by Wendy Wax
His eyes narrowed, but Kyra rushed on before he could interject. “Even if you get permission to share the footage with me at some point—and I can just imagine how hard you’re trying—you may not have anywhere near what I want or need.” She sniffed as dismissively as she could. “There’s no way to do over the important parts if you miss them.”
“Are you questioning my ability to cover the material?” he asked stiffly.
“You bet,” Kyra said. “And I’m also questioning your ability to cover us in a way we can live with. This shoot is your job. But this”—Kyra motioned around her to include the house and all the people in it—“this is our life. We can’t really afford to put it in the hands of someone who’s only worried about his paycheck.”
The tick in the cameraman’s cheek grew more pronounced, but Kyra didn’t care. Her whole damn body was ticking.
“My mother and Avery and Nicole are here because this series is a way to get back on their feet. And so am I,” Kyra said. “You may not have noticed, but I have a child to take care of.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Troy said. “I guess sleeping with the star of a movie doesn’t get a person as far ahead as it used to.”
Kyra felt her mouth drop open as the anger steaming through her searched for an escape.
“On the other hand, what do I know?” Troy continued. “Maybe it helped you get this show. Just like being female and good-looking helped you get on the Daniel Deranian movie in the first place.”
“You did not just say that,” Kyra said, fisting her hands at her side to keep from slapping his smug face.
Troy shrugged and raised his camera to his shoulder. “He does have a reputation for surrounding himself with beautiful women. Brains are often optional.” Insolently, he panned his camera from what had to be an extreme close-up of Kyra’s angry face, across the banquette, to settle on Dustin, who was waving his arms happily at Max and holding the squishy oversize baseball that Troy had given him.
Avery came over, took Kyra by the shoulder, and led her back to the table. “So much for working this out between yourselves. I’m going to make sure you’re the one shooting Max. We don’t want him embarrassed or hurt.”
Kyra nodded, but she didn’t see how this was going to happen.
“Just follow my lead. And try to look angry at what I suggest.”
“So…” Avery turned to Troy. “I’m thinking that Kyra can shoot all of us getting ready upstairs with our sledgehammers,” she said, “while the real film crew”—she sent Kyra a warning look—“can be set up below to get the shot of Max breaking through the wall. Does that work for everyone?”
Kyra scowled angrily. No acting was required.
Once Troy was sure she hated the idea, he nodded. “That sounds good,” he said. “Max is the money shot. Let’s make sure he breaks through first with a big enough hole for the audience to see him clearly.”
“So much for documenting what’s really happening,” Kyra muttered.
“What was that?” Troy asked.
“Nothing.” Kyra smiled brightly.
Upstairs, Kyra shot a series of close-ups that could be cut in later: the sledgehammer, bits of the handle, the impact as it crashed repeatedly into the wall. Under her direction, Max huffed and puffed into the wireless microphone on his lapel as if he, and not Avery, were wielding the sledgehammer. On cue, he provided carefully timed grunts and one heartfelt “oy, vey!”
When the wall looked like it needed only a final blow, Avery put the sledgehammer in Max’s hands. Despite the grin of bravado, he dropped to his knees the moment Avery let go of the tool.
“Here, grab him under the arms,” Nicole mouthed as she and Maddie pulled Max quietly to his feet.
“Everything okay up there?” Troy called up the stairs.
“Absolutely!” Kyra framed the shot as Avery wrapped her hands around Max’s and dragged the hammer upward.
“Ready, Max?” Avery mouthed.
The old man’s forehead glistened with sweat as his grip tightened on the handle. He nodded, and Avery stepped out of the shot and let go.
They all held their breaths as the hammer head fell—more from gravity than force—and pierced a hole large enough for Max to peer through.
“Beautiful!” Troy shouted from below. “Great job, Max!”
The old man beamed down at the camera lens as Maddie took the sledgehammer out of his hands. Avery and Nicole stepped up to the wall and began hammering away at it.
“I hope you’re still rolling, Kyra!” Troy shouted. “Wouldn’t want to miss a single sensational shot!”
“Oh, I’m rolling!” she shouted back, completely satisfied at having beaten the cameraman—and his boss—at their own game.
“Great!” Troy said. “You all can go ahead and bring that sucker down!”
John Hendricks escorted Nicole through the lobby of Hendricks Heat & Air. Lunch had been a little longer and more liquid than planned, but Nicole had a signed agreement in her purse and a promise from Hendricks that a crew would be out by the end of the week to draw up schematics and schedule the job.
“Nice car,” he said as he escorted Nicole out to the parking lot and noticed the classic XKE, the only luxury from her former life that she’d managed to cling to.
“Thanks.” Nicole said good-bye, slid into the driver’s seat, and dropped the convertible top. Once she’d adjusted to the flow of traffic, she pulled out her cell phone to check voice mail and felt a mad rush of relief when she heard Parker Amherst’s voice. Please, God, she thought as she listened to his oddly tentative hello. Please let me have this one client to build on.
The message rambled on but was nowhere near as definitive as she’d hoped. “I’d like to sit down again, maybe over drinks or dinner,” Amherst said carefully. “And I need to see some of the women you think would be appropriate before I commit. I’m simply not going to pay for what my father used to call a ‘pig in a poke.’”
“Damn.” Nicole stared out over the causeway, barely noticing the postcard-blue sky or the stately palm trees that whooshed by. She hadn’t built Heart, Incorporated into the elite matchmaking service it had become by letting potential clients push her around. Nor had she lured them in by offering cut-rate fees or making exceptions to her stringent standards.
But all that was left of Heart, Incorporated was her; her heart, her moxie. If Parker Amherst IV needed a little extra selling or a peek at a few photos, well, then that’s what she’d give him.
Back at The Millicent, Nicole pulled into the open gate and nosed the Jag in behind Maddie’s minivan. The electrician’s truck was gone, but a battered Jeep Cherokee had taken its place. She heard the whir of a lawn mower and realized that part of the grass had been mowed to normal levels. A section of jungle had been tamed, revealing a low, curved plaster wall with brick trim. Mounds of mown grass lay all around.
Someone had found a lawn guy.
Nikki climbed out of the Jag in time to see a lawn mower round the far corner of the house. A tall hard-bodied male was pushing it. His shoulders were broad and tapered down to a trim waist and hips. He wore only a pair of running shorts; a T-shirt had been tucked into the waistband and hung down one tree-trunk leg.
Nicole sucked in her breath as Special Agent Joe Giraldi pushed the lawn mower toward her.
“Hi,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the mower. “It looks good.” She kept her eyes focused on the yard and away from the broad chest. She was especially careful not to look at the patch of hair that arrowed down the taut abdomen.
While he’d been chasing her brother, Giraldi had posed as a sunbather, a cable installer, a plumber’s helper, and an old family friend with a childhood crush and a way with power tools, but this was the first time she’d seen him mow a yard. “Why are you doing this?”
“Madeline called and asked me,” he said. “And I had a couple of hours free.”
“Somehow I didn’t picture you doing yards on the side. Contract killings ma
ybe, but trimming hedges?” She smiled. “You’re full of surprises.”
“I am,” he agreed. “And some of them don’t even involve inflicting bodily harm or chasing down bad guys.”
“That’s good to hear,” she said, but she wasn’t so sure. Did she really want to consider a relationship with the man who had used her to track down her brother?
She’d stayed away from men in general since the failure of her second marriage; a too-many-times-married matchmaker was not a good advertisement. She’d promised herself if she ever took the plunge again, she’d treat the enterprise as scientifically and cold-bloodedly as she did the matches she made for her clients. None of that pitter-pattering of the heart or believing in happily ever after.
Giraldi reached down and turned off the lawn mower. Before Nicole could stop herself, she was watching the ripple of muscle across his back and the flex of his biceps. He straightened and reached for a tall glass of what looked like iced tea. Maddie’s work, no doubt. “Would you like a sip?” he asked.
“No thanks.”
“Cheers, then.” He raised the glass in salute then tilted it to his lips.
She watched him drain the glass.
“There’s a box of yard bags in the garage,” he said when he’d finished. “I raked the grass into piles, but I’m going to have to get going. Madeline said you all would bag it up.”
“Sure,” Nicole said. “Thanks for taking care of the yard. I know we all appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.”
“So, um…” She wasn’t sure what she intended to say. She was more concerned with not stuttering.
“So, how about dinner one night?” he asked before she could form a sentence. “I don’t live all that far from here,” he said. “I’m just up off the causeway. There’s a nice little place near Lincoln Road that I think you’d enjoy.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “This feels…complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be. It’s just dinner. You know, we go to the restaurant. We order wine and have a nice meal. We talk.” Giraldi shrugged. “We take some time to get to know each other in a different way.”
“In my experience, nothing’s that simple,” Nicole replied.
“That doesn’t mean it can’t be.” He handed the empty glass to her; it was cold and slick in her hand.
Nicole shivered.
“I’m going to be out of town on an assignment for a few days. I’ll make a reservation for Saturday night.”
“You’re awfully sure of yourself.” She watched more closely than she should have as he lowered the T-shirt over his head. It clung to his sweat-soaked chest.
He shrugged again and smiled. “I prefer to think of it as knowing how to set a goal and go after it. It’s just a matter of focus.
“Please thank Maddie for the tea,” he said when she didn’t respond. “And tell Max it was a pleasure meeting him.” He grasped the handle of the mower and tilted it onto its back wheels. “I’ll text you when I’ve made the reservation.”
She stood there, empty glass in hand, as he loaded the lawn mower into the Jeep and backed onto the street. She was still standing there, wondering why she hadn’t just said no and reassuring herself that she could still cancel long after he’d gone.
“So let me explain it to you, bubbaleh,” Max said, taking a seat at the kitchen table across from Dustin the next day. “There are comics and then there are comedians. And they’re not the same thing.”
Madeline stood in front of the open refrigerator. It was the coolest spot in the house and she was in no hurry to move. The air-conditioning people were due to start cutting open walls and ceilings for vents and ductwork any day now, but in the meantime the kitchen was hot—too hot—and even with all the windows thrown open, the air barely moved. Upstairs, Avery was supervising the removal of the second-floor kitchenettes—a job that was all about pounding and yanking and the screeching protests of wood and metal, and that left holes in the walls and wires hanging out. Ted, the electrician, was still on the premises working on the wiring, which meant no electricity at all for varying periods of time, often without warning.
“What would you like, Max?” she asked. “We have roast beef and turkey.”
“Surprise me,” he said. “Do we have any of that good rye bread?”
“We do.” Maddie pulled out the spicy brown mustard that Max preferred and a jar of dill pickles.
“Ma-ma-ma-meks,” Dustin mouthed happily, waving his hands and feet. And then, “Gax!” He followed Max’s unlit cigar with his large dark eyes, his expression intent, as if he were trying to soak up every bit of what the old man was saying.
Maddie set the sandwich makings on the counter and watched the old man and the baby. She wondered if her grandson’s first word would be mama or Max.
“A comic is a guy who depends solely on the joke and how he delivers it,” Max explained, looking Dustin in the eye. “A comedian can get a laugh opening a door—if he does it the right way. But a funnyman…” He made a face at Dustin. “A funnyman can get a laugh before he even opens his mouth to speak.”
Dustin reached for Max’s nose and laughed.
“You’re a smart boy,” Max said. “I knew you’d understand.”
Dustin gurgled happily and nodded. Reaching for the rubber-coated baby spoon on his high-chair tray, he put it in his mouth and gnawed on it. Maddie had seen the first tooth poking through the baby’s gums just that morning.
After lunch, Max wiped his mouth carefully with the napkin. “It’s time for my volunteer shift at the Jewish home,” he said. “I read the newspaper to them. Sometimes I do a little shtick. Or part of a routine. Even though I’m not as funny without Millie.”
“Dustin thinks you’re pretty entertaining,” Maddie pointed out.
“Yes,” Max said. “He’s very advanced for his age.” His smile started as one of his megawatters but faltered midway. “It’s good you keep such a close eye on him, Madeline,” he said. “Things can happen when you’re not paying attention. One minute the people you love are right there and everything’s fine. The next minute…” He motioned with his cigar. “Poof. They’re…gone.”
Chapter Thirteen
Nikki carried her laptop to the dining room table. It was the heaviest thing she intended to look at for the rest of the day.
Her hands were raw from attempting to pry out countertops and cabinets and the bulky old wall air conditioners. Her arms and back ached from trying to cart them down the frickin’ stairs, through the house, and out to the Dumpster. She’d almost wept with relief when Avery had finally accepted the fact that they’d never get the heavier items off the ground and into the Dumpster and spent some of their meager budget on people who could.
With file folders of pictures spread around her, Nikki scrolled through her Heart, Inc. database looking for women who might appeal to Parker Amherst. From where she sat, she had a clear view of the foyer and through to the living room. The electricity had been off for most of the morning and she cursed herself for not charging the laptop overnight.
Stray bits of conversation wafted down from upstairs, as did thumps and curses and the occasional slam of a cabinet door. She heard Deirdre gasp and looked up to see Troy and Anthony walking backward down the stairs, their camera and microphone aimed at the muscled duo with the refrigerator suspended between them.
“Watch the…wall.” Deirdre winced as the door of the ugly avocado refrigerator fell open and smacked into the plaster. The last refrigerator had landed too heavily on the foyer floor and cracked one of the hexagonal tiles. Deirdre’s eyes had gone wide with horror.
At the piano, Max was doing a pretty fair imitation of Jimmy Durante for Dustin, who’d been deposited nearby in the portable playpen. Kyra moved around them, shooting the performance as well as Deirdre and the movers. She and Troy continued to shoot the same things, though not necessarily at the same time.
There was a crash and the sound of wood and metal parting ways. A terse sho
ut from Avery followed.
The lights came back on and Nicole took advantage of the opportunity to plug in the laptop and her portable printer, on which she printed out photos of the women she hoped would induce Amherst to sign on the dotted line.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
Nikki looked up to see Maddie standing in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was up in a banana clip and there were smudges of dirt and what might be pollen all over her face and clothes. “You look like you just lost a mud-wrestling match.”
“I think I did,” Maddie said. “I’m not a gardener. Back in Atlanta I won lawn of the month once due to a technicality. But we sure could use Renée Franklin and her garden ladies. Or someone who’s spent time in a tropical rain forest.” She rubbed her nose and left another smear of dirt. “Giraldi brought his own lawn mower the other day. Do you think he has gardening tools?”
Nicole frowned. She’d been trying not to picture Joe Giraldi in any environment. She didn’t want to imagine him pruning and weeding. Or doing laundry. Or God forbid, making a bed. “I don’t know,” she said neutrally. She hadn’t yet actually agreed to have dinner with the FBI agent, but when he’d texted her the time of their reservation and when he planned to pick her up, she hadn’t refused. “If I hear from him, I’ll ask.”
Nicole closed her laptop and stood to stretch out the kinks. “Maybe we should invite Renée Franklin and her garden ladies down for a visit. Although they’d have to drive. I’m pretty sure chain saws aren’t allowed through airport security.”
Madeline smiled and rubbed her nose, leaving another smear of dirt. The doorbell rang. Nikki glanced out the window and saw a Volkswagen Beetle angled up into the drive.
“I’ll get it,” Maddie said, already moving into the foyer. A moment later the screen door squeaked open.
Madeline looked at the woman who stood on the front stoop. She was tall and unusually broad-shouldered. Oversize sunglasses covered much of her face, but it was hard to miss just how badly she could use a facial.
