by Beth Bolden
She’d tried not to think about him, but over the last few weeks, it seemed he was practically haunting her. Every time she turned around, he was right there, glib and charming and irresistible, though it didn’t seem like anyone else felt that way. To everyone else at the station, Jack was an annoyance and a nuisance to be dealt with.
Unfortunately, her own thoughts couldn’t be more different.
As she passed another six thousand square foot house complete with Venus emerging from a gigantic stone fountain right in the middle of its front lawn, Izzy decided that she didn’t really know Jack at all if this was where he wanted to live. Glancing down to consult her notes, she was equally dismayed by the fact that the Venus house was Corey Rood’s residence. Pulling into the circular driveway, Izzy barely managed to not roll her eyes. So far, the one thing she could report to Toby was that Mr. Rood spent a small fortune on landscaping.
Normally, she wouldn’t have bothered, but another quick glance at the meticulously maintained lawn had her checking her hair and makeup in the rearview mirror.
Her own expression was unusually serious in the mirror, the dark circles under eyes barely covered as she smoothed out her hair and decided that this was going to have to do. Luckily, she was still wearing the same outfit she’d donned for her sixth-inning report from the sideline, and Izzy hoped that the slim, bright-pink skirt and patterned floral blouse would be nice enough to impress Mr. Rood enough that he’d take her seriously.
Of course, as Izzy climbed out of her car and walked slowly up to the gigantic house, her heels clicking loudly on the cobblestones of the driveway, she had already begun to realize that there was probably very little she could do to impress the man.
Izzy rang the doorbell and stood back, forcing herself not to fidget with her skirt as she waited, but she’d just been about to lose the fight when the door swung open to reveal a shorter, bulky man wearing a white polo shirt and perfectly pressed khakis.
“Mr. Rood?” Izzy asked hopefully, with her brightest smile. “I’m Isabel Dalton, from the Pacific Northwest Sports Group.”
He had a fairly expressive face under a receding hairline, and from the slight frown that only seemed to grow with each passing moment, Izzy had a fairly good idea that he wasn’t all that pleased to see her.
“I emailed you earlier, to let you know I’d be stopping by,” she added helpfully, with another smile as punctuation. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“No, no, of course not,” he finally said. “I’m just surprised to see you here. I didn’t get the impression from your initial response that you were very interested in our problem.”
Another disarming smile. In a few minutes, he was going to run her arsenal bone dry. “We’re absolutely interested, Mr. Rood. Would you have a few minutes to talk about the problem you’ve been having with Jack Bennett?”
“Yes. A few minutes. Please, come inside.” Mr. Rood opened the door wider and Izzy had to clamp her lips tightly together to keep her tongue from falling out of her mouth at just the foyer of the house. The floor was marble, creamy white with subtle gold flecks embedded throughout, and the vaulted ceilings showcased the understated, but beautiful art on the walls. A mahogany sideboard the size of a small boat flanked one side of the entry, and the other opened into four doorways, clearly leading to other, even larger, sections of the house.
“You have a beautiful home,” Izzy was able to confess with zero irony in her voice. It might not be the sort of place she’d choose to live, but it was undeniably impressive and worthy of saying so. After all, what was the point of owning a house like this if not to use it to render visitors nearly speechless with awe?
“Thank you.” He glanced over at her, and she could see she’d finally begun to chip away at his suspicion—her compliment had him almost smiling back. She’d worried at first that he might be a tougher nut to crack than others she’d encountered, mostly because of his wealth and standing, but like most men, you could get to Corey Rood through his ego. And in this particular case, his ego was so prominently displayed it was kind of hard to miss.
They emerged through the hallway into a yawning cavern of a kitchen with more marble counters and an entire army of cabinets. Every inch was spotless and gleaming. He turned to face her and waved his hand toward one of a number of barstools lined up against one edge of the counter. “Would you like to have a seat, Ms. Dalton?”
She smiled at him gratefully and whipped out her recorder, placing it on the marble counter in front of her with a decisive click to remind him why she was here.
“Something to drink?” he asked, turning toward the largest refrigerator she’d ever seen.
“Water would be great.”
He pulled out two bottles of water and set one in front of her. He remained standing on the other side of the counter from her, and Izzy contemplated asking him to sit, if only to try to equalize their footing a little more, but she realized that she’d probably get more cooperation from him if she maintained the charade that he was in charge.
Comprehension was dawning. This man and his entire existence was probably a red flag to Jack Bennett. Corey Rood would wave it once, twice, and just to be contrary to someone he detested, Jack would probably never let it die. Whatever this whole thing was.
“So tell me about Jack Bennett.”
He took a slow, measured sip of water from his water, then looked her straight in the eye. “I have no problem with you recording this, Ms. Dalton. What Jack Bennett has subjected this entire neighborhood to, time and time again, is beyond bearing. We keep waiting for it to end, for him to get bored with torturing us, but the end never comes.”
Izzy decided that she and Corey Rood had just about the same opinion of Jack Bennett. He weaseled his way under your skin and refused to leave you in peace.
“What exactly is he doing?”
“Jack Bennett,” he said, and the sneer in Corey Rood’s voice was palpable, “doesn’t technically live in our neighborhood—the West Barrington Heights—but he lives next to it, on a rather large tract of land that he’s perpetually refused to have adequately landscaped. Despite our pleas, and his monetary resources, he leaves it merely planted with some sort of wild grass seed. The natural look, you could say.”
Izzy arranged her expression into a suitably sympathetic expression, but she wasn’t about to waste her time on a story about Jack Bennett’s ugly front yard, no matter what Toby said.
He took another drink, pausing just long enough that Izzy just knew he was making sure she was hanging on his every revelation. This guy, she decided, needed to get a life outside landscape maintenance.
“But the grass isn’t the real problem. It’s the method he uses to cut it.”
This was getting stranger and stranger and Izzy no longer had to fake interest. She leaned forward in her seat almost without realizing it. “Let me guess. He doesn’t cut it?”
“Oh, I think that would even be preferable to what he does do.”
Izzy decided that the status quo would have to be truly bleak if Mr. Spic-and-Span would rather Jack didn’t mow his lawn.
“Then?” she prompted.
“He uses this…mower…” Corey said with distaste rife in his voice. “A mower equipped with a sound system designed to rival most concert venues.”
Izzy decided that there wasn’t much left that could surprise her.
“Instead of choosing to mow his lawn in a reasonable manner, he always picks the most inopportune time—usually early in the morning, or sometimes late at night, and twice now during parties he knew I was hosting at my residence—to mow, and he does it accompanied by a soundtrack of questionable taste and very loud acoustics.”
“So basically what you’re saying is that Jack Bennett rides around on his riding mower and wakes everyone up with his loud, annoying music.”
The whole thing was so Jack that she could barely keep herself from smiling, but at the same time, she could understand the frustration that Corey was feeling. To be woken up, by crappy music or not, at a very early hour, wouldn’t be tops on her list either.
“Essentially, yes.” He paused. “Ms. Dalton, I know it seems slightly ridiculous, but it’s most annoying and frustrating. Several times he’s played obscene rap with lyrics that shocked my mother when she was visiting, and during my last garden party he chose to mow accompanied by what I believe is called ‘dubstep.’”
She almost choked on her water as she took a sip. Until that, she hadn’t been entirely certain that Jack had been continuing his behavior solely to annoy Corey and his neighbors, but now she was sure. The whole situation was farcical and that had Jack Bennett’s signature all over it.
“I’m assuming you’ve asked him to stop.”
“Many, many times.” The number was practically etched on his face. “I’ve brought the issue up at a number of town meetings, but every single time Mr. Bennett shows up, all genial smiles and apologetic attitude, bearing gifts of signed memorabilia. The last meeting, he had tickets to a Saturday afternoon game for the entire room.” Corey sighed and Izzy could see how frustrated he was that his own community position was second best to Jack’s.
“What about the police? You said he sometimes does it late at night. I’m assuming you have noise ordinances here.”
“Oh, we do, but he’s very careful to never do it past the allowed hour. Nevertheless, it’s annoying all the same.”
“I have no doubt that it is,” Izzy replied in all seriousness because she was sure that Jack had designed it carefully to be as annoying as possible, yet still perfectly legal. She wasn’t sure if the entire thing made her like him less or more, and that was yet another issue she wasn’t prepared to deal with.
“Like I said before,” Cory continued, “I know it seems rather ridiculous and not exactly related to the material you air but I would appreciate more than you know getting any publicity on this issue.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Izzy said and she knew she had to be honest. “Unfortunately, the decision to air this isn’t mine to make. However, I will definitely take it to my boss, who makes decisions about what stories we cover. If I can swing it, would you mind doing a taped interview?”
“Of course not. Like I said before, anything you can do.” Like she expected, Corey looked downright thrilled. An interview would be nothing; she could probably dangle out the possibility of air time and he’d just ask her how high she wanted him to jump.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Back in the car, Izzy glanced over at the notes she’d hastily written in the office before driving over to West Barrington Heights. On a whim, she’d scribbled down Jack’s address before leaving the office, telling herself that she might want his take on the situation after she heard Corey Rood’s side.
She glanced up in the rearview mirror again, silently debating with herself. On one hand, the entire scenario made sense. On the other, had writing his address down merely been her subconscious guaranteeing she’d see him today?
A week ago, she’d made the argument that she was a professional and wanted to be treated that way, and even today, that was indisputably true. Her job was important to her, but deep down, she yearned to have both her career and to be seen as so much more than a brain and a suit. Jack was the first to have seen her for her in a very long time; he made her want things she had no business wanting.
Laughter. Romance. Someone to call at the end of a very long day. A life, really.
And that was why she wasn’t entirely sure she could trust herself if she traveled to the lion’s den, but, she reminded herself, Toby had made it very clear that he wanted every angle of the story covered. Not that she had any illusions about him airing anything so ludicrous, but he had been so specific. She already failed at so many aspects of her job that she didn’t dare fail at this, too.
Digging out the paper with the address, Izzy reluctantly entered it into her GPS and started the engine.
She’d been so surprised at the general luxury of the West Barrington Heights, and how unlike Jack it all seemed, no matter how much money he’d made, so it came as no big surprise when her GPS directed her right through Corey Rood’s neighborhood, and to a narrow lane that took her right out of it.
At first, the gravel drive was bordered by fields of waving grass, and not much else, and Izzy wondered if her GPS had taken her to the wrong place, but then as she came around a bend in the lane, a medium-sized Victorian farmhouse painted a sky blue with white trim swung into view.
She stopped at the edge of the driveway. This was more of what she had expected of him, Izzy realized. The house wasn’t cavernous, and wasn’t new, but had character the impressive cookie cutters in West Barrington Heights never could. A shaded porch wrapped around the first floor, and Izzy glimpsed a worn baseball bat leaning against the side of the house.
Steeling her courage, Izzy gingerly picked her way through the gravel in her high heels and knocked on the door with a confidence she didn’t really feel.
She waited and waited and…waited. At first, it seemed a cruelty of fate that today, on the day she had gathered almost enough courage to confront him in his lair, Jack wasn’t actually present. She knocked again, louder this time and for an insane half-second, was almost tempted to try the doorknob to see if he’d left it unlocked.
No way, Izzy hissed at herself, and was almost resolved to walk back to her car and call this particular encounter a miss, when she heard it, so faintly at first she almost thought she was imagining things.
But then the sound grew louder, and she laughed—a lot from irony and a little from relief—when she realized what it was she was hearing. Corey Rood had mentioned dubstep after all, so she supposed that David Guetta wasn’t too wild or crazy for a Sunday afternoon.
She took the steps at a clip, then hit the gravel as fast as she dared in her stilettos, following the sound of the music. Turning the corner of the house, she noticed the flower beds overflowing with pansies and daisies, and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d planted them himself. It didn’t quite jive with what she’d learned so far about Jack Bennett, but after all, the one consistency with his character seemed to be his ability to surprise her.
Past the flower beds was a large pole barn, painted the same blue as the house. Izzy could see the doors pulled wide open, and just as she’d reached the end of the gravel, a riding mower emerged through the entrance. It was definitely Jack onboard—she could tell even from this distance. He had on one of his worn-out baseball caps and a gray T-shirt, and when the mower came to a sputtering stop before he could even clear the yard, she knew he’d spotted her standing there.
He jumped down, and Izzy tried to take a deep breath to calm her racing heartbeat as he walked toward her. His expression, normally so open, was strangely blank. Was he unhappy to see her? That seemed hard to comprehend, but stranger things had happened.
He pulled up short a few feet away from her, stopping abruptly as if he was afraid of getting too close to her and said nothing, just stared. Izzy belatedly remembered she was still in her ridiculous Pepto Bismol skirt, that had looked so good in the dressing room, and matching flowered blouse and was probably insanely out of place in his backyard—the same way she was out of place in his life. She should have been thinking of what to say to him, rather than stupidly knocking on his door and snooping through his flower beds. Stupid, Izzy chided herself, you’re smarter than this.
“Hello,” she improvised, with the biggest smile left in her arsenal.
He still said nothing, just kept looking at her with the most inscrutable look on his face. She couldn’t even read his eyes—they were like chips of blue ice, completely reflective and giving nothing away that he felt.
She had really h
oped that he’d have taken her opening bait and said anything in return, because silence tended to make her babble. This could be really bad.
“Your house matches your eyes,” she continued, even as she was mentally slapping herself. “Did you paint it that shade on purpose?”
Izzy was here. As in here, at his house. As in standing in his backyard, in the most ridiculously pink skirt and a blouse that put his mother’s rose garden to shame, babbling at him about his eyes and the paint on his house. Just when Jack thought he’d figured Izzy out, she managed to find a way to completely overturn every conclusion he’d come to.
“That was actually coincidence. Now, your presence in my backyard…”
She smiled wide again, and he’d seen enough of the weapons she deployed to know when one felt forced. She was nervous about something, and for a wild second, Jack thought maybe she’d come here to tell him she’d thought about their date and changed her mind already.
“I got an email,” she said, and he could hear the hesitation in her voice. Whatever it was, she wasn’t exactly eager to tell him—which meant she wasn’t here for him. He shouldn’t, but still he felt unfairly disappointed, as if something had been taken away, when in reality, it hadn’t been his to begin with.
“It was from Corey Rood,” she continued and Jack’s mouth grew dry with sudden panic. Corey Rood and their ongoing feud wasn’t exactly his most mature moment, but secretly, he enjoyed it way too much to quit, which was why he’d been about to fire up the party this afternoon. He’d needed the distraction to get Izzy out of his mind, and now there she was, standing right in front of him, about to tell him she knew about the entire escapade.
“I’ve heard the name,” he said. An understatement of the century. He’d seen Corey Rood’s name on so many letters and emails and messages and agendas and petitions that he could hardly ever forget it.
