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“Bout?”
About being stuck here for three weeks with her entire future on the line. About trying to salvage her low-rated network by riding on the reality TV wave that continued to rise and fall, season by season, almost petering out and then somehow rising up again.
“About what a nice, normal town this is.”
That was true. Derryville certainly seemed to satisfy all the requirements the network had laid down when planning for this next attempt to tempt the reality TV audience.Killing Time in a Small Townwas supposed to take place in an average, all-American place where neighbors were friendly, doors weren’t locked, and movie stars didn’t divorce every other year.
No crime. Peaceful. Serene. That was what was called for. And then the show would spice it up with a fake murder mystery, with the contestants competing to solve it before getting “bumped off” themselves.
“You been up to the Little Bohemie Inn yet? I hear there was some camera people up’t there to do some picture taking.”
“The advance team was here a few weeks ago,” she told the man as she slammed her car door. “They did some exterior filming of the inn and the town. We’ve already started working on commercial spots.”
He didn’t look impressed. That could be a problem, since the town’s residents were supplying the backup to the cast.Killing Time in a Small Townwould utilize the residents of Derryville as often as possible. Maybe even the old man leaning indolently against his broom. But that might not work if the rest of the residents looked as uninterested as this fellow.
“I’m sure the town will benefit from the exposure,” she continued. “And America will love this down-home, normal atmosphere.”That’s the plan, anyway.
“Ayuh, she’s a normal small town all right. With everything that goes with it,” the old man said. He gave her a lazy grin, gave himself a comfortable scratch on the belly, and began to laugh. The sparkle in his eyes showed genuine amusement.
Caro had the feeling he was laughing at her. He’d probably pegged her as a big-city L.A. know-it-all who thought small towns were as sweet and simple as they’d appeared in 1950s sitcoms. If only he knew.
She swung her soft-sided briefcase over her shoulder, locked her car and joined him on the sidewalk. “It’s a town like a lot of other ones,” she said evenly, letting him know she understood his laughter.
He studied her. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
But it was. Transplant this place to Kentucky and it would have been the same burg where Caro had grown up. And from which she’d fled as soon as she’d graduated high school.
Small. Quiet. Boring. Judgmental. Unable to forgive or forget, particularly when it came to town bullies and bad boys.
And their daughters.
Small towns hadn’t changed. They all smiled on the outside but seethed within. She’d never move back to one. Caro Lamb hadn’t ever been tempted. At least, she amended, not tempted for several years. In that instance, she had to admit, it hadn’t been atowntempting her. It had been a man who lived in such a town. The kind of man who could tempt a nun into stripping off her habit to do a bump and grind worthy of the Vegas stage.
Enough, Caro. That subject’s off-limits.
“You really think Derryville’s gonna make it big on the TV?” the man asked, looking as if he didn’t care one way or the other.
“Oh, absolutely,” she replied with vehemence. “This place is just perfect for a reality TV show.Killing Time in a Small Townwill be a huge success.”
She prayed it would. Ithadto be if she ever wanted to make it past assistant producer. By nailing this assignment, keeping costs in line and producing a decent show that lasted more than the kiss-of-death four-week replacement slot, she’d have a shot at a prime-time gig.
She could hardly wait. No more endless slush piles filled with unsolicited scripts. No more scouring social media to try to trip over something that might become the “Next Big Thing.” No more playing duck-and-weave with senior producers who thought the wordassistant meantass-grabbing.
She’d be in a studio, in charge, in a position of power for the first time since she’d hit Hollywood. Eight years ago, right after she’d gotten her heart broken and dropped out of college to head west.
“You going into the realty office?” the old man asked.
“How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “Saw the owner show up early. Only reason to do that is if he had an appointment.”
“I’m actually pretty early so it’s a good thing he did.”
“Enjoy your visit,” the old man said. Then he casually stepped away, continuing to push his broom, stirring up nothing but some stale summer air, puffs of dust and a few random cigarette butts.
“Thank you,” Caro said to his retreating back. Then she turned toward the office of Derryville Realty. The place looked closed from the outside. The blinds were drawn, with no hint of interior light peeking through to indicate anyone was around. The old man had said there was, however, and he seemed like the kind of person who knew all, saw all. And commented on all.
Unsure whether to knock, Caro first tried the door handle. When it twisted easily in her hand, she stepped inside. The outer reception area was, indeed, dark and deserted. Before she could decide whether to just sit down and wait, or step back outside, she heard voices coming from an inner office.
