Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani) (8 page)

“It’s not like that,” Jen clarified. “This is a sit-down dinner at a restaurant with hopefully intelligent conversation.”

Chere snorted again. “Then he must be from out of town.”

As outrageous as Chere was at times, she did make you laugh. For some unknown reason Jen decided not to fill her in.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’m running late. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. We’re working from home. Be sure to get here on time.”

Yet another snort followed. “I’ll know all about who you were out with long before then.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Jen
hung up. That conversation had taken five minutes off the time she had left. She sorted through the clothing on the bed and dismissed them one by one. Hurrying back to the closet she rifled through the racks, found a black peasant-style skirt with an abundance of ruffles at the back, and paired it with an orange camisole.

Digging through her drawers she found a black-and-gold scarf that, if tied around her waist, would give the outfit a lift. Jen quickly put them on and accessorized with gold hoop earrings and a wooden bangle.

Black sandals with a low heel completed the look. Now what to do about her hair? Should she wear it up or down? Down, she decided even though it was beastly hot. Pulled off her face and secured with sparkly little clips it would give a youthful look. She finished up by adding a touch of makeup. And just in time.

The doorbell rang. Jen hurried off to answer it. She opened the door to a yellow rose thrust at her.

“You look lovely,” Trestin said, his eyes feasting on her face and then roaming her body.

“Thank you.”

She accepted the rose, placed it between her teeth and in a playful mood, pirouetted before him.

He applauded. “Ready?”

“I
just need to get my purse.”

Jen placed the single bloom in a bud vase before picking up the rattan bag with the jaunty artificial flower attached to the front. It went with the bohemian outfit perfectly.

“I’m ready,” she said. “Where are we going?”

“The Catch All.”

“Good choice.”

Hand in hand they headed down the hallway and toward the elevators.

Ida Rosenstein got off the lift as they stepped on.

“You’re moving up in the world,” she shouted at Trestin. “I’d take class over youth any day.”

“I agree,” he said as the doors shut smoothly behind them.

“H
ave
you decided?” Tre asked, closing his menu and setting it down on the table beside him.

“There’s so much to choose from. It’s a toss-up between the butterfly shrimp and the halibut,” Jen said.

“Well I know what I’m having. That king crab has my name written all over it and I just might have crab cakes as an appetizer.”

“Sounds to me like by the time you’re done you might be all crabbed out.” He noticed her grimace at her feeble attempt to joke. “I’m going to go for the
shrimp and I’m going to have oysters on the half shell for an appetizer.”

“Good for you.”

Jen’s menu joined his on the table. As if by some unspoken agreement they gazed out on the water where boats were moored, and a cocktail crowd stood on the outer deck enjoying the beautiful sunset.

The bars at The Catch All did a brisk business this evening dispensing drinks to a crowd there for happy hour. Both bars gave the illusion you were right at water’s edge and so for that reason were immensely popular. Later some of the patrons would move over to the restaurant for a sit-down dinner.

Their waitress came, took their meal orders and left. Tre had passed on alcohol because he needed a clear head to interview the mayor later that evening. Jen had chosen not to have the wine he kept pushing on her. Tre had been trying to persuade her to sample a Zinfandel he’d recently been introduced to.

Bottled water was something they could agree on and did. Now each sat sipping from their respective glasses as the sun sank lower and lower, streaking the sky with a to-die-for pink and purple hue.

“Do you listen to the D’Dawg show?” Jen asked out of the blue.

Tre
started. The question had come from nowhere and he was now fully alert.

“Can’t say that I do. Why?”

That at least was the truth.

“Because I’d be curious to hear what you think about this controversy over the advice that columnist gave to the mother.”

Tre shrugged and decided to play dumb. When put on the defensive, let the other person talk. “Fill me in,” he said.

Jen succinctly told him what the problem was. She seemed a bit outraged that a fast-talking disk jockey wouldn’t have kept up with modern day verbiage.

“Maybe the DJ did know but chose to yank the columnist’s chain.”

“And what purpose would that serve?” Jen argued, sounding more than a little irritable.

“Most disk jockeys like to stir the pot. You know, get people talking. The residents of Flamingo Beach aren’t an easy audience. Sixty percent are retirees born in an entirely different era. Another fairly large percent are an influx from Cuba and Haiti, here in search of a better life. The rest are transplants in from a number of places in the United States, and attracted to beach-type communities because they can find a job in hospitality or elder care.”

“If
this guy just wants to stir the pot it’s wasted energy. His time would be better spent taking a stand for a worthy cause.”

“But didn’t you say he took a stand? He stood up for gay rights.”

“Because it suited his purpose,” Jen lobbed back. “He took a commonly used word and twisted it for his own benefit just so he could up ratings on his awful program.”

Tre gulped his water. He was getting a bit hot under the collar and he could only go so far in terms of defending himself. If Jen only knew who she was talking to.…

“Hey,” he said. “This really doesn’t concern you and me.”

“True.”

Now it was Jen’s turn to sip on her water.

“I never did get your last name,” she said.

“I thought I told you,” Tre bluffed.

“In that case I missed it.”

“Monroe,” he said and held his breath.

Please don’t let her make the association between me and D’Dawg or I’m a dead dog. She’s already made it clear how she feels about him.

“Trestin Monroe has a nice ring to it,” Jen said. “Very old world.”

He
exhaled loudly.

The food arrived and they ate, even sharing a dessert afterward. With the exception of their little disagreement earlier on they were getting along quite well and Tre found that he liked her more and more. Jen had a wit that kept him on his toes and an interesting perspective on everyday life.

They were halfway through their shared dessert when a woman who’d been seated at the table to their right with a bunch of friends approached.

“Excuse me, but my girlfriends and I have a bet you’re…”

“Sorry, this isn’t a good time. I’m on a date.”

She slunk back to her table looking crestfallen.

“Why were you so rude?” Jen asked. “You should be flattered. She’s mistaken you for the supermodel Ty Beckham. What a body that guy has.”

Tre wished she would notice his. He spent an hour at the gym every other day working on keeping fit.

“I didn’t mean to be short—maybe I’ll go over and apologize. Maybe I’ll even buy the ladies a drink.”

“Good idea.”

Tre liked it that she didn’t seem to mind when he left her, and headed over to the table where the women sat huddled, whispering.

He confirmed they were right as to his DJ status,
collected a business card from one of them and begged for their understanding, explaining that this was a first date and he hadn’t told the lady about his career yet.

And then to sweeten them up a little bit he had the waiter send over another of what each of them was drinking.

“That was nice of you,” Jen said when he returned. “Most people would have just left well enough alone.”

“I’m not most people.”

Jen looked at him for a moment, then a slow smile emerged. He found himself on pins and needles waiting for her response. Why did what she thought of him matter?

“Yes, I am beginning to realize you just might be special,” Jen said.

And in just those few seconds all again was right with Tre’s world.

An hour later, much later than he’d planned on being out, Tre dropped Jen off in front of their building. He’d wanted to kiss her goodbye but decided he’d save it for their next date, when he wasn’t so rushed or concerned about getting to the radio station on time. His head needed to be in the right place when he interviewed Mayor Rabinowitz.

And
there would be a next date. You could count on that. He’d enjoyed Jen’s company immensely.

Tre drove to the radio station humming a tune and ignoring the little voice in his head that said, “proceed cautiously.” At a gut level he knew he was playing with fire. He was in the process of negotiating the purchase of a home next door to a woman who sparked his interest. If things didn’t work out, or if they were on different wavelengths, it could prove to be a most unpleasant living arrangement.

Tre was seated in his studio ten minutes before the show was scheduled to begin. Adrenaline surging, he shuffled through his notes. This was promising to be one heck of a broadcast. He’d scored a major coup getting Chet Rabinowitz, the Executive Director of the Gay Alliance on his show, plus his father, the mayor, and the advice columnist responsible for the controversy, and all on sequential nights.

The plan was to have the mayor who’d had several engagements that day, call in to be interviewed and then remain available to take questions from listeners.

The assistant producer, Bill, from the local community college stuck his head in through the open door. “Boris wants to speak with you,” he said.

“Now? I’m on the air in a few minutes.”

Bill waved a cell phone at him. “Now.”

Tre
accepted the phone that Bill pressed into his hand.

“I have exactly five minutes, Boris,” Tre said.

“I know that. I just wanted to wish you luck.”

Since when? Boris had never called wishing him anything before a show.

“Go easy on the mayor,” he admonished. “This is a small town, deeply mired in tradition. There’s a good possibility Solomon could be elected to a second term.”

“Not to worry. I’ll take that under consideration.”

“Good. Now on with the show!”

More than anything Tre hated being indirectly asked to censor himself. He liked radio because it was free-flowing and easy, and he liked being able to ad lib as he went along. A good part of his popularity stemmed from his quick comebacks and witty one-liners. Well, he would just have to see how things went tonight. If Solomon droned on or got on his soapbox, D’Dawg would just have to liven things up.

“You’re on the air in two,” Bill said, two fingers raised in the air. He reclaimed the cell phone with his free hand.

Tre clamped on his headset and sat back. He nodded at the disk jockey who’d been on before him. The man gave him the thumbs-up sign and headed out.

“Um! Um! Um! It’s
D’Dawg coming to you live from the coast,” Tre sang. “Yo, Flamingo Beach, you awake? This is the broadcast you all been waiting for. Last night it was Chet Rabinowitz, owner of All About Flowers and Executive Director of the Gay Alliance, saying his piece. Tonight Chet’s old man, the mayor’s, going to tell you what he thinks about this ‘queer business.’ And tomorrow,
Dear Jenna’
s coming on the air, y’all. She’ll be stirring things up as only she can do.”

Tre broke to play CDs. The music kept the audience entertained when he needed to take a break. At this hour of the night it was usually just him and the cleaning people, but tonight for some strange reason WARP’s brass had been popping in under one pretense or another.

Boris had allegedly forgotten important paperwork.
He,
who never showed up unless he had to, was supposedly working late. Even the program director stuck his head into the studio to ask what Tre was doing after the show and if he wanted to go out for a beer.

Tre wasn’t stupid. He knew he had to deliver. These broadcasts could make or break him. Even more than WARP’s management, he needed the listeners on his side. They might not all agree with him, but his challenge was to keep them hooked and
listening. The more people tuned in to WARP the better his ratings.

“Mayor Rabinowitz is on the line,” Bill, the intern producer said, his finger pointing to a spot on the lit console. “He’s got a tight schedule. He has to be off at ten on the dot. He’s catching the redeye to Los Angeles.”

“Gotcha.”

Tre went back on the air and made the obligatory introduction. The mayor was actually not one of his favorite people but he would never voice that publicly. Solomon Rabinowitz was the type of old school politician who spouted a lot of hot air: promises, promises and little delivery. But he was well connected and in many ways Flamingo Beach was a “good-ole-boy” town.

Instinctively, Tre knew his glib homeboy style would not go over well with the seventy-two-year-old politician. Tonight he would have to tone it down a bit.

“Mr. Mayor,” he began, “I know you’re a busy man. Thank you for making the time to speak to your constituents.”

“The pleasure is indeed mine. The good folks of Flamingo Beach are the ones who elected me. I am your public servant, here to do what I can.”

Tre
wasn’t sure what exactly that was. So far it had been
nada.
Roads badly needed repair and the educational system was abysmal.

Tre envisioned the mayor, a ruddy-complexioned man with a fringe of hair circling his sunburned pate. He was given to wearing pastel jackets, suspenders and bow ties. The man spent most of his day at the exclusive Flamingo Beach Yacht Club yakking it up with his buddies.

“Last evening, your son, Chet came on the air,” Tre said assuming his D’Dawg persona. “He let it be known he’s gay. How does his daddy feel about his choice?”

Tre held his breath, waiting. The comment and question had just slipped out. It was just his nature to push the envelope.

“Chet is an adult,” the mayor said carefully. “I respect whatever choices he makes.”

“So you’re saying you support his alternative lifestyle.”

“I am saying I support his choices.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Please clarify your statement.”

Through the glass pane, Chet saw Boris’s expression. His camel-colored skin had taken on a pinkish
tinge. In the next glass-enclosed studio, he’d clamped on headphones and was listening to the broadcast. Clearly he was growing uncomfortable.

“We live in the United States, a country that embraces people of every race, nationality, creed and lifestyle. Give us your poor…blah, blah, blah,” Mayor Rabinowitz preached. “…We encourage freedom of speech. The women’s movement has made incredible headway giving women in many states the right to choose.”

What a bunch of rhetoric the mayor was spouting. He was going around in circles, pandering to both sides of the fence. If he didn’t cut through the bologna quickly he would lose his audience.

“Agreed, Mayor, but what I want to know is where you stand on the subject of gay rights?”

“What does my opinion have to do with tonight’s discussion?” the mayor came back with. “I thought I was here to talk about the controversy that’s consuming this little town of ours.”

“Exactly,” Tre shot back. “And that is why I and the good citizens of Flamingo Beach need to know where you stand on the issue of gay rights. What do you think of this
Dear Jenna
using a controversial word like
queer?
”

Boris in the adjoining Studio removed his headphones. He
appeared to be in the midst of a coughing fit.

“I believe,” the mayor said emphatically, “that this whole controversy has gotten out of hand. I believe
Dear Jenna
was doing her job and meant no harm. Her words were taken out of context by people who may not have kept up with the current jargon.”

“Hold that thought while we break for our advertisers, the people who help pay WARP’s bills and my salary!” Tre shouted. “When I get back I’ll be opening the lines for questions.”

Tre tossed off his headphones and went off to speak with Boris who was gesturing frantically.