Chapter 1
“Is Blake Chamberlain the one with the tiny penis?”
This. This was just one of a million reasons why Ivy Hudson hadn’t stepped foot into her hometown of Rosewood, Alabama, for nearly six years. Standing in her mother’s beauty salon, Ivy wished to God she could disappear.
“Dotty!” Francine Doyle chastised from under the hair dryer, but the other women in the salon just snickered into their hands.
Dorothy Baker was oblivious to the horrified expressions of the five other women around her. Miss Dotty always said whatever she thought, however inappropriate it might be. Her family told people that she’d had a stroke a few years back that eliminated her polite southern filter, but Ivy suspected that Miss Dotty was just old and opinionated and didn’t care what people thought anymore.
She wished she was the same way. Then maybe she could ignore the whispers in the nightclubs, the cruel media coverage of her latest breakup, and the music critics that said her shtick was played out. Kevin, her manager, must agree, because he’d practically forced her back to Rosewood to reinvent herself. Ivy went along with it because Kevin Lynch was a star-maker and she was damn lucky to have him looking after her career. Singers either took his advice or ended up in musical revues on cruise ships.
That didn’t mean she had to like it, though.
Coming off a scandal that had damaged her image as the sweet but unlucky-in-love singer, Ivy supposed it was fate. She needed Rosewood and Rosewood needed her. When Kevin had been contacted about Ivy coming to Rosewood to help raise money to rebuild the high school gymnasium and football stadium—destroyed in a tornado earlier this year—her manager saw it as a feel-good opportunity that could garner her some positive press, get her away from the swarming paparazzi, and save her music career.
At the moment, she’d happily play Maria in West Side Story on rough seas to escape this uncomfortable discussion. Like in any small town, the salon was the center of gossip, and if her mother, Sarah, didn’t own it, she wouldn’t dare step inside. Curls was one of the few safe havens for Ivy. The gossipmongers would have to go elsewhere to whisper behind Ivy’s back for fear that Sarah might turn their hair bright blue. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop them from just asking her flat out about Blake.
Ivy had been in Rosewood for exactly seven minutes, and it only took three of those for Blake to come up in conversation. If she’d had her way, she would’ve just gone straight to her parents’ lake cabin, avoiding everyone for as long as possible, but her mother was using the keys as bait to lure her into the shop. In a town like Rosewood, her dad could’ve just left the cabin unlocked for her, but oh no . . . she had to come get the keys.
That meant she finally had to face what she’d done to the great Blake Chamberlain. The song that launched her career had been written about him after their tumultuous breakup, and it wasn’t the most flattering. The title, “Size Matters,” pretty much summed it up. She’d discussed the subject at length in interviews for magazines and television shows, but she hadn’t had to face the people at home who knew Blake. She also hadn’t faced Blake himself.
Of course, if Blake had been so concerned about his reputation, he shouldn’t have stuck his tongue down that cheerleader’s throat.
“What?” Miss Dotty asked, her hair wrapped in foil. “I’ve heard the song. Everyone’s heard it. I figured if anyone knew the truth, it would be Ivy.”
“That’s not what the song is really about,” Ivy tried to explain for the millionth time. “It’s just what it sounds like.”
A part of Ivy expected a crowd to be gathered in the town square, torches and pitchforks at the ready for the moment she arrived. Her recent breakup with teen idol Sterling Marshall and the backlash that followed was nothing compared to what had happened with Blake. Kevin just didn’t get it. Her manager had never lived in a small town like Rosewood. He could never understand what these people were like. She’d not only abandoned them all to become a rock star, she’d insulted a Chamberlain. The Chamberlain family practically owned the town. It had been named after one of the Chamberlain girls. The place was built on land they’d deeded over from their plantation on Willow Lake.
Blake had been the high school quarterback who took the team to the state championships. He’d gotten a full-ride scholarship to play football at Auburn and led an undefeated regular season as a junior. Terms usually associated with Blake had included “Heisman,” “bowl game,” and “first-round draft pick.” Ivy had been kind enough to add “emasculated” and “laughingstock” to the list.
She’d turned the town golden boy into a joke and made a career out of it. Blake wasn’t the only man she had used as inspiration for her songs, but her first hit, the one she would always be known for, had the entire country singing along about the woes of an underwhelmed woman. Payback’s a bitch.
Pepper Anthony, her mother’s only employee, had just finished cutting Vera Reynolds’s hair when she spoke up. “I know Lydia Whittaker was gloating a few weeks back at Bunco that the song was all wrong and Blake was a big, hangin’ man,” she said, shaking her head and making the flame-red curls of her hair dance around her pale face. “It was a little uncomfortable for everyone. Of course, Lydia is happiest when everyone around her is uncomfortable.”
Ivy curled her hands into tight fists at her side, digging the keys to her rental car painfully into her palms. She didn’t want to appear outwardly jealous—Blake hadn’t been hers for a very long time—but the thought of him with the wicked Lydia Whittaker set her blood to boiling. As teenagers, she and Lydia had been mortal enemies. Lydia had made her life hell all through school, and when Ivy and Blake became an item her sophomore year, Lydia had doubled her efforts. She’d always thought Ivy wasn’t good enough for Blake. She’d wanted him for herself. And now, it appeared as though she’d succeeded.
“Well,” Ivy said with a nervous chuckle, “I hope she enjoys it while it lasts. Knowing Blake, he’s probably hangin’ in someone else’s bedroom by now.”
The ladies in the salon twittered with laughter once again.
“That boy does know how to turn on the charm,” Miss Vera said. “The single women around town have been
falling all over themselves to catch his eye since he moved back. I see him out and about with a different woman every month or so. Pretty soon, he’s going to run out of prospects. If I was thirty years younger . . .”
“He’s a flirt like his daddy,” Miss Francine confided with a disapproving frown. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more than just the six Chamberlain kids we know about. Norman Chamberlain couldn’t keep it in his pants. I know because every time Helen caught him, he’d order a big bouquet of flowers from my shop. Not enough to make up for it, if you ask me, but I wasn’t going to turn away his money. He was a bit of a rascal. Like father like son, I’m sorry to say, Ivy.”
“Now where were you and this little insight when Blake and my daughter were dating for all those years?” Sarah asked, her hands planted on her hips.
“Well, I was hoping I was wrong,” Miss Francine said. She tossed her magazine onto the seat beside her. “But even if I had said it, no one would’ve believed me. The Chamberlains’ toilet is gold-plated and their shit smells like my finest roses.”