The kid stretched out his long legs, which were bare from the tops of his white socks to the bottom of his baggy, knee-length shorts. “Bummer. But now that you’re here, Johnny needs to ask you something.”
Again with the ubiquitous Johnny. “Where is he?”
“Where’s who?”
“Johnny.”
The kid’s face split into a grin, an astonishing sight. He had a mouth rivaling Mick Jagger’s in size and scope. “Stop messin’ with me. You ain’t no English major.”
The kid wouldn’t be either if he went to college.
“Anyway, Six-Pack says lifting weights every day in the off-season is bad for Johnny, but Johnny was like, hey, bigger is better. But Six-Pack wouldn't lay off 'til Johnny said he’d ask you.”
The kid looked at him expectantly. It gradually dawned on Mitch that Johnny was asking him, because the kid was Johnny. He also was under the delusion that Mitch was an authority on weight training. Mitch worked out some, but running was his exercise of choice.
“Well, Johnny.” He dredged up anything he'd ever been told about weight training. Moderation. Yeah, that was it. “Uh, you don't want to overdo it. Try every other day.”
“What if I work on my glutes one day and my abs the next? That’s okay, right?”
“Sure,” Mitch said, hoping that it was.
A white-haired man in his fifties with bulging gray sideburns and horn-rimmed glasses stuck his head into the office. With a paunch reminiscent of a kangaroo with a joey stuffed in its pouch, chances were good he wasn’t there to exercise in the adjacent gym.
“Mitchell, I heard tell you were here,” the man said. “Come walk with me. We need to have a word.”
The man didn’t wait for an answer before he lumbered away. He was obviously an authority figure used to having his commands obeyed.
“Oooooo, P.B. seems pissed,” the kid said. “Johnny thinks you must’ve done something the boss man didn’t like.”
“Only one way to find out,” Mitch said, grateful to Johnny for providing him with a clue to the man’s identity.
Armed with the suspicion that P.B. was the director of parks, Mitch caught up to him halfway between the outdoor basketball and tennis courts. The streaming sunlight illuminated the other man, who had a complexion as pale as Casper the friendly ghost.
“You wanted to see me, sir,” Mitch said.
“Yes, yes.” P.B. took out a pipe, lit it and set off at an ambling pace. “I heard a disturbing story the other day. A woman was out for a long walk rather early in the morning. Lo and behold, from out of the cover of trees she sees the most magnificent of sights. A bald eagle.”
Mitch tensed, guessing where the story was headed.
“A young girl, not as knowledgeable about bird life as the woman, turned to the guide to ask what she was seeing. Do you know what he said?”P.B. didn’t wait for Mitch to answer. “What you got there is one big bird.”
The response, which had seemed pretty clever at the time, sounded less so on repetition.
“Later in the walk, when the group chanced upon a ruby-throated hummingbird, the girl again asked the guide to identify it. Care to take a crack at what he said?”
It became clear P.B. wouldn’t continue until Mitch provided an answer. Mitch cleared his throat. “That there's one itty bitty critter?”
“Exactly.” P.B. didn’t crack a smile. “Now why do you suppose a recreation specialist who can't identify a bald eagle or a hummingbird volunteered to lead a bird walk?”
“I must've overestimated my expertise,” Mitch mumbled, his gut clenching. Cary couldn’t afford to land in the unemployment line. His brother had such a checkered work history it was important he keep this job longer than a few months.
P.B. puffed out his considerable chest, as though fortifying himself with resolve. “The reason I drove over here was to tell you—”
Mitch didn’t let him finish. “Please don't fire me. I'll do better. I promise I will.”
“What gave you the idea I was going to fire you?”
“Aren't you?”
“Hell, no. What kind of fool fires the man responsible for seeing that his son got a baseball scholarship to UNC?”
Cary had done that? Mitch shook his head. “You’re exaggerating. Your son must be a really good player.”
“Damn right he’s talented, but what good is talent if nobody notices it? You got him noticed, son, by calling that coach friend of yours.”
Mitch was starting to get the picture. “You’re keeping me on because I helped your son?”
“I’m keeping you on because you’re a damn fine recreation specialist,” P.B. corrected. “But as a bird man, you stink. How ”bout doing everybody a favor and staying out of the woods?”
“Sure,” Mitch said, gratefully sticking out a hand. “Anything to keep the job, P.B.”
P.B. took the hand Mitch offered. His eyebrows, which were as bushy as his sideburns, rose. “Son, I know everybody calls me Potbelly behind my back but I prefer you call me Albert.”
Mitch muttered an apology. He walked back to the office, thinking impersonation was hard enough without some wise-guy kid feeding him land mines. Or taking over his desk space.
“What gives?” Mitch asked Johnny, his hands on his hips.
“Johnny’s working on these seriously mixed-up schedules. What happened to you over the weekend, man? You never mess up like this.”
Mitch scratched his head. Clearly Johnny worked for the parks and rec department in some capacity. “I got too much on my plate, that’s all,” Mitch said.
“Why don’t you take off and let Johnny finish the skeds? You’re having dinner with that blonde babe’s parents tonight, right?”
“How do you know about that?”
“She called here to remind you because you don’t answer your cell,” Johnny said. The reason for that was simple. Mitch and Cary hadn’t thought to exchange cell phones. “She made Johnny promise to tell you.”
“Thanks.” Mitch strode for the door, wondering how to get Peyton’s parents to change their opinion of him.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Johnny’s voice trailed after him. “Are you and Johnny still on for pitching lessons tomorrow?”
“Sorry, man,” Mitch said, feeling genuinely so when the kid frowned. “This week’s crazy. Maybe I can make it up to you next week.”
Whether Cary could make amends to Mitch, however, was more doubtful. What kind of a guy was his brother, anyway?
“You know that Johnny still can’t afford to pay you, right?” The kid asked hesitantly, and Mitch’s heart softened.
“Yeah,” he said, glad he had an answer to his question.
His brother was the kind of guy who gave free pitching lessons to kids.
EVEN THOUGH PEYTON had been listening for the doorbell since she’d joined her parents for pre-dinner drinks in their study, excitement still coursed through her when it rang.
“Would you get that, dear?”
Her mother needn’t have asked. Peyton was already heading across the highly polished wooden floor for the door, her anticipation high at the thought of seeing Mitch again.
Since their kiss last night, and his unexpected restraint, her sexual attraction to him had reached a new high. If he asked her to make love with him tonight, as he had so many times before, she’d rip his clothes off his hard, sexy body.
She was smiling at the thought of herself as a sexual aggressor when she opened the door. The sight of G. Gaston Gibbs III and a dozen long-stemmed red roses greeted her. A salty breeze blew off the harbor, but every blond hair on his finely shaped head was firmly in place.
“Gaston.” She tried to keep the surprise out of her voice and failed miserably. “What are you doing here?”
“Amelia invited me to dinner,” he said, presenting her with the flowers. “I brought the roses for your mother, but they’re so lovely they make me think of you. Of course, their beauty still pales next to yours.”
She to
ok the flowers, questions filling her mind. They had nothing to do with the flattery that poured from his mouth as easily as rain from the sky.
Why had her mother invited Gaston when she’d made a point of insisting she get to know Mitch? And how could Amelia justify breaking her rule that there must always be an even number of diners at the table?
“If you don’t invite me in soon, the wind might do it for you,” Gaston said.
“Of course. Forgive me. Come in.” Peyton moved back to grant him admittance. He had plenty of room to step around her, but instead he moved close, brushing a kiss against her forehead. He’d put on his expensive cologne with such a heavy hand that she almost sneezed.
“Gaston, my dear, how lovely it is to see you.” Her mother fluttered into the room, the heels of her size-five feet making dainty clicking noises on the hardwood. She kissed the air on both sides of his cheeks. “Are those roses for me? I can not tell you how much I adore roses.”
“Good evening, Amelia. Yes, the roses are for you.” He slanted a pointed look at Peyton, probably to remind her of what he’d said about their beauty. “I’m as delighted to be here as you are to have me.”
“Is that Gaston I hear?” Her father strode into the foyer and clapped the younger man on his shoulder before heartily shaking his hand. “I hear you’ve been a busy man. Word at City Hall is that your renovation project on Smith Street has expanded to include four of the properties around it.”
“Four other properties!” Peyton exclaimed so loudly that both men turned toward her. She was past caring about propriety. “Is that true, Gaston? Are you going to renovate all of it?”
He laughed and took both of her hands in his, which were curiously cold. “It’s true, my sweet. I plan to renovate the houses and resell them.”
“That’s fantastic.” The wheels in Peyton’s mind spun. “If you renovate five buildings, it can only spur surrounding property owners to follow suit. It’ll be a real boon for that part of the city.”
“That’s what I’m aiming for,” Gaston said with the smile that never quite seemed to reach his unreadable gray eyes. But why was she thinking about that now? She’d misjudged him so badly when they were teenagers that it was obvious he had layers she didn’t know about. He’d seemed like the kind of slick-talking, empty charmer all fathers warned their daughters against yet he’d turned into a champion for their city.
“If you need help with the way the properties used to look, I could dig up records at one of the historical societies,” she offered.
“Thanks,” Gaston said. “I might ask you to do that.”
He still held her hands in his. She started to feel uncomfortable. Making sure her smile didn’t fade, she slipped her hands out of his grasp. His eyes didn’t leave her face.
“Come into the study with me, Gaston, and I’ll pour you a sherry.” Her father broke the uneasy connection between them. “Then you can tell me more about the property.” He winked broadly. “And how you hope to make a killing on the resale property.”
The men departed amid deep-voiced chatter and laughter, leaving Peyton alone with her mother.
“Gaston is such a fine young man from such a good family,” Amelia said. “He obviously has a head for business on his shoulders, too.”
Peyton had been Amelia’s daughter long enough to realize she’d earmarked Gaston Gibbs as son-in-law material. It wouldn’t do any good to point out she wasn’t interested. Amelia only heard what she wanted to hear.
“He’s a man who could keep his wife in style,” Amelia continued. “His wife would not have to diaper horses and cart pushy, noisy tourists around the city.”
Peyton held onto her temper, although her mother refused to give up her fixation on the diapers the horses wore to assure the city’s lovely streets were free of waste.
“How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not the one who changes the diapers?” Peyton asked.
“That makes no difference, dear. Appearances are what matters. People assume you change the diapers.”
As she always did, Peyton swallowed the rant that threatened to erupt from the back of her throat.
“I wish you’d told me Gaston would be joining us, Mother. I thought dinner would be just the four of us.”
“Whatever gave you that impression, dear?” Amelia laughed her delicate laugh. “The more the merrier, I always say.”
“You never say that.”
“I could always start. It’s a perfectly fine expression.”
“A ‘third wheel’ is a perfectly fine expression, too, which is what Gaston will feel like when Mitch gets here.”
“Nonsense, dear. If anyone feels like an outsider, it will be Mitch, who did not have the good fortune to be born in God’s Country like the rest of us.”
It would be futile to point out that not everyone thought of Charlestonians as God’s chosen people, especially because her mother knew Peyton loved the city as well as anyone on the peninsula.
“You should have stuck with your rule not to invite an uneven number of people to dinner,” Peyton said. It was as close as she ever came to criticizing Amelia.
“Who says I did not stick to my rule?” Amelia plucked the roses from Peyton’s grasp. “I do hope Barbara can take time out from her cooking to find a vase and put these lovely flowers where we can enjoy them.”
She flashed Peyton a beatific smile and walked away. Peyton checked the urge to rush after her and demand an explanation. Her mother, however, considered both rushing and demanding unladylike.
Peyton was trying to figure out the puzzle for herself when the doorbell rang again. She resurrected her smile of anticipation and swung open the door.
A thirty-ish woman with dyed blonde hair, tall black boots, a black miniskirt and a thigh-length black poncho trimmed with silver stars gave her a grin so genuine Peyton couldn’t help smiling back.
“I hope I have the right place,” she said in a voice as high as a child’s. Her hair wasn’t moving in the wind either. “I’m Hattie. Who are you?”
“Peyton McDowell.”
No sooner were the words out of Peyton’s mouth than Hattie was enthusiastically shaking her hand and proclaiming it nice to meet her. “So you’re Amelia’s daughter? She invited me to dinner! Oh, she’s the nicest woman.”
“I thought I knew all my mother’s friends,” Peyton said, thinking of the society types her mother usually ran with, “but I don’t remember meeting you.”
Hattie lightly slapped her shoulder. “Amelia and I met on line at the grocery store this morning. She was so pretty and classy. I about died when she asked me to dinner. I tried to say no, but she didn’t want the number of guests at her dinner party to be uneven. I just couldn’t bear the thought of people thinking her odd.”
Hattie clutched something which, on closer inspection, appeared to be a bottle of salad dressing. The other woman must’ve seen Peyton’s gaze fall on the condiment because she held it up.
“There’s an ingredient in most salad dressings that makes me break out in hives, so I always bring my own,” she explained. “Low-fat, low-cal, oil free. It doesn’t taste too good, but at least it doesn’t make me red and blotchy.”
Before Peyton could think how to reply to that nugget of information, she caught a glimpse of Mitch walking up the sidewalk. She wasn’t sure whether to cheer or moan.
She’d never seen a man look so good in a pair of dark slacks and a white knit shirt. Although Mitch’s clothes were obviously expensive, both Gaston and her father were wearing suits, complete with dress shirt and tie.
She could only imagine what Amelia would make of that.
“I can tell that hunk’s off limits by the way you’re looking at him,” Hattie said in a stage whisper, her black eyebrows arched like a camel’s back. “I sure hope Amelia invited someone half as good for me.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Despite the delicious menu of she-crab soup, salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing and sautéed Atlantic S
almon, Mitch wouldn’t say dinner with Peyton’s parents was going well.
Not only was one of the guests a low-life in disguise, Peyton’s mother had drawn up seating cards that positioned Peyton next to the low-life and catty-corner from Mitch.
Not being able to touch Peyton only made him want to touch her more. That wouldn’t happen if Peyton’s father had anything to say about it. The solicitor scowled at him from his place at the head of the table.
“Would you please pass the butter, Thomas?” Mitch gave the solicitor his imitation of Cary’s most charming grin, the better to win him over with.
“The name’s Sir,” he said.
“Daddy,” Peyton drew out the syllables like a plea, placing one of her slim-fingered hands on her father’s forearm.
“Fine,” Peyton’s father muttered. “He can call me Mr. McDowell if it’s that important to you.”
Mr. McDowell handed the miniature sterling silver tray containing the butter to Hattie “I-can-string-more-sentences-together-than-you-can” Feinstein. Hattie passed the butter to Mitch with a sympathetic look.
“You can call me anything you want, sugar,” she whispered so Mitch alone could hear. “Hattie’s already short for Henrietta, but Henny or Hen’s fine with me. Heck, call me Hat if you want.”
“Thanks,” Mitch said.
He noticed the solicitor had no problem with the criminal at his table using his first name. But then, Flash Gordon radiated snobbery and wealth in his Gaston Gibbs disguise. Mitch would love to expose him, but so far his undercover investigation had been a bust.
“I hear the Dock Street Players are doing a charming production of Porgy and Bess. Everybody is saying it's a must see.” Gibbs turned to Peyton. “I was hoping that you—”
“Would you believe I've lived in Charleston for twenty years and I've never seen Porgy and Bess?” Hattie interrupted. “It’s supposed to be so heartbreaking when Bess goes to New York at the end and Porgy sings that song.” Hattie broke into an off-key rendition of, ‘Oh, Bess, oh where’s my Bess?’”
Peyton smiled across the table at Hattie. “I've seen it so many times I can take a pass. Why don’t you and Gaston go together?”
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