The man stared at me as if I spoke Greek. “But all the mansions,” he sputtered. “The big gates, the diamonds…” His eyes darted around my humble abode as if my threadbare space would hold some proof as to his point.

“All old wealth,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “Purchases made back when they were cotton farmers with new money. Back when Coke went big and the whole town celebrated their wealth together. That was almost a hundred years ago. Two generations back. Have you seen any new construction in town? Rolls Royces with air conditioning and satellite radio?” I waited, turning off the water and setting the pot on the stove.

“So what do I do? I need a mansion. Preferably two. Fifteen other locations to shoot at!” His voice squeaking, he dug a shaky hand in his pocket and pulled out a bottle of medication, his panic attack occurring without a single wrinkle in his forehead. I looked in fascination and fought the urge to poke it and see if it moved.

“It would seem…” I said slowly, snagging a glass and filling it with water, “that you need a local source. Someone who Quincy knows and trusts. Someone who can target the landholders who would be amendable. Someone to handle negotiations with the local vendors, hotels, and city officials.”

“But that’s my job,” he protested weakly, accepting the glass of water, his throat bulging as he gulped it down.

“And what are they paying you for that?” I leaned back and crossed my arms, staring down Ben in hopes he’d break. I hadn’t really expected him to break. I’d expected him to brush off his girly suit and ignore the question. But I was wrong and I fought to keep the surprise from my face when he answered.

“A hundred and twenty,” he said primly, crossing his legs and straightening the fabric of his pleats, as if he were regaining some semblance of composure by spilling his guts.

“Thousand?” I shouldn’t have even asked; it was a stupid question with an obvious answer. He wasn’t sitting at my scratched table for the price of a vacuum cleaner.

“Yes. But that’s for five months of my time. Negotiations, red tape management, the—”

“I’ll do it for twenty-five, cash.” I stepped forward and held out my hand, my face set, poker-stare in full force.

“Fifteen,” he countered, already rising to his feet and eyeing my outstretched palm.

“Twenty.” I glared. “Remember, I’m the only hope you have.”

He reached out with a smile and shook my hand, his grip firmer than I expected. “Deal.”

I squeezed his hand and flashed my own smile back at him. But, between me and you? I’d have done it for five hundred bucks.

CHAPTER 7

Ben was staying at the Wilson Inn, a mistake, but one I didn’t blame him for making. Quincy has two major lodging options: the Wilson Inn, a three-star motel, and the Budget Inn, a place my cockroaches would turn their noses up at. What lies below the internet’s radar are our bed-and-breakfasts, seven of them in the square-mile radius of Quincy proper. I told him to pack up and booked him a room at the Raine House, the nicest of our B&Bs. We set a date for eight the next morning at the coffee shop on Myrtle Way. I told him to bring cash and I’d bring names.

The next morning, over a cracked linoleum table, I added a little Southern into Ben in the form of grits and gravy. And he added five thousand dollars’ worth of Hollywood into me with crisp green bills. We worked for four hours, ending the meeting with a clear game plan and a schedule for the next week. He drove off in his rental car, and I started calling names on our list.

It wasn’t an easy sell. Say my name in Quincy and a typical upper-crust face will curl in distaste. Try to then wrangle a favor out of them and you might as well be digging into rock with a plastic fork. But I knew my place. I rolled over and played weak. I groveled and kissed wrinkled buttocks and made sure they felt superior. And I got Ben four appointments out of twenty calls made. I hung up the phone a few hours later with a tired smile, happy with the outcome. It was more than I had hoped for out of Quincy. Maybe three years has been long enough, maybe the mud on my face was starting to wear off.

Or maybe, between the movie and the cash, some Quincy residents were willing, for just one quick moment, to overlook my sins.

CHAPTER 8

“Mr. Masten, tell us about your wife.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re familiar with her.” He smiled, and the woman blushed. She crossed, then re-crossed her legs.

“When did you know that Nadia Smith was it for you?”

“We met on the set of Ocean Bodies. Nadia was Bikini Babe Number 3 or something like that.” He laughed.

“And you were Cole Masten.”

“Yeah. I walked into my trailer one day and she was stretched out on the bed in a string bikini. I think that was probably when I knew. When I saw this gorgeous brunette, without a shred of self-doubt, lying on that bed as if she belonged there. She’s gonna kill me for telling this story.”

“And that was it?”

“Tracy, you’ve seen my wife. I didn’t really have a chance.”

“You’ve now been married almost five years, which, in Hollywood, is quite a feat. What would you tell our readers is your best advice for a successful marriage?”

“That’s a tough one. I think a lot of elements make for a successful marriage. But if I had to pick one, I think honesty is crucial. Nadia and I have no secrets between us. We’ve always said¸ it’s better to just get things out in the open and deal with them, no matter the consequences.”

“I think that’s great. Thank you for your time, Mr. Masten. And good luck on The Fortune Bottle.”

“Thank you, Tracy. Always great to see you.”

CHAPTER 9

Mama and I had a routine, our life a well-oiled machine that worked. Nights I cooked dinner, she did the dishes and cleaned up. On the weekends, we cooked together. Most of our social life revolved around cooking, growing, or eating food. But that was life, especially for a woman, in the South. Other women might take offense to that, but I liked to cook. And I loved to eat. And nobody made food that compared with what came out of your own garden and kitchen.

I get that living with Mama wasn’t exactly the sexiest concept around. I knew that some people found it odd. But we’d always gotten along, and given our limited incomes, we’d needed the financial assistance of each other.

Mama had grown quiet since I’d gotten the job with Ben. I hadn’t told her about the money yet, but I could feel the wings of my freedom flexing, pushing on the bones of my shoulders.

I needed to tell her about the money.

I needed to tell her about my plan, not that one had been formulated yet.

I needed to tell her that I was going to leave.

She needed to know that, soon, she would be alone.

I could hear her moving in her room, heard the scrape of a hanger on the rod, her floor creaking. It was a good time to tell her, as good a time as any. I folded down the corner of the page I was reading and closed the paperback, before setting it on the table.