Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani) (11 page)

“B
aby
boy, you’ve been holding out on me,” Marva Jones-Monroe said the moment she spotted Tre’s silver Porsche. “I didn’t know you were living this large. Radio must be paying extremely well.”

Clearly awed, she circled his vehicle, stroking the recently waxed surface and leaving streaks in her wake. She appeared perfectly fine to him, far from the sickly person she’d pretended to be.

Marva sprang into the front seat of the automobile before he could help her in, leaving him to load her
many bags in the trunk and forcing him to tie a rope to hold the trunk lid together. They were off.

The twenty-minute drive to Flamingo Place went by quickly with his mother chatting away a mile a minute, filling him in on her friend Mrs. Calhoun’s issues with arthritis.

On Tre’s way up to the apartment, loaded down like a pack mule, he ran into Ida Rosenstein.

“Tre,” she said loudly. “They’re getting older, but at least your taste is improving. This one isn’t as skinny as the one in 5C. By the way, I like that girl.” She peered nearsightedly at Marva. “This ones got hips and big bazookas.” Ida made a motion to indicate Marva’s generous bustline. “And she’s also old enough to be your mother.” Ida snorted.

“I am his mother,” Marva said indignantly, thrusting out her chest. “What girl in 5C?”

“She called me a mother,” Ida said, going red in the face.

“No, she didn’t,” Tre swiftly interrupted. “This is my mother, Ida. The woman who gave birth to me.”

“Wheew!” Ida said, wiping her forehead with the balled-up handkerchief she was holding in her hand. “I think I need a smoke.”

“What girl in 5C?” Marva repeated as Ida fumbled through her purse looking for her pack.

“You
stop by my apartment sometime this week.” She pointed a crooked finger at her door. “5A, remember that. I’ll make us Rob Roys and I’ll fill you in.” Ida found a cigarette, lit it and exhaled a smoke ring.

“I’d think this would be a smoke-free environment?” Marva said loud enough that even hearing-impaired Ida had to have heard, not that she would care.

Tre, using a hand that was less encumbered, whisked her away. “See you, Ida.”

Somehow he managed to extract the apartment key from his pocket and get the front door open. His mother swept through as he struggled with her bags, managing to get them inside and setting them down before kicking the door closed.

Marva was already trotting around, touching his things and exclaiming. “My son, the radio personality has certainly come a long way from Detroit.” She was through the French doors and out on the patio in a New York minute. “I think I’m going to love it here,” she announced. “Smell that ocean. It’s just what the doctor prescribed.”

Little by little, Tre moved Marva’s things into the guest room. The housekeeping service retained through the building had done a decent job of picking up and packing away extraneous items. And they
should, he paid them well enough. Twenty-five dollars an hour for work that didn’t require brain power was, in his opinion, highway robbery.

But linens were on the bed as well as the pretty comforter a saleswoman had convinced him to buy when he mentioned he was having an out of town guest. And now the room looked homey and welcoming. Too welcoming. Giselle, his “Cleaning angel,” as she called herself, had even left a small vase of zinnias on the bureau.

“Tre, honey, where are you?” Marva called.

“Be right out.”

He made a stop in the kitchen, poured them both iced tea and took the glasses out.

Marva was already ensconced in one of his deck chairs with the plump burgundy cushions. Her feet rested on the table in front of her.

“Thank you. This is quite the life,” she said when he handed her her glass before taking a seat next to her.

“Yes, I’ve enjoyed living here. I just don’t know how long I’m going to stay.”

Marva paused with the glass at her lips. “Didn’t you tell me you were buying the place?”

“Yes, that’s in the works. But radio is a transient business. You go where there is work and where there’s opportunity.”

“Most
wives aren’t going to like that,” Marva said sagely.

“In case you forgot, I don’t have one.”

Marva hoisted herself from the chair. “That’s easily remedied. One of my pieces of hand luggage is filled with e-mails and photos I’ve printed out. You can have your pick, boy. There’s everything from doctors to divorcees living on their exes’ alimony looking for love. In fact I think I’ll get them.”

“Please don’t do that.” Tre whooshed out a breath. He should never have bought her a computer and printer for her birthday. Never! “You just got here, Mother. We’ll look at them another time, okay.”

Like hell he would.

“No, we’ll look at them now,” Marva insisted, “when you’re not running off some place and I have your full attention.” She toddled off, her ample booty swinging.

Two weeks of having her live with him would just about kill him.

Jen was happy to see that the town of Flamingo Beach had finally turned its attention elsewhere. Instead of
Dear Jenna,
the talk was now of the upcoming election—Solomon Rabinowitz versus the newcomer Miriam Young; the Flip-Flop Momma as she was called by the opposition, and not because she
flip-flopped on issues, but because she’d been seen at a casual beach function wearing her flip-flops and blending in with the crowd. Her platform had been built on being about people and for people.

WARP’s disk jockey now focused his attention on the upcoming election. He was busy poking fun at both candidates. And Jen, who had enough work to keep three people busy, had actually managed to delegate some to Chere who, for the moment, had knuckled down.

Jen was in the large cubicle she shared with Chere when Eileen Brown walked in. Chere was making her morning rounds catching up on any news she’d missed.

“Hi,” Jen said, tearing her glance away from the computer. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

Eileen hitched a hip onto the edge of Jen’s desk. It was probably the only spot she could find that wasn’t cluttered.

“So,” she said. “
The Tribune
has finally made an official announcement they’re hiring this Love Doctor.”

“About time.” The rumors had been running wild. “What’s this doc supposed to do that I’m not?”

“Sound official and flash his credentials. The whole idea was to stick it to
The Chronicle,
oneupmanship so to speak. I guess they feel a doctor with
credentials lends a certain credibility to their new advice column.”

“As opposed to my bachelor’s degree in social work and my common sense,” Jen finished.

“I suppose.”

“Who did they pick? Anyone we know?”

“Let’s talk over lunch,” Eileen said. “That’s if you’re free.”

“I’d love to have lunch.”

“Good. We’ll get sandwiches or salads and sit at one of those tables with the umbrellas out back. We’ll catch up on everything.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Just then Chere came toddling in, stopping short when she spotted Eileen. The sudden movement almost sent her pitching forward. She wore absurdly high platform sandals in a most unsuitable gold foil, definitely not shoes for an office. She grunted in Eileen’s direction before wedging herself behind her small desk.

“I’ll see you for lunch then,” Eileen said, an amused expression on her face as she left.

“I don’t like that woman,” Chere said, not even waiting for Eileen to get out of earshot.

“Why not?”

“Because she thinks she’s better than all of us.

She
wears those clothes that look like they come from the back of some white woman’s closet. And she talks like them, too.”

“Eileen is classy,” Jen said, letting Chere come to whatever conclusion she chose. “It takes a tremendous amount of courage to remain at the top of your game when for years you are the only African-American department head at
The Chronicle,
and you are a woman.”

Chere sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes simultaneously. “She had plenty of help.” Jen shot Chere a quizzical look but said nothing. Needing no encouragement Chere continued, “That old fart, Ian Pendergrass has always had a thang for her. He’s got the hots for pretty much any woman of color.”

New information. Perhaps too much information. Chere had just about confirmed how she’d fallen into an administrative job she wasn’t qualified to hold. Doubtful she knew how to type and even if she could those nails would be a hazard. Today they were painted an odious neon-green.

“I have to meet with Luis,” Jen said, successfully putting an end to the direction the conversation was taking. “He’s become quite the micromanager lately. Now he wants to discuss the column before it’s released.”

“Better
you than me,” Chere said, sniffing and turning her attention back to the pile of letters waiting to be filed and catalogued. “And by the way I know who you’ve been dumping me for and hanging out with lately.”

Jen stopped dead in her tracks. “Who?” she shot over her shoulder.

“Your next-door neighbor, the noisy one. The fine-looking guy who owns the silver Porsche.”

Jen decided it best to just keep walking.

Later that day, she met up with Eileen for a late lunch. On purpose they’d chosen a time when most of the newspaper’s staff was back at their desks and it wasn’t stiflingly hot.

“Do you think you’ll stay?” Eileen asked while they were picking their way through unappetizing salads.

The question had come out of nowhere. There must be a rumor circulating.

“Why wouldn’t I stay?”

“This is a sleepy small town with very little to do other than go to the beach, fortify yourself at restaurants and drink yourself silly. You’re a young woman, you might want a little more action.”

“I was recruited from a small town,” Jen reminded her. “Ashton is hardly happening.”

Eileen pretended interest in her salad, popping a
cherry tomato in her mouth. “I just thought after that brouhaha with WARP you might be over us and considering moving on.”

“Hardly. Things have settled down and I’ve settled in. I’m beginning to enjoy the town and its people.”

“Good. Now I have a rather indelicate question to ask. What about dating? Have you met anyone interesting?”

“I’m not dating anyone if that’s what you’re asking.”

Eileen placed the plastic cover back on what remained of her salad. “There isn’t very much to choose from here in terms of eligible males. And if you’re in the market for a single, professional African-American male you might be out of luck.”

“So what’s a single woman to do?”

“Date interracially or depend on friends to hook you up with someone they know. Mind you, he might be from out of town and he might or might not be divorced.”

Dating was not a top priority, and she’d been too involved with her next-door neighbor to pay attention to what the town had to offer in terms of African-American males.

Eileen tossed the container holding the salad in the garbage. “There’s a function coming up, given by Friends of the new African-American Library. It’s
going to be on Pelican Island where the library is. Barry, my husband, has two extra tickets. You’re welcome to them if you’d like.”

It was unexpected and certainly thoughtful. Jen was curious to meet Eileen’s other half. She kept in mind Chere’s comments about Eileen and Ian. It might very well be sour grapes on the part of her assistant but the older she got the more nothing surprised her.

“Thank you,” Jen said graciously. “What kind of function is it?” She was thinking it might be a way to meet people. Professional people.

“It’s actually a play. The troupe’s from out of town. They’re putting on
The Jackie Robinson Story.
There’s a reception following the show, an opportunity to meet and mingle.”

“That’s so cool. Jackie’s story is one that should be told and retold, especially to young African-American adults who have given up hope. He is an inspiration.”

“Amen. Anyway, I was thinking it would be nice to introduce you to some of the movers and shakers of Flamingo Beach and the neighboring towns. You might even meet an interesting man or two. If someone comes across your path that’s interesting, Barry can fill you in.”

“Okay, you’ve talked me into it. I accept.”

Eileen
stood. “Our lunch hour is over. I’ll touch base with you in a week just to firm things up.”

“Great. It’ll be fun to meet some new people and see something of the neighboring towns as well.”

“Hopefully you won’t be too disappointed.”

Jen doubted she would be. So far there was a lot about North Florida she liked.

H
is mother was
slowly driving him crazy and she’d only been there two days. Tre had come home from running a few errands expecting to find Marva lounging around the pool where she’d taken up residence. Instead, he’d found photos of women strewn over his dining room table.

“What are these?” he asked.

“Oh, those. Those are the women who applied for the position of Mrs. Monroe.”

He gritted his teeth and ground out, “I didn’t realize you had a contest going on. I don’t mean to
be difficult, but as I’ve said a hundred times I am perfectly capable of choosing my own bride.”

“Are you? Then what’s taking you so long?”

“I have a career that may not be to the likings of the average woman.”

“Who said you needed average?” Marva came back with.

Good point! Whoever she was could not be average, not with the hours he kept or the persistent women constantly trailing him. Even so, his mother needed to stay out of it.

“Would you mind cleaning up a bit?” He gestured to the table. “Why don’t you just dump the lot in the trash?”

Marva stuck out her lower lip. “I can’t do that.” There hadn’t been any mention of her illness since she’d arrived nor had he seen her swallow one pill. He had the feeling he’d been conned big-time.

“Suit yourself but those women are bound to lose interest when no one responds, so you’re just hauling around unnecessary trash.”

“I’ve responded to them all.”

“You’ve what?”

Now it was his blood pressure that was shooting sky-high.

“Someone
had to answer the women before they got away.”

“And that someone was you.” Tre inhaled a breath before gritting out, “What exactly did you say?”

Marva smiled, proud that she’d taken things in hand. “I thanked them for their interest, asked for their phone numbers, and told them you’d be contacting them in the next week or so.”

“You did not.”

“I did, too.”

The anger he’d worked so hard to control was back. It came in red furious waves, consuming him. He wanted to punch a hole in the wall, kick that table and its offensive contents right through the French door, over the balcony and into the ocean. He did none of that.

Breathe! Breathe! Breathe! Redirect your anger, think of something pleasant. Something you enjoy.

He would go for a run on the boardwalk until he calmed down. Tre headed for the bedroom to change clothes. He had swapped with another DJ and had the evening off.

Marva’s voice came at him. “I thought we were going to dinner, baby.”

“After I get back. It’ll give you time to get rid of that rubbish.”

“How am I going to know who’s who when these
women e-mail me back?” she whined. “How are you going to know who you’re taking to dinner?”

Tre stopped at the threshold of his bedroom. “I’m not taking anyone to dinner except someone of my own choosing.”

“But there are three I’ve already invited to go out with you.”

“Then uninvite them.”

“I can’t. I signed your name.”

“Then find a good excuse to get me out of it!”

Tre entered his bedroom and kicked at the laundry basket. The receptacle flew across the room, spewing its contents onto the bamboo floor. Two days of Marva and he’d be signing up for anger management classes again. Twelve more days of her would turn him into an alcoholic.

He headed out the door.

An hour later he was huffing and puffing, having run his anger off. Every muscle and sinew felt it, but at least his head was clear. He’d soared past euphoria and gotten to the point where nothing mattered.

Why expend a lot of hateful energy on an old lady that he actually loved? Marva wasn’t that old to begin with—fifty-nine was considered young today. He’d go home, apologize and take her to dinner. His mother’s heart was in the right place.

As
Tre dragged himself back to the apartment, Jen—outfitted in sneakers, running shorts, and T-back shirt—headed his way. He slowed down, jogging in place, waiting for her to catch up.

“Hey, I didn’t know you ran,” he greeted.

Jen now matched his pace exactly. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she huffed, smiling to take the vinegar off her words.

“Ah, but I plan on finding out.”

Tre hadn’t seen Jen since their dinner. Those memorable kisses still lingered, kisses that had left him wanting more. Much, much more.

“How about we run together sometime later this week?” he threw out.

“Knock on my door and if I’m home I’ll join you,” she said, preparing to jog on.

“I’ll bring my mother by to meet you,” he shouted over his shoulder.

She was several feet up the boardwalk when she called to him, “Okay. Something to look forward to.” Then she waved and moved on.

Their encounter was entirely too brief. He’d have to remedy that shortly, and jogging would be the perfect excuse to get them together. The month had flown by and he wasn’t any closer to getting her into bed. During that time he’d decided he wanted more
than a quick hit. This was one woman he wanted to get to know.

Jen St. George was the type of woman that stimulated Tre on a lot of different levels. She was exciting, intriguing and far from bowled over by him. Plus she challenged his intelligence. That could make for a sweeter chase and a more satisfying capture. Nothing that came too easily was ever worth it.

Still thinking about Jen, Tre entered the building and got on the elevator. He was much calmer and more level-headed now. He was even looking forward to taking his mother out.

“Ma, where are you?” Tre called, noticing how quiet the apartment seemed.

No answer. But at least his dining room table was clear now and the damning evidence of his mother’s meddling was gone. Maybe Marva was taking a walk.

Tre hopped into the shower, got out and quickly got dressed. He returned to the living room to find his mother still missing and now grew concerned. When another fifteen minutes went by and she still hadn’t returned, he decided to go in search of her.

He wasted another half an hour wandering around the complex asking the residents if they’d seen Marva. Tre even quizzed the security guard behind the desk but, so far, nothing.

All
the tension he’d worked off returned. He became even more concerned. Better head back to the apartment to see if Marva had called. Not that she would even remember he had a cell phone.

As Tre walked by Ida Rosenstein’s apartment, the door opened, and his mother came through.

“Mother,” Tre said, “I’ve been looking all over for you. I’ve been worried.”

“Nothing to worry about,” she said coolly, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Ida and I have been catching up. I took her up on her previous offer of Rob Roys and we got to talking.” She’d had more than one as her silly smile confirmed. “So when will I be meeting 5C?”

Ida was at the door now, the inevitable lit cigarette in hand. She was carrying her purse. “Where are you taking us to, young man?”

Marva had apparently extended the dinner invitation to Ida.

“Wherever you lovely ladies would like to go,” Tre answered, glad that Ida would be there to provide a buffer.

“Charlie’s,” Ida piped up. “They have the best lobster in town and the freshest rolls.”

And the most inflated prices.

“All right, ladies, you talked me into it.” He held
out his arms to the women and they hooked their hands through the crooks.

All night Tre suffered through Ida’s overly loud conversation and his mother’s incessant quizzing. He suffered through the stories of indigestion, fading eyesight and crippling arthritis. Both ladies apparently forgot about their digestive ailments as they worked their way through a four-course meal. Tre even spotted Ida folding up the rolls in a napkin and shoving them in her purse.

He was halfway through his veal when an attractive young woman with a swishing ponytail and a skimpy skirt that barely covered her butt came over.

“Aren’t you D’Dawg?” she asked.

“Who wants to know?” Ida squawked, saving him the effort of answering.

The invader shot her a sour look. “I’m talking to him not you.”

“You’re very disrespectful, young lady,” Marva yelled, making her presence known. “What is it you want with my son?”

The young woman’s demeanor immediately changed. “Ooohh, you’re his mother? I was hoping he’d autograph my stomach.” She flipped up her cropped top and handed Tre a felt-tipped pen.

“He will do no such thing. Cover yourself, young
lady.” Marva slid a paper napkin forward. “Use this if you must.”

The mini commotion had gotten the attention of the nearby tables. Tre recognized several of the patrons, one in particular he knew from running into her at several functions. She had a big position at
The Chronicle.
Tre quickly signed the napkin and slid it across the table.

The groupie read his words, and squealed, delighted at his personalized wording.

“I saw your ad on the Internet. At least I thought it might be yours, described you perfectly. I applied,” she said between squeals.

“We’re having dinner,” Marva reminded her, quickly, too quickly. “Do you mind?”

He’d deal with his mother later.

The woman tossed Marva another sour look and then quickly covered with a smile when Tre stared at her.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” the fan said, clutching the napkin to her chest. Her eyes never leaving Tre’s, she quickly backed away.

“Lordie, does this happen often?” his mother asked, bug-eyed. “No wonder you’re soured on women.”

“I am not soured, Mother. We’ve been through this and we’ll deal with the other issue when I get home.”

What
was the point in arguing or making a bigger scene than had already been created? His mother would believe what she wanted to believe. She’d thought he was gay.

The woman he’d recognized previously, the one who worked for
The Flamingo Beach Chronicle,
stopped by on her way out. She was accompanied by a distinguished graying man. Tre assumed he was her husband. That was soon confirmed when she introduced them.

“Eileen Brown,” she reminded Tre. “I thought I recognized you but wasn’t sure. When that fan approached I knew for sure.”

“You’re with
The Chronicle?
”

Eileen handed him her card. “Yes, I’m the advertising manager. Will you be at the reception the new African-American Library’s throwing?”

Tre vaguely remembered getting an invitation. “Sure I’ll go, but I may not be able to make the show. I’ll come to the reception afterward. There is a reception? Right?”

“What’s this about an African-American Library?” Marva asked. “And a reception?”

Eileen hurriedly explained.

“I’d like to go,” Marva said, speaking up. “
The Jackie Robinson Story
should be good entertainment.

Besides, it’s
for a good cause and it would be my opportunity to meet some of your friends.”

“What about me?” Ida inquired in her too-loud voice. “Am I chopped liver?”

Dutifully Tre extended the invitation to both ladies. He hadn’t planned on attending and had stashed his invitation somewhere. He’d have to find it. “I have to work but I’ll be by later. I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up and drop you off at the library. I’ll drive you home myself.”

“I have a license,” Ida croaked. “I can drive.”

Like hell he would let her.

“See you there then,” Eileen said, deciding it was probably in her best interest to disappear. She inclined her head at the ladies and took her husband’s hand.

“You do need my help,” Marva said, the moment Eileen and her husband left. She grimaced. “If that young woman who came over earlier, is a reflection of what this town has to offer, heaven help us.”

“I do
not
need your help, Mother. Please butt out and make sure that ad is off the Internet tonight.”

“I took it off. Didn’t I tell you that? She must have printed it out and held on to it.” Marva sniffed. “I would never consider her anyway. She’s not your type.”

Ida’s head ping-ponged. She curiously assessed the situation. “Tre doesn’t need your help,” she said,
chortling. “5C’s got him whipped. Just wait until you see her.”

“Ida! Stop it!” Tre snapped.

The old lady cupped her ear. “What did you say?”

What was the use? He’d been ganged up on. He was wasting his breath. Nothing he said would make much difference. But he did plan on finding which site his mother had used and he was going to make sure that ad was off. He couldn’t afford to have anyone think he was desperate.