Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani) (9 page)

“Y
eah,” Jen
crooned, dancing a little jig. “I’ve got the mayor on my side, that’s got to count for something.”

Tonight she’d accepted Eileen Brown, the advertising manager’s invitation to come over to her place. Jen had agreed because it was time she got to know more people, especially people she had something in common with. As entertaining as Chere was, the two came from different social backgrounds, and had unrelated goals.

“Yes, it helps to have Solomon on your side,” Eileen
answered. “He is old-school and well-connected. And he still carries some clout in this town.”

“I was under the impression he was facing stiff opposition in the upcoming election.”

“True. Miriam Young is a fairly recent transplant. She moved up from Miami about four or five years ago. She’s a single parent, in her forties, who has made a point of staying in touch with the people. She recognizes the problems and shortcomings of a small town and she’s youthful enough, optimistic enough, and energetic enough to want to fix them. She’s not above canvassing door to door and in fact already has.”

“It sounds like she stands behind what she’s been saying. She’s about the people and for the people.”

“Exactly, while Solomon is out for himself.”

“You must know him well.”

“I do.” Eileen’s fingers smoothed the crevices on both sides of her mouth. She’d told Jen she’d returned to Flamingo Beach after a bout abroad to marry her high school sweetheart. She was also in her late forties.

“When you’re born and raised in this town,” Eileen continued, “you know pretty much everything there is to know about everyone. I left briefly to go away to college, and then I lived in Paris for a while, but
nothing really changes in these small towns. The players stay the same…”

Jen held up a hand silencing her. “He’s back on the air. That mouthy DJ’s now taking questions. Do you know him? Is he always this way? Cocky, pushy and pursuing his own agenda?”

“Actually he’s a pretty nice guy.”

“Shhh, here comes the first question.”

The woman who called in wanted to know if things were so boring in the town, that a comment made by an advice columnist could keep folks glued to their radios.

This voice of reason was hustled off the air and the next call taken. The man who clearly had an axe to grind was given more time. He was gruff and uneducated and took the conversation in a totally different direction. When he began quoting scriptures out of context, supporting his homophobic position, Jen rolled her eyes.

It was the third caller who got to her. She professed to be a friend of Ms. Mabel’s and was calling in on the mother’s behalf.

“Ms. Mabel’s a friend of mine,” she said. “She thought
Dear Jenna
gave great advice. She’s put an ad on Café Singles. You won’t believe the responses she’s gotten. Let it be known Ms. Mabel has no issue with the columnist. So you people shouldn’t.”

“Yes!” Jen
yelled again. “Yes!” This time the jig evolved to a full-fledged dance.

The tables had turned and about time. Now that the mother had indicated publicly she was on Jen’s side that should make the difference.

But the next caller had apparently not been listening or just didn’t get it. He immediately began to lambaste
Dear Jenna
for what he called, getting the mother to “pimp” her son. Jen was just about over it. Emotions were already running high and there was no point in getting upset. It was what it was.

“Do you mind?” she asked Eileen, motioning to the radio and signaling she wanted to turn it off. “This was supposed to be a get-acquainted visit. I’d hoped to make Flamingo Beach my home for a long time to come. Are the townspeople always this volatile?”

“It depends. You have several that are old school or just not very well educated.”

“You know what’s ironic about this situation. My brother is gay. He lives in France. I’ve always respected his choice and I love his partner like a second brother.”

Jen sneezed and reached for a tissue in her purse.

“What is it you’d like to know about the players in our wonderful town?” Eileen asked, while sipping on a glass of wine. She looked at Jen with some concern. “You’re not coming down with a cold, are you?”

“Hopefully
not.” For the next hour, between sips of wine and mouthfuls of crackers and cheese, Jen quizzed Eileen about the irreverent DJ whose show she was to be a guest on tomorrow. She’d decided to take a page out of Solomon Rabinowitz’s book and was taking advantage of remote access. She would go into work and from there call into WARP. Luis had indicated he would be there for support but regardless, she wasn’t looking forward to this interview. Her intuition told her “the Dog” would go for the jugular. He would make it his mission to shake her up.

She could not and would not let that happen.

Tre had been expecting to hear from Jen and within twenty-four hours at that. If he was a betting man he would have lost. The evening went with no word and so had the better part of today. He’d thought that basic decency would have kicked in and she would have contacted him to at least say she’d had a nice time and thank him for dinner.

When five o’clock rolled around with still no call, he decided a quick visit next door to see if she was okay was more than justified. To Tre’s surprise no one answered. Jen kept hours that were even funkier than his. Her occupation remained a mystery. More upset than he was willing to acknowledge, Tre retraced his
steps and slunk back to his apartment to get some shut-eye.

His concentration now needed to be on the upcoming broadcast and rattling
Dear Jenna.
For the past two weeks the folks of Flamingo Beach had been all riled up. These last three days he’d kept them interested and tuned into the station. He needed to keep them that way.

This third and final interview could not be anticlimactic. The audience, now better educated on the topic was already divided. Recently, the columnist’s sympathetic and well-thought-out advice to a pregnant teenager who’d wanted to end her life, had gained her new fans. His career was now on the line; the manner in which he handled this third and final interview was critical.

With that in mind he went to bed to awaken an hour later feeling invigorated and with a new plan in mind. An hour and a half later he was at the station getting ready for the D’Dawg show.

Even though her cold had broken and she had a hoarse voice, Jen called in to WARP at the appointed hour. She was placed on Hold by the person screening the radio station’s calls. Despite Luis’s being there, allegedly for support, his presence only made
Jen’s stomach feel queasier and more nervous than it already was. She thought about all the angles the irreverent DJ could take. Since her using the word “queer” seemed to no longer be at issue, D’Dawg could attack her based on the advice itself and say she was meddling.

She would stand firm. Internet dating offered options. How otherwise were two busy people with similar interests going to connect? D’Dawg could say that she had no business encouraging a mother to be this involved in her son’s life and that might very well be true. But what was different from two parents putting their heads together, and determining their son and their daughter were the perfect match, then setting them up? It was done all the time.

“You’re on the air in five minutes,
Dear Jenna,
” a production assistant said.

That gave Jen a few minutes to take a deep breath, compose herself and suck on a lozenge.

Luis who was seated next to Jen gave her the thumbs-up sign.

“Breathe and do a lot of listening. Don’t let him rattle you. Take your time answering. When in doubt say, ‘Well, let me think about that for a moment.’”

“You’re on the air.”

Jen’s heart fluttered in her chest as the disk
jockey’s deep, melodious voice came over loud and clear and he smoothly made the introductions.

“Coming to you live from WARP, the station that brings you those memorable tunes, is our third and final interview. It’s the person we’ve all been waiting to meet. The woman whose name is on everyone’s tongue. It’s Flamingo Beach’s own
Dear Jenna.
What’s up, Jenna?”

“It’s an honor to be invited on the D’Dawg show. I’ve enjoyed the past two night’s broadcasts immensely.”

“You hear that, people?
Dear Jenna
liked what I had to say.”

Jen still wasn’t sure what angle he’d be taking.

“So you straightened us out on the use of the word
queer.
We’re all more educated now from having read your column.”

Luis who was listening to the broadcast through a headset darted a look, frowning. There would be more forthcoming, Jen was sure. She waited, not acknowledging the host’s words.

“I owe you an apology. My mama didn’t raise no slowpoke. Apparently I need to keep up with current terminology. I’m going to eat humble pie and issue a public apology. I’m so sorry, Dear.”

It didn’t sound as if he was at all sorry. The
dear
dripped
with sarcasm and machismo. But what was she to say? This was a public airing. “Apology accepted,” Jen said, graciously.

“What I still don’t understand is why a grown man has to have his mama take care of his business for him,” D’Dawg needled.

“That may very well be a question for the man’s mama,” Jen shot back, giving as good as she got.

D’Dawg guffawed. He seemed to be enjoying the exchange immensely.

“Maybe we should have Mama on the show,” he said. “How many of you out there want to hear from Ms. Mabel? Someone called last night saying she was a friend. Maybe we need to have her hook us up with Mabel.”

“And what purpose would that serve?”

“For one, we’d find out if your advice really works. We’ll hear how many applicants actually applied for the girlfriend job. And we’d hear how Mama’s going about screening out the ones she don’t want.”

“And you’d be violating the man’s privacy. Both mother and son wanted to remain anonymous or Ms. Mabel would have chosen a very different medium to air her angst.”

“Listen to these big words you’re using. You sure you one of us?”

A
direct shot. A put-down.

Luis’s green-eyed gaze flickered over Jen. “Don’t let him goad you.”

But she was on a roll. She could be as combative as he if she chose. “As sure as I am a Dear,” Jen said sweetly. “And as sure as you are that you’re absolutely, positively straight.”

Both of Luis’s palms clapped the sides of his head.

D’Dawg chose that moment to announce they were breaking for commercials. Jen took a quick sip of water. She conceded that the DJ was very good at what he did. He’d left the listeners hanging. Phones were probably ringing all over Flamingo Beach.

“You’re holding your own,” Luis said. “Handling yourself well. Round two coming up.”

It was a backhanded compliment. Luis had said it as if he didn’t expect Jen to be that composed.

They were on the air again. Questions were coming fast and furiously now. Most of the population seemed to have forgotten what had started the controversy and the comments ran the spectrum, ranging from Internet dating to the Mama Boy’s sexuality.

Right before Jen’s interview ended, the next caller brought down the house.

“Son,” the woman said, “if I knew that my writing to the paper about you would have caused this much
commotion I wouldn’t have done it, but I’m at my wit’s end, boy…”

“Mother?”

And then WARP went to commercial again.

Jen was laughing so hard her sides ached.

“That’s got to be a joke,” Luis said sagely. “It’s just another ploy on the broadcasters’ part to send ratings skyrocketing through the roof.”

“If that’s so, D’Dawg gets an A-plus for ingenuity. It doesn’t get much funnier than this. He’s got to be one confident man. I mean one portion of the audience is going to believe that was his mother calling, and another segment will believe that he’s gay. I’ve rethought my position.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think I’d like to meet him.”

The funny thing was Jen meant it. The wisecracking, fast-talking disk jockey with the familiar-sounding voice fascinated her. She wanted to put a face to a name. She wanted to see the confident-sounding man in the flesh. In her mind’s eye she pictured a dark-skinned man with a shaved head and an earring in one lobe. He’d be dressed in something hip and trendy. And he was used to women eating out of his hands.

There were several things she could learn from him.

One was definitely the art of self-promotion.

And
promotion was what it was about; making sure your name stood out.

D’Dawg was hip, fast-talking and glib. Maybe it was time for her to get with the program.

Jen might have left Ashton, Ohio, but there was still a lot of Ohio in the girl.

It was time to change that.

O
ff the air,
Tre let loose with a loud string of curse words.

“Mother…”

He listened distractedly as Boris and the other shirts who’d hung around congratulated him on a fabulous show.

“What a great idea,” one of them said, “Having someone call up and pretend to be that boy’s mother.”

If they only knew.

“Ingenious,” Boris said, swept along by their enthusiasm. “That interview ended on the perfect note.”

“Thanks. I’m
leaving. I need to get something to eat,” Tre said, mindful of his rumbling stomach and knowing he had a phone call to make that didn’t require witnesses.

“Can we buy you dinner?” one of the executives asked. “You’ve more than earned it.”

Tre graciously declined. He endured more back-slapping, high-fiving and exuberant compliments before slipping away.

Seated in his car he decided takeout might not be a bad way to go. He was in no mood to deal with a noisy restaurant or running into groupies looking for something more than an autograph. He wanted cool air-conditioning, relative solitude and time to calm down. Marva had just pushed his last hot button and he was sick to death of her embarrassing him. It was she who’d called. He knew his own mother’s voice and at times still heard it in his sleep.

Whatever had possessed her to do something so stupid as to write to an advice columnist? Not any old advice columnist, mind you, but one that lived in his town. He knew she’d been getting antsy about his single status, but to imply that he might be playing for the other team. Well that was outrageous.

Tre had always been an open and fair-minded individual. He respected other’s choices even if they
weren’t his. But his mother of all people should know he was one-hundred-percent male. He’d brought home at least two women to meet her although that was a long time ago.

Using his cell phone, Tre ordered fried chicken, macaroni and collard greens, favorites of his since childhood. Tonight would be about indulging. Tomorrow about weights. That last call had come out of left field and now in a surprising turn of events he was the one on the defensive and
Dear Jenna
had turned into the flavor of the month.

The most important thing that had happened was this third and final interview had been a big hit. He was on his way to the big times.

After picking up his food, Tre decided to hurry on home. As he entered his apartment he noticed the flashing light of his answering machine. He groaned. It was after midnight and he was just too tired to fend off fans or entertain questions. But late hour or not, his mother needed to be dealt with.

He dished food onto his plate, and grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. He rarely indulged in alcohol after his show but tonight he’d earned it. Then he returned to the living room, placed the plate on his lap, and sat back on the sofa. Cell phone out, he pressed one little button with the programmed number.

As
he waited he thought about how times had changed. When he was growing up, no one ever called anyone in Detroit after nine or it was considered rude. But this was his mother, Marva, and after the stunt she’d pulled earlier, she should be expecting his call.

The phone rang a considerable number of times. Tre knew she was home. It was a weeknight and her bingo game ended at ten. He disconnected and punched in the number again.

This time he got a croaky, “Tre is that you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You never call me on a weeknight.” She sounded groggy, half-asleep. “Is something wrong, baby?”

“What do you think?”

“Oh, you’re mad at me. I know that voice.”

Mad was an understatement. He took a bite of chicken and figured he’d let her stew.

“Furious,” he said after he’d chewed. “What did you think you were doing calling me on the job?”

Marva Jones-Monroe sighed heavily. “It’s the only time I can reach you, baby. You no longer have time for me.”

“You called me on the air, Mother! And that’s just not true. We talk every Sunday after you get back from church.”

Marva’s
tone reached a crescendo. She was fully awake now. “I was on the air? Everyone heard me?”

“Yes, they did, Mother, loud and clear. And now I have to worry about people thinking I’m gay. You need to stay out of my business. I can find my own bride without your help.”

Another labored sigh followed. “I wish you would. It doesn’t hurt to look at the letters and photos I have. These women are seriously marriage-minded. Make your old mother happy, give me grandkids before I die.”

Tre took another huge bite of chicken and spooned macaroni into his mouth. His mother, much as he loved her, at times frustrated him.

“I’m not interested in meeting any of your choices, Mother,” he said. “You’re in no danger of dying any time soon. You’re only in your late fifties. Our family lives long into their nineties. That gives you another forty years of productive living ahead. Plenty of time to play with grandchildren.”

This time his mother’s voice sounded muffled and as if she was close to tears. “That’s not what the doctor says. I didn’t want to tell you this before but I’m not well.”

He felt the familiar tightening in his chest. His mother was the only one he had left in the world. His
brother was a waste, just as their father was. His father had stuck around long enough for Marva to get pregnant and then he’d run off with someone else. Who could blame Tre for being gun-shy about marriage? He refused to be like his father. When
he
married it would be forever and ever.

“What’s wrong this time, Mother?” Tre asked in a gentler tone.

“The doctor says my blood pressure is up and my sugar’s high.”

Tre bit his tongue. What he really wanted to tell her was that she needed to go easy on the sweets, and that would take care of at least one of her problems. And even though he didn’t know whether to believe her or not because her grumblings of illness had become a familiar ploy, he needed to pay attention.

“What did the doctor say? What measures are you taking to get these issues under control?” he probed.

“I’m taking my medication if that’s what you’re asking,” his mother said defensively.

“Are you exercising?”

“I walk when I can. But Mrs. Calhoun isn’t around as much as she used to be since she took up with that man.”

As he thought, poor eating habits and lack of
exercise were probably contributing to his mother’s problems.

“Dr. Habib thinks I need a vacation, a break away from all this pressure,” Marva whined.

“What pressure, Mom?”

“There’s pressure and stress just in daily living.”

His mother was retired and living comfortably on her pension and the monthly allowance he sent her.

“So where are you thinking of taking this little vacation?” Tre asked.

“Someplace warm and relaxing.”

Uh-uh! Here it came. Sometimes it was best to play dumb. He got up, taking his plate with him and entered the kitchen and set down the dish on the counter. “Hawaii would be a good choice. You’ve said for quite some time you’d like to go there.”

“True, but I was thinking more like Florida. I haven’t seen my son in some time. I miss him.”

Even though he knew he was being manipulated, put like that, what could he say?

“Uh, Mother, have you removed that ad from the Internet yet?” he asked, changing tactics.

“Of course not, silly. I’ve had so many nice women respond, one of them has to be your Ms. Right.”

God, she was trying his patience.

“I’ll tell you what, Mother,” Tre finally said. “As
soon as you cancel the account I’ll send you a ticket to come down to Florida.”

“You will!” Marva screamed so loudly she almost pierced his eardrum. “You’re bringing me to Florida? I’ll get to see Flamingo Beach?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And I’ll be there a minimum of two weeks?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Two weeks of his mom might just drive him to drink, but at least she would be under his watchful eye until the hubbub died down.

“Send the ticket tomorrow.” An unmistakably loud yawn filled his ear. “I need to go to bed now, son. I’m not as young as I used to be.” The phone was then promptly disconnected. Marva had gotten what she wanted from him.

Tre, fond as he was of his mother, was well aware of her shortcomings. Meddling was definitely one of them.

Marva meant well but he really wished she’d think before she acted. He’d have to figure out a way to make her embarrassing call to the station work for him. He could pass it off as a joke, designed to be attention getting and leave the listening audience speculating.

The more Tre thought about it the more he liked the idea. He could make his mother’s call work to his
advantage. He’d just have to put a spin on it. Maybe that would be the new hot topic he could pursue. “Meddling mamas and their sons.” It made him chuckle. It was bound to be a sensitive subject and elicit a highly emotional response from the audience.

Deep in thought, he almost missed the envelope shoved under his door. He bent to retrieve it, and not recognizing the handwriting, frowned. Had the neighbors, actually one in particular, resorted to complaining about his music in this manner? He hated anonymous notes.

Envelope in hand he returned to the kitchen to have his second beer of the evening, reasoning he still wasn’t loose. How much excitement could one man take?

Tre uncapped the bottle and used a knife to open the envelope’s flap. He grinned. This was totally unexpected. It helped brighten what so far had been a fairly dismal day. Jen had written to thank him for a lovely evening.

It was the P.S. that got to him. She wanted to reciprocate and was inviting him to her apartment for dinner if he was free some night later that week. Of course he’d make a point of being free. He had a well earned day off coming up on the weekend.

It was too late to call or go knocking on Jen’s
door. He planned on responding in the same fashion she had. He would write her a note, something he hadn’t done to any woman in years.

Feeling like a little boy who’d been given his first Game Boy, Tre went in search of the expensive stationery one of his groupies had given him for Christmas.

He would slip his acceptance under Jen’s door. And he would make sure dinner happened on a weekend when they both weren’t rushed. There would be plenty of time to explore Jen St. George and find out her likes and dislikes.

Sleep was impossible now. His imagination had taken over. Tre turned to his trusty stereo and some of his favorite tunes to help him drift off. He was almost half-asleep when he heard a banging on his wall. Surely his music wasn’t that loud? He could barely hear it. He tossed off the covers and using his elbow, banged back.

Regardless of whether he found Jen St. George intriguing or not, he wasn’t about to let her bully him. Reaching over, he turned up the stereo a notch. Then he closed his eyes and drifted.

It had been the right thing to do, writing a handwritten thank-you and inviting Trestin to dinner. He’d helped her out when she was in a bind.

Jen
had awakened early that morning, dressed quickly and rushed out the door only to discover the Miata’s front tire was flat. She’d called AAA, the motor club she belonged to, but there would be at least an hour’s wait before they came.

Jen had been frustrated and feeling helpless when along had come Trestin. He’d noticed her visible distress, and overriding her halfhearted protests had gotten the flat tire changed in a matter of minutes. Thanks to him she’d only been a few minutes late to work.

True, there was also an ulterior motive for inviting him to dinner. Jen had begun to suspect he might be employed by
The Southern Tribune.
After all, working in communications could mean just about anything.

Someone had mentioned the competition was actively interviewing, a psychologist dubbed
The Love Doctor.
The idea was to have this credentialed doctor compete with her
Dear Jenna
column. Trestin, if he did indeed work for
The Tribune,
might be able to confirm that. She needed to know what she was up against.

Jen still hadn’t made up her mind about Trestin. He seemed to be a person of multiple personalities. He could be arrogant and overbearing at times, kind and intuitive at others. They’d had a wonderful dinner
filled with interesting conversation. While she wasn’t necessarily looking to get close to anyone in the same building, it was nice to know that in a pinch, like she’d been in a few days ago, he could be counted on. But she’d damn well make sure she didn’t get too dependent on him.

Growing up in foster care with a brother who was different had taught her not to rely on anyone. In the blink of an eye, just when you were starting to feel secure, things changed, and you inherited a new set of parents. Anderson, her ex, had been a man she had trusted and look at how that turned out.

She wanted to see how Trestin handled himself on territory other than neutral ground such as the pool and restaurant. Would he be a gentleman? Dinner would be the test.

Now she waited for him to get back to her.

It was too early for bed. Maybe she would turn on her computer and Google this “Love Doctor.” She’d just booted up the computer when the phone rang.

“You in bed?” a raucous female voice inquired.

“No, Chere, I’m not.”

“Just wanted to report the whole town’s buzzing about how you handled D’Dawg. ’Course I didn’t let on you and me work together.”

Of course she didn’t.

Chere
continued in her usual overly effusive manner, giving her opinion that the call from D’Dawg’s mother had been staged. Jen was of the same mind as she. It seemed too much of a coincidence. The outrageous scene had to have been cooked up by the ambitious host to pump up his ratings.

“What do you know about this psychologist
The Southern Tribune’
s supposedly hired?” Jen asked Chere.

“You mean The
Luv
Doc?”

“Doctor Love.”

“I heard they been interviewing a bunch of dorks. They would have gotten me cheaper. Betcha I can teach the peoples a thing or two.”