by D. A. Young
“You know I’m there, brother,” Wade said enthusiastically. “Appreciate the invite. Unfortunately, this isn’t a courtesy call, Max. I need a really big favor.”
“Sorry, I can’t, I’m busy,” Max responded automatically. No. Hell. No. The last time he’d helped his buddy out he was felt up by a bunch of sassy, seventy-plus-year-old women. Three months ago Wade called and asked if he could assist in escorting some of the town’s Golden Age church members to their homes from a birthday party. Puzzled as to why his friend sounded so harried, Max said yes. How hard could it be? As it turned out, pretty damn hard.
The birthday “girl” Esmeralda Gonzales decided that turning seventy-four called for a special celebration and spiked her guests’ celebratory grape cider liberally with Moscato. When Max arrived at the Gonzales residence, he was shocked to see the church elders, tipsy as hell in their skivvies (a sight he desperately wished he could un-see) and yelling “YOLO” at the top of their surprisingly strong lungs. They were dancing a conga line to Carlos Santana’s “Oye Como Va” in the back yard, and there was the strong stench of marijuana in the air, which church choir director Oswald Bingham indignantly claimed was for medicinal purposes only.
Wade and his deputies had their hands full trying to get everyone dressed, so Max agreed to help out by driving some of the guests’ home. It was the longest two hours of his life as he drove all over town, dodging grabby hands and repeating the same process of driving to a home, turning off the truck and pocketing the keys before escorting his passenger to the door. The pocketing of keys was necessary he discovered after he came back to the truck to find that Reverend Armisha Johnson, the feistiest of the group, dropped the keys into her bosom and coquettishly invited him to get them.
“Come on, ‘Chocolate Thunder’,” Wade teased. “Surely you’re not still mad about the “Tipsy Temptresses” are you?”
Max scowled as he waited on it. Five...four...three…two…On cue, Wade burst into uncontrollable laughter, something he’d been known to do ever since Max told him what occurred and the nickname the women had christened him with.
“No, I’m mad because I have the keen ability to pick assholes for friends,” he replied dryly, causing Wade to laugh even harder.
“Well, you should’ve taken one of them up on their offer. Then maybe someone could finally claim their winnings from the town pool wager. What’s it going on, eight years since you hit town?” Wade speculated. “You do know they continue to put money in it as religiously as if it were a church offering don’t you?”
Max grimaced thinking of the silly-ass bet the local women had made to wed and bed him and not necessarily in that order. The ratio of women to men in Baymoor was six-to-one as he’d discovered after several tense and awkward run-ins with some of the more forward women in town. His first official week living here, the farmhouse’s huge kitchen table was continuously laden with casseroles, cakes, and pies. His uncle’s longtime cook Betty assessed the situation with a glance and declared herself on vacation. Untying her apron, she instructed them to call her when they were down to six meals.
Because of his proper boarding school upbringing, Max spent a good two hours handwriting proper thank you notes to every one of the ladies for their hard work. His uncle, Wade and his employees gave him tons of shit about it, but that was how he’d been raised.
The pool was created because Max had never displayed the slightest bit of interest in any of the ladies of Baymoor. Displaying an interest would lead to a frenzied speculation on wedding dates and picking out china patterns and baby names. Max would rather have his prize stallion Apache kick him in the nuts than endure crap like that. But he did have needs, which he took care of by traveling to D.C. to visit an old friend that he’d established a longstanding agreement with. Max was of the old adage “Don’t eat, shit, or fuck where you sleep”.
“I still think you made that story up,” Wade remarked conversationally. “But that’s not the reason I’m calling. As you know, the town is planning Nate Banks’ celebratory party. We’ve got the town hall all decorated and the deejay hired. Sound good so far?”
“Yeah, that sounds really good,” Max assured him. The Bankses were good people and great customers of Cinnamon Farms since opening their restaurant, The Comfort Table more than twenty-six years ago. Nate and his wife Valerie had been good friends as well with his late uncle, Walter Jennings, who left the farm to Max when he passed away two years ago from pneumonia. Since Max permanently moved to Baymoor six years ago, the couple had become friends of his as well. “So what do you need from me?”
“Thanks, man. I realize you’re busy but…” Wade paused dramatically, “The mayor has just informed me that the Baymoor events committee is nominating you to be the liaison in dealing with “Templeton”. All you would need to do is discuss how food preparation is going with him and keep the committee posted.”
“Templeton” was the nickname that he and Wade had secretly given Raymond Beauvoir, the executive chef at The Comfort Table. And just like the rat from the book Charlotte’s Web, Raymond was wily and poorly dispositional. He catered to no one and according to him, answered only to the Father Almighty. But he made Cajun and Creole food fit for the gods. It was one of the reasons that the Bankses were willing to overlook his surliness. Although Max feared no man, something about Raymond, (who greatly resembled Uncle Ruckus from The Boondocks comic strips) and his maniacal-looking glass eye (according to him, he’d lost the real one in an alligator wrestling match in the deepest, darkest part of Louisiana’s bayou) made him just a little uncomfortable.
“Thanks, for the nomination, but I’m going to have to graciously pass on it,” Max replied dryly. “Why can’t someone else do it?”
Wade sighed and then explained with great patience as if talking to a toddler, “He made Racine Wilmington cry yesterday and chased Big Ed Sanders out the back door with a rolling pin this morning when he attempted to talk to him. Now if I have to talk to him and he gives me any of his fucking attitude or better yet threatens me with another voodoo spell, I’m gonna have to shoot the son of a bitch. C’mon, I promise not to give you any more “Chocolate Thunder” business for forty-eight hours.”
Max grunted with displeasure. “Alright, I’ll go talk to him since you’re such a big chickenshit. But scratch that forty-eight-hour bullshit you’re talking. You’re not going to mention that “Chocolate Thunder” shit anymore. If you break the promise, you have to let your nieces paint your fingernails the color of my choice,” Max laughed diabolically when Wade cursed him under his breath. “And keep it on with regular manicures for four months.”
“Fair enough,” Wade agreed reluctantly. “But I’m hoping you’ll go easy on me, seeing as how I’ve been doing my part to keep the town ladies happy, unlike your picky ass.”
“It’s called having standards; you should try it,” Max suggested and disconnected the call. Again he found himself thinking about “Gina” and her kisses. Those sizzling kisses as her soft full mouth moved under his erotically; her tongue greedily melding with his and allowing him to taste her sweetness. She’d molded that sexy little body tightly to his, and despite the height difference, they’d fit together perfectly. Max could honestly say that being with her was hands down the best sexual experience of his life. His mind flashed an image of another beauty that-
No, don’t go there, he told himself, assuaged by the familiar pang of guilt. With a sigh, he rubbed his beard in frustration as he tried to repress painful memories. Max was frustrated that Gina had left, but he figured it was for the best. After all, everything happens for a reason, and if things were meant to be, “they” would have happened.
Chapter Three
Baymoor, Maryland was a small town. The population was 8,998, soon to be 9,001, once town treasurer Frank Carson’s wife gave birth to the town’s first set of triplets in October. The entire town eagerly awaited the birth of these babies. A parade was already being planned in their honor. There was even tal
k of Mrs. Carson receiving the key to the “city”. Parades were held quarterly and festivals, monthly. The mayor was a fourth generation mayor in his family who, like his predecessors, believed that these kinds of events brought people closer.
That’s the kind of town Baymoor was —community oriented. Everyone knew everyone. From birth to kindergarten, elementary school to high school, in that order. Sure some people graduated high school and took off for the brighter lights of a bigger city, but when it was time to settle down and raise a family, you simply came back home. Home to a place where everyone knew your name. A place that celebrated and took pride in its citizens. For instance, when Helen Vales’ wienie dog, Ballpark took first place on that well-known dog show, he got to ride the big donut float during the annual January Donut Festival. When the high school cheerleading team was going to compete at state competitions, anybody who could thread a needle was volunteering their services to the No Wool Over My Eyes sewing club to help make new uniforms. Another bonus to living in Baymoor was the crime rate was almost nonexistent. The last break-in known was back in 2011 when a mama raccoon and her three young kids broke into Reyes Grocers and trashed the supermarket looking for food. Who knew raccoons liked wasabi hummus?
Voted number one at least eight times for best American small-town living, Baymoor had even been the number one pick for that movie about that red-headed Julia actress, who kept running away from getting married. With its lush greenery and pretty season changes, the quaint and charming town was often likened to a Norman Rockwell painting, with a touch of sass like Bluebell on the CW show “Hart of Dixie”. But the townspeople decided they didn’t want any of those “Hollywood” types coming around and messing things up like Bruce Willis did Idaho. The mayor had backed their decision one hundred percent.
It wasn’t that Baymoor wasn’t sophisticated enough for Hollywood because it was.There was a winery, brewery, restaurants, boutiques, and specialty shops; hell there was even a mall with a Target! Who could want more???
Georgina Carlton did. She was thinking something along those lines as she looked out the window of her Uncle Nate’s hospital room. She had lived in Baymoor with her aunt and uncle from the age of eight until she turned eighteen. The day after high school graduation she’d driven out of town with $2,500.00 in her pocket, determined to never come back to this godforsaken town. Because Georgina was a bright light, big city girl; and you only had to look at her to know it.
Her hair was expertly cut and colored, nails, French-manicured, and her skin was so smooth and clear it could have been photoshopped. She visited the Iron Maiden Beauty Salon & Spa at the Mandalay Bay religiously to maintain her best image which was important in her line of work, especially with her body. Ten years of dance had paid off. At five-feet-two inches, Georgina’s posture was always erect. Her legs and arms were sleek, toned, and strong. She was proud of how well she took care of her body. For years, it had been her livelihood as she performed with the acrobatic dance company El Sol & Le Moon all over the world.
Now retired from dancing, all she’d wanted to do was get her own business up and running, but the owners of the dance company had called and asked her to interview for another position with the company as a talent scout for them. If she got the job, she would be able to view performers all over the world, all expenses paid. Aside from having her own business, it was the perfect dream job, but she wouldn’t know anything more until she went back to Las Vegas in…what was that prison sentence again? Oh yes, one week.
That was how long she would be stuck in Baymoor. One miserable week in a town that made Mayberry look like the ghetto and where everyone knew everyone. The pharmacist knew your monthly and looked at you suspiciously if you didn’t come in to get supplies for your “friend” on time. Old acquaintances looked at you with pity because you didn’t have a significant other and no potential suitors in sight. They were like the blue people in the Avatar movie. Once they got their tails out, hide yours or you would be mated for life.
To Georgina, they were creepy because on the outside they were so damned nice and helpful. They wanted to make you feel right at home. Whenever she spoke to someone, she could almost hear the Beauty and the Beast song “Be Our Guest” roaring in her ears. If they really wanted to make her feel at home, someone should offer to sell her drugs or snatch her purse, but only if they gave it back afterward…which wasn’t too realistic, she supposed. But for Georgina, some of the residents were just like the witch from the Hansel & Gretel fairytale, the one that encouraged you to indulge yourself and have fun. Then when you least expected it-
“Are you okay, Georgie?” Valerie’s soft voice interrupted her thoughts. Georgina turned to look at her aunt and smiled. At fifty-eight, her aunt was still the prettiest woman in the world to her. Her mahogany skin was radiant, and she had great character lines around her eyes. Valerie’s oval face radiated serenity, and her wise green eyes were always filled with love and kindness. Her long, black locs now had more silver in them.
There was nothing in this world that Georgina wouldn’t do for this woman who had taken better care of her than her own mother. When Valerie called to let her know about her beloved uncle, Georgina had dropped everything and was on her way to Baymoor twenty-four hours later. Nate and Valerie Banks were her parents in every way except biologically. She took the seat next to her aunt and reached over to hold her hand.
“What happened, Aunt Val?” she asked gently, watching as Valerie closed her eyes took a deep breath and slowly released it.
“We were coming home from church and your uncle said he didn’t feel so well. After pulling into the driveway, he started pulling at his tie to loosen it and instructed me to call 911. I did as he asked and heard a thump just as the operator answered. I hurried around to the other side of the truck and screamed as I saw Nate lying there clutching his chest. I tried to stay calm as I relayed what was happening to the operator, holding his head in my lap and begging him to stay with me. The paramedics were there soon after.” Valerie grabbed one of Georgina’s hands and clasped it tightly in hers. She frowned slightly before continuing in a disapproving tone, “It’s been kind of hectic preparing the new seasonal menu. He’d been working so much lately at the restaurant and Cinnamon Farms. The doctor said due to his high blood pressure, he’d suffered a heart attack. All of our employees and friends have come to the hospital to keep me company.” She patted her niece’s hand gently, “Max has been coming over in the evenings to keep me company.
“Who’s Max?” Georgina asked curiously, feeling even more guilt heaped onto her shoulders. Great. One more thing or person she didn’t know about in their lives. They knew about her friends and always asked about them. Gaaaah, she was such a selfish bitch!
“Max Hayes is the owner of Cinnamon Farms and a very good friend of ours,” Valerie explained to her. “He was Walter Jennings’ nephew and moved here eight years ago after he quit being a lawyer abroad to work alongside his uncle. When Walter passed away from pneumonia two years ago, he left the farm to Max,” Valerie smiled fondly. “Did you know that working at the farm was Nate’s first job? Remember how Walter used to let you and Chelsea Reyes set up your lemonade stands during the farmer’s markets on the weekends?”
Georgie smiled fondly; she did remember, and Farmer Jennings had always been kind to her. Whenever they went to visit the farm, he would always make sure to send her home with a picnic basket full of goodies that his cook Betty prepared. No matter how long his day had been, he would always make time to hear all about hers.
One summer she really wanted to buy a gift for Uncle Nate and Aunt Valerie’s twelve-year anniversary. Farmer Jennings helped her set up the lemonade stand by the kitchen. She’d sold lemonade to all of his employees for two weeks straight. When she had enough money, he took her to Washington D. C. to purchase a gift certificate at a fancy restaurant Nate mentioned he’d like to take Valerie to and matched her seventy dollars. The look of delight on their faces when she presented them w
ith their gift was one she would never forget. Yes, Walter Jennings had been pretty special, and Georgina felt remorseful that she hadn’t known of his passing. For that, she would have come back to pay her respects. She was also a little curious about the person who would leave Europe to live in a small town. In Georgina’s mind, there was no way Baymoor could ever measure up to the glitz and glamor of living abroad.
Georgina turned to look at her uncle. Even in sleep he was larger than life. At the age of fifty-eight, his body was still in great condition, and gray was just starting to touch his temple. His face was smooth except for the telling laugh lines by the corner of his eyes and mouth. Even though they came to visit her yearly in Las Vegas, emailed and Skyped, she felt guilty for having stayed away for so long. When she graduated from college, it was during the holidays, the busiest time of the year for their restaurant, and they still came to support her. He stirred in his sleep before slowly focusing his gaze on the two of them. First, he smiled tenderly at his wife, then realizing it was Georgina sitting next to her, his eyes widened.
“Georgie? What are you doing here?” he asked in a raspy voice. She moved to hug him, her throat closing up, and she struggled not to cry as he pulled her toward him weakly.
