Читать книгу His Secret Past - Ellen Hartman - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

LESS THAN A WEEK after Mason was blindsided by David Giles’s e-mail, he got knocked on his ass again by his friends and neighbors from the Lakeland Neighborhood Association.

There was a reason Mason would never be a politician. Actually, there was more than one reason, and the fact that he definitely had inhaled wasn’t even in the top twenty. The primary problem was he just couldn’t understand why so-called normal people had this need to ban anything and anyone the slightest bit different than themselves. It was yet another rule he hadn’t learned growing up the way he did, where the only thing that mattered was if you had the rent or most of it come the first of the month. Maybe if he’d grown up middle class he’d get these people better. Because the fact was, Mason just didn’t get them.

Take this zoning hearing.

Take Roxanne Curtis.

Take her to the top of the Empire State Building and drop kick her off.

Roxanne had been rubbing him the wrong way ever since Christian was the only kid left off her daughter’s birthday-party guest list in second grade. The reason his kid wasn’t on her kid’s list? At the Mulligans Opening Day ceremony right before school started, Roxanne confessed her teenage crush on Mason’s teenage self and suggested they re-create the sex-on-the-hood-of-the-Firebird scene from Five Star’s Dirty Sweet video. Mason turned her down flat—wrong time, wrong place, wrong memory. And definitely wrong person.

A month later, Christian had come home from school crying, crushed by social disgrace. Using a seven-year-old kid as a pawn in revenge for a sexual rebuff was every kind of wrong.

Now Roxanne was after his other baby. Maybe it was the hearing so close on the heels of David Giles’s e-mail, but he was having serious déjà vu. When he’d bought his property, refurbished the buildings and built the community center, it had been next to impossible to give away real estate in Lakeland. But the real estate boom had pushed even the upper middle class out into formerly scorned suburbs. Home prices in Lakeland, a twenty-minute train ride to New York, had skyrocketed and suddenly Mulligans was an unsavory, unwelcome neighbor in a town on the way up.

When Five Star, the band he’d helped build, had kicked him out he’d been a kid. He’d been so hurt and lost he hadn’t fought back. He’d made a mess of things back then and the consequences came down on him hard. This was different. He wasn’t letting Mulligans and all the people living here and taking their first vulnerable, fragile steps into rehabilitation get kicked out without a fight. The point of Mulligans was to make a community that would support everyone to get back on their feet. Everyone who lived here contributed what they could to help the others make it through the next step. He was ready to fight every one of the wannabe real estate moguls in this room before he let them touch his place.

Roxanne was standing in the aisle, one hand on the back of the chair in front of her. She was one of the native Lakeland “ladies” who were determined to ride the current wave of real estate money into a whole new set of friends and circumstances. She’d learned quickly, he’d give her that. She’d replaced her wardrobe of Kohl’s bargains with designer knockoffs of just high enough quality to help her pass for upper middle class. She’d cut out her bad perm and tinted her hair that particular shade of blond that meant high-end shop job, not a drugstore box on the bathroom sink. And then, in her final coup, she’d remarried, a banker or broker or some money guy who worked in the city and rode the train home every night. Roxanne was on her way up and she was not taking no for an answer.

Tonight her crisp blue shirt was casually and calculatedly untucked over soft, narrow black pants. She was dressed to impress the zoning board with her values and citizenship.

Of course, he’d done the same thing. He understood that costuming supported image and that’s why he was in a gray suit with an understated blue stripe, a dark blue dress shirt and a low-key tie. His clothes said serious, upstanding and smart. Respectable but not desperate.

Mason leaned toward his lawyer, Stephanie Colarusso, who was sitting straight-backed in the chair to his left, her angular face a picture of polite attention. An athlete her whole life, Stephanie’s body language was always carefully controlled; she didn’t make accidental gestures. Right now her stillness and slight forward lean looked polite and professional to the other people in the room. He’d been friends with her long enough, though, to read irritation in the tension of her jaw muscles and stubbornness in the uptilt of her chin. “I need a crossbow, not a lawyer,” he whispered.

Stephanie didn’t look away from Roxanne as she whispered back, “She’s going down, Mason. Make no mistake.”

“In the ten years since this facility opened, our neighborhood has put up with more than enough,” Roxanne said. Mason’s hands twitched as he considered strangling her with the strap of her imitation-leather messenger bag.

“My neighbors and I have been more than generous,” she went on, “letting these people live among us, letting their children go to our schools. We, the tax-paying citizens of the Lakeland Neighborhood Association, ask you to consider our needs. This facility should never have been allowed under our existing zoning codes. Now that the ten-year waiver has expired, we’re asking the zoning board to withdraw the permits for Mulligans. It’s time to admit what’s been going on behind the fences. Specific objections are outlined in the document you have before you. Thank you.”

Mason clasped the sides of his plastic chair so hard he was surprised it didn’t crack. How dare she sit there saying “these people” and “expose” and “burden” about Mulligans? Social-climbing suck-up.

“Mr. Star?” Larry Williams, the zoning board chair was looking his way. “We’re ready for your statement.”

Stephanie gave him a quick nod. They’d agreed that he would do the talking. After all, this was supposed to be a neighborhood issue and he was the neighbor.

Mason stood and nervously crossed his arms. He shouldn’t be this worried. This was only Hearing Room A in the Lakeland Town Hall. But the room was packed. How many years had it been since he’d been in front of a crowd of strangers? He used to know how to do this, but he realized now he’d forgotten the tricks. Besides, he knew what people saw when they looked at him. He knew what Roxanne meant when she said “these people.” People like him, who’d made bad choices and couldn’t be trusted not to make them again.

When he noticed no one at the zoning board table was smiling, he dropped his arms to his sides and forced himself to relax. Focus, Mason.

“I’m at a loss how to respond to Roxanne’s statements,” he said with a wry smile as he hefted the twenty-page document she’d passed out. He made eye contact with Roger Nelson, an overweight board member with a comb-over, who’d rolled his eyes when Roxanne passed out her “notes.” Roger rolled his eyes again and winked at Mason. One, he thought. Maybe he could do this.

“Despite living near us for the past ten years, I think Roxanne may have a wrong idea about what Mulligans is, who we are. She mentioned ‘facility,’ but Mulligans is a community. Everyone who lives there does so voluntarily. We’re all regular people with regular lives. We’ve chosen to live together to try to make things easier on all of us, but in every other respect we’re just like the rest of you.”

He gestured to the round table in the front of the room where he’d put up his table display about Mulligans. The three-panel poster included shots of the ninety-eight people—kids, adults, seniors—who’d been part of Mulligans over the years. He loved that display. Brian Price, his manager, used it in presentations to social service agencies. The faces of so many friends who’d managed to get on their feet and move on gave him confidence. How could anyone feel threatened by those people?

Roxanne Curtis now had her arms crossed and her mouth was compressed to a thin, irritated line. She didn’t look appealing or charming, Mason was pleased to see.

If she thought she could win this by tossing out insults about Mason and his friends and making sour faces—and typing up pages of innuendo—well, she had another think coming. He started to get into it. Roxanne had never been on the cover of Rolling Stone. She’d never had an entire stadium howling for her to give them more. She had no idea the depth of charm Mason could pull out when the occasion required. So what if it had been fifteen years since he’d last entertained a crowd? He’d start with the board. There were only nine of them.

Ducking his head, he looked up at the board table with a glint in his eye and the you-love-my-delinquent-self smile that he knew made women wish he’d throw them down on the closest bed, Firebird or zoning hearing room table. Two of the women at the table uncrossed their legs, one recrossed hers, and the last one fiddled with the second button on her shirt. Two, three, four, five.

“Mulligans provides low-fee housing and community support to a wide array of people. Everyone who lives there has been down on their luck, but with help, most of them make it back on their feet and go on to lead independent lives. We do provide financial assistance, but the main goal is to provide for the material and physical needs to help our residents reclaim their dignity and sense of purpose. For some people, that’s safe, affordable child care. For some of our seniors, it’s transportation and a feeling of safety during transitional times.”

A neighbor, Dan Brown, was on his feet. “That’s all very sweet, but the fact is, Mulligans is a flophouse. It’s full of addicts and alcoholics. It’s a magnet for crime and trash and a drain on our community’s resources.”

Mason realized he’d clenched his hands into fists. He knew for a fact that Dan Brown used his leaf blower to relocate leaves from his lawn into his neighbors’ yards, called the police when people left their recycling bins out overnight and gave out apples, not candy, at Halloween. Being mean as spit apparently qualified him as a spokesman for the newly gentrified neighborhood.

“Mulligans is an intentional cohousing community, not a halfway house, Dan,” Mason explained. “And you know it. You know who lives at Mulligans. Normal folks with normal lives. Like me. People who wanted to live in Lakeland when a lot of other people were calling it undesirable.”

The woman sitting next to Roxanne stood up. “I’m new to Lakeland so I don’t know anything about this stuff you’re talking about. All I know is, I’m living on the same block as an institution with a ten foot fence and no financials on public record.”

Mason hadn’t met this woman before, but he was determined to placate her. “Mulligans is privately funded. We don’t have to publish our financials.”

“Privately funded by whom?” she asked.

“Me.” Before he could add anything else, she’d turned to the board.

“Which is exactly my point. The information I know about Mr. Star is far from encouraging. He’s doing God knows what behind that fence.”

Mason was stunned. Did this lady really think his money was tainted? By what? His reputation? Gossip? The history he’d never been able to shake?

Stephanie cleared her throat. He kept his mouth shut.

A voice from the crowd called out, “Property values are low because of Mulligans. Lakeland needs higher standards.”

Mason wasn’t sure who’d said that. Comments were coming rapid fire from all around now. He sat down abruptly when Stephanie tugged on his wrist. His head spun and for one second he was back in that hotel room in Chicago listening as David, Nick, Chet—even his own mother—yelled and threatened and finally told him to get out. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, using the pain to center back on this room, this crowd, which was all that mattered now.

Larry banged on the table, trying to settle people. Mason stared straight ahead, wishing he couldn’t hear the insults and lies coming at him from all sides. What the hell had happened?

Of the four board members who’d wanted to screw him five minutes ago, three wouldn’t meet his eyes. Three of the men were glaring at him. Roger, his comb-over askew, was shouting at someone in the audience, and Larry wouldn’t stop banging long enough for Mason to get a read on him.

Stephanie pushed past him and went up the aisle to bend down next to Larry Williams. She whispered in his ear and Larry looked relieved.

The chairman hollered over the din in the room, “I move that we table the discussion of Mulligans until our next meeting!”

The one woman who still wanted to screw Mason seconded and then looked quickly at him. He managed a grateful nod. Stephanie gathered the poster display and followed him outside.

“I apologize, Mason,” she said. “I had no idea this was going to be out of control. I should have anticipated it.”

“There’s no way you could have known. I live next door to them and I didn’t know. It’s been an underground revolution.” He shook his head. It was the same as Five Star—he hadn’t seen that coming, either. “I had no idea they thought we were running a flophouse.”

“That hearing wasn’t about what Mulligans is or isn’t. That was about people and their money—flat-out greed.”

Mason ran his hand over his short-cropped hair. “I don’t know. Some of it sounded pretty personal.”

“Not everyone’s going to be your fan.”

“I’m not looking for fans,” Mason protested. “It’s Mulligans. I can’t believe they don’t see what Mulligans does.”

“Clearly we have some work to do,” she agreed.

While they walked slowly to her white, 1968 VW bug, she dug in her purse for her keys. He stood watching while she got in and buckled her seat belt. She started the car and then leaned out the window. “We’ll beat this, Mason. Suburbanites don’t frighten me.”

He nodded. He trusted Stephanie. She was book smart, street smart and, after him, she was Mulligans’ biggest fan. Plus, next weekend she was marrying Brian Price, the community manager, and then she’d be living at Mulligans, his companion in homelessness if they lost the zoning fight. Failure wasn’t a word anyone associated with Stephanie Colarusso. That was good.

He went back toward where he’d parked his black Pontiac Firebird. It was the last thing remaining of his rough living Jersey-boy days—he’d never been able to trade it in for a Subaru. He rested the poster display on the hood while he leaned on the car, patting the pockets of the suit jacket he’d worn in the hopes it would make him seem trustworthy. He might as well have worn camo.

Just when he pulled out a pack of Marlboros and his silver lighter, a breeze kicked up. He turned his shoulder as he put a cigarette in his mouth and flicked the lighter. He dragged the smoke deep into his lungs and held it there, eyes closed, feeling the burn and savoring the scent.

“Smoking’s not healthy.”

Startled, Mason released the smoke before he was ready. A woman was standing in front of him. He’d been so absorbed he hadn’t heard her come up. She was about Stephanie’s height, a little less than shoulder high, but that was the only thing the two had in common.

Where Stephanie was all neatly contained planes, this woman curved and swerved. Her light brown, gently curling hair was streaked liberally with dark gold and tumbled down her neck, with smaller curls springing around her face. Her eyes, golden brown with a dark circle around the iris, tilted at the corners, contrasting exotically with her small, slightly upturned nose. He thought he’d recognize her if she was from the neighborhood—the way she filled her jeans was hard to overlook—but he’d better be civil on the chance she was one of them.

“I only take the one drag a day.”

“What?” The woman’s eyes widened in surprise and her expression was almost studious, like she was taking notes. She shoved quickly at the soft curls the wind had blown into her face, twisting and pushing them behind her ear. Mason caught the flash of chunky silver rings on slender fingers as her deft hands quickly and decisively tamed the curls. Woman 1, Wind 0.

“One drag,” Mason said. “I kicked the six-pack-a-day habit but I miss it. The smell of it, the taste, the fire.” He flipped the top of the lighter back and flicked the wheel, smiling at her through the flame. “If the day really sucks, I take two drags.”

He took a second long drag and then carefully ground the cigarette out on the edge of the trash can next to the Firebird before tossing it in. “Haven’t had to take three yet, though.”

The woman studied him intently, seemingly unconcerned that he had no idea who the hell she was. Again he thought surely he’d have remembered her if they’d met before. And okay, she was round and sexy with her curvy hips and the black V-neck T-shirt shaping itself to her, but he didn’t pick up strangers on the street. He grabbed the display, intending to cut this encounter short. She could be an old fan, but this woman with her sharp gaze didn’t seem awestruck like a fan.

“One drag,” she said. “That’s a fascinating detail. Peculiar and vaguely masochistic, but fascinating.” She stuck her hand out. “Anna Walsh. Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Star.”

Ambush number three. Suddenly that third drag wasn’t so far out of the question.