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His elderly neighbor and staunch supporter of his second run for mayor last spring had beckoned him to her home on false pretenses.
Again.
“I can make it worth your while, Mr. Mayor. Remove your shirt, let me take your picture with my new fancy smartphone and there’s a ten spot in it for you.”
Good Lord. She was propositioning him.
She poked at the phone with squinty eyes. “Just give me a minute to figure out how to work this damned thing.”
He leaned over the dark screen and pushed the button on the side of the device, lighting it up and instructing her to “Slide to Power On”. From the way she was randomly jabbing at the icons, he wasn’t worried about being photographed any time soon.
As he pulled in a deep breath, he couldn’t help but notice the smell of freshly cooked roast beef permeating the small ranch-style home. Funny how Ms. Pinkie always called with some fabricated crisis after cooking a meal that could feed a small army.
The irony wasn’t lost on him, but then again neither was his hunger.
Every time his phone rang on a Friday near five o’clock, he knew it was Ms. Pinkie. He also knew her supposed crisis was bogus but he always came to her rescue, as he did with a number of his other loyal constituents. Those requests rarely falling under the auspices of his sworn mayoral duties.
This latest call was rather disappointing as it lacked creativity. She claimed her thirty-pound Maine Coon cat, Shug, was, once again, hanging precariously by his claws—bearing in mind, they’re size of pitchfork tines—at the top branch of her southern live oak in the backyard.
It was difficult for Lucas to refuse to help for a couple of reasons. One, he was a Southern gentlemen. He learned at an early age to say “yes, ma’am” and rarely “no, sir.” And two, he owed the people of Wayward for everything he had and who he had become. Especially Ms. Pinkie. If he had to go out of his way a time or two to show his gratitude, so be it.
Despite evidence to the contrary, Ms. Pinkie was harmless and terribly lonely. More so since her husband died of a massive heart attack a few years ago. But make no mistake, she was still a force to be reckoned with in their small town and wielded considerable influence.
But what bothered him most was she was exhibiting more questionable behavior with every passing year, as was the rest of her elderly clan. He surmised their less than decorous behavior was their way of gaining control of their lives, maintaining a level of independence and having a bit of fun.
When it came to the Pinkie Posse, their self-proclaimed moniker, others weren’t as understanding or as patient as Lucas. Evidenced by the number of calls he received regarding their inappropriate behavior.
As if he had any sway with these women.
But the increased number of complaints made him worry Ms. Pinkie and her motley crew would take their shenanigans too far and with someone more easily offended.
Better he show up and suffer harmless indignities than someone with less patience and a quick temper.
With hands on his hips, he paused to ensure his tone remained even-tempered and to get another whiff of the roast beef simmering in the kitchen.
“Ms. Pinkie, we’ve had this discussion before. It’s inappropriate to be asking the menfolk in town to remove their clothing, once luring them into your home under false pretenses.”
“Please,” she scoffed, patting her tightly coiled gray curls at her temple. “Don’t be coy. You came willingly.”
“Ma’am, you called me because your cat was allegedly stuck in a tree.” He rubbed his forehead. “A feline that has been mistakenly identified as a bobcat and reported to animal control by the locals on a number of occasions. This is the second time this month I’ve rushed over because of Shug’s imminent death, only to arrive and be asked to disrobe.”
Before Ms. Pinkie could come to her defense, the front door flew open as Willa Mae Rathbun charged in. She wore a hot-pink sweatsuit, her hair flattened to her scalp by a leopard-print scarf.
She eyed Lucas with a smirk on her face as she began to work the knot below her chin. “Well, well, well. Looks like you owe me five dollars P.W. The mayor still has his shirt on,” she said, setting her patent leather purse on the maple console near the front door.
One side of Pinkie’s lip turned up as she opened her purse sitting on the end table next to the La-Z-Boy. “Ten more minutes and I would’ve had him shirtless and doing one-armed push-ups.” She pulled out a five and held it up between two fingers, making Willa Mae grab for it.
“In your old lady dreams,” Willa Mae chuckled, as she turned to Lucas and kissed him on the cheek. “How are you doing, Mr. Mayor? Keeping everyone in line at City Hall?”
“I do my best,” Lucas replied with a slight nod, “When I’m not called to rescue cats the size of cougars, prepare someone’s taxes, or shovel snow out of driveways.”
“Who in the world asked you to shovel snow in South Georgia?”
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Ms. Pinkie.
He turned in time to catch the elderly woman’s spine straighten. “That was months ago, during that cold front. And it was ice, not snow. Why, a woman my age could break a hip.”
Willa Mae tsked several times as she tucked the bill in the side pocket of her purse, “You’re an ornery old woman is what you are. Taking advantage of this young man, our respected mayor no less, just to get a gander at a naked torso and earn a few bucks.”
