“I have dinner plans,” Jen said firmly. “Maybe we can do a movie tomorrow.”
“Who you have plans with?”
The woman had no shame. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
Chere cackled. As always she took the rebuke in good stride.
“Girl, leave it to me to find out. Nothing’s sacred in this town.”
“I’ll check in with you tomorrow,” Jen said and quickly hung up.
The doorbell rang, and about time too. Jen put an eye to the peephole and satisfied it was Trestin threw the door wide.
He stood on the threshold, for once looking uncertain.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “My peace offering wasn’t ready.” He handed her a box tied with several colorful ribbons. “This is to make up for the other night. We have Camille Lewis to blame for that visit by security.”
“Interesting lady.” And to think she’d thought it was him calling security.
He rolled his eyes. “The understatement of the year. Rosa makes the best key lime pie in town. I ordered in advance but there were problems with the refrigeration. In any case I had to wait.”
It was on the tip of Jen’s tongue to tell him he could have called. But bringing the pie was a thoughtful gesture on his part, especially given they had no relationship. She’d expected him to show up swinging his two empty hands.
“And I have something else for you,” he said handing her a square flat package that was carefully wrapped.
“Should I open it now or later?”
“Later. Maybe when you’re alone.”
Jen thanked him and stood aside so that he could enter. Trestin’s gaze swept the room. “You have great taste. Are those antiques?”
“Yes, I know, very un-Florida in the land where pastels, chrome and glass prevail.”
“Were they inherited?” he asked, his palm skimming the surface of the sideboard where she’d set out the dishes, cutlery and glasses.
“There was nothing to inherit. I grew up in foster homes.”
He frowned. “Sorry.”
She didn’t want him feeling sorry for her. She was long over not ever knowing her parents.
“I was thinking we might have drinks on the balcony.”
“I’ll gladly play bartender,” Trestin offered.
Jen pointed to the kitchen. “I have all the ingredients for margaritas. They’re not a very masculine drink but the temperature outside calls for something cool and soothing.”
“You have that right, the temperature I mean, not the masculinity thing. There are still real men who drink margaritas.” He winked at her. “In fact I would love one.”
She decided to leave it alone.
Trestin’s cadence reminded her of someone, but right now she could barely think straight. His six-foot-two frame was too close to her, and his smooth dark skin made the white linen shirt look like it was exclusively made for him.
“There’s always beer and vodka if you prefer,” Jen offered, speaking quickly.
“I’m sticking with margaritas.”
She left Trestin seated on the balcony, plopped in the pasta and hurriedly made up a batch of the quenching drink. Jen returned minutes later, carrying a pitcher and two glasses on a tray. She set the tray down and handed him one.
“You’ll join me.”
“But of course.”
After pouring a glass she stood next to Trestin and stared out on the ocean. Dusk was giving way to night and the last hopeful rays of sunshine illuminated the gray-green water.
“You wouldn’t by chance have tuned in to WARP and heard Mayor Rabinowitz the other night?” Jen asked.
“Not sure why I would do that.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
For someone claiming to be in communications, he seemed so uninformed and uninterested in the happenings in their tiny town. Jen remembered asking him a similar question about the D’Dawg show when they’d had dinner previously. His answer had been about the same. What could be occupying his time so totally that he wasn’t keeping up with current events?
“Exactly what kind of communications are you in?” she asked.
Was it her imagination or was that a sickly tinge of gray shading his ebony skin?
“I’m a journalist of sorts.”
He spoke carefully. Too carefully.
She was beginning to think that what she suspected was true. He worked for the competition. In that case he was a really good person to know. Then again maybe he was just yanking her chain.
“I brought up the Dear Jenna controversy before and you hadn’t heard of it.”
“What about it?”
“I’d think you’d have an opinion.”
“I do.”
“So what do you think?” Jen was treading on safe ground. She looked nothing like the stuffy, uptight photograph of Dear Jenna, in the corporate suit wearing her Condoleeza Rice pearls and disfiguring glasses. The photo had to be at least ten years old when she’d first started out in the business.
“About the columnist using the word queer? Or about how this town seized on it like a dog with a juicy bone?”
“It was more like that horrible on-air personality fanned the flames into a huge fire. No, I was actually tuned in to the broadcast when the mother supposedly came on. Do you think it was really her or someone he put up to it?”
“I wasn’t listening.”
“But you just said—”
“Can we change the subject? Something smells delicious. I hope you didn’t go through a lot of trouble.”
“Actually I like to cook.”
“Something else new I’ve learned about you.”
“Is that a hint? Are you hungry,” Jen asked.
“Famished.”
“Then let’s go inside where it’s air-conditioned and eat.”
Jen led him indoors, drained the pasta and began moving the items that made up the meal onto the sideboard. She’d set her tiny table with coral-colored table mats. Her napkin rings shaped like dolphins held jade cloth napkins pleated like fans.
“Help yourself,” she said, gesturing to the laden sideboard. “I figured this way we would have more space.”
Trestin needed no further prompting. He helped himself to the chowder and rolls, took a seat at the table and dug in.
“Delicious,” he announced.
“Thank you. It’s a new recipe. It turned out well.”
After spooning the last of the chowder into his mouth, he piled his plate high with pasta, scallops and shrimp. Jen poured them both another margarita.
“So tell me,” she said. “Why do you think this Dear Jenna woman’s gotten so popular?”
“Because gossip sells. Our townsfolk have a lot of time on their hands or they wouldn’t find other people’s troubles so intriguing.”
“Dear Jenna isn’t a gossip columnist,” Jen said inwardly bristling. “She’s an advice columnist.”
Trestin’s fork paused midway from plate to mouth. “What’s the difference?
“One spreads rumors. The other provides a service helping people.”
Trestin snorted. “Services like telling an adult man’s mother to hook him up with some woman desperately wanting to get married.”
Jen smiled. “You have been following the controversy. I take it you have something against marriage?”
He finished chewing and set his fork down. “Actually I don’t. But I think an adult should do his or her own choosing.”
“I think marriage, even plans to marry, can ruin a pretty good relationship,” Jen offered
Trestin looked at her curiously. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“It’s just that people immediately start having these expectations of each other.” Jen was thinking of herself and Anderson.
“Like what?”
“Like one’s going to tame the other. Like one of them needs to be home at a specific time to start dinner and God forbid they’re not. Like one now owns the ot
her.”
Jen began gathering the dishes.
“You sound bitter.” Tre stood. “I’ll help you,” he offered.
In the kitchen as they were stacking dishes into the dishwasher he continued, “I take it you’ve tried marriage and it isn’t for you.”
“No, I never have. I was engaged and I’m not interested in repeating that experience. Once the ring was on the monster got released.”
“Ouch.”
Jen’s eyebrow shot up. “You’re interested in getting married?”
“To the right woman.”
“You are a diplomat.”
“Well, I’ve been around enough marriages to know that both parties better be in sync on important issues. Because once those hormones stop revving, you’d better be on the same page when it comes to finances, goals and even raising children.”
“Sure you haven’t been married?” Jen teased, trying to lighten things up a bit.
“I’m sure. But I lived through an unhappy marriage.” Jen glanced at him. “My mother and my father’s. When the responsibilities that came with having two kids got to my father, he left. I’ve seen it time and time again with friends. Two people are getting along just fine, even living together. But they never discuss the vital issues and when reality hits home in the form of crises, one or the other is out of there.”
“Uh-huh. Now you see why I’m not a proponent of marriage.
Trestin set the last plate in the dishwasher and closed the door. “I say date if you have to, get to know the person well over a period of time, although that’s no guarantee. But it does help if the person shares your values and ethics and believes in a committed relationship.”
“I’m not sure there’s a person like that existing out there.”
“You are jaded.”
She supposed she was. Anderson had snowed her with his talk about soul mates and long-lasting love. He’d talk a good talk about fidelity and walking away from temptation. When it came down to it, he hadn’t been able to walk the walk.
“What about kids?” Trestin asked. “Don’t you want them? Or are you advocating having children out of wedlock?”
“I’m not planning on having any at all. It’s tough being a single parent.” Jen took the individual bowls of crème brûlée out of the refrigerator. “Shall we have these inside or out?”
“Inside. I’m fascinated by this conversation.”
“Follow me into the dining area,” Jen said, starting out.
Trestin set down the dishcloth he was drying his hands on and followed.
“You’d have beautiful children,” he said, smiling at her.
“Think so?”
She placed a spoon in her bowl and began eating.
“In fact I’d be open to giving it a whirl.”
She’d just been propositioned, or was it her imagination? Better set him straight right now.
“There’s not a prayer of you and I going to bed tonight if that’s what you’re angling for. I’m not that kind of woman. I want to know my man well before I take that leap. And a leap of faith it will be after what I went through.”
“I was joking,” Trestin said with a perfectly straight face. “Lighten up. You’d have quite a bit of baggage to stow if you and I were to progress to the status of lovers.”
“Fat chance in hell.”
He was back to his cocky, arrogant self.
“Are you with The Southern Tribune?” Jen asked, taking the conversation in a safer direction.
“The newspaper? No, I’m not.”
She wasn’t sure she believed him. He trailed his fingers along her forearm and she wished he would stop touching her. His touch brought out the sensual erotic side of her that she hid from the world. “What about this doctor they’re supposedly hiring?”
“Why would a newspaper need a doctor?”
Exasperated, Jen sighed. “I guess I’ll just never get a straight answer out of you.”
The pads of his fingertips traced a path on her arm, making her shiver.
“What have I been evasive about?”
She threw her hands in the air. “Everything. I had to push you for a last name. I still don’t know what you do.”
“Hey, simmer down. You’re getting all worked up over nothing.” Trestin now held Jen by the shoulders. She looked into his liquid brown eyes and forgot how much he could infuriate her.
His kiss began as a fleeting touch to her lips. When it became more intense it hinted at an even greater intimacy. He didn’t push it though, just held her tightly before gently releasing her.
“I’d like to introduce you to my mother,” he said unexpectedly. “She’ll be visiting me in a week or so.”
“What! Why?”
“Why not? You live right next door. It would be nice to know you if she needed a cup of sugar.”
“That would be fine then.”
Jen was thinking it might be interesting to see what Trestin’s mama was like. Maybe she could even fill her in on the missing pieces of his life and talk to her about the things Trestin glossed over.
“Good. I’ll bring her by.”
When Trestin thanked her and kissed her goodbye his kiss was much more exploratory than demanding.
Jen pushed him firmly out of her front door.
Chapter 12
“Baby boy, you’ve been holding out on me,” Marva Jones-Monroe said the moment she spotted Tre’s silver Porsche. “I didn’t know you were living this large. Radio must be paying extremely well.”
Clearly awed, she circled his vehicle, stroking the recently waxed surface and leaving streaks in her wake. She appeared perfectly fine to him, far from the sickly person she’d pretended to be.
Marva sprang into the front seat of the automobile before he could help her in, leaving him to load her many bags in the trunk and forcing him to tie a rope to hold the trunk lid together. They were off.
The twenty-minute drive to Flamingo Place went by quickly with his mother chatting away a mile a minute, filling him in on her friend Mrs. Calhoun’s issues with arthritis.
On Tre’s way up to the apartment, loaded down like a pack mule, he ran into Ida Rosenstein.
“Tre,” she said loudly. “They’re getting older, but at least your taste is improving. This one isn’t as skinny as the one in 5C. By the way, I like that girl.” She peered nearsightedly at Marva. “This ones got hips and big bazookas.” Ida made a motion to indicate Marva’s generous bustline. “And she’s also old enough to be your mother.” Ida snorted.
“I am his mother,” Marva said indignantly, thrusting out her chest. “What girl in 5C?”
“She called me a mother,” Ida said, going red in the face.
“No, she didn’t,” Tre swiftly interrupted. “This is my mother, Ida. The woman who gave birth to me.”
“Wheew!” Ida said, wiping her forehead with the balled-up handkerchief she was holding in her hand. “I think I need a smoke.”
“What girl in 5C?” Marva repeated as Ida fumbled through her purse looking for her pack.
“You stop by my apartment sometime this week.” She pointed a crooked finger at her door. “5A, remember that. I’ll make us Rob Roys and I’ll fill you in.” Ida found a cigarette, lit it and exhaled a smoke ring.
“I’d think this would be a smoke-free environment?” Marva said loud enough that even hearing-impaired Ida had to have heard, not that she would care.
Tre, using a hand that was less encumbered, whisked her away. “See you, Ida.”
Somehow he managed to extract the apartment key from his pocket and get the front door open. His mother swept through as he struggled with her bags, managing to get them inside and setting them down before kicking the door closed.
Marva was already trotting around, touching his things and exclaiming. “My son, the radio personality has certainly come a long way from Detroit.” She was through the French doors and out on the patio in a New York minute. “I think I’m going to love it here,” she announced. “S
mell that ocean. It’s just what the doctor prescribed.”
Little by little, Tre moved Marva’s things into the guest room. The housekeeping service retained through the building had done a decent job of picking up and packing away extraneous items. And they should, he paid them well enough. Twenty-five dollars an hour for work that didn’t require brain power was, in his opinion, highway robbery.
But linens were on the bed as well as the pretty comforter a saleswoman had convinced him to buy when he mentioned he was having an out of town guest. And now the room looked homey and welcoming. Too welcoming. Giselle, his “Cleaning angel,” as she called herself, had even left a small vase of zinnias on the bureau.
“Tre, honey, where are you?” Marva called.
“Be right out.”
He made a stop in the kitchen, poured them both iced tea and took the glasses out.
Marva was already ensconced in one of his deck chairs with the plump burgundy cushions. Her feet rested on the table in front of her.
“Thank you. This is quite the life,” she said when he handed her her glass before taking a seat next to her.
“Yes, I’ve enjoyed living here. I just don’t know how long I’m going to stay.”
Marva paused with the glass at her lips. “Didn’t you tell me you were buying the place?”
“Yes, that’s in the works. But radio is a transient business. You go where there is work and where there’s opportunity.”
“Most wives aren’t going to like that,” Marva said sagely.
“In case you forgot, I don’t have one.”
Marva hoisted herself from the chair. “That’s easily remedied. One of my pieces of hand luggage is filled with e-mails and photos I’ve printed out. You can have your pick, boy. There’s everything from doctors to divorcees living on their exes’ alimony looking for love. In fact I think I’ll get them.”
“Please don’t do that.” Tre whooshed out a breath. He should never have bought her a computer and printer for her birthday. Never! “You just got here, Mother. We’ll look at them another time, okay.”
Like hell he would.
“No, we’ll look at them now,” Marva insisted, “when you’re not running off some place and I have your full attention.” She toddled off, her ample booty swinging.
Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani) Page 10
