“Everybody needs a hobby.” Hildy turned around like she might need to consult the signage for directions, but there was only one exit. “Ready to hit the road?”
“Among other things.” Putting her back into it, Jean managed to roll their heavy luggage cart out the door.
Hildy insisted on driving, to help Jean get into the pampered-guest mindset.
Jean rolled down her window as Hildy threw the Jeep into reverse. “We might as well enjoy ourselves while we’re here. My sources tell me the Pikes are going all out. Get Piked!” She lifted one hand from the steering wheel to shoot a finger gun at Jean.
“What?”
“That’s the theme of the weekend. A little crass for what they’re trying to do but—” She broke off, wincing at Jean’s expression. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. Since you’ve already been Piked. As it were.” There was a hopeful pause, on the off chance Jean wanted to provide graphic details.
“Anyway,” Hildy continued, raising her voice as they merged onto the highway, wind rattling through the vehicle, “as I was saying, this smells like a major image overhaul. The Pike’s brewing brand is all about selling traditional middle Americana, right? It’s been around forever, it doesn’t taste like ass, but it’s not too uppity either. Only with the way the industry’s trending the last five or ten years, it’s all about consolidation. The big companies eating up the little guys, and then they have a stranglehold on distribution, which means you’re SOL trying to go it alone. Same thing that’s been happening in the media world. On top of which, beer sales are down across the board. You’ve got your hard seltzers, your mocktails, all the vodka-drinking keto warriors.” Hildy shook her head. “Not a good time to be peddling what is essentially a bottle of carbs. Makes sense they’re looking for a sugar daddy. Or mama.”
Jean stared at her.
“What?” Hildy self-consciously tucked a flyaway curl behind her ear.
“How do you know this stuff?”
“I have like seven-eighths of a business degree. Not to mention the ungodly number of executive dinners I had to sit through in my childhood. They thought I was there for the Shirley Temples, but no. I was soaking that shit up.”
“What’s the sugar mama part?”
“Based on the guest list, either they’re looking to sell outright or take on a silent partner. Very different optics, obviously. And the price point is going to depend on how much the Pike’s name is worth, as a legacy brand, so they’re going to push the ‘we’ve been around for a century’ narrative hard. Ideal scenario for Charlie boy is a bidding war. If they have interest from Toho, they can use that to leverage a higher offer from Koskinen, and so on.” She slid Jean an assessing look. “Those are beverage companies.”
“I got that from the context.”
“Toho is Japanese and Koskinen is Finnish. Whiskey and vodka, respectively. Though I guess it’s not essential that you know that. You can always play the bored little rich girl card.” Hildy pressed a palm to her cheek, eyes going wide and doll-like. “I don’t know where the money comes from,” she cooed. “I just like spending it.”
Jean considered whether vapid was within her dramatic range. She’d been planning to skew a little closer to type: hard-bitten and surly young woman with a past. Hildy hadn’t shared a lot of details about Jean’s borrowed identity, but then again, Jean hadn’t asked. A red haze had settled over her brain, like when you come home from a long shift so hungry you inhale everything in your path, not thinking beyond the urgency of the moment. Olives and off-brand Nutella? Why not!
“Just get me in the door,” she’d told Hildy, like she was ordering at a drive-through. Fetch me an opportunity, an identity, and all the necessary accoutrements. And make it snappy!
All Jean knew was that an invite had been arranged for a distant acquaintance of Hildy’s around Jean’s age who happened to be related to a booze magnate with a silly nickname. Abracadabra, instant cover story.
“Am I supposed to be an airhead?” Jean asked.
“Does it matter? People love feeling superior, so playing downto expectations is a safe bet. You show them youth and attitude, they’ll swallow the story.”
“I have attitude.”
“In spades,” Hildy agreed.
“And you’re sure I don’t need a wig?”
“I doubt anybody there could pick Sockless Tommy’s niece out of a lineup. She’s just another ornamental female.” Hildy glanced in the rearview mirror before changing lanes. “You’re not losing your nerve, are you?”
“Who, me? No way. I’ve got this. It’s classic sleight of hand. I make them see what I want them to see.” It was way more punk rock waltzing in there looking exactly the same, minus the resort uniform. She cracked her knuckles. “I dare him to tell them who I am.”
“And if he does?”
“I have something planned. Don’t worry.”
It was clear from the twist of Hildy’s lips that she was, in fact, worrying. “It’s not an accent though, right?”
Jean opted to overlook the lack of confidence. Some of her earlier accent work had relied more on vibes than technique, but surely that was the point. Creating an atmosphere, setting the mood, etcetera. “It’s notonlyan accent.”
The hum of the tires grew louder. Either they’d hit a rough stretch of asphalt or the silence from the driver’s seat was intensifying.
