The Tycoon and the Townie

“What the devil…?” Jeff blinked himself fully awake, expecting the clown to vaporize. No such luck.

“I need to make sure my nose is on straight. I bumped it getting out of the Jeep. Quick—take a look!”

Too startled to argue, Jeff did as he was told. The clown was certainly no Bozo, he observed. Or Ronald McDonald, either. Short and pudgy in a tie-dyed, padded suit and ragged purple wig, she couldn’t have stretched over five foot three. White greasepaint and a round, red, rubber nose hid whatever features she might possess—except for her eyes. Surrounded by painted circles, they blazed like oversize twin aquamarines.

Fine and dandy, Jeff groused, easing out of the chair and stretching to his husky six-foot height. But unless some ragtag circus had come to Misty Point, North Carolina, he still had no idea why this dumpy-looking little clown would be standing on his verandah in the middle of an ordinary July afternoon.

“Well?” the hypnotic voice demanded.

Jeff ran an impatient hand through his wiry thatch of prematurely graying hair. “Yes, your nose is on straight. Now, would you mind telling me what the hell you’re doing here?”.

She appeared startled, though it was hard to tell beneath all that paint. “Uh—you are Mr. Jefferson Parrish, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jeff snapped, none too graciously.

“Then you should be expecting me. My agency sent me. I’m Jo-Jo.”

The look he gave her was as blank as his mind.

“The clown you hired for your daughter, Ellen’s, birthday party.”

“The party—oh, blast…” Jeff remembered dimly that his mother had said something about hiring a party clown, but until this moment, he’d forgotten all about it. That, or he was still asleep, and having this bizarre dream….

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “And yes, you are expected.”

“Fine. So, where’s the party?”

“Around the back, on the lawn. My mother’s in charge. She’d be the one who called the agency.”

“And how old is little Ellen?” The clown gathered up a lumpy green duffel bag from the front steps and hefted it to her shoulder.

“She’s nine.”

“Nine!” The phrase she muttered under her breath sounded vaguely like an Irish curse.

“Is anything wrong?”

“It’s just that my act usually goes over better with the three- to five-year-old crowd. For nine-year-olds, you should’ve hired rock musicians!”

“Tell that to my mother. She’s in charge. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Jeff stifled a yawn and took a tentative step toward the front door, hoping Yo-Yo, or whatever her name was, would take the hint and head for the party. His blueprints for the new wing of Heath Memorial Hospital were up for review next week. Vacation or no vacation, it was time he went inside and got back to work on them.

He strode across the verandah, struggling to shake off the ennui that had settled over him in this sleepy little seashore town. It had been a mistake, giving in to his mother’s suggestion that they summer here, in the old family retreat where he had spent so many boyhood vacations. At first Jeff had nourished the hope that the sea air and familiar surroundings would have a healing effect on them all. But it had been an empty hope. Things had only gotten worse.

Even with the hospital project, there was too little for him to do here. And there were too many memories. Too often lately he’d caught himself pacing the confines of his studio, snarling like a caged bear. The discontent had spread to his daughter, as well. Ellen spent her time roaming the dunes of their private beach like a pale little sea wraith. As for Jeff’s mother, she’d thrown herself into projects designed to make their lives seem “all right” again. Projects like this birthday party, for which Ellen had displayed no enthusiasm at all.

Dammit, they should have all stayed home in Raleigh, where they—

“Oh—Mr. Parrish?”

Jeff glanced over his shoulder. The clown was poised on the verandah’s top step, the toes of her enormous, floppy shoes hanging eight inches over the edge.

“One more thing,” she said. “Just so you’ll be aware. I brought my daughter with me today—not that she’ll be a bother to anyone. She’s been told to stay in the kitchen with your cook, Floss, until I finish the party show. Floss is a friend of ours, and she said it wasn’t a problem. Is that all right with you?”

“It’s of no consequence whatsoever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

For the space of a heartbeat she froze, stung, perhaps, by his brusqueness. Then, determined to be cheerful, she thrust out her cherry red chin. “Work? On such a beautiful day? What a waste of creation! But if that’s your choice… Goodbye, Mr. Parrish! The agency will bill you for my time!”

With a toss of her shaggy purple mane, she took one blithe misstep into space, pitched forward and disappeared from sight.

Jeff sprinted to the rail of the verandah to find her sprawled across an azalea bed in a sputtering, tie-dyed heap, her duffel bag lying an arm’s length away.

“Are you all right?” he asked, torn between real concern and wondering how much her lawyer would settle for out of court.

“I…think so.” She wiggled her hands and feet cautiously, then began to struggle like a high-centered terrapin in a vain effort to get up.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” she muttered, collapsing into the azaleas again.

“It’s these—idiot shoes! Half the time I can’t see where I’m going, and if I fall down, they stick out so far I can’t get my knees—under me—”

“And here I thought it was all part of your act!” Jeff suppressed a bemused smile as he trotted down the steps toward her. “Relax, I’ll give you a hand.”

“No—don’t trouble yourself!” she snapped. “Not when you’ve got—so much work to do. I can get up myself if I take it bit by bit.”

“If you insist.” Jeff shrugged, then watched with ill-concealed interest as she tumbled onto her side and drew her knees toward her chest. With effort, she managed to roll her big, clown feet under her, push up with her arms and stagger to a standing position.

“There!” she exclaimed, her voice all more intriguing for its breathlessness. “I told you I could do it.”

“Independent little twit, aren’t you?” Jeff observed dryly as she brushed sprigs of loose grass from her costume.

Her small, ridiculously painted face froze for an instant.

“Independent little twit?” She repeated the words slowly, as if dissecting each syllable. “Independent little twit?”

As Jeff watched, the dumpy clown figure seemed to grow visibly taller. Then, suddenly, she spun toward him, her aquamarine eyes flashing cold fire.

“Independent I’ll accept as a compliment,” she declared icily. “But I’m certainly no twit, Mr. Parrish. I’m a woman alone with a daughter to raise and bills to pay. Jo-Jo the clown helps me pay those bills—but that’s something a man like you might not understand. You’ve probably never had a minute’s financial worry in your smug, arrogant, self-satisfied life!”

Before Jeff could gather his wits, she was gone, waddling across the grass like an indignant Jemima Puddleduck in her padded clown suit. He might have laughed—the sight of her was ludicrous enough—but something in her words and her voice had stung him like a smart blow with a riding quirt.

Good Lord, did he really come across as the woman had described him? Smug, arrogant and self-satisfied? Could that be the reason Meredith had—

But never mind, he brought himself up harshly. It was too damned late to do anything about Meredith, and too late to change his own nature. He was what he was, and right now he had work to do. The plans for the new hospital wing lay open on his drafting table, with hours—many, many hours—of changes yet to be done on them.

Closing his mind to the sunlit ocean air, the cry of seabirds and the vanishing figure of the odd little clown, Jeff strode into the house and shut the door firmly behind him.

Summer people!