Crazy Rich Rednecks, page 3
My mouth drops as I gaze around. It’s definitely a man’s place, with all leather furniture and little decor. Nothing more than a few fish and deer heads mounted on the wall. Oh, and a massive TV in the corner.
“I have two bedrooms and a bathroom. The kitchen isn’t done yet, so I’m afraid you’ll have to use the commercial one downstairs.”
I stroll through the living area and notice what will be the kitchen. It’s nothing more than walls, wiring, and an island that isn’t finished. “This is great. No worries about the kitchen. We’ll have some sort of craft services.”
“Crafts? I guess there’s room for them in the spare bedroom.”
I laugh. “No, craft services. It’s the food provided by the production.”
He wrinkles his forehead and shrugs. “All right. But you’re welcome to my kitchen anytime, and I cook regularly.”
“Thanks.” A calmness washes over me when he opens the door to the spare bedroom.
There’s a simple dresser and queen-size bed. It’s airy and simple, yet comforting.
“Sorry I haven’t given much attention to furnishing the place. Nobody goes in this room much. It probably wouldn’t even have a bed had my daddy’s sister’s husband’s ex-wife’s brother not needed a place to stay when he came through town to drop off some chihuahuas.”
I try and follow that train of thought, but can’t. Instead, I plop down on the edge of the bed.
Earl Ed parks my bags by the door. “The bathroom is across from this room, and there’s a washer and dryer in that closet.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder toward the hallway. “My room is at the end of the hall if you need anything. Oh, and if you’re hungry, I can cook you some supper.”
I widen my eyes. I didn’t expect such hospitality from my Uber driver. “Well, if you’re offering, a grilled cheese would be nice.”
“Done.”
Before I can thank him, Earl Ed disappears down the hall. I hear footsteps going downstairs as he heads toward a working kitchen to prepare my grilled cheese. That’s about all I can stomach after a full day of flights and seeing a rat up close, not to mention an eye patch.
I lay my head back and close my eyes to rest until my food is ready. I’ve heard a lot of strange things about Alabama, and I’m certain I will hear—and see—more before this filming wraps.
CHAPTER THREE
Earl Ed
I whistle to myself as I flip bacon and check on my biscuits. School lets out today, which means we’ll either be really busy or really dead, depending on how many people go out of town. Most people stay home for Christmas around here, but some travel beforehand or on New Year’s.
My phone pings for the fifth time since I woke up. I check it and shake my head. Mama won’t leave well enough alone. Speaking of well enough, Mackenzie steps in the doorway.
“Good morning.” I smile and wave the tongs in my hand before flipping more bacon. The oven goes off, and I retrieve the biscuits.
She enters the kitchen and leans against the counter. “Wow, you really can cook.”
“You mean the grilled cheese last night didn’t tip you off?”
She snickers at my sarcasm.
I pull a pan of eggs from the microwave where I left them to keep warm, then put the biscuits on a plate. As I’m draining the bacon grease, my text sound pings again.
I grab my phone and type in a quick reply to let her know we’ll be there shortly. Then I nod at the food. “Help yourself. Mama’s been on me to bring you by. I told her you’re still getting ready to buy you some time.”
She smiles as I hand her a plate. I turn my phone on silent and shove it in my jeans pocket before fixing my own plate.
“Sorry there’s not a table upstairs yet. We can eat on the couches, or here in a booth.”
“That’s fine.” Mackenzie takes her plate to the dining area and slides into a corner booth.
I catch a whiff of her perfume or body spray when she passes me. Whatever the scent, it smells better than anything in here. Well, except for the bacon.
I grab two forks and a pitcher of tea, then join her. “I usually drink sweet tea or water, but we have milk, juice.” I tilt my head toward the drink fountain. “And Pepsi products.”
“Water’s fine.”
I take some cups from the counter and fix her ice water, then fill a cup of ice for my tea. Mackenzie moans loudly behind me. I’m so startled I almost spill my ice.
When I turn around, she’s chomping on a biscuit. I slide her drink in front of her as she swallows.
“This is the best biscuit I’ve ever eaten. Where did you learn to cook?”
“Prison.” My entire body tingles when I realize what I said. Usually, it isn’t a big deal because I’m so used to everyone knowing.
She bursts out laughing. “Good one.”
I grin nervously. Best let her think that’s a joke. I doubt she’d want to stay with an ex-convict. And since we’re running out of housing options, she may have to find a stable like Baby Jesus.
Mackenzie shares a little about some of her previous projects while we finish eating. She has a lot of movies in her past, though none I’ve seen.
“I’m pretty sure my mama and aunt have seen some of your work. They watch that stuff all the time.” I down the rest of my tea, savoring every last drop. I limit my sweet tea consumption nowadays, so every ounce is like liquid gold.
She points a fork toward me and winks. “And that’s why I’m ready for a change. All those movies are the same story told by a different person about a different couple.”
I shrug. “Can’t say I’ve seen any. I’m more of an Adam Sandler fan myself.”
Mackenzie laughs. “Sandler’s surprised me with some of his later work, I’ll give him that.”
I turn my cup up to catch some of the ice, then chew as I check the time on the wall clock behind the counter. “If you’re ready, I can take you to meet my mother before I open for the day.”
“No, you’re busy. I’ll just get an Uber.”
I say nothing and wait patiently while she takes out her phone and opens the app.
Her forehead creases as she reads the results. “Earl Ed Mayberry . . . and it looks like you’re already here.” She raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah, I’m kinda the only one around.”
“Fine by me.” She crinkles her mouth in a flirty way. At least, in what I imagine is a flirty way. “Let me grab my purse.”
I watch her retreat upstairs, then clear our table. I’m in the kitchen washing the egg pan when Mackenzie slides beside me and rolls up her sleeves.
“Let me help you.”
“Nah, I’ve got this, and you’re a guest.”
She lifts one corner of her mouth. “Yeah, but you cooked all this, cooked last night, gave me a good room to stay in.”
I smile. She’s not at all like I thought she’d be. Partly because I’d assumed most big-wig, big-city people were rude. And I also expected a dude, not some cute chick who can barely climb in my truck.
“I insist,” she says.
Realizing I’ve been grinning like a possum at her for an awkward moment, I hand her a dish towel. “You can dry.”
I swallow and stare at the dishes until all are clean. Then I dry my hands and wait as she dries hers.
We walk in silence to my truck. I open her door and help her inside.
“Thank you. This has got to be the tallest vehicle I’ve ever ridden in.”
I laugh. “Six-inch lift kit.”
She scrunches her nose as if she doesn’t understand. I get in and back out of the parking lot.
“When do you guys start filming?” Maybe making small talk will lower my heart rate. It spiked when I helped her into my truck.
“Tomorrow morning. The crew is mainly coming from Birmingham, but local-ish.”
“I wondered why you didn’t bring a crew.”
She snickers. “I don’t have my own crew. I work with whomever the production hires for the job. They’re usually local to the project.”
I nod. None of this makes sense to me. She explains a lot of the jobs involved in filming a movie or even a commercial. It all sounds a little over the top, especially to video my mom make cookies. I could do that with my phone. Heck, I have done that with my phone for her Instagram account.
The pine trees thin as we drive onto my parents’ land. Christmas lights flank every shrub on the way. I stop in the center of the front circle drive.
“Wow.” Mackenzie’s mouth drops. “This is where you grew up?”
“Yeah.” I climb out and palm the back of my neck as I wait for her to climb down.
She scans the front of the house, her mouth dropping another notch every few seconds. “I had no idea there were houses like this out here.” She raises her hands and shakes them my way. “No offense, just Apple Cart County seems so . . .”
“Redneck?”
She shrugs. “I was going more for simple, but I guess that could work.”
“There’s rich rednecks, too.”
“Apparently.” Mackenzie steps toward the fountain, and Christmas music comes on. It continues playing in sync with where she’s walking. She laughs and walks back and forth.
I chuckle. It’s fun watching her dictate the song. She’s made it halfway through “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” when the front door flies open.
“Earl Ed, there you are.” Mama rushes down the front porch steps wearing one of her Christmas aprons. She and Aunt Robin are obsessed with them.
She stops in front of me, then jerks her head toward Mackenzie. Mama’s eyes widen, and she picks up a strand of Mackenzie’s wavy hair. “You’re so adorable!” Before I can stop her, she wraps Mackenzie in a hug and starts swaying. “Welcome to our home.”
I tug Mama’s shoulder, pulling her off Mackenzie. She’s friendly to a fault, which isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. “Mama, this—”
She slaps my arm and cuts me off. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a girl by. She’s beautiful. A little thin maybe, but nothing my cooking can’t fix.”
“No, Mama.”
“Oh, don’t be so bashful, Earl Ed. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s you.”
I swipe my hand down my face. This is getting out of hand. Mama never listens. I glance at Mackenzie, who’s smirking as if she’s trying desperately to hold back a laugh.
“See, I told you once you lost a little weight and got out of jail, things would turn around.”
My mouth goes dry. I couldn’t shut her up now if I tried. I turn to Mackenzie, whose face has gone pale.
Just great. Five minutes into meeting my mother, and Mackenzie has learned I’m a fat felon.
Mackenzie
So the part about learning to cook in prison wasn’t a joke. However, I’m not one to judge people based on their past, and he didn’t murder me in my sleep last night.
Besides, I’d risk sleeping down the hall from Earl Ed any day over staying at the Quality Inn beside the liquor store and eye-patch pirate.
Carla goes on about how Earl Ed deserves happiness, and I get the urge to save him. Pay him one back for rescuing me from the rat motel.
I stick my hand between them. “I’m Mack Magee, your director.”
Carla’s jaw drops, and she freezes for a minute before shaking my hand. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry.” She drops my hand and covers her forehead. “What a terrible mistake.”
I smile. “It’s fine, really. I’m Mackenzie, but my agent always refers to me as Mack.” As much as I hate to embarrass Carla, I had to intervene. Poor Earl Ed.
Carla pats him on the shoulder. “Sorry, son.” Then she turns to me. “But you are adorable.” She loops an arm through mine and walks me toward the porch.
“The Little Drummer Boy” plays as we pass by walkway lights. If I have to hear Christmas music, synchronized to motion lights is the way to go.
She opens the massive wooden door and leads me inside. More Christmas lights reflect on marble flooring, and almost outshine the massive chandelier overhead. I count maybe five trees on our way down the hall. A few more trees flock the corners of the kitchen, and I contemplate how we can work around them for filming.
Footsteps come behind us, and I turn to find Earl Ed standing in the entry. Carla lets go of my arm and motions to her son. “Earl Ed, be a dear and bring that platter over here, please.”
She pulls a pair of reading glasses and a notebook from a built-in desk, then waves me toward the massive table. “Sit, relax. I’ll show you what I do so you can better plan.”
I slide back a chair, which is even heavier than it looks, but comfier than most couches. Everything in the room is sleek and luxurious, from the stainless-steel appliances to the vaulted ceiling, to this chair. If it weren’t for framed Bible verses on the wall and goats wandering in the backyard, I’d think this was a Kardashian home.
I watch the goats as Carla thumbs through her notebook. They’re tiny and rambunctious. “Are your goats babies?”
Carla fans a hand. “Oh, we don’t have any . . .” She pauses. Her eyes widen as she peers over my head, then stands. “Earl Ed, can you get G-Maw’s goats out of the yard? They’re gonna eat my decorations.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Earl Ed smirks at me before setting two large trays of cookies on the table and retreating out the patio door.
I stare at the cookies. They’re so precise and uniform that it’s hard to believe they’re homemade. She also put a lot of detail into the frosting. From the cowboy Santa to the camouflage snowman, it’s evident why the network would want to feature Carla. I’ve never seen anything like them. My eye gravitates toward a deer in a Christmas sweater, with ornaments on its antlers. Such minute detail, down to the snowflakes on the sweater. I think this one’s my favorite.
Carla sits down and adjusts her glasses. “You like the deer?”
I nod. “It’s eccentric, but in a good way.”
She pushes the plate in front of me. “Taste it.”
Literal visions of sugar plums dance in my head as I relive my dessert PTSD from all the Christmas movies. However, working in this industry has taught me to always keep the talent happy. And growing up poor with a flighty mom has taught me to never turn down free home cooking—sweets included.
I pick up the cookie and bite into the antler. Hints of cinnamon and nutmeg hit my tongue, and I sigh audibly for the second time today—both while eating. Even if Earl Ed perfected his skills in prison, he no doubt inherited raw talent from his mom.
“What do you think?”
I lick the corner of my mouth and swallow. “Wow, that’s so good.” I turn the cookie in my hand, examining the inside. How is it crumbly and moist at the same time? She must be some sort of good witch.
“Thanks, that’s one of my favorite flavors. I feel like the nutmeg really brings out what you’d expect a deer to taste like.” Carla giggles. “If a deer were sweet, of course.” Her face goes serious. “Real deer tastes nothing like nutmeg.”
I nod, unsure of whether I’ve ever tasted actual deer. If so, it would be from ordering a mystery meat sandwich at that food truck near Arnie’s office.
Carla turns the notebook so I’m facing her writing. “Here are all the events and usual gatherings in Apple Cart County this month.”
To not sound like a broken record, I think “wow” rather than say it. But with parades and church functions and dinners and whatever Angel Tree is, her social calendar already resembles a production schedule. This community is quite the hopping place.
“You bake cookies for all these events?”
She nods. “And for some friends and their family events as well.”
I bite off the deer’s other antler and peek out the window. Earl Ed walks by with a baby goat under his arm. When Carla starts to turn that way, I talk to get her attention. I’m sure he doesn’t need any distraction while wrangling goats.
“Your kitchen is lovely. We should have plenty of room to work in here.”
“Thank you. Y’all are welcome to film anywhere in the house. I finished decorating the theater room yesterday.”
My eyes widen. “Theater room?”
She nods. “It’s always the last on my list since I only do simple red and green lighting around the crown molding.”
By the nonchalantness in her voice, you’d think she were talking about something more common, like a family room. Maybe lots of families have home theaters—just none I’ve ever met. Well, except for a few actors.
“How do I need to wear my hair for the show?” Carla smooths her shoulder-length gray hair back.
I smile. She’s very attractive, so I’m certain hair and makeup will appreciate an easy client. “We’ll have someone to do all that, and to help pick out your wardrobe.” My eyes fall to her waist. “Though I’m sure they will love that Christmas apron.”
She runs a hand down the cartoon gingerbread people spread across her lap and smiles. “Thanks. My sister-in-law and I picked this up at the flea market last year.”
I find it oddly refreshing that she shops at a flea market. Although judging from her home, the bargain shopping stops at clothes—possibly even aprons.
We chat about how she started baking cookies as a hobby, which morphed into a side business, then her main business. She gives away almost as much as she sells, especially this time of year. Even with baking for every occasion, Christmas is still her favorite.
A slight bitterness rises in me when she goes on about all the family traditions and teaching her daughter and Earl Ed to bake cookies for Santa. If we were home on Christmas Eve, my mother would tell me to leave Santa a Snickers and one of her Weight Watcher shakes. I guess she didn’t want to bother with making anything, and it made sense to put out something she planned on eating anyway.
Now I’m a jaded woman in her early thirties caught in a trap of directing magical Christmas movies. I argued that nobody lived like those scripts with happy family gatherings and Christmas carols. But if anyone does, it’s got to be Carla Mayberry.
