given her school speaking engagements. But Vaughn didn’t need to know
about Bonnie’s obsession with collages and positive reinforcement via smiley-face
stickers. With state budgets constricting every year, we had to work twice as hard
to produce the same results. The last thing I needed was for the new guy to come in
and decide that Bonnie’s position was expendable or could be construed as wasteful
spending. So I presented her in the best possible light. “Bonnie is sort of a one-woman
anthropology team. She travels to remote locations and goes through archives, library
records, film strips, and oral histories and builds multimedia historical exhibits.
She’s the one that set up the McBride Music Hall Museum.”

Vaughn’s face couldn’t have expressed less interest if he were trying. “I didn’t catch
that one.”

I rounded the table and stood as close to him as I comfortably could. With a flourish,
I tapped on my iPad and brought up images of Bonnie posing in front of huge display
boards filled with pictures of blues and country-and-western legends. Bonnie had created
a display explaining the history of a defunct dance hall, complete with detailed historical
perspectives and mounted digital players from which emanated samples of the music.
Two large flat-panel screens showed looping archival films. I sorted through several
photo file folders to find the right shots. “When she’s not setting these displays
up, she’s traveling to schools, speaking to students about state history.”

Vaughn stood, invading my personal space bubble as he took the tablet. It was absolutely
unfair that an unrepentant jerk could smell so damn good, like summer grass and rosewood.
But if I’d learned anything about him so far, it was that he was conscientious about
grooming. Good cologne was just part of the basic “well-coiffed boob ogler ” package.

I moved to help as Vaughn fumbled at opening the files. Our hands brushed and I felt
a jolt of tingling electricity travel up from my arm to my chest. His mouth popped
open in surprise, but I ignored the sensation, even as it traveled down my spine and
warmed my stomach. Later, I would rationalize this feeling away as the rare—but not
completely unheard-of—five-second flu. I could feel Vaughn’s warm breath feathering
over my neck as he bent to get a better look at the screen. I pulled my hand away
abruptly to avoid another shock and his features twisted back into the characteristic
frown.

The scrolling images showed the office staff at various events around the state—the
Highland Festival in Glasgow, the American Quilt Society Show and Contest in Paducah,
Tater Day in Benton. Josh the Job Bandit placed his finger on the screen, swiping
through the pictures. He stopped on a shot of Bonnie and Melody laughing hysterically
as Ray tried to land a rubber frog on a moving lily pad at the Tater Day carnival.
My heart ached a bit at the images. This was why I had to stay with the commission,
I reminded myself. The people here were more than mere coworkers. And I would never
find another office atmosphere to match it. I would get through this. I would find
something good about Josh Vaughn, focus on that, and find a way to work with him.

This new leaf lasted for a grand total of three minutes before Vaughn said, “You know,
these pictures bring up an interesting point. I’ve noticed there’s an above average
percentage of the travel budget devoted to the staff attending these little festivals
and fairs around the state. But there’s no real reason for you to be there, right?
The locals run these events themselves, or the state parks staff does. It seems like
a waste of time and resources.”

“Most state marketing teams don’t go to so many events,” I admitted, moving back around
the table and taking a seat. “But Commissioner Bidwell likes it when we make an appearance.
Even if we’re not assisting in running the event, we can at least show our support.
And nobody takes pictures like Kelsey. We use those pictures on our Web site and in
our publications, which actually saves us the costs of hiring an outside photographer.
Besides, it’s fun.”

Vaughn frowned and sat down across from me, but before he could grumble any further,
Ray appeared at the conference room door, looking a bit harried. Vaughn’s posture
went ramrod-straight and I half expected him to salute as Ray swept in with Kelsey
hot on his heels. She slid quietly into the chair beside me, a pleased expression
playing on her full lips. Ray dropped some files on the table and propped himself
against it, as if he’d just finished running one of his marathons and couldn’t hold
himself upright a moment longer.

“Okay, kids. I’ve thought about this a lot this weekend, and I’ve decided that this
situation doesn’t sit well with me,” he said, making my stomach flutter with hope.
Was I getting the promotion? Was Vaughn fired? Could Kelsey and I launch him out the
front door with a catapult? “Josh, I have no problem with you or your work. Your portfolio
is very impressive. You bring a fresh perspective and a stronger design background
to the table. But as much as I appreciate the commissioner’s opinion, I don’t like
being routed in my own office. I’m not retired yet and I don’t appreciate my decisions
being remade for me. Sadie has done some phenomenal work in this office and is ready
to take on more responsibility. The staff looks up to her and she’s more familiar
with the concerns of the state.

“So, I’ve spent most of the morning in discussions with Commissioner Bidwell and our
decision is . . . neither of you will be serving as marketing director. For right
now, both of you are considered interim assistant directors of marketing.”

Judging from the way he ground his teeth together, Josh hadn’t seen this coming, either.
For a moment, it felt like we were in the same boat—a boat adrift on a sea of “What
the hell?” Kelsey began scribbling furiously in her little notebook, making new-business-cards-and-stationery
to-do lists now that Vaughn had a new title—again—as well as writing down all of the
various moving-in chores she needed to complete. She gripped the ballpoint pen so
fiercely it snapped, staining her sleeve with black ink. Grabbing a new pen, she continued
to scribble around the giant splotch on her pad.

Kelsey taking out her frustrations on office supplies was not a good sign.

Ray continued, “You will each develop a comprehensive campaign for a statewide tourism
promotion to run through the next year. Storyboards, posters, and other materials
explaining your concept will be put on display at the state fair in August. At the
fair, we will ask visitors which approach they prefer and the campaign with the most
positive responses wins. The winner gets the promotion and we will use his or her
campaign. Second place means staying in the assistant director position, as long as
you’re still interested in working with us.”

A second chance. They were giving me another chance to prove myself! I could put together
another campaign, one just as good as the Derby plan. I restrained myself from hopping
up and kissing Ray’s leathery cheeks, but it was a near thing. The normally smirking
Mr. Vaughn barely reacted. I expected him to complain about the loss of status, the
uncertainty of getting a job he thought he already had. He merely shrugged. “Sounds
fair.”

My eyes narrowed at him. There was no way he was okay with this. He’d moved all the
way from Atlanta to accept this job. During the weekend wallow, I’d googled the hell
out of Josh Vaughn. He popped up in the Society pages like an image-obsessed Energizer
Bunny. Junior partner with a fancy marketing firm. Address in a tony district of Atlanta.
A pretty girlfriend from one of the wealthier families in town. Why would he walk
away from that, and then smile when the job he was promised evaporated out from under
him?

What the
hell
was he up to?

I did not trust him, even less so when he politely asked me to explain the concept
of every campaign I’d worked on in recent memory to help him “acclimate.” For the
next two hours, we slogged through each and every promotion and every resulting news
story—all of which were broadcast against the wall as a PowerPoint presentation of
my implied ineptitude.

My chief crime, in his opinion, was my fascination for the, quote, “weird stuff,”
which made Kelsey cover her snickers with fake coughs. “You devoted two radio spots
and a mailing to promoting the Hillbilly Days festival. You devoted an entire page
in the Visitors’ Guide to the ghosts of Waverly Hills Sanatorium. And you put together
a pamphlet called ‘Bizarre in the Bluegrass: Strange Roadside Attractions Across Kentucky.’
”