Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani)

by Marcia King-Gamble

  “Why not?”

  Chere came closer, one large hand clamped over the mouthpiece. “It sounds important.”

  Exasperated, Jen huffed out a sigh. “Whatever. Deal with it, Chere. Just take a message and I’ll return the call.”

  Trestin had beaten her to it. He’d taken the initiative to invite her to lunch today. She’d accepted only because she felt guilty. With a tight deadline hovering, she should have pushed him off until the following week. But he’d been both insistent and persistent. He’d even stopped by her apartment again.

  Thankfully she’d been out, so he’d slid a note under her door. Jen’s guilt had kicked in. She’d felt obligated to accept. She was the one who’d initially offered. She’d go just to keep the peace. After all, she lived next door to the man. It might pay to be civil.

  Chere returned the receiver to her ear. She fumbled for her high school English. “Dear Jenna isn’t here. Who’d you say this is again? Oh, my God! You gotta be kidding. What does he want with Dear Jenna?” Picking up a pencil, she began scribbling, then shoved the note in Jen’s direction. “Sure you don’t want to pick up. No not you,” she said back into the receiver. Chere was breathing heavily when she hung up.

  “That phone call has you that worked up?” Jen said, her fingers flying.

  “That was that DJ from WARP. He wants you to come on the show.” Chere was now hopping up and down on those ridiculous platform heels, double chins bouncing. Every piece of loose flesh jiggling.

  The pen Jen still clenched between her teeth, escaped her grip, falling on the Formica desk and rolling across the floor.

  “Why would he think I’d want to be on his show?”

  Chere’s massive quarterback’s shoulders rose. “Luis would want you to step up to the challenge. You said you were interested in growing readership. This is one way to do it. I’m so excited I have to go to the loo.” She tottered from the room and headed for the bathroom. Jen suspected she was off to fill in her buddies who made up most of the clerical staff.

  Chere was back in twenty minutes huffing and puffing. “You betcha call that radio station,” she threatened.

  Jen rolled her eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “You have to,” Chere said advancing. “My girls listen to WARP all day long. Tonight’s broadcast is hot. They got the mayor’s son coming to talk about you.”

  “They do not. And even if they did I’m not being baited into responding.” Jen’s attention returned to her column. She muttered, “The mayor’s son can get on the radio and say whatever he wants. If I leave it alone and not take a defensive mode this whole thing will eventually blow over.”

  “That’s what you think.” Chere snorted. “You haven’t lived in this town long enough.”

  Jen glanced at her watch. If she didn’t leave right away she would be late for her lunch appointment. She’d insisted she make the reservations. She’d chosen home turf. They would be lunching at the Pink Flamingo restaurant. Out in the open and relatively safe.

  “Save whatever else you have to say for later. I have to go,” Jen said, picking up her purse. “Make sure to answer the phones.”

  Chere mumbled something under her breath. It was probably a good thing Jen didn’t hear.

  Fifteen minutes later she hurried into the Pink Flamingo. Considering it was a weekday, it was crowded. The same hostess from the other night seated her. Today she wore a flamingo pink miniskirt and midriff-baring top. No sign of Trestin as yet. Jen followed the curvaceous young woman to a table in the center of the room, noticing the small butterfly tattooed on her lower back.

  Ten minutes, and two glasses of water later, Jen was still waiting for her next-door neighbor to show up. Fifteen minutes later she was still waiting. Left with nothing else to do but people-watch, her eyes focused on the Pepto-Bismol pink walls and the fluttering flamingos. The décor in this part of the room had a distinctly beachy flavor to it. Old fishermen’s nets were artfully draped on the walls, filled with starfish, fake lobsters and other types of crustacean.

  It was an interesting assortment of people gathered. There were a few from the complex Jen had a nodding acquaintance with, but the majority she didn’t recognize. She did spot Camille Lewis, the woman who lived on her floor, seated across from a pleasant-looking bald man who couldn’t seem to get a word in edgewise.

  Jen also spotted Quen Abrahams, the health club manager with a blonde who looked like she might be someone he personally trained. There were business types, judging by their attire, huddled in a corner conducting a meeting, and a handful of sleek ladies with big hair who looked like they did lunch for a living.

  Waiting was getting old and she had too much to do. She’d give Trestin another five minutes and then she was out of here. He’d proven to be an inconsiderate person anyway, so it was no surprise if he stood her up.

  Jen sipped her water and decided her energy was best channeled elsewhere. She should never have invited Trestin to lunch in the first place. Her peace offering was not appreciated. Taking her purse with her, she slid from the booth.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” a deep, male voice with a timbre that actually made her shiver said. Jen’s lunch partner grasped her elbow.

  She schooled herself not to react. “You’re late. I didn’t think you were showing up.”

  Trestin looked cool, composed and strikingly handsome. He was wearing a beige linen shirt and black drawstring pants; the eighty-degree-plus weather outside was having no apparent effect on him. He made Jen feel wilted and wrinkled in the cotton sundress she’d chosen because it didn’t require ironing.

  “I was held up because someone parked in my spot,” Tre said smoothly. “More time was wasted trying to get hold of the towing service. You should understand.”

  “Not again.” The words slipped out before she could censor them.

  Trestin’s index finger stabbed the air. “Gotcha.”

  “You…” Jen sputtered.

  Trestin roared. Jen got a good glimpse of strong white teeth and healthy gums.

  He was by far the most cocky and irreverent person she’d ever met. A while back he’d mentioned something about being in communications. Jen wondered what exactly that meant. She waited until they were seated and the waiter had taken their orders to ask.

  “You said you were in communications. What does that mean?”

  “Just that. I’m very good at what I do. That’s enough about me. Let me take a guess at what you do.”

  Jen felt some trepidation build. Being in the advice business came with an awful stigma. Not that she particularly cared how she was perceived by him. But she did want to guard her privacy. It was better to be faceless when you did what she did.

  “Hold on to that thought. Here comes our food,” she said. “We have to eat quickly—my lunchtime’s almost up.” What she didn’t say was that she’d allotted two hours to make this lunch happen.

  They dug into their respective meals. Jen had chosen lobster salad, because she couldn’t afford another pound on her hips and Trestin had ordered scallops on a bed of greens with sliced avocado on the side. They sipped sparkling water.

  “Back to our original conversation,” Trestin said. “You’re an attorney.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “A doctor?”

  She shook her head. “You’re way off base.” She was starting to enjoy this.

  “You’re a professional of some sort. I can tell from the way you speak, hold yourself. You have this inner confidence. You could be a teacher although I don’t think so. Maybe you’re the principal of a high school.”

  “Wrong on all counts.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re the one that wanted to take a shot at it.”

  Silence descended as they returned to their entrées. Trestin ate with a certain amount of relish while Jen, conscious of the passing time, scarfed down the remainder of her lobster salad.

  They were almost through with the meal when Camill
e and the man Jen assumed was her husband arrived.

  Trestin brought the napkin to his lips. “Hello, Winston, Camille.” He nodded at the couple. “Good to see you.”

  “That was one brilliant move,” Winston said. “I’m looking forward—”

  “You haven’t met Jen.” She was quickly introduced. Trestin flashed the older man a look Jen wasn’t sure how to interpret.

  “I’m looking forward to tonight,” Winston said, his hand on his wife’s arm. “We wouldn’t disturb you further.”

  Camille who’d so far remained mercifully quiet didn’t budge.

  “You two have something going?” she asked boldly.

  “Camille!” Winston sounded outraged. He was clearly the classier half. “Check yourself.”

  “I am checking myself. I’m not going behind their backs. I’m asking them directly. Now I know why you were parked in his spot.” She eyed Jen knowingly.

  Should she straighten the nosy woman out? No, that type of personality would believe what they wanted to believe.

  “Come on, Camille,” Winston said, attempting to leave again.

  “Dear Jenna’s up next,” Camille said, wagging a finger at Trestin. “I just know it.”

  Winston tugged on his wife’s arm and they finally left.

  After they were out of earshot, Jen said, “What’s this about Dear Jenna?”

  “Nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.”

  She hated to be dismissed or patronized. He’d been pleasant company so far and he’d kept her entertained. They’d even managed not to insult each other. But Trestin was ruining it all by being dismissive. She hated when men did that to women, acting like they didn’t have a right to question them.

  Jen signaled to the waiter for the check.

  “It’s been taken care of,” Tre announced, stopping the man from coming over with a shake of his head.

  “When? Why?”

  “Because I wanted to and I have an open tab here. I arranged it on my way in.”

  Jen searched through her purse. “I promised you lunch. I’m paying. It was my way of apologizing to you for being inconsiderate.”

  “Apology accepted. You can pay for dinner this Saturday night?”

  “What?” He was asking her out. She should be flattered. She could do far worse than this man with his to-die-for good looks. Admittedly in some bizarre way she was attracted to him. But he lived next door and if it didn’t work out things would be awkward. Better to keep things on a neighborly basis.

  “Lunch has been great. I enjoyed it,” Jen said honestly. “But Saturday night is out of the question. I’m on a tight deadline and will probably be working.”

  “You never did say what it is you did.”

  By divine intervention, Jen’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, recognizing her own office number.

  “Chere?”

  “Yes, child. Luis is looking for you. You need to get back here on the double.”

  “What’s wrong? Everyone that needed to know knew I had plans for an extended lunch.”

  Jen glanced up to see Trestin’s arched eyebrows.

  “Problem?” he mouthed.

  She shook her head. “I’m on my way.” Jen tucked the flip phone back into her purse. “Thanks for lunch,” she said to Trestin. “Now I really have to get going.”

  “I know,” he shouted at her back when the valet brought the Miata around and she was stepping into it. “High-class call girl.”

  Jen took her time tipping the valet and putting the car into gear. She slid the window down stuck her hand out and gave him the finger.

  Chapter 6

  On the drive back to the office, Jen thought about her ballsy neighbor. He really was like no one she’d ever met before. She’d revised her opinion of him. Sure, he came off as cocky, self-centered and more than a tad selfish, but he did have a wicked sense of humor and held his own with her. Single-minded would be the word she used to describe him.

  Jen had decided that his being in “communications” meant he was a stand-up comic or possibly an actor. She also realized she didn’t know what Trestin’s last name was and had forgotten to ask. Drat! She should have gotten a business card from him. Days ago she’d tried looking for a name on his mailbox, but like her, he’d requested the label be left blank.

  After parking her car, she rushed into the building. Why was Luis so bent out of shape about her leaving the office? He’d never paid much attention to her comings and goings before. It wasn’t like she’d just disappeared. She’d sent him an e-mail, copying the world that she would be taking an extended lunch.

  Chere intercepted her on the way to see Luis. She waved fire-engine-red talons with rhinestones in a rainbow of colors, in the direction of their boss’s office.

  “They’re in there. All the bigwigs. They’ve been at it a while.”

  Jen spotted Luis, assorted department heads, and a tall silver-haired man who looked like he was pushing eighty if he was a day, through Luis’s glass walls.

  “Who’s he?” Jen asked, inclining her head slightly in the direction of where the men gathered.

  “Ian Pendergrass, the publisher of The Flamingo Chronicle. My old man.” Chere put a cupped hand to her mouth and pretended to cough. “My ex,” she whispered.

  So the rumors were true. Now was not the time to ask.

  “Better go. They’re waiting,” Chere said.

  What could this mean? Jen was still preoccupied when she entered Luis’s office. It had to be big for all these busy people to stop everything they were doing and gather here. She couldn’t imagine she was being fired. Luis would not need a committee present to say what he had to say.

  “There you are,” Luis greeted her as she stuck her head through the open doorway. “And about time.” Noticeably absent was his unlit cigar. Ian Pendergrass was a man he either respected or feared. Luis waved her in.

  The men stood as Jen entered. The sole woman stayed in her chair. “Did I miss a meeting?” Jen asked, her voice upbeat, her demeanor outwardly calm.

  Luis cleared his throat. “Yes, you did. Have you met our publisher, Ian Pendergrass?”

  He knew damn well she hadn’t. Jen managed a smile as the old man enveloped her hand in a firm grip and held it a second longer than necessary.

  “We meet at last,” he said, his warm blue gaze sweeping over her. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

  She bet he had.

  Ian patted the vacant chair. “Sit.”

  As she did so the group resumed their animated discussion as if she didn’t exist.

  “It’s a no-brainer. She’s got to go on the show,” Percy, the circulations manager said emphatically.

  “And I say, she shouldn’t. You’ll be throwing her to the wolves and what good will that do?”

  “Drive business for one. Have you seen our numbers? We’re having the most profitable quarter in the history of The Chronicle.” This came from Percy again.

  Jen stayed quiet and listened, trying to grasp what was going on. She was the topic of a heated discussion, that much she knew.

  Pendergrass was up and pacing. Despite the high temperatures outside, his lanky frame was encased in a double-breasted blue jacket with the brass buttons buttoned. His light-gray slacks had sharp creases to them. And his tasseled loafers shone. Overall he looked polished and successful as if he’d just stepped off his yacht.

  “Luis, we’ve been going round and round about this for some time and you haven’t spoken up,” he said.

  Luis darted a look Jen’s way. “Both arguments have merit,” he said. “Jen’s been working on the Sunday column. Our approach is to downplay what was said, maybe even admit we came on too strong.”

  She’d never actually agreed to that.

  “Luis!”

  He ignored her, continuing, “Then again, that radio DJ’s pretty slick. Jen might get tricked into saying something she didn’t mean.”

  Luis as usual was waffling.
<
br />   “She’s already used the word queer,” Ian came back with. “As far as this town’s concerned it doesn’t get much worse than that.” He chuckled.

  “Wait! Wait! Wait!” Jen shouted, bolting to her feet. “Don’t I have a say in any of this? Here you are making decisions for me as if I were an inanimate object.”

  “She is a pistol.” Ian’s smile was a mile wide. He crossed his arms. “Luis, since you’re her boss. You should be the one to catch her up.”

  Luis Gomez spent another five minutes recounting what had transpired in the short time Jen was gone. The wisecracking WARP DJ had called around until he found someone willing to listen. Someone had put him through to Luis’s office then tracked Ian Pendergrass down on his cell phone and that’s how the impromptu meeting had come about.

  “Why are we even entertaining me going on the show?” Jen said more quietly. “I shouldn’t have to defend myself and The Chronicle shouldn’t even dignify WARP by responding. Turn on the television and read any major magazine. Today, the gay population refers to themselves as queer. There’s even a popular television show.”

  “I know,” Luis said, his tone designed to smooth things over. “But this is a conservative paper and a conservative town. The Chronicle’s sales are up and we need to do whatever it takes to keep this paper selling.”

  Even if it meant using her as the sacrificial lamb. Luis really was a wuss straddling both sides of the fence.

  “Yes, we do have to think about sales,” Todd Hirsch, the director of multimedia and new projects interjected. “Distribution is at an all time high this week. The Southern Tribune’s watching us closely. They’re scared to death—I even had one of their reporters in looking for a job. Change has been a long time coming to The Flamingo Beach Chronicle. The first step was hiring you. We’ve never had an advice columnist before. You’ve earned your salary and some. We’ve made news.”

  It was the first time Jen had received any acknowledgment that her contribution to the paper made a difference. Despite the unpleasant nature of the meeting it felt good to be publicly recognized.

  Ian tapped the face of his watch. “We need to wrap this up. I have to go. Have we reached a consensus?”