Authors: Reon Laudat
“But Trudie…” The woman in the blue suit tried
reasoning. “I know it looked bad, but if you’ll just let us explain. What you
saw… isn’t really what you saw.”
Trudie harrumphed again.
As Blue Suit shifted her body to tightly cross her
legs, Mitch felt the caress of her heat and caught a whiff of the same soft soap-and-coconuts
fragrance he had relished when she’d kneeled at his feet. He’d rather enjoyed
that view from that bench, the perky curves of her breasts and the way her
skirt stretched over a deliciously rounded bottom.
Umph
.
Blue Suit started, “But you see—”
“I saw more than enough,” Trudie said.
Florence Nightingale with tweezers surged to her
feet with her own affronted look. “You couldn’t possibly think that I was
engaging in some sort of…of…”
“Disgusting sexual act that’s still illegal in
some states,” Trudie cut in, wagging a finger. “Don’t try to play innocent with
me.” She sat behind her desk. “Lynn, I sense big trouble and Shangri-La doesn’t
need this. We have enough public relations nightmares as it is, with people
thinking we’re all perverted, swinging sex fiends.’’
Lynn
.
Mitch searched for a connection as he regarded Blue Suit.
Attractive
.
Actually very attractive.
Just not in that flashy sort of way that
usually garnered his double takes.
With the exception of those cute dimples that dotted her cheeks when she
smiled and that full, sensual mouth, her assets were subtle.
Had she not been the only fully clothed
person among a throng of towel-clad naturists, he might not have noticed her at
all. And she had nice legs…What he could see of them, at least. What else was
hiding under that dorky suit of hers?
“But…” Lynn looked to him to confirm her version
of events. He brought a finger to his lips to shush her.
It was useless to try explaining.
“You two needn’t expect an invitation to join any
time soon,” Trudie confirmed Mitch’s hunch.
Mitch shook his head and chuckled to himself at
the absurdity of the situation. “What’s the matter, Trudie?” He gave her a
bawdy wink. “Jealous?”
Trudie surged to her feet and pointed to the door.
“You two, out!
Now!
”
Chapter
3
Trudie sent Lynn on her
way, and then reluctantly granted Mitch just enough time to retrieve his
clothing from one of the changing rooms. Reuben Richardson had yet to show for
the little shindig given in his honor. He took consolation in that.
Once Mitch had ditched that rough terry towel, he
felt less like Tarzan and more like himself.
A pair of
broken-in jeans had never felt so good.
He adjusted the collars on his sport jacket and polo shirt before stepping
aboard Pops’ golf cart.
The older man greeted him with an apology as he
revved the putt-putt engine. “I dropped Lynn off a few minutes ago.”
He manipulated the small gearshift on
the cart’s floor.
“I like her.
Reminds me of my granddaughter, pretty,
but with a no-nonsense way about her. I find Trudie’s accusations hard to
believe.” The cart lurched over a huge bump on the gravel road.
“You
know what they say, believe half of what you see…”
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
Just before they reached the canopied pickup
station Mitch removed his mirrored shades from his shirt pocket to block the
wallop of the midday sun. When the cart stopped, he stepped out.
“Again, I’m so sorry this didn’t work out,” Pops
said. “Take care.”
“You, too.”
Mitch offered a no-hard-feelings rap to the side of the cart as Pops
headed back to the festivities.
Mitch had crossed two rows of vehicles while heading for his black
Mustang when someone called out to him.
Lynn emerged from the bench underneath the canopy.
“Hey, I thought you’d left.” Mitch couldn’t deny
the pleasure percolating inside at seeing her again.
“I couldn’t leave without thanking you again for
helping me out in the pantry, and I wanted to apologize for what happened with Trudie.”
She brought a slender hand to her forehead to shield the relentless rays.
“I’m sorry I got you thrown out.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
The heat from the sun and that
something
simmering between them forced
Mitch to shuck his jacket.
“I think
Trudie was gunning for me as soon as I arrived. Apparently single men are
always suspect at nudist camps.” Her flawless skin looked so sweet and velvety.
He wanted to taste her.
Those eyes,
wide and eager. And those lush lips. . . As if on cue, Mitch prepared to shift
into lady killer mode to spout his usual pickup lines, but his circuits
jammed.
Everything around them
dissolved in slow motion.
Silence
wedged between them. Tongue-tied, his lips moved, but nothing emerged. He’d had
his share of knockouts before, but none had ever had that effect on him.
Something was different about this one.
Fortunately, she spoke up.
“Apparently single women are suspect,
too. I was beat over the head with the same this-isn’t-a-sex-club preamble.”
She chuckled. “Excuse me for prying, but you don’t look like the Shangri-La
type.
What are you doing here?”
“And what’s the Shangri-La type, may I ask?”
Lynn shrugged, and those sweet dimples dotted her
cheeks. “Let’s just say I don’t know what it is, but I think I know what it
isn’t.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“Thank you…I think. Shangri-la was a little too
much for me, even with towels. Pops was nice, though, and in all fairness
Trudie was just doing her job. Social nudity? Not for me, but to each his own,
ya know.”
Mitch kind of dug this lady in the cheap blue suit
with the kiss-me-crazy lips.
He
considered asking her to join him for a drink.
“Why are you here?” she asked again.
“Hey, let’s back up a minute. I don’t believe
we’ve officially introduced ourselves.” He extended a hand for a shake.
“Mitchell Malone. My friends call me Mitch.”
She accepted it with a nice firm grip. “Sorry.
Jaimie MacKenzie. “
“Oh, it’s
Jaimie
? I could’ve sworn Trudie
and Pops called you
Lynn
.”
“It’s Jaimie
Lynn
MacKenzie. Um, sometimes I go by my middle name.”
She smiled.
“Your face looks familiar, though.”
“Maybe you’ve seen the photo they run with my
columns in the
Butler County Bee.
”
“Ah,
the
Butler County Bee
.”
He nodded.
“That’s interesting…” Perhaps he had
seen her photo there. He’d picked up the humdrum community weekly once or twice
while scanning the local classifieds for a good deal on a car. But more than
likely, he’d spied her before among the posse of reporters dogging Richardson.
That would be a problem.
A big
problem if he wanted to date her.
“So, where are you headed now?” He rocked on his
heels.
“Why do you want to know?”
She looked up at him through her thick
lashes.
“I think what’s happening here is called ‘hitting
it off.’ ”
“Is that so?”
“I’m single and if you’re single…”
“I am.”
One of Mitch’s favorite lines finally came back to
him as he closed the distance between them. “This could be the beginning of a
beautiful—”
“I believe that line is taken.
Casablanca
. Ring a bell?”
“You
didn’t let me finish.
Flirtationship
.
The beginning of a beautiful
flirtationship.”
“Is that a
thing
or even a real word?”
“I make my own rules. So what do you say we go
and…”
Before he could extend the invitation, a silver
stretch limousine, wheels straddling the narrow gravel road, cut two fresh
tracks in the grass. Sunlight reflected off the glistening MEGACHP license
plate attached to the rear bumper.
Richardson rode behind those tinted windows. Mitch swore under his breath
as exasperation heated his face. “I don’t freakin’ believe this.” He had been
damn close to making contact, but now he had to watch his best opportunity in
weeks roll by.
“Oh no!” Jaimie also watched the limo cruise
toward the cluster of Shangri-La structures and vanish behind a shield of Ohio
Buckeyes. “Richardson!”
Mitch eyed her warily, donning his mask of battle
as she confirmed his suspicions. Both had cast their lines for the same big
fish.
Mitch spoke first.
“So, you seem ticked off all of a
sudden.”
“You didn’t answer my question before. What are
you doing here, and why are
you
peeved all of a sudden?”
The soft rustling and swaying of wind-blown trees
and the chirping of birds punctuated the thick quiet.
They stood like gunslingers with itchy
fingers at a showdown.
That playful
spark between them? Snuffed.
“I’m a freelance investigative journalist, hoping
for a crack at an exclusive with Reuben Richardson for
the
Examiner,”
Mitch
said
.
“You work for
the
Examiner?”
Jaimie seemed rattled. “I’ve never seen
your byline.”
“No, I repeat. I’m a
freelance
investigative journalist. The Richardson piece is my
pitch for a full-time staff writing position at
the
Examiner
. I get Richardson; I get the job.”
Jaimie’s chilly demeanor plummeted to
sub-zero.
“Is that right? Well,
just so happens
I’m
here for
Richardson, too.
Only I’m not
hoping for a crack.
I’m going to
get it and that staff position at
the
Examiner,
too.” She hitched her chin.
Mitch usually liked feisty confidence in women,
but not from one who had set her sights on
his
prize. “And how do you plan to do that?
I mean, seeing as how you just got us booted out of Shangri-La.”
“Oh, so now it’s
my
fault?” Jaimie latched both hands on her hips. Defiance rioted
in brown eyes that had been soft with gratitude and interest before. “That’s
not what you said a minute ago. You were the one who sneaked up and startled
me.
I wish that shelf had crowned
you on the head after all!”
“So you can sneak a peek under my towel while I’m
out cold, eh?”
“Sneak a peek?” Jaimie gasped in indignation. “You
can’t possibly think I tried to help you with your splinters as an excuse
to…to… leer at you.”
“You know you wanted to unwrap my package.”
“You’re, um, arrogant and, um, er… Rude, crude,
and lewd!”
“Rude, crude, and lewd? She plucks splinters and
rhymes, too. A woman of many talents. Surely you can do better than that?” He
played cool, but couldn’t help goading her. “Loosen up, baby.”
“I’m
not
your baby! You, you…jerk!”
“I know you can do better than that. Let me have
it in choice words I won’t forget, sweetheart.”
Jaimie’s face tightened with angry lines. He
watched the muscle at a corner of her jaw twitch and the rapid rise and fall of
her chest. He braced for a counter attack.
Instead, she pulled in several calming breaths. “Look, I’m not your
‘baby,’ ‘sweetheart’ or any other obnoxious term that rolls out of that sexist
trap of yours,” she said, her tone crisp and composed. “And I don’t have time
for this childish nonsense, either. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Jaimie tried to skirt him, but he reached for her
arm and considered apologizing.
He
had let his temper and intense competitiveness get the best of him. “Wait.”
“Don’t touch me.” She jerked away, nailing him
with a withering stare. He retracted his hand without hesitation, sensing he
had pushed her too far.
She
adjusted the bulging fanny pack strapped around her waist, tugged at her lapels
as if to get her bearing, and stalked off to a little red Focus at the other
end of the lot.
Chapter
4
Mitch slipped inside his
car and headed back to town with thoughts of that Jaimie chick on his mind. So
she thought she’d beat him to Richardson? No way was someone who worked at a
sleepy little weekly called
the
Bee
going to outwit him. He would enjoy showing her a thing or two. Once within
Corrinth city limits, he considered his next move. Richardson was obviously a
bust for the time being. But Mitch wouldn’t spend the rest of this nice day
cooped up at his apartment with a laptop. He reached for the cell phone in his
glove compartment. Maybe he’d buzz that little massage therapist who had
slipped him her phone number at the Zodiac bar the other night. She was a
hottie, but definitely a space case.
Maybe Chantal?
Nah, too
husband hungry.
On their first
dinner date, she’d sketched a wedding seating arrangement on her napkin.
Kerri?
Too difficult to scrape off.
Rendezvous with her tended to run for
days. Then there was Diandra. She knew the rules and was always good to go, but
she lived on the West Coast.
He wasn’t
in the mood for a date anyway.
He
called his older brother, Travis, whose neighborhood was just a few blocks
ahead. “What’s up, bro?”
“I just got off the phone with the old man,”
Travis told him. “Guess what? He’s taking flying lessons.”
Travis always had the latest updates on their
father’s life. When a pang of envy surfaced, Mitch tamped it down.
“Hey, why don’t you swing by? I was just about to
throw some steaks on the grill. Your timing is perfect.”
Mitch reflected on the news about the flight lessons.
Their father had talked about learning to fly since he and Travis were boys.
“So are you coming or what? There’s a bottle of
Heineken with your name on it.”
Mitch could feel his brother’s smile radiating
through the phone. Travis genuinely wanted him there, but what about their
father? “Is Dad coming over?”
“C’mon, dude, he’s not here, all right?”
Mitch
reconsidered that U-turn. “Yeah, I’m on my way.”
He veered off at the exit and drove through a
clutch of residential streets to his brother’s cul-de-sac. As a kid, Mitch had
resented Travis, their father’s favorite son. Though only three years apart,
the siblings hadn’t been particularly close. Travis, who’d excelled at every
damn thing he’d attempted effortlessly, reminded Mitch of his own inadequacies.
But as an adult, Mitch no longer held
anything against his brother.
Mitch,
and Mitch alone, had hurled their father off the deep end. Mitch had brought
shame to the family’s illustrious journalism legacy. His father had won
Pulitzer Prizes for his stories about the fall of the Berlin Wall and the Iraq
War. Travis had impressive stints at
the
Wall Street Post
and
the
Chicago Register
before following in their father’s footsteps to
head the journalism department at DeWalt, a local college.
Mitch’s career highlights:
Double-page spreads with the shrieking
headlines
–“Pack of Spider Monkeys
Raise Slain Missionaries’ Orphaned Boy!”
and
“Studmuffin Potbellied Pig
Sires
157 Pot-Bellied Piglets!”
But
if he landed the Richardson exclusive and the
Examiner
gig all that
would change.
Once in Travis’s shaded backyard Mitch made his
way to the patio while his brother went to the garage to gather more of his
fancy grilling accouterments. The plan had been to hoop it for an hour and chow
down on steaks.
He and Travis had a great time talking trash and
throwing back Heinekens until their father, Mr. Pulitzer Prize, showed up.
Mitch, who had casually rocked his deck chair, let
it rest on all four legs. His posture snapped erect as he put his beer bottle
on the glass-top table.
Mitch cut a
hostile glance at Travis and then watched their father stride up the paved
driveway with the impassivity of a king.
Tall, handsome, and silver-haired, George Malone had that distinguished
thing going to the hilt, even when dressed in a short-sleeved oxford shirt,
beige Bermuda shorts, and loafers sans socks. Lauded as a brilliant journalist
and columnist with an impeccable nose for the news and a flair for writing
evocative prose, he had won just about every journalism award there was. As a
father he’d been judgmental, mercurial, and self-righteous. And his favorite
pastime was clowning his youngest son.
“You called him over here,” Mitch asked.
“Yeah, I did, but—”
“Man.” Mitch shook his head. “Why?”
“The three of us need to spend more time together.
Just give it a chance. All right? For me?”
Mitch finally felt closer to his brother. He
didn’t want to alienate him and ruin the progress they’d made, but Travis tried
his patience. It would take more than hot steaks and cold beer to bridge the
gap between Mitch and their father.
“All right. But as soon as he starts getting in my
shit, I’m outta here.”
Every muscle in Mitch’s body tightened as he
reached for his beer and took several cool gulps.
“How’s it going, fellas?” George had a lit pipe
clamped between his teeth as usual and a brown paper bag in his arms. “Brought
dessert. Stopped at my favorite bakery. We have pecan pie. Not just any pecan
pie, mind you. But one like your Grandma Virginia used to make – an
old-fashioned Karo dark syrup pecan pie.”
Travis smiled, heading for the house. “I’ll get
another knife and some clean plates.”
George took the seat across from Mitch. “So,
Travis tells me you’re active in the local chapter of the American Coalition of
Journalists now.”
“Yeah, he thought it would be a good idea to
mingle with other professionals,” Mitch replied, before shifting the
conversation away from anything that could segue into a full-blown debate about
journalism. “Travis tells me you’re taking flight lessons soon. Cool. You’ve
talked about doing something like that for years. Glad to hear you’re moving
ahead on it.”
Mitch wiped his wet
palms on his jeans. Anxious sweating or the condensation from the beer bottle?
“Yeah, can’t wait.” George shifted the pipe from
one corner of his mouth to the other.
For as long as Mitch could remember, their dad had
smoked the same special blend – three quarters McClelland 2050, one
quarter vanilla. The sweet woodsy aroma took him back to his childhood. Sunday
mornings and the newspaper, fat with glossy sale circulars and extra sections.
Eight-year-old Mitch just liked the colorful illustrations in the comics. He
and Travis would often squabble over them, but George soon put an end to that,
suggesting the best reader of the two should get first dibs on the section.
Mitch—no match for his older, smarter brother—would relinquish the
paper without taking the challenge sure to lead to another humiliating defeat.
George went on about the flight lessons, speaking
around his pipe’s stem. “It’s going to be expensive as hell, though.”
“But worth it,” Mitch replied with genuine
interest. As long as they lingered on aviation, things should be fine. “After
you pass the course, think you might buy your own plane?”
“Maybe. Who knows? I believe in dreaming big.”
Mitch placed his beer on the table again and
reached for the basketball wedged between a leg of the table and a chair. To
keep his hands busy, he dribbled it between his knees. “Wonder what’s taking
Travis so long with those plates?”
“He’s giving us some time alone.”
George tapped the bowl of his pipe with
a finger.
“I hardly see you at all
these days. How about we go a few rounds of one-on-one? Winner gets the first
slice of pie. Loser gets to watch, then do the cleaning.”
“Make it-take it?” Mitch felt his muscles relax.
George nodded, pressing out the smoldering
contents of his pipe with the stamp-sized thingamajig he removed from his
pocket. He rested both on the tabletop.
“You’re on.” Mitch smiled, and then came to his feet,
still dribbling the ball. His father followed him to the rectangle of asphalt
with the basket hoop. “Age before beauty.” Mitch passed the ball, enjoying the
companionable vibe between them.
Mitch still had misgivings about his father’s
mellow demeanor. What had Travis said to him? But did it matter? He’d go with
it. George had reached out to him for once. Mitch was grateful for that.
George made a clean basket from the three-point
mark. He went in for a second with Mitch shadowing his moves.
George quickly faked left, then shot
from the right to score a second shot. Mitch did not hustle or play his best
defensive game. The goal wasn’t winning— just basking in this rare
no-hassle time with his father.
When George scored his third basket, he crowed,
“C’mon now, Mitchell.
I know you’re
not going to let an old man whip your behind.” George’s maneuvering became
increasingly aggressive as he elbow jabbed Mitch’s ribs.
“Just letting you warm up.” Mitch lifted his hands
high over his head to block a shot when George shoved him so hard Mitch’s
ankles wobbled before he regained his balance. George fouled as if he had
something to prove. Mitch could wipe the asphalt with him. Really school him on
the ways of if-it-ain’t- rough-it-ain’t-right street ball, but he refused to
turn what was supposed to be a nice game of one-on-one into another metaphor
for their dysfunctional relationship.
“Guess you’re about as good on the court as you
are on the career front, huh?” With excessive force, George butted his hip
against Mitch’s and made another shot. “I use the term ‘career’ loosely, of
course.”
He smiled, but that
all-too-familiar edge crept into his tone.
Mitch’s demeanor frosted over. He knew more swipes
would follow. Why had he hoped for something different this time? He knew what
was next so he’d beat him to it. “So I guess you’ve seen my latest piece
:
‘Man Coughs Up Twenty-Pound Hair Ball’?”
Mitch said, all fake
grin and false bravado. “My personal favorite. Or how about this one,
‘Screaming Banshee Evicted from Frank Lloyd Wright Home’? ”
George grimaced and shook his head.
Mission accomplished. Mitch knew as well as anyone
how utterly ridiculous his
International Inquisitor
and
Weekly
Tale
Tattler
assignments
were, but would it kill his father to give him a damn break every now and then?
He wanted to share his efforts to switch to mainstream journalism, but
announcing that he’d actually landed the job would have a greater impact.
He’d wait and try his best to ignore his
father’s insults in the meantime. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get the best
of him on the court.
Mitch swooped
in like an NBA superstar and took possession of the ball. For the next few
minutes, he swiftly fancy-footed around George and scored point after point to
win the game. By the time Travis returned, the tension between Mitch and George
had settled in for the rest of the afternoon.
Mitch, who had lost his taste for steak and pecan
pie, tossed Travis the ball. “I’ll catch you later, man.”
“Wait, you’re leaving already?” Travis went to him
as he headed for the gate.
“Yes and you know why.”
“But…”
Mitch lifted a hand to cut him off. “I know what
you were hoping to accomplish, and I love you for trying. It’s on me now. I
know what I have to do.” Mitch watched their father, still shooting baskets.
“At least take some of this food home with you.”
Travis led him back inside the house, where he wrapped and packed up enough
steak, grilled corn, and pie for several meals. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” Mitch replied, though his insides knotted.
“You go on back outside with Dad.” Mitch gave Travis a reassuring slap on the
back.
“I scored great tickets to the next Reds game.
Road trip? Next week?” He opened a drawer in his island and removed an envelope
containing the tickets and passed Mitch one.
Mitch couldn’t make out the date. He’d check it
later. “Maybe. When I get back.”
“Back from where?”
“What’s with all the questions? I’ll call you
later.”
Mitch took his food and
left.