Talk of the Town Read online

  Advance Praise for Talk of the Town

  “Talk of the Town offers up a blue-plate special of romance, humor, and a rollicking good time. I absolutely loved it and highly recommend it.”

  —Deeanne Gist, bestselling author of A Bride Most Begrudging and Courting Trouble

  “Daily, Texas, resident Imogene Doll says, ‘Small towns and Irish folks are a lot alike—full of blarney.’ But Daily’s characters are also full of enough heart, guts, grit, and rascallyness to outsmart those Hollywood types, and don’t you forget it!”

  —Charlene Baumbich, author of the Dearest Dorothy series

  “Lisa Wingate’s Talk of the Town is a fun read. Daily, Texas, produces more conflict and humor than a Hollywood sound stage. These whimsical and zany characters will have you turning pages as fast as you can.”

  —Rene Gutteridge, author of the Occupational Hazards series

  “Wingate pens a light and entertaining story of life in a small town with Texas-sized charm.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Hilarious! Lisa Wingate’s delightful way with words will leave you laughing and longing to visit Daily, Texas, for one of Donetta’s pecan rolls! An engaging story about big dreams wrapped in small-town charm—you won’t put it down, I promise!”

  —Susan May Warren, award-winning author of Happily Ever After

  “Packed with flavorful characters, a town full of personality, and a wacky escapades of slapstick proportions, this is also a story with heart—with wounded people finding hope in the sweet and tender moments of life. A treat!”

  —Sharon Hinck, author of Renovating Becky Miller and Symphony of Secrets

  “Lisa Wingate’s entertaining story was a delight to read… . Talk of the Town is filled with integrity, love, faith and above all, hope when all seems hopeless.”

  —RomanceDesigns.com

  Books by Lisa Wingate

  DAILY,

  TEXAS Talk of the Town

  Word Gets Around

  TENDING ROSES

  Tending Roses

  Good Hope Road

  The Language of Sycamores

  Drenched in Light

  A Thousand Voices

  BLUE SKY HILL

  A Month of Summer

  The Summer Kitchen

  Talk of the Town

  Copyright © 2008

  Wingate Media, LLC

  Cover design by The DesignWorks Group, David Uttley

  Cover photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studios, Inc.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wingate, Lisa.

  Talk of the town / Lisa Wingate.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978–0–7642–0490–6 (pbk.)

  1. Women television producers and directors—Fiction. 2. Television programs—Fiction. 3. Talent shows—Fiction. 4. Cities and towns—Fiction. 5. Texas—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.I53165 T35 2008

  813′.54—dc22

  2007034452

  *

  To all those larger-than-life Texas girls

  Who do it up big or not at all.

  To Marge and Bob

  In honor of a sweet, real-life love story.

  And to the ladies of the

  McGregor Tiara Literary Society.

  Thanks for the prom dress

  The tiara times

  And all the great nights of book discussion.

  What a hoot!

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Questions for Conversation

  Coming Soon From

  Acknowledgments

  You can’t create a whole town without having met some real-life characters. A few of you reading this story might think you recognize someone you know within these pages. Let me assure you that any resemblances to persons living or dead are probably exactly what they seem to be. I have, of course, changed the names to protect the innocent and altered details to salvage reputations. As always, I promise to make all participants herein even better looking, thinner, wittier, and more charming than they already are, and to give each and every one of them good hair. In return, you agree to live in the quiet town of Daily for a little while, sip coffee, eat fried food, swap stories, and tell all your friends about it, since they’re probably in the book, too. We’d love to have them drop in for a big ol’ Texas time.

  While we’re all here, I’d like to thank a few honorary citizens of Daily. My gratitude goes out to Lisa Payne, who advised me on all manner of TV terminology and equipment. Thanks to Sharon Mannion for proofreading and being my traveling buddy and to Janice Wingate for helping with address lists, stranded kids, and pretty much anything else. Thanks to our aunts, uncles, and cousins for always keeping the southern-fried stories going at family gatherings. If every family laughed so much and ate so well, we’d need a lot fewer talk shows.

  My gratitude also goes out to a list of people without whom this book would not have reached publication. Thank you to my agent, Claudia Cross, at Sterling Lord Literistic, who helped to see Daily through several stages. Thanks to author-friend Scott Walker, who introduced me to the nice folks at Bethany House. Thanks to Dave Long for believing in Daily when it was little more than an idea, for being great to work with, and for always being an encourager. Thanks also to Sarah Long for being a lovely dinner companion and for helping with editorial suggestions. My gratitude goes to Julie Klassen, editor and author in her own right. Thank you for your acute suggestions, great advice, and your depth of feeling for the characters and the story. Reading the comments in the margin has never been so much fun.

  Gratitude and warm regards go out to all the folks at Bethany House, who turn ideas into books that make a difference. My special appreciation goes to those who made my visit there such a lovely, uplifting, and exciting experience. Thanks to Julie, Dave, Carol Johnson, and Dave Horton for the wonderful lunchtime conversation about books, desserts, Daily, and all things in between. Thanks also to Tim Peterson, Steve Oates, Jim Hart, Brett Benson, Debra Larsen, Linda White, and Carra Carr for taking time out to talk about the book and make plans for the future. The only thing more rewarding than spending time with imaginary believers is working alongside the real ones.

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t finish by sending gratitude to reader
s far and near. Thank you for journeying along on my imaginary adventures, for sharing them with friends, and for taking time to send notes of encouragement my way. It has been an amazing blessing to see the ways in which God connects us across the miles. I hope you’ll have as much fun in Daily as I did, and of course this means that now we’re neighbors. Say hi to Imagene, Donetta, and the folks for me. And watch out for Bob. He’s been know to run on at the mouth and burn the lunch orders at the café. But the pie is good. Imagene made it. Don’t ask her for the recipe, though. It’s a secret. I hear that pie might win her a spot on Good Morning America one day.

  But that’s another story… .

  Talk of the Town

  Chapter 1

  Mandalay Florentino

  There is that famous moment in Casablanca when Bogart looks at Bergman and, in that steely way of his, delivers a penetrating question about life, about circumstance and fate.

  Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, why did she have to walk into his?

  Bogie’s question was on my mind the moment I laid eyes on the tiny town of Daily, Texas. Of all the places in all the world, why did I have to end up here?

  I had a disquieting sense of something dark and life-altering hovering just beyond the sleepy, sun-drenched main street. The only explanation for my being sent on assignment to this middle-of-nowhere little burg was that my boss was setting me up for a full-scale F-5 disaster so she could fire me. Ursula Uberstach would do something like that. Ursula breathed in human suffering the way most people breathe oxygen. Which made her a great reality TV producer and a lousy boss. Now that she’d finished toying with the underlings on the staff, she was sniffing around me, searching for signs of weakness, honing in on a point of attack. Ursula delighted in messing up other people’s lives just when they were supposed to be the happiest.

  If my parents had named me Ursula, Swedish or not, I would probably have been mad at the world, too, which would have made me perfect for reality TV. As it was, six months into my dream job with American Megastar, I was struggling to acquire Ursula’s taste for blood. At the beginning of the season, she’d swept into the studio like a svelte, perfectly dressed force of nature, while by comparison, I’d fumbled my way through the door wearing the sensible shoes, brown polyblend suit, and slightly maniacal chestnut curls of a woman accustomed to scrambling behind the scenes in the unpredictable world of broadcast news. I’d thought the move to a weekly show would be just the ticket for a working girl with a slight case of daily-broadcast burnout, a yen for job advancement, and a desire to do something glamorous for a change. Mandalay Florentino, Associate Producer looks great on the desk nameplate, but unfortunately, when you get right down to the business of creating a show that trades on, and treads on, hopes and dreams, the job is not so easy.

  The trip to Daily, Texas, wasn’t helping my morale. Twelve years ago, when I’d started into the news business, I dreamed of being the woman who exposed wrongdoing, defended the defenseless, changed lives. Now here I was, helplessly watching the ruination of my own life, and probably someone else’s. The fact that our fifth finalist, nineteen-year-old dewy-eyed gospel singer Amber Anderson, came from a town that looked like Mayberry-well-preserved-on-a-studio-backlot only made my job that much more painful. Amber’s slow descent into the Hollywood muck was the hottest thing to hit American Megastar in three seasons. It couldn’t have come at a better time, since the ratings for season two were abysmal. Amber’s sweet, innocent, country-girl-in-Hollywood act was just what the doctor ordered. Everyone loves to see a wouldbe saint fall off the straight and narrow. That kind of drama sells magazines and brings in TV viewers by the hundreds of thousands. What an act!

  Now, taking in the sun-speckled main street of Amber’s birthplace, I had the startling realization that Amber might be for real. The thought was followed by a sudden and intense burst of guilt and the perverse idea that having Amber make the Final Five on the show was like throwing a lamb into a pit of hungry lions. She would be torn to pieces while all of America watched her close her big blue eyes, throw her head back, and belt out gospel music as if her heart and soul depended on it.

  Ratings would skyrocket. Viewer votes might keep her in the running until the very end, assuming she didn’t self-destruct before then. Over the past three months, Amber had turned my job into something between a waking nightmare and a tightrope act. Just about every week, she gave the tabloids something delicious to print and me some bizarre incident to carefully spin-doctor to the show’s benefit. In her defense, Amber pleaded that every single faux pas was an innocent mistake. American Megastar’s Good Girl Detained at LAX—Amber claimed she had completely forgotten the box knife was in her coat pocket. She’d used it to help her grandpa cut open feed sacks back home. Gospel-Singing Goody-Two-Shoes Linked to Hollywood Brat Pack—Amber claimed that when the gang at the studio next door invited her out clubbing, she thought it was some exotic sport, like polo or croquet. She had no idea drinking would be involved. Gospel Girl Nabbed in Prostitution Sting—Amber was lost and she’d only stopped to ask directions. How was she supposed to know those ladies on the corner were … were … She actually blushed and stammered and took a full minute to whisper the words ladies of … ill repute.

  If it was an act, Amber was an actress worthy of an Academy Award. The show’s crew even had an “Amber pool” going—a harmless little bet on when Amber’s innocent façade would finally crack. Everyone except Rosita, the cleaning lady, was in. And that was only because Rosita didn’t speak English. Not one crew member believed that Amber’s farm girl act could last forever. Nobody short of Elly May Clampett could be that naïve.

  It looked like the Amber pool might pay off pretty soon. Five days ago, Amber had been linked to Justin Shay, and reporters were hiding in bushes everywhere, trolling for pictures and details. Could the fresh-faced gospel girl really be dating a Hollywood bad boy almost twice her age?

  Even I had no idea how to spin-doctor this one. When the latest Amber rumor crept into my office, I’d accepted it with a sense of resignation. She’d finally gone too far—embroiled herself in the kind of smarmy Hollywood relationship that even her honeycovered southern accent couldn’t sweeten. I wasn’t sad about it, really. When all was said and done Amber was an opportunist, like everyone else in LA. Why should she be any different from the rest of us? It was a cynical thought, and in the back of my mind, I was bothered by how easily it came to me, how quickly I accepted it, how I’d suspected it all along. There was a time when I was more like Amber and less like Ursula.

  The lost idealism of my youth drifted back to me at the most unusual and inconvenient times, like the whiff of something sweet passing by. As I took in Amber’s hometown, it left behind a vexing question—if Amber really was as innocent as her quiet little hometown appeared to be, then what did that say about those of us who were using her loss of innocence, the ultimate destruction of her dreams, to boost ratings?

  If I was unsure where to stand on the issue of Amber Anderson, her hometown seemed to have no question. Hanging proudly over Main Street was a huge banner that said,

  WELCOME!

  DAILY REUNION DAYS FIRST WEEKEND IN APRIL

  Below that, two workmen with ladders were tacking on a handlettered addition that read,

  Birthplace of Amber Anderson,

  American Megastar’s Hometown Finalist

  Vote for Amber!

  A sick feeling gurgled in my throat and drained slowly to my stomach, producing the fleeting thought that I should have brought along the prescription ulcer medication Mother tried to give me before I left LA. She said I looked like I needed it, and now I knew I did. The Tex-Mex breakfast taco I’d eaten before taking an aerial tour of Daily in a network affiliate helicopter was rolling around in my stomach like hot lead.

  My sixth sense, the one my best friend, Paula, jokingly called the Doom-o-meter, was in full emergency warning mode, which could only mean that disaster was headed my way like a frei
ght train. I could feel it in some vague way I couldn’t explain. If Paula had been standing there with me on the corner of Third and Main in Daily, Texas, she would have—after making some joke about the Doom-o-meter—filtered through her Buddhist-Kabala-New-Age spiritual philosophy and told me this place contained bad Karma. She would’ve dragged me off to her favorite soothsayer, Madame Murae, who told fortunes in her sandwich shop when she wasn’t busy making roast beef on rye. Yesterday when Madame Murae gave me my sandwich, she turned over the love card.

  “Ah, love awaits,” she mused, squinting at the card as she grabbed a styro cup and put it under the Diet Coke spigot without looking.

  “I’m engaged.” I felt the giddy little tickle I always got when I said those words. I’m engaged. I’m engaged. Thirty-four years old, and finally I’m engaged. I’m going to be a June bride.

  He’s gorgeous, by the way.

  Madame Murae turned over another card. “Ah, I see travel.”

  “We’re going on a honeymoon right after the wedding. In a little less than three months”—After I wrap this season of American Megastar and the teasers for next season, hopefully with my job and my sanity intact—“I’ll be sailing the California coast for nineteen days.” Ah, heaven. Did I mention that he owns a boat?

  Frowning at the card, Madame Murae halted the flow of Diet Coke at exactly the right moment, once again without looking.

  Paula quirked a brow at me, as in, See, I told you she has special powers.

  I rolled my eyes. Paula knew what that meant. I’m historically an Episcopalian, from a long line of Episcopalians, drawing all the way back to the pioneer days. Episcopalians, even the nonpracticing kind, do not believe in tarot cards or soda shop mysticism. Such malarkey is for people like Paula who are spiritually searching but without the benefit of any ancestral religious foundation whatsoever.