Killing Time. Leslie Kelly
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TV show called Killing Time in a Small Town was set to film right here. That was the reason for this morning’s meeting. One of the producers was looking for a short-term rental, since Derryville’s only inn was going to be filled up with the cast and camera crew of the show.
“I know you’re not ready to settle down, Mick, but that’ll change once we’re married. Daddy should be here in fifteen minutes or so, after he takes my brothers to football practice. That gives us enough time to get you naked and me—” she flushed again, more brilliantly than before “—mussed.”
Fifteen minutes. Knowing Louise’s no-good old man, who was late on everything from his mortgage payments to his own weddings, that equaled more like an hour. Meaning he had that long to convince her to give up her crazy idea.
A number of possibilities quickly ran through his mind. He could sweet-talk her, reason with her, cajole her…
Or, given her brilliant blushes and the fact that she had never had so much as a date, he could do one thing that was sure to send her scurrying out of here like the scared virgin he knew her to be.
Exactly what she asked him to.
Without another word, Mick Winchester dropped his pants.
THE DERRYVILLE REALTY office was easy to spot on the main street of this small town. Caro Lamb smothered a sigh when she saw the sign, complete with engraved drawing of mom, dad, kid and dog playing happily on the lawn in front of their little house.
A sign like that in L.A. would have to show a hillside mansion and a kid being shuffled between Mom and her pool boy, and Dad and his trophy girlfriend. The dog would be replaced by low-maintenance, no-pooper-scooper fish. The lawn would become a skate park.
Home. A word of infinite definitions. None of which had really rung her bell as yet.
She parked the rental car, which she’d picked up in Chicago after landing there late the night before. Then Caro grabbed her briefcase and stepped out into the bright Illinois morning. “No smog. I don’t think my lungs can take it,” she mumbled.
“Eh?”
She hadn’t even realized an older man pushing a broom was standing on the sidewalk near her car.
“Nothing,” she mumbled, embarrassed to be caught talking to herself. Talking to oneself was something that could really start a rumor in Hollywood. Do that on Rodeo Drive and by the time you got back to your studio office, the execs were calling Betty Ford while your office mates planned your intervention.
Nothing was as “in” in L.A. as the occasional breakdown. Of course, as fun as they were, they also spelled death to a production career in TV. Stars, talk show hosts, radio deejays—they “got well” or “got clean” or “got acquitted” and the studio loved them. But lowly assistant producers hoping for a shot at a lead gig on a prime-time network show and an escape from the lowliest cable fodder featuring an ’80s one-hit-wonder sitcom refugee?
Huh-uh. Death. Absolute death.
There was, of course, one thing worse than the lowliest cable fodder featuring an 80s one-hit-wonder sitcom refugee.
“You’re here for that reality TV show, aren’t cha?”
That’d be it.
“I can tell by the rental plates. And your clothes. And the bored look on your face.”
Caro’s eyes widened. “I’m not bored. I’m just—” procrastinating “—thinking.”
“Bout?”
About being stuck here for three weeks with her entire future on the line. About trying to salvage her third-rated network by riding on the reality TV wave that had crested last season.
“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 volley into the reality TV arena. Killing Time in a Small Town was supposed to take place in an average, all-American place where neighbors were friendly, doors weren’t locked and movie stars’ wives didn’t end up dead in their cars or on their doorsteps.
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 camerapeople 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 Town would 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 a town tempting 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 Town will be a huge success.”
She prayed it would. It had to 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 road trips looking for funny home videos, or scouting out wacky ideas for the next grand experiment in the reality game. 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