Marcia King-Gamble - Flamingo Place

The Flamingo Beach Chronicle

Dear Readers,

Love sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And believe me, I’ve kissed enough frogs to know that not every one is a prince! Just because a man is tall, dark and sexy, and fabulously rich, doesn’t mean that he’s all that.

Take my next-door neighbor Tre Monroe. He’s a hunk, he makes good money (he even drives a Porsche), but the man is a D-O-G. Could it be that his playboy persona hides the soul of a romantic?

Keeping it real,

Jenna

P.S. Perhaps you can teach an old dog new tricks!

was born on the island of St. Vincent—a heavenly place in the Caribbean where ocean and skies are the same mesmerizing blue. An ex-travel industry executive, Marcia’s favorite haunts remain the Far East, Venice and New Zealand.

In her spare time, she enjoys kickboxing, step aerobics and Zumba, then winding down with a good book. A frustrated interior designer, Marcia’s creativity finds an outlet in her home where nothing matches. She is passionate about animals, tear-jerking movies and spicy food. She serves double duty as the director of member services at a writers and artists institute in South Florida, and is the editor of Romantically Yours—a monthly newsletter.

To date, Marcia has written twelve novels and two novellas. She loves hearing from fans. You may contact her at Mkinggambl@aol.comor P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.

Flamingo Place

Marcia King-Gamble

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Emily Martin with heartfelt thanks. You’re the best unpaid assistant a woman could ever hope for.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Flamingo Beach, where the living is easy. Nothing ever changes here except for the population.

If you’re young and single, Flamingo Place, the fancy new condominium, is where it’s at. You’ll need to be over thirty though, and you can’t have children. Plus your income needs to be in a high bracket. Of course you could lie about that.

Flamingo Beach has just about everything to keep a body happy. We have restaurants, churches and beauty shops. Our inhabitants are friendly—notice I didn’t say nosy. We also have a florist. Yup, the mayor’s son and his lover are partners in a florist shop.

That, by the way, is how this story came about. Jen, the new advice columnist at the Chronicle, used a word to describe our florist and people got ticked. D’Dawg, a hot radio personality, jumped all over her, and the two went at it. Rumor has it they’ve since made up.…

If you’d like more information about Flamingo Beach, write to me at P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale,FL 33320, or e-mail me at mkinggambl@aol.com.

Don’t be strangers now. Come down for a visit!

Marcia King-Gamble

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

You say your son is queer! Maybe he’s a confirmed bachelor or simply set in his ways.

Thump! Thump! Thump! The damn boom box next door was driving Jen St. George crazy.

Determined to ignore the loud rap music emanating from her neighbor’s apartment, Jen continued to type. Her next door neighbor was the most inconsiderate person she’d ever encountered and by far the rudest.

Jumping up, Jen banged on the wall and yelled, “Can you turn down your music?”

When her request didn’t produce the desired results, Jen called to her assistant, Chere, “Turn on the stereo, please. Loud.”

Jen’s attention returned to the letter she was working on. She banged out words no sooner than they’d popped into her head. This was her tenth letter of the day, and she was exhausted from dispensing advice. The moniker love diva hadn’t been earned easily.

The script in front of her was beginning to blur and tiny black dots were popping out in front of her eyes. On any given day being an advice columnist wasn’t easy, but she loved her job and got immense satisfaction from helping people. Giving advice had made her a popular and sought-after teenager. It had felt good to be needed. Today it still did.

“Chere, where are you? You’re supposed to be turning on the stereo,” Jen called, her irritation at her assistant reflecting in her tone. Not that Chere would even get it.

“I hear you,” her assistant called from the vicinity of the kitchen.

Dear Jenna made a living as an advice columnist to the lovelorn. This career came with a huge responsibility. People trusted her to choose their life partners or help them dump an inconvenient relationship. She was considered the diva of love because her advice was seldom off the mark. Normally her readership loved her in-your-face style.

The deafening music continued from next door. Jen thumped on the wall again.

“Please show some consideration. Jerk,” she muttered under her breath.

Jen turned on her own stereo, making sure her volume matched 5B’s. Now she could barely hear herself think.

Back at her desk Jen considered changing the wording of her response. Conservative Flamingo Beach, the small North Florida town where she now lived, might not get Dear Jenna’s hip-happening style. She really meant no harm; if anyone knew her family situation they would know that.

No, better to leave it like that. Maybe she’d bring this sleepy oceanfront community into the twenty-first century. The word queer was perfectly acceptable and in vogue now. It was totally embraced by the gay community. The TV show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy had made the word a household name, and it was one of the more popular shows around.

Still, there was always the chance some uninformed reader could interpret it as a slur, especially in a backwoods Southern town. She was on ninety-day probation at The Flamingo Beach Chronicle. The newspaper had wooed her way from Ashton, Ohio, an even smaller Midwest town.

In a relatively short time, Jen had acquired quite the following and The Chronicle’s circulation had increased. The competition, The Southern Tribune, was watching them closely. Of course her boss hadn’t said word one to her about this accomplishment. He dispensed compliments meagerly, just as she’d been warned he dispensed raises.

The loud noise next door continued. Jen glanced at her full to overflowing in-box and sighed. What on earth was taking Chere so long? She’d excused herself to use the bathroom earlier and must have detoured to the kitchen.

Chere was to have read and catalogued the mail by now but she’d arrived late as usual, leaving Jen to handle most of it herself. Two days a week they worked from home—Jen’s home. This was supposed to allow them to keep up with correspondence. But something needed to be done about Chere Adams—and soon. There had to be better qualified administrative assistants around.