Authors: Sharon Buchbinder
“Thank you, Provost Charles. Every student who graduates from BMU has a story. My story is about a man who began in Pigtown, Bawlamer, land of dem O’s and Hons.”
Laughter greeted his words, and Levisa clutched her clammy hands in her lap, fearing she would clap too soon.
“My parents worked hard, so I could come to BMU, and I worked hard. I was able to get scholarships, grants and part-time jobs. It was a dream come true. I was so afraid to fail that I didn’t tell many people that I was working on a doctorate. After all, I was just a poor guy from Pigtown.”
The crowd laughed and a spattering of applause burst out from the parents’ front row.
“Thanks, Mom and Dad!”
More laughter.
“I thought I had it made, until I was told by a young woman, and I quote: ‘What company wants a CEO who sounds like a hick?’”
Levisa covered her face with her hands, flushed with shame. Coming from his mouth, her words sounded cruel. Had she been that harsh?
“I was really angry at her for saying this—until I went to an interview at the Career Center here and was told to get rid of my accent, or I wouldn’t land a job with a Big Eight firm.”
She lowered her hands from her face, and looked at this amazing man, this honest man, who spoke from his heart to the full arena. The crowd was quiet. Even the undergraduates paid attention.
“I’m here to tell you that I now have a job with Ernst and Young. They hired me as their Vice President for Research. I know that I wouldn’t have gotten that job without the resources of this university and without the hard work and honest feedback from a great teacher.”
He paused and Levisa realized she was crying, her chest tight. She was so proud of him. He had exceeded her wildest dreams, and she’d helped him get there.
“I’d like to ask my speech coach to come up on the stage with me. I know you’re here, Levisa.”
She felt people patting her on the back, reaching for her hands, guiding her along the path, and up the shaking stairs. Or were her legs shaking? Sight blurred with tears, she crossed the stage to stand in front of Sam.
“I want to take this moment to publicly thank Levisa Harris for making me into a new man. She believed in me and worked with me when others laughed and ridiculed me. She saw through my Pigtown accent to my potential and helped transform my life. I am eternally grateful.”
Applause and cheers filled the arena up to the rafters with sound, until Sam held up his hand for them to stop. Rooted to the spot, unable to speak for fear of blubbering, Levisa smiled and nodded, then turned to go.
“One more thing.”
She turned back to him, his black hair slick and neatly placed under his cap, brown eyes bright, and a broad smile across his face. Then, before all and to her breathless amazement, he got down on one knee and said, “I love you, Levisa. Will you marry me?”
She froze. The arena fell silent and she could hear her breath coming in short, shallow puffs. The butterflies in her stomach quivered in a question mark, her hands and legs trembled, and her field of vision compressed to a tunnel, with Sam at the end of it. She stared into his eyes and saw the depth of his passion—and her future. The trance broke.
Levisa reached for his hand, pulled him up to standing, and said, “Yes, Sam Parker of Pigtown, Bawlamer, I will marry you.”
Cheering and stomping roared from the crowd.
A Sizzling Smooch: Bonded for Life
~*~
CHAPTER ONE
Lola Getz climbed out of the salt water pool and shook out her long black tresses. Every man standing guard around the compound stood at attention--above and below the waist. And she knew it. Pretending not to notice the looks of lust, she toweled off her legs with upward languid motions. When she reached her hot pink bikini bottom, she wrapped the terry cloth around her butt and slowly rubbed it back and forth.
A new guy groaned and his peers laughed, and then fell silent, when the head guard ordered them to shut up.
She threw a leopard cover over her lush curves, prompting sighs of disappointment. She smiled. “Show’s over,
muchachos
.”
As she sashayed into the stucco covered mansion, curses swelled behind her—all aimed at the new body guard. She knew they’d straighten him out, or kick him to the curb.
Flora, her loyal housekeeper, greeted Lola with a hot cup of coffee and a gap-toothed smile. Lola had offered to buy the gray-haired woman new teeth, but the elder had declined, saying at her age she wouldn’t be around long enough to enjoy them. Aztec blood ran through Flora’s veins, so it was hard to tell if she was sixty, or six-hundred years old.
Lola took a sip of the scalding
café con leche
. “Has the mail arrived?”
“
Si
. On the front table.” Flora handed her a cloth napkin and stared at the floor.
“
Lo que es?
What is it?”
“
Lo siento,
so sorry. The envelopes were
all open
when the mailman he gives them to me.” Flora shook her head and sighed. “Things are getting worse,
Senora
.”
Dammit. What was wrong with the mail service? Hadn’t she just paid an exorbitant ‘service fee’ to the post master to keep her mail private? Ever since her husband died last year, things had been going downhill.
When they had married ten years ago, Rico was an ambitious young car salesman. Over time, he became a wealthy dealer, catering to those who wished to travel in style and safety. The specialty of the dealership was protection: bullet-proof cars with tinted windows. He began with Mercedes, then moved into Hummers, just like the ones used in the wars in the Middle East, minus the camouflage. These big rides were tricked out in metallic colors and artistic detailing that corresponded with the tattoos preferred by each cartel.
Perhaps he'd still be alive today, if he'd used one of the custom vehicles himself, instead of run off the road on his beloved Harley.
Lola
knew
it was the work of a rival car dealer, someone who paid a mobster to kill him. But, of course, there were no witnesses. And the corrupt cops just shrugged when she went to them crying and screaming for justice.
After she buried Rico, she sold the car dealership to her wealthy cousin, Isabel Ramirez, for a pittance. In exchange, Izzy provided twenty-four/seven bodyguards for Lola’s estate. Her cousin warned her to be vigilant; kidnappings of family members of affluent families for exorbitant ransoms were rampant in the province. Izzy insisted Lola keep a 'go bag' packed and a throw-away phone pre-loaded with a list of emergency phone numbers. In addition, the same paranoid, the end-is-near-cousin helped her set up safe houses in and outside Mexico. For the past eleven months, Lola had felt protected in her fortified enclave—until today when the mail arrived, already opened.
A little shudder ran up her spine, but Lola was not about to give in to her cousin’s paranoia, and told herself she was chilled from the cool marble foyer and nothing more.
She set the coffee cup down, before picking up a large envelope covered with grubby fingerprints. The pig that opened her mail must have been eating chocolate at the same time. She stared at the postmark, it had been mailed months ago. God only knew how long it had sat in the Mexican post office.
Summerville, New York? It couldn’t be. She tore off what was left of the paper and read the invitation, squinting at the words half-hidden by a large smudged thumb print.
Dear fellow alumna,
Hard to believe it's been 25 years since we last walked the halls of Summerville High. Wouldn't you like to know what's going on with former classmates? The Reunion Committee has worked hard to plan a fabulous, fun-filled three day celebration on the last weekend in June at the historic Summerville Inn.
Come for one day or all three—but register early for the SHS package discount. Bring your spouse or come stag. You won't believe the surprises waiting for you!
RSVP to
[email protected]
How had they found her? Damn the Internet and its googling eyes. One of the New York galleries that showcased her work must have given them her address. Was there no way to escape from the assholes of high school past?
Unbidden, hot tears welled up in her eyes, then spilled down her cheeks.
That year, her senior year, without a word of explanation, and despite her protests, Lola’s parents shipped her off from the exciting city of Chihuahua, Mexico to the boring town of Summerville on the shores of Lake Ontario in Western New York State.
The cheerful wording better described an invitation from hell that would occur ten days from now. With the anniversary of her beloved Rico’s death approaching, the last thing s
he wanted was to relive wretched memories of
Summerville, New York.
Never—Ever, again.
“Flora, where’s the shredder? Didn’t I tell you to leave it there?” She pointed at a spot to the right of the table.
“Ah,
Senora
, don’t you remember, you asked me to move it to your office? So you could get rid of your husband’s old business papers?”
Lola bit her lip. “You’re right.
Gracias
.”
Flora bobbed her head and hurried toward the kitchen.
Aromas of cinnamon and chocolate wafted in the air. Was chicken mole on tonight's menu? Lola’s stomach growled. She needed to get the salt water off her skin and hair before dinner. She grabbed her mug, stuffed the invitation into the pocket of her leopard cover up, and headed for the shower.
~*~
Packed with every self-serving merchant in Summerville, the community center room was so hot and the air so charged, it felt as if a thunderstorm would break at any moment. First dabbing at the sweat dripping into his eyes with a monogrammed hankie, then removing his expensive tailored suit jacket, Richard, aka Dickhead, Heade blathered on.
“And as you can see from this diagram, the band will be on the stage, facing the head table,” Chief of Police Heade paused in his Power Point presentation. “Get it? Head table?”
A few suck-ups snickered; one woman, who laughed like a chicken, clucked along with them.
Dick’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Ahh, I kill myself.”
Webster Bond covered his face with his hands and moaned. If he had to sit through one more of these reunion planning meetings he'd eat his sidearm. Thank God, the nightmare would be over in ten days.
“You got a problem, Dweebster?” Dickhead's whine had all the charm of a droning buzz saw.
Web leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, no, I
love
going through the same slide show over and over
and over
again, all for a frigging high school reunion. The only thing we’re missing, Chief, is the picture of you in your
awesome
1985 mullet.”
Chicken woman commenced clucking and the snickering grew to roars of guffaws.
Heade’s cheeks reddened. “So, do you believe you’re too
good
for this committee, Dweebster?”
“It seems to me, the SPD has matters that should take a higher priority, like aliens slipping over the border from Canada.”
“Trafficking of illegals belongs to ICE, not SPD.”
“So as the Chief of SPD, that’s your
official
position?” Web tilted back, lifting the front feet of his chair off the floor. “Seems to me, we just got a BOLO for a delivery of Chinese packed in hidden compartments in cement freighters out of Toronto.”
As Heade’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, he strode to Web’s chair, reached out and gave it a yank. Web leaped to his feet just in time to avoid toppling to the floor. Under his breath, Heade murmured something for Web's ears only. “You'll pay for that, Bond.”
Web stared at him. On any day, Chief of Police Heade was a manipulative charmer, especially for the public. This display of teenage crapola went outside the box.
What's going on here?
He flipped into cop mode, conducting an almost instantaneous visual assessment. Bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils and hand tremors. A runny nose?
Oh shit.
This was worse than Web originally thought. He kept his hands at his sides, not moving a muscle. If he flinched, the former school yard bully—now town bully, would win. The room went silent, including chicken woman.
“I’m not one of your rookies,” he retorted, “scared of their own shadows. Go back to what you do best—blowing hot air.”
Dickhead's eyes bulged; a slow trickle of blood oozed from one nostril. Very smoothly, he lifted the silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and covered the end of his beaked nose. Just then, his over-dressed, over-endowed wife stepped between them.