She blinked at the indoor lighting. Bob and Liza stood in the middle of a group of laughing island residents. Well, that’s not surprising. He was their realtor, and he was also their Little League coach at the community center while Liza worked the phones to raise money for the uniforms. Despite the cheer, the room had the curious air of an inquisition with a little cocktail party thrown in. It was definitely set up for confrontation. She could hear it in the low-key buzz.
The metal folding chairs sat in straight rows on the wide-plank floor—the very floor Blanche had danced upon at age six for ballet lessons. A lot of things had changed in twenty-five years, but not the hall. It was the place of weddings, meetings, plays, and political receptions—some of them contentious gatherings, but nothing like this one. It was now a battlefield.
Blanche waved at Mayor Pat Strall who lumbered to her seat at a long table. She hunched her shoulders at Blanche and looked peeved. It wasn’t something she’d done, or said. The mayor was generally peeved. Everybody knew she was not in favor of the land development, but opinion on her views had come up iffy. She’d made it clear she was fed up with all the wrangling. Now several council members flitted around, waving papers at each other and at the mayor, who shooed them away.
Blanche glanced at the side door. Still no Langstrom. She grabbed a chair.
Becky Sharmette of Island Knitters, Needles, and Knots nudged her arm. “Hear he’s a real looker.” She winked.
Blanche grimaced.
“Let me tell ya, it’s all plenty scary.” Becky’s expression went from sunny to gloomy. “If those developers get their way, we’ll have to go. Just can’t afford their houses and those taxes…”
Blanche was visibly alarmed. “Where would you go?”
“Don’t know.”
“And the business?”
“Kafoompa.” Her fingers shot open. “That development would be one big explosion in our faces. Wish Mayor Pat and that bunch could do something about it.”
Blanche studied the government officials of Santa Maria Island. An ancient air conditioner rattled above the mayor’s head and dripped onto her limp pancake of a hat. She inched it off her forehead and fanned herself violently with the night’s agenda. She’d told everyone every chance she got that she was ready to throw it in and that she looked forward to assuming her throne (a barstool) at Stinky’s, the immensely popular hamburger shack run by her three daughters. It was time for new blood in town.
Blanche slumped—and let her imagination shove her into the rabbit hole of daydreams where she often escaped. She was the new mayor. She saw herself sitting on top of a bulldozer, scooping up these developer hairball types and dumping them at the airport, or worse.
Trouble was, Langstrom was real and not a dream and he was not going back to Chicago. Even if he did, she feared there would be others just like him. He had started something that was going to be pretty darn hard to put a stop to.
She’d tried to avoid him around town, but it had been difficult. He was everywhere: glad-handing at the coffee shop, talking up the land development. Her own newspaper had followed him around to snag some “color.” Wade! The reporter was worse than sunburn and a rash to boot, and he was hot on Langstrom’s tail. Kissing it.
She shifted on the chair, curling her fingers around the hard edges. Waiting for Langstrom. He was making her sweat. This was something else she loathed about him. A rivulet ran down the back of her thin shirt. She couldn’t think of her neighbors, or her cabin on Tuna Street—that glorious pile of logs on the most beautiful stretch of white sand in the world—without the blue eyes of Sergi Langstrom looming into her head like a living nightmare.
One worn Teva flopped up and down from the end of her toe.
A side door banged open, and Blanche jumped. Both sandals slapped the floor. Langstrom walked into the room.
The devil in pinpoint blue oxford.
Two —
Turning up the Heat
Smooth and easy, like he owned it. That was Sergi Lackstrom.
Behind him, a short, fussy fellow darted toward Mayor Pat with a stack of posters. She flinched, then removed her hat and wet strings flopped over her eyes. She was spared the initial shock. Blanche caught her breath. They called it The Plan. Blanche called it hell.
Langstrom grinned. “Hi, there.” The mayor and council members stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Really?” Blanche said.
“Fur-ril.” Barbara Bennett of Coquina Collections tipped forward in her seat. “Dang. Ain’t he the handsome one though,” she said in an Irish whisper. The women nodded. And swooned?
Blanche couldn’t take her eyes off the posters. But then she did.
Langstrom had the loose gait of an athlete. Trim and tall. Cleft in his chin. She imagined him swiveling down a ski slope chipping ice into frosty clouds, smiling with a mouthful of snowy caps. Well, here he was on their bright sunny island, and he could just go back to freakin’…Switzerland?
She mumbled, “I guess you could say that he’s not hard to look at. But, I sure hate looking at him.” She wished he were ugly. As it was, his boyish good looks would only convince people to run toward him instead of away from him.
He hovered in the front row and lifted Janet Capeheart’s fingers like he was asking her to dance. The smile smoothed her cheeks and erased years.
“What is he doing?” Blanche hissed. Becky poked her arm.
Rumor had it that Janet’s dress shop would likely be the first to go. What could possibly make her so gleeful? Her quaint cottage business—with hummingbirds feeding in the bougainvillea, a wide deck with rockers—would be replaced with a pseudo-Victorian mansion, complete with wraparound gallery. The thought of all those fake curlicues and gingerbread made Blanche gag.
Sergi still held Janet’s blue-veined hand. She didn’t seem to be thinking about business. Not with that besotted grin.
The room was hot but Blanche was cold. She craned her neck to get a better view. He was fawning over the whole front row. He rolled the sleeves of his fine pinpoint shirt and tucked a hand in the pocket of his pressed khakis. He wore shiny loafers with tassels, no socks.
Blanche gritted her teeth and slumped until she was nearly off the chair.
Langstrom didn’t look at the long table where Mayor Pat sputtered: “Who’s running for office here?” Blanche could hear her from where she sat.
The mayor hopped to her feet, the gavel waggling in her hand, a menacing look on her face. She opened her mouth but all eyes were on Sergi. He smiled at her. “Thank you, Your Honor, and board members, for giving us this opportunity.”
Who is us?
“We certainly have paradise here, don’t we?”
We?
The mayor sat down with a loud whomp.
“Santa Maria! What a great place!” He fixed them with those ice-blue eyes. “Our beaches, and the sun. And, our great restaurants!” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Denzel has raved about Banana Cabana!”
“What?” Blanche choked. “He’s on speaking terms with Denzel?”
“Who’d a figured.” Becky’s mouth was open in a dopey smile.
It was true the great movie star had visited Santa Maria and loved the Jamaican cuisine at the Cabana. They loved him. That didn’t mean they had to pave the sidewalk with stars.