Pink Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  Not quite the same.

  They shook hands then, sealing the deal.

  Frank had always liked a good chess game. Now that all the pieces were on the table, he couldn’t wait to see who won. He was betting on himself.

  Chapter

  4

  Let the games begin . . .

  Jake leaned back against the locked library door and took his time studying his ex-wife. It was the first time in more than two years that he’d been alone in a room with her.

  “We are not going to make love,” Ronnie said, wagging her finger at him, even as she backed up till her butt hit the round table in the middle of the library.

  That was the last thing Jake had been thinking. It was just that the chaise lounge had thrown him for a loop. Too many memories!

  She wore a white silk shirt tucked into a short, black, pin-striped skirt. Miles of silk-encased legs were exposed down to high-heeled patent-leather shoes that would have appeared librarianish if not for peep-toe openings. Her toes are painted pink! Does she want to give me a heart attack? Note to Jake: Ronnie doesn’t dress to please you anymore. Another note to Jake: You’re here to show that you’re over your ex-wife, not to jump into the fire again.

  She’d let her thick, chestnut hair grow longer than when they’d last been together. It was upswept into a knot at the top of her head. Ronnie worried about getting wrinkles. All women did. But he thought she looked just as good as the first time he’d spotted her across campus thirteen years ago and fell in love on the spot. It had been the same the second time around when he’d fallen in love with her all over again. And the third. And the fourth.

  While Jake was feasting his eyes on her, Ronnie’s honey-brown eyes stared back at him, but not with admiration. In fact, she was as jittery as a deer caught in a hunter’s crosshairs, not sure where to run, or if she should run.

  You should run, he would tell her if he was a better man. I should run.

  “We are not going to make love,” he agreed, but took an instinctive step toward her.

  “Stop right there.” She put up a halting hand and moved backward till she was on the other side of the table.

  “Why are you here, Jake?”

  He’d seen how crushed Ronnie had been last night when he introduced his fiancée. He’d never intended to blindside her that way. They may not love each other anymore, but they had too much history to take the other’s romantic relationships lightly. To tell the truth, he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted if the tables had been turned—if she’d introduced him to a potential husband.

  But someone needed to lighten the tension in this room. “Life is like a poker game, sweetie. You gotta have alligator blood if you’re gonna play with the big boys.” Alligator blood was poker lingo for nerves of steel, and, yep, they both could use a pigload of that.

  She didn’t acknowledge his attempt at humor, not even with a frown. Okaaaay! Glancing around the room, he noticed that lots of the books and furnishings were missing. What is going on? Then he noticed that one particular object was missing. “Oh, no! What happened to Buddha?”

  “I have no idea.” Ronnie blushed at the reminder of the statue.

  He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed making Ronnie blush.

  “Man, I hope it didn’t get broken or lost. One of my favorite sexual fantasies involves me, you, and big ol’ Buddha.”

  “You can file that in the Department of Wishful Thinking. I repeat, Jake, why are you here?”

  Because I like banging my head against a brick wall? “Hell if I know. To get you out of my system, I guess . . . or to see if you’re still in my system, like Trish says.”

  “Like an exorcism?” she scoffed.

  “Uh-huh. Minus the green vomit. Or Richard Burton.” He grinned at her.

  She didn’t grin back. “And you plan to do that, how?”

  “I’m thinking about helping Frank—and you—with the Pink Project.”

  The horror on her face should have offended him, but he was beyond being offended. Being married and divorced four times tended to build a thick skin on a guy.

  “Not gonna happen,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. They both knew that if they were in each other’s company for any length of time—say, an hour—they would be all over each other, like honey on a hot rock.

  “Cut it out, Jake. Your teasing isn’t helping matters.”

  She inhaled and exhaled a few times. That usually meant he was annoying her. Big whoop!

  “I need to talk with you,” she said after she finished her inhale-exhale exercise.

  He could see that she was genuinely distressed. Time to back off. With a loud sigh of resignation, he plopped himself down on the leather chaise and stretched out. It was the same chaise where he and Ronnie had rocked each other’s worlds one time while visiting Frank. He wondered if he should remind Ronnie. Probably not. Besides, she must recall every vivid detail, same as he did.

  He folded his hands under his neck and crossed his legs at the ankle. “It feels like I’m in a therapist’s office or something. Not that I’ve ever met with a shrink. Oh, don’t look at me like that’s just what I need.”

  She fought a smile and shook her head at his antics. Well, at least she wasn’t still frowning. “You promised to quit teasing.”

  “I did?”

  She pulled up a desk chair and sat down. “Have you noticed anything odd about Frank?”

  “He’s always been odd.”

  “Odder than usual.”

  He furrowed his brow, thinking. “Nope. I’ve talked to him plenty on the phone, but I haven’t seen him much in person the past year. Do you mean ‘odd’ because he left you all his worldly goods? Or a different kind of odd?”

  “Both.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

  She really shouldn’t do that. Anything involving her lips, which he had a particular affection for, was a definite no-no.

  “When I first got here, I overheard him arguing with Flossie, and he mentioned her wasting money—on eggs, for heaven’s sake. He was being crude and, well, not nice.”

  “C’mon, Ronnie. Your grandfather has always been a bit grouchy, even with Flossie. And crude? He makes me blush sometimes. Remember the time he asked me if I could get it up more than five times a day? Of course, I told him yes.” When she didn’t smile, he decided that she was not in the mood for a stroll down memory lane.

  “Something about him is different,” she insisted. “And have you looked around? All the artwork and antiques are gone.”

  He pondered what she’d said. “Maybe he just got tired of the old things. Maybe he and Flossie want to redecorate.”

  Unconvinced, she tented her fingers in front of her closed lips and studied him. “Another thing I’m puzzled by. You.”

  Uh-oh! He mouthed the word moi?

  She was not amused. “There is no way you would let a woman decide whether you are engaged or not. There is no way you would take orders from anyone to go purge yourself of me. You might do it of your own volition, but not because someone else told you to. You do whatever the hell you want. Always have. Always will.”

  He shifted uncomfortably under her too-accurate analysis.

  “Why are you here? Really?”

  He felt himself flush as he sat up and faced her.

  “Frank begged me to come.”

  Dale Earnhardt had nothing on him. . . .

  Later that morning, Veronica and Jake were in the backseat of Frank’s Mustang convertible, barreling down Route 9 toward Barnegat.

  She was practically peeing her pants with fright.

  Jake was laughing his ass off.

  Flossie, in the passenger seat, watched as her scarf whipped off and flew away. With a cry of distress, she lowered her head toward her lap.

  Rosa and the two Mafia dudes were tailing them in a big, black Lincoln with tinted windows.

  And what was her idiot grandfather doing?

  Singing! Alo
ng to “Cemetery” polka, which was blasting from the CD player. Something about Uncle Bill having a tumor as big as an egg and a Puerto Rican mistress with a wooden leg. Besides puffing on his smelly cigar and belting out the horrid lyrics, Frank was racing down the road, foot pressed to the accelerator, oblivious to all their protests to slow down. He hadn’t stopped for one single blessed stop sign or red light so far.

  Not to worry, he’d assured them the one time they’d been able to make themselves heard over the polka music, roar of the engine, and the wind, which was, incidentally, blowing her hair forward into her face. Apparently, he had some kind of police sticker on his rear bumper that pretty much ensured no cops would pull them over.

  It wasn’t a ticket she was worried about. It was death, as in crashing into a tree or some other immovable object.

  And the bugs. And dust. Somehow, Frank had managed to find the only swarm of springtime gnats and dust clouds in New Jersey and drove right through them. Veronica had eaten three bugs before snapping her mouth shut. Remind me never to buy a convertible. Moon roofs suit me just fine. At least it wasn’t locusts, she consoled herself.

  After telling her grandfather this morning in no uncertain terms that she would not get involved with Jinx, Inc., he’d somehow talked her and Jake into staying long enough to have lunch at some nearby restaurant. A place that Frank boasted had the best soft-shell crab sandwiches on the East Coast. He’d offered to drive them across Barnegat Bay to the restaurant in a motorboat, which Veronica had, of course, vehemently declined.

  And wasn’t that odd? He was in dire financial straits, and yet he hadn’t sold his Mustang or the motorboat. Well, maybe they were the next to be sold.

  Still, her grandfather made her so mad. Like always.

  First of all, this wasn’t “nearby.” Secondly, she hadn’t signed on for Frank’s Great Adventure Ride. Third, she had no desire to eat fully intact crabs with legs and guts, thank you very much! Fourth, she suspected the foxy old fool was up to no good.

  That last misgiving soon proved true.

  With a screech of brakes, the car fishtailed into the parking lot of the Lighthouse Inn, raising a cloud of crushed clam shells in its wake. There was a collective sigh of relief and one “Whoo-ee, baby!” Plus “Dontcha just love a good polka?”

  Not only was he acting like a madman, but he also resembled one now. His hair now looked like Don King’s combed with a mixer. At least he’d shaved.

  Frank opened his car door, practically skipped around the front, and opened Flossie’s door. Flossie jumped out and punched Frank in the stomach. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!” Flossie wore the same outfit she’d had on earlier. The only difference was now her bouffant hairdo looked like bouffant on steroids, thanks to the wind.

  Veronica popped her fifth Pepto of the day. She could only imagine how she looked herself.

  She soon got her answer when she unclipped her seat belt and turned to her ex-husband, who continued to laugh hysterically as he undid his own seat belt. Except now his mirth was directed at her. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but, too cracked up to speak, he kept pointing at her hair and saying, “You, you, you . . . !”

  She did the only thing any sane woman would. She followed Flossie’s suit and punched Jake in the stomach. He pretended to be really hurt as he crawled out of the backseat. Pulling a compact from her purse, she checked herself out and screeched, “EEEK!” The knot on top of her head had come undone and hair was sticking out every which way. Think bed head in a wind tunnel. A dusting of dirt covered her face, and she could swear she saw streaks of dead bug juice. She had two long runs in her stockings from grabbing for the seat when Frank had first taken off, but she’d missed her mark and her fingernails had clawed her knees.

  Jake, of course, looked just fine.

  “What? What did I do?” Frank asked Flossie.

  Flossie gave him a disgusted once-over, then said, “Oh, land’s sake!” when he kept on blinking innocently at her. With a last glower, she stomped ahead of him toward the inn, her high heels wobbling in the clam shells.

  Veronica saw Rosa and her sons already entering the inn, seemingly nonplussed by the ride from hell.

  Just then, a young man came peeling into the parking lot in a cherry-red Chevy Impala, probably 1960s vintage. It was about the size of a small bus.

  “Hey, John.” Frank waved.

  “Yo, Frank!” A very nice-looking guy, probably early twenties, waved to all of them as he got out of the car. He wore a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Cajuns do it better . . . and better . . . and better.” Judging by his long, lean body, he probably lived up to his T-shirt.

  “That’s John LeDeux, an assistant diver for the Pink Project,” Frank explained. Then he yelled out to the young man, “What are you doin’ driving a gas-guzzler like this?”

  “At my age, cars are moving motels,” he replied. “Besides, everyone knows that hot cars are babe magnets.” Then the young stud had the audacity to wink at her, as if she might be a babe, before walking toward the inn.

  “I think he likes you,” her grandfather remarked.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Jake countered.

  The idiot! Both of them!

  Her grandfather grinned, pleased with himself. Then he turned and asked Jake if he could talk to him in private.

  Jake shrugged, and the two men walked a few yards away. Frank was saying something to Jake, who nodded several times, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed something to Frank.

  “Why are we dawdling out here in the parking lot?” Frank snapped. “Let’s go join the party.” Before she could say anything, Frank walked briskly toward the inn.

  Veronica and Jake gawked at his back, especially when they noticed that Frank’s denim shorts were so worn his white underwear was visible. He had changed into an equally ragged T-shirt with the logo “I AM JINXED!” and a pair of purple suspenders.

  “What party?” she asked Jake.

  “Hell if I know!” He took her arm. “But I damn sure need a drink. Maybe two.”

  “Just so it’s not tequila,” she blurted out before she could bite her tongue.

  Jake took off his sunglasses and turned slowly to scrutinize her. He was clearly surprised that she would bring up something intimate from their past—like the two of them having a contest in a Mexican cantina over who could drink the most tequila margaritas. He’d won hands down. At least, that’s what he’d said when they woke up in an upstairs bedroom, married again. He’d been wearing only a sombrero. Shades of their cowboy marriage! She must have a thing for men with hats.

  But now she ignored the questioning tilt of Jake’s head and continued walking.

  “No tequila,” he agreed, catching up with her.

  His agreement annoyed her, contrary woman that she was.

  She and Jake walked side by side through the door. It was a really nice restaurant—not an inn at all—with one glass-fronted side giving a magnificent view of Barnegat Bay. She’d half-expected some dive that smelled of beer and grease. On one wall were lovely framed prints showing the famous Barnegat Lighthouse through the years.

  The hostess, standing before a tall lectern, waved them in. “The Jinkowski party is in the back room.” Her grandfather must have warned her they were just behind him.

  “What happened back there?” she asked Jake. “With my grandfather? What did he want?”

  “He asked if he could borrow my credit card. Said he forgot his own,” he replied somberly. “I hate to say it, but you might be right about the money situation. I’ve never known Frank to go anywhere without a wad of cash or plastic.”

  “I hate to see him like this. No matter what I think, Frank has always been so proud. This must be demeaning for him.”

  “I wonder . . . ,” he started to say, then stopped.

  “What?”

  “I wonder if we were right, if that’s why he turned over all his property and the business to you? Maybe he
knows he’s in too deep but is too proud to ask for your help.”

  It was a far-fetched idea, but it made sense.

  “Knowing that, does it change your mind about taking over Jinx? Temporarily?”

  “No way!” she snapped.

  Then, “Maybe.”

  Then, “No, no, no! I am not being suckered into his wily net.”

  Then, “He is my grandfather, after all.”

  Then, “He wouldn’t do it for me. Would he?”

  Then, “If he really is nearing bankruptcy, how can I just turn my back?”

  Then, “But deep-sea diving? Me?”

  Then, “My grandmother would have a fit.”

  The whole time she argued with herself, Jake remained silent, a little half-smile on his face. They stopped before entering the small room in the back of the restaurant.

  Finally, she groaned. “Oh, my God! I’m seriously considering joining Jinx, aren’t I?”

  “Yep.” Jake’s half-smile became a full smile.

  “Deep-sea hell.” She popped another Pepto. By the time the day was over, she could very well be overdosing on the antacid.

  Both of them took a deep breath, started to enter the room, then stopped in their tracks. No one had noticed their arrival yet, except for Anthony and Stefano, who were standing guard inside, one on either side of the entrance.

  Her grandfather was by the bar talking to a short gentleman with pure white hair on his head and in his impeccably trimmed mustache and goatee. He held what appeared to be a boat captain’s hat in his hand.

  Flossie and Rosa stood close by talking to a thirtysomething, blonde woman who wore coveralls and a baseball cap with prominent NASCAR emblems. Veronica thought she heard them discussing menopause, of all things. She was sure when she heard Jake mutter, “This is just effin’ wonderful!”

  Most surprising of all, Veronica recognized the little red-haired elderly woman she’d bumped into in Atlantic City last night. She was shaking her finger and talking a mile a minute to a young man—the young man of the moving motel outside. It must be the nephew she’d been searching for, the male stripper. Veronica couldn’t help but give him a quick once-over. Uh-huh! Male-stripper material, for sure.