Unlikely Developments

Unlikely Developments

A contemporary romance novel

by

Robert James Allison

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage, and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First Suitor Enterprises

www.RobertJamesAllison.com

Copyright © 2014 by Robert James Allison

ISBN: 978-1-31171-924-9

Published by First Suitor Enterprises at Smashwords.com

February 2014

Cover photo by the author:

A Pelican at Port Canaveral, Florida

Chapter One

The long black lane wound off into the distance, rising slowly to the top of a low hill, where a palatial home stood among widely spaced pine trees. He wasn’t really interested in the home. Although it did look impressive with its six white columns in front and wide stone steps leading up to a spacious front porch. The house was three stories high with a slate-tile roof and two wings coming off the main section. There was a veranda on the second floor, equally as large as the front porch. It was a mansion, but he was a quarter of a mile away and not likely to get any closer. His destination was near at hand, in the middle of a section of pastureland containing a good ten acres, not a single tree, and some of the finest grass he had ever seen in Florida. This wasn’t the only section of pastureland, either, from just what he could see there must be fifty or sixty acres.

He stopped admiring the architecture and the land, concentrating on a gate in the three-tiered, white-board fence that bordered the lane and surrounded the grounds. The gate stood open and a well-worn trail was cut into the grass leading to a flat area maybe 300 feet from the lane. Earlier, in his rearview mirror, he had seen a car coming up behind him and even though there was no sign of it now, he flipped his left turn signal on and when abreast of the gate he turned.

The sound of screeching tires followed immediately by the blaring of a car horn startled him. Instinctively he pushed in the clutch and slammed on his brakes, but realized too late that it was the wrong thing to do. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw a car sliding toward him. The next sound he heard was a metallic grinding, accompanied by a thud as the car came to rest against his door. It wasn’t a bad accident. As a matter of fact, he thought it was a fender bender at best. His truck barely moved when the car struck it and he was only slightly jostled.

It wasn’t possible to climb out of his truck using the driver’s side door, since the car was firmly up against it. His window was down and the driver of the car was screaming. Since her car was a convertible she didn’t have to be out of it for him to hear her yell. When she did get out, he was in an excellent position to get a good look at her. Unless he slid across the seat and climbed out the passenger side door, he wasn’t going to get out anyway, so he just sat where he was and waited.

She was a nice-looking girl, with all the curves in all the right places. She had on a two-piece swimsuit, covered only by a flimsy beach robe. The beach robe wasn’t doing much to cover her right now though. A brisk breeze, coupled with her movement, caused the robe to flow back from her body. Had her long beautiful red hair and sumptuous curves not convinced him that this was a young and beautiful woman, from the sounds coming out of her mouth, he would have thought the Wicked Witch of the West was coming for him with her cape and hair flowing in the wind—then again maybe she was.

What kind of an idiot are you! Did you get your driver’s license out of a Cracker Jack box? Do you even have a driver’s license? I sure hope you have insurance, because you are going to need it, buster! I never saw such a stupid stunt as that in all my life! the woman ended, just feet from his window and then only because her car was in her way and she couldn’t get any closer. He decided it wasn’t so much what she said that made him think of a witch, but the way she said it. Her voice screeched out each sentence like a banshee riding the wind and the pitch went from high to off the charts.

He continued to admire her as she ranted on and on about anything that came into her pretty head. He took no note of what she was saying. He just admired the body that was saying it. He figured her to be about five-foot-seven and weigh a 125 pounds. She had nice looking legs, and was well endowed—to say the least. Her temper definitely matched the long red hair that cascaded around her shoulders, when the wind allowed it to. The way she was gyrating during her tirade, he was certain the top of her bathing suit was going to give out at any second and that was another reason why he was content to stay where he was. He wasn’t going to miss that, if it happened.

Just as he was sure the top of her bathing suit had taken all the abuse it was going to take for this day, several men came running up to the front of the truck. They were workmen from the flat area where he had been heading. He had seen them coming. It had taken them a couple of minutes to charge across the field to the site of the accident. In unison, or so near it no one could tell the difference, he heard them ask if everyone was okay. Their presence seemed to have a calming effect on the woman, or at least broke her concentration on him. Her verbal assault and all of her wild gyrations ceased. The latter was a great disappointment to him. Now she was just calmly bent over examining the front of her car and had pulled the flimsy beach robe around her shoulders, holding it tightly over her chest. The show was over and there was no further sense in sitting in the truck so he slid over and slipped out the passenger side door.

~*~

He walked around to the side of the truck to examine the point of impact and as he did, he stepped slightly in front of the woman, gave her an appreciative look and said with a slight southern drawl, Excuse me, ma’am.

He saw that the car was a Mercedes SL 500 and knew it was worth more than 50 times his truck. Not near as durable though, he thought.

What ya’ think, Mike? a man close by now asked.

After a few seconds, he straightened up from his inspection and answered, No big deal. Can’t hurt this old truck. She’s almost as old as I am and a whole lot tougher. I’ll bet the door will still open once we get this nice lady’s car back away from it, he finished, looking blandly at the woman.

She sputtered, What about my car! It’s ruined.

He turned to look back at the point of impact, nodded his head, and said, Sure enough didn’t do that grill no good, that’s a fact. No harder than you hit me though, I expect there’s no damage to the radiator or anything else. Then pointing toward the inside of her car, he continued, the air bags didn’t even deploy and it doesn’t take too much of a hit to do that. Especially a direct hit like you got on me, ma’am.

All of a sudden the woman shot back, Ma’am! Why do you keep calling me ma’am? Just how old do I look to you?

He looked at her, with a steady gaze, smiled, and responded easily, Well now let’s see. I turned twenty-five just last month and I figure you… pausing for effect, he continued, … you got me by eight, maybe ten years. That about right, ma’am? he finished, barely able to keep a straight face. It was obvious to him, and probably anyone else who cared to look, that this woman was not over 25 and more likely not all that much past 21.

The woman’s temper let loose again and she said, Why you self-centered egotistical moron! Get out of my way. I’m backing this car up and getting out of here!

She turned for her car, but before she climbed in, she turned to face him and demanded, Give me your name, address, and the name of your insurance company. Your phone number, too!

Without a word, he walked over to her car and as she slammed the door shut he took a notepad out of his left hip pocket. He scribbled his name, address, and the name of his insurance company on it, tore off the top sheet and handed it to her.

She snatched it from his hand and as he towered over her, she read it quickly, out loud, Michael G. McDonald, 338 Robin Drive, Merritt Island, Florida. State Farm insurance. Then she looked up at him, as he smiled benignly down at her and she demanded, There’s no phone number.

He responded calmly, No, ma’am, emphasizing the ma’am, and continued, my momma told me not to give my phone number to just any old woman who happened to want it.

Old…old woman! she sputtered.

He smiled at her again and said, No offense, ma’am. Just a figure of speech is all. Seeing the look of frustration on her face, he smiled broadly and unable to hold it in any longer, he laughed. He couldn’t help it and the other men who had gathered around laughed, too.

She twisted the ignition on her car with a vengeance and her face showed obvious relief when the engine started. He watched as she slammed the shifter lever into reverse and floored the accelerator pedal. The tires squalled as the car roared back away from the truck.

He had jumped back and when the car came to a stop, he saw her pull down on the gear selector and then the car accelerated for all it was worth—and with a Mercedes SL 500 that was a lot. There was a continuous screech from the tires and the smell of burnt rubber permeated the air as the car swerved around his truck and shot up the lane toward the mansion on the hill.

When the car was well down the lane and almost to the house, he said, to no one in particular, Touchy ain’t she. Didn’t mean nothing personal.

The rest of the men laughed again and he then turned to them and with a smile and said, You guys didn’t help in the least. That young lady’s top piece was just about to bust clean open when you guys showed up and calmed her down. I was all set for the best free show I’ve had in years and you guys had to spoil it, he ended, with a wink.

One of the men now asked, What you doing here anyway, Mike?

Just looking over the area. I wanted to get an idea of what I was up against come Monday when I start work. I didn’t have much to do this afternoon so I figured I’d come have a look-see. Can’t trust you concrete guys to have the right equipment for a first-class carpenter like me. Why, if there’s a tree or another building even close, you guys don’t even have a Porta Potty.

He then walked over to his truck, examined it, and decided it had suffered very little damage. The running board was slightly askew and had no doubt taken the brunt of the impact from the Mercedes’ grill, but from the looks of the grill, when the car had backed away, the running board had won the war. He pulled open the door and it seemed to move easy enough, bearing in mind that it never had moved too well. The truck was a 1989 Ford F-150 and it had seen more than one fender bender. It was only a year younger than him, but hadn’t held up near as well.

Hopping in the truck, he started it, pulled through the gate, and drove up to the construction area. The other workers had already walked back to the site, but he doubted there was going to be much more work done today with all the excitement he had caused.

Climbing out of the truck, he walked up to the site and asked, How come you guys are working on Saturday anyway? I didn’t figure to find anyone here today.

One of the men volunteered, The owner wants this horse barn and ranch hand quarters done by the end of the month. He has some horses coming in.

Mike laughed and responded, Ranch hands. He must be expecting a whole lot of horses.

The man persisted, Take a look at the pad we’ve poured. It’s a hundred and fifty feet by three hundred. The far end there, where the plumbing is roughed in, is bigger than most houses around here. That’s the ranch hand quarters. You got your work cut out for you carpenter. We’ve set the poles, but the rest is up to you and the others. As soon as we’ve finished scoring this pad we’re out of here.

This is January tenth, no way this barn is going to be done by the end of January, unless there are more workmen coming than horses, Mike said, again to no one in particular, as he appraised the pad.

There will be. Supposed to be three crews here Monday morning at seven o’clock, the man responded.

He turned thoughtfully and looked up toward the house on the hill. It was an architectural nightmare. He was a carpenter, a good one, and he was glad he hadn’t had to build that house. It was nice to look at and undoubtedly nice to live in, but building it would be something entirely different. Pursing his lips he said, Big bucks, huh?

I guess so, one of the men answered, He’s some hot-shot lawyer. Got an office over in Orlando and one down in Miami.

Mike asked, What kind of law does he practice?

The expensive kind. What other kind is there? the man responded seriously.

I reckon so, Mike said simply and stepped up on the concrete pad to give it a closer look.

~*~

Accelerating the Mercedes up the lane to the circular drive in front of the house, the woman swung it around a huge fountain and slammed on the brakes. The tires had barely quit squalling when she slammed the gear selector into park and flung her door open. On her way around the front of the car to the front steps, she hesitated and stared down the hill into the glaring sun to see the offending pickup truck and its driver pull up alongside the construction area.

A woman opened the front door just as she reached it, saying, Afternoon, Miss Dawn.

Maria, where’s dad? she asked, as she flew by the woman.

He’s out back by the pool.

She practically ran across the entry hall, shot down a long hall that ran the length of the house, and walked directly to the back patio doors. Hastily sliding one door open, she stepped into the pool area and saw her father reclining on a lounge chair, browsing the paper.

~*~

Fred Clark looked up as his daughter approached and said, Hi, sweetie. And then seeing her clothes he continued, Don’t tell me you’ve been to the beach in January? The water must have been abysmally cold.

She blurted out, Dad, my car is ruined!

He sat up a little straighter, put his paper aside and seeing the frantic look on his daughter’s face he inquired calmly, Ruined how? He knew his daughter had a bit of drama in her. It seemed that anything and everything that happened to her was a disaster of some sort or another.

Some moron turned his truck in front of me and my grill is all smashed in. It looks absolutely ruined.

He stood up and said, Okay, we better have a look at it.

She spun on her heels and he followed her back out front. Before he was even halfway down the front steps he could see that the grill had definitely seen better days and he asked calmly, Tell me what happened?

Well, I was coming back from a pool party at Tess Martin’s. I was about half way up our lane following an old wreck of a pickup truck. Pointing toward the construction site, she continued, And right by the south gate this clown turned right in front of me. I think he did it on purpose. I think he’s the kind of person who goes around causing accidents in an old beat up truck hoping to collect damages. He’s still down there, right by where the barn is going to be, she finished, shading her eyes and glaring down the gentle slope. Then she added, I’m sure I’m right. He was a real smart aleck about the whole thing. He was making fun of me.

He made a noncommittal grunt and asked, Did you get his name and address?

He saw her face brighten as she answered, Yes, I have it in the car. I made him write it down for me with the name of his insurance company. He wouldn’t give me his phone number though. He just said some smart aleck thing about how his mother told him not to give his phone number to just any OLD woman who asked, she ended in a huff.

He concealed a smile behind his hand, stuck his pipe into his mouth, and then he turned to look the car over carefully. After a few moments, he said, Make sure you give me the name and address. I’ll have one of my associates try to contact him next week.

She set her jaw and said, Will I have to testify?

Confused now, he asked, Testify about what?

Well, at his trial of course. You’re going to sue him aren’t you?

Not likely and if we’re lucky he won’t sue us.

What? she asked, in a shocked tone.

Well from what you tell me it was your fault.

Her face flushing from anger, she asked, How do you figure that?

Fred explained, If he was ahead of you going in the same direction and you hit him when he turned in front of you, then that means he was turning left into the south gate, and you were in the wrong lane. You were probably trying to pass him and were out in the other lane in his blind spot, so he didn’t realize you were there. You hit him. He didn’t hit you. He had every right to be where he was. You, however, were in the wrong lane. You shouldn’t pass within a hundred feet of an intersection or a driveway. Lucky this happened on private property or you might have gotten a ticket, he said as he walked around the car, giving it a thorough examination.

~*~

Dawn was in shock. Can this be happening? First my car is ruined, then I’m insulted and made fun of by a common laborer, and now my father takes the moron’s side. But… but…, she stammered.

So he made fun of you did he? her father was now asking, as she tried to gather her thoughts.

Yes, she responded, thinking that maybe something could be salvaged out of this yet. Maybe her father would get incensed right along with her after he heard the story of how she was treated. Quickly she told him the whole story and when he didn’t get enraged, or even the slightest bit upset, she became even more upset herself. She turned again to stare down the hill at that miserable black truck.

~*~

Fred grunted again and walked back toward the house. He said nothing, but inwardly he was smiling. He saw the humor in the situation that his daughter didn’t. No harm done except to the car and his daughter’s ego. The car could be fixed and his daughter’s ego needed to be deflated occasionally. He dearly loved her, but she was a mite on the spoiled side. His only child, she was all he had since her mother had died, so he naturally tended to spoil her. His wife, Carlene, had been the love of his life, but Dawn and he had been on their own now for many years, except for the ever-faithful Maria and the rest of the household staff.

Dawn was 23 now and had never really worked a day in her life. Oh she volunteered occasionally and thought of that as work, but she had always had everything she wanted, within reason and he had been happy to provide it. Now though he wasn’t so sure he should have been quite so free with his money. She had a good education, he had seen to that, but nothing struck her fancy. She just didn’t seem to have found any direction in her life. About all she could do was party and although she had the common sense to keep her partying within reason and to stay out of trouble—it still troubled him. Sometimes he had a hard time keeping track of all the boyfriends she accumulated, or attracted. He had raised a social butterfly and that had never been his intent. She refused to have anything to do with any man who didn’t jump at her every word and stand in awe of her beauty. The trouble was there were all too many willing to do just that.

He knew why she was so upset. It wasn’t the car. She knew she could drive any of his six cars any time she wanted. No, it was the man. He hadn’t jumped. He hadn’t stood in awe of her beauty, or Fred’s money. She had finally met a man she couldn’t run rough shod over. He dearly wished he could have seen it, he was sure the encounter lost something in its translation.

He watched her as she stared down the hill for several minutes and then she shot up the front steps, scooted by him without so much as a word, and went directly into the house.

He remained on the expansive front veranda. He leaned on the waist-high, wrought-iron railing and contemplated the situation as he puffed his pipe and stared down the hill at the trucks and cars parked near the construction site. It wasn’t Dawn’s fault she was the way she was. He was well off to say the least. In rough figures he was probably worth five or six million dollars, with his law practice and investments bringing in more all the time. Of course, the investments weren’t quite as good as they had been. He had lost a bundle on Enron and the market slump a few years ago, but he was well diversified and the market would recover, it always did. He stood there for a good 20 minutes just thinking and turning things over in his mind. Suddenly he remembered that Dawn had the man’s name and address in her car. Descending the front steps he crossed to the car and found the slip of paper stuffed in the ashtray. He smoothed it out, read the name and address, then absently stuck it in his front shirt pocket.

~*~

Mike gave the incident no more thought. He was more concerned about the work that would be expected of him come Monday morning. He had seen plenty of pretty girls in his time and this one was just one more, but he had to admit to himself that this one was almighty pretty, especially riled up the way she was. As he walked over the concrete pad to get a feeling for the size of it, he examined the upright posts the concrete crew had put in place. He had helped build enough pole barns that he could stand in the middle and visualize the entire process. This was going to be huge and first class.

The end of January was going to be pushing this job and he didn’t like to see jobs rushed. Three weeks for a job of this magnitude was asking a lot, even with three crews. Sometimes too many workers and too much haste made for mistakes and people got hurt. He would have just as soon taken two months on this job. Either way though it didn’t change his plans, he worked in Florida at one job or another until the first part of April and then he headed back up the road. He only came down here during the cold months, following the trade. When it got too hot for him, he would go back north to ply his trade where the summer heat was more tolerable. A good carpenter could always find work and he was good. His father had taught him everything he knew about carpentry and a few other things, too.

Chapter Two

Monday morning Fred Clark delayed going to the office and watched from the second-story veranda to see how many workers and what equipment showed up to work on his barn. He saw a swarm of workers, as promised, descend upon the concrete slab and begin to shore up the upright poles with cross pieces. Before 8:00, a semi-truck arrived with trusses for the roof and a crane began off-loading them. The place was abuzz by the time 9:00 rolled around and he came down the lane from his house on his way into Orlando. From the back seat of his limousine he watched out the side window as the car approached the south gate and he was pleased by the progress that had been made in just two hours.

Peter. Turn in the south gate. I want to talk to the foreman.

Yes, sir, the chauffeur replied and made the turn as instructed.

Fred sat relaxed in the back seat and noted that Peter carefully and slowly eased the limousine up to the work area, but judging from the ride he hadn’t been successful in avoiding all of the ruts.

When the limo stopped, he waited patiently as Peter jumped out and ran around to open the door. He stepped out and said, Thanks, Peter, but I’ve told you it isn’t necessary to open doors for me.

Yes, sir, but I like to do it, Peter responded quietly.

~*~

Walter Bond saw the limousine come through the gate and quickly wound his way through the stacks of lumber to meet it. He had never met Fred Clark, but he had a hunch he was about to. He walked around to the rear of the limo just as a man stepped out of the back seat and he said, Good morning. I’m Walter Bond.

The man smiled and replied, Morning, Mr. Bond, I’m Fred Clark.

Thought as how you might be, Walter replied.

Are you the supervisor, Mr. Bond?

Yes, sir.

Is there a Michael G. McDonald here today?

Yes, sir, there is, Walter said pointing toward a nearby stack of lumber.

Could I talk to him, if you don’t mind?

Don’t mind at all, sir. He’s the tall, broad-shouldered cuss over there sorting lumber. He’s not in any trouble is he? He’s one of my best men. I’d sure hate to lose him.

Oh he’s in trouble all right, but not with me, with my daughter. Do me a favor though and don’t tell him that.

Walter gave Fred a puzzled look and answered, Yes, sir. I’ll get him. Then he walked over to where Mike was sorting lumber.

Mike, the owner wants to have a word with you, he said when he reached the lumber pile.

Owner? What’s he want with me?

Beats me. He asked if a Michael G. McDonald was working and when I said ‘yes’ he asked to talk with you. Then realizing he had a chance to harass Mike, he added, Could be it’s something to do with the hard time you gave his daughter Saturday.

That was his daughter? Mike asked, in a worried tone.

It was. Good luck, Mike.

Mike grunted as he tossed another board to the side and said, You could have just said I wasn’t working today.

Could have. Didn’t feel like it. Figured it was time you got what was coming to you.

Mike turned and said over his shoulder as he walked away, Four of those trusses over there are so crooked, they remind me of a politician, they need to be re-built. You got stiffed, 007.

Mike I told you to cut that out! You got the whole crew calling me that now!

~*~

Fred saw the exchange between the foreman and the man the foreman had indicated was Mike McDonald, but couldn’t hear it. However, from the look on the foreman’s face he figured someone had just taken a good-natured zing. Maybe like my daughter did on Saturday, he thought with mirth.

He watched as the man left the foreman and walked directly up to him, saying, My name’s Michael G. McDonald, what can I do for you, sir?

Fred got right to the point, "My name’s Fred Clark and I understand my daughter and you had a little run