Ellen Hartman - His Secret Past

“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.