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There were four members on the Whispering Bay City Council, and as the most current former mayor, Bruce was automatically given a spot. The idea behind that had been to foster continuity. Bruce, however, was a sore loser. He’d love nothing more than to see Mary Margaret Grant, a PTA housewife with no previous political experience, fall flat on her ass.
Mimi imagined Bruce wasn’t the only good citizen of Whispering Bay who’d love to see her fail. Not that she didn’t have lots of supporters. Over half the town had voted for her. It was the biggest election turnout in Whispering Bay’s history and she was proud to be the inspiration behind it. But she was also the town’s first female mayor and the pressure was on to make her gender proud.
Besides Bruce, the other council members consisted of Gus Pappas, a local plumber and a member of Whispering Bay’s senior citizen activist group, the Gray Flamingos. Gus was a sweetheart and just like Mimi, newly elected. Larry Jefferson (a long time member of the council and a crony of Bruce’s) and Denise Holbert made up the other two spots.
Mimi shifted around in her chair to tug on her black linen skirt. For most of her adult life she’d worn the typical mom uniform—jeans, T-shirts, and an occasional sweatshirt when the north Florida weather got cold enough. Skirts and heels were saved for special occasions. Although the mayoral position was only part-time, as the new “face” of Whispering Bay she was expected to be on twenty-four/seven. Skirts, heels (and Spanx) were now her daily look and she needed to get used to it.
She nervously jiggled one high heeled foot in the air as she listened to Larry Jefferson read the minutes from the last meeting. The city budget was in shambles. Which wasn’t her fault. Technically, it wasn’t Bruce’s fault, either. The mayor wasn’t directly involved in fiscal matters. That job belonged to the city manager. But it was the mayor’s responsibility to work alongside the city manager and the rest of the council to keep the budget in check. Paul Amos, Whispering Bay’s city manager for the past twelve years had resigned before the previous council had been forced to fire him. His replacement, a hot shot from the St. Augustine area had been hired to clean things up.
Mimi glanced to her left to find Doug Wentworth (said hot shot), staring at her. Or rather, staring at her legs. At least, she thought that was what he was doing. The last person to study her legs this intently was Doc Morrison. She and the kids had been hiking in the St. Joseph National Park a few months ago and she’d come away with a bad case of poison ivy, the worst part below her knees. So of course Doc had checked her out. But what excuse did Doug have?
Did she have a run in her hose?
Then she remembered, she wasn’t wearing hose. It was early February, but north Florida was having a not-unheard-of warmer-than-warm spell. It had reached seventy-five degrees today and half the town was in shorts. Maybe Doug found her foot jiggling a distraction.
She immediately stopped her fidgeting.
Doug caught her gaze and smiled in a way that made Mimi’s cheeks go warm. He was probably her age, mid-thirties, above average height with short brown hair and hazel eyes. Nice eyes, if Mimi were being honest. She didn’t know much about him except that he was originally from Kansas and had been wooed by the council after Paul’s resignation. Supposedly, he’d cleaned up a similar fiscal mess in Old Explorer’s Bay, a city south of St. Augustine on Florida’s east coast.
Doug passed around copies of a thin bound notebook to the table’s occupants. Besides Bruce and the other three members of the council, Pilar Diaz-Rothman, Whispering Bay’s attorney (and Mimi’s good friend and fellow Bunco Babe) was also present.
Bruce picked up his notebook and frowned. “What is this?”
Mimi began flipping through the pages. “It appears to be a city budget.”
“Well, I can see that.” Bruce scanned the notebook then carelessly flung it back onto the table. “You’ve been here all of a week,” he said to Doug, “How on earth could you have put together a budget in that amount of time? You don’t even know what our priorities are yet.”
In his non-mayorly life, Bruce served as vice-President of the Whispering Bay Community Bank, as well as current president of the Rotary Club. He was in his late forties and married to Bettina Bailey, PTA mother extraordinaire. Over the years, Mimi had had several run-ins with Bettina, mostly over how to spend the proceeds from the annual elementary school bake sale. The fact that Mimi was now in a position to spar with Bruce over a multi-million dollar budget made her palms go damp.
You’ve come a long way, baby.
Boy, had she ever.
“I realize I haven’t been here long,” Doug said smoothly, “but if you look at those numbers a little closer, you’ll see I’ve done my homework.” He paused to take a drink of water, which was cue for everyone at the table to open their notebooks again and begin perusing.
Mimi had to hand it to Doug, he didn’t seem intimidated by Bruce, which scored him some major brownie points in her book.
“As I said before, I haven’t been in Whispering Bay long, but I come from a situation very similar to the one you have here. Five years ago, I was hired as the city manager for Old Explorers’ Bay, a town almost identical to your demographics. A population of about ten thousand with a heavy residential tax base. No real industry to speak of, except some minor tourism. But I was able to turn things around within two years. And leave them with a substantial bank account.” He eyed each member of the table. “I plan to do exactly the same thing here.”
Pilar leaned over to whisper in Mimi’s ear. “I like this guy’s confidence.”
“We’ll see,” she whispered back. She liked Doug’s confidence, too. But actions spoke louder than words. And results spoke the loudest of all.
The other members of the city council began talking at once. Doug sat down and caught her gaze again, holding it even longer this time. What? She’d had a spinach salad for lunch. Oh, God. Did she have spinach between her teeth? That must be it.
“Maybe this is a good time to take a break,” Mimi suggested.
Pilar immediately stood. “Good idea. Let’s take a break.”
The rest of the table reluctantly murmured in agreement.
Mimi hit the bathroom with Pilar on her heels. She checked herself out in the bathroom mirror. No spinach in her teeth. Nothing else out of the ordinary, either.
“Do you think my skirt is too short?” she asked Pilar. “Or maybe there’s something wrong with my legs? I should have worn panty-hose, right? I’m thirty-five years old. I need to wear pant
y-hose.”
Pilar smoothed back her chin length dark hair, touched up her lipstick, then turned to give Mimi a thorough inspection. “You look great. What makes you think you need to wear panty hose?”
