Page 94 of Every Good Thing
With no options, the group disbands.
Officer Bennett promises to increase patrols, but his department is small. We confer with Elsie Todd, the production manager, who apologizes and claims that a top-notch security team arrives in the morning.
“For a few paparazzi?” Bennett asks. “Seems like you should’ve already expected this.”
“Um, we did. But there’s something else.” Ms. Todd leans closer. “Jaye’s received disturbing fan mail lately, creepy enough not to ignore.”
“Understood. I want access to the fan mail,” I say. “I want to talk to the security team when they arrive. I also suggest moving the trailers horizontally with the fence line to create more of a barrier and less access for the cameras.”
She nods and immediately delivers the instructions in her walkie. Bennett and I walk the perimeter, finding another cameraman hiding in the bushes near Matt Kirby’s trailer. He’s arrested and taken to the local station. Ms. Todd forwards Jaye’s fan mail. An emotionally disturbed person claims that Jaye is demonically possessed and needs cleansing via holy water, fire, blood-letting, acid bath, or death. The unpleasant reading prompts me to suggest that she change hotels and use an alias or, better yet, relocate to a more private residence altogether.
“I believe Dot and Mrs. Moore have an extra room,” I advise, knowing they’d happily accommodate her. Jaye seems willing to consider it.
Inside the house, laundry is going, the dogs are eating, something is baking, and Ruthie is occupied with homework at the kitchen island. Busy Lena has returned. She looks defeated as I enter, probably in expectation of my anger.
I am upset. But not at her. Even I wouldn’t have foreseen this.
Her teary eyes catch mine. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the fence and security cameras installed. I’ve left a message for the company you recommended.”
Her words come quickly as if cutting me off from my usual irritation. I step to her side of the kitchen island, where ingredients and utensils are scattered beside a cutting board and casserole dish. She huffs, trying to open a jar of roasted red peppers by bracing it with her cast. I pry the jar from her grip, open it, and set it on the counter.
“Come here,” I say, holding my arms open.
Surprised and relieved, she falls against me, wrapping her arms as best she can around my neck to tighten her grip. I love the way she fits me and how her wavy hair tickles my cheek.
“It’s still a good day,” I assure her, and despite the bullshit—mine and Saddletree’s—I feel better about us.
Twenty-Six
LENA
An organized businesswoman should have an organized office. With Ruthie on a playdate with Dot and Ben at work, I spend the next afternoon clearing out my messy barn office. The more I clear out and file away, the better I feel. Ben was right—the restructuring of Saddletree is long overdue, and finally getting my shit together feels amazing.
Thinking of him brings another smile to my face. Things feel better between us. I still feel his tender goodbye kiss this morning before he said his usual, “See you later.” I can’t wait to show him my progress when he gets home.
My phone pings—a text from the new security team manning the driveway. Lauren Riley?
I stiffen. What the hell is she doing here? I type back a reluctant thumbs-up emoji.
Lauren’s white BMW gleams as she drives toward the barn. She exits the car, flipping her perfectly straight blond hair off her shoulders, and extracts a large planter buckled in the back seat.
Hugo and Penelope greet her—they love surprise guests. She dances around them, trying to satiate them with smiles and awkward head pats. She’s clearly not a dog person.
She approaches like a catwalk model—all legs, poise, and elegance in her black heels, steel-gray pencil skirt, and soft teal top. Meanwhile, I sport my best hillbilly-chic outfit: cut-off jean shorts, a low-cut Metallica tank, and my signature black-skulled rubber boots. This is me in my element—she’s the outsider—yet I feel small and out of place by comparison.
A bracing inhale squares my shoulders.
“Lena, hi,” she greets, her voice villainous with good cheer. “I hope it’s okay that I popped in like this.”
“Sure, but Ben’s not here.”
“Oh, I know,” she says. “I’m here to see you.”
She hands me the gorgeous blue ceramic planter bursting with a mature rosemary plant that tickles my senses as she passes it over. I baby it in the crook of my good arm. “That’s for you. It’s from my grandmother’s garden—you met Mamma Riley, right?”
“Um, yes, I must have. That’s very thoughtful.”
“Ah, well, least I could do. She’s quite the gardener and has loads of it. Ben mentioned you loved herbs.”
