Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  “Not with your mouth full,” Wyatt warned.

  Bo chewed for a moment, then, his eyes on his father, carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin. “We lost to the stinkin’ Pythons. Our archenemy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said.

  “But we played great,” Wyatt said. “Bo hit a triple and a double. And he hit a smokin’ line drive that probably would have homered, except their third baseman, who I totally think is on growth hormones, because the kid is six and he’s like six feet tall, made a diving catch.”

  “But then I struck out. Twice,” Bo said sadly.

  “Boy, you’re batting four hundred,” Nelson reminded him. “That ain’t too shabby.”

  Bo eyed the last slice of pie on the plate, his hand hovering just above it, until his father nodded approval.

  “Granddad, I’m four hundred for the week, three-fifty for the season. This kid on the Wolverines, he’s batting six hundred. Scout’s striking out, like, two kids an inning.”

  “Wow,” Grace said admiringly. “You really do know your statistics. Your dad told me you’re quite a math wizard.”

  “He’s a freak,” Wyatt said, gazing fondly at his son. “But he’s our freak.”

  Bo looked longingly toward the other room. “The game’s still on, Dad. Can I be excused?”

  “After you two clear the dishes. And thank Grace for the dinner she cooked.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Grace admitted. “My mom fixed everything. I just carried it over here.”

  “Dinner was awesome,” Bo said, gathering the dishes.

  Nelson stood slowly. “Anytime you want to bring over some more of that taco casserole, please feel free.”

  Wyatt looked at Grace, who was starting to gather up the silverware. “That’s Dad’s job,” he said. “It’s not too hot right now. I thought maybe I’d take you on a tour of the park. If you’re interested.”

  “I was hoping you’d ask,” Grace said.

  40

  The golf cart bumped noiselessly along the crushed-shell pathways, an occasional limb or branch slapping harmlessly at Grace’s arm. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of damp earth and tropical flowers. It was twilight, and birds and squirrels twittered from the thick tree canopy. And from somewhere off in the park came an unearthly shriek that made Grace startle, so much that she nearly fell off the cart. “What was that?” she asked, clutching Wyatt’s arm for balance.

  “Peacocks,” Wyatt said. “The bane of my existence. If only that damned coyote had jumped a peacock…”

  “But they’re so beautiful,” Grace said. “So elegant.”

  “So noisy and cranky and a major pain in my ass,” Wyatt said firmly. “People in the neighborhood around here are always calling the cops to complain that we’re torturing animals over here. We can’t make ’em understand that it’s just normal peacock behavior.”

  “Why do you have them if you don’t like them?”

  “Jungle Jerry’s has always had peacocks,” Wyatt said. “The first pair, Ike and Mamie, were my grandmother’s pets. After they died, we thought we were through with peacocks, but no, somebody was always ‘gifting’ us with new peacocks. People get them because they think they’re such a classy addition to a garden or an estate. Then they hear that ungodly banshee screeching and they can’t get rid of them fast enough. They don’t even ask us. They just drop the damned things off in the parking lot in the middle of the night, like stray kittens.”

  He pointed to a huge banyan tree a few hundred yards ahead. “They like to roost there.” The path wound around the tree and a clearing came into sight. It was ringed with flowering bushes, and a tall rose-covered arch was centered in a swath of grass.

  “That’s the butterfly garden,” Wyatt said, pointing. “And the wedding chapel, in the middle there.”

  “How pretty,” Grace said. “Do you get many weddings here?”

  “Not so many lately,” Wyatt said. “Couples seem to want to get married at the beach. Anyway, we don’t have the kind of upscale facilities a lot of brides want. The only bathrooms are back at the gift shop, and they’re not too glamorous. And let’s face it, Jungle Jerry’s ain’t exactly a classy destination.”

  “That’s a shame,” Grace said. “It really is a lovely setting, with all the trees and flowers around, and that sort of meadow in the middle. You could bring in a tent and those fancy port-a-potties that are on trailers, with running water and everything. A good wedding planner could pull off an amazing event here.”

  “Know any?” Wyatt said gloomily. “Me neither.”

  The path made a sharp left and suddenly they were surrounded on both sides by a dense wall of bamboo. A light rain had begun falling, so she moved away from the open sides of the cart. Grace caught a glimpse of some kind of structure through the curtain of green.

  “What’s that back there?”

  “That’s what’s left of Jungle Jerry’s big-cat house,” Wyatt said. He explained about his grandfather’s short-lived career as a lion tamer, and how all the big cats had long ago left the premises.

  “From what I’ve heard, they used to really pack ’em in for the shows,” Wyatt said. “At one time we had a ‘Safari Train’ that ferried people from the parking lot back in here. It was really nothing more than a glorified tractor with a bunch of open cars tacked on the back. Dad sold the train for scrap after we farmed out all the animals more than twenty years ago. But the cages and the remains of the grandstand are still back there. Mostly rust and dust. He planted bamboo to try to provide a natural barrier, but he didn’t really understand back then how invasive the stuff is. It’s a constant, losing battle, trying to keep it from totally taking over every inch of the park.”

  “I had no idea what all was involved in running a place like this,” Grace said, studying Wyatt’s strong, stubborn profile. “I’m amazed you’ve been able to keep it running after all these years.”

  He turned and flashed her a rueful grin. “No more amazed than me. But it’s not like I really had a choice.”

  Her hand crept across the bench seat and gave his forearm a squeeze. They rode along for several more minutes with nothing louder than the sound of the rain lightly falling and a breeze ruffling the bamboo until the path took a sharp left.

  The bamboo hedge ended abruptly in a large field. Rows of flowers and young trees were laid out in straight lines. A tin-roofed shed was off to one side, under the shade of a large tree.

  “This is my favorite place in the park,” Wyatt said. “My nursery.”

  He pulled the golf cart up to the shed and jumped out. “We can hang out here ’til the rain stops.” A moment later he was back with a pair of rubber boots. “It’s pretty muddy,” he warned, handing them to her. “You might want to wear these.”

  Grace slipped out of her sandals and plunged her feet into the boots, which were four sizes too big and reached nearly to her knees. She giggled as she climbed clumsily out of the cart, lumbering forward in the oversized boots.

  Wyatt offered her his arm to steady her. There was a picnic bench under the tin-roofed shed, and now he turned, reached under the seat of the cart, and produced a paper bag, which he handed to her.

  Grace looked inside and found a bottle of wine and two plastic cups. “It’s screw-top,” he said apologetically. “But the guy at the liquor store swears it’s good screw-top. You like red?”

  “Sure,” Grace said.

  “One other thing.” He picked up a can of insect repellent and sprayed his own neck, arms, and legs, and did the same for her.

  Grace sat down on one side of the bench, and after a moment Wyatt sat beside her. He opened the bottle and poured a bit into the cup, handing it to her to sample.

  “The guy at the liquor store was right. This is yummy.” She held out her cup and he filled it, then filled his own. They sat with their backs to the table, looking out over the fields, slowly sipping the ruby-colored wine.

  “What all do you grow here?” Grace asked.


  “Annuals for the flower beds out front and throughout the park, some perennials and shrubs. I’ve got some saplings going that I started from seeds or grafts from our existing trees,” Wyatt said. He nodded toward a row of palm trees at the far edge of the field. “I’ve had pretty good luck with the palm trees. Those are four years old.”

  “Isn’t it a lot of trouble to grow all your own plants?” Grace asked. “Especially with everything else you have to do around the park?”

  “It’s way cheaper than buying from wholesale nurseries, and anyway, I get a kick out of growing our own stock. It scratches my horticulture itch.”

  “Very impressive,” Grace said, tapping her cup against his.

  He fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then brought out a carefully folded sheet of paper. “I, uh, well, when I was thinking about you last night, after I got back home and couldn’t sleep, I, uh, drew something for you.”

  She took the paper and unfolded it. “A landscape plan?” It was an elaborate pencil drawing of a garden, with hand-lettered botanical names. Looking closer, she saw “Mandevilla Manor” in neat block letters in the lower right corner of the paper.

  “Some nights my mind won’t shut up,” he said apologetically. “I have to get up and draw. This isn’t anything fancy. Just some ideas.”

  “I get like that, too,” Grace admitted. “I’ll wake up in the middle of the night with an idea for a recipe I’d like to develop or some crazy scheme for a house. Since I’ve been working over at Mandevilla, some nights I only sleep a few hours, I’m so stoked. I think that’s how creative people operate.”

  “Callie always said it was how crazy people operate,” Wyatt said.

  Grace was examining the sketch. “So … no more lawn?” She pointed to the tightly packed rows of shrubs he’d sketched for the front yard.

  “Very little grass,” Wyatt said. “You could change that, if you wanted, but in Florida it takes so much in the way of water and chemicals to keep large chunks of grass healthy. I think it would look better to do these planting beds with native ornamentals, and maybe some seasonal annuals for color. Here,” he jabbed a finger, “I’d do a crushed-shell parking pad, and then extend it to a path that winds through the flowers right up to your front door.

  “I didn’t have time to label everything, but since I know now that you like blue flowers, I’d give you lots of blues and purples, with whites and green and silver,” he said.

  “If it were my house, it would be perfect,” Grace said, leaning over and giving him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll keep it. Maybe eventually I’ll have a house again, where I could plant something like this. Well, exactly like this.”

  “Why couldn’t you just do it at Mandevilla Manor?” Wyatt asked.

  “Arthur would never go for it,” Grace said. “I’m still trying to talk him into springing for central air so I can get rid of those hideous rusting window units.”

  “It wouldn’t be all that expensive to install this plan,” Wyatt said. “Most of the plants I’ve drawn I grow right here in my nursery. The big cost would be in the gravel for the parking pad, the pavers, and the walkway. I get that all at wholesale cost.”

  “And what about the installation?”

  Wyatt grinned. “I know a guy. He works cheap. Or in your case, free.” He put his arm around her shoulders and drew Grace closer.

  She returned her attention to the plan. “Whoa!” She placed her finger on an irregular shape on the plan. “Is this a pool? In the backyard? Are you kidding?”

  “It’s just a little dip pool,” he said. “Nothing like you had at your last address. Nothing big enough to drown a convertible,” he added impishly.

  Grace gave him the side eye, and then giggled despite herself. She took another sip of wine.

  “The backyard is so big at Mandevilla, it would be a shame not to take advantage of it, eventually,” he said. “Everything on here could be done in phases. So, phase one is the front yard and trimming and defining the shrubbery on the sides of the house. Phase two would be getting the citrus grove in the backyard looking good. Paint that barn-slash-garage thing, plant some vines to grow on a trellis to try to minimize the scale of it. Phase three would be the dip pool. And the garage-barn is so big, you could section off part of it for a guest house. The side that faces the proposed dip pool, you’d put in French doors or maybe a cool, industrial-looking roll-up bay door to a space that becomes your pool house. At the same time, you’d probably want to put a pair of French doors in that bedroom that becomes the master, so you have access to your little private patio out to the pool courtyard.”

  “You are really, really good at this,” Grace marveled, looking from the plan to him. “Everything you’ve drawn here, it just perfectly fits the scale and sensibility of that little Florida cottage. Nothing too grandiose, just right, so appropriate. I can actually picture all of it.”

  Wyatt’s face shone with pleasure. “It’s cool, you know? Creating something out of nothing? I miss the design aspect of landscaping. The rest of the park”—he gestured around—“it’s pretty much a done deal. All I can do is try to keep the wheels on the bus.”

  Grace leaned her head back against Wyatt’s arm and stared up at the deepening night sky. The rain drummed softly on the tin roof. “What if money were no object? What would you do here then?”

  “If wishes were horses?” He snorted derisively. She nudged him with her elbow.

  “Okay, well, I’d do more to emphasize the specimen plants my grandparents brought here from all over the world. I’d eventually phase out the bird show, but not Cookie, of course. She’s part of the family. I’d maybe have a big demonstration garden, showing all the fruits and vegetables that we grow well in this climate. I’d love to work with local chefs, have an outdoor kitchen here and do cooking demonstrations using locally harvested produce and seafood and meat. I’d make the park less about tourism and more of a community resource. And, maybe, I’d even enlarge the nursery, make some of the plants we’ve grown here available to the public.”

  Grace sat up. “Those are wonderful ideas! Truly.”

  Wyatt shrugged. “It’ll never happen. Not in my lifetime. But yeah, I’ve got my plans.”

  She gave him a level look. “Do I fit into any of those plans? Or am I just another complication?”

  “You? You’re not a complication. You’re … ah, hell, Grace.”

  He turned and gathered her into his arms and kissed her softly.

  “Mmm,” she said after a while. “I do like your plans.” Wyatt’s arms tightened around her. His tongue tickled hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and flattened herself to his chest. A moment later, his warm hands slipped under her T-shirt, and then under the white camisole she wore instead of a bra. He grazed her nipples with his thumbs and she inhaled sharply and twined her hands through his hair.

  “Is this okay?” he whispered in her ear. “Should I stop?”

  “Never,” she breathed.

  His kisses grew more urgent as he pushed the fabric of her T-shirt upward. Grace let her hands slide slowly down his chest, to his waist; then, working them under his polo shirt, she flattened her palms on his bare chest, feeling the warmth, sliding her hands upward, brushing her fingertips across his nipples.

  A moment later, by mutual, silent agreement, they were both shirtless. Wyatt pulled her onto his lap, kissing the nape of her neck, the hollow of her throat, cupping her breasts with both hands, teasing his tongue across her tightened nipples while she kneaded his shoulders, raking her nails across his bare back. Her breathing grew ragged as he kissed and caressed and, slowly, pushed her backward onto the picnic bench.

  “Mmm,” she protested, between kisses. “This isn’t going to work, this bench is too skinny. We’ll both end up in the mud.”

  He stopped what he was doing, then pulled her to her feet and, without warning, picked her up and plunked her atop the picnic table. She laughed but scooted back on her behind, and soon he was right there b
eside her, stretched out on top of the picnic table. He worked one thigh between hers, fumbling for the zipper of her shorts. She found his zipper easily, slid it down, and traced his erection with her thumb, while she pushed his shorts down. He was still groping with the button on the waistband of her shorts when she heard a soft buzzing and then a ringtone that sounded like “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” coming from the pocket of his shorts.

  “Dammit!” he muttered.

  She laughed. “Can’t it wait?”

  He sat up abruptly, pulling at his shorts. “That’s Bo’s ringtone,” he said, grabbing the phone. “I gotta answer.”

  41

  “Hey, buddy, what’s up?” Wyatt said softly, turning so that his back was to Grace. She rested her head on his bare shoulder.

  The child whispered something incoherent.

  “What’s that? I can’t hear you, Bo.”

  “I said, Mom called and she sounded really mad,” Bo said, his whisper hoarse.

  “Why are you whispering?” Wyatt asked.

  “I don’t want Granddad to hear,” Bo said. “He told me not to call you, but I can tell he’s all upset.”

  Wyatt held the phone away from his face and swore softly.

  “What did your mom want?”

  “She was yelling at me because she said you didn’t tell her we had a big game today and she missed it.”

  Wyatt rolled his eyes. “We gave your mom a schedule of all the games at the beginning of the season, son. I’m sorry she yelled at you, but I’ll call her later and we’ll get it straightened out.”

  “Dad, Mom made me put Granddad on the phone when she got done talking to me. And he got super, super angry. He was yelling and saying bad words. Some of it didn’t even make any sense. Now he’s breathing kind of funny. Dad, can you come back? I’m kind of scared.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Wyatt said firmly. “Don’t be scared. You did just the right thing to call me. We’re just over at the plant nursery. We’ll be back at the house in five minutes.”