Just Like That

by Nicola Rendell

  My Aunt Sharon thinks I’m a fed.

  The thing is, I’m showing up unannounced. I wasn’t totally sure I was going to take this job, and I didn’t want to disappoint her if I couldn’t. But I am, and now I’m here. And she’s got no idea who I am. So I decide to roll with it. “That so, ma’am?”

  “Hell, yes, it is!”

  I hit the lock button on my keys. “Here’s the thing, Ms. Baytree. We’ve had some complaints.” I inhale slowly and shake my head at the garden. “Disturbing the peace. Lewd and lascivious vegetables.”

  The fog inside the green house squeaks as she squeegees off a spot with her hand. She puts her John-Lennon-style sunglasses on her head. “No!” she gasps.

  I open my arms wide. “Yes. So come on out, you menace to society.”

  The door to the green house flies open, and she floats down the path, linen flowing. She gives me a huge hug and a big kiss on the cheek. “It’s so good to see you, honey. Sorry about the paranoia—it happens.”

  “Agent Whoever You Are,” I tease.

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  Touché.

  * * *

  With her knife hovering over a pound cake from the freezer, Aunt Sharon says, “Something tells me you haven’t come all this way unannounced for me to plump you up.”

  This is one of the problems with my job. The people who you want to tell are also the people you really can’t. Like my aunt, and Penny, too. “I’d tell you if I could.”

  “All right. Fifth Amendment, I’ll allow it.” She slices into the pound cake. “But here’s a question the Constitution can’t stop me from asking: Found yourself a nice girl yet?”

  For a lady who’s never been married and who says the word marriage like most people say lice, she’s always had a serious interest in whether or not anybody else has caught the marrying bug. In my gut, I know that Penny is the epitome of a nice girl, but it’s impossible. I’m here for a week, and it’s better to leave Penny off of Aunt Sharon’s radar. God knows Penny has enough going on without gift baskets of kinky carrots showing up on her doorstep. “Not yet.”

  She studies me over the top of her normal glasses, also Harry-Potter-John-Lennon, but untinted. “A wife can be a good thing. Keep you on track. Call you out on your bullshit. Make sure you’re not living out of your laundry basket.”

  “This from the woman with a tattoo that says, Men are luxuries, not necessities. – Cher.”

  A knowing “mmmm” spills from her nose. “Maybe our side of the family doesn’t do marriage. Maybe it’s like people who can’t do the splits or who are tone deaf. Maybe we just can’t marry.”

  As usual, she has a point. “Think of my mom and dad.”

  She makes a horrified gasp. “Let’s not, honey. May they rest in peace, but I’d rather think of the Nuremberg trials.”

  It’s a fact. My memories of them together are pretty hazy, since I was only a kid when they split, but mostly involve my mom intentionally shrinking his pants, while he intentionally drained the battery on her Honda. It’s not exactly a blueprint for marital bliss.

  She serves me up a three-inch wedge of cake. “Maybe we aren’t the marrying types. God knows I’ve tried that experiment enough times to know I’d rather have herpes than the same man in bed until I drop dead.”

  I snort-cough into my sweet tea. My Aunt Sharon is a lot of things, but a word-mincer isn’t one of them. But little does Aunt Sharon know, her and her unvarnished descriptions of the world are my best starting point for this job. “You and the mayor, you gave it a shot. Wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  The knife pings on the cake plate. “Russy. I got mugged in Washington Heights in 1987 and it was more satisfying than being married to that man.”

  That’s what she calls the mayor, and what she’s always called him. That Man. Some women her age have hobbies like mahjong and bridge. My Aunt Sharon fills her days growing fully endowed carrots and holding a lasting grudge against That Man. Everybody’s got their something. And my Aunt Sharon’s something is the reason I took this job at all.

  It’s funny, though, because for me, until say, last night, my something has always been work. I’m that guy who is always working. I love work. I think about it all the fucking time. It defines me. It is me. Except now there’s someone else in the foreground. I hardly know her, but I want her. I just met her, but I like what I know more than I should.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to clear my head. In the corner of the living room, my aunt’s cat, Janis Joplin, plucks at her frayed scratching post.

  “You okay, honey?” Aunt Sharon takes a slice of the cake straight from the plate and puts half of it into her mouth.

  “Totally.” I blink myself out of the reverie. “But speaking of That Man, if you were hypothetically going to fill me in on his…weak spots, what would those be?”

  Aunt Sharon puffs out around the cake, “Don’t tell me you’re investigating him…”

  “Can’t confirm or deny. I need some basic information on him. That’s it.”

  She chews furiously and wipes her crumbs off her linen shirt. “Well, God knows I can give you plenty of that.”

  16

  Penny

  Visit Port Flamingo doubles as the mayor’s office, in a little cinderblock building that used to be a pawnshop. It’s now painted exactly the same color as a tangerine, inside and out, including the bars on the windows. The mayor himself painted it, after he got voted into office this last time—nobody cared enough to run against him, but someone did write in a candidate named Root Canal.

  As in, “I’d rather have a root canal than vote for that man again.”

  When I heard that, I said to Maisie, “I’ll bet you money that was Sharon Baytree.” And Maisie said, “It’s not a bet if it’s a sure thing.”

  Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner.

  Sometimes I think that the phrase bless his heart was invented for our mayor. He’s got good intentions, I do believe that, but his strategy isn’t always the best. He attacked this place with a paint sprayer and a very misguided post-election zeal, which means I’ve spent the last year unsticking the light switches from their paint-crusts and using blunted pencils to pry open the louvers on the air conditioning vents. But it’s cheerful. Provided you’re passionately in love with orange.

  I unlock the front door and flip the sign from Closed to Open. I put my purse behind my desk, pull my earbuds from my ears, set down my phone, and turn on my computer. Then, outside the window, I see him. He’s making a sort of snap-pistol gesture like the Fonz to someone across the street.

  The mayor. His name is Jack Jeffers, but he prefers to be called…

  Wait for it, babe…

  Sonny.

  Of course he does.

  He thrusts the door open and gives me jazz hands. Ta-da! “Penny, darling!”

  Every single fiber of my being tells me to put my head on my desk and say, “Enough. I’ll work at the garden center. I can’t do this anymore.” But I know better. While it isn’t ideal, it’s a job. Also, it pays better than rearranging six-packs of petunias all day. Believe me, I’ve checked.

  “What’s on the docket, Mr. Mayor?”

  “Don’t know! You tell me!” He takes a peppermint from the little bowl on my desk and tucks it into his mouth.

  My computer comes to life and my Google Alerts populate my inbox. Anytime anybody mentions the town or its peculiarities, I get a notification. Today, I’ve got a one-star review from Yelp of our all-purpose bait-shop-slash-gas-station: Staff rude, worms dead, no gas. Also, a Facebook review of the Great Soda Lake: Smells really weird, flamingos are f**king scary, don’t go there. And finally, an op-ed from the Port Flamingo Gazette: “If We Don’t Get Cell Service in This Town Soon, I’m Moving to Tampa and So Should You.”

  I look away from the screen and try to focus on something a bit happier. I pick up my phone, hoping for a message from Russ. I check my Wi-Fi settings to make sure I’m on the Visit Florida network.
I open and close my messages a few times, pounding on my phone with my finger. I open and close Skype. Refresh. Nope. Nothing.

  If I never hear from him again, I swear to God that’s it. I’m done with men. I’ll throw away all my sexy lingerie, buy only linen tunics and leggings, and wait for menopause to give me back my common sense. In 20 years.

  In the meantime, it’s back to the grind. I open up the calendar and take a look. Among my assorted tasks are keeping the mayor’s calendar organized—it’s like trying to piece together a jigsaw with only half the pieces. “You’ve got a lunch meeting at the dinner,” I say, reading what he put into the calendar. Wait, no. “Diner.”

  “Who says?”

  “You do. You put it in here,” I tell the mayor. “I spell diner with one n. Had to be you. Lunch at noon at the Sunkissed.”

  He blows his nose into a Kleenex and dabs at his nostrils. “You coming with me?”

  Root Canal.

  But the job is the job. Sometimes I feel like I’m the protective gel coating to the aspirin that is the mayor. Maisie raised me a mixed metaphor and went on to say if not for me, half this town would be doubled over with acid reflux. Flattery will get you everywhere.

  “Yep. I just need to reply to this lady’s review of Soda Lake and see what I can do about the nudists on the public beach. I’ll come find you.”

  He rolls the mint over to the other cheek, sucking up a droplet of drool mid-maneuver. “Sounds good, Darling!”

  17

  Russ

  The Sunkissed Diner is clean, smells like bacon, and the waitress is wearing pointy 1950s glasses like Lucille Ball. “Help you?”

  “Yeah, I’m here to see Mayor…” I turn to look. There’s only one guy in the whole place…and it’s Sonny Goddamned Bono. Holy shit. “Is that Sonny Bono?”

  “Sonny Bono’s passed on, hon. That’s our mayor,” says the waitress, her voice flat and mechanical like she’s said it six hundred times already today. She grabs a menu, signaling to me to follow along.

  As we approach the table, the mayor looks up at me, in the middle of turning the page on a catalog full of polo shirts and country-club sweaters. The chair next to his is pulled out slightly, and there’s a teacup steaming on a saucer. An assistant, gotta be.

  “Thinking about buying myself one of these.” He taps on a sweater that the model is wearing over his shoulders. “What do you think?”

  What I think is that I should take the waitress by the shoulders to ask, You sure Sonny Bono’s dead? You sure? It’s un-fucking-canny. But I keep it serious and professional. “I’m Russ Stevenson,” I say, sitting down. “Stevenson Solutions, Incorporated.”

  He tugs on the page of polos and it tears along the stapled binding. He looks me up and down. “Stevenson Solutions. That sounds like you’re in septic tanks.” But then he studies me, scrunching up his nose and leaning forward. “Or are you some kind of fed?”

  What is happening here? Is it the haircut? The starch in my collar? The pants? My entire life, nobody’s thought I was a cop, and now I walk into the Gulf Coast Twilight Zone, and I might as well have one of Guppy’s sheriff’s badges on my belt. “I’m a location scout. I flew in from Hollywood yesterday.”

  His eyes go saucer-shaped, and he blinks. “No.”

  Not unlike the thing with Aunt Sharon’s “tomato plants,” the location scout ruse only works if you’re using it on someone who’s never met a location scout. I did meet a location scout once. She was 24 years old, spent half her day on Twitter, and ate nothing but licorice. But I’m banking on the fact that this guy doesn’t know his location scouts from his Girl Scouts. “We’re interested in filming a feature down here.”

  “Yes!” He clutches the magazine to his chest like a Bible. “Oh, yes!”

  “I wanted to make sure that was all right with you, me having a nose around the county. It helps to have local approval. Wouldn’t want to step on any toes.”

  “Who do you work for?” he says quietly, excitedly. “MGM? Universal? Whatever that one is with ET in the grocery cart?” In his excitement, he rips a corner of a page right out of the magazine, decapitating some guy in a rain slicker.

  “I’m under a non-disclosure. Couldn’t say even if I wanted to.”

  He blinks hard, once, twice, three times, like he’s got grit in his contacts. “What kind of film is it? Can you tell me that?”

  “Couldn’t say that either.”

  He gives an excited gasp. “Any chance it’s Lifetime? A movie of the week? Man-to-man, I’m a big fan of Lifetime.”

  My first read on the guy isn’t exactly what Dickerson said. On the surface, he seems like any ordinary suburban dad—hardly the mastermind of some small-scale municipal embezzlement operation. But looks can be deceiving. “I won’t need much from you while I’m here,” I say, as the waitress fills up my cup of coffee. “I was just doing you the courtesy of introducing myself.”

  “Would I maybe get a chance to be in this…” He taps the side of his nose. “Project?”

  “Never know, Mayor, never know.”

  He squeaks. “How thrilling. You know, I’ve been told I bear a striking resemblance to…a certain former pop star and mayor. Any chance it’s a biopic? I can sing all his songs.”

  “Honestly, sir. I really can’t say.” I dump a container of cream in my coffee and notice his assistant left her cell phone; it has its buds attached and they’re all knotted up. It gives me a pinch inside, thinking of her. What the hell am I doing here talking to this guy? I should be with her. In her bed. Right now.

  But then I hear the noise of flip-flops approaching. A slender hand takes hold of one of the diner chairs and grips it, then freezes. I slide my eyes up her body. Pink dress today, light pink bra. I’m almost positive it was the one hanging on the top rung of the drying rack. Fuck.

  “Well, hello?” she says, eyebrows rumpled. “What are you doing here?”

  The mayor saves me from having to lie straight to her face, and thank God for that. “He’s from Hollywood, Penny. Hollywood!”

  Penny sits down slowly, her hands falling together neatly in her lap. The dress has a tie at the waist, making the fabric bunch up at her narrowest, sexiest point. I drag my eyes off her body, though, and focus on her face. She’s got her lips pressed together, and she looks almost horrified. “Oh?”

  “Yes!” booms the mayor. “Any chance you need an assistant while you’re here? Port Flamingo is delighted to welcome you. Happy to do anything we can to help! Penny, here, for instance. She’s not busy, are you, Darling?”

  Penny’s mouth drops open, and her nostrils flare. She fidgets with her tangled cords and looks from me, to the mayor, and back again. “Mr. Mayor, I’ve got work to do. I’ve got one-star reviews to deal with. I’ve got a schedule…”

  Clearly, she doesn’t like the idea. I get it. She’s got her job, and I’ve got mine. Probably better if the two don’t overlap. I mean, granted, if I spend the next week having my way with her on every flat surface in this town, I’d regard this whole job as a spectacular fucking success, but I’m not going to push. “I prefer to work alone. I appreciate the offer, though.”

  But he shakes his head so hard his cheeks flap. “Nope. This is my town, and you’re our guest. It’s my honor to offer you someone from my staff.”

  Penny holds her hand to her forehead like she’s checking herself for a fever. “I’m not exactly on your…”

  “Shhhh!” He slaps down his catalog and makes his coffee cup jump. “I sign your paychecks. You’re definitely my staff.”

  Penny grimaces at her tea as she fishes the bag from the cup and wrings it out by wrapping it in the string. “But you also sign the librarian’s paycheck, and he won’t even let you into the building.”

  Mayor Jeffers ignores that. He sighs and beams, then claps his hands, knocking his coffee over and sending a big puddle of it onto a white-haired guy walking a yellow lab in the catalog. Penny leaps up and scurries for some napkins, while the coffee trickl
es off the table onto the floor. The mayor is unfazed by all of it, and keeps on talking. “I insist, Mr. Stevenson. You take Penny. She’s all yours.”

  Now standing by the table, Penny blots up the coffee with a stack of napkins, unaware that I’m looking right down between her breasts.

  All mine. Fuck. Yes.

  18

  Penny

  Of course this would happen to me. Of course I couldn’t have the best night of my life with some ordinary man who works for the IRS or Marriott or who’s a marine biologist for the State of Florida, here to double-check that the jellyfish haven’t returned. Of course he ends up being some sort of super-fancy guy from Hollywood who is today wearing a lavender shirt, unbuttoned two buttons down to show off his dead-sexy chest hair and who also smells vaguely like my shower gel…

  Mayor Jeffers stands up and shakes Russ’ hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stevenson. Let us know if you need anything. Penny knows where to find me.” He gives Russ the Fonz snaps and then heads for the door.

  Russ doesn’t watch the mayor go, though. He is focused right on the gap between my dress and my bra. I clap my coffee-dampened hand to my chest.

  He flicks his chin at me. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  I wad up the coffee-soaked napkins and stick them in the mayor’s coffee cup. No. This will never work. Time to nip this thing right in the bud. But before I can muster up one logical word, he says:

  “Penny, your banana bread was fucking amazing. And that marmalade. Jesus. But the real kicker was the oatmeal cookies.”

  He’s complimenting my canning skills and my baking in the same sentence. My defenses are decidedly compromised. “Russ.”

  “Where do you want to start? Your place?”

  The Man Wagon starts rolling away without me on it, so I wipe my hand off on my leg, and reach for my safety blanket, also known as Maisie-via-text. I feign professionalism: “One second. Just need to check my calendar. I think I’m supposed to be doing something very important right now.”