Baby, Don't Go

“Of course not.”

“Won’t that be a problem when you provide your social security number?”

“I’ll figure out something to stall the paperwork.”

“No doubt. Have you met any of the Neanderthals?”

“I’m working for the head Neanderthal, Marcus Armstrong.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He’s overhauling the diner for an inspection from the Department of Energy. It has something to do with recycling and keeping their federal grant.”

“And is he horrid?”

Alicia turned back to the window and glanced down into the street. Marcus Armstrong was still there, talking to a young boy in a soccer uniform, and the man was…smiling? “He’s…hard to read,” she murmured.

“What’s your general feel of the place?”

She looked back to horizon. “I know I could never live here.”

“Are the conditions primitive?”

“There aren’t many luxuries for sure. But it’s just so isolated. The town is surrounded by mountains. It feels like civilization is far, far away.”

“So do you think something interesting is going on there?”

Alicia turned and picked up a sheet of paper that listed the resident rules, chief of which was no overnight male guests. Protective…or controlling? “Yes, I’m just not sure what to make of it all yet.”

“Okay, keep me posted.”

Alicia disconnected the call and looked back to the street. Marcus Armstrong was alone again, hands jammed on his hips, that perennial frown back on his face. He glanced up and down the sidewalks, as if to assess the town and its people. Tall and authoritative, he looked every inch the head of the community… a throwback to an earlier time, when a whole town could be held in one person’s hands.

But what exactly did he have in mind for this one?

He looked up in the direction of her window and Alicia shrank back, her heart pounding. Even at this distance, he had the ability to make her feel as if he could see through her, as if he knew she was here under false pretenses. She blamed it on his mesmerizing blue eyes.

When she chanced another glance, he was walking away, his head and shoulders back. She watched his big body until he was out of sight.

Alicia bit into her lip. Marcus Armstrong seemed like an intelligent man. She was going to be disappointed if she discovered he was unstable, or some kind of religious zealot. The town didn’t have a church, but she’d noticed postings downstairs about “services” on Sunday in the great room. While she wasn’t a particularly religious person, she planned to attend to make sure nothing kinky was going on. Because something strange had to be going on. A town where the women and children lived in a boardinghouse and the men lived in barracks and a water tower supplied hot showers and the General Store sold live bait and haircuts were five dollars and everyone honked and waved…well, that was just… crazy. Wasn’t it?

Alicia sat down and booted up her notebook computer, then opened a new file and began to type. Undercover Feminist by Alicia Randall

A little more than a year ago, the Armstrong brothers, ex-military men, banded together to rebuild their hometown in the North Georgia mountains. Sweetness, Georgia was a tiny map dot decimated by an F-5 tornado just over ten years ago. The Armstrongs secured a federal grant to rebuild the town on the platform of recycling and alternative energy and set about reconstructing Sweetness. But to attract women to their fledgling remote town, they took the novel approach of placing an ad in a newspaper in economically depressed Broadway, Michigan, for women with a “pioneering spirit” looking for a fresh start. The ad promised lots of single, Southern men, although it wasn’t clear what was expected of the women in return. I decided to go undercover in Sweetness to see how the matchmaking and town-building experiment is working.

When I drove into town in a borrowed pickup truck, I felt as if I’d gone back in time fifty years. A covered bridge over a picturesque stream welcomed me to the outskirts of town. A water tower straight out of the movies stands watch over visitors driving in. The drivers of cars I passed honked and waved, as if we were old friends. In my mind I could see someone phoning someone else that they’d just spotted a stranger driving into town and to pass the word.

At first glance, the town looks like a movie set. The hair salon, for example, is named simply Hair Salon. But at second glance…well, the town still seems to be out of some zombie movie plot because I soon learned that the men and women don’t live together. The women and children live in a boardinghouse, and the men live in a barracks reminiscent of a military facility. And strangely, no one seems to think the living arrangements are odd. Methinks I will stay awhile and investigate further.

I walked into the town diner carrying a help-wanted sign and walked out with a job as manager. I figure it will give me the opportunity to meet some of the women who came to Sweetness in search of a new life, and find out if the experience has been all they expected it to be. The bonus? My boss is one of the Armstrong brothers—the eldest, in fact, and he appears to be the de facto leader of the community. He’s an imposing figure, single and about as approachable as a grizzly bear. I’ve been told that “he doesn’t like women.” (Although he’s infinitely straight.) In between slinging hash and dishing up apple pie, I hope to gain some insight into what he has in mind for the town, and what part he sees women playing in the future of Sweetness. Stay tuned…

8

“Still waiting on bacon!” Sheila shouted toward the grill.

Marcus flagged that he’d heard her, then turned a half dozen fried eggs and glanced around for Alicia Waters, his alleged cook. She stood at the opposite end of the counter chatting with Susan Sosa. Irritation ballooned in his chest—the woman seemed more interested in talking to the customers than tending the grill. Considering that she’d already caught a stack of menus on fire this morning, he was inclined to let her float around chinwagging, but his skills gained in KP duty in the Marines were limited, and he was falling more and more behind.

“Alicia!”

She looked over and he bit down on the inside of his cheek. When would those enormous brown eyes stop sending a jolt through his system?

“I could use some help over here.”

She held up a well-manicured finger. “I’ll be right there.”

A waitress named Terri scooted past him with a coffeepot. “Are the biscuits done?”

Marcus peeked into the oven to find it empty. Damn—he’d forgotten to put them in. “Not yet.”

A third waitress named Gina walked up and extended a half-empty plate of food. “The guy at table six said his steak was too well-done—he ordered medium rare.”

Marcus noticed it hadn’t kept the man from eating half of the T-bone. He tamped down his frustration and glanced toward the cook-wanted sign in the window. “Gina, can you cook?”

“No,” she said definitively.

“Do you know anyone who can?”

“No.”

He frowned. “Somebody in this town must cook—what does everyone eat at the boardinghouse?”

“Mac and cheese, frozen dinners, pizza and Crock-Pot stuff.” She gestured to the crowded tables. “Why do you think this place is so packed, especially now that everyone knows it’s under new management?”

He grunted.

“Still waiting for bacon!” Sheila called.

“And the biscuits,” Terri added.

“What about the steak?” Gina asked.

He massaged the bridge of his nose. “I’ll fix another one.” This time, he’d leave it bleeding.

He sent another glance toward Alicia, only to find the woman bent over retrieving a pen from the floor. He hardened his jaw. She wore a pair of red shorts that were too short, in his opinion, no matter how nicely they hugged her derriere. And who wore high-heeled sandals to work in? Sure, they made her long legs look great, but they weren’t very practical. And thank goodness the apron she wore covered the T-shirt that was tight enough to remind him of the display he’d seen yesterday at the creek.

As if he needed a reminder.

The images had kept him awake most of the night, grinding his teeth against his body’s reaction.