Page 23

After a trio of first-class flights (which Jean was annoyed with herself for being too stressed to appreciate) and a fortune in extra luggage fees, they finally made it to Charlie’s home state.

Hildy returned from the rental-car counter in high spirits.

“I got us a Jeep,” she announced, dangling the key ring from her index finger.

The postage-stamp-size regional airport was still a two-hour drive from the Pike estate on the far western edge of South Dakota, hence the need for a vehicle.

“Are we going off-roading?” Jean had pictured more of a country estate, maybe a hedge maze and some topiaries, but the view out the window of the terminal was all tall grass waving in the wind. It was giving major Little House on the Prairie vibes.

“If a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing in style, as my second-to-last stepaunt used to say” was Hildy’s ambiguous reply.

“She died?”

“They sent her to a farm upstate.” Hildy snickered at her own joke. “Kidding. It was one of my uncle’s semiannual divorces. Slightly more common than a leap year.”

“Ah.”

“Everybody needs a hobby.” Hildy turned around like she might need to consult the signage for directions, but there was only one exit. “Ready to hit the road?”

“Among other things.” Putting her back into it, Jean managed to roll their heavy luggage cart out the door.

Hildy insisted on driving, to help Jean get into the pampered-guest mindset.

Jean rolled down her window as Hildy threw the Jeep into reverse. “We might as well enjoy ourselves while we’re here. My sources tell me the Pikes are going all out. Get Piked!” She lifted one hand from the steering wheel to shoot a finger gun at Jean.

“What?”

“That’s the theme of the weekend. A little crass for what they’re trying to do but—” She broke off, wincing at Jean’s expression.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.

Since you’ve already been Piked. As it were.

” There was a hopeful pause, on the off chance Jean wanted to provide graphic details.

“Anyway,” Hildy continued, raising her voice as they merged onto the highway, wind rattling through the vehicle, “as I was saying, this smells like a major image overhaul. The Pike’s brewing brand is all about selling traditional middle Americana, right?

It’s been around forever, it doesn’t taste like ass, but it’s not too uppity either.

Only with the way the industry’s trending the last five or ten years, it’s all about consolidation.

The big companies eating up the little guys, and then they have a stranglehold on distribution, which means you’re SOL trying to go it alone.

Same thing that’s been happening in the media world.

On top of which, beer sales are down across the board.

You’ve got your hard seltzers, your mocktails, all the vodka-drinking keto warriors.

” Hildy shook her head. “Not a good time to be peddling what is essentially a bottle of carbs. Makes sense they’re looking for a sugar daddy. Or mama.”

Jean stared at her.

“What?” Hildy self-consciously tucked a flyaway curl behind her ear.

“How do you know this stuff?”

“I have like seven-eighths of a business degree. Not to mention the ungodly number of executive dinners I had to sit through in my childhood. They thought I was there for the Shirley Temples, but no. I was soaking that shit up.”

“What’s the sugar mama part?”

“Based on the guest list, either they’re looking to sell outright or take on a silent partner.

Very different optics, obviously. And the price point is going to depend on how much the Pike’s name is worth, as a legacy brand, so they’re going to push the ‘we’ve been around for a century’ narrative hard.

Ideal scenario for Charlie boy is a bidding war.

If they have interest from Toho, they can use that to leverage a higher offer from Koskinen, and so on.

” She slid Jean an assessing look. “Those are beverage companies.”

“I got that from the context.”

“Toho is Japanese and Koskinen is Finnish. Whiskey and vodka, respectively. Though I guess it’s not essential that you know that.

You can always play the bored little rich girl card.

” Hildy pressed a palm to her cheek, eyes going wide and doll-like.

“I don’t know where the money comes from,” she cooed. “I just like spending it.”

Jean considered whether vapid was within her dramatic range.

She’d been planning to skew a little closer to type: hard-bitten and surly young woman with a past. Hildy hadn’t shared a lot of details about Jean’s borrowed identity, but then again, Jean hadn’t asked.

A red haze had settled over her brain, like when you come home from a long shift so hungry you inhale everything in your path, not thinking beyond the urgency of the moment. Olives and off-brand Nutella? Why not!

“Just get me in the door,” she’d told Hildy, like she was ordering at a drive-through. Fetch me an opportunity, an identity, and all the necessary accoutrements. And make it snappy!

All Jean knew was that an invite had been arranged for a distant acquaintance of Hildy’s around Jean’s age who happened to be related to a booze magnate with a silly nickname. Abracadabra, instant cover story.

“Am I supposed to be an airhead?” Jean asked.

“Does it matter? People love feeling superior, so playing down to expectations is a safe bet. You show them youth and attitude, they’ll swallow the story.”

“I have attitude.”

“In spades,” Hildy agreed.

“And you’re sure I don’t need a wig?”

“I doubt anybody there could pick Sockless Tommy’s niece out of a lineup. She’s just another ornamental female.” Hildy glanced in the rearview mirror before changing lanes. “You’re not losing your nerve, are you?”

“Who, me? No way. I’ve got this. It’s classic sleight of hand. I make them see what I want them to see.” It was way more punk rock waltzing in there looking exactly the same, minus the resort uniform. She cracked her knuckles. “I dare him to tell them who I am.”

“And if he does?”

“I have something planned. Don’t worry.”

It was clear from the twist of Hildy’s lips that she was, in fact, worrying. “It’s not an accent though, right?”

Jean opted to overlook the lack of confidence. Some of her earlier accent work had relied more on vibes than technique, but surely that was the point. Creating an atmosphere, setting the mood, etcetera. “It’s not only an accent.”

The hum of the tires grew louder. Either they’d hit a rough stretch of asphalt or the silence from the driver’s seat was intensifying.

“What?” Jean finally asked.

“I’m thinking about your narrative. It would be odd if Sockless Tommy’s niece sounded like a Swiss goatherd or whatever you have in mind.”

“She could have studied abroad.”

“Simpler is better,” Hildy countered. “Eyes on the prize.”

Jean couldn’t argue with that. She hadn’t come all this way to do anything but win. “If he calls me out, I’ll tell them Jean was my fake alter ego, and I was actually this Eve person all along.”

“Huh.” Hildy tapped the steering wheel with the tip of a petal-pink fingernail. “Okay.”

Part of Jean had hoped for at least a little pushback. How could anyone think for a second you weren’t the original? Maybe Jean wasn’t as iconic as she liked to believe.

Turning her face to the window, she let the wind buffet her.

The air felt eighty percent drier than she was used to, and the local colors looked similarly parched, like all the juice had been sucked out.

Even the sky had a sun-bleached quality that matched the brittle brown and faded green of the grass.

It was not unlike the way Jean felt on the inside, withered and desolate.

Despite its lack of lushness, there was an austere beauty that spoke to her artist’s eye.

How hard would it be to capture the clarity of the light, pale and golden as it washed over the soft hillsides?

The shadows were lengthening into late afternoon, the line of pine trees black in the distance.

It was a landscape she’d only seen in the kind of movies where everyone was on horseback.

“I feel like any second there’s going to be a stagecoach robbery,” she mused. “Or a cancan line of saloon girls. Hey, barkeep, give me a whiskey in a dirty glass.” She squeezed the words out of the side of her mouth, like she had a toothpick between her teeth. Or a cigarillo. Something cowboy-ish.

“This won’t be like that,” Hildy assured her. “It’ll be super posh. While also trying to pull the younger demographic with some hipster frills.”

It seemed like a stretch for a beer company, until Jean remembered Smithson’s family, with their luxury cars and general attitude of slumming in their own hometown. “I can be fahncy, ” Jean drawled, with the merest hint of BBC. “What if I’m Lady Eve Sidgwick, who is terribly proper?”

“Sockless Tommy is from Detroit. He made his fortune in cinnamon schnapps.” Hildy’s nose wrinkled. “Anyway, you don’t need any of that. You’ve got this in the bag.”

“I know.” Although the closer they got to their destination, the more Jean wished she’d lacquered on a few more layers of protection between her soft underbelly and seeing Charlie again.

Hildy rummaged in her tote, handing Jean a pack of gum.

“Thanks.” Jean glanced at the chunky cocktail ring Hildy had insisted she borrow, as that finger tap, tap, tapped the raw hem of the three-hundred-dollar denim shorts and twice-as-pricey lace-up espadrilles that were allegedly “music festival basics.” And that was just what she had on at the moment, not even speaking of the scads of outfits in the trunk.

Hildy would undoubtedly make bank on whatever scoop Jean managed to score, but none of this would have been possible without the upfront investment. “It’s really nice of you.”

“Uh, you’re welcome? You can Venmo me the five cents or just, you know, pay it forward. Preferably sugar-free.”

“I’m not talking about the gum. It’s all of it.” Jean gestured at her clothes, the car, and the unfamiliar setting beyond the windshield, stretching to the horizon in a wash of sage green and toasted tan. “Were you always this nice?”

How well did she really know Hildy? They’d met, what, a month ago?

Under weird circumstances? It happened that way sometimes when you lived in a travel destination.

People waltzed into your life for a dazzling cameo before disappearing again.

Though they didn’t usually vanish in the night. Or use a false identity.

Maybe that was another thing to lay at Charlie’s door. He’d given her trust issues. Emotional chlamydia.

“You know what they say about money?”

The lyrics of a dozen pop songs flashed through Jean’s head before she settled on “Can’t Buy Me Love.” “No,” she said, kicking that thought into the gutter.

“Easy come, easy go. Besides, it’s cathartic.”

“Buying stuff?”

“Teaching a man he can’t get away with treating you like that.” Hildy held out a hand, and Jean unwrapped a piece of gum and dropped it in her palm.

If only the rest of this adventure could be that easy.