Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani) (6 page)

O
n the drive
back to the office, Jen thought about her ballsy neighbor. He really was like no one she’d ever met before. She’d revised her opinion of him. Sure, he came off as cocky, self-centered and more than a tad selfish, but he did have a wicked sense of humor and held his own with her.
Single-minded
would be the word she used to describe him.

Jen had decided that his being in “communications” meant he was a stand-up comic or possibly an actor. She also realized she didn’t know what Trestin’s last name was and had forgotten to ask. Drat! She
should have gotten a business card from him. Days ago she’d tried looking for a name on his mailbox, but like her, he’d requested the label be left blank.

After parking her car, she rushed into the building. Why was Luis so bent out of shape about her leaving the office? He’d never paid much attention to her comings and goings before. It wasn’t like she’d just disappeared. She’d sent him an e-mail, copying the world that she would be taking an extended lunch.

Chere intercepted her on the way to see Luis. She waved fire-engine-red talons with rhinestones in a rainbow of colors, in the direction of their boss’s office.

“They’re in there. All the bigwigs. They’ve been at it a while.”

Jen spotted Luis, assorted department heads, and a tall silver-haired man who looked like he was pushing eighty if he was a day, through Luis’s glass walls.

“Who’s he?” Jen asked, inclining her head slightly in the direction of where the men gathered.

“Ian Pendergrass, the publisher of
The Flamingo Chronicle.
My old man.” Chere put a cupped hand to her mouth and pretended to cough. “My ex,” she whispered.

So the rumors were true. Now was not the time to ask.

“Better
go. They’re waiting,” Chere said.

What could this mean? Jen was still preoccupied when she entered Luis’s office. It had to be big for all these busy people to stop everything they were doing and gather here. She couldn’t imagine she was being fired. Luis would not need a committee present to say what he had to say.

“There you are,” Luis greeted her as she stuck her head through the open doorway. “And about time.” Noticeably absent was his unlit cigar. Ian Pendergrass was a man he either respected or feared. Luis waved her in.

The men stood as Jen entered. The sole woman stayed in her chair. “Did I miss a meeting?” Jen asked, her voice upbeat, her demeanor outwardly calm.

Luis cleared his throat. “Yes, you did. Have you met our publisher, Ian Pendergrass?”

He knew damn well she hadn’t. Jen managed a smile as the old man enveloped her hand in a firm grip and held it a second longer than necessary.

“We meet at last,” he said, his warm blue gaze sweeping over her. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

She bet he had.

Ian patted the vacant chair. “Sit.”

As she did so the group resumed their animated discussion as if she didn’t exist.

“It’s
a no-brainer. She’s got to go on the show,” Percy, the circulations manager said emphatically.

“And I say, she shouldn’t. You’ll be throwing her to the wolves and what good will that do?”

“Drive business for one. Have you seen our numbers? We’re having the most profitable quarter in the history of
The Chronicle.
” This came from Percy again.

Jen stayed quiet and listened, trying to grasp what was going on. She was the topic of a heated discussion, that much she knew.

Pendergrass was up and pacing. Despite the high temperatures outside, his lanky frame was encased in a double-breasted blue jacket with the brass buttons buttoned. His light-gray slacks had sharp creases to them. And his tasseled loafers shone. Overall he looked polished and successful as if he’d just stepped off his yacht.

“Luis, we’ve been going round and round about this for some time and you haven’t spoken up,” he said.

Luis darted a look Jen’s way. “Both arguments have merit,” he said. “Jen’s been working on the Sunday column. Our approach is to downplay what was said, maybe even admit we came on too strong.”

She’d never actually agreed to that.

“Luis!”

He
ignored her, continuing, “Then again, that radio DJ’s pretty slick. Jen might get tricked into saying something she didn’t mean.”

Luis as usual was waffling.

“She’s already used the word
queer,
” Ian came back with. “As far as this town’s concerned it doesn’t get much worse than that.” He chuckled.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Jen shouted, bolting to her feet. “Don’t I have a say in any of this? Here you are making decisions for me as if I were an inanimate object.”

“She is a pistol.” Ian’s smile was a mile wide. He crossed his arms. “Luis, since you’re her boss. You should be the one to catch her up.”

Luis Gomez spent another five minutes recounting what had transpired in the short time Jen was gone. The wisecracking WARP DJ had called around until he found someone willing to listen. Someone had put him through to Luis’s office then tracked Ian Pendergrass down on his cell phone and that’s how the impromptu meeting had come about.

“Why are we even entertaining me going on the show?” Jen said more quietly. “I shouldn’t have to defend myself and
The Chronicle
shouldn’t even dignify WARP by responding. Turn on the television and read any major magazine. Today, the gay population
refers to themselves as queer. There’s even a popular television show.”

“I know,” Luis said, his tone designed to smooth things over. “But this is a conservative paper and a conservative town.
The Chronicle’
s sales are up and we need to do whatever it takes to keep this paper selling.”

Even if it meant using her as the sacrificial lamb.
Luis really was a wuss straddling both sides of the fence.

“Yes, we do have to think about sales,” Todd Hirsch, the director of multimedia and new projects interjected. “Distribution is at an all time high this week.
The Southern Tribune’
s watching us closely. They’re scared to death—I even had one of their reporters in looking for a job. Change has been a long time coming to
The Flamingo Beach Chronicle.
The first step was hiring you. We’ve never had an advice columnist before. You’ve earned your salary and some. We’ve made news.”

It was the first time Jen had received any acknowledgment that her contribution to the paper made a difference. Despite the unpleasant nature of the meeting it felt good to be publicly recognized.

Ian tapped the face of his watch. “We need to wrap this up. I have to go. Have we reached a consensus?”

“I say Jen goes on the show.” This came from Todd.

“I
say we don’t bow to pressure,” Eileen Brown, who headed up advertising, and was the only other woman in the room, added.

Jen had been introduced to Eileen briefly. She too was African-American. They’d never said more than “hi” to each other. Now Jen warmed to her, glad to have found a supportive friend amongst the crowd.

“She goes on,” Percy said, giving the nod.

“No she doesn’t.”

And so it went. Finally Ian held his palms up. “Why don’t we wait until after tonight’s broadcast, then make a decision. Chet Rabinowitz could very well make an ass of himself and that will be the end of that.”

“I doubt he will,” Eileen said surprising them. Every head in the room now swiveled in her direction. “Chet is well-spoken and well-regarded and he is the politician’s son. I’ve heard from a good source, his father, the mayor will be a guest on WARP the following night.”

“Solomon Rabinowitz is a guest on the station?” Ian’s facial expression registered incredulity. “The mayor’s not exactly Baby Face or P. Diddy. He’s hardly the type WARP has on. Aren’t they more of an R&B or rap station?”

“The mayor will pander to any crowd at this point,” Percy said sourly.

“Not
just any crowd.” This again came from Eileen. “He’s looking for votes in the upcoming election. Chet is his son and Mayor Rabinowitz’s appearance on the D’Dawg show will send a powerful message. Solomon’s up for election in the next few months and he’s shrewd enough to realize the opposition is young, popular and forward-thinking. The mayor may need the gay and African-American vote to win.”

Everyone began talking at once as the news slowly sank in. When there was a lull in the conversation, all eyes were fixed on Luis.

He began to speak haltingly, “If Mayor Rabinowitz goes on WARP…uh, Jen will have to go on.” Noting Jen’s expression, he held a palm up like a traffic cop. “Not necessarily to defend yourself but to say exactly what you said to me. We might be able to turn this thing around and make the rabble-rousers look silly and uninformed. We can have PR coach you if necessary.”

Jen exchanged a look with Eileen and shook her head.

Ian Pendergrass was pacing, but he slowed down to say, “I’m afraid Luis is right. Jen, my recommendation is to go on the show and maintain your professionalism.”

It
would be useless to protest. The decision had been made for her, but she wasn’t very pleased.

“I’ve got us popcorn, beer, chips, fried chicken and potato salad,” Chere said, opening her apartment door to Jen.

Chere was determined to make it an occasion. She’d invited Jen over to her place to listen to the D’Dawg show. Even though
The Chronicle’
s public relations representative recommended it, Jen hadn’t been looking forward to tuning in to the broadcast. She’d brought with her the bottle of wine she’d planned to share with Tre. Between the wine and Chere, listening might be made bearable. If nothing else Chere would provide running commentary and entertainment.

“This place is so you,” Jen commented, entering.

Chere’s apartment was flamboyant and outrageous just like the zaftig woman herself. A red sofa the size of a small monument took up most of the living room. Zebra toss cushions gave the impression you’d walked into a whorehouse. A large glass table was supported by brass elephant feet. The elephant had red painted toenails. Off to the side was a red-and-white tiled galley kitchen with red appliances.

“You want some of that fancy wine?” Chere asked when Jen was settled on the oversized couch.

“Sure.”

Chere
was dressed for comfort in an outlandish gold kimona and red vampy slippers with pouffed black feathers that swayed in the air-conditioning. She trotted off in the direction of the kitchen and stuck her head in the refrigerator. She removed a six-pack of some brand of beer Jen had never heard of, stacked a box that looked like it came from a fast-food chain on top of the beer, and opened a cupboard door. Chere retrieved a gigantic bag of chips, added it to the lot, grabbed Trestin’s cabernet and hurried back.

“Time to eat,” she said, arranging the goodies on the coffee table and plopping down next to Jen. “We got ten minutes before boyfriend comes on.”

Jen politely sipped on her wine and thought about how to diplomatically tell Chere that all that cholesterol was slowly killing her, and then changed her mind. She nibbled on a chip, her stomach too queasy to ingest that much grease. Chere was already halfway through a meaty chicken breast.

“So you never did tell me what happened at that meeting,” she said through a mouthful of food. “I had to hear from my girls that you agreed to go on the D’Dawg show. That came as a big surprise. Seems to me you sold out.”

“I had no choice,” Jen admitted. “I was ordered to.”

“By
who? Want me to sit on them for you?” Chere joked.

Jen watched Chere closely for a reaction when she said the name, “Ian Pendergrass.”

“Why that dirty low-down…I’ll squash him like the maggot he is.”

Jen wasn’t about to touch that one. “I’m sure he thought it was a good business decision,” she said diplomatically.

By now Chere had worked her way through half the box of chicken. She was spooning large gobs of potato salad that came with the family-sized meal into her mouth. “Mmmm, this is good.”

Jen wisely thought it best to concentrate on her wine and say nothing.

After a while Chere got up and toddled to a black lacquer-and-glass étagère. She flipped the switch on the stereo and fiddled with the knobs until she found WARP.

“This is D’Dawg coming to you live on WARP, the station that rocks.”

“That man’s voice would have me climbing out of my pants double time,” Chere said, longingly.

Chere had finished the chicken and was swigging from a can of beer. Jen decided another glass of wine was definitely in order. She refilled her
glass and took a big gulp. Trestin had superb taste in wine.

The air personality’s voice sounded like liquid velvet. It was deep, sexy and hauntingly familiar. It drew you in. Jen knew if she’d met him she would have remembered.

“How come you don’t know D’Dawg?” she said to Chere.

“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Hard to keep track at times. The girls tell me he pretty much keeps to himself. He’s not one for hanging at the clubs.”

“I would think that’s a good thing.”

Beyoncé was belting out a soulful tune now. On purpose the DJ was dragging things out and the agony was excruciating.

“Our special guest tonight is Chet Rabinowitz,” he finally announced between tunes. “For those of you who don’t know, he’s Mayor Rabinowitz’s son. He’s also the director of Flamingo Beach’s Gay Alliance. Tonight he’s going to tell us what he thinks about
Dear Jenna,
the latest addition to
The Chronicle.
Stay tuned. Things are bound to heat up.”

Another round of tunes gave Jen time to top off her drink. Chere had started in on the chips and was noisily munching. Jen glanced at the clock. “That man is holding out until nine o’clock.”

“What’s
so special about that hour?”

“You’ve got a captive audience. Kids for the most part are in bed. You’re relaxing after dinner.”

“What else do you know about this guy?” Jen asked.

“Only that he’s single and fine,” Chere answered through a mouthful of chips. “He pretty much stays to himself as I mentioned before.”

“Where does he live?”