Wild Child (2 page)

“Don’t,” Jackson said. Industry and small-town America were kind of his current obsessions. “Leave it.”

Riveted, Jackson stepped closer to the TV, as a handsome man with sharp blue eyes and shaggy blond hair that made him look like a cross between a surfer and a movie star filled the screen. His teeth were like pearls. Little white Chiclets.

“Dean Jennings, CEO of Maybream Crackers, makers of Crispity Crackers and Maybream Crème cookies, is moving his factory from South America back to the United States,” Jessica said, managing to make crackers sound sexy.

“Those cookies are gross,” Sean said.

“I like them,” Brody answered.

“You would.”

Jackson grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume.

“But that’s not all,” Jessica said, working her long blond hair like a stripper dancing around a pole. “He wants to bring his factory back to small-town America. Can you tell us about that decision, Dean?”

“Maybream was started in a small factory outside of New York. Twenty years ago we moved it down to South America.” Dean’s earnest-salesman charm played well on the screen—Jessica could barely keep her eyes off the man. “But all across America right now there are factories lying empty and American workers are without jobs. And I just realized … I couldn’t stand by and watch American industry vanish, not when I could do something about it. Now, I’m a small company and I can’t change the economy, but I realized I could change one small town by bringing the Maybream Cracker headquarters and factory back to America.”

“This is all really exciting,” Jessica said. “But I think
the most exciting, and frankly, PR-savvy, part about it is that you are teaming up with us,
America Today
.” Jessica smiled into the camera. “And you, our viewers, get to choose the lucky town.”

“It
is
exciting and I don’t know about savvy, but I thought it would be fun.” Dean made it sound like saving a small town was a trip to the seashore.

“Tell us how it works.” Jessica leaned forward across the desk, hanging, it seemed, on Dean’s every word. Or perhaps just hypnotized by his teeth.

“The application to nominate a town is available online, and my staff and I will look through every entry,” Dean said. “We will pick six that best match what we need in a factory and community. Once we have our six semifinalists,
America Today
will travel with me to take a good, hard look at those towns.”

“That’s an interesting aspect of this contest,” Jessica said. “What are you looking for in a community?”

“Well,” Dean sighed. “Since we’ll be moving our headquarters and staff, we need a place where people would want to raise a family. Someplace wholesome but forward-thinking, with opportunities for kids and parents. With a factory.”

Oh, God, it was like the man was singing Jackson love songs!

“That guy wouldn’t know wholesome if it bit him in the ass,” Sean muttered.

Jackson shot a scowl over his shoulder.

“What?” Sean cried. “The guy’s a sleazeball—anyone can tell.”

Behind him, Brody was nodding.

Jackson dismissed them both, because his heart was about to burst.

We’re wholesome, we’re forward-thinking
.

And best of all, Bishop had a factory: an okra-processing plant that had been closed for five years. It just sat there,
empty, on the south side of town. A reminder of what this town used to be. A graveyard to nearly one hundred lost jobs.

Jackson had been trying for three years as mayor to bring in new business, new industry that would keep this town afloat—but he’d never dreamed of getting the factory open again.

“After I narrow down my choices from six to three and make sure the top three have factories that can be retrofitted for Maybream Crackers,” Dean said, “I’m going to let America vote which town wins. And together we will change that town’s future.”

“Deadline for applications is the end of the month,” Jessica pointed out. “So if you know a town that you think would be a good fit for Maybream Crackers, check out our website.” A website address scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

“Give me a pencil,” Jackson said, holding out his hand toward his friends. “Now. Now before it’s gone.”

“Christ, man,” Sean said, slapping a small oblong carpenter’s pencil into his hand. “You can google that shit, you know.”

Jackson scrawled the information on the wall he’d just been sanding. It would be painted over, but that didn’t stop Sean from moaning as if Jackson were defacing the Taj Mahal.

“Dean,” Jessica continued, “thanks so much for coming in today and partnering with us on this great project. I hope more American companies take note and bring their factories back to U.S. soil.”

“Me too, Jessica. Thanks for having me.” One last movie-star smile and Dean Jennings was gone.

The show cut to commercial, and Jackson turned down the volume before facing his friends.

Their wary expressions bounced right off his ebullient mood.

“Did you hear that? It’s like he was talking about Bishop!” He punched the air in victory. It felt so good, so right, that he did it again. There hadn’t been a whole lot of reasons for fist-pumping these days. “This is it!” he cried. “This is exactly what Bishop needs.”

“A TV show?”

“Someone to reopen the factory. Bring back jobs. New jobs. For Bishop!” Jackson was light-headed with relief and excitement. “Oh my God, can you believe that? It’s perfect.”

“It’s a long shot,” said Brody.

“I believe in long shots,” Jackson said. “I am the king of long shots.” Not entirely true, but he was riding a wave here.

Sean, who made being a cynic his life’s work, frowned.

Now Jackson’s good mood was dented.

“Just because you don’t like the guy after a clip on television—”

“Guys who look like that can’t be trusted. It’s a fact. They get everything they want,” Sean said.

“Bishop is dying, Sean.
Dying
. We need this.”

“But a TV show?” Sean asked. “And letting America vote? That shit is always rigged.”

“You want people coming into The Pour House?” Jackson asked. “Not just the regulars, but new business? Young people? Hot girls?”

“Hot girls would be nice.”

“You want your kids—”

“I don’t have kids.”

“But you will someday, and you’re not going to want to bus them to school an hour away, are you? If we don’t change our tax base, we lose the schools. That’s it. A chance like this might not come again. The town is in a bad way, Sean. A third of our population has left—”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Sean held up his hands in surrender, but he didn’t lose that scowl.

“Then what’s your problem?”

If Jackson were the punching kind, he would have punched Sean Baxter years ago. In kindergarten, maybe. And probably another hundred times since. For that face alone. Always the doubting Thomas. Always the fly in the soup.

“Remember when we played baseball in high school?”

Jackson shot a “can’t you help me here, he’s your brother?” look at Brody, who only went back to sanding. “Of course I remember, Sean. We had the worst record in the state.”

“We sucked. It’s true. But you know what I remember about you?” Sean asked.

“I can’t even imagine.”

Sean leaned over the bar, through sunlight and a snowstorm of dust in the air, catching Jackson in the crosshairs of his light blue eyes.

“You swung for the fences, every time. Even when a base hit would have sufficed, you went after that ball like it had insulted your mother. Like the fate of the world rested on you knocking the leather off that damn thing.”

“That’s why I led the team in home runs.”

“And strikeouts.”

True.

“What’s your point, Sean?”

“I thought you were nuts when you decided to run for mayor, but I supported you. But this show … this idea … It feels like you’re swinging for the fences.”

Jackson stepped forward and poked his old friend in the chest. “That’s
exactly
what I’m doing, Sean. And I’m doing it right now.”

He glanced at the wall and memorized the website he’d scrawled there.

The whole texture of his day had changed. He had to get on that application process, and quick. He wasn’t even sure who had keys to the factory. Shelby Monroe’s
mother used to run it; maybe she had the keys. He grabbed his wallet from the windowsill where he’d left it and walked out of the bar into the bright Arkansas morning.

As mayor of Bishop, population 4,200, he’d been working hard to fix what was wrong with the community, all so that he could leave it.

And this show might just be his ticket out of here.

Chapter 2

Present Day
    

Friday morning, when Jackson stepped into Cora’s, the bell over the café door rang and twenty pairs of eyes swung toward him. Every morning, all week, they’d been gathering here, waiting for him to arrive with the mail. City council, business owners, Ben at the newspaper—they looked at him. Wanting. Waiting.

For this moment.

Jackson held up the letter, his smile victorious. “We’re in!”

The diner erupted in cheers, his back was slapped, his hand shaken. Ben sat him down in the corner booth, while Cora brought him a piece of rhubarb pie.

“So?” Ben asked when the celebration died down. Everyone settled into chairs and booths with their backs to the counter, facing him. Jackson pushed away the pie; he hated eating while people were watching. “What happens next?”

“Well,” Jackson began, tapping the edge of the letter against the table, a sharp snap. Definitive. He liked the sound, so he did it again. “In the next week, Dean Jennings and a camera crew from
America Today
will come to town. Dean will check out our factory, and the camera crew will be putting together a package to air on the show.”

“What kind of package?” Cora asked. She had her arms crossed over her Don’t Mess With Me, I Haven’t
Had My Pie tee shirt. Her black hair, short and natural, was hidden under a wild silk scarf tied in intricate knots around her head. She looked equal parts ironic and tribal. A force of nature.

“A package about us. About Bishop. It says in the letter that it will tell our story.” Dean’s words from
America Today—a good, hard look
—made him sweat, but he couldn’t let anyone see that. There were already enough skeptics in the room.

Morning sunlight poured through the big windows, making the chrome shine; the red vinyl of the seats nearly glowed. But the faces in the room were worn. Weary. Hope was in short supply in Bishop these days.

“Shelby Monroe’s Art Camps, the Peabody, Cora’s.” He spread his arms, doing his best Vanna White, showing off the restaurant they all stood in. Its retro diner vibe and excellent southern cooking had been getting noticed in food magazines. “We’re a good story. An amazing one.”

“That’s right,” Cora said. “We oughta be proud of ourselves. We oughta be shouting how hard we’ve worked from the rooftops.” Cora, bless her heart and rhubarb pie, had been one of his best supporters. She understood that winning this competition would be good for Bishop. And, considering the work she’d put in on the diner, she was heavily invested in the increased tourism this competition would bring to the town.

Jackson picked up the letter and read the next part.

“After they’re done filming, all the segments will be aired on
America Today
at the end of July. Dean Jennings will pick three towns for the finals. Camera crews and reporters for
America Today
will return to the three towns for a live taping—”

“At Honky-tonk Night at The Pour House,” Sean announced, always looking to drum up business for his bar.

“Honky-tonk Night will be put on hold until this
competition is over,” Jackson said. It was a booze-fueled nightmare, and there was no way in hell it was part of their “story.”

“Who are you?” Sean shouted. “Stellan?”

“You mean Stalin, and I’m not.”

“What about the Okra Festival?” Gloria, the police chief, asked.

“What about it?”

“The festival is at the beginning of August. People are already getting their floats organized for the parade and the girls are getting ready for the pageant.”

“I’m working on my chili recipe,” Sean said, prompting most people to groan.

“I don’t see why that has to stop,” Jackson said. “In fact, it’s probably a nice addition to our story. We should move it up to the last weekend of July.”

People around the room nodded. It was the hundredth year of the town’s festival and despite the fact that there wasn’t a single commercial okra factory left in the entire state, it was a beloved tradition.

“So?” Cora asked. “What do we need to do?”

“Everyone get the cars off the lawns. Water the grass, plant some flowers. Clean up your porches.” He stared at Gloria, whose husband couldn’t walk by a garage sale without picking up a bike he was sure he could fix and sell. Their yard looked like a bike graveyard.

“It’s not just us,” Gloria said.

“No, it’s everyone,” Jackson agreed. “I need to repaint the trim on my house. I know a lot of you are in the same boat.”

“Who is going to pay for that?” Jim Shore asked. Jim had been mayor when the okra-processing plant finally gasped its last breath and closed, putting half the town out of work. It had given him a heart attack. There were days Jackson was pretty sure he would follow in Jim’s footsteps.

“Everyone … everyone just do what you can. Ask for help if you need it. I know Sean would love to help paint houses.”

“Very funny, Jackson,” Sean said, and everyone laughed.

“I don’t know when Dean and the producer are going to show up, sometime in the next few days, but let’s … let’s show them our best face. The best version of ourselves. Let’s show them that we are the right town for this second chance, that gimmick or not, we’re worth noticing. We’re worth believing in.”

He’d been practicing that rallying speech for a few days now (modified slightly in case they didn’t make the semifinals), and from the way the faces in the room had lightened, it had worked.