Sex on Flamingo Beach (19 page)

M
iriam Young, the Flip-flop Momma, was on television being grilled by a late night talk show host.

“What would you do differently if you were the mayor of Flamingo Beach?” she was asked.

Rowan, who was having a hard time falling asleep, tuned in to the interview. He'd gotten the impression that the politician who'd lost to Mayor Rabinowitz really cared about the town and its people.

Miriam talked about lowering real estate taxes and making sure that everyone in town, rich or poor, got reasonable health care. She talked about improving reading scores of students by offering remedial classes, so that those graduating from high school really knew how to read. She spoke of creating opportunities for the homeless to get them on their feet. She was engaging, persuasive and charismatic, the complete opposite of Mayor Rabinowitz.

“Would you have voted for building a casino in town?” the host asked Miriam bluntly.

“I'm not entirely opposed to a casino if the funds are used for education as promised.”

“It sounds as if you're doubtful they will be.”

“Ask the city council members those questions. You might also want to ask how the votes were handled when it came to the casino. I think many felt pressured.”

Talk about stirring the pot. Miriam clearly hadn't gotten over losing the election to Mayor Rabinowitz. Ballot boxes had been allegedly stuffed and the election stolen from her. Even the manner in which the recount was handled didn't add up. It spoke to Rabinowitz's ethics and morality.

“I just might ask a few of the city council to come on the show,” the interviewer added. “Maybe they can address the rumors of bribes and corruption. What do you think?”

“No comment,” Miriam Young wisely responded. She switched the conversation to that of the mall, and the new businesses that would come to town, ultimately meaning more jobs.

Although he liked Miriam and what she had to say, Rowan eventually turned off the television. Tomorrow would be a very long day. He plumped up his pillows and thought about Emilie. They were finally getting somewhere, connecting on a much deeper level. She was starting to believe he was serious. Much as he cared for her, he couldn't let that influence his staying in this town.

Rowan had always had difficulties with Flamingo Beach's archaic politics, and its overall small-time outlook. In the past twenty-four hours he'd come to the conclusion that he wanted out of building the casino. Although ground had been broken, construction wasn't that far along. And he'd made up his mind to book a last-minute flight to New York to consult with his attorneys. No amount of money mattered if his good name was on the line. And with all this talk about kickbacks, well, he would just sooner not have James Morse involved.

Rowan gave his pillow another thump. He'd have Blanca book him a flight to New York first thing tomorrow.

“You got another one of those e-mails,” Zoe said, the moment Emilie came sailing in.

“E-mails? What are we talking about?”

“The ones dissing you for being involved with a white man.”

After speaking with Chere, Emilie had shoved the whole unpleasant episode to the back of her mind. She recalled Zoe had insisted on printing out the silly things and saving them in her folder.

“What does this e-mail say?” she asked distractedly. “Is it more of the same?”

She hadn't been publicly seen with Rowan in a while. How would anyone know he'd been over last night, made her dinner, and then they'd made love, unless they were stalking her? Right now she had more important things to worry about, such as the logistics for moving the jam. In a few minutes she had a planning session with the advisory board.

“Sure you want me to read it?” Zoe asked.

“Go ahead. If it's threatening then maybe it's time to get the police involved.”

Zoe opened her folder, took a deep breath and read from the paper.

“It says, ‘Rowan James takes bribes just like the mayor. He's using you for sex, girl. Did he tell you he was leaving on a flight to New York this afternoon and taking Maggie Smith with him? If you don't believe me you should check.'”

“I can't imagine what this person would have to gain spewing all this junk,” Emilie mumbled although she was shaken up. Was Rowan really taking Maggie to New York? He hadn't mentioned a word about this trip.

“If you want my opinion she's trying to create problems between you and Mr. James,” Zoe said wisely, placing a hand on her hip. “I'd have to wonder why.”

“How do you know it's a she?”

“Because no man's going to do this. This is a jealous woman talking.”

“Stalking,” Emilie corrected with a false laugh.

But the seed of doubt had already been planted. There was too much talk about bribery and corruption surrounding the casino to fluff this off. And much as she hated to believe it, Rowan would have to be involved. He'd brokered the deal and helped get funding.

“I really have to run,” she said, grabbing a manila folder from her desk and taking off for one of the meeting rooms.

Emilie tried her best to concentrate as the planning committee, consisting of Larry Moorehouse, a couple of the musicians, Isabella Fuentes and two of the city council, Keanu, three of the resort's managers and Tre, worked out the details. Camille Lewis had somehow managed to wangle a place on board.

Larry volunteered to prescreen the hopefuls by holding auditions on the beach for the next couple of weeks. He and some of the musicians who weren't competing would make their selections, and at the end of those two weeks, twenty-five people would be finalists. The actual finals would be held at the Flamingo Beach Spa and Resort. Each week the judges and audience would eliminate two people until finally there was a winner.

“What's the grand prize?” Larry Moorehouse asked, turning to Tre expectantly.

“I'll be taping the auditions so the winner is guaranteed airtime. I'll play his or her CD every chance I get.

“Awesome. That's great exposure.” Larry was clearly excited.

“We'd better get busy advertising.” This came from Isabella.

“Is the city able to absorb some of the cost?” Emilie quickly asked. “We could make a really big splash if that was the case.”

After some hesitation one of the city councilwomen said, “We'll look into it and get back to you.”

That was all she could ask. Emilie outlined the resort's plans for advertising, explaining that she'd gone ahead and paid for radio and television spots and taken out huge classifieds in the papers.

“Who'll be judging the finals?” Camille Lewis sneered, shooting a knowing look Emilie's way. “Let me guess, you've already asked the developer.”

Why was everyone so obsessed with her nonrelationship with Rowan? Rather than getting bent out of shape, Emilie pasted a pleasant smile on her face. She'd like nothing better than to wring the old gossip's neck but what good would that do?

“I'm glad you brought that up, Camille. I've gotten commitments from two celebrity judges. I'm sure you've heard of Ice Cube and Twenty Cents.”

The group's expressions said it all. They were saucer eyed. And for once Camille was speechless.

“How did you pull that off?” Larry Moorehouse asked, looking at Emilie with some admiration.

“I have my ways.”

More discussion followed and committee heads were elected. Finally the meeting adjourned, with the understanding that there would be a follow-up session in the next few days.

As Emilie headed out, Tre caught up with her.

“That went surprisingly well.”

“I suppose, especially given some of the personalities.” She rolled her eyes in Camille's direction.

Tre hid a smile.

“I haven't seen Jen around in a while. Things must be busy at the
Chronicle
.”

“Actually she's been prepping to take over for Maggie Smith while she's absent.”

There was an empty feeling in the pit of Emilie's stomach. She had a premonition she already knew the answer to her next question.

“Where's Maggie going?”

“She left for New York this afternoon for three or four days. The station managers are really pleased with the
Tre and Jenna
ratings so they asked Jen to cover for Maggie.”

Emilie hoped she was not coming off as bitchy but she just had to say it. “Jen didn't strike me as the type to talk about crafts or homemaking.”

“She isn't. She's handling the segment dedicated to relationships.”

“I'll be sure to listen then. Gotta go.”

Emilie took off up the hallway at a run. Ignoring Zoe's puzzled expression, she raced into her office and slammed shut her door. Picking up the telephone, she punched in Rowan's number and immediately got voice mail. It meant his cell phone was off.

Taking a deep breath, she found his business card amongst a collection of others and stabbed at the numbers.

“James Morse,” a lilting voice answered.

“Rowan James, please.”

“Mr. James isn't in. He left for New York.”

Emilie inhaled a mouthful of air. “How long will he be gone?”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Emilie Woodward.”

“He'll be back in three or four days. I can take a message or if it's urgent Mr. Morse can help you.”

“Not to worry, I'll reach Rowan when he gets back.”

Long after she'd hung up, Emilie sat at her desk taking deep, calming breaths trying to figure out exactly what she was dealing with. Rowan had practically spent the night at her house yet he'd never once mentioned a trip to New York. What made it even more suspicious was that a woman he'd been out with before was heading for the same destination, and for exactly the same number of days.

On her way home that evening, Emilie impulsively stopped by Joya's villa. Her friend was working in her garden when she arrived.

“Hey, girl,” Joya said, looking up from her weeding. “What brings you by?”

Emilie helped Joya tug out one particularly nasty weed. “I need a shoulder to cry on.”

“What's going on?”

Emilie gave her friend the Cliff's Notes version of what she'd found out about Rowan and Maggie.

Joya listened, her face expressionless. She wiped her muddy hands on her cutoffs. “Let's go inside, get some iced tea and talk about this?”

“Is Derek home?”

“He will be eventually.”

Emilie sat in Joya's cheerful kitchen sipping her tea and nibbling on chocolate-chip cookies. The television's volume was turned down low and the evening news flickered across the screen.

“It could be a coincidence that Maggie and Rowan are headed for the same destination,” Joya said, taking a bite of her cookie.

“If Rowan was on the up-and-up, why didn't he mention going to New York last night?”

“Maybe the trip came up at the last minute. Derek never mentioned Rowan was going out of town, and usually he does. Ever wonder who's sending you these e-mails?”

“I thought about it a time or two and figured it was one of the busybodies. Camille Lewis, maybe?”

“I don't think so. Camille's a bitch but she's not underhanded. She'd be the type to get in your face.”

“I can't imagine it would be the reporter from the
Chronicle,
the one Rowan took to the cocktail party,” Emilie said. “I don't even know the woman.”

“You don't have to. If she thinks you're a threat she'll do what she can to eliminate the competition. What if it's not a woman? What if it's a man?”

“I doubt it.”

“It could be Mack Allen. He's been trying to get your attention.”

The front door opened and a tired-looking Derek crawled through. He leaned over to kiss his wife, growling softly in her ear. “What's this about Mack Allen?”

“Emilie's been getting e-mails from an unknown source. Nasty stuff calling her a white lover.”

Derek exhaled on a whoosh of air. “It's amazing how much time folks in this town have on their hands.” He picked up one of the pot's covers. “Dinner smells good. You staying, Emilie?”

“No, I need to go home. I've got more packing to do.”

She didn't want to be a third wheel encroaching on their intimate dinner plans.

“She's staying,” Joya announced firmly. “I have enough food for six people. Emilie, help me set the table.”

Joya pointed to the kitchen cabinets where the everyday plates were kept. Soon they were joining hands, saying grace and eating the fried chicken and macaroni and cheese that Joya had prepared.

“Did you and Rowan have a lot of meetings today?” Joya asked her husband, who was wolfing down his meal as if this were the first time he'd eaten.