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Kayla David is a high-flying journalist in New York City, spending all her time drinking martinis and writing about fashion trends. She is perfectly happy with her life, and she certainly has no time for falling in love.
That is, until, her boss decides to send her on a secret mission back to her hometown of Arkansas: she is tasked with exposing the truth about the fracking industry and to use her reputation as a lifestyle columnist as a disguise. She is horrified at the thought of returning to this boring country town, but up for the challenge.
Yet, she didn’t plan on having to deal with Grayson Moir, the sexy but aloof mayor of Heber Spring. As Kayla settles into life there she soon realises that it might be a bit more difficult than she thought to keep her real mission a secret. And what’s more, she finds it increasingly difficult to keep her heart under control too…
Welcome Page
About What’s Love Got To Do With It?
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About Anna Premoli
Also by Anna Premoli
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
To my grandma Ankica, one of the wittiest and most determined women I’ve ever met.
Still half asleep, I stretch languidly while I reach out to take the coffee my boss is holding out to me. He’s obviously trying to bribe me…
Unfortunately, the cup is so hot that I almost drop it as soon as my fingers make contact. Despite its inviting aroma, I decide to put it on the desk and avoid burning my stomach with it for the moment – I do desperately need a caffeine shot, but I do not need third-degree burns.
I’ve never understood the reason why office vending machines produce beverages at temperatures hot enough to trigger nuclear fusion. Could it be that it’s a way of quietly bumping off incautious employees and saving the bosses a bit of money?
“So, did you have an interesting night?” asks my boss with a chuckle.
The dark circles under my puffy eyes show just how committed I am to my job. I am a journalist, and I am responsible for writing about the night life of New York City. And needless to say, I am as meticulous about my job as is humanly possible.
“Well, you know what they say,” I reply with a wink. “Friday night is the new Saturday night.”
He raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “What a load of bull! When I was young, Friday night was just a night like all the others. Those were the days! We didn’t need Fridays to always be epic. But I guess that only goes to show that I’m old,” he mutters quietly. “‘I’m not really up to date with the new trends in night life…”
“It was getting married that did for you,” I tease him, “I know you used to be the king of New York’s night life back when you were a young buck.”
“Yeah, right… And which marriage are you referring to, exactly?” he says, playing along. “The first or the second?”
It takes a hell of a lot of self-confidence to be able to joke about your own life that way. Not many people would be willing to give that much about themselves away, and that’s why I respect Roger so much more than I ever actually tell him. At the end of the day he’s still my boss, though, so it’s wise not to pay him too many compliments.
“The second, of course,” I say with conviction. “It made you too happy, and happy people are really annoying.”
“What a dumb thing to say,” he scolds me with a chuckle.
“Ok, maybe I meant more boring than annoying… Really boring!” I insist in the tone of someone who knows what they’re talking about. “Come on, don’t you try and deny it!”
Roger looks at me with a benevolent smile. “Aren’t you a little too cynical for a thirty-two year old woman who’s never been married? I mean, you need to get a good two or three divorces under your belt before you’re eligible to join the holy matrimony haters club, you know.”
“Hah, ‘holy’! That’s a good one, boss.”
“What can I say, I’m a funny guy,” he agrees. “What I said before is still true, though: you’re too cynical, and it’s not even lunch time yet! Hell, Kayla, what am I supposed to do with you?”
I shrug and don’t bother replying. It’s half past eight in the morning and I wasn’t even supposed to be working this Saturday, so I’m not really in the ideal mood to try and engage in this kind of existential conversation. I feel like I’ve already been nice enough just showing up in the damn newsroom after I got his message.
The truth is that I like Roger, even though everything is always terribly urgent for him – and he likes me too, even if I, unlike him, have never met something that was so urgent it couldn’t wait. We are absolutely chalk and cheese, but luckily we work well together.
“Ah, forget about it,” he says, giving up. “Let’s get down to the important stuff instead. Are you still determined not to write anything about the new district attorney?” He has the resigned expression of someone who is obliged to ask the same old question yet again but has no expectation of receiving a different answer. And rightly so.
“I sure am. You know that Amalia’s my best friend, I could never write articles about her and her partner.”
He gives a resigned sigh. “Okay, sure, I get it, but it would have been a great opportunity for you to start writing about new things and moving your career forward. Pretty soon, you’re going to be too old to party all night and write about where to get the best cocktails in Manhattan,” he points out, trying to put it as gently as possible.
“Hey, whatever you might think, I can assure you that my readers are way more interested in drinks and parties than they are in Middle Eastern affairs,” I reply. And unfortunately, we both know I’m right.
“Well, that ought to tell you something about the world we’re living in…” he replies, sounding disheartened.
“A journalist isn’t supposed to judge. A journalist’s duty is to simply tell the truth and allow the readers to make up their own minds. It was you who taught me that,” I remind him.
He shakes his head again. “You really are a piece of work…”
I hope that he means it in an affectionate way, but I’m not 100 per cent sure he does…
“So anyway, since you can’t write about the city’s politicians, what would you say to going on an assignment?” he asks.
My ears perk up and I start listening with more attention. Roger has never sent me anywhere before, even though I’ve asked him often enough. The furthest I’ve been was a theatre out in Queens, the Westchester, and I don’t really think that qualifies as an assignment.
“I would certainly say that it’s a possibility…” I reply in a cautious voice. My expression, though, must reveal all my enthusiasm, even if I am doing my damnedest to hide it. Now he knows that he’s got me where he wants me.
“Great – so you’re leaving—”
“Hold on a minute: you haven’t told me anything about the job yet. I’m not saying yes until I’m sure that you’re not just trying to get rid of me by sending me thousands of miles away to investigate the slave trade or something. So please tell me what this is about first.” I’m very proud of myself for actually managing to fake a bit of reluctance.
He stares at me. “The slave trade? Where the hell do you get these weird ideas? Even if I was planning to commission something about stuff like that, do you think I’d assign the job to someone who’s only ever reviewed bars and clubs?” he says, then laughs out loud for a very long time.
I glare at him.
“Hey, don’t put me down! Not many other journalists have the experience I’ve accumulated in my years in the field,” I reply proudly.
“Okay, but don’t you want to start accumulating some experience in other fields? Maybe get some bigger thrills than just hitting on guys in bars?”
He’s making fun of me, the asshole. I give him an offended look.
“Of course I want to change – but I don’t want to give up men. I like that part of my life.”
“That’s all I needed to hear: the job is yours!” he exclaims cheerfully. I can’t believe I’ve fallen into another of his traps… I stare at him with a discouraged expression.
“So where are you sending me, then?”
“To Arkansas,” he says, as if it was perfectly normal.
I open my eyes wide in panic. “No! Not to Arkansas, please!” I’m all set to get down on my knees and beg.
My sadist of a boss is actually looking amused by my desperate reaction. “What the hell are you getting so worked up about going to Arkansas for? It’s hardly the Far West! And isn’t it where you were born anyway?” he asks as he scratches his chin.
“That’s the point: I know the place well enough and I hate the countryside! Can you imagine me living out in the boondocks? I need to see the crowds in the street and smell the awful stink of the underground: it’s reassuring!” I say. Hey, as far as I’m concerned, everybody is entitled to their own weirdness.
“Girl, you are out of your mind. Well I think that spending a few months in the countryside can only be good for your health…”
“Months? Did you say ‘months’?”
My voice is starting to get a little loud, but Roger doesn’t seem to have noticed.
“I have a fantastic project in mind, and you’re going to love it too,” he explains. “But to avoid raising suspicion, I need someone local to take care of it.”
“I am not ‘local’! My mother and I got the hell away from there when I was only five!” I say imploringly, trying to get him to change his mind.
“Don’t you have an aunt who still lives there?” he asks innocently.
Never, and I really do mean never, ever speak to your boss about your family. Sooner or later, they will use all the information they’ve managed to gather against you.
“She’s not really my aunt,” I reply in a quiet voice, “she’s my late grandmother’s sister.”
“Look, Kayla, let me be blunt: I don’t care if she is or isn’t your aunt… She’s still a damn good excuse for you to spend a bit of time there. Where exactly does she live?” he asks, peering at me the way a predator looks at its prey.
“In Heber Springs…” I mumble, hoping that he won’t be able to hear me. But my hopes are vain, because he seems to be able to hear me perfectly well. Scores at the moment: exceptional Hearing 1 – Kayla 0.
“That’s perfect!” His face is so ecstatic that for a moment I’m scared he’s about to kiss me. I still don’t understand what the hell he’s so happy about, though.
“I really don’t get why you’re suddenly so interested in a small town that nobody has ever heard of before,” I say with a disgusted expression.
“Have you ever heard about shale gas and shale oil?” he asks me cryptically.
The question takes me by surprise. I hadn’t really been expecting him to come out with something like that. “Err, kind of, I guess. Like everyone else… I mean, I know what it is, in theory. Let’s say I have a very superficial knowledge of the matter. I guess it’s when you drill a hole in the ground and put various substances in there until you provoke a hydraulic fracture that liberates some gas or oil or something? That’s all I know. I’ve never had the chance to study the subject in depth, as I’m sure you can imagine.” And who cares about it anyway?
“That’s because you spend all your time drinking Cosmopolitans instead of getting informed about the real problems of the country,” he scolds me in a teasing voice. I feel like a lazy student being criticised in front of the whole class, and it’s working – I’m actually starting to feel guilty. But luckily, I’m only capable of feeling guilt for a couple of seconds at a time.
“Look, I don’t know anything about nuclear fusion or fission either and I don’t think that’s a problem for anyone, to be honest. What am I anyway, an environmental engineer? I don’t think so. My job is to take care of our newspaper’s New York social life column,” I remind us both.
“And on paper that’s what you’ll continue to do, except that you’ll be doing it from Heber Springs. You current assignment will be your cover.”
I’m trying very hard to follow him, but I still don’t know where he’s going with all this. “There is no social life in Heber Springs, and so there’ll be nothing for me to talk about. The place is just straight up dead! There’s nothing there, except for the few hundred people who haven’t run away from it yet.”
“Few thousand, to be precise,” Roger corrects me while checking the town on the Internet.
“That’s only if you count the whole county. In any case, it doesn’t change the fact that more people live in my block than in miles and miles of that deserted wilderness of Arkansas.” I hope he’s getting the message: I need to be surrounded by people at all times. I love crowds!
Roger’s face, though, tells me that he’s not actually inclined to sympathise with my personal necessities. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“It’s going to be a great column: A City Girl in the Country. Our female readers will love it,” he says, completely ignoring me.
“But I am going to hate it!” I reply stubbornly. “Don’t you think it’s important for me to like my assignments?”
He doesn’t even bother to answer.
“And when you’re not busy with your cover column, you’ll be investigating the shale gas thing.”
“In Arkansas?” I ask doubtfully. The last time I was there – which was a fair few years ago – the local economy was mainly based on agriculture, farming and not much else. I know that there were some bauxite caves or something like that, but I never really looked into it. I just wasn’t interested, and I bet nobody else would be either.
“You need to catch up, Kayla. In Fayetteville, Arkansas, there is one of the biggest shale gas sites in the whole United States. And as soon as you start to look into it, you’ll realise how important shale gas is for the energy independence that the US is hoping to achieve. All our future energy plans are based on this new method of methane extraction, and it’s all on the basis of assumptions which have yet to be completely proven, in my opinion,” he says cautiously.
His last words pique my curiosity. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Let’s just say that some States, like Arkansas, are embracing fracking without hesitation while in other states the authorities are doing the exact opposite: they are banning it completely.”
“Are they? Where?” I’ll admit that I’m no expert on all this fracking stuff, but if different states have adopted such radically different approaches, the journalist in me wants to know why. Luckily my curiosity didn’t completely die when I heard that I had to move to Arkansas.
“For example in Los Angeles, in some parts of New Mexico and in a lot of cities in Colorado. Local authorities are not convinced that injecting a mysterious mixture of water and chemicals into the ground is a good idea. And what’s more, the web is full of studies into the connection between the horizontal perforations, which are necessary for obtaining shale gas and oil, and earthquakes. Nobody is really talking much about all this in the US, but people are studying and debating it abroad. It’s a delicate subject: they promised us we would become energy independent, but they didn’t explain to us at what cost. One of the most immediate consequences, for example, is that a ton of aquifers across the country have been polluted.”
I look at him in disbelief. “So how come the local residents aren’t raising hell, then?”
“Easy: they get huge paydays for letting their land be used.”
Okay, I get it. The same old story. It’s amazing how some things never change.
“Ok, but if that means that they risk having an earthquake and having their water polluted…” I say. If I were in their place, it wouldn’t be easy to convince me to let them do that to my land. I mean, I don’t actually own any land, but still. My only precious possessions are my shoes. Which are quite precious; I certainly wouldn’t put them at risk for the sake of some dumb shale gas.
“The thing is that they only usually find out about these problems after the operations have been concluded. As I said, the press hasn’t spoken much about all this because in 2000, shale gas amounted to barely 2 per cent of national natural gas production in the United States. Whereas now, it constitutes over 40 per cent. The industry has been growing exponentially while the press has been too busy with more urgent matters: 9/11, al-Qaeda, Syria… you name it. Whatever the reasons for the lack of interest, though, American industries can now benefit from a substantial competitive advantage, which is that on average they pay three times less for their gas than their competitors in the rest of the world, thanks to this sudden abundance. It’s a very efficient way to have the upper hand when you’re negotiating with Arab countries, Latin American countries and even with Russia, which hasn’t exactly been friendly over the last few years… When you produce as much gas as we do, whether oil is involved in the process or not, you’re in the position of deciding its price at an international level, and that way, you can also control the exchange rates and trade balances of countries which still rely on traditional production methods.”
“Wow,” I say in astonishment while I try and process all that information.
“Always remember that wars nowadays aren’t fought by armies. Conflicts are more subtle – they’re fought through the prices of commodities, finance, exchange rate balances and so on. You can be a big country, but if the international markets want to destroy you, they will. There’s no way anyone can win against them. What matters is determining what is going to trigger it.”
“Now do you see why I stick to writing about cocktails?” I ask ironically, “I’m a very wise woman.”
“You are, and that’s the reason why I thought of you when I heard about Arkansas.”
My expression immediately becomes less cheerful. The mere word ‘Arkansas’ gives me a weird uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach… and no amount of ginger tea is going to make it go away.
“Yes, my dear Kayla. In Arkansas they are giving out permits to set up wells for the extraction of shale gas. Everybody there saw how rich the people from Fayetteville suddenly became, and now they all want a piece of the pie. The point is that the environmental problems involved are massive: desertification, destruction of landscape, methane being released into the atmosphere and, last but not least, the greenhouse effect. And on top of that, the companies who are actually managing all these operations have extremely unstable ratings. They’re in business now, but nobody knows for how long.”
“So why didn’t I know anything about all this?”
Roger smiles: “Exactly – and you’re not the only one. We all need to be informed about it. People need to know how the local authorities are managing the whole process and how they are studying the related problems. I want to know if they’re just being ignorant and uncaring or if it’s something worse: corruption.”
After hearing all this, moving to Arkansas still feels like a tragedy but I have to admit that it also sounds a little more interesting. And I’m certainly not going to tell my boss that I was actually starting to get a bit bored of having to write about cocktails all the time… I’m a well known journalist in the city, but I’ve never really written anything important. It would be pretty cool to accomplish something worthwhile at least once in my career.
“So, can we tell Arkansas that you’ll be there soon?” Roger asks me with a smile.
“I guess you can,” I reply, using words that I would have never imagined being able to say without being high on something. “Arkansas, here I come.”
I realise that there’s something a little – or even a lot – ironic about managing to get yourself lost in the twenty-first century, but then I’m the type of woman whose bad karma is legendary. When it comes to unlikely or even downright impossible adventures, hey, I’m the queen.
I’m always the exception to the rule, the odd number that ruins a perfect statistical sequence. If I were an economist, I’m pretty sure that notorious black swan would choose my chimney to build its nest on. There aren’t many chimneys in New York, luckily, though I’m not sure about here in Arkansas…
After touching down in Little Rock, I’m now driving my rented economy car towards Heber Springs, and hoping and praying that I’m on highway number 65. Because there’s always the possibility that this is not, in fact, state highway 65, and in that very unfortunate case, I’m in serious trouble. Before some genius suggests it: yes, I did try and read the signs along the road. They didn’t help. In fact, I think they might have confused me even more.
Anyone else in my position would just turn their mobile on and use the navigator to work out where the hell they are, but I can’t, because the battery of my mobile phone is flat at the moment. The damn thing turned itself off as soon as I left state highway 40, near Conway, to take the 65.
I really don’t know why people think mobile phones are such a useful bit of tech if the batteries don’t last even half a day. As my mother would put it: this kind of thing just didn’t used to happen ten years ago. And for once I’d say that she’s absolutely right.
My sense of direction is appalling, so although I’m fairly certain that I’m on the correct road, I wouldn’t bet my new bag on me being right. I wouldn’t even bet an old bag, to be honest. I have a special relationship with my bags. Together with my shoes, they represent one of the truest loves of my life. But if I was a bit closer to my family and if I’d come to visit my late grandmother’s sister, Aunt Jill a bit more often in the past, I would be able to work out where exactly the hell I am right now.
But the fact is that I’m allergic to human relationships, whether in the context of romance or family. My mother and I are both proud that we have a relatively balanced rapport: there are no unresolved problems or traumas between us, we both simply live our own lives. We don’t call each other very often, which might sound strange to some people, but we are just too busy, and I certainly don’t have time to tell her every single thing that happens during my day. She, on the other hand, not only does she not find my behaviour offensive, she actively encourages me not to spend hours on the phone, as she has neither the time, nor the desire, to listen to me talking for long.
Feeling pretty demoralised by my inability to work out where I’m going, I decide to stop somewhere along the road and see if there’s a map anywhere in the car. I’m just hoping that hire car companies still equip their cars with them.
If my newspaper paid a little more for assignments, I could have chosen a car with more accessories. I could have rented a car with a built in navigator, for example, but instead I had the to choose the most basic model available. It’s no surprise that the monthly rent for this car is less than what a normal one would cost for a week.
I brake hard and turn off towards a stopping place, and a huge cloud of dust submerges the whole vehicle. “What the hell…” I shout in disbelief as I climb, coughing, out of the car. Aren’t pull ins tarmacked in Arkansas? Evidently not.
I wait for the dust to clear a little so I can see the view and then I head towards the trunk. I open it and only barely manage to avoid bursting into tears of joy: it’s full of maps! I love people who ignore technology and stubbornly continue to use things like paper road maps.
I take out the one I need and start looking at it and turning it in every possible direction in the hope of finding my location. I peer around, but can’t see any landmarks anywhere… Of course, if the dust would stop obstructing my view for a moment I might have a better chance at finding one.
While I’m trying to study the horizon, I hear someone braking very close to me. Startled, I turn to see a dark pickup truck pulling up behind my car. Before it appeared the dust had almost settled, but now the air’s full of it again, damn it!
“Oh, what the hell!” I can’t help shouting. And my next instinct is to go grab the pepper spray I keep in my bag: you never know how many psychopaths there are roaming the streets these days – especially the dustier ones. And on top of that, I’m a New Yorker, and we’re suspicious of everything. The world is full of serial killers, and given my luck, I might have bumped into one just as soon as I entered this state with its dusty pull-ins.
The door of the pickup opens and out climbs a guy dressed in clothes that have seen better days: his jeans look so old that the pair I’ve got at the back of the closet, and that I considered totally out of fashion, look almost brand new in comparison. He’s also wearing a very dusty black t-shirt, worn boots, sunglasses, and has a cowboy hat on his head.
Is this guy actually wearing a cowboy hat in 2015? Someone should tell him this isn’t Texas. I wouldn’t wear one of those things if they put a gun to my head. My expression is half worried by the possibility that he might be dangerous and half amused at the sight of him – he’s a very different specimen from the city people I’m used to seeing. His tight t-shirt reveals very toned muscles, which makes me think that if he is a serial killer, at least he’s a buff one. Not that it makes the situation any better… Ok, I’ll admit it: it does make it a tiny bit better.
He notices my rigid posture and takes off his hat and glasses as though to reassure me. The sight of his face makes me at least relax my grip on my bag and its contents a little. Maybe I won’t need to use my pepper spray after all.
His dark blond hair is cut very well. It’s short and practical in a way that suits his face perfectly. But there is nothing at all practical about those eyes, though: they are light blue and somehow remind me of my friend Amalia’s. I’m guessing a man with eyes as beautiful as those can’t be a psychopath, right?
“Do you need help?” he asks. The man has a deep voice, and I can’t detect any accent. That is a very suspicious trait around these parts. I stand there perplexed for a moment. Should I ask for directions or shouldn’t I? I can’t decide.
He waits for me to say something, but after my prolonged silence adds, “I saw your car parked here and was wondering if you’re having some kind of trouble.” If possible, I’m even more suspicious after those words. I’m not used to strangers stopping on a road to ask me if I need help. That type of thing just doesn’t happen in my city.
“Are you a serial killer?” I ask him seriously.
Instead of taking offence or punching me in the face, he bursts out laughing, showing his perfectly straight teeth. “Do you really think that if I were a serial killer I’d come out and tell you I was?” he asks, visibly amused.
“The world is full of crazy people, and some of them like to terrorise their victims,” I reply.
He shakes his head incredulously. “Do you know what the real problem in this country is?” he says, talking a step towards me.
I instinctively step backwards. “Is it that China owns such a large share of our public debt?” I say, hazarding a guess. It happens to me all the time when I’m stressed: I come out with weird, but strangely intelligent, things. Luckily it doesn’t happen often… He looks at me surprise. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the kind the answer you were expecting to hear, I get that.
“You’re not from around here,” he says with conviction.
“Why? You mean, because I just mentioned China?” I can’t help smiling.
“No, because you just mentioned ‘public debt’. Nobody from round here would ever do that.”
I know that I usually write about cocktails, or theatre premieres if I’m especially lucky, but they’re not the only things I know about! I smile angelically and avoid adding anything else. It’s always better not to get too friendly with strangers.
“Anyway, what I meant was that the real problem in this country is the number of TV shows that are all about terrorists and serial killers. People get it into their heads that they’re representative of reality and start seeing criminals everywhere,” he explains patiently. I can’t say he’s completely wrong.
“So, what you’re saying is that you don’t belong to either category, right?” I notice that I’m feeling much more relaxed now. This guy is pretty funny, and psychopaths aren’t supposed to be able to hold a conversation and act so comfortable around other people. At least, that’s what I hope.
“I solemnly swear that I’m neither a terrorist nor a serial killer,” he confirms, theatrically putting one hand on his heart. “So, how can I help you?”
He really does have a very cute smile. He’s one of those men who I find it really hard to keep my breathing normal around. I need to force myself to stop staring at him the way an alcoholic would stare at a bottle of good whiskey and try and focus back on my actual problem. “I’m not actually sure exactly where I am…” I admit.
“Have you thought of using your navigator?” he says. “They tell me that all modern phones have one.”
Okay, he’s handsome, but that doesn’t give him the right to tease me.
“Of course I did, but you won’t believe what happened to my phone,” I say defensively, crossing my arms across my chest. “Its battery just up and died.”
He raises an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s because you women never put the darn things down. You’re always messaging someone about who knows what…”
“We’re obviously writing about you men – you give us plenty of good material.”
“I’m sure we do.”
“Well, at least we communicate…” I say. He’s definitely touched a raw nerve.
“Sure – and then you end up driving down a completely unknown road with a dead battery.” he concludes.
Touché. This guy is actually pretty annoying.
“Yes, my phone’s battery is dead, but this isn’t a completely unknown road,” I reply, instinctively defending myself. “I was born near here.” I say it before I have time to think about it. I usually don’t admit stuff like that so readily.
“You are from Arkansas?” he says and starts laughing out loud again.
I stare at him angrily. “And what’s so funny about that?”
He stops laughing and looks me up and down from head to toe. “Where should I start? Your shoes, maybe? No sane woman would ever wear heels that high. Certainly nobody from Arkansas.”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?” I ask in a loud, offended voice while I lift a foot to look at one.
“What colour is that even?” he asks impertinently.
“It’s quite obviously electric blue,” I reply, annoyed at having to point out the obvious.
“That’s what I mean… Is ‘electric blue’ even a colour? And what about your bag?”
I clutch it tightly and start reconsidering using my pepper spray…
“What label is it? Prada? Gucci?” he asks cheerfully.
I’m shocked at the idea that the cowboy in front of me is even aware of the existence of labels like that… It must be some weird side effect of globalisation. It really has turned the world upside down.
“No, it’s a Céline,” I correct him haughtily.
“An electric blue Céline,” he chuckles.
“Of course if I’m wearing electric blue shoes, I should have a bag the same colour! I don’t like weird combinations and haphazard matchings. I’m a purist, one of the few left, when it comes to fashion. Anyway, if you must know, in this case I got the bag first, and then went looking for a pair of shoes to match. And it wasn’t easy to find the right colour!” I don’t know why I’m telling him all this. I guess I must have breathed in too much dust and it’s given me brain damage. Either that or it’s the Arkansas air: my body is already missing its dose of metropolitan pollution.
“Chicago?” he asks without specifying what he means.
“No,” I reply.
“Los Angeles?” he asks, trying again.
I open my eyes wide. “Do I look like a Californian to you?” I ask, outraged. “Do I even have a tan?”
“How would I know? Maybe you’re one of those people who never expose their skin to the sun because they don’t want to end up looking older than they really are!”
I guess he’s right, I could be one of those people. But I’m not – I’m just pale-skinned!
“New York,” I reveal before he has time to carry on with his absurd theories.
“Of course!” he laughs. “That was the most obvious choice…”
“Ok. Now that we have analysed my shoes and my bag and that we know that you’re not crazy about the colour, can we please start talking about my problem, which is just slightly more urgent? It won’t take you long, because I only want to know one thing: where the hell are we?” I’m sick of standing here breathing dust.
“We’re on state highway 65,” he says eventually.
That’s exactly the answer I was hoping for, and it’s the first good news of the day.
“Oh, God, thank you!” I exclaim with relief. “Now: how do I get to Heber Springs?” I say, rapidly presenting him with the second part of my problem.
He stares at me as if I were completely out of my mind. “Do you really have to go to Heber Springs?” he asks in a strange voice.
What kind of question is that?
“Yes, I have to!” I reply immediately. I hope that my expression makes him understand that I’m not in the mood for any more dumb questions.
“Why?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Maybe he is a psychopath after all.
“My aunt lives there,” I reply, exasperated by this interrogation of his.
“Who’s your aunt?” he asks. Weirdly, this detective act actually suits him quite well; it’s almost as if he actually does have the right to interrogate people.
“What are you,” I ask incredulously, “the town sheriff?”
“Nope,” he replies without adding anything else. He’s an alpha male, apparently. Very alpha, I’d say. Men like him are only interesting in bed – out here in the middle of nowhere? Not so much.
I decide that I’ve had enough of all this repartee and that, in any case, I’ve got nothing to hide. “She’s not exactly my aunt – she’s my grandmother’s sister. Her name is Jill Ferguson.”
His light blue eyes open up immediately. “Jill Ferguson is your aunt? Oh, my God, we’re doomed…” he sighs, and then bursts out laughing. So Aunt Jill is famous in town. Good to know.
“Take the first exit on the right and just keep going straight on. You can’t miss it. You’ll find a welcome sign. Jill lives outside of town. Do you at least know how to get to her house?” he asks, giving me an intense look. Against my will, my heartbeat speeds up – my body is such a traitor sometimes. Anyway, it’s just as I suspected: he’s not boring at all. Just my usual luck.
“Err, no.”
“It gets better and better,” he murmurs and ruffles his hair with his hand. It’s so unfair that men almost always look sexier after they do that. It never happens to me – if I ruffle my hair, I end up looking like a demented porcupine, at best. “Here’s what we can do, then: you follow me and I’ll lead you to your aunt’s house,” he offers.
“Or you could make me think that you’re leading me to my aunt’s house and then abduct me in some clearing somewhere…” I say, thinking aloud.
He bursts out laughing again. “You’re right, I could…” he admits. He waits a few seconds before saying any more – the pause reveals good comic timing – and then says, “But I won’t.”
I trust him. I don’t know why but I believe everything he says.
“It’s because I have electric blue shoes, right?” I ask with a smile.
He goes back over to his pickup and opens the door to climb in. “Of course! I could never abduct someone who’s wearing such weirdly coloured accessories: they’d find your body immediately,” he replies with a chuckle.
Whether he admits it or not, this is a sexy colour and he knows it.
“It’s not ‘weird’! It’s very fashionable at the moment!” I reply with a frown of annoyance.
“If you say so…” he laughs and then starts the pickup. All I have to do now is follow him.
*
The pickup of the man who hates electric blue pulls up in front of a pretty house with planking walls and a dark roof. It is surrounded by a garden full of flowers and bushes and shady areas from tall trees. The grass is perfectly mown and the plants beautifully kept. I can’t help but smile at the thought of what a perfectionist Aunt Jill is – or at least, she is with her plants and flowers. She doesn’t care about much more important stuff, but she’s absolutely hardcore about the height of the grass or the shapes of the bushes. I guess each of us decides our own priorities in life.
I pull up behind him and stop the car. The cowboy gets out of his truck and waits for me to join him. “There you go: Jill Ferguson’s house,” he declares with satisfied look on his face.
I recognise it immediately. It’s true that I haven’t been here much over the last few years, but my mother used to bring me to see Aunt Jill quite often when I was a child. I used to like it here, and I used to like hanging out with her. I remember that we had a lot of fun together. She used to be pretty eccentric, and I hope she still is. I think that happy people age better.
“Home and dry,” I say with a grateful smile. “Okay, well, thanks a lot…” I suddenly realise I don’t know his name.
“Greyson,” he informs me.
“Thanks a lot, Greyson. I am Kayla,” I reply, and stretch my hand out to shake his. He takes it very firmly, and the contact between our hands is surprisingly intense. Well, to be completely honest, it’s not that surprising.
“Yes, I know,” he says as if it was perfectly normal, and then turns round to walk back to his car.
I give him a curious look. “And just how, exactly, do you know?”
He stops for a moment and then climbs into the pickup. “I know everything,” he says, giving me a wink.
Greyson’s car has just left when Aunt Jill appears and starts running over to greet me. She’s just how I remember her except for one small detail: her hair is blue. Not completely blue and absolutely not electric blue, but close enough. Greyson must have decided the whole family is crazy and that our obsession with this colour is in our DNA, something we’ve passed down from generation to generation. And to judge by the sight of Aunt Jill, I can’t totally exclude the idea.
“Kayla!” she says while she hugs me. She’s small and skinny, but she’s gripping me tighter than a boa constrictor. I must remember to ask her about her training routine.
“Aunt Jill! You haven’t changed at all!” I exclaim in surprise. I didn’t want her to look old, of course, but she looks even younger than the last time I saw her.
“Oh, what nonsense,” she replies immediately. “I’ve changed plenty – but for the better.” She really is the same person I remembered: straight shooting and a little crazy. “Let me take a good look at you instead… That big city’s air isn’t good for you at all, my dear – why, you’re as pale as a sheet!” she informs me. To be fair, this year we haven’t really had a proper spring yet, which is why my complexion is still so winter like. I also have dark hair, which makes my skin look even paler than it actually is.
“I’ve been writing a column about night life in New York, so I never really get much of a chance to spend any time in the sun…” I say, trying to justify myself as best as I can.
She glares at me. “I know. It’s obvious that you don’t take good care of yourself. But your bag is fabulous!” she exclaims, staring at it ecstatically.
“And you haven’t even seen my shoes…” I say, showing them off very proudly.
She bursts out laughing. “If only I was about fifty years younger I’d steal them from you. But as I’m eighty-two already, I think that might be a little dangerous.”
“Well, thanks for admiring them anyway,” I say. “Finally, someone who appreciates beautiful accessories.”
“Why, who had the cheek not to like them?” she asks so seriously that I love her even more.
“Oh, nobody important… I had to ask some guy for directions to get to your house. He was driving along the highway and stopped to help me. He’s called Greyson, do you know him? Tall, blond…” I say, trying to keep my voice and my expression as neutral as possible.
I must have failed though, because now she’s looking at me with a very curious expression on her face. “Honey, this town is very small and everybody knows everybody. So of course I know Greyson.”
Yes, I was afraid she might. “And is he trustworthy, as far as you’re aware? Or is he a serial killer?”
My aunt starts laughing as if I had said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “Oh my God! Greyson a serial killer? No, he’s not a serial killer. I can assure you that you’re completely safe with him.”
Personally speaking, I wouldn’t use the word ‘safe’ to talk about a man like that. He might have a reassuring face, but apart from that he doesn’t look safe at all. He’s a mystery. I can’t say why, but I know men enough to recognise one who might be dangerous for me. And I’m not talking about the kind of danger where you get dragged into the woods… The risk concerns me, mostly: I might end up doing something stupid. I need to be careful, because I came here for a very precise reason. Or actually, for two very precise reasons, one of which is official and the other of which must remain secret. Both things will keep me busy enough, though, so I mustn’t waste energy with dumb daydreams.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I doubt I’ll run into him again,” I conclude, although I’m clearly just trying to reassure myself.
But with my aunt, things are never that easy. “Oh I’m sure you are going to run into him again. And often too.” She makes it sound like a threat – a scary one.
“Well anyway, let’s forget about Greyson for now. Let’s talk about serious stuff: are you sure that you’re okay with me staying with you for a few months? You’re sure I’m not going to be bothering you?” I ask. I’ve called her to ask if I could stay about twenty times already, but I feel I should ask her again, this time in person. When you look someone in the eye, it’s easier to tell if they’re just being nice or lying.
My aunt is being honest though, much to my surprise. She looks very serious as she says, “Of course I’m okay with it! I’ve been getting so bored… you have no idea! You’ve come just in time to save me from a very dull period. At my age it’s really hard to meet interesting men…”
Her words make me smile. “And you can’t imagine how hard it is at my age…” I admit.
She stares at me sceptically. “Well, at least they’re almost all still alive at your age. You have a wider selection to choose from. At my age they’re mostly underground… It’s a pain in the ass that we women live longer. I’m not joking: it’s a serious problem.”
“So what’s the problem, then? Just go after younger ones!”
I’m just kidding around, but Aunt Jill’s answer sounds very serious.
“I’ve already tried that, my dear, and I realised just how many immature men there are around. It’s amazing.”
What can I say, I totally agree with her. I should probably have some witty comeback, but I can’t come up with anything. My aunt has succeeded where many others before her have failed: leaving me speechless.
“Anyway, your room is ready. It’s the same one you used to stay in when you were a kid. Do you remember it?”
Unfortunately I remember that room very well… My aunt is lovely, but our tastes in interior design couldn’t be more different. I think her inspiration comes mostly from the British nineteenth century, because she really loves floral wallpaper and coordinated accessories. I prefer something a bit more minimalist, personally: white walls, a few pieces of furniture in neutral or grey shades and some tasteful ornaments.
Trying not to feel too depressed at the thought of the room, I grab my luggage from the back seat of the car and follow her inside. There are flowers everywhere, even more than I remembered. I just hope that they are all fake, otherwise there’s a good chance that I’ll die of hay fever. And in fact, in less than a minute I start sneezing. It’s practically a record.
“Are you OK?” asks Aunt Jill, turning towards me.
The first thing I need to do today is look for a pharmacy. There must be at least one even in this place, right? I really need some powerful antihistamines. In big dosages.
“Absolutely,” I smile.
She seems reassured and leads me to my room. She throws the white door wide open and gestures for me to go inside. Oh god, help! This is even more nineteenth century than I remembered! It looks like she’s gotten even more obsessed with that style than she was last time I was here.
“Wow, the room is really…” I start, but I don’t manage to finish the sentence. I can’t find a word that accurately describes the scene without being offensive. There probably isn’t one.
“Outstanding!” she says.
You bet it is! There’s an antique style wrought iron bed covered by a blanket decorated with gigantic hydrangeas. To its side there’s a white wooden night table, decorated with painted flowers which appear to be rising up its legs and blooming on the top. I have no idea what species of flower they are supposed to represent, and to be honest, I don’t want to know. On the other side of the room there’s a huge vanity table which matches the night table and which has a very big mirror. I’ll admit that this last detail is quite interesting; a woman could spend hours in front of a mirror like that.
“So, do you like it?” Aunt Jill asks hopefully.
She is obviously very proud of it. I give her a heartfelt smile. “It’s wonderful, Aunt Jill. Thanks so much for your hospitality.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really…” she replies, sounding almost embarrassed. “I’m so happy to have you here. I can’t say that I really understand what you’re doing here, but I’m not one for looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
“It’s just like I told you: the newspaper sent me here because they want me to write a new column – something a bit different from what everybody else is writing. They want the stories of a girl from New York who tries to have a new social life in a small provincial town.”
“A social life? Here?” She bursts out laughing. That’s what I thought… “I’ve been trying to get people to do something in the evenings for years in this community. But they just won’t cooperate, and when you do everything by yourself the results are never great.”
“Well I’m here too, now, so we can try and organise something together,” I propose.
She smiles at me sweetly.
“I guess we can…” she agrees. She clearly doesn’t want to get my hopes up. We’re two women, one with blue hair, the other one with blue shoes and a blue bag. I bet all the locals will just love what we come up with…
I mean, how could they not?
As soon as I finish dinner, I decide there’s no time to waste and drive into town. I feel much safer this time now that I have a fully charged smartphone beside me. There’s no way I can get lost with it by my side. Well, I’m sure that I can still find a way to get lost, if I try hard enough… Anyway, I have two missions to accomplish: first of all I need to find a pharmacy and buy myself some antihistamines, and then I need to start checking out Heber Springs’ night life.
It’s Saturday evening, so I’m guessing that at least today the local youngsters will be out partying. I’m not expecting to see people dancing on tables, of course, but I’m confident that there will be a few decent bars. After all, in the summer the place is full of tourists who come for the swimming and the water sports at the lake nearby.
I remember that there was even a nice beach; my mom used to take me there sometimes and we would pretend that we were at some chic coastal resort.
According to the locals, this used to be a well known spa area back in the nineteen twenties. The smelly thermal spring is apparently still there, somewhere, and they say bathing in its waters is very good for you. Since my aunt said that the average lifespan here is quite high – she actually said that there are a lot of people who are about a hundred years old – I’m starting to wonder if the water might actually be miraculous. Maybe I’ll try it, one of these days.
My search for a pharmacy is a complete fiasco, however, and after driving aimlessly about for a while, I give up and park in front what seems to be the only bar in town. The sign isn’t very promising, but I know from experience that you should never judge a book by its cover.