As Seen on TV Read online

  On the ProBlogger site, I skipped over a listing for a freelance wedding blogger. A passion for weddings was the top requirement, and based on my experience tonight, I hadn’t even mastered the art of the first date. Instead, I kept scrolling until I found a posting by a small business seeking a writer/researcher for a coffee brand. They specifically sought someone with related experience, like a barista. Bingo. I submitted the online application, attaching my writing samples, closed down my computer, and gave Million Dollar Listing my full attention. I’d earned it.

  I figured I’d watch an episode or two before turning in, but the effects of the day wore me down, and I found myself dozing off on the couch still wearing my dress and in full makeup. “Never go to sleep in your makeup!” Okay, Mom! She hadn’t actually said this—tonight anyway—but it was one of the many lessons she’d ingrained in me growing up: the gospel of Valerie Gellar.

  I reluctantly stood to wash my face. It would give me the requisite second wind to finish the episode. The prematurely silver-haired real estate agent Ryan was featured prominently in this one, and I had a little crush. But more than his twinkly gray-blue eyes, it was what his assistant said next that made me forget all about the damaging effects of wearing makeup overnight.

  “Please explain to me what Andrew Hanes sees in the reclusive town of Pleasant Hollow. Didn’t he make his billions developing real estate in New York and LA?”

  I fell back onto the couch and racked my brain for why this dialogue on a reality show struck a familiar chord. I’d never heard of Andrew Hanes or been to Pleasant Hollow. Yet I was riveted. I leaned forward as if it would help me hear better.

  On the screen, Ryan propped his elbows on the granite kitchen island in the apartment he was showing that day—in one of Andrew Hanes’s newest buildings in SoHo. “He follows the money and sees an untapped opportunity in an underdeveloped community. He says the area has been lost in time, completely disregarded for the gem it is.” Ryan went on to explain how Hanes, the real estate mogul who had made much of his money investing in new property in Tribeca during the early aughts, hoped that by building a condo complex in Pleasant Hollow with its own shopping center, restaurant, and gym on the lobby level, he could capitalize on families searching for the luxuries of suburbia with the convenience of being close to New York City. With real estate prices driving people north of Westchester and Rockland Counties, the location of Pleasant Hollow in nearby Orange County was ideal.

  His assistant smirked. “Are you sure you’re not mistaking Hanes’s plans with the plot of a Hallmark movie?”

  My mouth dropped open and I smacked my forehead. No wonder the conversation sounded so familiar. I’d watched the same exact storyline play out on TV a hundred times. I laughed all the way to the bathroom. Good luck, Mr. Hanes. These sorts of business endeavors never worked out for the greedy real estate mogul in the movies.

  I changed my mind about watching more television and went right to bed after a quick shower to wash any remnants of hard candy out of my hair. But I had a restless sleep. I dreamed about walking along Main Street in a sleepy town as snow fell steadily from a star-filled sky. It must have been December, because all the storefronts were decorated with garlands and blinking Christmas lights. My nose wasn’t red and running, my hair was smooth and silky, and although I was barely bundled up, I didn’t feel the cold. The handsome, unmarried mayor asked me to do the honors of lighting the Christmas tree at the annual tree-lighting ceremony, even though I was Jewish.

  From the podium, I was poised to press the button, when I jolted awake. My thoughts immediately flew to Andrew Hanes and whether he had ever followed through on his plans for Pleasant Hollow. It weighed on me as if I had a vested interest, and I needed to know. It was a little before five a.m. when I tiptoed out of my bedroom to avoid waking my mom, brewed a Dunkin’ Donuts French Vanilla K-Cup, and powered up my laptop.

  My first stop was Google. The Million Dollar Listing episode was probably filmed several months in advance, which meant if Andrew Hanes had moved forward with his investment in the town, it would come up among the initial results in a search of his name. The first link was: “Real Estate Tycoon Andrew Hanes to Invest Millions in Remote Upstate New York Town of Pleasant Hollow.” Score! I fist-pumped the air. The article described how Pleasant Hollow, a hamlet with a population of just under two thousand, had been almost completely overshadowed by the higher-profile and larger neighboring towns of Middletown, Newburgh, Monroe, and Goshen for decades until Hanes announced his interest.

  I took a sip of my coffee and kept reading. According to the piece, Hanes had already purchased a large plot of unoccupied land in the town and was currently finalizing architectural and engineering plans for a combination condo/rental complex he was calling “The Hollows.” From there, I went to the Wikipedia page for Pleasant Hollow, then clicked on all the reference links at the bottom. Based on the pictures online, it looked exactly like what one would expect from a small town. The majority of the businesses—a hardware store, nail salon, bookstore, diner, etc.—were located along Main Street, and there was a town square and a park that ran along the Hudson River. Pleasant Hollow’s biggest claim to fame was a ballerina who was born and raised there, and a statue in the park had been erected in her honor. A brewery run by two brothers overlooked the river, and a pizza place housing a forty-year-old brick oven from Italy was the culinary spotlight. A pearl of an idea forming in my brain, I took screenshots of all the photos and saved them in a new folder on my computer.

  Two hours later, after unearthing everything I could about Pleasant Hollow without enlisting the help of a shady character with access to the dark web, I veered my attention to Andrew Hanes. I tracked his professional history, saving articles about his previous ventures—Pleasant Hollow being his first in a small town—into the newly created file.

  Finally, I aimed my research at Hallmark movies featuring quaint towns under attack by a big-city developer. In the last few years, movies like Love Struck Café, Under the Autumn Moon, Christmas in Love, and The Story of Us had premiered with viewership numbers between two and four million each.

  My intense concentration drowned out the clunky sound Mom’s boots made as she walked through the living room from her bedroom to the kitchen and back again while she got ready for work. I shooed away her attempts at conversation with apologetic gestures toward my laptop. By the time she bent down to kiss me goodbye on her way out, I had to pee so bad it hurt. But I had an idea for my next story—my big, career-making breakout story.

  Chapter Two

  The Heart of TV in your own backyard.

  Close your eyes and picture a quaint small town. I’ll bet your visual includes a main street lined with family-owned shops and a town square with a park running through it. The locals are happy, perhaps a little set in their ways and quirky, but loyal and devoted to the town, its people, and its traditions. Now imagine this hidden gem threatened by the arrival of a wealthy and powerful businessperson, an outsider bent on wiping out everything that makes it unique.

  It sounds like the plot of a Hallmark movie, doesn’t it? That’s because it is. It’s also a real-life story playing out sixty miles north of New York City. The town is Pleasant Hollow. The intruder is city-based real estate tycoon Andrew Hanes.

  From my uncomfortable wicker chair in the café during my break later that afternoon, for the umpteenth time, I read the next paragraph, in which I’d presented my idea to do a feature on the charming and picturesque town of Pleasant Hollow, its residents, and their reaction to Andrew Hanes and the construction of The Hollows.

  Was Derek reading it right now? He’d only commission me to write it if he saw, like I had, the allure of the feature. I’d stressed the massive appeal to the pop-culture-obsessed readers of Tea. Who could resist the story of a real small town living out a TV plotline?

  Then I’d done the unthinkable. I’d granted him a forty-eight-hour exclusive, threatening to cast a wider net if I didn’t hear from him
by then. Whether the confidence had come from lack of sleep, overcaffeination, or actual belief in the strength of the story was anyone’s guess, but I was too anxious to chance the standard wait time of between one hour and three months to hear back. The article also had an element of urgency to it, given the increased interest in Hallmark movies during the channel’s Countdown to Christmas season. I’d mentioned this specifically to cut off another rejection by DerDick based on “bad timing” if we waited until after the New Year.

  But what if he thought the idea was stupid? I could picture him at his desk, the only person in the open-concept offices of Tea with a door, albeit a glass one. He’d have his legs kicked up in front of him, arms clasped behind his head, shoulders and torso shaking with mirth over a story inspired by the Hallmark Channel.

  I gazed out the window, wishing I could switch places with the little blond girl walking past, holding hands with both her mom and dad. It was a memory I didn’t have. I swallowed down the lump in my throat. Then I glanced at my phone again. Five hours down, forty-three to go. Hurry up, Derek.

  I stood with a sigh. I had eight minutes left of my break, but working was preferable to idle time when my mind was able to conjure up images of Derek laughing at my idea before returning a sugary-sweet yet condescending rejection. Why did I bother? I observed my coworkers scrubbing tables, restocking the prepackaged salads and sandwiches on the shelves, and taking orders for iced coffees and chai lattes. Was this my destiny? The month I had worked at Tea creating content and helping to put out a publication was the best time of my professional life. Would I ever have that again?

  My phone vibrated, announcing an incoming call, and I froze, then grasped the edge of the table for support. I sat back down and answered before registering who it might be. “Hello?”

  “Adina!”

  Derek. My pulse jumped to my throat, and my belly fluttered with nerves. He’d always emailed his passes, never called. It had to mean something. “This is she.” He didn’t need to know that I knew who it was.

  “It’s Derek from Tea, responding to your pitch. About Pleasant Hollow. It has potential. With a few conditions.”

  Another thing about Derek: He almost never talked in sentences more than five words long. But he thought my story had potential!

  “What conditions?” I squeezed my knee to keep it from wobbling.

  “You go to Pleasant Hollow. Stay there. No phone interviews. I want legitimacy.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” If writing the story was an orgasm, a trip to a quaint small town to write it was a multiple.

  “On your dime. No reimbursements. Claim it as a tax deduction. Not my business. Fee on delivery.”

  “Of course.” I said it matter-of-factly as if I had stacks of hundred-dollar bills bursting out of a crammed safe-deposit box in a bank cellar somewhere. I had no such thing. I didn’t even have excess quarters in an old-fashioned piggy bank. But I’d worry about that later. First things first. “What’s your fee?”

  “Twenty-five cents a word.”

  Lowball offer. Even if I didn’t know the going rate for this type of article was anywhere between fifty cents and two dollars a word, I knew DerDick. “Is that your final bid?”

  “It is.”

  I would accept it if I had to, and it took a will of concrete not to shout, “I’m in!” It was a yes after so many nos. But it was worth more than a quarter per word. I was worth more. And for once, I had the power to ask for it. Derek wanted this story. Otherwise he wouldn’t have called me, and so fast.

  “Let me think about it. Given the out-of-pocket expenses, twenty-five cents a word might not make it worth my while. A few other editors are on deck.” My body shook like a tree in a hurricane at my bluff. Thank God this wasn’t a video call.

  “I’ll double it. Fifty cents a word. It’s a story. Not an epic novel. Remember that.”

  I gasped. It had worked. “You’ve got a deal,” I said calmly, while gripping the bottom of my chair with my free hand to keep my butt planted firmly in place. I ached to do a victory dance, but I’d worked too hard at appearing poised and collected to break character now.

  “You’ve got fire in your belly, Gellar. Usually, I can’t get my writers to go north of 125th Street for a story, much less upstate New York!” He cackled.

  Now wasn’t the time to confess that leaving the city was part of the appeal. He might renege on the agreed-upon fee, claiming the story was just an impetus for a much-needed break from the city that never slept. I could practically hear him say, Technically, I’m doing you a favor. I took a calming breath. “When do you want it?”

  “How’s three weeks?”

  I blinked. Things were moving faster than I’d anticipated. Then again, I hadn’t anticipated anything beyond Derek wanting the story. This time the day before, I was cautiously optimistic about a first date. It felt less like twenty-four hours and more like twenty-four years. “That’s…um…soon.” I rolled my eyes. Bye-bye, confident lion. Hello, skittish mouse.

  “It should coincide with peak holiday movie season.” He paused. “Unless you’re not up for it.”

  My body went rigid. “Three weeks is fine.” How would I get there? Where would I stay? “Totally doable.”

  “A staff position is opening in the New Year. Impress me, and it can be yours.”

  I heard his words like an all-caps text message: A FULL-TIME STAFF POSITION. I wanted it. Oh, I wanted it bad. “Prepare to be impressed.”

  Chapter Three

  Your Uber will be here in five minutes!” Mom yelled from the kitchen a week later.

  “Finally!” What sucked about packing the night before a trip was having nothing to do but wait in the minutes before departure. My phone, e-reader, and laptop were already tucked away in my backpack, and I didn’t want to risk losing the charge in case there was traffic on the Thruway. Who knew if the bus had outlets? With zero distractions, I’d spent the last half hour pacing the wood floor from one wall of the living room across the Bohemian area rug in the center to the window overlooking the park—known to the residents of our multi-building complex as “the Oval”—and back.

  But the wait was almost over. Just in time for the nerves to kick in. Was I really doing this?

  I shielded my eyes against the sun shining through the window. “Did you ever return my sunglasses?”

  Mom had borrowed them to run an errand weeks ago. I hadn’t said anything because I’d “borrowed” the fuzzy purple hoodie now packed in my suitcase.

  “Oops. Sorry! They’re on my desk. But hurry!”

  “Relax!” It wasn’t going to take four minutes to grab my sunglasses. Still, I jogged the fifty feet to her room, finding the oversized white heart-shaped sunglasses where she said they’d be.

  Having what I came for, I turned on my heel to leave the room, when a document caught my eye. It had the letterhead of our apartment’s management company. Without thinking, I read it. My heart rate quickened with each word.

  When the apartment complex was first built in the mid-twentieth century, it was meant to provide affordable housing for war veterans and had remained rent-stabilized for decades. After it was sold to a real estate conglomerate in recent years, the majority of the apartments were rented at current market rates. Until now, we’d escaped the rent hikes. It seemed our luck had run out. According to this letter, we’d be losing our rent-stabilized status with our next lease, because we no longer met the economic qualifications, and upgrades to the common areas had increased the value of the unit. We could either sign a new lease for market price or vacate.

  A cold sweat crept up my neck. There was no way my mom could (or should) handle the increase on her own. She made decent money, but rent already ate up most of what she brought home.

  I sat on the edge of her queen-size bed and buried my head in my hands. When I’d expressed anxiety over the financial investment staying in Pleasant Hollow for a week would entail, she offered to pay half. She then dragged me int
o her bedroom and pointed at my framed first publishing credit in Jack and Jill magazine, a publication geared toward children I’d discovered at my pediatrician’s office. Her eyes lit up when she recalled how thrilled I’d been at ten years old when my story about the kid-led booths at our neighborhood’s farmers’ market had won the reader content competition. She insisted that if the Pleasant Hollow story led to a full-time job where I’d be that happy on a daily basis, it would be worth every cent. I’d searched for the strength to turn her down and mean it, but it didn’t come.

  And the whole time, she’d been hiding a major spike in our rent. My mom had been supporting me my whole life. One could argue it was her job as my mother, but when was it time to say enough was enough? If not at the age of twenty-five, then when? Derek had said I had a fire in my belly, but in terms of making a real living as a journalist, it was more of a low simmer because of the comfortable nest Mom provided. I’d taken advantage of her “mom-ness” for too long. It was time to grow up.

  “Adi!”

  I dropped my hands to my sides. “Coming.”

  I stood with renewed determination to write the shit out of this story and snag that full-time staff position at Tea. Then I would insist on chipping in on the increased rent so we could stay in our beloved home. Or I could move out—on my own or with a roommate—so my mother could find an affordable one-bedroom apartment and live by herself for the first time in her adult life.

  Chapter Four

  When the ShortLine bus arrived at the terminal in Newburgh—the closest stop to Pleasant Hollow—I tried to contain my excitement while waiting for my Uber. I shivered in my military jacket, unsure whether it was due to an actual drop in temperature or anxiety about my impending adventure.