An Unlikely Match. Cynthia Thomason
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Hopefully when I’m back in Manhattan in a month, Jack thought. He disconnected and crossed the street to the Hibiscus Resort Hotel. It looked as good as any place else. As long as it had a coffeemaker and a refrigerator. Jack couldn’t function without coffee first thing in the mornings, and he wasn’t opposed to a cold beer at night.
He opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by the tinkling melody of wind chimes hanging from a giant plastic hibiscus flower.
CLAIRE OPENED THE OVEN DOOR and slid a platter of chicken breasts inside. Then she looked at her daughter who was haphazardly arranging globs of dough onto a cookie sheet. “Jane, you might want to be a little more careful about pulling those biscuits apart.”
Jane’s efforts resembled the uneven rooftops of an adobe village more than the uniform shapes of refrigerated biscuits pictured on the side of the cardboard tube.
“I’m being artistic, Mommy,” Jane said. “Each one will look different from the others when they’re cooked.”
Claire smiled. “I’m sure that’s what Mr. Pillsbury had in mind, honey.” She didn’t say anything when Jane sprinkled the tops with colored sugar crystals and painted on smiles with chocolate icing.
Aunt Pet breezed in through the back door from her cottage fifty yards behind the main house. She studied the creations on the cookie sheet and tugged on Jane’s wavy auburn ponytail. “Gorgeous, pussycat. If there’s anything I hate, it’s plain old biscuits.”
Then she walked to the sink, took the last ear of corn from the colander and began shucking it. “We having company for dinner?” she asked.
Claire dried her hands on a paper towel. “No, why do you ask?”
“A car was pulling up in front as I walked over here. One of those big SUVs, you know, the gas guzzlers. Black.”
Claire thought for a second. “I don’t know who that could be.” Tossing the towel into the garbage, she headed toward the living room. “I hope this doesn’t mean there’s a problem in town.”
She glanced out the window and watched Jack Hogan climb the sloped brick walk to her front porch. When she opened the door to him, her hand was shaking. “What brings you here, Mr. Hogan?”
“Misfortune, Mayor,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home.” He glanced over his shoulder at the myriad hanging baskets circling the porch ceiling and at the swinging sign over the steps. “The guy who gave me directions was pretty accurate. He said look for a house named Tansy Hill.” His lips curled in a subtle grin. “You people don’t use normal addresses?”
“We have them,” she said. “The U.S. postal service requires it, but everyone in town knows the older homes by their original names, so I rarely use my street number.”
“And Tansy?”
“It’s a medicinal herb. The first owner of this house was an herbalist. The backyard is covered in different varieties.”
“Oh.” He looked around her into the living room.
Claire took the hint. “Would you like to come in? I suppose if you’re here about some sort of misfortune, you might want to sit down.”
She stepped back to let him in the house. He’d shed his sports jacket, but still looked decidedly un-Heron Point. His black shirt with charcoal pinstriping was well tailored and obviously expensive, but even with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, Jack Hogan still looked like he’d come from a boardroom.
“Thanks.” He surveyed the parlor, obviously trying to choose the most appropriate chair. Claire had never thought critically about her tastes before, but now that she looked at the furnishings from a man’s perspective, she supposed the room had an overwhelmingly feminine look. He picked a large old rattan barrel chair she had re-covered in a delicate pastel stripe. Next to the sofa, it was the most substantial piece in the room and hugged his sculpted body admirably.
Claire sat on the overstuffed floral love seat covered with what she now realized was an impractical number of fringed pillows. “Now, what about this misfortune?”
He came right to the point. “I need a place to stay.”
Her first thought was that he was suggesting he might be invited to stay at Tansy Hill. Otherwise why had he come here? It was a ridiculous notion, of course. Still, Claire tamped down a shiver of panic. No man besides her stepson, Carlos, had ever slept a night at Tansy Hill. Claire didn’t even date. “There are lots of places on the island,” she said. “You won’t have any trouble finding something for tonight.”
“That’s just it. Tonight only. It’s Thursday, and everybody has vacancies. But nobody has anything for the weekend.”
“Oh? You’re staying that long?”
He smiled, showing those white teeth again, which now were an interesting contrast to his five o’clock stubble of dark beard. “Don’t sound so disappointed, but yes. I’m staying a month or more.”
Claire tried to ignore the gasp of surprise that came from the hallway. But ignoring Pet’s entrance was impossible. Her aunt sailed into the room in advance of her billowing red silk lounge pants and a mist of spicy incense. “A month?” she said. “You don’t say?”
Hogan stood up and shook her outstretched hand. “Hello, again.” He seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “That’s right. And I’m finding that every place in town can accommodate me for the weeknights, but not for Friday and Saturday.”
“We’re a weekend tourist destination,” Claire said. “Heron Point’s population nearly doubles every Friday night. Our seafood restaurants alone bring folks from all over the state. And our shoreline is one of the most unique in Florida.”
Hogan sat again and crossed his ankle over the opposite knee. “You sound like a brochure, Mrs. Betancourt. Gee, I love the town already.”
Pet waved her hand, making the dozen bells on her silver bracelet jingle softly. “It’s a wonderful town,” she said. “You can’t help but love it.”
“I won’t get the chance to find out if I don’t get a place to stay.” He focused on Claire again. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I figure if anybody could point me in the direction of a permanent room to rent, it would be you. I don’t look forward to sleeping five nights a week in a hotel and the last two in my car.”
“Who are you?”
Claire whirled around at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Jane, this is Mr. Hogan,” she said as Jane came to the middle of the room. “He’s staying in Heron Point for a while.”
Hogan stood up again. The man did have manners. Unfortunately he didn’t appear to know quite what to do once he was face-to-face with a human who stood less than four feet tall. He took his cue from Jane who, as usual, exhibited not the least sign of shyness. She thrust her little hand at his midsection and he enclosed it in a palm that seemed three times the size of hers. “How do you do, Jane?”
“Are you staying for dinner?” she asked. “Aunt Pet thought you might be. I have extra biscuits.”
Not for the first time, Jane’s characteristic impulsiveness put Claire in an uncomfortable position. She thought of the three chicken breasts she’d just put in the oven. She supposed she could slice them up, add a can of mushroom soup and stretch the menu to include three women and one formidable, substantially built man. Of course not taken into consideration was the fact that Claire did not especially want Jack Hogan to stay to dinner.
He eliminated her concern. “No, I’m just here to ask your mother a favor. I need a place to stay.”
“You could stay here I suppose,” Jane said. “We have a guest room.”
Claire stiffened.
Pet hooted.
“Well,