Campaigning for Christopher
Read Campaigning for Christopher Online
Authors: Katy Regnery
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Family Saga, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Sagas
CAMPAIGNING FOR CHRISTOPHER
Copyright
© 2015 by Katharine Gilliam Regnery
Sale of the electronic edition of this book is wholly unauthorized. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part, by any means, is forbidden without written permission from the author/publisher.
Katharine Gilliam Regnery, publisher
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Please visit my website at www.katyregnery.com
First Edition: November 2015
Katy Regnery
Campaigning for Christopher: a novel / by Katy Regnery – 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-0-99090-037-5
In order to be sensitive to the feelings of any readers of an indigenous background, I did research to figure out what terminology to use in this book. In the end, I decided to use the terms
American Indian
or
Indian
for two reasons:
The first is that a 1995 census survey of indigenous American people showed that about half preferred the traditional descriptors
American Indian
or
Indian
, as opposed to the federally created term
Native American
. I know that survey could be outdated, but I couldn’t find a more recent study.
The second is that I happened upon an essay by Russell Means, a Lakota activist and an early leader of the American Indian Movement (AIM), in which he stated, “I abhor the term
Native American
. . . . I prefer the term
American Indian
because I know its origins.”
I hope I made the right choice.
—Katy Regnery, November 2015
The World of Blueberry Lane
For reprints of
The World of Blueberry Lane
, please visit my online store:
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Julianne Crow’s feet hurt.
No, not just hurt . . .
Burned
like they were on fire.
And no wonder: she’d been on them for almost six straight hours, out in the middle of nowhere at some vineyard, waitressing at a wedding for a bunch of entitled, elitist asses. Speaking of the gluteus maximus, hers had been pinched about three dozen times, she’d been leered at fairly consistently since her arrival, and twice she’d been propositioned outright.
But worst of all was the blond moron in the Brooks Brothers suit and fraternity tie who’d had the gall to ask “Dot or feather?” after staring at her face with narrowed eyes and licking his lips suggestively.
“Excuse me?” she’d responded, dumbstruck that he’d be so glibly insulting.
“Dot or feather?” he’d asked again, grinning at his cohort, who took his scotch on the rocks and cocktail napkin from Julianne’s proffered hand.
His friend sipped his drink, having the decency to look embarrassed.
Though not enough decency, apparently, to intervene or object,
she thought acidly.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said, barely able to keep from snarling at his overtly racist inquiry and determined not to entertain it, “but I don’t understand the question.”
“What kind of Indian are you?” He asked with deliberate meanness, then snickered, his blue eyes sharp, his smile mean. When she didn’t answer, he shrugged. “Dot would’ve at least gotten the joke. Feather it is.”
She blinked in shock, her eyes blazing with fury and embarrassment, and frankly, if she had a feather with her, she would have liked to shove it up his ass.
Instead, with all the dignity she could muster, she offered him a brittle smile and turned to walk away. She refused to sink to his level, though several hours of being demeaned sexually, and now racially, had only served to make her “other” job tonight that much easier.
As she walked back to the bar inside the massive tasting room of The Five Sisters vineyard, she reviewed the instructions she’d been given before the reception: find the youngest of the bride’s four brothers—a tall, black-haired man named Christopher Winslow—slip the Rohypnol in his drink, and get him somewhere private before the drug kicked in completely.
Still upset about the mean-spirited joke courtesy of Brooks Brothers, she slammed her empty silver tray down on the copper wine bar within the tasting room, making it clatter loudly.
“Whoa,” said Joe, the gray-haired bartender whom Julianne knew from previous waitressing gigs. He was kind to her in a grandfatherly way, and she was fond of him. “That bad?”
“Worse,” she said, hating this feeling to hell and back.
I’m not a second-class human
, she told herself, but it was hard to remember when she was surrounded by powerful white people, some of whom were downright ugly to her. “These guys are total assholes. White, rich, entitled, arrogant assholes.”
“You just gotta shake it off.” Joe chuckled softly, setting two shot glasses on the bar and pouring two whiskeys. He nudged one over to her and picked up the other, holding it at eye level between them. “To you, Jules. Remember me when you make it big, huh, kid?”
She huffed softly, her anger still potent, but reined back to a simmer, as she picked up the other shot glass and rolled her eyes at Joe. “Yeah, right.”
He knocked back the shot and placed the glass directly in the soapy sink before him, washing it out and rinsing it quickly. “You don’t have enough faith in yourself. You’re a beautiful girl, Jules. Young and smart, too. You’re gonna go all the way.”
“May it be so.” Julianne lifted her glass in a salute, then leaned back and pressed its coolness to her lips, letting the whiskey burn a trail down her throat before gently placing the glass back on the copper bar. “Thanks, Joe.”
“All righty now. What can I get you?”
“Two vodka martinis straight up, a Seven and Seven on the rocks, and . . .” She thought about Christopher Winslow, whom she’d been watching steadily yet covertly throughout the evening. “. . . a Killarney. Neat.”
“Irish whiskey, huh? You got it, kid.”
He shuffled down the bar, grabbing a bottle of Seagram’s, and Julianne turned around to slip out of her torturous black heels and lean back against the bar. Reaching up, she grabbed her long, straight black hair in her fist and lifted it from her sweaty neck, sighing as the cool evening air touched her hot, damp skin.
She frowned at the pretty barnlike room before her. Overhead rafters were wrapped with white tulle and twinkle lights, which gave the entire space a soft, romantic glow for the ceremony that had taken place here a few hours earlier. Over three hundred white chairs in still-neat rows sat forgotten as wedding guests ate, drank, and danced at the tented reception outdoors.
Joe was wrong. Julianne
did
have faith in herself.
She wouldn’t have left her home in South Dakota and traveled all the way to Philadelphia if she didn’t have faith in herself. She wouldn’t have signed a contract with Reingold if she didn’t have faith in herself. She wouldn’t be working these god-awful catering gigs to make ends meet if she didn’t have faith in herself. As much as a girl from an Indian reservation in South Dakota possibly could, she
had faith in herself.
She just didn’t have much faith in the rest of the world.
“You wanted that Killarney neat, right? No ice?”
Julianne let her thick hair fall onto her neck and turned back to Joe, wincing as she slipped her feet back into the tight, hot heels, making every blister scream in protest.
“Neat,” she confirmed, thinking about Christopher Winslow sipping the amber liquid with no ice and hoping she was right about the brand. By now, however, at his fourth or fifth drink, perhaps he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyway.
Clearing his throat with a loud grating sound, Joe sighed, taking a deep, raggedy breath.
“That cough still bothering you?” she asked, leaning over the bar to see his face a little better.
“Nothing a little more of your chicken soup wouldn’t cure,” he said, but his voice, which had been aiming for a light tone, failed.
Quietly aware that her concern would shame him, she still asked, “Should I be worried about you, old man?”
“Call me old man again and you should be worried about yourself, kid.”
Joe poured two shots of the Irish whiskey into an old-fashioned glass and added it to the tray, then took out two frosted martini glasses from a freezer under the bar and added them to Julianne’s tray.
“Say, how’d that job go? The one in New York?”
Julianne sighed, wondering if she should stay on his case about the rattle in his chest, but deciding to leave it alone for now. “They didn’t end up using my pictures. They used another girl for the campaign instead.”
Joe clucked softly, pouring cold vodka carefully into the glasses. “Your day’s coming, Jules. I know it.”
Her lips twitched. After four months in Philadelphia, during which she’d waitressed far more than she’d modeled, her day was sure taking its time.
Frances Watson, from Reingold Talent, had called Julianne several months ago out of the blue, asking if she’d ever considered a modeling career. At first Julianne was sure it was a joke—one of her half sisters or cousins putting on a posh voice and trying to make a fool of her. She’d said a few choice words to “Frances” and hung up the phone, only to have it ring again a moment later.
“Miss Crow, it’s Frances Watson again. My phone number is 717-555-4895, and our website is www.reingoldtalent.com. Why don’t you look us up and call me back? I saw the promotional video you narrated on the Oglala Lakota College website, and I’d like to talk to you about a possible modeling contract.”
Julianne’s mouth dropped open as she stared down at the dirty kitchen floor in her mother’s trailer. None of her family members could have cooked up such an intricate ruse. This had to be for real.
Julianne called back and apologized for calling her an
ohunko iktomi
which roughly translated to “trickster” in Julianne’s native Lakota, and had listened, in stunned surprise, to what Frances Watson had to say. Apparently, Reingold Talent didn’t feel they had enough minority models in their portfolio, and they were anxious to sign several girls who had a unique or exotic look in anticipation of upcoming trends. Julianne had scoffed at this, fingering her lush hips and telling Frances Watson she had the wrong girl.
“I’m no model,” she explained without shame. She was fit and healthy, but a far cry from the willowy women she saw in fashion magazines. “I’m not a small woman.”
“That’s fine,” said Frances Watson in a warm, cultured voice, like the old white ladies in the soap operas her
Unci
, or grandmother, watched faithfully every afternoon. “I’m not looking for typical models. In fact, we would be delighted to sign some plus-size girls to our roster. What size do you wear, Julianne?”
“Fourteen,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow hot from her lie. “Or sixteen.”
“Perfect,” said Frances Watson distractedly, like she was writing down this information. “Would you be willing to come to Philadelphia next weekend? All expenses paid, of course. We could take some photos, talk about a contract, maybe even—”
Julianne hadn’t waited to hear the rest of the sales pitch. She didn’t need to. Opportunities like this one didn’t land on her scuffed-up doorstep every day, and she wasn’t about to let this one pass her by.
“Yes. I’ll come.”
“Uh. Oh. Well, wonderful!” said Frances Watson, her voice surprised and pleased at the same time. “I didn’t expect—I mean, that’s terrific.”
They traded contact information, and Frances Watson said her assistant would call Julianne the next day to make the arrangements. That was just over five months ago. Five months in which she’d appeared in the print and online catalogs for Lands’ End and Soft Surroundings, and gone to a lot of go-sees around Philly and in New York. She’d booked a few more paying jobs, too, for which she’d been compensated, but plus-size, taller-than-average Indian girls didn’t appear to be on the top of anyone’s list right now, despite Frances Watson’s continued encouragement. She felt it was just a matter of time until Julianne was a hot commodity and was unwavering in the opinion that Julianne “had something.”
Yeah,
she thought,
I
have
something, all right: bills piling up.
Moving from the Gray Elk Indian Reservation in southern South Dakota to Philadelphia had been a culture shock in every possible way, but the worst of it had been the cost of everything. She wasn’t prepared for her $750-per-month rent, or the fact that her groceries, which she considered modest, cost over $200 per month. She had to keep her skin moisturized and her hair conditioned, and though Reingold had paid for her headshots, portfolio, and business cards, Julianne needed clothes for her auditions and appointments, and those weren’t cheap either.
She’d expected to be on her feet by now—making regular money from frequent jobs—but it hadn’t happened yet, and things felt tighter and tighter every month. In fact, if she didn’t land a big job in the next three weeks, she wouldn’t be able to make her rent. She’d be out on her ass and have to turn tail, defeated by the big, wide world. She rebelled against that failure—it shamed her to think of leaving Philadelphia with her tail between her legs.
Which is probably why, when she’d been approached by the man in the black hat earlier this evening, she’d listened to what he had to say, regardless of his shady and unexplained appearance at the back of the tasting room, where she was throwing out a bag of garbage in the dumpster for Joe. Julianne was good at seizing opportunity, and she couldn’t fight the feeling that Black Hat held one.
“Hey, there,” he’d whispered, catching her attention. “I’m looking for Demisha.”
“Not here tonight. I’m subbing for her.”
“Oh yeah?”
Tamping down her fierce desire to make some quip about how much she just liked wearing waitressing outfits for fun, she turned to him and nodded.
“So, you’re, uh . . . are you Native American?”
She didn’t love his choice of words—she preferred to be called an American Indian or simply Indian—but she also wasn’t interested in schooling him on her culture, so she nodded again.
“Huh. Okay.” He took a step closer. “You want to make a quick five hundred bucks?”
She sneered at him, taking a step in retreat toward the door to the tasting room. With a curvy figure and the sort of face that got her modeling contracts, Julianne wasn’t exactly a stranger to smarmy come-ons, but she wasn’t the sort of girl who accepted them either.
“Wait. Wait,” he’d said. “Nothing like that. Just take some pictures for me. Five hundred for some pictures.”
At that point, she’d turned around, fixing him with her almost-black eyes before dropping them to the smartphone in his outstretched hand.
“What kind of . . . pictures?”
“Not of you. Of someone else. Someone attending this wedding.”
Five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars just for taking a few pictures. Five hundred dollars would buy her some time. She could stay in Philadelphia for another month. She wouldn’t be forced to go home yet.