My Bluegrass Baby (5 page)

“Am I going to be wearing a pillbox hat?” I asked.

“Why are you being so difficult?” she groaned, stomping back to the rear of the house.

I rounded on Kelsey. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not the same person
who went into his PowerPoint presentation for the Greater Louisville Area Chamber
of Commerce today and took all of the
l
’s out of his ‘public’s?”

“He’s going to do a speech on ‘pubic funding.’ ” Kelsey snickered, but tamped it down
quickly. “I was provoked.”

She had a point. Coming from a large firm, Vaughn was clearly used to having his own
personal assistant, a personal assistant who put up with a lot of crap. Despite her
usually stellar level of work, Josh rarely told Kelsey “thank you” or “good job.”
Rather than politely asking for something, he tended to bark orders when he was in
a hurry. Such as, “Coffee, black, three sugars.” Or “2010 campground occupancy reports,
yesterday.”

It turns out that talking to somebody like they’re a coffee-dispensing robot is not
a good idea when she has your password and can change your files without leaving a
digital trail.

“You are a paragon of restraint,” I assured her, digging out the files we needed.
Angela cleared her throat as she came out of her pantry/secondary stockroom with a
hunter-orange wrap dress and a matching jacket. “Oh, come on, it’s like you don’t
even know me!”

Angela rolled her eyes. “You know, there are colors beyond black and green. You’re
not a Slytherin.”

“I don’t only wear black and—” I looked to Kelsey, who smirked at me and glanced down
at the black-and-green bracelet on my wrist . . . which went nicely with the sage-green
sundress and matching sweater I was wearing. “It brings out the green in my eyes,
okay? And my grandmother’s birthstone was peridot, so I have a lot of accessories
to match. I don’t have to explain myself to you!” The girls cackled wildly. “I hate
y’all. I really do.”

“You wear a lot of it,” Angela said. “Besides, the orange dress was just a palate
cleanser. This is what I want you to see.”

Angela pulled out a suit-dress made from buttercup-colored raw silk with a tucked
waist and three-quarter sleeves. It was gorgeous. And while I normally didn’t wear
yellow, it looked rather nice with my skin tone when I held it up to my body in front
of the mirror. “Are there matching shoes?” I asked hopefully.

Angela scoffed and pointed me toward the shoe nook. “I’m insulted you have to ask.”

“And the files are forgotten,” Kelsey murmured, sorting through some proposal sheets
because she could not physically tolerate paperwork being out of order.

“We are going to get some work done tonight,” I insisted. “Right after I look at some
shoes.”

“And by that, you mean all the shoes,” Kelsey called as I scurried into the shoe room.

Angela turned to Kelsey, whose body-image issues made her selection process even less
fun than mine, if it could be believed. “Okay, problem child, your turn.”

•   •   •

I would like to say we struck a great victory for honesty and fair play with what
became known as the Pubic Funding Address. But honestly, we hurt Vaughn more when
we hoarded all the jelly donuts for a week, weakening the enemy by cutting off his
morning snack supplies.

On the rare occasion I ventured into the office’s “Vaughn zones,” I was sure to find
Gina perched on any available piece of furniture, engaged in some serious flirtation
with him. She’d act so surprised to see me, as if she’d forgotten that I worked there,
which made me want to smack her. I’d wanted to smack Gina a lot lately. While I’d
always found her vapid and annoying, somehow her attachment to the carpetbagger from
Ohio County had served to increase my hostility to “don’t make me take off my earrings”
levels. It wasn’t jealousy, because I definitely didn’t want Vaughn. I wanted him
gone.

For the sake of professionalism, Ray had to remain impartial in our strange office-based
parody of the Hatfields versus the McCoys. (Bonnie avoided us both because she thought
the air of competition between our offices was “unhealthy.”)

Josh Vaughn was tap-dancing on my last damn nerve. He was always “checking in” to
see if I needed any help with my campaign, which on the surface seemed nice enough,
but it was done in a condescending tone that made me want to staple his lips to his
tie. He was not my boss, damn it, but he certainly was behaving like he already had
Ray’s job.

As if the mind games and “helpfulness” were not enough, he was always
there
. Despite my attempts to avoid being in the same room with him, he somehow always
managed to be in the break room, in the elevator, in my office, in my space. He stood
too close, head bent, his mouth nearly brushing my ear. It just skirted the border
of inappropriate, but “almost touching me and making me feel all tingly” was nothing
I could take to HR. The worst part was the damn Mothra-size butterflies it set loose
in my belly when his breath grazed my neck, the stupid way my pulse sped up when he
handed me a file and my fingers brushed his.

These bizarre reactions, combined with my strong impression that he seemed to get
a little more attractive with every passing day, were demoralizing. The more confident
he got, the wider his smile stretched across that generous mouth. His blue eyes twinkled
mischievously as he set my blood to boil. I would not be that girl, I told myself.
I hadn’t fallen into the backseat with the cute quarterback who stole my homework
in high school. I would not fall for the hot guy who was trying to steal my job.

My attempts to avoid Vaughn were brought to an abrupt end one morning when Ray called
us both into the conference room and tossed two hats at us. This was actually a pretty
typical way for Ray to start a meeting, but Vaughn seemed startled and irritated to
have a navy-blue Civil War–era slouch cap slap him in the face. I managed to cover
my snicker with the large gray Confederate cavalry hat Ray had lobbed at me.

“Okay, you two, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re still not working together
like happy little campers. I respect the two of you too much to ask you to shake hands
and be best friends. Well, ‘respect’ may not be the word, but it’s much nicer than
the one I have in mind. This cannot continue in my office, Sadie. I mean it.”

Josh was
this
close to preening over Ray laying the blame at my feet when our boss pointed a finger
in his direction and said, “And that goes for you too, Josh. You’re dividing the staff,
distracting them from their duties, and most importantly, causing extra stress for
me when I should be coasting through my last few months here, and I just can’t have
that. I expected better from both of you. So, to help speed along your journey to
behaving like two civil adults, I have a little project for you.”

Ray tossed pamphlets at us. This time, Vaughn caught his, glaring at me as if Ray’s
launching meeting materials at our heads was somehow my fault. I glanced down at the
glossy paper in my hand and saw that it was for the Columbus-Belmont Civil War Days.

As in all things, Kentucky’s position in the Civil War was a unique one. The commonwealth
was one of the few neutral states and was considered vital by Lincoln because of its
location. But the population’s loyalty was seriously divided over issues of states’
rights and the fact that Kentucky farmers sent tobacco and whiskey to markets in both
the North and the South.

In 1861, Confederate troops claimed the hills above the Mississippi River, at the
site that would become Columbus-Belmont State Park, and that neutrality was broken.
Union troops moved through Paducah, eventually taking over Belmont, Missouri, just
across the river, prompting Southern troops to rally around the so-called Columbus
Heights and keep heavy artillery trained on the river. The siege was short-lived and
the Confederates were soon cut off from their support by Union victories in Tennessee.
The Heights were now a state park, complete with campgrounds and a walking trail around
the preserved Confederate fortifications. Each year, in October, history buffs gathered
at Columbus-Belmont for a reenactment of the battle, a Civil War Ball, and a memorial
service for the fallen. It was like stepping back in time for a day, wearing the period-appropriate
clothes and eating food cooked over an open fire. Kids milled around the campground,
visiting the blacksmith’s tent, the glassblower, and the toymaker’s tent while their
parents munched on kettle corn and candied apples. The office staff attended the encampment
every year as volunteers, answering questions, leading student groups, and offering
advice on how to remove candied apple from one’s hair.

“The fall encampment has become so popular that the park is adding a summer event
as a sort of training for people who are interested in participating but don’t know
how to get in contact with a reenactors’ group,” Ray said. “The state park director
wants the summer encampment to be part history boot camp, part orientation. They’re
planning workshops on appropriate dress and weapons and behavior. And they’ll have
vendors set up on-site to help participants start their stash of supplies.

“And because I know that the two of you are eager to help launch this wonderful new
event, you will be happy to work together to organize a campaign to promote it. Here’s
your budget and the contact information. Your deadline is June first. Play nice.”
Ray dropped the folder on the conference room table and walked out.

“Is that the way he normally conducts meetings?” Vaughn asked.

“Throwing things at us and talking like he’s a high school principal? Pretty much
par for the course, yes.”

“Where do you want to start?” he asked, stepping closer to get a better look at the
paperwork Ray had left behind. He reached around me to grab a file folder, his arm
sliding against the small of my back. Yet another electric shock skittered up my spine,
making me jump and fumble right into him. Off-kilter in my trademark heels, I pressed
my hands to his chest to catch my balance.
Too close! Too close!
my brain screamed as my head dipped toward his throat, my hair brushing against his
chin. That summer grass scent wafting from his collar overwhelmed me. I pushed off
his chest to get some distance and realized I was basically cupping his pecs in my
hands like some perverted teenager.

Vaughn eyed me with calculated interest, poised to say something that would no doubt
piss me off royally. I snatched my hands away as if his very respectable chest muscles
burned my skin. I snagged Ray’s papers from the table and made for the door. “I’m
going to take this to my office and start brainstorming. I’ll get back to you in the
afternoon with some ideas.”

Josh and his confusing scent stepped toward me, which had me scrambling back toward
the door. “I don’t think that’s the way Ray intended for us to do this.”

“I’ll see you this afternoon,” I called over my shoulder.

•   •   •

A few hours later, Vaughn and I discovered that we had creative chemistry, like bleach
and ammonia. While I had more of an open-flow creative process, drawing inspiration
from random images and word-association games, Vaughn’s thinking was very linear.
He went from point A to point B with no side trips.

I tried to play up the humor of the encampment. I suggested taglines like, “Ground
your kids back to the nineteenth century” and “Embrace a simpler time, which required
a minimum of ten layers of underwear.” Vaughn was more focused on “heritage” and “honoring
the past” as his message, which was boring as all hell. But I had to admit that he’d
found some great stock photos from previous encampments—happy families sitting around
their campfires in their old-fashioned clothes and long rows of precisely lined-up
reenactors with clouds of blue smoke billowing from their rifles.

He refused to consider my suggestions and I scoffed at the very idea of presenting
a summer activity as exclusively educational. The meeting ended on an abrupt sour
note when I suggested using a puppet dressed in a Union uniform to narrate an Internet
video, emphasizing the event as family friendly. I even pulled up a YouTube video
of a puppet type we might use, a freckle-faced redhead with yarn hair wearing a farmer’s
hat and playing “Goober Peas” on the banjo while footage showing dairy cows played
in the background. It was adorable and if we put our version together quickly, we
could distribute it to schools to drum up student interest before kids were released
for summer break. I had absolutely no malicious intent when I started the video. But
it seemed to send Vaughn into some sort of fit, scrambling back in his chair as if
Farmer Ben were going to reach through my laptop and grab him.

“So what do you think?” I asked him carefully.

“That’s just . . . awful,” Josh wheezed, turning a bit green as he stood, knocking
over his chair, and practically bolted from the room.

“What just happened?” Kelsey asked, staring after him.

“I don’t know,” I said, frowning. “Which is a problem, because now I can’t duplicate
it.”

She shook her head. “That is a man who does not like puppets.”

I pursed my lips, considering how this information might be useful. “Very interesting.”

•   •   •

The office became oddly polarized after the YouTube incident. Josh and I were still
the key aggressors, but our staff members were slowly drifting to their chosen sides
and giving support in upsetting and unprecedented ways. With Vaughn refusing to hear
my suggestions and treating Kelsey like a barista/lackey, she was less than inclined
to do any copying or faxing he needed before 4:30 p.m. And I suspected Theresa the
IT gal’s hand in Vaughn changing my e-mail password. I spent the better part of a
day trying to figure out why the image of a screaming zombie popped up every time
I tried to open my Internet browser. The good red pens mysteriously disappeared from
my desk drawer. Work orders got lost on the way to printers or suppliers so often
that we eventually started hand-delivering the paperwork. And I couldn’t be certain,
but I thought my M&M jar was emptying faster than usual.