Part 2 (1/2)
Alarmed, Marilyn covered her face with her hands and groaned.
”What contest?” Chuck asked.
”Oh, no-o-o-o!” Marilyn wailed from behind her hands. ”I'm ruined!” She wept softly, whispering, ”And to think that I've broken up with my fiance to chase after this b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
Colette gasped and whispered back. ”You did what?”
”I-that is, last night... Well, I realized that Ben and I were just going through the motions of having any pa.s.sion in our relations.h.i.+p. And all I could think about was that idiot chef's photo-his d.a.m.n picture haunts me, like there's a connection, and...I know! I don't even know the man. Shh. I don't want his friend to hear us.”
Colette hugged her. ”You broke up with a playboy millionaire because you wanted to hunt down the River Rat?”
”Pretty much. At least I feel we've broken up. Ben didn't take it too well and keeps phoning me on the cell, saying he knows I'm just stressed and that he's been too self-involved, blah, blah, blah. Things weren't going well anyway, so it's not like I broke up with Ben to get hopeful over Jackson Delacroix. I just felt that if I could meet our writer, I could persuade him to give Larabee what they want. And I thought...maybe...I dunno...”
”That he'd give you what you need?” Colette hugged her again. ”Oh, Marilyn, that is a pipe dream, honey. The man is a recluse who lives on a river and wouldn't know the first thing about making it with a city girl like you.”
Just then the seat belt warning sign came on, and soon their captain announced their arrival in Tulsa International Airport's air s.p.a.ce.
Marilyn thought her stomach would come up through her mouth as the plane dropped...right along with her career aspirations. She'd been a war zone reporter in Afghanistan, a member of the Press Corp elite back in the states during the last presidential election. She'd weathered the death of her mother before she was out of elementary school and the decline of her father's health in her early years as an adult. But she'd never once felt such panic. She'd taken the post at her father's publis.h.i.+ng firm knowing how much her father depended upon her to pull the company back into a good fiscal year.
How would they survive the scandal once word broke that their star nonfiction author was a fraud?
”You sure you want to go through with this?” Colette asked as their airplane taxied for a landing.
Marilyn laughed, her voice dripping with irony. ”Kind of late to change our minds, don't you think? Tahlequah is only a few minutes' drive from Tulsa.”
”Actually, this place is farther southeast...Gore, Oklahoma,” she continued. ”And the fis.h.i.+ng camp where we'll be staying is right on the Illinois River. We'll take an afternoon to interview Hot Shot and spend the rest of our week swimming and cooking out while he learns how to cook. And canoeing if we can find a guide who'll teach us. And figuring out how fast our sales will plummet once the public gets wind of this. It'll be fun!”
Colette shook her head. ”Jackson Delacroix's last book did make the New York Times best-seller list for ten straight weeks. You need to keep that in mind.”
”I know, but Uncle Dave and Dad have never even met this one. Before I took over, I wanted to get to know each and every one of my clients personally. Makes good business sense.” She sighed. ”Now my career is ruined before I even begin. Dad and Uncle Dave will have no choice but to fire me for getting us all into this mess.”
”What are you talking about?” Chuck asked, suddenly breaking his silence by rejoining the conversation.
”Jack is in for a very big surprise,” Marilyn told him. ”The annual Larabee Cooking Contest is coming up, and Jack has managed to maneuver himself out of it again, only this time-”
Colette cut in. ”This time we've had the contest moved to the trout camp, so he has no choice but to enter it. We've been on the phone with Larabee since yesterday afternoon and only finalized the change of plans this morning before we boarded the plane. The whole thing is being moved to the trout camp. Larabee Industries is sending out a large van on Monday with cooking supplies to be used during the contest and with several things wrapped as gifts for the winners and even the partic.i.p.ants.”
”Oh, no!” Chuck's face flashed with alarm. ”But today's Friday...and Jack can't...”
”Exactly!” Marilyn exclaimed bitterly. ”I have been trying for weeks to get a telephone interview with him and to talk him into entering this d.a.m.ned thing. Now... well... My new position with Dad's company is definitely on the skids. I'm ruined. Professional responsibility aside, there really is no reason for us to show up now.”
”Right. And you're not at all intrigued by Jackson Delacroix's photograph or the news his best friend just sprung on us,” Colette teased.
”Why? Those tall, dark and devilish types are only interested in pet.i.te little angel-looking blondes like you, not moose like me.”
”But Jack can't cook!” Chuck exclaimed, breaking into their conversation.
”You are not a moose! You're just tall!” Colette defended her friend, pulling the conversation back to chick talk.
”No, but I sure feel like one beside you, Miss Size Zero.”
”That's Miss Size Two. And going by your journalistic byline of Mason instead of your surname of O'Malley doesn't play into this at all, does it?”
”What?” Chuck sat up in his chair. ”You're the one taking over as his editor? And you've entered Jack in a cooking contest? But Jack can't cook!”
”Will you please stop saying that! You can't tell Jackson Delacroix a thing! Do you hear me?” Marilyn raised her eyebrows threateningly. ”Otherwise, we'll tell him that it was you who spilled the beans on him!”
”Oh, I think he'll figure that one out all by himself. Especially if he sees me driving up with the two of you.”
Marilyn and Colette stared straight ahead for a moment and then their necks craned forward at an angle as they looked sideways at one another and exclaimed simultaneously, ”He doesn't know we're coming!”
”Yay!” Marilyn crowed. ”That fact will buy us some time. Maybe by this time tomorrow I can come up with a plan that won't hang us all.”
Chuck gasped. ”What? You're kidding! How did you sneak this by Jackson without his knowing about it?”
”His brother, Chance, answered the phone,” Colette explained. ”And we didn't tell him what kind of contest. We just said we needed to rent s.p.a.ce on their campgrounds, and he said yes.” She sighed. ”What a mess.”
”Then why... why bother even showing up?” Chuck argued. ”Why can't the two of you just hop a plane back to New York like you said a couple of seconds ago? h.e.l.l, I'll pay your air fare!”
”Nothin' doin', buster!” Marilyn gave an evil chuckle. ”You booked the cabin in my name, right?” She turned to Colette.
”Marilyn Mason,” Colette affirmed. ”The name you use when writing, and since you introduced yourself to him on the telephone as Marilyn O'Malley, he won't know who you are.”
Chuck held his hands in front of him, counting on his index fingers. ”Marilyn Mason is the writer... and Marilyn O'Malley is your real name?”
Marilyn sighed in exasperation. ”They're both my real names-I just write under the first and edit under the second.” She sorted her thoughts. ”Jack won't recognize the names. Hot Shot most likely doesn't read the New York Times or any of the trades.”
”Uh-you're wrong there,” Chuck interrupted.
”Which one does he read?”
”All of them most likely. The trout camp even has a public library for guests. Tons of books and magazines. Jack's a big reader.”
”Well...he still won't recognize my name.”
”Don't be too surprised,” Chuck said, shrugging and folding his hands. ”I've never heard of Marilyn Mason, but that doesn't mean Jack won't have heard of you.”
”We weren't going to tell him who we were until after we'd unpacked anyway,” Marilyn said. ”Now we won't tell him at all!”
”Marilyn, we have to have to tell him! Larabee's van will most likely pull in there tomorrow morning!” Colette cried.
They all looked at one another sadly. What a predicament.
Chuck sighed dramatically. ”I don't know what you think you have to gain by even going there in the first place. Couldn't you have just spoken with him over the phone?” He looked at the women hopefully. ”It isn't too late, is it?”
”We might have done that, but he'd have to pick up the telephone before that could happen!” Colette stabbed the air, emphasizing her words with one of the pretzels. ”I've left several messages for him, but he never returns his calls, and I only just got him on the phone yesterday morning!”