Ellen Hartman - His Secret Past

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 .