Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani)

by Marcia King-Gamble

  Two weeks of having her live with him would just about kill him.

  Jen was happy to see that the town of Flamingo Beach had finally turned its attention elsewhere. Instead of Dear Jenna, the talk was now of the upcoming election—Solomon Rabinowitz versus the newcomer Miriam Young; the Flip-Flop Momma as she was called by the opposition, and not because she flip-flopped on issues, but because she’d been seen at a casual beach function wearing her flip-flops and blending in with the crowd. Her platform had been built on being about people and for people.

  WARP’s disk jockey now focused his attention on the upcoming election. He was busy poking fun at both candidates. And Jen, who had enough work to keep three people busy, had actually managed to delegate some to Chere who, for the moment, had knuckled down.

  Jen was in the large cubicle she shared with Chere when Eileen Brown walked in. Chere was making her morning rounds catching up on any news she’d missed.

  “Hi,” Jen said, tearing her glance away from the computer. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  Eileen hitched a hip onto the edge of Jen’s desk. It was probably the only spot she could find that wasn’t cluttered.

  “So,” she said. “The Tribune has finally made an official announcement they’re hiring this Love Doctor.”

  “About time.” The rumors had been running wild. “What’s this doc supposed to do that I’m not?”

  “Sound official and flash his credentials. The whole idea was to stick it to The Chronicle, oneupmanship so to speak. I guess they feel a doctor with credentials lends a certain credibility to their new advice column.”

  “As opposed to my bachelor’s degree in social work and my common sense,” Jen finished.

  “I suppose.”

  “Who did they pick? Anyone we know?”

  “Let’s talk over lunch,” Eileen said. “That’s if you’re free.”

  “I’d love to have lunch.”

  “Good. We’ll get sandwiches or salads and sit at one of those tables with the umbrellas out back. We’ll catch up on everything.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Just then Chere came toddling in, stopping short when she spotted Eileen. The sudden movement almost sent her pitching forward. She wore absurdly high platform sandals in a most unsuitable gold foil, definitely not shoes for an office. She grunted in Eileen’s direction before wedging herself behind her small desk.

  “I’ll see you for lunch then,” Eileen said, an amused expression on her face as she left.

  “I don’t like that woman,” Chere said, not even waiting for Eileen to get out of earshot.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she thinks she’s better than all of us.

  She wears those clothes that look like they come from the back of some white woman’s closet. And she talks like them, too.”

  “Eileen is classy,” Jen said, letting Chere come to whatever conclusion she chose. “It takes a tremendous amount of courage to remain at the top of your game when for years you are the only African-American department head at The Chronicle, and you are a woman.”

  Chere sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes simultaneously. “She had plenty of help.” Jen shot Chere a quizzical look but said nothing. Needing no encouragement Chere continued, “That old fart, Ian Pendergrass has always had a thang for her. He’s got the hots for pretty much any woman of color.”

  New information. Perhaps too much information. Chere had just about confirmed how she’d fallen into an administrative job she wasn’t qualified to hold. Doubtful she knew how to type and even if she could those nails would be a hazard. Today they were painted an odious neon-green.

  “I have to meet with Luis,” Jen said, successfully putting an end to the direction the conversation was taking. “He’s become quite the micromanager lately. Now he wants to discuss the column before it’s released.”

  “Better you than me,” Chere said, sniffing and turning her attention back to the pile of letters waiting to be filed and catalogued. “And by the way I know who you’ve been dumping me for and hanging out with lately.”

  Jen stopped dead in her tracks. “Who?” she shot over her shoulder.

  “Your next-door neighbor, the noisy one. The fine-looking guy who owns the silver Porsche.”

  Jen decided it best to just keep walking.

  Later that day, she met up with Eileen for a late lunch. On purpose they’d chosen a time when most of the newspaper’s staff was back at their desks and it wasn’t stiflingly hot.

  “Do you think you’ll stay?” Eileen asked while they were picking their way through unappetizing salads.

  The question had come out of nowhere. There must be a rumor circulating.

  “Why wouldn’t I stay?”

  “This is a sleepy small town with very little to do other than go to the beach, fortify yourself at restaurants and drink yourself silly. You’re a young woman, you might want a little more action.”

  “I was recruited from a small town,” Jen reminded her. “Ashton is hardly happening.”

  Eileen pretended interest in her salad, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth. “I just thought after that brouhaha with WARP you might be over us and considering moving on.”

  “Hardly. Things have settled down and I’ve settled in. I’m beginning to enjoy the town and its people.”

  “Good. Now I have a rather indelicate question to ask. What about dating? Have you met anyone interesting?”

  “I’m not dating anyone if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Eileen placed the plastic cover back on what remained of her salad. “There isn’t very much to choose from here in terms of eligible males. And if you’re in the market for a single, professional African-American male you might be out of luck.”

  “So what’s a single woman to do?”

  “Date interracially or depend on friends to hook you up with someone they know. Mind you, he might be from out of town and he might or might not be divorced.”

  Dating was not a top priority, and she’d been too involved with her next-door neighbor to pay attention to what the town had to offer in terms of African-American males.

  Eileen tossed the container holding the salad in the garbage. “There’s a function coming up, given by Friends of the new African-American Library. It’s going to be on Pelican Island where the library is. Barry, my husband, has two extra tickets. You’re welcome to them if you’d like.”

  It was unexpected and certainly thoughtful. Jen was curious to meet Eileen’s other half. She kept in mind Chere’s comments about Eileen and Ian. It might very well be sour grapes on the part of her assistant but the older she got the more nothing surprised her.

  “Thank you,” Jen said graciously. “What kind of function is it?” She was thinking it might be a way to meet people. Professional people.

  “It’s actually a play. The troupe’s from out of town. They’re putting on The Jackie Robinson Story. There’s a reception following the show, an opportunity to meet and mingle.”

  “That’s so cool. Jackie’s story is one that should be told and retold, especially to young African-American adults who have given up hope. He is an inspiration.”

  “Amen. Anyway, I was thinking it would be nice to introduce you to some of the movers and shakers of Flamingo Beach and the neighboring towns. You might even meet an interesting man or two. If someone comes across your path that’s interesting, Barry can fill you in.”

  “Okay, you’ve talked me into it. I accept.”

  Eileen stood. “Our lunch hour is over. I’ll touch base with you in a week just to firm things up.”

  “Great. It’ll be fun to meet some new people and see something of the neighboring towns as well.”

  “Hopefully you won’t be too disappointed.”

  Jen doubted she would be. So far there was a lot about North Florida she liked.

  Chapter 13

  His mother was slowly driving him crazy and she’d only been there two days. Tre had come home
from running a few errands expecting to find Marva lounging around the pool where she’d taken up residence. Instead, he’d found photos of women strewn over his dining room table.

  “What are these?” he asked.

  “Oh, those. Those are the women who applied for the position of Mrs. Monroe.”

  He gritted his teeth and ground out, “I didn’t realize you had a contest going on. I don’t mean to be difficult, but as I’ve said a hundred times I am perfectly capable of choosing my own bride.”

  “Are you? Then what’s taking you so long?”

  “I have a career that may not be to the likings of the average woman.”

  “Who said you needed average?” Marva came back with.

  Good point! Whoever she was could not be average, not with the hours he kept or the persistent women constantly trailing him. Even so, his mother needed to stay out of it.

  “Would you mind cleaning up a bit?” He gestured to the table. “Why don’t you just dump the lot in the trash?”

  Marva stuck out her lower lip. “I can’t do that.” There hadn’t been any mention of her illness since she’d arrived nor had he seen her swallow one pill. He had the feeling he’d been conned big-time.

  “Suit yourself but those women are bound to lose interest when no one responds, so you’re just hauling around unnecessary trash.”

  “I’ve responded to them all.”

  “You’ve what?”

  Now it was his blood pressure that was shooting sky-high.

  “Someone had to answer the women before they got away.”

  “And that someone was you.” Tre inhaled a breath before gritting out, “What exactly did you say?”

  Marva smiled, proud that she’d taken things in hand. “I thanked them for their interest, asked for their phone numbers, and told them you’d be contacting them in the next week or so.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did, too.”

  The anger he’d worked so hard to control was back. It came in red furious waves, consuming him. He wanted to punch a hole in the wall, kick that table and its offensive contents right through the French door, over the balcony and into the ocean. He did none of that.

  Breathe! Breathe! Breathe! Redirect your anger, think of something pleasant. Something you enjoy.

  He would go for a run on the boardwalk until he calmed down. Tre headed for the bedroom to change clothes. He had swapped with another DJ and had the evening off.

  Marva’s voice came at him. “I thought we were going to dinner, baby.”

  “After I get back. It’ll give you time to get rid of that rubbish.”

  “How am I going to know who’s who when these women e-mail me back?” she whined. “How are you going to know who you’re taking to dinner?”

  Tre stopped at the threshold of his bedroom. “I’m not taking anyone to dinner except someone of my own choosing.”

  “But there are three I’ve already invited to go out with you.”

  “Then uninvite them.”

  “I can’t. I signed your name.”

  “Then find a good excuse to get me out of it!”

  Tre entered his bedroom and kicked at the laundry basket. The receptacle flew across the room, spewing its contents onto the bamboo floor. Two days of Marva and he’d be signing up for anger management classes again. Twelve more days of her would turn him into an alcoholic.

  He headed out the door.

  An hour later he was huffing and puffing, having run his anger off. Every muscle and sinew felt it, but at least his head was clear. He’d soared past euphoria and gotten to the point where nothing mattered.

  Why expend a lot of hateful energy on an old lady that he actually loved? Marva wasn’t that old to begin with—fifty-nine was considered young today. He’d go home, apologize and take her to dinner. His mother’s heart was in the right place.

  As Tre dragged himself back to the apartment, Jen—outfitted in sneakers, running shorts, and T-back shirt—headed his way. He slowed down, jogging in place, waiting for her to catch up.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you ran,” he greeted.

  Jen now matched his pace exactly. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she huffed, smiling to take the vinegar off her words.

  “Ah, but I plan on finding out.”

  Tre hadn’t seen Jen since their dinner. Those memorable kisses still lingered, kisses that had left him wanting more. Much, much more.

  “How about we run together sometime later this week?” he threw out.

  “Knock on my door and if I’m home I’ll join you,” she said, preparing to jog on.

  “I’ll bring my mother by to meet you,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  She was several feet up the boardwalk when she called to him, “Okay. Something to look forward to.” Then she waved and moved on.

  Their encounter was entirely too brief. He’d have to remedy that shortly, and jogging would be the perfect excuse to get them together. The month had flown by and he wasn’t any closer to getting her into bed. During that time he’d decided he wanted more than a quick hit. This was one woman he wanted to get to know.

  Jen St. George was the type of woman that stimulated Tre on a lot of different levels. She was exciting, intriguing and far from bowled over by him. Plus she challenged his intelligence. That could make for a sweeter chase and a more satisfying capture. Nothing that came too easily was ever worth it.

  Still thinking about Jen, Tre entered the building and got on the elevator. He was much calmer and more level-headed now. He was even looking forward to taking his mother out.

  “Ma, where are you?” Tre called, noticing how quiet the apartment seemed.

  No answer. But at least his dining room table was clear now and the damning evidence of his mother’s meddling was gone. Maybe Marva was taking a walk.

  Tre hopped into the shower, got out and quickly got dressed. He returned to the living room to find his mother still missing and now grew concerned. When another fifteen minutes went by and she still hadn’t returned, he decided to go in search of her.

  He wasted another half an hour wandering around the complex asking the residents if they’d seen Marva. Tre even quizzed the security guard behind the desk but, so far, nothing.

  All the tension he’d worked off returned. He became even more concerned. Better head back to the apartment to see if Marva had called. Not that she would even remember he had a cell phone.

  As Tre walked by Ida Rosenstein’s apartment, the door opened, and his mother came through.

  “Mother,” Tre said, “I’ve been looking all over for you. I’ve been worried.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” she said coolly, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Ida and I have been catching up. I took her up on her previous offer of Rob Roys and we got to talking.” She’d had more than one as her silly smile confirmed. “So when will I be meeting 5C?”

  Ida was at the door now, the inevitable lit cigarette in hand. She was carrying her purse. “Where are you taking us to, young man?”

  Marva had apparently extended the dinner invitation to Ida.

  “Wherever you lovely ladies would like to go,” Tre answered, glad that Ida would be there to provide a buffer.

  “Charlie’s,” Ida piped up. “They have the best lobster in town and the freshest rolls.”

  And the most inflated prices.

  “All right, ladies, you talked me into it.” He held out his arms to the women and they hooked their hands through the crooks.

  All night Tre suffered through Ida’s overly loud conversation and his mother’s incessant quizzing. He suffered through the stories of indigestion, fading eyesight and crippling arthritis. Both ladies apparently forgot about their digestive ailments as they worked their way through a four-course meal. Tre even spotted Ida folding up the rolls in a napkin and shoving them in her purse.

  He was halfway through his veal when an attractive young woman with a swishing ponytail and a skimpy skirt tha
t barely covered her butt came over.

  “Aren’t you D’Dawg?” she asked.

  “Who wants to know?” Ida squawked, saving him the effort of answering.

  The invader shot her a sour look. “I’m talking to him not you.”

  “You’re very disrespectful, young lady,” Marva yelled, making her presence known. “What is it you want with my son?”

  The young woman’s demeanor immediately changed. “Ooohh, you’re his mother? I was hoping he’d autograph my stomach.” She flipped up her cropped top and handed Tre a felt-tipped pen.

  “He will do no such thing. Cover yourself, young lady.” Marva slid a paper napkin forward. “Use this if you must.”

  The mini commotion had gotten the attention of the nearby tables. Tre recognized several of the patrons, one in particular he knew from running into her at several functions. She had a big position at The Chronicle. Tre quickly signed the napkin and slid it across the table.

  The groupie read his words, and squealed, delighted at his personalized wording.

  “I saw your ad on the Internet. At least I thought it might be yours, described you perfectly. I applied,” she said between squeals.

  “We’re having dinner,” Marva reminded her, quickly, too quickly. “Do you mind?”

  He’d deal with his mother later.

  The woman tossed Marva another sour look and then quickly covered with a smile when Tre stared at her.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” the fan said, clutching the napkin to her chest. Her eyes never leaving Tre’s, she quickly backed away.

  “Lordie, does this happen often?” his mother asked, bug-eyed. “No wonder you’re soured on women.”

  “I am not soured, Mother. We’ve been through this and we’ll deal with the other issue when I get home.”

  What was the point in arguing or making a bigger scene than had already been created? His mother would believe what she wanted to believe. She’d thought he was gay.

  The woman he’d recognized previously, the one who worked for The Flamingo Beach Chronicle, stopped by on her way out. She was accompanied by a distinguished graying man. Tre assumed he was her husband. That was soon confirmed when she introduced them.