The Mother Road (32 page)

I don’t know what I was thinking he was going to say when I asked him what would have happened if he never left. In my heart, I was hoping for him to say something like he would move out to California to be with me, but that’s hopeful wishing. He clearly has it in his mind that he’s not good enough to do anything other than work on the farm with my dad, which is an admirable job, but looking in his eyes, I know he wants more.

Paul, my dad, and Porter have been having a good time all day, planning out yet another mini bachelor party for tonight after the rehearsal. Just the three of them. While they’ve been talking beer, I’ve been texting Marisa about nothing serious, just random things to keep my mind off of the weekend.

Yesterday wasn’t how I envisioned it going in my head. We had all this build up and such a small quick moment in the Windy City. I always saw myself taking the time to explore all the ins and outs of the city, the places my mom dreamt of visiting, but instead, we sat by the fountain and stared at the falling water against the strategically placed lights.

The last time I saw my dad that sad was when we buried my mom. I wish it would have been more of a celebration instead of mourning.

This morning, I talked to Paul to see how he was doing, since he was really close with Mom, and he told me he was just excited to get back home and start a new chapter in his life. I wish I could say the same.

Familiar roads, trees, and gas stations pass us by as we close in on Jamestown, the town I grew up in and the town in which I fell in love.

I glance over at Porter, he’s wearing a pair of dark jeans, a button up white shirt, sleeves rolled and a light brown belt. His hair is styled, not a strand out of place; he’s ready for the rehearsal. We got ready at the campground because it was convenient to roll in already dressed. At the time, I didn’t think it was going to be utter misery to sit next to Porter in a button up shirt, but it is.

There’s just something about a man’s forearm shown off by a rolled up sleeve, can I get an amen, ladies?

I’m in the midst of texting Marisa when my phone rings. A California area code pops up on my screen.

“Hello?” The boys quiet down so I can hear the other person on the phone.

“Hello, is this Marley McMann?”

“This is she.”

“Hi, this is Alex over at the Pederson Group. You tested a few products for us back in June.”

“Oh, yes, Alex, how are you?”

“Great, thank you. We actually have another product we would love for you to check out. It’s in testing right now to see how consumers would respond, and we would love to get your opinion.”

“Really? Wow, that’s great. What’s the product?” Porter glances back at me for a second, but then turns his attention back to Paul.

“It’s a new kind of soap made from goat’s milk. It’s made just for men.”

“Just for men? I beg your pardon, but you know I’m a woman, right?”

Alex laughs in the phone. “Yes, Marley we are quite aware of your gender. You have an impeccable following and a knack for picking out products that seem to populate overnight. Since this is a soap for men, we want an honest woman’s reaction. We want to see if it’s something a woman would buy for her boyfriend or husband. We want to make sure that not only men like it, but women would be in the market for buying it for their significant others as well. Women do monopolize the market.”

“Very true.” I don’t even have to think about my answer. Being a tester for the Pederson Group again would be huge for my career. “I would love to test it. I’m in New York for my brother’s wedding this weekend, but I fly back to California on Sunday. If you send it to my apartment, I can test it as soon as I get back.”

“That works for us. Thank you for the quick turnaround. We’re trying to make a decision quickly on this. It’s a great idea and we’re ready to pull the trigger, we just want to make sure it can sell.”

“Totally understand that. Well, thank you for thinking about me.”

“Of course, hopefully we will have more products to send your way. It’s been great talking to you, Marley.”

“You too, have a good day.”

I hang up and can’t help the giant smile that consumes me.

“Who was that?” my dad asks from up front.

I set my phone on the table and open my laptop, connecting to my Wi-Fi, so I can send Alex a quick thank you note. It’s just proper business protocol. “That was Alex from the Pederson Group.”

“From the Pederson Group?” Porter asks, almost a little shocked.

“Hey, isn’t that…” Porter kicks his leg against Paul’s chair before he can finish what he’s saying.

Paul turns in his seat, offended. “Dude, you made me bite my lip.”

“Good,” Porter says between his teeth. They share a silent exchange before turning back to me.

“Uh, what’s the Pederson Group?” Paul asks.

“Just one of the biggest beauty product companies in the nation. I did a couple of spotlights for them back in June, but they just called asking me to test a new product they are thinking about producing.”

“What’s the product?” my dad asks.

“Some kind of soap for men? Seems kind of weird since it’s made from goat’s milk. I mean, I don’t know many men who would use a bar of soap made from goat’s milk, since the market is already flooded with other more popular brands like Dial and Irish Spring. I think it would be hard to market, given the competition, but who knows? It might be worth something. But in all honesty, more often than not, companies will invest a great deal of money into a new product like this, and realize it can’t hold a candle to what is already out there.”

The RV falls silent as we pull onto the farm. I look around to see what’s the issue. My dad is focused on parking, Paul is looking out the window, and Porter is staring at his hands that are resting on his lap.

“Uh, hello were you three listening to me?”

“Yes, sorry, honey,” my dad says, cutting off the engine and turning around in his chair. “Seems like a nice product. You might want to keep an open mind when you test it; you never know.”

“Come on, would any of you really use a goat’s milk body bar? The Pederson Group is well-respected but I think they might have missed the mark on this one. Men like products like Old Spice, not some frilly bar of soap from a goat. I will be interested to see what the rage is all about.”

Once again, the RV is silent. Paul is cringing to the side, my dad is shaking his head, and Porter is fidgeting in his seat, his knee bouncing rapidly up and down.

Porter is the one to break the silence.

“I really have to go to the bathroom, catch you guys inside,” Porter says, taking off with his bag in his hand. I watch as he quickly walks to the little guest shack that is off to the left of the farm house.

Before I can acknowledge Porter’s strange reaction, Savannah comes running into the RV and scoops me up into a hug.

“Marley, you’re here!” She squeezes me tight for her small frame and plants a giant kiss on my cheek. “I’m so glad you made it in one piece. Paul told me about the mascara and eye shadow.”

“Eye shadow?” I whip my death glare over to Paul, who has climbed over his seat and is now pulling on Savannah.

“Sweetie, why don’t you say hi to me instead of getting me into trouble?”

As they embrace, I practically bounce around them, asking Paul what he did to my precious Urban Decay eye shadow.

“Paul, what the hell did you do?”

“You didn’t tell her about the eye shadow?” Savannah steps back and places her hands on her hips.

“It slipped my mind.”

“Paul McMann, how does telling your sister that you spit in her eye shadow slip your mind?”

“You what?” I roar, lunging at him. “How does Savannah even know that if you weren’t supposed to be talking to each other?”

He twists just in time so I fall flat on my face, eating the dirty carpet of Tacy.

“Oh, Marley, are you okay? He sent me an email almost every day.”

I grunt in response while Paul scurries away.

“Got to get ready for rehearsal. Catch you later, sis.”

Before I can respond, he pulls Savannah into him and escorts her out of the RV.

“I’m going to get him back,” I swear to the ground, hearing my dad laugh as he exits. Pulling myself up, I brush my body off and grab my things to bring into the house. I can already tell the next two days are going to be stressful.

My room is just as I left it, full of country fair ribbons, old brass furniture and the many water color paintings my mom created. My mom had great artistic talent but never did anything with it because to her, she wanted to care for her family more. Painting was a hobby which she could have easily turned into a profession, but I’m grateful for her being around when I grew up instead. Having a mom to cart you around town was a luxury I took for granted when she was around, if only I could tell her how much I appreciated all the sacrifices she made to be the stay at home mom who would do anything for her family of four…well, five, including Porter.

Shaking the regretful thoughts from my mind, I smile as I look at old pictures of me in my short denim shorts and mud boots, holding up my prizes for best pig in town, and the pictures of me, Paul and Porter my mom took over the years. Oh, the good old days. We were all so lanky and grubby. Growing up on a farm would do that to you.

Not wanting to unpack, I set my things on my dresser and grab my phone. Porter left in a bit of a hurry, so I just want to make sure he’s okay. Taking the easy way out, I send him a text.

Marley: Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.

There’s some time to spare before the rehearsal, so as I wait for Porter to text back, I check out the eye shadow I used this morning, the same eye shadow Paul spit in. Delirious and tired this morning, I failed to see the distortion in the pigments that I used.

Son of a Rutherford B. Hayes!

Yes, I pulled a Bernie and I don’t care.

My phone gets a text.

Porter: I’m fine. Thanks for checking. See you at rehearsal.

See you at rehearsal? What happened to lap dance central? What happened to wanting to sneak away? I try to shake off the sinking feeling of our impending doom as I adjust my hair in my mirror and fix my lip gloss.

There was a reason I cried myself to sleep last night, Porter’s standoffishness says it all.

****

Savannah and Paul are embracing each other as they talk to Savannah’s parents, beers in hand, and smiles on their faces. Porter is nowhere to be seen and I am sitting on a hay bale, by myself, watching everyone else have a good time at the rehearsal dinner.

Instead of going to a separate venue, we stayed on the farm and helped finish up the reception area, making sure it was perfect to Paul’s standards. Yes, Paul’s, not Savannah’s. Total groom-zilla.

Some family members wave at me, but never come up to talk to me, maintaining a respectable distance. It’s probably because they can smell the fury that is starting to build up inside of me. It was like the minute we parked the RV, Porter shut off and wanted nothing to do with me. Since the wedding party consists of Porter and me, we get to walk together and are forced—yes, forced—to interact. If you weren’t paying attention this whole time, you would have thought Porter absolutely hated me and that it actually causes him physical pain to be near me. Looking at me wasn’t an option and walking down the aisle together, yeah, he didn’t hold out his arm for me to grab. Instead, we walked down side by side looking like two awkward zombies searching for a wet brain to dissect and devour.

I was seconds away from smacking him in the arm after we got down the aisle and asking him what the hell was going on when Aunt Martha came up to me and started gushing over my blog, asking for advice on her ‘style’.

Advice number one, don’t wear neon blue eye shadow if you’re not going to line your eyes with a darker shade of eye liner. Advice number two, lipstick is made for your lips, not the radius around them. Advice number three, mascara is supposed to accentuate your eyes, not turn them into tarantula legs.

But, I keep my mouth shut and talk to her about panty hose and the advantage a control top has to offer to a larger hipped woman.

After that, I saw Porter briefly at dinner, talking to a few family friends, and then he disappeared. Kind of like the time he left me by myself on prom night…

“Hey, Buttons, why aren’t you mingling?” My dad asks, sitting next to me on the hay bale.

My dad is the kind of guy who can take a two minute shower, barely dry off, and dress into nice clothes in a matter of seconds and still look good. That’s why when we got home, he didn’t have to change until five minutes before the rehearsal. His clothes might have stuck to him in a weird way because he didn’t dry off completely, but he was ready, wearing his pressed blue jeans and his favorite blue and green flannel. Not your typical rehearsal dinner outfit, but he’s wearing a suit tomorrow and that’s all they can ask of him.

“Don’t really feel like small talk right now. I sometimes feel out of place when I come back for these family functions.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I live so far away now; you all have inside jokes, it’s hard to keep up.”

“You know that’s not how we see it, right?”

“I know,” I sigh. “But it’s different coming from the outside.”

“Any plans of moving back?” Hope is in his eyes and I hate crushing him, but I would never lie either.

“I don’t think so, Dad. Jamestown was good to me growing up, especially when Mom died, everyone rallied behind us, but I’ve outgrown the town and need more for my life. If I wasn’t living in California, I never would have made those connections and I never would have gained the opportunity to work with the Pederson Group.”

My dad nods. “So this is a really big opportunity for you?”

“Huge, Dad. I’ve been working really hard to gain a following and be respected within the industry. As a blogger, it’s hard to keep a healthy balance of being honest and giving good feedback on products. If you constantly put products down, talking about how bad they suck, no one will ever want to work with you. Yeah, you might have a following for being negative because some people enjoy putting down others, but you’re never really going to go anywhere. Then there is the fact that I want to please people, so they believe in my ability to blog, but I don’t want to mislead my followers either. I would never lie about a product just to gain the likeability from the producer, but I also don’t want to burn bridges.”