After Hours Bundle

by Karen Kendall

  Jack’s mouth tightened like a rope around a sack. A sack she was trapped in, struggling. “Stay here with me, Marly. Help me get through this.”

  She looked beyond him, at the group of family and assistants behind him. He had several people to get him through this. Her parents had nobody but her.

  He had a big mansion with electric gates to keep away the media. He had bodyguards and lots of other resources. Her parents had nothing but the dolphin mailbox and the tacky wreath studded with plastic flamingos and gators.

  He had handlers to advise him on what to say and staff to answer the door and phone if the reporters got too obnoxious. Her parents didn’t.

  “Jack, this is non-negotiable. You brought me here and got me into this mess. Now help me get to my parents, if you care about me at all.”

  18

  THE GULFSTREAM LANDED two hours later at Southwest Florida International Airport. Marly loosened her death grip on the arm of the sofa, unfastened her seat belt and climbed out with pilot Alan’s help. She’d had no comfort martini this time; she’d just spent the time in the air praying and ignoring the bland PR professional Jack had sent along with her.

  She wished for Mike’s comforting presence and his scrapbooking to divert her thoughts during the ride to the house, but he was back in Tallahassee and a stranger drove them. Mike traveled with the governor, not with her.

  The PR professional, a skinny, nondescript man, tried to feed her appropriate sound bites, but all she registered was his lips moving.

  The scene at her parents’ house justified her worst fears. They couldn’t even pull into the driveway, it was so jammed with cars. A reporter with Channel 7 was in the process of giving live feed and ran over to Marly, microphone extended, as she got out of the limo. “The timing just couldn’t be better, folks, because here’s the governor’s girlfriend right now, arriving home to see Mom and Dad! Ms. Fine, would you care to comment on the recent newspaper headlines?”

  The PR guy had warned her not to comment until Jack’s office got an official statement together. He put his arm around her and pushed past the hordes, helping Marly get to the front door. “Ms. Fine’s first priority is the well-being of her parents. She’ll comment later. Thank you. Excuse us. Thank you. Please move aside and remember that you are trespassing on private property. We do hope it won’t be necessary to contact local authorities? Thank you. This way, Ms. Fine.”

  They finally got to the door and Marly came face to face again with the hated wreath of plastic pink flamingos and gators. She rang the bell and yelled, “Dad? Ma! It’s me. Will you let me in? Dad!”

  A long few moments went by and Marly feared that they were so disgusted with her they planned to leave her outside. But finally the door opened six inches and Dad’s face appeared, half-obscured by the Dolphins’ cap pulled down to his nose. His hand stretched out to take hers and he yanked her inside.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed to the PR guy. He nodded and the tide of vultures swept him back off the porch. The limo would take him to a nearby motel, where undoubtedly he’d be pestered all night by reporters who tailed him over there.

  Dad pushed away a few microphones and demonstrated to one woman that he really would close her wrist in the door if she didn’t remove it. He slammed the bolt home, leaned against it and shook his head. “You know, honey, I didn’t like that punk drummer you was with a couple years back. But when I told you to find a better man, I didn’t mean Jack Hammersmith!”

  Marly gave him a big bear hug. “I’m so sorry, Dad. I can explain everything.”

  Ma emerged from the kitchen, a dish towel over her shoulder and a cigarette in her mouth. “Marlena, nice of you to join us. Go wash your hands—I been keeping the ham warm for two hours, now.”

  Uh-oh. Marly kissed her cheek and tried not to think about what she always served with ham: stewed okra and plain boiled potatoes. “Hi, Ma. I like that lipstick you have on. What color is it?”

  “Ha. B’lieve it’s called Misguided Mauve,” Ma said around her cigarette. “Picked it up at the drugstore along with a red called VaVoom Vixen. That one’d look nice on you.”

  Was that a trace of a smirk at the corner of her mother’s mouth? Marly sighed inwardly. Well, what had she expected?

  “R’member, use the liquid soap—and not the show towels.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She walked down the hallway and tossed her overnight bag into the guest room. Her pal Fuzzy was there, no surprise, sprawled belly-up in a puddle of sunshine. He yawned and stretched, spreading his back toes comically apart. Then he twisted his head, saw it was her and hissed.

  “You’d look really good purple,” she told him, and headed for the bathroom. The green alligator candle with the party hat grinned at her as she soaped her hands and tried to think of what to say to her parents. This wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation.

  The governor’s hands were up my shirt because I was making a campaign contribution.

  Um, my mouth was open in that photo because I was making a heartfelt speech on the part of Democrats all over Florida.

  Hammersmith was just sticking his tongue out at me because he didn’t agree with my politics. Really.

  Somehow, she didn’t think they would buy any of this.

  She went into the dining room to find Dad warming up the electric carving knife. It sounded, as usual, like a small buzz saw.

  Ma staggered in with a ham that could feed twice the number of reporters outside, and dropped it on the two trivets that stood waiting in the center of the table. Then she went back for the okra and boiled potatoes.

  Marly looked at it all, tried not to shudder and sat down, putting the pea-green napkin from her placemat into her lap. She aimed a bright smile at her parents.

  Dad, anticipating the difficulties to come, had gone ahead and put a bottle of chilled rosé on the table, along with some thick glass goblets. The Precious Moments salt and pepper shakers peeped around the wine bottle, looking as if they’d like some, too.

  Ma put out her cigarette in an ashtray on a side table, then sat down and whipped her own pea-green napkin into her lap. “Look how tender that ham is, Herman.” She sounded proud.

  “Compliments to the chef,” said Marly. She’d seen the Honey-Baked Ham wrapper in the kitchen garbage can.

  “Why, thank you.” Ma helped herself to some wine and then slid the bottle over to her daughter. “So. You been cutting the governor’s hair, have you?”

  Marly filled her glass to the rim and inhaled half the contents. “Um, yeah.” Through the drawn mustard curtains, she could still see the shapes of heads, shoulders, cars and cameras. And he says he wants to marry me, but there’s not a chance in hell that I can live this way. How does anyone stand it?

  “Nice photos in the paper.”

  “You liked those, huh? Well, I came over here because I was afraid of this—” she gestured toward the window “—and I thought you might need an explanation and some help.”

  “Well, now.” Ma took a swallow of her wine. “An explanation sure would be nice. But—” she looked at her Timex watch “—help ain’t necessary. Sprinklers’ll be comin’on in about two minutes, won’t they, Herman?”

  Dad grinned and set the electric knife down. “They sure will.”

  Marly put a hand to her mouth. “Did you warn them?”

  “Did they warn us?” Ma passed her the bowl of savagely processed okra. “Besides, I gave ’em a statement three hours ago, and they still didn’t go away.”

  Marly dropped the okra. “You what?”

  “I took ’em out some corn muffins and coffee and talked to ’em.”

  Oh, God. “What—what did you say?”

  “Herman, go switch on the television set so we can watch the six o’clock news. You figure they had time to get it on there?”

  He nodded. “I reckon they did.” Dad got up and crossed into the formal living room—an open divider delineated the rooms. Amazing that the old Zenith television in the wooden
cabinet still functioned, but it did. With a minimum of white noise, Channel Six came on.

  “You gave the interview to Six? Not Seven?”

  “That little gal with Seven was snotty to me. I showed her. Gave Six the exclusive,” said Ma, patting her hair.

  Marly set the okra next to Dad’s plate, because there was no way she could choke any down right now.

  “And coming up next, Six at Six covers the top breaking news story—the Governor’s Secret Girlfriend! Six brings you a live interview with Marly Fine’s mother and the inside scoop.”

  Marly’s stomach felt as though someone was tossing it up in the air and spinning it like pizza dough. “Scoop?”

  Ma inspected her Misguided Mauve matching nail polish and then nodded. “Just watch.”

  Marly suffered through various commercials for snack foods, new cars and toilet wands before the news came back on. A buxom brunette with too much eye makeup and a Miss Piggy nose announced that she, Roshana Rifkin, was live in Fort Myers with Ms. Fine’s mother. She stuck a big black microphone under Ma’s small nose.

  “Mrs. Fine, what was your reaction when you saw those pictures in the paper this morning? Did you know your daughter was, er, dating the governor?”

  Ma turned a blinding smile on the camera and somehow channeled Debbie Reynolds. “Oh, those tabloid journalists. My daughter is such a beautiful girl that I didn’t think it was possible to make her look like that. But if they can produce photos of Bigfoot and little green aliens, I guess they can manage an unattractive shot of Marly. Would you like to see a better one?” And she held out Marly’s high school graduation picture, in which she looked angelic and sweet, her big blue eyes shown to advantage. The camera swooped in for a close-up.

  “Did I tell you how Marly saved her father’s life by making him see a special doctor?”

  “Er, that’s lovely and touching, Mrs. Fine. We’ll come back to that. But you don’t deny that was your daughter in a compromising position with Governor Hammersmith, do you?”

  “Roshana, that…journalist—” she pronounced the word as if it were a cockroach “—caught them off guard, but surely you have to question some of the details? I mean, my daughter is a professional. She’d never let his hair look like that!

  “And,” her voice dropped to just above a whisper, “other things have obviously been, well, enhanced. I mean, only a professional basketball player is hung like that.”

  Marly spit her wine all over her lap, while the camera zoomed in on Ms. Rifkin’s avid expression.

  “So, Mrs. Fine, you’re saying the photos have been doctored?”

  “Roshana, all I’m suggesting is that the public might want to think about it before they rush to conclusions. Jack is a nice boy, my daughter is a nice girl. The relationship between them is serious—at least on her part. I can tell you that for sure.”

  Oh, Ma. You’re defending me…. Marly’s eyes filled with tears and a lump formed in her throat. A lump the size of a limo.

  “Here, would you like a corn muffin, Roshana? I baked them special for you nice people, since you’ve been camped on my lawn all night. I figured you might be hungry.” Ma smiled into the camera again.

  “Uh, no thanks, Mrs. Fine. So, are you saying that Jack Hammersmith has taken advantage of your daughter?”

  “Well, gracious me. I certainly am not a mind reader, dear. You might want to ask him that.”

  “What about the rumors about him becoming engaged to Carol Hilliard? Don’t you think she’ll be upset?”

  “Who? Sorry, dear, my hearing aid is acting up again.” Ma put a hand to her ear. “Oh, gotta run. I have a ham in the oven—you know how it is, Roshana.”

  “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Fine. This is Roshana Rifkin, reporting live from Fort Myers for Six at Six—your source for the news of the hour.”

  Marly didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Ma was an original, if nothing else. She’d hung Jack out to dry in the nicest possible way, but succeeded in defending her daughter. Marly still couldn’t believe it. She swallowed the lump and dashed her tears away with the back of her hand. She got up and walked over to Ma. “Thank you,” she said, and dropped a kiss on her forehead.

  “Aw—it was nothing. That Miss Piggy thought she was all that, didn’t she?” Ma patted Marly’s back. “That should teach ’em to try to say bad things about my flesh and blood.”

  So the woman really had given birth to her. She’d wondered sometimes….

  “I looked pretty good, don’t you think, Marlena? You’re right, that Misguided Mauve works real well with the silver-blond color rinse. And, Herman, they say the camera adds ten pounds, but I didn’t look too fat, did I?”

  “You looked good, Betty Jo. You’re a damn Fine woman.” He chuckled at the ancient joke, and she dimpled, smacking him in the arm.

  “Think you’re clever, don’t you, old man?”

  “I do,” he said. “Married you, didn’t I?”

  Ma giggled like a girl and poured herself some more wine, while Marly wondered what planet they were all on.

  In the kitchen, she heard the scrabbling of claws on the laminate counter, a strangled yowl and a thump. She got up and stuck her head in to find Fuzzy, glaring at her and swishing his tail back and forth.

  The plastic butter dish lay overturned on the floor next to him, and he was shaking his left front paw in disgust.

  “Landed in the margarine, did you, Fuzz?” She grinned. “Serves you right for hopping up there.”

  He hissed at her and then licked at his paw.

  “Tell you what, dude. We’ll make a deal. I’ll bring you a piece of ham, but you aren’t eating it on my bed.”

  “Young lady,” called Ma’s voice. “Now, don’t you think you’ve got some ’splainin’ to do?”

  19

  JACK SAT EXHAUSTED and under siege himself, wondering how Marly was faring in Fort Myers. His public image was taking a serious beating, and Ms. Turlington had been tireless in her pursuit of him with some sort of protein/vitamin shake, which even her crocodile tears couldn’t make him drink.

  In between bourbons, his father tossed out words like “irresponsible” and “outrageous” and “just plain stupid.” Finally, Jack started pouring him doubles to shut him up.

  His mother was the only one who asked about Marly. She and Martinez used words like “damage control” and “recovery strategy.” Lyons and his PR man pontificated about planting stories with the press and “limited exclusives.”

  Finally, Jack had had enough. “All of this is beside the point because—”

  An aide came hurtling through the double doors with a videotape. “You will want to see this, sirs and madam. Right away.”

  They turned on the plasma television in the room and loaded the tape. They watched it in silence, all the way to the end. “This is Roshana Rifkin, reporting live from Fort Myers for Six at Six—your source for the news of the hour.”

  “Jayzus Christ!” Jack’s father growled from his leather wing chair. “You dug the grave, but this hillbilly woman’s pushed you in and shoveled dirt over the body!”

  “Hillbilly?” Senior was talking about his future mother-in-law. “She seems like a nice enough woman. She’s just defending her daughter.”

  “Oh, come on! You can’t get involved with a family like that. Get a grip, Jack.”

  “With a family like what? Didn’t you tell me that your great-grandfather was a boot-black?”

  Senior succumbed to a coughing fit and crawled back into his bourbon.

  His mother rolled her eyes. But she said, “You need to call Carol, Jack. You do owe her an explanation.”

  “Not only should you call her,” Martinez advised, “you should be seen on a very high profile, romantic date with her. At a five-star restaurant. I’ll leak it to the press, and you’d better go shopping for a ring right away.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Jack blinked rapidly at him. “You know, Martinez, I value your advice on my professiona
l life. But I never asked for it regarding my personal life.”

  “Excuse me for pointing this out, sir, but right now your professional and personal lives are one and the same.”

  “Well, we need to change that, then, don’t we?”

  “I’m not sure it’s possible, sir.”

  Jack walked over to the man and glared down at him. “Martinez, I have given up years of my life for Florida politics and for this family, but I draw the line at marrying the wrong woman for them. But let’s say I was willing to do that. You think it would be damage control to give Carol an engagement ring now?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Well, then all that hair spray has gotten to your brain. “You’re crazy. If I did that, the media shit-storm would double, because it would appear to validate that I’d been cheating on Carol! And it would also make Marly look like some two-bit piece of tail I was messing around with.”

  Martinez’s bland, calculating look said it all. Jack wanted to hit him, knock him sprawling on his ass. But he restrained himself.

  “Which she is not. I intend to marry her. Understand, Martinez? So why don’t you guys figure how to spin that.”

  Martinez exchanged an aghast look with Lyons.

  “Jesus, Jack!” His father struggled up out of his wing chair, sloshing bourbon onto his knee. “You can’t throw away your political future by getting hitched to a hairdresser.”

  “John!” said Mrs. Hammersmith.

  “Watch yourself, Senator,” Jack warned. “I think you’re afraid I’m throwing away your own vicarious thrills. My life is not a spectator sport for your amusement—or anyone else’s.”

  “Excuse me.” Lyons had been quiet during most of the verbal brawl, but now he spoke up. “Jack, we…didn’t know you felt this way. We just assumed, er, that you weren’t serious about the girl.”

  Jack leveled an ominous gaze on his aide. “Well, I am.”

  Lyons squirmed. “Uh, yes, sir. But we already sent a statement to the associated press, along with a photo of you and Carol. The one from her birthday party.”