She sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter. If someone at the PR firm had made a mistake, it was bound to be herself since, at just a couple of months on the job, she was the newest member of the team. Somehow she’d lucked into promoting and assisting Beatrice Beaujold, one of Page-turner’s biggest clients and a major cookbook author, this weekend at the Rocky Top Chili Cook-off, so it was absolutely imperative that she make no mistakes.
This job was too important to her to risk losing it because she didn’t do right by one of their most important clients.
So she’d done her homework, learning all about the history of the contest, the town and, particularly, the author. She’d asked Beatrice’s editor for her impressions of the author, along with any special information Josie might need to know. The editor had complied, and that letter had arrived that morning as Josie was leaving. Now it, along with all of her notes and the generous appearance-fee check the brewery had cut for Beatrice, was tucked safely away in her locked briefcase in a large manila envelope marked Beatrice Beaujold.
Josie was prepared. It felt good.
With her confidence refreshed, Josie walked through the dark-wood lobby, looking for some sign of either the front desk or Beatrice Beaujold herself.
“Hey, baby,” said a dark, bearded man with foam encircling his mouth and a crocheted beer-can hat on his head. He raised a beer mug and sloshed some of the foamy head onto the floor. “Is it hot in here or is it just you?” He gave a lascivious grin and winked.
Josie just kept walking, marveling at how certain types of people—and specifically, the worst types of men—could be found anywhere and everywhere. She had a feeling that she would see more of them this weekend than usual.
What would Lyle think if he could see her now? Lyle Bancroft had been Josie’s fiancé for nearly five years. He’d left her at the altar the night of their wedding rehearsal. His reasoning, when he could finally be found to give it, was that Josie was too middle-class. Too practical. She wasn’t a Bancroft sort of woman. It all added up to the same thing: she wasn’t a debutante.
And if Lyle could see her now, in a somewhat shabby inn, surrounded by drunks and the smell of browning onions and chili spice, he would probably feel completely justified in his assessment of her. And, she knew now, he would probably be right.
Josie wandered around for a couple of minutes, unable to find anything that made this look like an inn rather than a frat house. Finally, she stopped a sharp-featured woman with bleached-blond hair and roots as black and gray as half-burned coals. “Excuse me,” she said. “Would you happen to know where the check-in desk is?”
“Chicken disk?” the woman repeated with a thick Southern accent. Her teeth were just a little larger than they should have been.
Josie hesitated. “I’m looking for the check-in desk.” She said it loud and clear, the way one might when speaking to someone whose first language wasn’t English. “You know, for my key.” She made a key-turning motion in the air.
The woman stared at Josie’s hand for a minute, then said in rapid-fire tones, “Yikin gitcher kay oust round there chicken disk, or yonder bind hatthere doorway.”
Josie listened with a complete lack of comprehension, leaning forward and straining to pick out even one or two words that she recognized. “Sorry,” she said, with an appreciative smile, when the woman ceased making noise. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
The woman looked exasperated. “I sayed, yikin gitcher kay oust round there chicken disk, or yonder bind hatthere doorway.” She gestured into the other room as if Josie were an idiot. “Thar.”
“Ah.” Josie nodded as if it had meant something.
“I see. Thank you very much.” She walked in the direction the woman had indicated, and found herself in a darkened hallway. With a doubtful glance backward, she kept walking and followed the hall around until it dead-ended in a foyer. From there she followed the sound of voices until she found herself right back in the room where she’d started, and right smack in front of the surprised face of the woman who’d directed her.
Josie gave a quick, polite smile and continued to follow the crowd to a doorway that had, moments earlier, been closed, but which was now open to reveal a large and obvious check-in area.
There was also a large display of Beatrice Beaujold’s book, The Way to a Man’s Heart: 100 Spicy Man-Luring Recipes.
Good. This was the right place.
After making a few minor aesthetic adjustments to the display, she moved to the end of the check-in line and took out her PalmPilot to review the weekend’s agenda. Thursday night: Beatrice signs books, talks with fans. Friday morning: book signing preliminary round, Beatrice judges. Friday night: free. Saturday: Beatrice—
“Can I help you, miss?”
Josie jerked her attention back to see a pale wisp of a brunette behind the desk. She had a faintly frightened look, like a small animal in the shadow of a large one. “Yes.” Josie snapped her PalmPilot shut and slipped it in her pocket. “Can you tell me if Beatrice Beaujold has checked in yet?”
“I don’t know,” the girl answered vaguely.
Her accent was light and Josie could understand her without any trouble, but when she didn’t say anything further, Josie wondered if the girl had trouble understanding her.
“It’s Beaujold,” she said. “B-E-A-U-J-O-L-D.” Silence. “Could you check, please?”
“Why, yes, yes, I could.”
Josie waited again while the girl did nothing.
“Would you?” she asked finally, realizing that this game was all about picking the right words.
“Certainly,” the girl responded, and looked at the computer screen before her. “No, she hasn’t arrived yet.” She nodded very seriously. “That’s what I thought.”
“Thanks for looking,” Josie said with some irritation. She set her bags down and took her wallet out of her purse. “I guess I’ll just go ahead and check in myself.”
Blank stare.
“My name’s Josephine Ross.” She gestured toward the computer. “I think you’ll find I’m in the room adjoining Ms. Beaujold’s suite. In fact, since I reserved both rooms, I may as well do the check-in for both now. I’ll give Ms. Beaujold her key when she comes in.” It was one small thing she could do to make things a little easier for Beatrice when she arrived. Josie took her brand-new company credit card out, set it on the counter and stepped back to wait. The smell of beer hung in the air like mist.
The girl took the card, ran it through the slider, then tapped at the computer with one finger. It took her about ten minutes, but she finally looked up and announced, “This card’s been declined.”
“What?” Josie’s jaw dropped.
“It was declined.” The girl started to take a pair of scissors out of the drawer.
“Whoa, wait a minute!” Josie snatched the card from the girl. “There must be some kind of mistake. I’ll call the company. Meanwhile, just use this one.” She foraged in her purse for her personal credit card and prayed there was enough room on it to cover expenses. Her savings had dipped very, very low while she was looking for a job. Page-turner had hired her just in the nick of time.
She waited uncomfortably for about five minutes until the girl handed the card back to her, along with a carbon slip for her signature. “I’ve signed you in. I’ll just get your keys.” Remarkably, she turned to do so without being specifically asked.
When she got the large brass keys, Josie thanked the girl, picked up her case and stepped away from the counter so the next poor guest could