Carolina Booty

by T. Lynn Ocean

  Riley stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet ya.”

  My mouth may have dropped open for a beat. “You’re the mayor?”

  “Got it by default when Cappy kicked the bucket. Nobody ran against me.”

  “You didn’t run,” Pop reminded him. “You were a write-in.”

  Riley shook his head. “Still don’t know who in the hell wrote me in.”

  “Huh,” was all I could think of to say. I was brought out of my stupor by Bandit, who was making unhappy chirping sounds, dancing around our feet. I smelled something burning and jumped up to find smoke spiraling from the stovetop. Not only was the broccoli blackened, it was stuck to the bottom of the pot. I dropped the entire stinking mess into the sink and turned the faucet on, which created a giant ball of hissing steam. Bandit made little sounds of delight, laughing at me. Pop and Riley observed from the table without comment.

  “I was just going to steam it but the water must’ve been a little low,” I explained, wondering if I could shave off the parts not stuck and serve them as chopped broccoli. “Vegetables are better for you when they’re steamed. I learned that on the cooking channel.”

  Pop nodded and drew a card. Riley shrugged. “Well, at least there’s still the mashed potatoes and rolls,” he said.

  Not wanting to scorch the potatoes, too, I pulled them out of the microwave, burning my fingertips in the process. They felt hard instead of soft and mushy, so they might have been undercooked. But I figured the mashing part would soften them up. Rummaging through the cabinets, I found an antique-looking hand mixer that, by the amount of dust on it, hadn’t been used in years. Irritating my already burnt fingers, I sliced the potatoes into quarters and dropped them in a bowl. When I turned on the mixer, its little motor let out a high pitch squeal and the beaters jammed.

  “Ain’t ya gonna put some milk and butter in there?” Riley said. My back seat chef for the evening, he kept one eye on his hand of cards and the other on me.

  “Of course I am,” I said, and did so. The second time I turned on the mixer, something exploded and an eruption of milk-drenched potato chunks pelted me in the face. Seizing the opportunity, Bandit jumped onto my shoulder to pluck pieces from my hair. Just as happy with my mishap, Flush eagerly lapped at the floor.

  “Well, at least there’s still the rolls, to go with the pork chops,” Riley said with a shrug.

  “Oh, damn!” I’d forgotten about the pork chops, and they weren’t going to cook themselves.

  “Gin.” Pop laid down a hand of cards, unconcerned about the mess I made in his kitchen.

  I tried to remember how my pork chop was cooked the last time I’d ordered one in a restaurant. It was covered with shrimp and some type of cream sauce, but I recalled seeing the telltale crisscross markings made by a grill. “Pop, do you have a grill?”

  “Aye, beneath the big oak tree at the side of the deck.”

  I found it easily enough and turned on the propane tank, like I’d seen people do at cookouts. But after pushing the red starter button a bunch of times, no flames appeared. Like everything else around Pop’s place, the grill was old. Back inside, Pop had just won another hand of gin rummy. I asked if there was a trick to lighting the grill.

  “Nah,” Riley answered for him. “Just turn on yer gas, and toss a matchstick in there.”

  Trying not to accidentally brush against the soot-blackened grill, I went through a half pack of matches before a lit one finally went through the cracks of the grate and remained lit when it hit the bottom of the grill. The resulting fireball that shot from the grill forced me back and I fell down. I think I screamed. Riley, Flush and Bandit appeared all at once. Stunned, I climbed off the ground, patting myself down to make sure nothing was in flames. Grilling always looked so easy when other people did it.

  “Singed the tips of your hair, you did,” Pop observed. He moved in for a closer look at my face, green eye sparkling. “Eyelashes, too. You okay, Lass?”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” I insisted as I caught a whiff of burning hair and cringed at the thought of what my stylist would say when he saw the damage. “I just wanted to get it good and hot, to uh, sear the meat and seal in the natural juices.” Although I’d seen that tip on a cooking show while channel surfing during a bout of insomnia, Riley didn’t buy it.

  “Yer supposed to turn on yer gas and light it right then,” he said, shaking his bald head. “Not ten minutes later.”

  Ignoring him, I placed the Coke and bourbon-soaked meat on the grill, shut the lid, and went back inside to finish the potatoes. Miserably, the result resembled potato soup with small, hard chunks in it. I shoved the bowl back into the microwave and punched in ten minutes. They couldn’t get any worse.

  A glass of wine later, I pulled the rolls out of the oven only to find hard, golf-ball sized chunks of heavy dough.

  “Double damn!”

  “Did you let the dough rise before it went into the oven?” Pop said, fetching a beer from the refrigerator.

  “Rise? What are you talking about?”

  “Those frozen rolls you bought, Lass. They have to thaw out and the dough ought to rise.”

  “You should have got the kind that don’t have to rise,” Riley commented. “They even make some you can microwave. But you must’ve bought the kind you have to let rise.”

  “How could I have let them rise?” I almost yelled, wondering why he hadn’t said something before. “I just got here! And who knew dough is supposed to rise, anyway? What’s that all about?”

  Pop shrugged and took a swig from his bottle of beer.

  Riley shuffled the cards. “Well, at least there’s still the pork chops.”

  “Oh, damn, damn, damn!” I ran outside to find meat that was charcoal black on one side and bloody raw on the other.

  “Cusses like a sailor, that one,” I heard Riley say through the open door.

  Pop chuckled. “And cooks like a green deckhand.”

  Chapter 5

  “Go away!”

  Ignoring me, Bandit remained perched on the dresser. Propped up in bed with my laptop, I pored through my email inbox. It was nearing lunchtime and I’d slept through breakfast.

  “You’re making me nervous, wondering what you’re going to take next. And if you even think about swiping my new Couture watch, your furry ass is grass. Got it?”

  She scurried off the dresser and brazenly got in bed to get a better look at my computer. She put both little furry hands on the edge of the wireless card that connected me with the outside world via satellite internet, and tugged.

  “I’ve got one word for you, Bandit.” She stopped pulling on the device and cocked her head.

  “Taxidermist,” I said slowly. As if understanding my threat, she backed up and sat on her haunches to watch from a few feet away.

  My email was the usual stack of inquiries and electronic newsletters. There was a message from Sheila, complaining that emailing rather than texting was like living in the stone age. She suggested that the first order of business for me in Rumton should be to figure out how to get the Wi-Fi and cellular service flowing through the quiet airwaves. But the real reason for her message was to ask if there were any good-looking guys in Rumton. I sent a one sentence reply: I wish. The next email was from Mark, asking if I was ready to marry him yet. I sent another one sentence reply: no. I preferred my men in short-term doses, like a month, or two at the most. I couldn’t comprehend spending the rest of my life with anyone.

  From Justin, the subject line on another message said simply, hello. I almost deleted it without reading it first, but quickly changed my mind. After all, he was in charge of research. He could have some information for me.

  Just wanted to say hello, he’d written. I’ve been thinking about you and wondering how you’re getting along. It’s apparent you’re on the ball, based on the data you’re having the interns gather. If you need anything, give me a call. I haven’t been to Rumton in a while and thought about paying a visit this weekend. Might s
ee you then.

  Oh, great. Mister Zero Personality might pay a visit. And, why had he been to Rumton before anyway? I was curious, but decided not to lead him on, even virtually. He probably wasn’t serious about visiting anyhow and I certainly didn’t want to encourage the trip. On several occasions, he’d asked me to dinner, or invited me to a charity event or a Braves baseball game, but I’d always declined. I didn’t want to open any doors now.

  Another message from Aaron reminded me to try one of his Aunt Millie’s peanut butter cookies. The post script instructed me to overnight him a box next time she baked a fresh batch. She always made three dozen at a time, he wrote, and they were the best I’d ever taste. Although I’d been in Rumton week, I’d been so busy doing research that I hadn’t yet met Mad Millie. The thought of cat hair swirling through the air made my nose itch, but I needed to at least knock on her door and introduce myself. And eat a cookie or two. Maybe I could avoid the cats altogether if I invited her to Pop’s house for dinner. I could always ask if she’d bring the famous cookies for dessert.

  As I finished checking messages by replying to a friend, suddenly angry because I would miss her birthday party at the Cotton Club and punching the keyboard much harder than needed to put words on the screen, Pop knocked on the open bedroom door and handed me the telephone.

  Aaron’s booming voice rumbled through the line. “Enjoying the quiet life, Jaxie?”

  “Yes, sir.” Of course I wasn’t enjoying it. But then, he already knew that.

  “Great. How about you give me a progress report? Any ideas brewing?”

  “Well, it’s only been a week, so mainly I’ve been working to learn what I can about Rumton.” I took a deep breath and tried to summarize a dismal picture into a few sentences. “The infrastructure isn’t the best…; water and sewer systems are less than favorable, and all electric lines are above ground. There is no wireless phone service or cable television in place. Police and EMS services need to be modernized and the single schoolhouse for all grades, even though there are very few school age kids, will deter families with children from relocating here. Of course, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, but the lack of medical professionals, shopping venues, and arts programs creates a real problem.”

  “True, that’s everything I already know.”

  I was at a loss for anything positive to say. “Rumton’s proximity to the ocean is the best thing the town has going for it, but even that doesn’t help since it remains maddeningly landlocked.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “I think we need to hire an environmental consultant. A scientist who can do a survey to determine several things. Mainly, I want to find out if there is a feasible way to gain direct access to the water.” I pulled up some notes on the computer. “Pop, the man I’m staying wi—”

  “I know Pop,” Aaron cut me off. “Heck, I used to hang out at his house as a kid. We all did, after school.”

  It was easy to forget that my boss grew up in the godforsaken place. Nobody would ever guess it to look at him now.

  “Well, Pop says that, in the past, there was an inlet. Shrimpers used it to get their boats out to sea, but it slowly filled in over time, until it became completely un-navigable.”

  “Go on.”

  “Considering its remote location, not to mention that there is virtually no labor pool and less-than-desirable amenities, we won’t be able to get the big business sector interested in Rumton.”

  “I agree. Unless it were a company who needed a lot of cheap land for a specific purpose, and didn’t want to deal with municipal red tape. But that would be the type of industry we don’t want in Rumton, anyway.”

  “Right. So I’m thinking the best chance at revitalization lies in either residential development marketed to retirees who want a get-away-from-it-all lifestyle, or tourism. Maybe some of both.” Bandit suddenly reappeared, making me jump. I glared at her before continuing but she didn’t take the hint to get off the bed. “Surrounding coastal towns draw hordes of retirees and tourists, but they use the water to do it. You know, boating and fishing and the promise of a relaxing coastal lifestyle. The appeal of seeing the sun rise over the water and all that.”

  His silence indicated that he agreed.

  “The good news is that Rumton has great weather. We just need to figure out if there’s a way to capitalize on the ocean and the nearby Intracoastal Waterway.”

  “How much will an environmental survey cost?” Even on a pro bono project, it always boiled down to the raw numbers.

  “I’ll find out and get back to you. I’m not sure how involved it will be, but the main thing to determine is where the old inlet was, and find out if it could be reopened with dredging or something. And of course, if the land is suitable for development.”

  “Interesting possibility.”

  “Or maybe, financing could be obtained to build a bridge that jumped all the marshy wetlands and dumped out on the beach, so you could get there by car.”

  “Another interesting possibility,” he said. “Okay. Get me some environmental survey estimates. Produce a rundown sheet of what information you want to obtain and send it out for bids. And take a drive to the next town to buy a fax machine for Pop’s house. Be sure to keep the receipt and expense it,” he said. “And, Jaxie?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Good work. Keep it up.”

  * * *

  I found Pop in the kitchen, making a pot of something that smelled incredible. Since my dinner fiasco, he’d done most of the cooking, although I had managed to pitch in with a few meals of lunchmeat sandwiches and potato chips. It was pretty hard to screw up a deli sandwich.

  “So do you know any environmental consultants?” I asked, with a laugh.

  “Aye.”

  “You do?”

  “My nephew, Avery. He hangs his hat in Charlotte, but skirts about the country working jobs. It’s mainly the land developers that keep money in his pocket.”

  “What does he do? And who does he work for?”

  “He’s a marine scientist, among other things, and worked for a big research company. But a couple years back, he got fed up with the politics and went to work as an independent contractor, making top dollar. Doesn’t dance ‘round the issues to keep politicians happy, like he had to before.”

  The fact that Pop had family in the business was great, but unfortunately, ‘top dollar’ were two words Aaron wouldn’t want to hear.

  “Well, I have to find a consultant to do a survey of Rumton. And a feasibility study. But Shine Advertising and PR won’t want to pay a lot of money, not for a pro bono effort.”

  Pop’s green eye sparkled. “Let’s ring him up and see what ‘appens.”

  He dialed the number from memory and spoke into the handset for a few minutes before handing it over to me.

  “Uh, hello?” I said, caught off guard.

  “So you’re Jaxie,” Avery said in a velvety deep tone that instantly made me wonder if he had the looks to back it up. “And you’re going to save the town.”

  I heard a faint chuckle, or perhaps just imagined it. I began to wish I’d never told Pop, Riley and Bull that my assignment was to ‘save the town’. Like a bad jingle from a television commercial, the phrase had stuck and it sounded ridiculous every time I heard it repeated.

  “Well, yes,” I said, a bit embarrassed. “That’s why my firm sent me here, anyway.”

  “Tell me what you need and I’ll see if I can free up some time to get down there and help you out.”

  “Great. But I have to warn you, this is a pro bono project for an advertising and PR firm. My boss, Aaron Ackworth, grew up here, but since Rumton isn’t a paying client, we probably can’t pay your normal rate. I have to send the job out for bids.”

  “I’m familiar with your firm. And, there’s no need to look for bids.”

  “You are? And why not?”

  “Because my price is free. Now, tell me what it is you’re after.
”

  “Free?” Nobody gave away anything for free, especially when they were in business for themselves. “Why free?”

  “Pop is like a father to me and I’d do anything for him. And he seems to have taken a liking to you.”

  “He has?”

  “And besides,” Avery continued, “some volunteer work might be just the thing for me right now. I could use the tax write-off.”

  I inhaled deeply. “Okay, here goes. I’d like to find out where the old inlet is located, the one the shrimpers used eighty years ago, and if there’s any way to get water flowing through it again. Deep enough water to accommodate a forty or fifty-foot sport fishing boat.” I knew that recreational boaters with money, the kind of retirees who might think it attractive to move to a quaint small town, would want a marina with slips to accommodate their upscale toys. “I also need a feasibility study on whether or not the land in Rumton is developable. You know, condos with a view. An upscale residential retirement community with a golf course or two. That sort of thing. And lastly, I need to know if there are any natural resources that could bring in revenue.”

  This time, I definitely heard a chuckle. “Is that all?”

  “Pretty much.”

  We chatted for some time, and the rich tone of his voice intrigued me. I hoped he wasn’t a geek. Or married. Or ugly.

  “So, tell me Jaxie, what do you get out of working this assignment?” Avery said after informing me he’d be in Rumton before the week was out.

  “Besides my regular paycheck, you mean? I get to get the heck out of here when I’m done.”

  * * *

  Still wondering what Avery looked like, I brought my laptop to the kitchen table and shot off some more assignments to the interns. I wanted a report on available federal or private grant money tagged for anything along the lines of coastal development, floodwater control, improving rural schools, small town business development or arts programs. I understood that grant money wouldn’t save the town, but it was a start.

  Pop set two Pepsis on the table and asked if I wanted a glass of ice. “No thanks. I’ll just drink it from the bottle. At least that way Bandit can’t dunk stuff in it.”