Page 1 of Bless This Hot Mess

Chapter 1

Lost in aLopsided Triangle

Greater Napanee wasn’t exactly known for producing stars, but the talent show’s participants had faith, and faith, like denim, never went out of style.

It was a blistering day in Greater Napanee, the kind of day that made the dust on the fairgrounds cling to the skin like guilt after a second helping of potato salad at the church potluck. The town had gathered for the1999 Not Short on Talenttalent show, hosted by their one (and only) radio station, WWJD.

Backstage, Rebekkah adjusted the strap of her denim jumper, her wide green eyes gleaming with determination. She looked at her partner, Japheth, who was fiddling with the collar of his denim jacket, his Hollywood-caliber good looks somewhat wasted on a town like Greater Napanee. His soft brown eyes, framed by lashes that any mascara company would kill for, were filled with the kind of nervous energy that usually preceded an impromptu Bible trivia challenge. The moment Rebekkah and Japheth heard the words radioshow and Kia Rio in the same sentence, they knew the Lord was calling them to enter the competition.

“La, la, la, laaaa,” Rebekkah sang, her voice climbing up the scale like it was racing toward salvation. Her flaming red hair was knotted in a side ponytail, and it bounced in silent approval and appreciation of her flawless arpeggios.

“See, saw, see, saw, soooo!” Japheth responded, his deep voice rolling out like warm maple syrup drizzled over a stack of hotcakes at a sugar shack in the rolling hills of the Land O’Lakes region where Greater Napanee was nestled. He placed a hand on his naked chest and rubbed it back and forth, revealing the dark curlies of his chest hair between the lapels of the open jean jacket.

Rebekkah stopped singing, placed her hands on her hips, and fixed Japheth with a look. “Japheth, today our lives are about to change.”

He tilted his head, grinning despite himself, “Ifwe win…”

“Whenwe win,” Rebekkah corrected, her confidence unshakable. “When we win, we’ll have a weekly hour on the radio…”

“Leading to fame,” Japheth added, his smile growing. “And bringing non-believers to know Jesus.”

“And-AND-sharing a Kia Rio! Eeee!” Rebekkah squealed, clapping her hands together like she’d just been cast as the Virgin Mary in the nativity play and not a braying donkey (which was the more compromising but accurate account of her CV).

Japheth’s grin faltered as the reality of the situation settled in. “But if wedon’twin … I mean it Rebekkah, there’s a real chance we won’t, and I think we need to be honest about what happens if it all falls apart.”

Rebekkah shot him a glare, “Whenwe win, we stay here, in Greater Napanee, because that’s a sign from God and we goon singing and celebrating the Lord and bringing people to church who won’t have to take the bus anymore because we’ll be able to pick up at least three of them in our new five-door Kia Rio! And soon, word of our win will make its way to the big city and then … andthenwe’ll likely get a call from Carson Daly to be onTotal Request Liveand from there, it’s music videos,Cribstours, and a whole lot of salvation.”

“But if we don’t win…” Japheth interrupted, as he tied his jazz shoes for the sixteenth time just to be sure the laces were trip proof.

“Well, that’s a sign, too. We retire from music and go back to slinging drumsticks at Saddles ‘n’ Spurs Fried Chicken. We leave the music industry for good.” Rebekkah sounded more confident than she truly felt about potentially not winning but she pressed on in her conviction, “We leave the singing to the angels.”

Japheth groaned, running his hand through his perfectly tousled hair, the Sun-In blonde streaks adding a luminous halo of curls around his tan complexion, like he was Apollo himself; dipped down to earth on a dare to put literal God given talent up against mere mortal ambition.

“I can’t. I seriously can’t, Rebekkah. Look at me.” He gestured dramatically to his face, “Is this the face of someone serving jalapeño-infused chicken wings? Or is this the face of someone destined for the radio?”

The polite applause of the talent show audience interrupted their backstage banter, and the voice of the WWJD radio DJ moonlighting as a talent show host echoed through the fairgrounds. On the small makeshift stage, the radio DJ tapped the microphone. It screeched in protest, silencing the chattering audience of sunburned teenagers, bored parents, and hopeful performers.

“Goooood afternoon, Greater Napanee and the LandO’Lakes region!” His voice boomed with the enthusiasm of a man who once dreamed of bigger markets than this. “Welcome to the1999 Not Short on Talenttalent show presented by your favourite local radio station, WWJD. Let’s take a moment to consider, whatwouldJesus do if He was here today? How wouldHeprogram our new morning show? And what kind of miracle would that woolly-chested woodworker wow us with?”

A voice from the crowd, somewhere near the cotton candy stall, yelled, “He is here with us!”

“Turn my root beer into real beer!” One of the sunburned teens shouted.

The DJ chuckled, undeterred, “That’s the spirit, Greater Napanee! Heishere, indeed! And I think they’re serving Pure Hoppiness draught from Napanee Brewery right beside the hotdog stand, so look at that, miracles do happen! What a show we’ve got lined up for you today. I hope you’ve got your popcorn, courtesy of Smyth Optometry and Sons, though you don’t need 20/20 vision to see the amazing talent we’ve got lined up for you!”

The DJ paused dramatically, casting a glance toward the judging table. There sat three Napanee elites, decked out in their Sunday best. First up was Jonas Smyth, of Smyth Optometry and Sons, a man of about fifty, bespectacled and sporting a tired corduroy suit that looked like it had been in style sometime during the Trudeau administration—the first term, and Pierre-Elliot’s, not Justin’s. His hair was thinning, and his large-framed glasses sat perched on a nose that had seen one too many allergy seasons.

Next to him sat Emma-Lou Burns, looking every bit like the small-town royalty she was. Her hair, big and blonde, sat high on her head, teased within an inch of its life. She looked like Dolly Parton had fallen into a vat of hairsprayand risen again, born anew. At 30, Emma-Lou was the current interim director of WWJD, and her sky-blue floral dress clung tightly to her frame, as if it too was on the edge of its seat in anticipation for the talent about to take the stage.

And then, of course, there was Rino Ferrari, a 36-year-young stud from an old Italian Canadian family, built with a recipe generous with specific ingredients–swarthy muscle, disarming charm, and persuasive swagger. His brawny frame stretched the fabric of his tight black button-down shirt, while his olive-toned skin glistened under the sun. His dark hair, thick and slightly unruly, paired perfectly with his unshaven jawline. He was a man who could talk his way into (or out of) anything, whether it was trouble or someone’s pants, and the glint in his brown eyes said he knew it.

“Let’s give a warm round of applause for our esteemed judges!” the DJ called, clapping along with the crowd as Jonas gave a half-hearted wave, Emma-Lou nodded graciously, and Rino winked at an imaginary camera. The DJ grinned, soaking in the applause, “Just a reminder folks, the winner of the WWJD1999 Not Short on Talenttalent show will walk away with… drumroll, please… a brand new 1999 Kia Rio from the Ferrari Family Dealership!”

The crowd oohed and aahed on cue, as the DJ continued, “And not only that, but the winner will also get their very own weekly radio hour on WWJD!” More applause followed, albeit with a little less enthusiasm for the radio slot than the Kia Rio.

“Our first act,” the DJ announced, “is Ronald Martinez! He’ll be performing a tribute to the Harlem Globetrotters with a routine he calls,Not Short Where It Counts!”

The rhythmic dribbling of a basketball began to echo as Ronald took the stage, and the crowd clapped politely, thoughit was clear their minds were already imagining who would win the Kia Rio.