Tonight With Tarzan

By Karen Hudgins

An interior designer falls for a local "Tarzan", whose work and secret dual identity pushes her to overcome fears--or lose the love of her life.

Tia St. James, interior decorator, discovers "Tarzan" lives in Picardy Heights. He's London T. Parker, a charter pilot and adventurer, who posed as the famous for the poster she hangs in the Jungle Jangle.

London soon wants to whisk her away to a real African rain forest. Yet, Tia tries not to love a man who risks life and limb. How will London help Tia jump over the cliff of the past--and land in the arms of… Tarzan?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053457

Book preview

Copyright © 2008 by Karen Hudgins

ISBN  978-1-59705-345-7

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

To Dad, Robert C. Ferguson,

September 21, 1931—August 28, 2006

Acknowledgments

VERY DEEP THANKS GO to my family and close friends for their support and patience while I wrote this book. Also, I want to express my appreciation to Elizabeth Merz, Ron Hirsh, Cheryl Norman for their professional expertise, kindness, and technical suggestions. Thanks for a great job to Chrissie Poe for the cover art and to cover model Evan Scott. My heartfelt gratitude also goes to editors Lorraine Stephens, and Christie Kraemer of WingsePress.com, who helped better this book.

One

Tia St. James never much believed in magic, winning the lottery, or that she could travel to other dimensions. Nor did she mix real life with fiction. Yet, at this moment, she would swear that Tarzan gazed at her. Only her.

He was worth a second look, and Tia took it. His mysterious hazel eyes invited her to places far away from Picardy Heights. Warmth from his smile sped her comfort. His sun-streaked tangled hair touched his bare muscular shoulders and arms that undoubtedly supported swinging from vine to vine. A chamois loincloth hugged his narrow waist and topped his tanned thighs.

Tia tentatively reached up and touched his chest. She could almost feel his heartbeat as whimsy replaced duty on this Saturday morning in June. If only Tarzan were real suddenly raced through her mind. If only he were more than the image in the life-size color poster Marcy Phillips was holding up for her.

He’s...perfect, Tia murmured.

Yes, indeed. This Tarzan could save a woman from danger anywhere, including dark African forests. Surely, being with him promised unforgettable adventures.

That was if Tia were open to such living. But after she suffered the saddest loss of her life she avoided adventures and seeking wilderness trip thrills. Mere backpacking trips became past fun. So if Tarzan were real, he would find that she was no worthy jungle companion. This, Tia believed, was an undeniable fact. In real life.

She pulled her fingers away from the paper. Tarzan was created in fiction long before Tia was born. Except this poster ushered legendary him well into today, to her, in the Jungle Jangle theme restaurant.

Marcy beamed. I knew you’d like him.

Tia walked with her to the large worktable and laid the art on top.

More than like—I love. And I owe you for this, she replied, setting assorted items on the corners of the poster to keep it flat.

Nah, not really, Marcy said. Unless you want to design some labels for my newest spice collection?

Just say when, Tia said happily unable to lift her gaze from the work.

Light from the overhead work lamp sharpened details. Ames Brewery Celebrates 50 Years emblazoned the top of the poster. Tarzan, surrounded by tropical foliages, dominated the rest. The print was signed and dated. To her further surprise, she noticed that a limited production number had been assigned. So, Tia now owned No. 6/10 of what would someday be a bona fide collector’s item.

Look. This was made last year, she noticed aloud.

Marcy raised her eyes, visibly recalling, Those Ames ads were good. Dreamy action heroes stopped in the middle of their work for a cold beer. She smiled wryly. Who knew Tarzan liked our very own ale brewed on our very own, little old Oak Street?

Yes, an amazing feat for a little brewery, Tia joked while her thoughts ran ahead about hanging the poster. She surveyed the three usable walls around them. This area, under her direction, would soon become Kambi. It meant camp in Swahili.

Marcy suggested, Maybe you should hang Tarzan where women can see him up close. Just like we are right now.

Tia picked up on the idea. Maybe near the women’s room?

Marcy nodded emphatically, and Tia understood why. Photographs of sexy actors and athletes were posted by the ladies’ room at Reggie’s Sports Bar. Country singers plastered the bathroom hallway at Denim’s near Picardy’s small airport. Also, she’d discovered the new Symphony Hall’s wall of fame near its marble-appointed restrooms.

Tia almost agreed. Good idea, but it’s been done a lot.

Marcy’s brown eyes lit up with sudden mischief. Don’t you just want to see what’s under his loin cloth?

Tia smiled naughtily. I wonder if he brought Jane chocolates?

Most likely a banana. Every day.

Giggles erupted between them.

So there’s my point, Marcy said. This man is a hunk of fabulous, guilty pleasure, fantasy material. Other women will enjoy that, too.

Tia shook her head with fondness. Marcy pushed the envelope which often made regular things fun. In this case, the fun was Tarzan. Inarguably, the guy posing as The Lord of the Jungle sizzled. But Tia had to consider the big picture. Certain details needed attention; like how to combine a local business setting with English him, and an African jungle and his heroic good deeds.

Tarzan’s also a family hero, she said. Kids love him. Dads, aunts and grandpas like him. As she spoke, another pragmatic angle hit her.

You know, I’m thinking that this Tarzan is probably a local guy.

Marcy raised an eyebrow. "Now, wouldn’t that be charming?"

Priceless because his local connection means a lot.

Oh, I get it, Marcy said. Local residents supporting local business.

Exactly and vice versa.

Marcy paused then, I thought he needed a home, and you deserve kudos for landing this job. You beat some serious competition, remember?

Gratefulness warmed Tia from the inside out. Thanks. It was true that she had worked very hard on the proposal that won this high-profile design project.

You also put your heart into your work, Marcy added.

Tia returned her friend’s admiring gaze. From out of nowhere, I put my heart more into Jack zapped through her mind. She winced. Losing him still deeply stung.

So do you put your heart into your work, Tia said, trying to push aside her sad inner thoughts. You’re a spice expert and have a good business rep. People who like to cook depend on you, and with your help we all simply eat better.

Thanks. I work for a good shop. The corners of Marcy’s mouth lifted, but her voice rung hollow. She looked restless. Say, do you want some water?

Sure, Tia said, pointing at her checklist. I need a break.

Coming right up. With lemon, if I can find one. The good kind, that is.

Tia regarded Marcy as she left the dais, made her way through the restaurant and turned left at the kitchen. Self-doubt and cynicism were new conditions for Marcy. Not hard to believe. Last month her heart and judgment had suffered devastation from the man in her life.

From inside out, Tia understood her friend’s loss. Marcy and she had come through loves that had ended abruptly. One fiancé—Tia’s beloved Jack—was now dearly departed. Then, Marcy’s boyfriend was disgracefully deported. His papers weren’t exactly in order.

Tia sat in the chair by the table and picked up a swatch of fabric. While she traced a chimpanzee with her finger, her thoughts rambled. They met a fork in the road. One path was about work, and the other about her love life.

Naturally, Tia picked the less worrisome route which was about creating tangible backdrops for people living their lives. This design career came after she turned thirty, now three years ago. She felt chosen for this profession.

But Tia could also see the route leading to her love life. After tragedy had robbed her of happiness, she wrestled with loneliness and wariness about risk. Also, she wondered what could be waiting for her around the corner. If life served up that heartache, it could happen again; anytime or anywhere. Thus, it seemed to her that keeping things simple and sticking close to home in a low-risk job made good sense.

Tia started as the telephone rang at the hostess station. The Jungle Jangle wouldn’t open for three hours, which afforded her prime, relatively quiet work time. The ringing stopped and a male voice streamed from the kitchen. Marcy’s voice came next, her words inaudible, then his followed again.

Meanwhile, Tia slid her gaze back to Tarzan. Doing so made her feel good. She slowly smiled to herself. Although she and Marcy had hit rock bottom, they could still look at fine guys like Tarzan.

Marcy returned with two glasses of water and a plate of Jungle Raindrops. Laced with spices, nuts and fruit, JRs were the signature cookie of the restaurant and served with luscious green grapes worthy of a Roman God.

Marcy placed everything on the worktable. Sitting across from Tia, she waved a finger at the poster, and then claimed a cookie.

Figure out what to do with him yet?

Tia helped herself to the water and snack. I’m thinking I’ll use a distressed wooden frame draped with dried vines. Then people will see imperfect framing surrounding a man of perfect proportions and honor. So, we’ll have a clear visual study of contrast. That is, for anyone who wants to analyze.

Marcy blinked. Nobody could ever call you shallow.

Hope not. Although, at one point, that had been attempted. Sadly, her father never really wanted to understand why she wasn’t an astronomer devoting her life to space and the universe. She liked the stars, but not enough to suit him.

Okay, Marcy said. Where will I find Tarzan when I come here?

Tia leaned back and pointed to the short end of the rectangular room.

Over there. A spotlight will bring out his attributes.

Macy glanced at that bareness and threw up her hands in delight. That’ll absolutely rock. See, I knew you’d come up with just the right thing.

Tia’s curiosity spilled. One more question. Where’d you find him?

At Gallery One. I’d dropped by for some old bottles for spices and found Tarzan—all glorious like that—standing between the antique brass bed from the Wheaton Mansion and Mrs. W’s powder blue peignoir, which looks like a size two. She paused and brushed crumbs from her mouth. But this poster had your name written all over it. So I bid on it in the silent auction and got a winner’s call yesterday afternoon. And, now, he’s all yours, Marcy finished. She pointed to the citrus in Tia’s water. That lemon’s fresh.

Everything here is, Tia assured her and sipped.

Eating in this place is an experience. I mean, where else can we dine in a jungle so close to home?

Tia set down the glass. It’d happen only if we move home to one of the five equatorial rain forest areas. But that’s unlikely, isn’t it?

Marcy nodded with certainty. Here and elsewhere.

But Beau Gallagher, bless his visionary soul, brought the jungle here. It’s been a hit, and Beau’s pockets are getting deeper. He’s living proof that fine food, imagination, courage and ambiance marry well.

A sudden ding fired off from inside Marcy’s skirt pocket. She pulled out her Blackberry and tapped a little key. Shoot. I’ve got to run for a hair appointment and get to work. She pocketed the device, which she took everywhere, and held up long wavy strands. I’m going shorter and a shade darker.

Tia worked with color a lot, yet she’d never seen so many shades of brunette on anyone’s head except for Marcy’s, and they always looked good.

Can’t wait, she said, smiling with truth.

Marcy pushed back the chair and stood. Did you order a parrot?

Tia remembered, Actually, yes. I found a beautiful and smart African Grey. He’s thirty-five and coming from Orlando. Why?

Marcy tossed her head toward the kitchen. I almost forgot that Giorgio, the chef, took a call while I was getting the cookies. He said that the bird will be delivered here to you in about fifteen minutes.

Tia wrinkled her nose. The bird’s here?

The cargo guy’s been trying to catch up with you for two days.

Now, Tia got up. "Then, it’s arriving early. That section of the atrium’s not ready, and what I really need now is a very big, very outdoor tent."

Marcy shook her head. I don’t know how you do it all. Plan, design, get approvals, find contractors, materials, wear a hardhat and look good, and work with contrary people then collect just-right stuff. You make it look effortless.

Tia shot her a you-know-better look. Sure, and I’m up late a lot.

For the sake of better art.

And function and comfort. Indoor synergy and happier people.

Right, Marcy confirmed. Function and comfort. See you later.

Later. Tia waved good-bye to Marcy and went to the women’s room. Returning, she found a man standing by the table where the Tarzan poster lay.

The stranger paid her no notice as she slowed to a watchful halt. Leaning forward, the well-built man rested his hands on the table edge. He seemed about six feet tall, and his solid, handsome profile captured her full attention. A tangle of sun-streaked hair spilled onto his forehead. Stubble shadowed his jaw and square chin. Her gaze followed his form to his waist and below. A large wooden crate rested by his tanned legs.

As Tia cleared her throat, the man turned and lifted his face toward her. She recognized him in an instant. Tarzan. A more mature rugged version. He wore khaki shorts and a Henley-collared shirt that hugged his torso. The top button was open, exposing a smattering of chest hair. His sunglasses hung above the second button. Summer hiking boots finished off his attire. All comfortable, for sure, but he simply didn’t look happy.

OF ALL THE EXOTIC CARGO that London Parker received on a regular basis, birds caused him and his crew the most hassle. For one thing, their loss factor ran high. Like a couple of years ago when the mayor’s wife had ordered rare canaries. One of his crew had mistakenly sprung the carrier latch. The birds escaped the hangar, flying over the fields of Picardy County. That incident cost London money and embarrassment. Now, he kept birds, and some other live cargo, in his office until customer pick up, or delivery, was done.

Thus, when this expensive-looking tropical bird arrived for a Ms. Tia St. James, c/o The Jungle Jangle, 350 Cobble Street, Picardy Heights, MO, he personally tried to deliver it immediately. Except that couldn’t happen, which meant he boarded and fed the bird for two days. In this time, London learned that the ungrateful foul bit fingers and drank coffee. He also heard the bird growl, squawk and talk dirty.

London slid the bird one last look. Suddenly, he recalled his first experience with the bird. It was like most busy Thursday mornings. The phone had rung off the hook with shippers and receivers. Flight plans needed to be registered. Weather needed checking. He lined up two pilots for short hauls and discreetly scheduled himself for a longer trip to Atlanta.

By ten a.m., he soaked up too much coffee and yearned for his Aunt Lottie’s pancakes at the AeroStop which was down the road a piece. London liked his work. His father and grandfather had taught him what he knew about the business. What London did for Parker Air Charter and Cargo, Inc. was varied, unique and often involved flying and physical work that helped keep him in shape. But, sometimes, even his patience thinned.

Parker’s Cargo, London had said answering the office phone. Could he arrange for delivery of the fresh eucalyptus from California for the koalas at the zoo in the morning? No problem. He was sealing the deal when suddenly from across the office the parrot had erupted.

Awk! Pecker’s cahgo, he squawked full-blast several times.

At first, London had tried to ignore him, but the deafening bird persisted. He finally said, Hey, buddy. Time out. And Parker’s my name, got it?

The bird bobbed its gray head up and down. Pecker, Aaallo?

After the tenth miserable try, London grimaced. Not quite, lame brain, escaped from beneath his breath. But not quietly enough.

The parrot whistled. Pecker’s lame. My pecker’s lame, Pecker’s—

London threw a burlap sack over the crate until after hours. Now, two days later, London stood here in the Jungle Jangle, and, damned, if the lady addressee wasn’t here again. Maybe she had a guardian angel at work, as she was about to meet the African parrot from Hell. Also, she was about to meet him and pay the C.O.D and boarding fees. Then, he could leave, and none too soon.

It looked to London like she’d already had met him—in a different way. The dreaded Tarzan poster was on this table in front of him. He swallowed hard. The proof that he once believed posing for the poster was a good idea stared back at him in the Jungle Jangle. But, why was it here?

Maybe the woman staring at him could explain. She was an eyeful. Tall and attractive. She wore dark green shorts and an animal print shirt. It was obvious she didn’t eat much pasta or sit around a lot. Her self-assurance looked good on her. She also looked wary. As if she was waiting for a cloud to pass.

Hello. Are you Tia? he asked outright.

Still looking at him, she said. Yes.

He paused, reeling from an unexpected chemistry spike that zapped him. He very well knew what that was about and wasn’t going there. Not today nor in a month of todays. His love train had wrecked enough. His trusted radar told him that this woman could get under his skin. Deep. Hell, he’d just gotten out of deep. More than hot nights between the sheets, he needed air.

Good. Then is this your bird? he asked. Because, you need to—

Yes, the parrot’s mine—sort of. He’s really for my client. I’m sorry I missed you yesterday. I had to go pick up the ficus trees.

London glanced beyond her. Two trees stood by the stairs he’d taken to get up on the large dais. In disarray, the area looked like what could be a movie set.

Are those the ones? he asked, referring to the trees.

As she turned a bit, he glimpsed her profile. Nice upturned nose, full lips, and graceful neck that led his eye to her other natural curves. Two of them.

They look good, he said. And they look rain foresty.

Thanks, but they didn’t when I got back here with them.

London sensed a story here. Her voice was sort of soft and strong at once, like washed canvas over a wing strut. Did it rain on them?

No, they flew off the top of my car.

Flew? He fluttered his fingers like wings.

They went totally airborne, she said and shrugged.

Why London was pursuing this puzzled him. He had other things to do, like pick up the sign-up sheet at Sports Outdoors for the Manitoba trip.

I have a small car, you see, she continued. The trees were roped to the roof. I only had to make it four miles. I was close to here, and wouldn’t you know that the guy in front of me slammed on his breaks. I hit mine, and the trees flew. All of which is what I told the police.

While she talked, London zeroed in on her eyes. Wide-spaced and large, shades of blue flecked with lavender, and the kind that didn’t lie on purpose. And her story was bigger than he expected.

The police? he asked.

"It was awful. Three of them arrived on the scene—my scene. Sergeant Walker, Officer Beniston and Captain Jacque Spiral."

Now, the lady was pulling his chain. London didn’t know much about movies and fixing up a wannabe jungle room, but, for damn sure, he’d seen the Pirates movies. Or, maybe, Ms. St. James was so good fibbing, it didn’t show in those sparkling peepers of hers? He reckoned that could only happen with a ton of practice. For some inexplicable reason, it interested him to find out.

Captain Jack Spiral, he repeated flatly.

"Jacque. Yes, that was him. She added hastily, And please don’t bring up pirates. He hears that a lot because of his name. He’s much revered in Picardy Heights. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. She squinted. You are a local resident, are you not?"

London raised his palms in agreement. Born and raised, except for when I’m in Africa with my grandfather. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Ethan Parker.

She rested her hand on her hip with indifference. Can’t say I have, really.

A long time ago, he started our charter air service out on the family farm. Not long after that, he gave some of his land to the county for the airport.

Nice of him, but I guess I’m not much into history.

Something about her challenged him. Hey, there are some things I’m not into much.

Oh? Like what?

He could’ve told her golf, sushi, but another less critical item came to mind.

The evening news. It mostly amounts to a crime report.

She said, unwavering, I was on it last evening.

You were on the news because of flying trees? He bit back a grin.

She stepped toward him. Are you thinking this is funny?

"Maybe. But we need to take care of this bird delivery business. He lifted his foot and shoved the crate away from his leg. The lousy bird was picking at his shin hair again. She noticed the shift and the bird.

She walked closer to the crate. Bending over, she gave the bird a once-over.

My parrot looks jostled, she said straightening. Has he eaten?

Yes, ma’am, London said tightly. He has snacked on things. You might want to handle him with care, and you might want to watch what you say, and you might want to cover him up at night.

Thanks for the tips and taking care of Ollie. She proffered her hand.

London reached over and shook it. A solid connection met his, which gave him another reason to linger. Forget how she made the news for flying trees, or whatever the hell happened. We offer routine charter flights, or wilderness trips, and some handling of exotic cargo. I switch back and forth depending on the need. Oh, and we sometimes crop dust.

When London released her hand, she cupped one palm inside the other facing upwards. A scratch marred her soft skin. She saw him noticing it.

I’m all right, she explained. I helped pull one of the trees away from Major Rutledge. She averted her gaze. It—it landed in his most vulnerable place.

London moved his right hand to his waist and splayed his fingers. Was she describing what he thought she was? If so, the image forming in his mind was indescribable. Made of bronze, Major Rutledge sat in a chair outside the old armory.

Yes, Mr. Parker, Tia said. He’s the one. A public property statue.

London’s grandfather knew Jim Rutledge very well. Every time they drove past the local tribute, his grandfather relayed another war story. But this was a first. Major Rutledge with a major bushy hard-on supplied free—gratis by the lady with blondish hair pulled back, now standing in front of London. Amazing.

Thank heavens there was no damage, Tia finished rosy-cheeked. Or I would’ve had to pay a fine, Mr. Parker.

It’s London, please.

Without pause, she said, I don’t need fines or bad press, London. A lot is at stake here. The Jungle Jangle is expanding and vying for the Best Dining Award. I’m here to help those things happen.

London’s mirth lessened. Noted. So what’re you doing?

She looked pleased at the question and gestured with her hands while she explained. This area used to be a big storage room. We’ve taken out a wall and built a dais, and I’m now turning this into an African rain forest camp room. There’ll be a large wall tent for small safari party dining. I’m using camp chairs, mosquito netting, table, lanterns and the like, for effect. She pointed to a wall. That mural of rain forest layers will have more wildlife soon. An aquarium will be set up in the corner with fish from Lake Tanganyika.

London looked around. The magnitude of the task was sinking into him.

All the layers?

From the dark floor, the understory layer, through the canopy, and emergent layers. We’ll see some of what lives in each layer. Then, along with authentic props, coverings, topped off with live trees and flowers, this room will come alive.

London whistled, wishing he could stick around longer. For one thing, he reckoned that watching her paint could get interesting. Stretching her limber body for high up places, bending for low down ones with her hair undone. Not a bad pastime for a guy who, despite recent heartache, still appreciated Nature’s best of show —that being Woman.

I’ll give you this much—you know your stuff, he told her.

Researching helps. The mural artist, Pete Bear, and I recently visited with a curator at the zoo, she conceded. I’ve personally never been in a rain forest nor ever plan to be.

I have. What you’re creating will be good, effective. Something different.

Her eyes flickered darkly. Most women liked his compliments. Many women were impressed that he had slept through a sand storm in the Sahara, cabled over a rain forest canopy in Belize and rafted Grand Canyon in a microburst, to name a few. But this lady? Seemingly not.

I’m going for outstanding, she clarified. Natural lighting will be crucial for a total immersion effect. I want patrons to feel like they’ve arrived to dine in a safari camp in the jungle.

He regarded her for a moment. And you’ll win the prize.

She fretted. It’s not about me.

Why not? he asked. If you’re good at what you do, why not?

Her eyes widened. I suppose. Personally, I’m tired of the Windermere Tea Room winning. Beau projects that winning will bring the Jungle Jangle an approximate eighteen percent profit increase. That’s important to me because that success will be directly attributable to solid design work. In turn, that’ll be a credit to all designers. Yes, I design and transform. So I guess some of it is about me.

Good, he said. She could’ve fibbed in modesty but didn’t. So her eyes were proving true. We’re both in commercial services. We make sacrifices, but without some personal satisfaction, why bother? It’s about quality living and zest.

That’s true for some of us, she said with reservation. My dad, for one.

He’s not for quality of living and zest?

Oh, he has all that. She faltered. But I’m not—not a son or an astronomer.

Tia turned swiftly and walked behind him. He caught a whiff of her perfume as she brushed by him. She wore something between sweet and spicy. He eased around, and she was holding a leopard-print curtain.

Surely, this lady had a husband or boyfriend. He must be playing soccer, or reading in a law office, or healing patients at Clemons Hospital. Yet, she wore no wedding or engagement ring. But not all women did, or men, for that matter.

Good luck with this, he said realizing she left few stones unturned, and he was enjoying this tour more than he should. He then pointed to the windowless short end of the room, which she didn’t mention. What’ll go on that wall?

Tia’s gaze dropped on the poster of him. She paused for a moment and nodded. You will...or, what I mean to say is that my poster of Tarzan will.

Oddly uneasy, London shifted his gaze to the colorful work. You sure you want to do that? It’s an outdated beer ad. Won’t hold much pull power now.

Tia’s eyes lit up. I’m positive, and the restaurant serves Ames beers. I also want whimsy in here. So, Tarzan, you’re a perfect addition. And you’re local.

London summoned diplomacy. I’m flattered. But my connection with Tarzan is history. Posing as him was a one shot deal.

When