DEAR JENNA ADVICE COLUMN

The Flamingo Beach Chronicle

Dear Readers,

Love sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And believe me, I’ve kissed enough frogs to know that not every one is a prince! Just because a man is tall, dark and sexy, and fabulously rich, doesn’t mean that he’s all that.

Take my next-door neighbor Tre Monroe. He’s a hunk, he makes good money (he even drives a Porsche), but the man is a D-O-G. Could it be that his playboy persona hides the soul of a romantic?

Keeping it real,

Jenna

P.S. Perhaps you can teach an old dog new tricks!

MARCIA KING-GAMBLE

was born on the island of St. Vincent—a heavenly place in the Caribbean where ocean and skies are the same mesmerizing blue. An ex-travel industry executive, Marcia’s favorite haunts remain the Far East, Venice and New Zealand.

In her spare time, she enjoys kickboxing, step aerobics and Zumba, then winding down with a good book. A frustrated interior designer, Marcia’s creativity finds an outlet in her home where nothing matches. She is passionate about animals, tear-jerking movies and spicy food. She serves double duty as the director of member services at a writers and artists institute in South Florida, and is the editor of Romantically Yours—a monthly newsletter.

To date, Marcia has written twelve novels and two novellas. She loves hearing from fans. You may contact her at Mkinggambl@aol.com or P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.

Flamingo Place

Marcia King-Gamble

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Emily Martin with heartfelt thanks. You’re the best unpaid assistant a woman could ever hope for.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Flamingo Beach, where the living is easy. Nothing ever changes here except for the population.

If you’re young and single, Flamingo Place, the fancy new condominium, is where it’s at. You’ll need to be over thirty though, and you can’t have children. Plus your income needs to be in a high bracket. Of course you could lie about that.

Flamingo Beach has just about everything to keep a body happy. We have restaurants, churches and beauty shops. Our inhabitants are friendly—notice I didn’t say nosy. We also have a florist. Yup, the mayor’s son and his lover are partners in a florist shop.

That, by the way, is how this story came about. Jen, the new advice columnist at the Chronicle, used a word to describe our florist and people got ticked. D’Dawg, a hot radio personality, jumped all over her, and the two went at it. Rumor has it they’ve since made up.…

If you’d like more information about Flamingo Beach, write to me at P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale,FL 33320, or e-mail me at mkinggambl@aol.com.

Don’t be strangers now. Come down for a visit!

Marcia King-Gamble

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 1

You say your son is queer! Maybe he’s a confirmed bachelor or simply set in his ways.

Thump! Thump! Thump! The damn boom box next door was driving Jen St. George crazy.

Determined to ignore the loud rap music emanating from her neighbor’s apartment, Jen continued to type. Her next door neighbor was the most inconsiderate person she’d ever encountered and by far the rudest.

Jumping up, Jen banged on the wall and yelled, “Can you turn down your music?”

When her request didn’t produce the desired results, Jen called to her assistant, Chere, “Turn on the stereo, please. Loud.”

Jen’s attention returned to the letter she was working on. She banged out words no sooner than they’d popped into her head. This was her tenth letter of the day, and she was exhausted from dispensing advice. The moniker love diva hadn’t been earned easily.

The script in front of her was beginning to blur and tiny black dots were popping out in front of her eyes. On any given day being an advice columnist wasn’t easy, but she loved her job and got immense satisfaction from helping people. Giving advice had made her a popular and sought-after teenager. It had felt good to be needed. Today it still did.

“Chere, where are you? You’re supposed to be turning on the stereo,” Jen called, her irritation at her assistant reflecting in her tone. Not that Chere would even get it.

“I hear you,” her assistant called from the vicinity of the kitchen.

Dear Jenna made a living as an advice columnist to the lovelorn. This career came with a huge responsibility. People trusted her to choose their life partners or help them dump an inconvenient relationship. She was considered the diva of love because her advice was seldom off the mark. Normally her readership loved her in-your-face style.

The deafening music continued from next door. Jen thumped on the wall again.

“Please show some consideration. Jerk,” she muttered under her breath.

Jen turned on her own stereo, making sure her volume matched 5B’s. Now she could barely hear herself think.

Back at her desk Jen considered changing the wording of her response. Conservative Flamingo Beach, the small North Florida town where she now lived, might not get Dear Jenna’s hip-happening style. She really meant no harm; if anyone knew her family situation they would know that.

No, better to leave it like that. Maybe she’d bring this sleepy oceanfront community into the twenty-first century. The word queer was perfectly acceptable and in vogue now. It was totally embraced by the gay community. The TV show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy had made the word a household name, and it was one of the more popular shows around.

Still, there was always the chance some uninformed reader could interpret it as a slur, especially in a backwoods Southern town. She was on ninety-day probation at The Flamingo Beach Chronicle. The newspaper had wooed her way from Ashton, Ohio, an even smaller Midwest town.

In a relatively short time, Jen had acquired quite the following and The Chronicle’s circulation had increased. The competition, The Southern Tribune, was watching them closely. Of course her boss hadn’t said word one to her about this accomplishment. He dispensed compliments meagerly, just as she’d been warned he dispensed raises.

The loud noise next door continued. Jen glanced at her full to overflowing in-box and sighed. What on earth was taking Chere so long? She’d excused herself to use the bathroom earlier and must have detoured to the kitchen.

Chere was to have read and catalogued the mail by now but she’d arrived late as usual, leaving Jen to handle most of it herself. Two days a week they worked from home—Jen’s home. This was supposed to allow them to keep up with correspondence. But something needed to be done about Chere Adams—and soon. There had to be better qualified administrative assistants around.

“Chere!” Jen shouted over the din emanating from next door. “What’s the holdup?”

“I said I was coming.”

Jen rolled her eyes. Sure she was, when she was good and ready. There was a residential directory somewhere around. Jen searched and found it before realizing she didn’t know the neighbor’s name. This meant she’d have to go next door.

The hall was alive with music. Using her fist, she banged on 5B’s front door.

“What’s up?” he called when the sound registered.

She didn’t stick around to answer. Hopefully he would get the message. Rather than wasting energy debating his selfishness, Jen returned to reread Ms. Mabel’s letter. The old lady had a quirky sense of humor. She pleaded with Jen to help save her son, even likening homosexuality to a rare disease.

How had she come to such a conclusion? It was a metrosexual world. Men got manicures, pedicures and facials just like women did these days. Men were marrying later and later. Thirty-five wasn’t that old. Jen was thirty-two and very single, and left to herself she’d stay that way. There had to be more to it. Maybe Mother Mabel had found her son in a compromising position. Jen decided she would ask.

She typed her witty and well-thought-out prose, pausing to rotate her cramping shoulder muscles and stare out the living room windows. A beautiful coral and lavender sunset made her long to be outdoors, sipping on something cool and frothy. It was wishful thinking on her part—with the looks of that in-box.

It had taken Ms. Mabel a full eight pages to tell how her son had been engaged three times but never quite made it down the aisle. Mama was now speculating that her son’s loud “Cabana Boy” shirts and “butt-hugging” jeans were a clear sign he was batting for the other team.

The music next door ceased, thank God. Jen’s head still vibrated with the sound. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She’d never regretted leaving Ashton, the small Midwest town where she’d worked for ten years. The Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s offer had come at the perfect time.

Jen’s romantic life had been in turmoil. She’d been happy to put space between herself and Anderson, the lying, cheating dog who’d broken her heart and put her off men, permanently. Now was not the time to think of him. She had a deadline to meet.

“I’m calling it a day,” huffed Chere, the assistant she’d inherited. She was still chomping on the chicken leg she’d taken from Jen’s refrigerator. She slid a glass of water Jen’s way. “Unless you need me for something.” Two plump cheeks parted to reveal perfectly white teeth. Then she made a chicken neck. “What’s with that brother? He tone deaf or what?”

Damn if she knew. She’d been wondering the same thing. Jen waved an expansive hand in the direction of her crowded desk. “Nope, just self-focused like we need to be. We’ve got work, girl. Those letters need to be read and logged in. Today.”

Chere placed two pudgy hands bedecked with gold rings on each finger on her oversized hips. Her nails were a work of art, depicting the New York skyline in black and silver. She proudly announced to anyone who would listen that she’d grown up in the Bronx, followed a man South, and although that relationship was long over with, remained because she enjoyed the Southern hospitality. Translation, the dark-skinned brothers had been good to her and delighted in her charms.

“Shoot. I have plans tonight,” she grumbled. “What am I supposed to tell Leon?”

“What you’ve told every man you didn’t want to be bothered with. You’re busy.”

“But I want to be bothered with this one—you should see how he’s hung.…”

Jen now fixed her hazel-eyed stare on the outrageous woman who thought work was a contagious disease and tended to disappear more often than not. Chere did serve a purpose though. She knew everything there was to know about Flamingo Beach and its residents. She’d slept with most of the men and could proudly list their long and shortcomings. As she’d said to Jen time and time again, you didn’t have to be skinny as a rail to bag a man. Booty was booty. Good loving just as easily came in an oversized package.

Chere harrumphed before settling in and attacking the pile in the in-box. She slid a nail that reminded Jen of a talon under one envelope flap while sighing loudly.

“You might as well get used to long hours. If we’d met at a small Midwest paper you do everything including your own copyediting,” Jen added.

“I’d rather be serving fries at Mickey Dee’s,” Chere grumbled. “Here you are, stuck in this big ass apartment when you should be lying around the pool sipping on Margaritas and strategizing how to get one of them personal trainers into bed. My mama used to say no employer’s ever dedicated a tombstone to a workaholic. Hell, you’re lucky to get a silver watch if you make it to retirement.”

Jen smothered a grin. Lazy as Chere was she did provide comic relief. “Here, take a look at this.” Jen flipped Ms. Mabel’s letter in Chere’s direction. “What’s your take?”

Chere’s double chins bobbed. She scanned the letter before guffawing loudly. “Uhhh, your advice ain’t going to sit well with the peoples.”

“Why not?”

Because this is Buppyville. We are nothing if not politically correct. These peoples aren’t going to like that you used ‘queer.’ Lover boy might be a player but you telling Mama to get on the Internet and place one of them there ads is meddling, baby girl. No man ever likes the babe Mama chooses.”

“Maybe you should be answering my mail,” Jen said jokingly. “You know how this town operates and you seem to know your way around men.”

“Yup, I sure as hell do. What if Romeo’s gay? You didn’t tackle that.”

Jen chuckled. “Maybe the number of letters from women offering to turn him straight will force him out of the closet.”

“I doubt that. I had me a few of them, even my antics couldn’t keep them on the straight and narrow. Listen, I have to go. Leon will kill me for being late.” She tossed the letters back on Jen’s desk and reached for an oversized Coach bag in a sickly shade of coral, hoisting it onto her shoulder. “Just tell the witch to butt out of a grown man’s life. She should be at bingo or learning to fox trot at Arthur Murray. She needs to get a life.”

Chere wiggled her bejeweled fingers and headed for the door. “Want me to take care of homeboy next door on my way out?”

“I already have.”

No sooner had Chere left than the cacophony next door started again. Jen’s walls vibrated. Her head felt like someone had parked a Mack truck in it and left the motor running. Enough was enough. Jen stepped out into the hallway in time to see a scantily clad hoochie mama exit 5B.

This was no tenant. 5B seemed to get more than his share of action. Women were constantly coming and going at all kinds of hours. Jen had heard the fights, the broken glasses and the slammed doors.

“Call me,” the woman with the belly-button ring said to someone Jen couldn’t see.

A grunt followed before the door closed firmly behind her.

Jen’s Midwestern good manners kicked in. “Hello,” she greeted the woman tottering by in too-high heels.

A disinterested glance was tossed Jen’s way. She’d been summarily dismissed as inconsequential. The music inside 5B’s apartment ended abruptly.

Jen returned to her apartment and decided to get comfortable. She slid into a pair of shorts and a halter top and considered what to do about dinner. There were at least three restaurants to choose from nearby but it was no fun sitting at a table eating alone.

Discarding the possibility of having food delivered, Jen opened the refrigerator hoping to find something edible. She slammed the door again. It looked like takeout was the only option.

The Godawful racket started again. Now it sounded like Middle Eastern chanting. 5B had turned up his boom box full volume again. An Indo rap artist was going on about bitches and whores.

Grabbing the remote phone, Jen punched in the numbers for a soul food restaurant that delivered and shouted her order. She would try escaping the loud music by taking the pile of mail out to the terrace.

Jen’s apartment offered a clear view of the beach. Tiny white lights were starting to twinkle on the opposite shore. On a sigh, she inhaled the smell of brine and thought how lucky she was.

The pounding music followed her outside. This new singer sounded like a cat in heat.

“You just got on my last nerve,” Jen mumbled, tossing the letters aside. “I have a right to a peaceful existence and I’ll have it if it’s the last thing I do.”

Tre Monroe snorted loudly. He was bored out of his skull. He needed constant stimulation. These wannabe artistes were not doing it for him. He’d hoped to find at least one potential star in the bunch, but nada so far.

WARP, the radio station where he was both musical director and on-air personality, was constantly inundated with unsolicited CDs; CDs that he as musical director was forced to listen to in his spare time. Tre had cranked up his music hoping that the lyrics and beat of just one of them would get his attention. But so far the pitiful talent just made him more restless than he already was.

He popped another disk into the player. He’d already had one uninvited visitor show up, a woman he’d dated casually; someone almost fifteen years his junior. At one time the sex had been good, but the conversation nonexistent. He’d quickly grown tired of her and tried to let her down gently, but she continued to hang on.

In a couple of hours he would be on the air, playing his tunes and broadcasting from the only black radio station in town: the happening station. Tre loved fielding calls from his late-night audience, often a colorful and vocal group.

Over the sounds of heavy metal, Tre vaguely registered the banging at his front door. Not her again. Had she forgotten something? Swearing softly to himself, he padded barefoot and shirtless to answer. Security was getting lax. He’d have to talk to somebody about this.

Tre ignored the peephole and threw his front door wide. The woman who stood before him looked like she had a definite axe to grind. He registered that she was attractive and had a great pair of legs. She had the kind of smooth cinnamon-colored skin you felt compelled to touch. Her lips were full, wide and inviting. Streaked, straightened hair skimmed her broad shoulders. High cheekbones and wide hazel eyes gave her a slightly exotic look. How come he’d never seen her before?

Tre’s gaze slid down the woman’s strong body. She was ripe. Her perfectly proportioned breasts filled that halter top nicely. Damn it but those long, shapely legs deserved to be wrapped around somebody, preferably him. He wondered how come he hadn’t run into her before. He would have remembered. When he smiled at her, she did not smile back.

It dawned on him it had to be the new tenant. He’d seen the moving truck pull up and unload a pitiful few pieces of furniture; mostly antiques though, so at least she had good taste. Sheer nosiness had forced him to inquire of the moving men where they were taking them. They’d told him they belonged to the occupant of 5C.

“Is there something you wanted?” Tre asked, staring at the woman. She’d folded her arms across those luscious breasts and now they threatened to spill from the low-cut halter.

“Your music is driving me crazy. I can hardly think. Much less work.”

“Who am I turning my music down for?” Tre asked, his glance sliding over her body again.

She seemed conscious of his assessment but not at all self-conscious. Yet she backed off, putting space between them. “I live in 5C,” she said, pointing up the hallway. “Next door. Show a little consideration. I’m surprised 5A and D haven’t called security.”

Tre narrowed his eyes, giving her the look that usually made women’s legs buckle. He’d been told often enough he had bedroom eyes. He swept his gaze over the tempting piece of flesh standing in front of him, letting his eyes linger for a second too long on the woman’s cleavage, then focusing on those long legs again. And what legs. He’d always been a leg man.

“No one’s ever complained about my music before, baby,” he drawled. “I’ve lived here two years. You’ve been here how long?” One eyebrow arched upward. He was at his most intimidating.

“About six weeks,” his pissed-off neighbor supplied.

“Long enough to listen to noisy altercations in the hallway and develop headaches from that obnoxious stereo of yours. I work at home a couple days a week.”

Tre draped an arm across the doorsill. “Who am I supposed to be shutting down my boom box for? You got a name?” On purpose he’d slipped into the dialect of the street.

5C actually had the grace to look embarrassed. She thrust a toned arm forward. She must work out with weights, another point in her favor. Toned arms with just a trace of muscle were sexy.

“Jen St. George. And you are?”

“Jen?”

Tre let the name wrap around his tongue. The last name was definitely foreign. She might be from the islands; Haiti quite possibly. He’d always had a thang for island girls. They were feisty and knew exactly who they were. She waited for him to tell her his name.

“Trestin,” Tre said, skipping his last name as he often did. Once women found out he was WARP’s music director, and popular radio personality, D’Dawg, they began acting like fools. The name was rightfully earned from his “poon hound” days.

“Well, Trestin,” Jen said, “can we come to an agreement? Can you at least lower your tunes so I can get back to work?”

The door of 5A located directly across from Tre pushed open. Ida Rosenstein stuck a head decorated with pink curlers covered by a net through the opening. She called in the loud croaky voice of a smoker, “You could at least invite this one in.” Looking from one to the other, she sniffed. “How come your girlfriends never wear clothes?”

“I am not one of his girlfriends,” Jen snapped. “Like you, I’m his next-door neighbor.”

“What was that?” Ida shouted, lighting a cigarette and blowing a perfect smoke ring.

Jen pinched her nose. “Must you?”

Tre’s palm cupped Jen’s elbow. He propelled her in the direction of the smokestack. “This is Jen St. George,” he said. “Jen just moved in.”

“John, did you say? Why does she have a man’s name?”

“My name’s Jen,” Jen carefully repeated. “Doesn’t his music bother you? How come you’re not complaining?”

“I’m too old to complain. It doesn’t do any good. I just take action.”

Tre tried to discreetly whisper to Jen that Ida was severely hard of hearing.

“His music,” Jen shouted. “Doesn’t it bother you? It’s too loud.”

“I like his music,” Ida boomed back. Good for her. “It makes me feel alive.” She began mimicking urban dance movements she must have seen on TV.

Jen was stunned.

Tre smiled brightly at Ida. She was taking up for him. He’d always liked the old lady and gave her credit for being so open-minded at her age. She’d told him she refused to move when the building was remodeled and the first influx of black upper-middle-class tenants moved in. According to Ida, she was the first resident to move in after the building was constructed. She’d be there until it was torn down or they took her out in a box.

A head poked out from 5D. “Can you keep it down?”

Camille Lewis was the last person Tre wanted involved in his business. Her mouth ran like there was no tomorrow. She thrived on gossip or made it up. Tre would have to convince Winston, her husband, to help put a lid on Camille’s mouth. That would cost him a handful of new CDs.

“This is Jen St. George, our new neighbor,” Tre said smoothly, forcing a smile. “Camille Lewis.”

“We already met.” Camille turned her attention back to her cell phone.

She had a heavy West Indian accent that came and went depending on whether she was talking to a relative or not. She waggled the cell phone at him. “I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend. Can you at least go inside?”

He was being ganged up on. Camille Lewis normally didn’t care about how loud he played his music; just that he made sure some of the disks came her way. She’d mastered the art of multitasking and knew everything there was to know about everyone in the building. They usually got along fine and Tre had learned to ignore her monitoring of his comings and goings.

“Fine. We’ll take our discussion inside,” Tre agreed. He held his apartment door open hoping Jen would come in. “Night, y’all.”

Camille grunted at him and slammed shut her door. Ida stayed put.

“Tomorrow this entire building’s going to hear about the threesome we had in the hallway.” Ida cackled loudly and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray she held. Examining Jen through rheumy eyes, she continued. “You’re a step up from his usual. His taste is improving.”

“I am not his usual. I am nothing to him,” Jen answered before stomping off.

Tre said good-night to Ida Rosenstein and slipped inside his apartment.

Jen St. George wasn’t going to be easy. He’d have to plan a strategy, maybe take a bottle of wine over to her later in the week and turn up the heat.

With any luck, he’d have her on her back and those long legs wrapped around him.

Give him one month and he’d be in those tight shorts of hers. Then guess who would be complaining about who.

Chapter 2

“Yo, Flamingo Beach. This is D’Dawg coming to you live from WARP. Bad day at work? You been dumped, lied to, or just played? Come sit back and chill with me. My tunes are guaranteed to make you relax and take you on a trip down memory lane to the good old days when brothas and sistahs pushed getting high on life. Let’s conversate. You can tell me what’s happening in this sleepy little town of ours, the Southern answer to Peyton Place.”

Tre had a habit of slipping into urban vernacular when addressing his radio audience. He’d grown up in the ghettos of Detroit and knew this was what his people expected and what they understood. He punched a button and Luther Vandross’s soulful crooning dominated the airwaves. The singer was a man he’d deeply admired. Tonight would be a tribute to him.

Tre sat back, preparing to listen. He propped his feet on the console and took a bite of his sandwich, letting Luther’s sensual voice mesmerize him. It was times like this he wished he was with someone special, someone he had a connection with. So far that hadn’t happened and he didn’t want to just hook up with anyone. Times had changed and making the wrong choice came with consequences.

Another Luther song dropped, this one in a slightly different vein. As the singer began sharing his childhood memories with the radio audience, Tre unfolded The Flamingo Beach Chronicle and began flipping through it. This new advice columnist was a trip. Here she was giving some crazy old lady tips on marrying off her son. What if the man was a confirmed bachelor? And who cared if he was gay?

He reread the mother’s letter and dissected Dear Jenna’s response. Pushing a button on the console he drawled, “Nothing like a little Luther to soothe the soul and get us in the groove. So what y’all think about this chick Aunt Jemima, the new advice columnist from Cincinnati? Anyone read today’s column? Let’s break it down. I’m here to take your calls.”

Tre guffawed loudly. “Freudian slip, y’all. The lady’s name is Jenna. This brotha thinks she likes to stir things up, telling the man’s mama to get on the Internet and place one of them personal ads. Phone lines are open, y’all. I’ll be here for the next four hours.”

During the next fifteen minutes every line at WARP lit up. Tre took call after call and conceded he just couldn’t keep up. His show rocked.

“Sheila, what do you think?”

“Dear Jenna gave sound advice.”

“Why is that? What mama needs to get involved in a grown man’s business?”

To her credit, Sheila stood firm. “I’m a mama. My son brings home these hos. They come into my house, belly hanging out, disrespecting me. Who can blame a mother for wanting to see her son settled with a good churchgoing woman?”

“I hear that. But what if the man’s gay or as Jemima calls it, queer?” Tre now appealed to the audience. “Anybody else got anything contradictory to say?” He punched another button. “Rufus, you still hanging?”

“In for the duration, my man.”

“You got a different opinion from Sheila?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. Mama needs to butt out. Cut the apron strings and let sonny boy make his own mistakes.” Rufus’s raucous laughter rang out. “Mama needs to find herself a man.”

“Anyone else in the house?” Using a finger that was almost as dark as the console before him, Tre pressed the button on yet another line.

“This is Kim. My ex-boyfriend turned out to be gay and there was nothing I could do to change that.”

“Hear that, callers. Kim couldn’t get her man to change. You try one of them Victoria’s Secret numbers?”

“Yes, I did.…”

Kim quickly hung up. She’d lost it and sounded like she was about to cry.

And so it went on, until Tre took a break for advertising. All of Flamingo Beach must have tuned in tonight. Some had opposing views but the discussion was lively, controversial, and at times irreverent, just like Tre liked it. Four hours would pass quickly tonight.

Jen stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her dripping body. When the phone rang she considered letting the machine pick up but at the last minute grabbed it.

“Hello?”

“Watcha doing?” Chere bellowed.

Ignoring the puddle beginning to form on the white tile floor, Jen responded, “Getting ready to head for the Pink Flamingo to grab something to eat.”

“Want company?”

What about Leon? I thought you two were joined at the hip.”

Chere sucked her teeth. “Leon who?”

Clearly that diversion was over with. Chere sounded perfectly fine. She was one of the most resilient people Jen had ever met.

Balancing the receiver between ear and shoulder, Jen said, “Okay, give me the lowdown.”

“Turn your radio on, girl. Tune into WARP. D’Dawg’s dissing you.”

“Is it some kind of wrestling station?” Nope. The DJ’s supposed to be finer than The Rock. Alls I know is he sure as hell cracks me up.”

Jen vaguely recalled hearing something about a controversial show modeled after the New Yorker, Howard Stern’s, except a whole lot cleaner.

“The man is slamming our column and he’s got the listeners calling you Dear Jemima and saying you’re a bigot.”

“Why am I a bigot?”

“Might have something to do with your using the word ‘queer.’ You don’t look a thing like that fat turban-headed woman selling her maple syrup.”

Chere cracked her up. “Queer is politically correct,” Jen explained. “I meant no disrespect. It’s like the way colored evolved to Negro, then became black, and now African-American.”

Her assistant snorted and began snapping her gum; at least Jen hoped that was what she was snapping. She refused to get bent out of shape. Controversy was her middle name.

“I’ll turn on my radio and see what the fuss is about.” Jen sighed. “All of that free advertising’s bound to snag me more readers.”

Snap. Snap. Snap. “And you’ll take me on one ah dem ‘Fun Ship’ cruises?”

Jen’s laughter rippled out. Chere supposedly had been the publisher, Ian Pendergrass’s housekeeper. He’d had a one-night stand with her and to shut her up he’d given her a job.

“Here’s the deal,” Jen said, still laughing. “You read the mail when it comes in and keep me up to date, then we’ll talk.”

There wasn’t a prayer in hell of Chere catching her up. She wasn’t one to work harder than she needed to.

“Done. Tomorrow I’m going shopping for one ah them skimpy little bikinis that shows off my curves.”

Jen wisely let that thread of conversation drop. Full-figured Chere in an itsy-bitsy bikini wasn’t something she wanted to think about.

“See you at the Pink Flamingo in half an hour then,” Jen said fumbling with the radio dial. She located WARP where a lively discussion was underway.

“Mama needs a good whopping,” a strident male voice said. “Mabel shouldn’t even be meddling in her grown son’s affairs. And that advice columnist don’t have a clue. Do you know the kind of women answering those personal ads?” The caller didn’t wait for the DJ to comment. “Chicks no one else wants. Two tons of fun, and a whole lot neurotic.”

The disk jockey chuckled. “I hear you. My man speaks from experience. Who in the house has been on one of those Internet dates? Step up now. Tell us if our man here is right.”

Phones began ringing off the hook. It still amazed Jen just how much information people were willing to share about the intimate details of their lives. D’Dawg’s audience for the most part were very vocal about her usage of the word queer.

The discord caused Jen to second-guess herself. Maybe as some had suggested she really should have told the old lady to get a life. Perhaps she could have presented other options, but she’d gone with her gut. And her gut seldom let her down.

D’Dawg’s urban drawl snapped Jen back to the present.

“Any of you see Dear Jenna up close and personal? There’s a photo in the newspaper with girlfriend wearing this little business suit, pearls and glasses. Looks to me like she stepped right outta the fifties. Uptight I say, lady needs a good loving to loosen her up.”

The DJ’s raucous laughter caused Jen to quickly shut off the radio. Even though only a chauvinist would have made that outrageous remark, he’d hit a nerve. Jen hadn’t allowed a man to get next to her since Anderson dumped her. She was still recovering from his betrayal and it would be a cold day in hell before she trusted another man. She would play the same game men did. No connection and no commitment. Live in the present and enjoy each day as it came.

Jen had dated Anderson for two years. Even so, he’d walked away without an explanation and a short time later gotten engaged to another woman. Adding insult to injury, he’d purchased a home in the same Ashton suburb as Jen.

She would be late if she didn’t hurry. Chere, the bottomless pit, would be waiting at the Pink Flamingo’s bar checking out the prospects. After hurriedly zipping up the apricot sundress scooped low in the back, Jen stepped into matching wedge sandals. She finger-combed her shoulder-length hair and added a pair of gold hoop earrings. Convinced she no longer even faintly resembled Dear Jenna, she headed off.

Ten minutes later, Jen strolled into the packed Pink Flamingo. The place was filled with patrons winding down from a stressful work week. At the bar, groups of men nursed beers while female companions sipped on Cosmos and Appletinis. How could anyone possibly hear themselves? Jen wondered.

An olive-skinned hostess in a Flamingo Pink mini-dress chatted with a man Jen guessed to be the restaurant manager. He wore the exact color shirt. She tore herself away to point out a vacant seat at the outdoor bar.

Jen’s first impressions were of Flamingo heaven or maybe it was hell. Fluttering from the thatched ceiling of the Tikki Hut were the pink birds in abundance. Jen eased onto the vacant bar stool, noting there was no sign of Chere. Her administrative assistant wasn’t amongst the chattering twosomes and single hopefuls. Nor was she holding court with the two men at the end of the bar looking for action. The lighter one in a turquoise linen shirt, winked at Jen. Forcing herself, she winked back. She’d promised herself a new life.

Just then Chere entered in a ridiculously short skirt she had no business being in. Her cropped top exposed a layer of jiggling mahogany flesh. Two hundred pounds of confidence tottered across the floor in acrylic platform-soled sandals; a red hibiscus wobbled from the big toe.

“Sorry. Something came up,” she said wedging herself between Jen and the man to her right.

Better not ask Chere what that might be, lest Chere told her.

Chere began flirting outrageously with the buff bartender.

“I’ll have a glass of Chablis,” Jen quickly interjected before things got out of hand.

“Make mine Sex on the Beach, Dwayne,” Chere added coyly.

“Sure you don’t want a Slow Comfortable Screw?”

While Jen sipped her wine, Chere stirred her drink with one finger and filled the bartender in on her issues with Leon. The two probably had history.

A bunch of nubile women were being checked out by the man who’d winked at Jen. On the rattan chairs, hopeful couples, many of the same gender, played footsie while sipping their drinks. Those more enterprising gyrated to the lively reggae band on the beach.

The decor was tropical, cheesy and in an odd way attractive. In the world Jen had left behind, people would be huddled in their winter coats dreaming about taking a trip to Florida.

A tall, well-built man in his late thirties climbed onto a vacated bar stool and ordered a gin and tonic. Although he eyed Jen, Chere slid her stool closer.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked.

Chere sighed. “I’ll introduce you, Quentin.” She leaned suggestively against his arm as she made the introduction. “This here’s Jen.”

“I’m Quen Abrahams. The health club manager.” He captured Jen’s hand.

No wonder he was in such good shape. He got paid to work out.

“Nice to meet you.”

New to the area?” I’ve been here going on two months.”

A loud female voice shouted, “Quen,” and the man turned his attention to the new arrival.

The volume in the bar had risen. Chere left to make the rounds and Jen gave up on a sit-down meal and settled for a lobster sandwich.

When the band took a break someone turned up the stereo.

“If you’re listening, dearie, I’m challenging you to hook up with me on the show.”

There was that obnoxious DJ, again. “

Defend your position. Keep that radio tuned to WARP and find out if the lady can take the heat. I’m turning in for the night. Drive safely y’all, and remember WARP is the place to be.”

Reminding herself no one in the place knew who she was, Jen checked the crowd’s reaction. The few who were listening seemed mildly amused. It would be a cold day in hell before she accepted that Dog’s challenge.

Chere was too busy chatting up a guy—who looked as if he might fall over if she bumped into him—to have heard the commentator. The man wore a thick gold chain around his neck and waved a fistful of bills at the bartender.

A smart woman would make her exit right now. “

Compliments of that gentleman,” the bartender said, plopping a glass of wine in front of Jen, and rolling his eyes in the direction of a man with a Fu-Manchu rimming his lips.

Jen, about to protest, thought better of it. Her benefactor wasn’t physically her type, but accepting a drink was not a lifetime commitment.

“Thank him for me,” she said.

No sooner had she said that than the dark-skinned man with the mustache descended.

“Hi, hon, I’m Vince. I live in the villas across the street.”

“Thanks again for the drink.” She took a sip of wine to show her appreciation. “Sorry, I have to go. I’m working tomorrow.” She slid off the stool, paid her bill and pocketed the business card Vince tucked into her hand.

Jen waved at him from the door. Chere was in a corner with the reed-thin guy. He had his arm around her. Maybe she’d better not leave her alone.

Reminding herself this wasn’t Ashton, Ohio, where the sidewalk rolled up at midnight, Jen retraced her steps and headed back to rescue Chere.

Chapter 3

What seemed hours later, Jen entered the deserted lobby of Flamingo Place. A sleepy-eyed guard barely looked up as she hopped on the elevator. She got off at five and made her way down the hallway, almost running into a woman who looked to be no more than a teenager. She was exiting 5B. The child-woman clutched a collection of CDs. Her eyes brimmed over with tears.

Jen was tempted to offer a comforting shoulder but thought better of it. It wasn’t her business. She continued on her way. But Tre’s raucous music taunted her, following her to her apartment door. Was she the only person who objected to the assault on her ears? Her neighbors didn’t seem to mind or didn’t care to do anything about it. Maybe once she closed her door the commotion would cease.

But the tunes followed her into her apartment and continued even after she was ready for bed. Bleary-eyed, and knowing that she had to get up at six, she decided enough was enough.

Jen stomped to the phone. It was a waste of time calling Trestin whatever-his-name-was, even if she did know his last name. Time to go over his head. She punched in the numbers.

“Security?”

“Yes, ma’am”.

“I’m calling from the fifth floor. 5B is keeping everyone up with his music.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I’d appreciate that.” Jen disconnected the call.

Punching her pillow as if it were Trestin’s handsome ebony face, she flopped back on the bed and tried closing her eyes. Maybe visualizing a day at the spa would help. But the image filling her vision was one of a dark-skinned broad-shouldered male well over six feet, with sculptured features and seductive bedroom eyes.

Ba dam, ba dam, ba dam. The music continued for another half hour and showed no signs of stopping. Calling security had been a waste of time.

Tomorrow she would go to the leasing office and lodge a formal complaint against Trestin Noisemaker. He’d pushed every hot button. Now it was war.

“Dammit!” Tre muttered, pounding the steering wheel of his silver Porsche. He spat out another graphic expletive and threw the vehicle into Park, the motor still running. Hopping out of the car, the roaring in his ears signaled his blood pressure was dangerously high. He circled.

The navy-blue Mazda Miata had no business in his reserved parking spot. He paid a premium amount every month for a location close to the building. Tre counted to ten. Years ago he would have put a dent in the Miata’s hood and maybe a dent in the driver. All those anger management classes had helped mellow him out. He now knew how to redirect his pent-up outrage.

After getting back into the Porsche, Tre angled the vehicle in such a manner it blocked in the Miata, then sat back to wait. Reaching into the glove compartment, he removed a demo CD and slipped it into the player. The music, amateurish as he expected it to be, would help pass the time until the driver showed up.

Tre sipped from the bottle of water in the center console. The singer’s sultry voice reminded him of Sade. She was the best thing he’d heard in a long time. Curiosity prompted him to pick up the disk’s cover and stare into a heart-shaped face with smoky eyes. She would be promotable and worth playing on the station tonight.

Five minutes grew into ten. Tre’s blood pressure shot even higher. His entire body felt as if it was on fire. The air conditioner was functional and on full blast. What was taking the irresponsible tenant so long to get back to their car? He or she must know that this wasn’t their parking space.

Spotting one of the khaki-clad security guards, he flagged him down.

“Tre,” the guard gushed, openly awestruck he’d been singled out. “Great show last night.”

“Thanks. You wouldn’t happen to know whose Miata that is?”

“No. But I can call a tow truck and get it hauled out of there.”

“Let’s give it ten minutes, then you can do what you need to do.”

An SUV pulled up alongside them. Camille Lewis hung out the window. “Tre,” she said in her heavily accented voice, “what’s with the Miata?” She peered at him over owl-like sunglasses.

Tre stretched his lips into a grimace of a smile. Camille was probably taking notes so that she could fill the building in. Now she stuck her entire head out of the window.

Tre tried to keep his voice even. “I guess someone decided my spot was more convenient than theirs.”

“You know that someone,” Camille said sweetly. “

I’m going up. Want me to knock on 5C’s door?”

“Please.”

He was starting to lose it. Just this morning he’d gotten a call from the leasing office telling him they’d received a complaint about his loud music. It hadn’t taken a rocket scientist to figure out who’d complained about him. He’d lived in the building over two years and not once had a neighbor ever called the leasing office on him. He’d planned on visiting the witch next door later and straightening her out. Now it looked like later was here.

“Should I call the tow truck?” the guard, whose head ping-ponged back and forth taking in the conversation, asked.

“No, hold off for a moment.” Tre tossed the man a couple of CDs from his stash.

After thanking Tre profusely, the guard loped off. He yelled over his shoulder, “You’re the man. Call the office if you need me, and I’ll be here on the double.”

Meanwhile Camille had parked her truck in the underground garage. She was undulating toward the building. Tre propped his feet on the console and prepared for a fight.

Ten minutes later, his attractive neighbor waltzed out. She had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you’d come back so soon,” she said, the moment he depressed the button and the window slid down. “I expected to be gone just a short time but then my phone rang.”

He wanted to say, “You are so full of it.” Angry as she’d made him, Tre couldn’t help noticing the way the pencil-thin skirt with the slit cut high on the thigh hugged her hips, and those marvelous honey-colored thighs.

Sliding out of his vehicle, he rested his butt against the driver’s door, crossed his arms, and gave Jen a steely-eyed look.

“You are probably one of the nerviest people I know. You called the leasing company on me, yet you have the gall to pull into a spot that costs money and isn’t your own.”

“It was close,” Jen said disarmingly. “Was that your music keeping me up all night or was that my imagination?”

Tre glared at her, ignoring the delicious smell of her perfume wafting his way. “What did you hope to accomplish by calling the leasing office?”

“I needed leverage to get through to you. I’d already tried appealing to your sense of decency.”

He wanted to shake her. The truth was that he was actually enjoying the banter. His adrenaline flowed when a woman could keep up with him. And she wasn’t starstruck. Maybe she didn’t know who he was or simply didn’t care. And even if she did, he had the feeling that his near celebrity status would not have made a difference.

“Truce?” Jen said, sticking out her hand. “Let me buy you lunch?”

He looked at her, frowning. This was one chick with lightning-quick moods. Just when he thought he’d figured her out.

“Fine and on one condition. No yogurt, rabbit food or cottage cheese for me. I’m not on a diet.”

Tre allowed his eyes to travel the length of her body. His intent was to unnerve her. She didn’t flinch.

Jen placed a hand on her hip as he continued to gawk. “Who said anything about being on a diet? Can you move your car so that I can get out? I’ll check in with you—maybe we can do that lunch later this week. Now I have to go. I’m already late getting back to work.”

Move his car? She was in his spot.

“What is it you do that requires such dedication?”

She smiled. “Nothing important. Office work. There’s the usual hour for lunch and right now that hour is up.”

Tre sensed something missing. He didn’t think she was a clerk. She seemed too take-charge. She was used to managing people. He got back in his car, and slowly put the Porsche in Reverse.

Jen scooted into her vehicle and shouted from the open window, “I’ll be in touch.” Burning rubber, she zoomed from the parking lot.

Tre heard laughter drift from up above. Camille was hanging out of her window, her cell phone to her ear, watching as he maneuvered his car into the vacant spot.

Jen St. George was a pain in the butt, and a fine-looking pain at that. It would be his mission to get to know her a whole lot better. She would be his challenge, a project to keep his adrenaline flowing.

Jen raced into her office waving a manila envelope at Chere. “Got it!”

Flopping into her seat, she shoved the disk into the computer’s drive and began banging away at the keyboard. So much to do and so little time.

“Glad you found it,” Chere said, looking up. “I wouldn’t want to be around if you had to retype that whole thing.”

Chere was actually attacking the stack in Jen’s in-box. Visions of a cruise must be dancing in her head. Jen had raced home because she thought she’d misplaced the column she’d been working on practically all night.

“I worked on this thing, tweaking it until I was bleary-eyed. I didn’t want to have to start again from scratch.”

“Luis is looking for you,” Chere muttered, a pen held between her clenched teeth. “Says it’s important.”

“Do you know what he wants?”

Since Jen started work at The Chronicle, Luis Gomez, her boss, had been too busy to do more than grunt in her direction. A compliment from him had been out of the question.

Jen reluctantly slid her chair out. She glanced at the sentences that Chere was highlighting.

Advice columnists are supposed to be open-minded.

Yet another reader ticked off at Dear Jenna. “

Who knows what Luis wants,” Chere snorted. “My girls think something heavy’s brewing. Maybe he’s under pressure from the publisher because of all that squawking about you using the word queer.”

Jen groaned. “This is getting old. I’ll go see what Luis wants.”

Jen wended her way through a maze of cubicles, passing other staff members absorbed in various stages of production. Heads shot up as she went by but things seemed quiet, too quiet. She’d learned to pay attention to her instincts and something was definitely brewing. She had the unsettling feeling everyone knew she had an audience with Luis.

Luis Gomez was sprawled behind the cluttered desk of his enormous corner office. A huge glass wall provided him with an unobstructed view of the newsroom. The room was poorly lit. Luis depended on his desk lamp to read. He was huddled over, squinting at some piece of copy and she couldn’t make out his expression. His office was called The Dungeon, and for good reason.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked from the doorway.

Luis had an unlit cigar clamped between his yellowing teeth. The half-moon glasses perched on the end of the nose gave him a mad scientist look. Totally ignoring the smoke-free environment, he’d clearly had a few drags. Jen had never seen Luis light up, but his office smelled like an ashtray and the odor lingered around him. He waved a meaty paw, gesturing for her to come in.

“Grab a seat,” he said, poking a stubby finger at a chair filled with newspapers.

Jen scooped the papers up but kept standing. There was no place to put them, at least no place she saw.

“Lay the lot over here.” Luis made room for the pile by sweeping another stack of newspapers to the floor. “Take a load off.”

Jen finally slid into the chair directly facing him.

“We got problems. We need to fix them,” Luis barked.

“What kinds of problems?” Jen asked carefully.

“Flamingo Beach is all stirred up. The gay alliance is bitching up a storm, claiming you’re homophobic.”

“Why?”

Let me spell it out,” Luis said, enunciating his words. “There is a very vocal leader who wants your hide. They’re ticked off and feel that you’re prejudiced against gays.”

Jen was out the chair like a shot. “That’s ridiculous. ‘Queer’ is a current-day expression.”

“Our readership is diverse,” Luis said patiently. “This is a conservative town, but our gay alliance is powerful. We need to stay on their good side.”

“I see.”

Luis Gomez just reinforced everything she’d suspected. He was a wuss.

“I want you to use the Sunday column to publish a retraction.”

“You want me to placate the group?”

Do what you need to do. But when you write this Sunday’s column make sure to stress you’re in favor of alternative lifestyles. You may even want to state that your bachelor’s mother needs to encourage open and honest communication with her son. Make sure to mention America is about freedom of choice.”

“Will you be writing my column for me?” Jen inquired coolly. Why all of a sudden was Luis pandering to a group he’d never openly supported? She’d privately thought him to be homophobic.

“Not writing, just suggesting. I’ve lived in this town long enough to know the gay alliance can make things damn uncomfortable.”

Luis crooked a finger, beckoning Jen closer.

Jen reluctantly took a couple of steps toward him then stopped. She thought she would gag from the smell of stale tobacco.

“The mayor’s son, Chet, is gay,” Luis confided. “Now you don’t want to tick off such an influential person. Solomon Rabinowitz may not be happy about his son’s sexual preference, but blood rules in the long run. He’ll support him and back the alliance one hundred percent.”

Jen took a deep breath. Should she tell Luis? No it would be her ace card. She’d learned one thing during her years as an advice columnist though: once you started waffling, you cut your own throat. From then on anything you said would be challenged. Her instincts told her to stick to her guns. But common sense reminded her she was the newbie in town and still unproven.

“I’ll compromise,” Jen promised. “How about I publish letters with contradictory opinions from mine.”

“Think about what I said,” Luis said, picking up the phone and punching in numbers. “The paper’s been flooded with calls. That disk jockey from WARP is all over you. He’s even challenging you to come on his station.”

“And maybe I will.”

Luis’s glasses slipped a notch. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“Think ratings, Luis. Think of the papers we’d sell.”

“Hmmmmm. I’ll reserve commentary until I see this week’s numbers.”

“By the way, Luis,” Jen said, preparing to leave. “My brother Ellis is queer.”

Luis’s lower lip flapped open. He quickly composed himself. “I want readers to love Dear Jenna,” he said gruffly. “They should be hanging on to her every word. I’m grooming you to be the next Abby.”

His phone rang. “Luis Gomez. Sure, I’ll hold for the mayor.”

Jen had thought Luis Gomez was a wuss. Now she knew he was just playing the political game.

Chapter 4

Tre held the receiver away from his ear. For the last three minutes the station’s manager and owner had been yakking on and on, acting as if Tre was the best thing since pumpernickel.

Boris was an ex-army brat of bi-racial descent. He was the product of an African-American mother and a German father. The Germanic genes overrode the African. Boris was usually not this effusive. Something most definitely was up.

“Ratings are soaring. You’ve got Flamingo Beach hooked on WARP,” Boris gushed.

Perhaps it was time to hit him up for a raise. No, he’d wait to do it face-to-face. Eyeball-to-eyeball.

“How about I come in a half an hour early before the show. We’ll talk then.”

“Wait! Wait!” Boris shouted. “We need more than a half an hour to formulate a plan. We need to keep this momentum going. Do what you need to do to get that columnist on the show. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Tre hung up thinking that any hope of getting some shut-eye before his show was impossible now. What did Boris mean by he would make it worth his while? Did it mean that he would finally get the coveted prime-time slot and would have his own syndicated show? Or did it mean that there would be some money coming his way?

Either way, the conversation had left Tre wound up and wired. He paced the spacious living room, circled around the sectional couch and crossed over to the French doors that led out to a balcony with an unfettered view of the ocean. This was what living in Florida was all about. This was what he had worked for.

There was a certain tranquility that came with living on the water. He even loved the briny ocean smell. Maybe a run would loosen him up. No, he didn’t have time to cover his usual five miles today. He would just have to stand here taking everything in, breathe and enjoy it.

Several industrious souls were taking advantage of the cooler temperatures. The boardwalk was busy for that time of day, probably because the sunset promised to be a beauty. Teenagers whizzed by on skateboards and Rollerblades, almost knocking the pedestrians over. A few senior citizens, those who’d stood their ground refusing to move when gentrification rolled around, carried groceries in the baskets of their three-wheel bikes. Much as Tre sometimes groused about Flamingo Beach’s lack of sophistication, he had to admit he had it made.

He thought about earlier today when he’d allowed Jen St. George to push his buttons. He’d worked damn hard on controlling a temper that had often gotten him in trouble and he wasn’t going to let the ballsy woman undo all of his hard work.

He ran a hand over the closely cropped hair that his fans, mostly female, said made him look sexy and mysterious. They compared him to supermodel Ty Beckford. Must be the dark, shiny skin. Lines like that had once fed his ego. But his days of quick hits and meaningless sex were over with. He was looking for something more substantial now. Maybe even marriage, but something longer lasting than the occasional fling.

Thoughts of sex made Jen St. George come to mind. Now she would be a woman he wouldn’t mind breaking his forced celibacy for. She intrigued him because she was not impressed or intimidated by him. He’d have to make sure he took her up on her lunch invitation and soon.

Right now he had a bigger challenge; how to get that Dear Jenna woman on his show. Ratings were everything. Ratings were what Boris understood. If he could persuade her to have a live debate he’d have it made. He’d get her on the air and make mincemeat of her. Dear Jenna could help get him where he needed to go.

He definitely had big plans for himself. One of them was moving up to an urban city where his hip way of talking and crass irreverence would be applauded and not misunderstood, where he would reach a bigger audience that was not necessarily white or black. He needed a major radio station that would recognize his talent and reward it accordingly.

Tre planned on holding his own with the likes of Howard Stern. A Northeast audience would get him. They were usually sophisticated and more worldly. His voice could reach millions and not just the thousands it did today.

He imagined the rush of walking down the street and having people stop him to shake hands or maybe they’d just reach out to touch him. He would be an inspiration to his people, especially little black boys who’d strayed. He’d been kind of wayward himself growing up. Yes, New York City would be part of the plan. It was not an impossible goal if he played his cards right.

As Tre continued to fantasize about New York City and a growing fan base his eyelids grew heavy. He jolted awake at the sound of the alarm clock that luckily he’d remembered to set earlier on.

Jen had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapping her body in a fluffy towel when the doorbell rang. It played one of her favorite tunes. Jen groaned. Hopefully security would have called before letting Chere up.

The bell rang again. It sounded like her visitor had put an index finger to the spot and forgotten it. Fine, she wasn’t going to be given much of a choice. Her robe, the one she hadn’t worn in years, was still in a box in her closet. Whoever it was would have to deal with her the way she was.

She took her time getting to the front door, and took another second pressing her eye to the peephole. She assessed the distorted image, trying to determine whether it was male or female.

Trestin Noisemaker had come to her. She hadn’t had to make that phone call to invite him to lunch. Jen made sure the bath towel was tightly tucked around her before opening the door a crack.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

“No you may not. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I came with a peace offering.”

“I invited you to lunch,” she tossed back. “That was my peace offering for parking in your spot.”

An arm thrust through the opening, holding something in a tissue wrapper.

“Uh-uh!” Jen said, closing the door an inch on that arm.

“It’s wine. Try it, you’ll like it,” Trestin sang.

“I can’t accept it.”

“Why not?”

She thought for a moment, her front teeth clamped down on her bottom lip. “Because, well because, I don’t accept gifts from men.”

“I’m not just any man. I’m your neighbor. I’ve kept you up at night. This is my way of saying I’m sorry.”

Camille Lewis probably had an eye to the peephole. Most likely so did Ida. The entire building could be listening to her business.

“Can’t I come in for a minute?” Tre whined.

“I’m not dressed.” One hand gripped the top of the towel even as she stood aside, allowing him to enter.

Trestin placed one foot on the threshold, the other in the hallway. He was still holding the wine.

“I’ve never been accused of forcing myself on a woman,” he said, smiling at her unease.

“There’s always a first time.”

Trestin’s gaze swept over the living and dining space. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

Jen took the wine bottle from him and set it down on her sideboard.

“It’s a lovely cabernet,” Tre added. “Perhaps you can save it for when we have dinner.”

“In that case it might turn to vinegar. We are having lunch, not dinner,” she reminded him.

“Look,” Tre said, “I don’t have the time or inclination to turn this into a pissing contest. I’m on my way to work. Drink it alone and in good health.”

“I’ll accept your gift on one condition,” she surprised herself by saying.

He hiked an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“We have our drink in public. And by that I don’t mean a cozy restaurant.”

“Where did you have in mind?”

“Neutral territory. We take the bottle to the beach or around the pool. Somewhere on the property where everyone can see us.”

“I’ll accept your invitation on one condition,” he now countered.

“And what is that?”

“You wear your sexiest bathing suit to the pool. While you think about that, I have to go.”

“What is it that you do?” Jen called to his disappearing back.

“Let’s just say I’m in communications,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“So am I.”

The moment she shut the door she marched over to where she’d set the bottle down. Curious to see if his taste matched hers, Jen removed the bottle of wine from its wrapper and checked out the label. The wine had to have set him back at least a twenty spot.

The annoying man actually had good taste.

Boris Schwartz, WARP’s owner and station manager, was seated in his office, a cooling mug of coffee in front of him as usual. Tre leaned his butt against the doorjamb, fingered the diamond stud in his ear, and waited for Boris to look up.

“You’re ten minutes late,” he announced, glancing up and beckoning Tre to come in.

“Sorry. I got held up.”

“Hmmmm.”

“You said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Have a seat.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

The Afro-German brought the mug to his lips. His eyes never left Tre’s. In one precise movement, he set the cup down on a desk that was painfully neat. “Get Dear Jenna on your show while the interest level is still there. It should happen in the next day or two. Understand?”

Tre felt like clicking his heels and saying “Aye, aye, sir.” Instead he said, “And if the woman won’t agree to come on?”

“Appeal to her ego. There’s something in this for both of you.” Boris’s index finger made a rat-a-tat sound on his desk. “There’s got to be some kind of carrot we can dangle to get her on WARP.”

“I have an idea,” Tre said, a smile creeping across his face. It was raw and unformed but it just might work. “I’ll call Chet Rabinowitz.”

“The mayor’s son? The leader of the gay coalition or alliance or whatever it’s called.”

“Alliance. He’s an acquaintance of mine.”

Boris scrunched a nose that took up the majority of his face. “Where are you going with this?”

“Tell me what I can expect if these ratings continue the way they’ve been lately, and I’ll share with you what I have in mind.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

For the next fifteen minutes Boris spoke and Tre listened, interrupting occasionally to get specifics when he felt he might be getting snowed.

Tre left the station manager’s office feeling upbeat and positive. He was well on his way.

Now to get Chet Rabinowitz to agree to come on the air. If he dangled the promise of an on-air discussion of the Dear Jenna column, that might persuade the vocal activist to say yes. Chet was a publicity hound, especially if it would further the gay cause.

And, if these broadcasts went as Tre thought they would, D’Dawg would then invite Daddy, the mayor, to come on the show.

Tre rubbed his hands together gleefully. Yes! He was onto something. He was on a roll.

Chet Rabinowitz was with a customer when the phone rang. His partner Harley hurried off to get it. Business had been slow lately and they needed a large order to help pay this month’s expenses.

“All About Flowers,” Harley, the alpha part of the twosome answered in his low baritone. “It’s for you, Chet,” he said, waving the phone at him.

Chet hurried to take the call, leaving Rico Catalban still debating over what color roses to send to his newly hired hostess at the Pink Flamingo. In a small town like Flamingo Beach where everyone knew each other, no employee would dare file sexual harassment charges if the romantic interest wasn’t reciprocated. Not if they knew what was good for them. They’d be laughed off the beach and most certainly would not be hired by any other local merchant, not even for a menial job.

“This is Chet,” the florist gushed.

Music played in the background but no one responded. Chet frowned. It was probably a solicitor, but maybe not—Harley would have hung up on her.

Chet covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Who’s looking for me?”

Harley shrugged. “I don’t know. The person was well spoken. I thought it might be a reporter. We did send out that press release.”

Harley continued to make suggestions to the Catalban man, who was beautiful enough to be a woman, before he finally shouted over his shoulder, “On second thought, it might be the radio station. I think I heard WARP mentioned and that DJ with the canine name.”

“Oh!” Chet’s Kenneth Cole loafers now tapped out a beat. He’d had a secret crush on Tre Monroe. Too bad the DJ wasn’t into men. One perfectly manicured finger worried his long lashes. It felt wonderful to be fully out of the closet and able to openly admire someone of the same gender.

“D’Dawg calling for Charles Rabinowitz,” a deep male voice said.

“This is Chet, Tre. Long time no talk?” Was he being too familiar? They were really only nodding acquaintances, though privately Chet thought the African-American man was the buffest male he knew and the hottest. They worked out at the same health club. Tre’s dark-skinned good looks, sculptured features and soulful brown eyes belonged on a male model. Too bad he hadn’t chosen a profession where he could strut his stuff. He would have given Ty Beckford a run for his money.

“If I were any better, I would be purring,” the sexy DJ said.

Chet loved the sound of his voice. It came from deep in his belly and reminded him of a popular R&B singer.

“Is there something that All About Flowers can do for you?” he asked.

Chet already had visions of gaining WARP’s exclusive account, maybe even being put on a retainer. The free publicity would be just what the store needed and if Tre only mentioned the flower shop once on the show they’d have it made.

“What are you doing tomorrow night, say around nine?” Tre asked.

Chet laid an open palm on his chest where his heart was supposed to be. Using his other hand, he crooked a finger at his lover and inhaled loudly. But Harley was already on a roll, explaining to Rico that some women liked a more subtle approach. He was busy recommending flowers that were classy and understated, suggesting calla lilies, orchids or even sunflowers as alternatives. “Why be like any other chap on the make sending the usual boring dozen roses?” Chet heard Harley ask.

“What did you have in mind?” Chet countered, focusing on his caller again.

“Come be a guest on my show. You can plug your flower shop as much as you like.”

“Why?”

Oh, my Gawd! This was a dream come true. It was an opportunity no one in his right mind would pass up!

“I’m interested in your reaction to Dear Jenna’s advice. I want to know what the community thinks of her using the word queer. And I want to know what your group would like to see happen.”

“The word queer is—”

“Yeah, I know. Offensive. You’re gay. You’ve worked hard to earn respect. You enjoy an alternative lifestyle. Use my show to straighten out the lady. She’s new in town. We can’t allow some upstart to get away with offending upstanding citizens.”

“Good point!” Chet was swept along with the excitement. Being asked on the D’Dawg show was an honor. He would be a fool to miss out on the opportunity to increase business for the flower shop.

He got the particulars and hung up after agreeing to be at the station half an hour before the start of the show.

Now he needed to center himself. Chet hurried in the direction of the bathroom. When he returned, Harley had completed his sales pitch. Rico bought his suggestions and Harley wrapped the huge Vanda orchid in cellophane and added curled ribbons to the arrangement as a festive touch.

“There, Bianca will love it,” Harley said. “If she doesn’t she’s not the woman for you.”

Chet waited for Rico to leave the store before sinking onto the pink divan with the claw feet.

“I think I’m going to faint.”

“Please don’t. At least wait until we’re sure no customers are around. I’ll get you water and a cold cloth for your beet-red face.”

“I’m hyperventilating,” Chet said, now prostrate on the seat.

Harley was back with a chilled bottle of water. “Here, take deep breaths. What did Tre Monroe want with you?”

Chet fanned his heated cheeks with his open palm. “He asked me on the show. Me, Harley. He wanted my opinion on missy, you know that Jenna woman, the advice columnist.”

“You don’t say. Work it, boy. This is a good opportunity to promote All About Flowers.”

“So you approve? You think I should go?”

“Of course. You’ll be supported by every gay person in this town. Your appearing on the show will increase our visibility and will let these uptight folks know that we are a force to be reckoned with.” Harley’s fingers cupped Chet’s chin. “You don’t think you’re being set up, do you?”

Chet frowned. He hadn’t thought of that possibility. “What would be the point? Tre is not a stupid man. He knows who my father is. While Dad may not agree with my choices he would never publicly say it. He would defend me to the core. We are after all part of his constitution. My mother would leave him if he turned against me, his own child.”

“Okay, if you say so, but I smell a rat. You know what I think?” Harley didn’t wait for an answer. “I think he’s also invited Dear Jenna on the show.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I bet you dinner he did.”

Chapter 5

“It’s for you,” Chere said, waving the phone at Jen. Her voice was loud enough that many of the staff in the surrounding cubicles stuck their heads over the partitions.

Jen, busily banging away, was more preoccupied with meeting the deadline for this Sunday’s paper than taking calls from Flamingo Beach’s ticked citizens. Words were not coming easily today, largely because she was censoring herself. She’d never had to pick and choose her words before. Now because of that disconcerting conversation with Luis she was being careful.

She looked up, pen clenched between her teeth and said, “Find out who it is and take a message.”

“Maybe you don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

Chere came closer, one large hand clamped over the mouthpiece. “It sounds important.”

Exasperated, Jen huffed out a sigh. “Whatever. Deal with it, Chere. Just take a message and I’ll return the call.”

Trestin had beaten her to it. He’d taken the initiative to invite her to lunch today. She’d accepted only because she felt guilty. With a tight deadline hovering, she should have pushed him off until the following week. But he’d been both insistent and persistent. He’d even stopped by her apartment again.

Thankfully she’d been out, so he’d slid a note under her door. Jen’s guilt had kicked in. She’d felt obligated to accept. She was the one who’d initially offered. She’d go just to keep the peace. After all, she lived next door to the man. It might pay to be civil.

Chere returned the receiver to her ear. She fumbled for her high school English. “Dear Jenna isn’t here. Who’d you say this is again? Oh, my God! You gotta be kidding. What does he want with Dear Jenna?” Picking up a pencil, she began scribbling, then shoved the note in Jen’s direction. “Sure you don’t want to pick up. No not you,” she said back into the receiver. Chere was breathing heavily when she hung up.

“That phone call has you that worked up?” Jen said, her fingers flying.

“That was that DJ from WARP. He wants you to come on the show.” Chere was now hopping up and down on those ridiculous platform heels, double chins bouncing. Every piece of loose flesh jiggling.

The pen Jen still clenched between her teeth, escaped her grip, falling on the Formica desk and rolling across the floor.

“Why would he think I’d want to be on his show?”

Chere’s massive quarterback’s shoulders rose. “Luis would want you to step up to the challenge. You said you were interested in growing readership. This is one way to do it. I’m so excited I have to go to the loo.” She tottered from the room and headed for the bathroom. Jen suspected she was off to fill in her buddies who made up most of the clerical staff.

Chere was back in twenty minutes huffing and puffing. “You betcha call that radio station,” she threatened.

Jen rolled her eyes. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“You have to,” Chere said advancing. “My girls listen to WARP all day long. Tonight’s broadcast is hot. They got the mayor’s son coming to talk about you.”

“They do not. And even if they did I’m not being baited into responding.” Jen’s attention returned to her column. She muttered, “The mayor’s son can get on the radio and say whatever he wants. If I leave it alone and not take a defensive mode this whole thing will eventually blow over.”

“That’s what you think.” Chere snorted. “You haven’t lived in this town long enough.”

Jen glanced at her watch. If she didn’t leave right away she would be late for her lunch appointment. She’d insisted she make the reservations. She’d chosen home turf. They would be lunching at the Pink Flamingo restaurant. Out in the open and relatively safe.

“Save whatever else you have to say for later. I have to go,” Jen said, picking up her purse. “Make sure to answer the phones.”

Chere mumbled something under her breath. It was probably a good thing Jen didn’t hear.

Fifteen minutes later she hurried into the Pink Flamingo. Considering it was a weekday, it was crowded. The same hostess from the other night seated her. Today she wore a flamingo pink miniskirt and midriff-baring top. No sign of Trestin as yet. Jen followed the curvaceous young woman to a table in the center of the room, noticing the small butterfly tattooed on her lower back.

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