Sex on Flamingo Beach

by Marcia King-Gamble

  Was she leading Rowan on by flirting with him? If he thought the evening was going to end in the same manner it had a week or so ago, he was in for a rude awakening. She’d vowed it would not happen again. Good as the sex had been, this relationship couldn’t go anywhere.

  “What’s in the bag?” Emilie asked, noticing for the first time the paper bag Rowan carried.

  “A little something to cool us down.” He took her hand and walked with her through the condo’s grounds and toward the boardwalk. “How are things at the hotel? Is it back to business as usual?”

  “Sort of.”

  Emile told him all about how they’d increased security and that guards were now stationed in the paid parking lot. If you didn’t have identification you weren’t allowed on the premises.

  “I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing,” Rowan said. “Other hotels have gone that route. It costs plenty to provide additional security so it makes sense to charge guests for parking.”

  “But that’s not what the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort is about. Parking’s always been rolled into the room price so guests feel as if they’re getting something for free. Our rooms aren’t exactly cheap.”

  “How about we just concentrate on having a good time,” Rowan proposed, holding open the gate that led to the boardwalk and waiting for her to go through.

  She’d put the shop talk on hold for now, but later she would ask if there was an update on the plans for the Seminole casino. According to the resort’s arrangement, the first set of workers would be arriving next week. That could mean only one thing: construction would start shortly after.

  From the sounds coming from the beach the musicians were already tuning up. What had started off as an informal gathering with local musicians gathering to play had taken on a life of its own. People now came in from neighboring towns, and even as far away as South Florida. The jam had grown and grown, spilling onto the beach, showcasing the talented and untalented. Since most stores closed early on Saturdays, the session became a nice way to start off the weekend. What’s more it was free.

  People whizzed by on bikes or skates. The little souvenir shops that had recently received face-lifts were crowded with browsers.

  “Let’s find somewhere away from the madness,” Rowan proposed.

  “Yes, let’s.”

  They continued down the beach. Emilie was conscious of the stares and whispers. She was certain there was speculation that they were in a steamy relationship. And while there weren’t overt comments, she sensed the locals disapproved of interracial dating.

  She’d never made a secret of being black. She strongly suspected that was the reason she’d been transferred to Flamingo Beach in the first place. Her employer’s decision probably had a lot to do with demographics.

  “Oh, no,” Emilie muttered.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “A big one.” She pointed a discreet thumb in the direction of Camille Lewis. She was the last person Emilie wanted to run into.

  Unfortunately, the busybody had spotted them.

  A few feet away, Camille said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Well, just look at Ms. Thing. African-American males aren’t good enough for her. Got herself a white developer with money instead. Is he better in bed than our men?”

  “It’s none of your business, Camille,” Emilie said. Her grip on Rowan’s hand tightened.

  Rowan smiled blandly at Camille. “Well now, Camille, since from the looks of things you’re married, you’ll never know, will you?” Waving a hand, he continued on his way.

  Emilie burst out laughing. “Thanks for putting that witch in her place.”

  “Does that happen often?” Rowan asked when she’d finally stopped laughing.

  “You mean people taking potshots at me?”

  “Dissing you. Making inappropriate comments.”

  “All my life. Interestingly enough no one has a problem with me dating a white guy when they think I’m white. But once they find out I’m African-American you’d think I’d committed some horrible crime.”

  “They’re just ignorant people,” he said.

  “Doesn’t it bother you when someone stares at you when you’re walking down the street with me?” Emilie asked.

  “No. I figure they’re looking because we make such an attractive couple. Dating black women is not new for me.”

  She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re an unusual man.”

  “Not all that unusual. I grew up in an urban neighborhood. Black women are all I know. They’re what I’m used to. No false airs. No pretensions. They’re really down-home and comfortable with themselves.”

  “And your family didn’t have a problem with these relationships?”

  “My parents were too busy putting food on the table for three children to care.”

  Fascinated, Emilie flopped down at the end of the pier. She wanted to learn more about Rowan. He sat down next to her.

  “You probably never had people spit at you and use the N word. I have,” she said. “It causes you to be really careful.”

  “I’ve had far worse done to me, and sometimes just to gain respect I fought back with my fists. Flamingo Beach is relatively tolerant. I’ve yet to hear of crosses being burnt on anyone’s front lawn.”

  What Rowan didn’t say was that he was once married to a black woman, short-lived as the marriage turned out to be. It had cost him plenty to get out of the relationship. But he’d done what he’d thought was the right thing at the time. And as soon as he’d discovered what his ex, Nija, was all about, he’d cut his losses and moved on.

  “The residents are not as tolerant as you think. Look at the looks you and I got just walking here. When you’re in the hotel industry you could end up just about anywhere. It would be a heck of a lot easier if my man were black.”

  Rowan said nothing for a while. He uncorked the wine he’d brought along and poured them both a glass.

  “News flash. Most people don’t have a clue that you’re black, at least not at first sight. I think you’re the one with the chip on your shoulder. Nowadays people date whomever they please,” he said.

  He was making a good argument for himself she supposed. And truthfully she was curious about a guy who by his own admission grew up the only white kid in a black neighborhood. She’d never quite met anyone as sure of himself as Rowan, or as comfortable in his own skin.

  “You’re a strange man. You’re more comfortable with my people than your own.” Emilie looked at him curiously.

  “Like I said before, your people are my people. They always have been. Let’s just listen to the music and shelve the topic of race for now.” Rowan looped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a kiss. “Let’s give them something more to talk about.”

  He was so much cooler than she was. Emilie focused on the music and tried not to think about what people were saying. For the next couple of hours she listened to a number of musicians play their instruments. A few even attempted to sing. And as the sun sank low in the sky, and twilight made its appearance, she finally relaxed. She was actually liking having Rowan’s arm around her shoulders.

  On their way back she spotted Chere Abrahams and her husband, Quen.

  “Would you mind if we said hello for a moment?” Emilie asked, pointing to the couple.

  Chere had never gotten back to her about the sale of the condo. Now was as good a time as any to find out whether she’d have to find another place to live.

  As luck would have it, Camille Lewis got to Chere before Emilie could. There was a lot of eye rolling and huffing. The two weren’t exactly friends and Chere made it no secret she disliked Camille. It seemed doubly odd that the two were now engaged in conversation.

  Having no desire to run into the woman again, Emilie deliberately slowed her steps. Camille, after tossing a disdainful look their way, took off.

  “Hey, guys,” Emilie greeted. “Wasn’t that an awesome session? Wouldn’t it be great if we had more concert
s?”

  “I was just saying that to Chere.” Quen nudged his wife with his elbow. “Wasn’t I, sugar?”

  “Yeah, yeah, you were. Sorry, that woman gets on my last nerve.” Chere aimed a poisonous glance at Camille’s departing back. “You’ll never guess what she just said to me.”

  “Don’t repeat it and spread her cancer,” Quentin Abrahams warned, squeezing his wife’s hunched shoulders. “Camille’s bad news, sugar. Don’t pay her any mind.”

  Rowan and Quen exchanged one of those bear hugs that men had perfected. It was the male version of the woman’s air kiss. Chere held her cheek out for the real thing.

  “Mmm, mmm, mmm, if only you were single, girl,” Rowan said.

  “Honey, if I were single you’d be dead of a heart attack.”

  Rowan swept a handful of hair out of one eye and roared. “I’d be dying with a smile on my face.”

  Chere forgot about Camille’s acid tongue and burst out laughing.

  “Do I need to start looking for a place to live?” Emilie asked Chere.

  “Not right away. Quen’s still thinking it over. He was hoping that you’d counter.” Chere elbowed her husband. “Say something.”

  “Make me an offer and we’ll work something out. If I don’t have to pay a real estate agent a commission fee it just might work out.”

  “Just you wait a minute,” Chere howled. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean I’m waiving my commission.”

  Rowan got in on the action. “Emilie, you’re thinking of buying a house?”

  “It’s Quen’s condo, and thinking is the operative word. This market’s gotten ridiculous,” Emilie said.

  Falling into step, they began to walk down the boardwalk together.

  “I have a town house I could let you use for free,” Rowan whispered in Emilie’s ear.

  “Nothing in this world is free. Everything comes with a price tag,” she shot back.

  Rowan kept his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “You could move in with me. Most of the time I won’t even be there. You’ll have the place to yourself eventually, because I’ll only be in Flamingo Beach for as long as it takes to get the casino and mall up and running.”

  Emilie came to a full stop. “You and I aren’t quite ready to take that step. We barely know each other.”

  “We could be if you’d let us.”

  He was moving way too fast for her.

  Chere and Quen had slowed down waiting for them. Chere’s questions would come later.

  “Come see the new house we bought and are fixing up,” Quen invited. “Tre and Jen are going to drop by later. We’ll have a few drinks and talk.”

  “That’s up to Emilie. What do you say?” Rowan looked at her expectantly.

  “I’d love to.” Chere had been going on and on about the run-down little house they’d bought and the work they’d put into it.

  It was an older, arts and crafts–style home that had been in foreclosure and they’d gotten it for a good price. Quen now spent his weekends fixing it up while Chere worked in the garden. Emilie was anxious to see what they’d done with the house and the grounds because it hadn’t looked like much initially.

  After a ten-minute walk through an area of town that was currently being gentrified, they came to a freshly painted house with a white picket fence. A stone walkway led to a cedar front door. The well-tended lawn was sprinkled with pink flamingos in various poses.

  Chere pointed to the birds. “I must be making my neighbors crazy.” She gave them one of her great big smiles.

  “Makes the house have personality,” Rowan diplomatically said.

  Inside was cream. The crown moldings were painted a smidgeon darker. The wood floors were a new addition. Quen pointed out that he’d laid them himself.

  “We’re considering moving in after the house is done,” Chere added. “We’ll need more space and we really enjoy working in the garden.” She was positively beaming. Something was up.

  As Emilie followed the proud newlyweds through their house she felt a sense of emptiness as if something in her life was missing. She’d always wanted to own a home and settle down. More and more she’d been thinking about what it would be like to have a family. At almost thirty-five she had a biological clock that was rapidly ticking.

  Finding the right man was the key.

  When the men wandered into the lit backyard to look at Quen’s vegetable garden, the women seized the opportunity to talk. Emilie suspected they’d gone off to smoke cigars and male bond.

  “Come see what I’ve done with the flower beds,” Chere said, tugging on her arm. She opened the side door and led Emilie out to another lit area with a shady oak and hammock. Garden beds grew a profusion of hardy geraniums, dahlias and New Guinea impatiens.

  Emilie politely “oohed” and “aahed” as she circled the boxed-in flower beds. By then the crickets, frogs and other night sounds were starting to intrude.

  “You want to hear my news, girl?” Chere said, dancing around. “I was waiting for Jen to get here, but if I don’t tell someone soon I’m going to burst.”

  Emilie had always admired Chere’s exuberance.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m pregnant. We just found out.”

  “Awesome! Quen must be so excited.”

  “He is. And now I’m probably going to gain back every pound I lost, but you know, I don’t care. I am so looking forward to being a mother.”

  Emilie hugged her tight. She was happy for Chere. She’d had a huge crush on Quen Abrahams for some time, and although they’d come from different worlds they’d managed to work things out.

  “What’s going on with you and him?” Chere asked when they finally separated. Him meaning Rowan.

  “Oh, Rowan and I are just hanging out.”

  “Looks like a lot more than that to me. He’s hot for you, girl. You should see the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s looking.”

  “I have to start thinking about long-term possibilities. Rowan’s not it.”

  “Why, because he’s white?” Chere asked bluntly. “Quen says he’s the real deal. You could be hooked up with Dickie Dyson. He’s supposedly a black professional. Would you want that?”

  “No, I’d rather be single.”

  The two women began recounting tales of the women Richard Dyson had gone through. Dickie owned a successful limousine business and liked to throw around his money, but he came up short in the important areas, lovemaking being one of them.

  “Anyone home?” a female voice called from the front yard, interrupting them in the midst of a good laugh.

  “Jen and Tre are here,” Chere shouted to the men out back. “Stub out those stinky cigars and get your butts inside.” She headed off to let the couple in.

  Left alone for those few seconds, Emilie reflected on what Chere had said. Maybe she shouldn’t entirely dismiss Rowan James. It wasn’t as if there were black professional prospects knocking down her door. At least none that she would consider relationship material.

  But then again there was that promise she’d made to her father on graduation day. He’d been concerned that now she had a degree she would forget where she came from, and marry outside of her race. Emilie had assured him she would not. She’d promised to find a strong, educated black man, just like her dad was, to start a family.

  She meant to keep that promise. She owed it to the man who’d paid for her education, and had instilled pride in her.

  Chapter 6

  Two days later, Rowan and the Seminole development team were summoned to City Hall.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” Solomon Rabinowitz’s assistant said as they entered the mayor’s office. “The mayor is running behind, but he should be ready for you shortly. Can I get you anything?”

  “Water if you have it,” Keith Lightfoot requested.

  “Anything else?”

  What followed was a lot of head shaking. The men were waved into several uncomfortable-looking chairs.
>
  The mayor’s assistant, a fussy little man who had probably been handpicked, still wore crisp long-sleeved white shirts and suspenders. He pushed a button on the intercom and spoke to an unseen person. Within minutes a woman dressed in a drab gray smock appeared with glasses of water on a tray. As Rowan sipped on his water he wondered what this meeting was about. Both Stephen and Keith were dressed more formally than he’d ever seen them. Unusual, as in this heat most tended to go for a corporate-casual look. When he’d received a call from Keith, Rowan had dropped everything to make this meeting. He’d had no time to change but at least he wasn’t wearing jeans. Keith had made it sound urgent.

  And urgent it was. In a town the size of Flamingo Beach, the mayor wielded clout. It would definitely be to everyone’s advantage to show up.

  “I found your bio online,” Stephen Priddy snickered, letting Rowan know none too subtly he’d been checked out. “How did a boy from Brooklyn whose father worked in a factory escape the same fate?”

  It was meant to be a put-down, Rowan was as sure of that as he was that his last name was James. Stephen was an obnoxious man but his was a business filled with obnoxious people. He didn’t have to like the man to get the job done.

  “How did you become a CFO of your organization?” he countered. “You probably went to college, majored in business, then applied for positions in finance. Same thing here. I got a degree in economics at Wharton, worked in corporate real estate where I gained a reputation for brokering deals most people thought were impossible. The rest, as they say, is history.” Rowan smiled to soften his words.

  “Wharton, yes, I noticed that. But mine wasn’t a rags-to-riches story,” Stephen said sourly. “I am solidly middle-class.”

  “What do you really want to know, if I got help getting to where I am?”

  Keith, picking up on the tension between the men, smoothly interrupted. “Any ideas as to why the mayor wants us here?”