The House on Mermaid Point

by Wendy Wax

  “We’ll need your input on how best to utilize the ground-floor space for bait and storage and small personal craft and tackle that guests might use,” Avery said. “But the upstairs can be carved into two guest suites with separate entrances. There’s already a deck facing south. If we wrap them around each side we create a sunrise and a sunset suite.”

  Her smile was met with a noncommittal nod of the head. Troy and Kyra continued to shoot from every angle, but Avery didn’t think any amount of movement on their part was going to make William Hightower appear interested or engaged.

  Avery continued, cutting down on the detail as she covered the pool and pool deck repairs, the state-of-the-art outdoor kitchen that would go into the pavilion, the hammocks and Adirondacks tucked around the property for privacy and reflection.

  She paused for breath and to contemplate William Hightower’s impassive face. The room was heavy with quiet; even Dustin’s play seemed subdued. If the man didn’t say something soon, she’d be tempted to suggest changing the name of his band from Wasted Indian to Silent Indian. Perhaps he was lobbying to be the new face on the wooden nickel.

  Finally, Avery slipped the renderings of the three-car garage into place. It was one of her favorite spaces, one that lent itself to a high degree of flexibility. “If you look at both of these sketches, you see that the upstairs and downstairs can be rented separately as you see here. Or”—she placed the second sketch over it—“it can be opened up into a single two-story unit that sleeps up to ten. Which would make it perfect for a family or any large group who wants to be together.”

  Avery stopped talking. That was it; that was all they had.

  All eyes and both cameras turned to William Hightower. Who sat well back in his chair, his arms tightly crossed over his chest, as he had from the moment Avery had started speaking.

  Avery knew she should simply remain quiet and leave the onus on him to answer, but before she could stop herself she was saying, “This is just an initial take on the project, of course. If there’s something you’d like to change or discuss, we’re certainly open to that.”

  Deirdre reached over to take her hand. She squeezed it gently. Avery wasn’t sure if it was meant as a gesture of support or of warning, but it prompted her to close her mouth and wait, every inch of her braced for impact.

  Hightower grunted but said nothing. As grunts went it was clearly dismissive.

  It was Maddie who finally broke the uncomfortable silence. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but Avery and Deirdre have put a lot of time into these plans and this presentation.” Maddie’s tone was tart, her cheeks flushed. “And those plans are first-rate.”

  Hightower grunted again.

  “A simple ‘yes, I’m good with the plans’ would be great. If you don’t like them the least you could do is say so, so they can be revised.”

  All eyes, including Hightower’s, remained on Maddie, who practically quivered with indignation.

  The rocker had gone completely still. If you didn’t count the tic in one cheek of the harshly handsome face.

  Maddie stared at him. Hightower stared back.

  “Even an ‘I hate the plans, don’t let the palm tree hit you on the way out’ would be better than this incredibly . . . rude silence of yours. I’m sure we could be out of here in the morning.”

  Hightower’s eyes darkened, a gathering storm that turned them almost black.

  “Believe me, nothing is as simple as you seem to think.” The words were growled more than spoken as William scraped back his chair in one fluid motion and stood. The wooden Indian transformed into a living, breathing scalp-taking warrior.

  Avery knew she should say or do something, but she couldn’t think what. Even Deirdre, normally glib in any situation, watched with the same wary anticipation Avery saw on all their faces.

  “It can be that simple.” Maddie stood, holding her ground, like a lioness protecting her cubs. “Throw us out or give us a go-ahead. We have no real say in the matter. I assume you do.”

  “Then you would be wrong.” William set his jaw, nodded curtly. “But what the hell. Go ahead and have at it.” Without waiting for a response, he strode from the room.

  They sat in stunned silence until the front door slammed shut. Kyra lowered her camera. Troy seemed torn between following Hightower and capturing their distress. He continued to film.

  Maddie closed her eyes. Opened them as if hoping something might have changed. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. His whole attitude, that dismissive body language, just made me so damned . . . mad.”

  Nicole and Deirdre looked every bit as shell-shocked as Avery felt.

  “He stormed out and slammed the door.” Maddie dropped into her chair, her voice tinged with amazement. “I chased William Hightower out of his own house.”

  “You sure as hell did,” Nicole agreed, stifling a laugh. “The man was clearly pissed off.”

  “I’m sorry,” Maddie said again, her hands shaking as she reached for her water glass. “I just couldn’t stand watching him treat Avery and Deirdre that way. I don’t care who he is, there’s really no excuse for that.”

  “True. And I think you made that pretty clear.” Avery folded her hands on the table.

  Deirdre nodded her agreement. “You’ll have to apologize, of course. But you’re overlooking the most important part of the whole exchange.”

  “Damn straight.” Nicole smiled.

  “Which is . . . ?” Maddie asked.

  Avery was smiling now, too, as the relief rippled through her. “However angry you made him, you did get William Hightower to give us permission to get started.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Avery was fully caffeinated and standing on the retaining wall on the southeastern tip of Mermaid Point the next morning when the rooster puffed out his chest and crowed out his morning wake-up call.

  This would have been far more impressive if it wasn’t already nine A.M., the sun already gathering strength, yet his hens clucked around him as if he, and not William Hightower, were the rock star on the island.

  “I don’t know,” Avery muttered as she settled her tool belt on her hips and tucked her hair firmly behind her ears. “You must be something in the henhouse, pal.”

  Hightower’s fishing skiff was gone and he hadn’t been seen since he’d stormed off the night before. Her own “peeps” stood beside her watching the barge that carried the Dumpster and scaffolding maneuver into position along the retaining wall. A boat filled with workmen tied up beside it.

  They’d decided on a “uniform” of shorts and Do Over T-shirts, but their versions ranged from Deirdre’s mostly full coverage to Kyra’s crop top and Daisy Duke cutoffs. There was no sign that she had given birth to the toddler she carried on her hip.

  Torn between comfort and a hard-earned awareness of Troy’s preference for unflattering close-ups and gritty reality, their makeup choices also varied. As always, Deirdre’s face was expertly made up, a fact that now struck Avery as only slightly annoying rather than completely ridiculous. Avery had opted for a tinted sunscreen, mascara, and a thin smear of lip gloss, moves she told herself were a nod to the devastating effects of high-def television and not a bid to win Deirdre’s approval.

  Maddie’s eyeliner and brighter-than-usual shade of lipstick, teamed with the high ponytail and neon pink sneakers, made her look younger, but signs of what had to have been a sleepless night were hard to miss. Nicole, who rarely appeared in public without her skillfully applied armor, had pulled her auburn hair into a French braid. Her sleeveless T-shirt revealed toned arms; well-cut shorts showcased her runner’s legs. If anyone could bring even a whiff of sophistication to manual labor, it was Nikki.

  Soon the air rang with the clatter of metal and the heavily accented shouts of the men as they offloaded the scaffolding then began to assemble it around the house like a giant Erector set. Avery
’s heart actually pounded with excitement as the scaffolding encircled the house and then rose toward the roof. The Dumpster clattered into position in the clearing: tangible proof of the official start of her first job as not only architect but licensed contractor.

  Troy and Anthony shot from every imaginable angle. Kyra handed off Dustin to Maddie so that she could shoot her own version while Avery consulted her list, checking their assignments off as she gave them. “Deirdre will start sorting through the office and dining room to figure out what stays and what goes. The kitchen and great room come after that, followed by the second floor. Whatever doesn’t make the cut will be run by William and then tagged so that it can be hauled off the island at some point.”

  “Got it.” Deirdre stopped just shy of saluting, but she looked pleased, possibly even proud. Avery wasn’t sure if this was a new expression for Deirdre or if she just hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Nikki and Maddie and—”

  “Dustbin!” Dustin crowed.

  “—and Dustin will start emptying and prepping the garage. When that’s done you’ll move to the boathouse.” Avery smiled at the little boy in the child-sized hard hat and tool belt that she and Chase had given him for Christmas. She could still remember her own joy at the pink version her father had given her when she was a child. Wearing his as she did now, always made him feel close. “I have two roofers coming out tomorrow to take a look and give estimates. We need to be ready to start demolition early next week.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Maddie nodded and saluted crisply, her ponytail bobbing. “All present and accounted for and ready to get started.”

  Avery saluted back. “We’ll regroup in the pavilion at twelve thirty for lunch. Let the sweating officially begin!”

  • • •

  William had left Mermaid Point before dawn that morning with no real plan in mind other than being somewhere else. He’d filled his live well with bait off Indian Key then headed to favorite spots off Yellow Shark Channel. The warm, moist air sank into his skin and the quiet soothed him. No one to bother him, no one to talk to. Nowhere he had to be. No one he had to perform for. Simple. Uncomplicated. Just the way he liked it.

  He returned late in the afternoon to find his home encased inside a metal cage, an overflowing Dumpster, and a horde of workmen tromping all over his no-longer-private island. The calm that had enveloped him evaporated like summer rain on hot asphalt. He headed for the pool intent on cooling off and found Madeline Singer in the pavilion, dispensing cold drinks to the workmen who’d gathered around her like kids at a neighborhood lemonade stand.

  A lopsided ponytail dangled drunkenly to one side; the hair that had escaped it was matted with cobwebs and dead leaves. Her clothes looked even more bedraggled. She startled when she spotted him and her cheeks, at least the skin that showed through the layers of dirt and grime that covered them, flushed. Was she still pissed? Embarrassed that she’d given him shit? She was so different from pretty much every woman of his experience that he had no clue. For about two seconds he considered simply avoiding her, but he was thirsty and this was still his island, damn it.

  At the sound of a boat horn, or possibly the sight of him, the laborers took their plastic glasses and scattered. Madeline watched him warily as he moved toward her, which was just fine with him. At the last moment he checked his stride. Reaching into his pocket he drew out a quarter and placed it on the table in front of her. “I’ll have a lemonade on the rocks,” he said. “I think you better make it a double.” Of all the things he’d begun dreaming of drinking at night, lemonade wasn’t even on the list.

  “All right,” she said stiffly. She reached for a cup. “But I think I may owe you an apology to go with that lemonade.”

  Damn straight. He liked that she looked him right in the eye. There was no hint of her original stammer. She’d proved herself a hell of a lot feistier than expected last night. Once she apologized, he’d accept and then . . .

  “I’m sorry I attacked you the way I did,” she said. “It seems my reaction may have been as out of line as your rudeness.”

  May have been? He frowned. “You don’t seem particularly committed to your apology.”

  She frowned back, tossing her dark hair back over her shoulder. “Well, I don’t know how large an apology is required for calling you out on your behavior. You were needlessly and hostilely unresponsive, which is downright—”

  “Rude. Yes, I think you made that clear last night.” He watched her chin go up; saw a flash of irritation light her eyes. She filled the cup with ice.

  “All right, then, how about this,” she said. “I feel . . . pretty badly that I attacked you at your own table.” The tone was grudging. “That was wrong of me.”

  He studied her face, saw her generous lips pressed tight, her large brown eyes slightly frosty. “So you wouldn’t be apologizing if you’d attacked me on neutral ground? Say, at Bud N’ Mary’s? Or over at the Green Turtle Inn?”

  He had the distinct impression she was about to roll her eyes at him and only just managed to stop herself.

  His anger had begun to seep out of him, but he wasn’t quite ready to let her off the hook. “I think you can do better than that.”

  One eyebrow went up and she tilted her head to consider him more closely.

  “All right, how about: I feel horrible that I drove you out of your own home.” She poured lemonade over the ice.

  “And?”

  “You want more?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She blinked as she handed him his drink, which meant he might have gone a little overboard on the innuendo. He was intrigued by her directness. She wasn’t a woman who would say one thing and mean another.

  She took a sip of her own drink then licked her upper lip, but missed the lemonade mustache just above it. “And . . . I was a little worried that I irritated you so much that something might happen to you while you were out fishing today.”

  Her concern pricked a hole in the last of his anger. He downed the lemonade she’d served him in one long gulp. “Fortunately, I know the flats around here like the back of my hand.” Even as he brushed aside her concern he was surprisingly touched. People had wanted things from him for a large part of his life, but he couldn’t remember the last time someone had worried about him. Without asking she poured him another glass and seemed to relax when he drank that one down, too. He felt like Wally or the Beaver coming home to milk and cookies after school, something that had never actually happened in his own untelevised childhood.

  “I know our being here is an intrusion,” she said now. “And even though I may have gone about defending Avery and Deirdre a little too . . .”

  “. . . aggressively?”

  His tone had turned teasing. Hers had turned sincere. “The bottom line is they’re really talented. And I know we’ll all do everything we can to make this renovation worth the inconvenience.”

  He caught himself wondering just how far she might go to make the inconvenience worth his while, but her clear brown eyes telegraphed not even an ounce of guile and even less sexual innuendo.

  “What makes you do things like this?” he asked, suddenly curious. “Coming out here with lemonade and iced tea for everyone?”

  She shrugged. “It’s so hot out and everyone is working so hard. I’m used to taking care of my family. I guess I just like to take care of people in general.”

  Taking care of people. Now there was a concept. He’d never successfully taken care of anyone he cared about. And no one had ever really taken care of him; not in the way that someone like Madeline Singer probably meant.

  She reached up to free her hair from the lopsided ponytail, and he caught himself noticing the rise of her breasts beneath the filthy T-shirt.

  “Thanks for the lemonade,” he said as she began to pack up the cooler. “And for the apology.”

&nb
sp; “I owed you one.” She picked up the cooler; they moved toward the pool. She stopped and looked him right in the eye. “And I think now that you’ve given us the go-ahead you owe us your cooperation.”

  She didn’t wait for him to agree or disagree but headed down the path toward the houseboat, her dark hair swinging across her shoulders.

  Will peeled off his T-shirt and dove cleanly into the pool. As he broke into a slow crawl, he found himself wondering what a woman like Madeline Singer might be like in bed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the end of the workday on Friday, every muscle in Maddie’s body had been put to the test. A lot of them hadn’t passed. Stripping the bathroom wallpapers had required more brute strength than finesse, and Maddie’s shoulders and biceps ached. Pulling on her bathing suit was a painful experience and she was far too tired to lift her arms again to pull on something over it. The only thing on her mind was making it to the Jacuzzi, where she desperately hoped the warm jets of water would soothe her abused body. After that she intended to submerge herself in the swimming pool for however long it took to feel human again.

  She limped along the path behind Avery and Nicole, with Kyra and Dustin behind her. Deirdre brought up the rear. They straggled in a slow-moving line like wounded soldiers returning from war, their glazed eyes fixed on the person in front of them. Even Deirdre, whose role was typically more advisory than hands-on, had pitched in, helping them to haul refuse out to the Dumpster, arranging the more valuable discards under a tarp.

  Kyra took Dustin into the swimming pool while Maddie, Nicole, Avery, and Deirdre climbed into the Jacuzzi with whimpers of relief. There they arranged themselves in front of jets, tilted their heads back, and closed their eyes, completely ignoring Troy and Anthony, who had followed their straggling, pathetic progress and were now circling the Jacuzzi.

  “Oh, God.” Avery groaned. “Even my lips hurt.”