She closed the meeting with a reminder to send any and all suggestions for increasing business to her, and thanked everyone for coming. On her way out, Emilie overheard two of the more tenured business development team members commenting that the Idol idea wouldn’t fly. So much for an engaged team willing to support her.
“She’s way over her head. The town will never go for it,” one of them said. “The session’s always been held on the beach. If it’s not broke who the heck is she to fix it?”
“She’s just trying to get ahead. Haven’t you heard she’s got something going with that property developer? He’s probably the one behind this, pushing her to come up with something creative. She’s never struck me as being particularly bright or innovative.”
Just what she needed, people looking to undermine her. Negative energy she could do without. It only served to pull the rest of the group down. She’d have to do something about the cancer spreaders, but not right now. Her energy needed to be directed to convincing the chamber of commerce that this would be a good move. If she could sell them and the citizens on making the change from the outside location, and show them that it was all about bringing business to Flamingo Beach, then maybe the resort stood a chance. Her one ace card was Ice Cube and Twenty Cents lending their celebrity status to the event. She hoped she could pull it off.
It took Emilie all of ten minutes to get to City Hall where the chamber of commerce’s office was located. When she entered, a disinterested receptionist at the front desk raised an eye from her book.
“Who are you here to see?” she asked.
“Isabella Fuentes, your community relations manager.”
“Hmm. Is she expecting you?”
“I have an appointment.” Emilie made a point of glancing at her watch.
“Sign in here.” The woman pointed to an open book on the desk.
Emilie did as she was asked and sat in the seat the receptionist indicated. Fifteen minutes later, a woman that had to be Isabella with big platinum hair and flashy jewelry bounced over to the reading receptionist.
“I was expecting Emilie Woodward from the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort. Has she shown up?”
“Dunno. That woman’s been sitting there for a while though.”
Isabella looked over in Emilie’s direction. Emilie stood, business card in hand.
“Hi, I’m Emilie.”
“Were you waiting long?”
“Uh…”
Isabella’s attention returned to the surly receptionist. “You could have called me.” The receptionist was back to her book and didn’t seem too bothered.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
Shaking her head, Isabella bounced her way across the tiled lobby and into her small office.
“Please have a seat.” She indicated a comfortable armchair upholstered in coral and mint, then took a card from an acrylic holder and handed it to Emilie. “Tre Monroe and his wife, the columnist, called asking me to see you. They said you had an interesting opportunity worth listening to.”
“I do.”
Emilie laid out her plan and watched Isabella’s eyes grow huge.
“But the jam has always been on the beach for as long as it’s been around. Families come to picnic and listen to the tunes. It’s an inexpensive way to begin their weekend and unwind. How can the resort possibly accommodate that sizeable crowd?”
Emilie had given that question some consideration.
“What I’d like to do is put some organization to the event. In nice weather we’d hold the auditions around the pool, or on the boardwalk out back of the hotel. We’d make sure we had the right amplifiers so that those on the beach could still hear the performers. It would really be no different from what’s happening now. Most people aren’t able to see the entertainers, just hear them.”
“True, but it’s always been a community event. Changing the location may send the message that we’re trying to make it more exclusive and shut out the local people.”
“How much money is the event bringing into the community?” Emilie asked bluntly.
Isabella cleared her throat. “None that I know of. That wasn’t the initial purpose. It was supposed to be a gathering of people from the community getting together to play music and have fun.”
“And like everything else, things changed. The jam’s growing and you’ve got private vendors hawking everything from fish tacos to T-shirts that say Jam Flamingo Beach, and not a penny is given back to the community.”
“Would you be looking to sell tickets then?”
“Not initially. The hotel will make its money from the food and beverage sales and from the rooms booked. We’d only sell tickets when it gets down to the finals and we promote our celebrity judges. Some profits would go back to the city.”
The thought of money made Isabella perk up.
“I like your idea. But it’s really not my decision to make. I’d have to bring this up before the rest of the town council, and then we’d have to get buy in from the residents.”
Emilie stuck out her hand. “How about I check in with you in a week or so?”
“Yes, do that. It will give me time to put out feelers and there’s a city council meeting coming up. Meanwhile you should talk to Larry Moorehouse. He was the one who got the jam session started. He’s still involved and very influential.”
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll be back in touch.”
Emilie left feeling more optimistic. Isabella had given her several things to think about. In a town this size, you needed the residents on your side. She’d contact the Moorehouse guy and point out the advantages of moving the locale, and she’d call Tre Monroe. Maybe he could book her on his show. He was the kind of personality known for introducing controversial topics and right now two very controversial topics were the building of the casino and Flamingo Beach losing its community feel.
To sell her concept she would have to come up with a way to communicate to the townsfolk that this change could actually bring the community together. Now how to do that? Maybe there was a way to get Miriam Young, the Flip-flop Momma, who’d lost the election to Mayor Rabinowitz, on her side. It had been common knowledge the election had been stolen from her.
Miriam was fairly new to Flamingo Beach and open-minded. It had taken the residents some time to embrace her. But the midforties single parent, known for her flip-flop wearing and plain speaking, had won the locals over. She could also spot an opportunity a mile away. Miriam’s style was entirely different from the mayor’s, no pretensions or posturing. She had no issue getting into people’s faces and calling it the way she saw it. She would be a good ally to have.
Back in her office, Emilie picked up the phone again. Tre Monroe, aka D’dawg, picked up on the third ring.
“How would you feel about having me on your show?” Emilie asked.
“What would be the topic?”
“Are the changes to Flamingo Beach a bad thing? Something like that?”
“Hmm. Go on.” Tre gave her no indication as to whether he knew where this was leading.
“Well, I was thinking you could put together a panel. If you got Keith Lightfoot representing the casino, Miriam Young, the former mayoral candidate, me from the resort and Larry Moorehouse, who started the jam sessions, you’d have different perspectives and we’d get people engaged.”
“I know Larry well,” Tre interrupted. “He keeps pushing CDs on me. He always wants me to listen to some new artist he discovered, hoping I’ll give them airtime.”
“Maybe the panel could get things jumping by talking about the positives and negatives of new business coming to Flamingo Beach.”
“I’d mix it up a bit and substitute Rowan James for Keith Lightfoot. He’d be a better person to answer questions about the casino and mall. And since he’s the outsider he’s more suspect.”
“You know best. You’re the expert.”
Why did Rowan’s name always have to come up? Tre did have a good point though. The construction
of a megamall had been a hot topic and the towns-people had been up in arms, claiming it would take away from the town’s charm and ruin the vacation experience. Rowan would be able to speak to both the issues surrounding the casino and mall.
“I met with Isabella Fuentes from the chamber of commerce earlier,” Emilie said, changing the topic. “She thinks I should get Larry Moorehouse’s take on moving the jam to the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort.”
“It wouldn’t hurt. Like I said, Larry is all about promoting himself and his buddies. Did you talk to Rowan about getting Twenty Cents and Ice Cube aboard?”
“Yes, I’ve spoken with him.”
She didn’t elaborate. Tre didn’t need to know that Rowan’s help was conditional, and that he was proposing bringing his buddies on board in exchange for her spending the weekend with him. She would have to get back to Rowan, especially since she’d already put it out there that the two rap stars would be celebrity judges. If the town council and Larry Moorehouse bit, she’d have to produce the two rap artists.
Emilie hated being in the position of having to owe Rowan anything. There had to be some other way.
“So do we have a show or what?” she asked Tre.
“I think we have some possibilities. I’ll put it out there during tonight’s broadcast and ask the audience to hit me up. I’ll issue a challenge and see who responds.”
“Okay, now how do I reach Larry?”
Tre gave her the man’s information, and after they hung up, Emilie took a deep breath and punched in Rowan’s cell phone number. He’d insisted that she have it. She counted the rings hoping to leave a message.
“Hey, babe. What’s up?” he asked seconds before voice mail clicked in.
With caller ID no one was anonymous these days.
“Is your offer to take me away for the weekend still good?” Emilie asked, injecting enthusiasm into her voice.
“You know it is.”
“What dates are we talking about?”
“Next weekend. We’d leave for Harbour Island on Friday and return on Tuesday. Can you get the time off?”
“I’m owed time. How are we getting there?”
“My client has a private plane. He’ll fly us into Eleuthera and then his boat will take us from there.”
Emilie broached the uncomfortable subject. “Uh, what about sleeping accommodations?”
“What about them?”
“Are we getting separate rooms?”
“Only if you insist.”
She chuckled nervously. “I insist. You said this was an opportunity for us to get to know each other better. We can’t really do that if we’re sharing a bed.”
Rowan’s hearty laughter resounded in her ear. “If it makes you more comfortable you can have your own room at the Hibiscus Inn. But personally I think it’s wasted money.”
“Why’s that?”
He laughed again. “Do you really have to ask? Before the weekend is over we’ll be sharing one bed.”
“Keep dreaming, baby.”
“It’s all I do. Wide-awake or asleep I dream about you.”
Emilie slammed down the phone. What nerve!
She wouldn’t sleep with Rowan again…never.
Chapter 9
“Yes!” Rowan said out loud, pumping his arms in the air. “Yes.”
“Was there something you wanted, Mr. James?” Blanca called from the outer office.
“No, no, just talking out loud.”
He’d almost forgotten where he was. Emilie Woodward was finally coming around, at least he hoped so. He’d wear her down the coming weekend on Harbour Island when he pulled out all the stops.
“Tre Monroe’s on the phone,” Blanca now yelled. “You want me to tell him you’re busy talking to yourself?”
“Don’t be a smart ass. Go ahead and put him through.”
“Hey, Tre, what’s up, guy?” Rowan asked when the radio broadcaster’s deep voice filled his ear.
“Still trying to make a living, which is why I’m calling you. How do you feel about being on the D’dawg show?”
“That depends. If I’m coming on to get eaten alive, I’d say forget about it.”
D’dawg’s show had built its reputation by being controversial. Rowan didn’t think Tre would intentionally set him up but one had to be careful.
Tre explained about the panel he was putting together.
“I’ll know more tonight after I put it out there and get the reaction from my audience.”
“Who else is on this panel?” Rowan asked, his guard still up.
Tre named the people he’d been thinking about contacting.
“If Emilie’s on board so am I,” Rowan added.
“Now that’s a big surprise.” Tre was almost splitting a gut laughing. “You hear about this passion party being held at the resort tomorrow night? I’m going to tape it. Why don’t you drop by.”
“What’s a passion party?”
“An excuse for women to buy sex toys and get silly.”
“Toys? You mean like fake phalluses, edible panties, that kind of thing?”
“Right on, baby.”
“You must need an assistant to hold your mic.” Rowan laughed with Tre.
“There’s nothing to stop you from attending, bro. In fact during tonight’s broadcast I’m going to encourage the men to make a good show. If men aren’t allowed we’ll yell discrimination.”
“Okay, okay, you convinced me. I’m in.”
Rowan hung up thinking that tonight was a definite to listen to Tre’s radio broadcast. The popular late-night radio personality would be stirring things up and the residents of Flamingo Beach would be there right along with him.
The next evening a long line of people waited to get into the Paradise Ballroom but the doors were still closed. Passion consultants had come in from nearby towns and the noise level as Emilie walked by was deafening. The crowd far surpassed what the hotel staff had expected. Keanu Dinkins, Joya’s boss, had already dispatched a crew to open the dividers and extend the room. What surprised Emilie was the number of men in line. She’d been under the impression it was supposed to be a gathering of primarily women.
The balls of Emilie’s feet ached from walking the floors. She’d wanted to make sure that the extra security the Passion Group had paid for were visible. The hotel could not afford a repeat of the singles event. On top of that, the first of the contracted casino workers had started trickling in and the resort and its staff needed to make a good impression.
There was a buzzing as she walked by and then silence. She knew when she was being talked about. Emilie glanced over her shoulder and spotted Sheena Grace and Camille Lewis in line. Sheena she’d expected to see. The woman got around and everyone knew she was a fun girl. She was all over any man that was slightly interested in her.
But Emilie didn’t expect Camille there. She had a hard time picturing Winston, the woman’s long-suffering husband, open to having fun with Camille. It had long been rumored that she swung off chandeliers to keep his attention.
“How long before you people open your doors?” an ancient voice croaked.
It had to be a joke. What was Ida Rubenstein doing standing in line with an unlit cigarette? She was the oldest resident of Flamingo Place, the complex Emilie lived in. She had to be pushing ninety if she was a day.
“My legs are giving out. When are you opening up?” Ida whined.
“I’ll get you a chair,” Emilie offered. “You can also sit in one of the comfortable sofas in the lobby.”
“What! And give up my spot?”
The woman behind Ida offered to save her place but Ida refused to budge.
“Just because I’m up there in age doesn’t mean I’m not interested in sex. I don’t want picked-through whatchamacallits.”
She had the crowd around her rolling.
Where was Joya when Emilie needed her? She’d expected her to be out on crowd-control duty. But Joya’s boss, Keanu Dinkins, a pain to work for, probably
had her doing her job and his.
Emilie used her key card to access the locked ballroom. She stood in the doorway for a moment, gaping. The room had been transformed into a pink and blue fantasyland. In the center, a huge curtained four-poster bed was piled high with fluffy pillows, and occupying it were male and female models in skimpy boxers and sheer lingerie. Framed posters of buff males hung on the walls, and brass candelabras adorned the vendors’ tables.
The merchandise on display ran the gamut, everything from candles, massage oils and lubricants to erotic aids. Piped-in music came from the amplifiers in the ceilings and the sensual voice of Barry White helped set the mood.
Remembering her mission, Emilie looked around for Joya. She spotted her with one foot on the rung of a ladder, helping a crew member attach a blow-up doll to one of the partitions. Emilie grabbed one of the passing crew by the arm.
“I need you to get some chairs and take them out to the public areas where the people are standing.”
“Right away, ma’am.” He hurried off to do her bidding.
By then Joya had gotten the doll hung and was carefully climbing down the ladder. Emilie waited until she was on the floor before approaching.
“Have you seen the line outside?” she asked.
“Is there a line?”
“A monstrous one. Would you believe a senior citizen like Ida Rubenstein is in it?”
“Get out. Just goes to show you, you don’t lose your sex drive after sixty.”
“Sixty.” Emilie snorted. “Ida is eighty and some. When can we open the doors and let people in? The crowd’s about to riot.”
“I’ll check with Keanu and the person coordinating this thing and get back to you.”
Joya got out her cell phone and walked in the direction of a plus-sized woman who was setting up a booth with titillating games and books. She returned within minutes.
“We can open in five minutes.”
“I’ll tell security to stand by. It’s a bigger crowd than we expected, and there are several men on line.”
“Well, Tre did issue a challenge to his male audience.”
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