“What’s wrong?”
“Tom, it’s not enough. I did the math.”
“How do you figure?”
“The other offer is three million even, with twenty percent down. I promised Clara Markham I could do better, but I don’t think I can. Twenty percent of three million is six hundred grand—I’m still short, Tom.”
He told her not to sweat it. “Worse comes to worse, get a loan for the difference. There isn’t a bank in Florida that wouldn’t he thrilled to get your business.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“JoLayne, you just won fourteen million bucks.”
“I’m still black, Mr. Krome. That’d make a difference.”
But after thinking about it, she realized he was probably right about the loan. Black, white or polka-dotted, she was still a tycoon, and bankers adored tycoons. A financing package with a fat down payment could be put together, a very tasty counteroffer. The Simmons family would be drooling all over their foie gras, and the union boys from Chicago would have to look elsewhere for a spot to erect their ticky-tacky shopping mall.
JoLayne attacked her Caesar salad and said to Tom Krome: “You’re right. I’ve decided to be positive.”
“Good, because we’re on a roll.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
They’d returned the overdue Boston Whaler with a minimum of uproar, blunting the old dock rat’s ire by pleasantly agreeing to forfeit the deposit. After grabbing a cab down to the boat ramp, they’d retrieved Tom’s Honda and sped directly to Miami International Airport, where they lucked into a nonstop to Tallahassee. By the time they arrived, the state lottery office had closed for the day. They’d gotten a room at the Sheraton, hopped in the shower and collapsed in exhaustion across the king-sized bed. Dinner was cocktail crackers and Hershey’s kisses from the minibar. They’d both been too tired to make love and had fallen asleep laughing about it, and trying not to think of Pearl Key.
When the Lotto bureau opened the next morning, JoLayne and Tom were waiting at the door with the ticket. A clerk thought she was joking when she matter-of-factly remarked it had been hidden inside a non-lubricated condom. The paperwork took about an hour, then a photographer from the publicity office made some pictures of JoLayne holding a blown-up facsimile of the flamingo-adorned check. Tom was pleased they’d avoided TV and newspaper coverage by showing up unannounced. By the time a press release was issued, they’d be back in Grange.
“This is all going to work out,” he assured JoLayne, pouring more champagne. “I promise.”
“What about you and me?”
“Absolutely.”
JoLayne studied him. “Absolutely, Tom?”
“Oh brother. Here it comes.” Krome set down his glass.
She said, “I think you deserve some of the money.”
“Why?”
“For everything. Quitting your job to stay with me. Risking your neck. Stopping me from doing something crazy out there.”
“Anything else?”
“I’d feel so much better,” she said, “giving you something.”
Tom tapped a fork on the tablecloth. “Boy, that guilt—it’s a killer. I sympathize.”
“You’re wrong.”
“No, I’m right. If I won’t take the money, it’ll make it harder for you to dump me later. You’ll feel so awful you’ll keep putting it off, stringing me along, probably for months and months—”
“Eat your salad,” JoLayne said.
“But if I do take a cut, then you won’t feel so lousy saying goodbye. You can tell yourself you didn’t use me, didn’t take advantage of a hopelessly smitten sap and then cut him loose. You can tell yourself you were fair about it, even decent.”
“Are you finished?” JoLayne inwardly ached at the truth of what he said. She definitely was looking for an escape clause, in case the romance didn’t work. She was looking for a way to live with herself if someday she had to break up with him, after all he’d done for her.
Tom said, “I don’t want the damn money. You understand? Nada. Not a penny.”
“I believe you.”
“Finally.”
“But just for the record, I’ve got no plans to ‘dump’ you.” JoLayne kicked off a shoe and slipped her bare foot in Tom’s lap, under the table.
Tom’s eyes widened. “Oh, that’s fighting fair.”
“I’ve had a bad run with men. I guess I’m conditioned to expect the worst.”