It's Just Another Delray Affair.

By K.C.

Since the turn of the twentieth century, Delray Beach has been home to some of South Florida’s most influential families. Two of them in particular, the Petersons and the Foxes, have each been reduced to their lone surviving member.
Reginald Peterson, the constant philanderer and sometimes waiter, worked his way around the country and back again. In spite of the many tragedies he has endured, Reggie always seems to embrace life with a shrug and smile.
Sabine Fox was raised in a British orphanage after her mother died during childbirth. On her eighteenth birthday, she inherited a billion-dollar empire and promptly vanished. When eventually she resurfaces in Delray under an alias, Sabine vows to complete the legacy her great-grandfather began back in 1902.
There could not be a more unlikely pair than Reginald Peterson and Sabine Fox. Yet, when fate brings them together, they realize they have more in common than they ever could have imagined. Secrets from the past threaten to tear them apart as they are hunted by a kidnapper hell-bent on revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.C.
• Release date: Apr 26, 2014

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Prologue

Delray Beach, Florida is as rich in its history and tradition as any city in Palm Beach County. Since the turn of the twentieth century, it has been home to some of South Florida’s most creative and influential people. Many of the same families, who built Delray, still carry the names of their forefathers.

Two such families are the Foxes and the Petersons. The first is acclaimed for their meteoric rise from sharecroppers to billionaires. The second is notorious for their fall from the financial elite to penniless obscurity. More than century after Adam Fox and Garrison Peterson first met on that train platform in Linton (Delray’s former name), the last surviving members from both their clans are on their way home

The following is a tale of the chaos that ensues when the great-granddaughter of one man collides with the great-grandson of the other.

Chapter 1:

As told by Sabine Fox:

In the spring of 1898 my great-grandfather, Adam Fox, hopped a freight train bound for the Florida Keys. He came all the way from Jacksonville on the newly completed Florida East Coast Railway. According to my mother’s diary, he told her he’d been seeking a new start in a new land. According to his own journal, he owed money to a sugar baron in north Florida. He had accumulated some bad debts in Georgia. Barely eighteen, he was already in trouble with the law and searching for an escape.

On one of his stopovers, my great-grandpa overheard some fellow transients talking about a large contingent of Michigan farmers in a town called Linton. They were making a killing in the winter flower and vegetable business. With the newly finished railroad, farmers finally had a way to transport their produce to the financially prosperous northern states. The Yankees were always craving products they could not provide for themselves. Linton was a vast new frontier with immense possibilities, and there was no one to stop him from reaping his share of the profits. Instead of continuing on his path to the Keys, Adam took a detour.

The day he arrived in town, my great- grandfather met a rich heir to a railroad fortune. The man had lots of money and no working knowledge of farming. His name was Garrison Peterson, and from their very first meeting, Adam could tell he was not the brightest bulb in the box. Over the next forty years, the two of them worked together to build one of the largest winter vegetable empires in the United States.

Sabine: One Hundred and 15 years Later

I wake up almost every morning with the same two questions: How can I use the resources I have been given to make the world a better place and will I ever find someone to spend my life with who wants to do the same? After all, love is the answer to most of life’s important questions. It is the explanation for our existence, our raison d’etre. Without the promise of it, there is no reason to go on. I am not merely speaking of romantic love, though that is arguably the most compelling. I refer to love in all its forms; a mother’s love for her child, a painter’s love for his canvas, or a sister’s love for her sibling.

I think the reason this emotion is so compelling, is that I have never experienced it myself. I have never been in love. I have never felt it for another, or believed that anyone truly loved me.

I wouldn’t know if my mother loved me because she died during childbirth. As for my father, I would have no idea how he felt. I never met the man. His identity was a mystery, the answer to which my mother took to her grave. Many men have attempted to stake their paternal claim on me; but none of them passed a paternity test. Mine is tale of an absentee father wanting to be recognized by the courts. The reason for this the same reason so many fought for the custody of Michael Jackson’s children, and it is spelled M-O-N-E-Y.

My mother must have sensed the inevitability of this onslaught, because she took a very deliberate route to hide my father’s identity. In this way she ensured that no man could lay claim to me or to the riches her grandfather had accumulated. We, the ancestors of Adam Fox, were blessed with the means to help those less fortunate. This was our legacy. No one would steal that from us, especially, a sperm donor lusting after a string of commas and zeroes. That was price I paid for never knowing any member of my family. It was the main purpose behind my longing for love.

The parade of imposters is why I left that life behind. I knew what was in store for me. As the sun rose on October 8th 2008 the morning of my eighteenth birthday, I escaped into anonymity. For five years, I hopped from continent to continent, country to country, always one step ahead of those who would put me in the spotlight. To say I was escaping from reality was not necessarily true. To say I was hiding from my past, that would be more accurate. Considering all the money, the fame, the family heritage, I managed to avoid any direct contact with my station. Eventually, I knew I would have to come forward, if I was ever going to find happiness and establish a family of my own. Eventually, I knew I would have to reveal who I was. Alas, eventually was fast approaching, and I was scared.

Although I was raised in a children’s home, I wouldn’t expect pity from anyone. I never wanted for attention. When I ventured out on my own, I was able to make friends in the places I traveled; and there was never a shortage of men in my life. I liked men, especially the pretty ones.

For example, there was Jean Luc Emanuel. Every year or so, we would rendezvous in Paris. Jean Luc was one in a long line of pretty men whose companionship I had enjoyed. I desired him for his artistic talents both in and out of the studio. He was a good time, nothing more.

One morning, he skipped off to paint for the tourists, leaving me alone with my thoughts. That was never a good thing. Lying naked on futon in his flat in Montmartre, I had an epiphany. Before a plan had fully formed, I was already dressed, and on the phone to my travel agent.

Twenty-two hours later, I touched down at Palm Beach International Airport. An hour after that, I stepped across the threshold of the home where my mother was raised in downtown Delray Beach, Florida. It might have taken twenty-three-years, but I, Sabine Marie Fox, was back where I belonged.

Chapter 2:

As told by The Stranger:

Destiny is a blind man playing pin the tail on the donkey. Sometimes you hit the mark and other times you end up smelling like shit. That’s just the way it goes.

When life hands me lemons, instead of making lemonade, I choke the living shit out of life and shove the lemons right back down its throat. Fair? Screw fair! Life is not the least bit fair. So what is fair? Revenge is very fair. If someone hurts you, pay them back. If someone steals from you, steal from them. Vengeance is the great equalizer. That is the best way to obtain what you want from in life. You must take it.

The key to retribution is the escape. If you are caught, you will not have the opportunity to revel in your success or to piss on the smoldering ashes of your enemies. Anonymity is the key. On the opposite side of the coin, perhaps the most essential stop on the path of revenge, is convincing everyone that you are the good guy. If you can do that, no one will even see you coming.

I learned from a very early age that achieving one’s goals has little to do with hard work. Fate is a fickle bitch that tickles some and fucks the rest. A prime example is the Foxes - worth billions, and I had recently filed for bankruptcy for the second time. The Foxes good fortune became my misfortune. What does someone like me do when fate bends them over? Well, I respond in kind. As I said, revenge is the great equalizer.

The problem with striking back at the Fox family was simple… they were practically extinct. Adam Fox, the patriarch died in the early seventies. His daughter and son-in-law carried on their do-gooder legacy. All our relatives, of which there were few, had passed. His lone surviving heir was his great-granddaughter Sabine Fox. On the day she turned eighteen and inherited the billion-dollar foundation, she ran away. As soon as she was given the keys to the kingdom, she vanished. I could not exact retribution without knowing her whereabouts. So I set out upon a quest to find her.

In spite of her best efforts to remain concealed, Sabine had not completely disappeared. Those who knew anything about the Fox Foundation must have an idea where she was. After all, she was making bank transfers and calling the shots from afar. There were rumors that she was living in Europe, while others placed her in the Caribbean. In the five years since she dropped off the radar, there had not been a single confirmed sighting.

Finally, a contact of mine in France spotted her slumming with a local artist. It gave me a thrill to think that they hunt was over and the chase could begin. I sent an associate to collect her. He had instructions, and he had the training. But when he arrived at that little flat in Paris, all he found was the artist. Malheureusement, Jean Luc will no longer be painting for the tourists.

She had slipped away again. I had missed her by mere hours, but that was the story of my life. I was never in the right place at the right time. . Sabine Fox seemed to always be one step ahead of me.

A week later, without warning, the prodigal great-granddaughter reappeared in the very city where it all began. Her return was purposely unannounced. Sabine realized a long time ago the key to anonymity. Even if people had known she was coming, they would not have recognized her. The only thing that stood out were her mother’s eyes. I had known Lucinda quite well.

Armed with this knowledge, the time had come for me to exact my revenge upon the family that ruined me. After years of biding my time, hiding behind a façade of respectability, I was ready. Sabine Fox might not have done anything to me personally, but she would pay the debt owed to me. Why did she control of a fortune when I was left penniless. If it took my very last breath, I would destroy her; she would never even see me coming.

Chapter 3:

As told by Reginald Peterson:

In the spring of 1898 my great-grandfather, Garrison Peterson, boarded a train in Grand Central station bound for Florida. It was rumored he was he was escaping an unwanted betrothal to one of the less attractive Rockefeller daughters. According to my father, he was trying to escape the family’s crumbling railroad dynasty. The Peterson’s fall from grace was the result of a multitude of bad business decisions, not the state of the nation’s economy.

After withdrawing the remaining money from his trust fund, Garrison embarked on a journey to remake himself. Until then, every business venture he had entered failed. By the age of twenty-two, he lost close to two million dollars, which was quite a substantial amount for that era. With fifteen thousand dollars cash and the deeds to four parcels of farmland, he arrived in the town of Linton Florida, with no idea how to maximize his resources.

Naturally, my Ivy League educated great-grandfather knew nothing about farming. The only seeds he’d ever sowed were wild oats. He was the son of a son of a trust fund. No member of the Peterson’s had earned an honest day’s wage since before the Crusades. Rather than take the time to learn a little about his chosen industry, he snatched a farmhand off the back of a freight train and put him in charge of running the entire operation. That was the kind of stupid decisions the old man was famous for, and why most of his previous business partners had bled him dry. Upon his arrival, he happened upon a talented and intelligent young man named Adam Fox. Farming was in his blood. Together these two unlikely partners, created one of the largest, most successful, winter vegetable empires in the United States. It lasted four decades.

One Hundred and 15 years Later

Reggie Cont.:

My biography would not make a very good Disney movie nor would my love-life inspire many Hallmark cards. Yet, in spite of my unconventional existence, whenever possible, I’ve tried to do right by those who deserved it, especially women.

Why am I so adamant on the subject of women? Because, in truth, meeting, befriending, and pleasuring them was all I was ever really good at. As I grew older, and realized sexual prowess was not a skill I could list on the hobbies section of a professional resume, I was forced to develop more marketable skills.

To that end, I held all the typical teenage jobs, but none of them lasted very long. Even without a higher education, I managed to pick up a few tricks along the way. From the Big Apple to the Big Easy I made my way on the money I earned. A perpetual need to prove myself, along with an unquenchable thirst for adventure, propelled me from north to south and sea to shining sea.

It was not surprising that Los Angeles held my attention longer than any other place. I was living there for almost three years when one morning I awoke with homesick feeling. What’s so strange about wanting to return to place of one’s birth? Having lived at fifteen different addresses in ten years, the concept of home was as foreign to me as the color red to blind man. Yet, for reasons I cannot begin to explain, I wrapped up my affairs, and purchased a one way plane ticket from LAX to PBI.

Sixteen hours later, I surrendered my limited savings to a South Florida realtor for the first and last month’s rent on a studio apartment. It had an exquisite view of a brick wall on the adjacent building. This stood in stark contrast to the view of the Pacific from the grand villa I had shared with roommates on the West Coast. One had had four bedrooms and three baths, and in sharp contrast, and in the other, I could touch the kitchen and bathroom standing in the same place.

I did not regret my decision to move. I felt that I was meant to be there. Delray Beach, FL, the Village by the Sea, was an integral part of my family history. After all, that was where my notorious great-grandfather scored his greatest triumph and subsequently suffered his final humiliation. I, Reginald Franklin Peterson, was back where I belonged.

Chapter 4:

Sabine Fox:

Considering my family’s historic ties to the city of Delray Beach, it might seem peculiar that I had not been back there since my birth. This was my mother’s doing. Lucinda made a provision in her will, that in the event of her death, I be sent overseas to be raised in the children’s home named in the document. She had worried that my forthcoming inheritance might lead to complications. How right she was! In spite of her well-meaning intentions, the paparazzi found me in England with seemingly little effort. Once they knew where I was, they hounded me for the better part of eighteen years. The persistent sensation of being stalked was unnerving. It was difficult looking over my shoulder constantly to see who was watching or photographing me. All of this was hard for me to comprehend at that age.

Due to a generous donation from the Fox Foundation, I was afforded special treatment during my upbringing. I was a unique case. No family could legally adopt or foster me due to a clause in my mother’s will. Another advantage of being Lucinda Fox’s daughter was the education I received from private tutors. Because I had no friends to pass the time, I often I spent many extra hours in the classroom. Although that might seem generous, I was not aware of the benefits at the time.

For nearly two decades, I was bullied for the wealth which awaited me. It was not only the students. Many of the teachers and staff felt the same way. They often punished me because I was the rich girl. When they were not picking on me, they avoided me completely.

Despite my lonely upbringing, I was relatively unscathed. Thoughts of my mother and her diary spurred me on. I often pretended she was there with me. When things were at their worst, I would talk to her to pass the time. That practice continued well into my adolescence.

Now, five years later, standing before the front door to my great- grandfather’s house, I was talking to her once more. Oh mama, I wish you were here, I whispered. For some reason, I could not bring myself to go inside. Until then, that home was just a dream for me. It was my great-grandfather’s place, or my mother’s, never mine. I would have given anything to have one of them there to open that door.

Sadly, by 2013, none of my ancestors left in Delray. Consequently, what I little I knew of then came from acquaintances and journals. My great-grandfather’s notes were incomplete. My mother, on the other hand, kept very comprehensive and meticulous diaries. They began in her childhood and took up many volumes. Strangely, after all those years of documenting her life, she inexplicably stopped writing less than I year before I was born.

The last entry read:

SOMETHING IS WRONG. I HAVE THIS DREADFUL FEAR THAT MY LIFE IS COMING TO AN END. WHO WILL CARRY ON THE FAMILY LEGACY? I BOUGHT MY TICKET TODAY. THERE, I HOPE TO FIND THE ANSWER.

Beyond that entry, were the ripped edges of six missing pages and then more than fifty blank ones. On the last page was scratched The End. What an enigmatic finish to such an incredible life. I would give anything to know the truth.

From what I could piece together with information from the family law firm, in the spring of 1990, shortly after reaching her fortieth birthday, my mother decided to have a child. No one knew why she made this decision. An average person might have found a husband or gone to fertility clinic for the procedure. Lucinda Fox though could never be described being average. In early May, she took a cruise ship to the southernmost reaches of the Caribbean. When she returned she was pregnant. If my mother knew who the father was, she did not tell a soul.

Eight months later I was born. Eight minutes after I took my first breath, she drew her last. The strain of pregnancy took a toll on her already declining health. It was an ironic twist of fate considering her mother also died during childbirth. Adam Fox did not have an extensive family. There was a daughter, a granddaughter, and then a great-granddaughter, but no one else survived.

Inadvertently, my mother had abandoned me into a world filled with jealousy and hatred. Everyone I lived with resented me for the money I had yet to inherit. They never understood that I didn’t want any of it. All I ever cared about was having a loving family, and that had been stolen from me.

Delray Beach was not much different for Adam Fox than London was for me. My great-grandfather, for all his generosity and philanthropic endeavors, was not a very well liked man. The only people who spoke to him were looking for a piece of the pie. Except for those who had a legitimate need, most of them left empty handed. The only possession he ever cared about was that house. In spite of my reluctance to return, or to take up a visible presence with the Fox Foundation, I had never been able to get rid of the place. Every time someone suggested that I sell it, I remembered one of the few legible entries in my great-grandfather’s journal.

I OWN MY OWN HOME. WHO WOULD HAVE EVER IMAGINED THAT A SON OF A PLANTATION SLAVE WOULD EVER HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SAY THIS. TODAY IS THE THIRD TIME IN MY LIFE THAT I HAVE CRIED. FIRST WHEN MY DAUGHTER WAS BORN, SECOND WHEN MY WIFE DIED, AND NOW. THIS IS MY HOME. NO MATTER WHAT ELSE HAPPENS TO ME, IT WILL ALWAYS BE MINE.

In 2014, Mission Revival house that Adam Fox had built was no longer much to look at. It was less than two thousand square feet under air, and compared its more modern neighbors, it had become obsolete. Back in his day though, it was proof that any man could succeed. No matter the vast fortune he amassed, it was the only house he ever owned.

Even from abroad, I managed to keep it looking much the same as when it was built. Once a month, I brought in a crew to manage the upkeep on both the inside and outside. In today’s market, it was worth in excess of a million dollars. Its monetary value was irrelevant, because I would never sell it. It meant too much to my family.

Aside from its locale, Adam Fox’s house was just another reminder of his seclusion. It was shielded on three sides by stockade fencing, and shaded by vegetation too thick for prying eyes. In some ways, it looked more like a prison than a home, and that was how he wanted people to see it.

In truth, it was very hospitable. Beyond the fence and hedges, the color pallet was a mixture of coral pinks and pastel oranges. There was tropical foliage from around the world dotting a well maintained landscape. No matter the time of year, there was always something in bloom from the bougainvillea to the jasmine, and from hibiscus to hydrangeas.

For years, I had been dreaming of visiting it. The knowledge that I was only a heartbeat away, gave me the courage to turn the key in the lock. Stepping over the threshold, I felt a twinge of remorse. I was coming home, but to a home, I had never known. You can do this, I told myself over and over again. Crossing over the threshold, I announced proudly, I am here Mama.

Chapter 5:

Reginald Peterson:

Wom-an-iz–er noun: To pursue casual sexual relationships with multiple women.

I do not appreciate the definition of the word womanizer because it is based on a number of underlying assumptions. 1) All women want a single, lifelong, monogamous relationship. 2) No man does. 3) In order to get laid, a man must lie, cheat, and promise things he does not intend to deliver. 4) Having sex with multiple partners is in some way inherently or morally wrong.

I shall address each of these points individually because none of them are essentially true. 1) Not all women are looking for Mr. Right. Many of them are happy with Mr. Right Now. 2) Not every man is compelled by the power of his penis. I am personally not looking to add notches to my bedpost. 3) Some men are able to have sex with multiple partners without cheesy ploys. 4) There is nothing wrong with experiencing intimacy just for fun. If you learn nothing else from Reginald Peterson, learn this. Sex is not immoral. Sex is fun.

Having said that, let’s clarify some important restrictions. I am only referring to the consensual sex of adults. Sex with an unwilling partner is immoral, lying to get laid is immoral, stealing the virtue of one who is not mentally ready for intimacy is immoral. Do not step over these lines. The consequences for these actions should be swift punishment. If there were any real justice in this world, the penalty for rape would be rape. Trust me when I say, there would be a lot less sexual crimes, if the offenders were summarily offended.

I personally have never stepped over those moral boundaries. No means no, even if with some increased pressure and repeated advances, it might eventually lead to yes. For men, there is no place for Sean Connery’s portrayal of James Bond in the modern world. For women, I do not subscribe to the theory of playing hard to get or saying one thing and meaning another. Ladies, if you want it, come and get it. Ask for it by name. Do not play games with yes means no, and no means yes. Any woman who does that with me, will find herself playing alone. The only games I play involve roles or cards.

Getting back to my earlier statement, I am not a womanizer.

The women I spend time with know who I am up front. They know it because I tell them in no uncertain terms not to expect more from me than I am willing to give. I am candid, and therefore do not feel guilty for my actions. I do not knowingly sleep with married women… EVER. There have been couple who lied about their marital status, but I can’t do anything about hidden wedding rings. Also, I always use protection for the sake of both parties. There are no exceptions to this rule. I never try the rhythm method unless I am beating my own drum. I am as careful as I can be physically, emotionally, and mentally. I do not use women for sex. I simply spend time with a lot of women; period.

So, why do women flock to Reginald Peterson? I must be devastatingly attractive, right? I must have a set of six pack abs to drive women wild? No, not really. Do I have George Clooney’s smile, Marcus Holme’s cock, Val Kilmer’s chin, Brad Pitt’s ass? I’m not unattractive or disfigured in any way, but I’m nothing special to look at. I have short, brown, flyaway hair, crooked teeth, and to be honest my ass is a bit flat. What is it then? I’m nothing special to look at, I can, on occasion, be a real prick, and my latest bank balance was in the three figure range.

So, what do women see in me? The real reason I have always been so successful with women is simple. I pay attention to what they say, I genuinely care about how they feel, I flirt more often then I fornicate, and I never fear rejection. That’s it. I wish I could tell you there was a pill or surgery or a diet that could help the average Marcus meet that special Jill, but there isn’t. My ability to woo women is the result of honesty and self-confidence. In the end, it comes down to this; I am just good with women.

My name is Reggie Peterson and I am a femaleaholic.

Case in point: Leslie Wahl was one of the best snowboard cross racers in the world. She was one of the finest winter Olympians, even before the sport came to prominence at the 2010 Olympic Games in Vancouver, Canada. That was where she won her first gold medal and barring any unforeseen injuries; she was the favorite to win her second in Sochi in 2014.

Snowboard cross, in case you did not know, is basically a combination of motocross and roller derby on snow. In her sport, four people race down an icy mogul laden slope on a track the width of a driveway at speeds of up to forty miles an hour on a one inch thick piece of wood and fiberglass. If that does not sound difficult enough; they also wrestle each other the whole way in order to reach the finish line first. It’s a tough sport for tough people, which is kind of ironic when one considers Leslie Wahl looked more like California bikini model than a rugby player. The petite flower of a girl was solid though, with less than two percent body fat. In a profession that did not lend itself to flabby exteriors, she was the hard body of the bunch.

Why do I bring her up in this conversation? Leslie Wahl was one of those women I could not live without. Besides being vastly talented, and ridiculously adorable, she was also my best friend. We met the first week I moved to L.A. If it was not for her in the early days, I am not sure I would have survived the City of Angels. The first time I saw Leslie it was two in the morning. We were both at 7-Eleven debating the purchase of competing energy drinks. A one minute conversation was all it took for us to light the fuse of a lifelong friendship.

I recognized her face from the television commercials but said nothing to that effect. Fame and fortune meant very little to me. The second she saw me, Leslie tossed her absurdly, curly blond hair back into a pony tail and pulled down her oversized sweatshirt to cover her pajama bottoms. I didn’t see any reason to feel self conscious, even if she did. That was how people dressed when they went to all night convenience stores. It was a given. I can’t even tell you what I was wearing at the time. I seldom worried about such trivial things as appearance.

The two of us were standing in front of the energy drink display. In our left hands, we held the little red and yellow 5 Hour Energy bottle and in our right hand an eight ounce can of Red Bull. After a few awkward snickers, Leslie spoke first. The 5 Hour Energy shot is so concentrated it might be overkill. I’m not planning on staying up more than a couple of hours.

I focused on her grey-blue eyes and chipper toothy smile. Eye contact when you first meet someone, especially if they are feeling self conscious about their appearance, is important. I responded, Yes, but if you drink a can of Red Bull at this time of night …

Leslie saw where I was heading and continued my train of thought toward the caboose. I know, I know, you wake up four times to pee. I get that. I find the key to energy drinks and sleep is to mix it up with some…

I finished it off from there. …alcohol. I like to add a little Jagermeister and then you sleep through the night. It tastes like cough medicine but works like Nyquil. Back and forth, we