by Wendy Wax
“Wait,” she said quickly. “Don’t move.”
Careful not to disengage, Avery ran her hands through the sheets then got a hand onto the nearest nightstand. “It’s so loud I can’t concentrate. I’m trying to find the earplugs.”
Now his eyes opened.
“Hold on,” she said.
He blinked as her fingers closed around the welcome packet and fumbled open the cellophane package.
There was a chorus of shrieks outside followed by a thunderous splash. A microphone fed back loudly. Her brain began to picture what was taking place at the pool bar.
She began to move again, slowly and intentionally, holding his gaze with her own, as she managed to jam the rubber stoppers into her ears.
“That’s it,” she said as his eyes closed, though even her own words were muffled.
Now the sounds that reached her came wrapped in cotton wool. She felt, but couldn’t really hear, his breath against her ear, the slap of their bodies moving in tandem, and the faint tremors that began deep inside her and built to a nine or ten on her personal Richter scale.
Sleep did not follow. At three A.M., the bed began to vibrate, not from the heat of their lovemaking but from the throbbing bass of a particularly offensive rap song. To which Avery could have shouted along if she’d had a mind to.
Her fingers went to her ears, but the earplugs were gone.
Chase lay on his side facing her. His eyes were open.
“I can hear every single word of that song,” she said as the beat throbbed between them. “I think I can even hear what the DJ’s thinking.”
Chase flipped onto his back and pillowed his head in his arms. “I’m thinking about submitting a bid on the soundproofing they obviously need here,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “Actually, I’d do the work for free if they’d let me start right now.”
At four A.M., they split the aspirin.
At four-thirty, Avery located the earplugs—one under each end of the bed. After a brief debate about how best to deploy them, they each stuffed one in an ear and pressed a pillow against their other.
“I thought the welcome packet was a joke,” she said at five.
“It should have been labeled ‘survival kit,’” Chase agreed. “And they need to up the number of aspirin and earplugs.”
At six, the noise evaporated and the sky began to lighten. Palm-tree shadows danced on the curtains. A bird chirped. Avery imagined she could hear the sound of the ocean skimming onto shore. “I thought we’d have brunch out, take a look at the hotels, maybe do a tour if you’re up for it.” She’d walked up and down Ocean Drive casually once or twice, had been in and out of a few of the hotel lobbies, but she realized now that she’d been waiting for Chase to tour it more thoroughly. “But I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“I know the feeling. But we should sleep while we can,” Chase said. “Today’s Saturday, which makes tonight Saturday night. I don’t think things are going to shut down any earlier than they did last night.”
“You mean this morning,” Avery corrected with a yawn.
Chase reached for his iPhone and flicked his thumb over the screen. “I think the north part of South Beach is a little quieter. We could move up to the Palms, that’s up around Thirtieth. I stayed there a couple of years ago. It’s very upscale. It might be a little more appropriate for old farts like us.”
She rolled onto her side and burrowed up against Chase, burying her nose in his shoulder.
“They’ve got rooms available,” Chase said. “I’m going to make a reservation. Is that okay with you?”
Avery breathed him in. She wanted to sleep all day and never get up. “’S okay,” she said groggily as she began to drift off.
His arm wrapped around her and she sighed, exhausted but content. “But don’t tell Deirdre.” Her thoughts began to blur as her breathing grew more even. “…don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
Nikki couldn’t wait to get out of bed. It was still dark when she heard footsteps on the landing. A few minutes later there was movement downstairs in the kitchen. A car started up outside. The Maureen McGovern song “There’s Got to Be a Morning After” from The Poseidon Adventure had played out in her head for most of the night as she jockeyed for a sliver of the bed she was sharing with Kyra while listening to Dustin’s amazing repertoire of snuffles, whimpers, and cries.
Now she lay at the extreme edge of the too-small mattress waiting for some semblance of light as she tried to remember why she’d turned down Giraldi’s invitation to stay at his house, where the mattress would have been larger and any lack of sleep consensual. And, she assumed, enjoyable.
She stared up at the pockmarked ceiling as she contemplated her refusal. They were both single adults and the attraction between them was palpable. So…
So, Joe Giraldi was different from any man she’d ever dated and light-years from the men she’d married.
Because…she prodded when her mind wanted to retreat from the subject.
Because the others had accepted her as she’d presented herself—strong, successful, and polished. After her first marriage, which had been all about what she thought was love while she was actually serving as a doormat, she’d chosen only successful, wealthy type A personalities who saw her as the same.
Giraldi was type A all right. He was also successful in his field and far more sophisticated than she’d expected. But he would be difficult if not impossible to control and not easily fooled. Even now Nikki wasn’t sure whether she’d successfully evaded him when she attempted to get Malcolm to turn himself in, or had simply played out some scenario he’d managed to stampede her into.
Morning noises arose from the kitchen. Water ran, the refrigerator door banged shut. The smell of coffee wafted up, crooked its aromatic finger, and drew her out of bed.
Was she playing games with Giraldi? Simply holding out until she felt she wasn’t jumping unthinkingly into bed?
She moved quietly to the bathroom, not wanting to wake Kyra or Dustin. She paused near the portable crib to watch the baby’s small chest rise and fall. “Sure, now you’re quiet,” she whispered, pulling the baby blanket up and tucking it in around him.
She continued to mull over her reticence with Giraldi. It wasn’t as if she’d never had a purely sexual relationship before. She was forty-six after all, too old to marry every man she wanted to sleep with. If they could just keep it light, enjoy each other, and move on when it wasn’t fun anymore, she might actually consider it. But she sensed Giraldi wanted more from her. And she wasn’t sure she had “more” left. Unlike most of the men she’d known, Giraldi would recognize, and probably care about, the difference.
Nicole washed her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled her hair into a low ponytail, then applied a light dusting of powder and lipstick before pulling on her running clothes. Not, she assured herself, because she might run into Giraldi while jogging but because she never left the house without light armor.
On the stairs she looked over the stepped wall to the living room, noting the big-screen TV still affixed to the wall and the stand-up microphone in its place near the piano. She was relieved to see that the room required no additional cleanup, but was surprised to see the pillow and blanket on the sofa. She’d been fairly certain everyone had had a bed—or at least a portion of one.
She found Maddie at the kitchen table staring out the window. She still wore her pajamas and robe. A cup of coffee sat in front of her. She barely stirred while Nicole poured a cup then joined her at the table.
“What’s going on?” Nicole asked when Maddie didn’t speak.
Maddie turned her face to Nikki. It was tear-streaked and hollow-eyed.
“What’s wrong?” Nicole pressed.
Maddie shook her head, mute.
“Where’s Steve? Still sleeping?”
Another head shake. “Gone.”
“Gone to pick up bagels? Gone to watch the sunrise? Gone to…” Nicole let the question dangle.
&nb
sp; “Atlanta,” Maddie said. “He went home.”
“Seriously?” Nikki asked, trying to take it in.
Maddie nodded, her lips tight, as if she were trying to hold words in, when in fact Nikki was pretty sure they needed to come out. She thought about what Maddie’s friendship had come to mean to her, the way Maddie mothered everyone around her, even those who’d thought they were long past needing it. She’d already hung in with Steve far longer and through far more than many women would or could have.
“But why?” Nicole asked.
Maddie turned her gaze back out the window. Her hands wrapped around the coffee mug, which was still full and, Nicole suspected, long cold.
“Because he’s embarrassed. Or maybe that’s humiliated. I can’t remember which.” Maddie drew a breath, exhaled it. She looked at Nicole. “He can’t bear that he was portrayed in such a negative light on the pilot. As if I had anything to do with that.”
“Tell me about it. I’m not exactly doing a happy dance over the fact that now when the headlines about Malcolm have finally begun to disappear, the scandal is being played out all over again to promote Do Over.” Malcolm had cost her her business; she suspected the pilot had cost her Amherst. Despite her vow to get him to sign, or to die in the attempt, she’d barely had a moment alone with him.
Nikki stood and took Maddie’s cup of coffee. Dumping the remnants in the sink, she poured her a fresh cup then creamed and sugared it the way Maddie liked.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Maddie said. “He didn’t even want to come. I’ve had to hunt him down to get him to talk to me on the phone.” She clutched the new cup as if trying to warm herself. “Last fall when he came down to Bella Flora, he told me he was proud of me and that he liked that I was strong, that I was able to take charge. But he doesn’t really like it. He wants things to go back to the way they were before we lost everything.”
She sighed and blew out a breath of air. “But even if we had all our money back and his new job was completely secure, we couldn’t go back. I couldn’t go back. I don’t want to be that totally dependent person again.”
Nicole heard the pain in her friend’s voice, felt the ache of it.
“You’re the matchmaker and dating guru,” Maddie said. “If I were your client, what would you advise me to do?”
The words screw Steve were on the tip of Nicole’s tongue. The D-word wanted to push its way out right after them. But Maddie had been married for a long time; she and Steve had two children and a grandchild. It wasn’t up to Nicole to rabble-rouse.
“Your daughter once asked me for advice,” Nicole said, choosing her words carefully. “And I explained to her that I was a matchmaker not a therapist or a marriage counselor. And she was smart enough to listen to her mother’s advice rather than any I might have offered.”
Maddie didn’t respond, but she did raise the coffee cup to her lips. Nicole waited while she took a first tentative sip.
“Actually,” Nicole said, “I do have an idea.”
Maddie looked at her expectantly.
“It’s still early and no one needs us here. I’m too tired to run anyway. Let’s go for a walk on the beach and then I’ll treat you to breakfast at Big Pink.” She named the neighborhood restaurant known for its bright pink VW delivery cars and comfort food. Its motto was “Real Food for Real People.”
“Oh, I don’t know—” Maddie began, but Nicole cut her off.
“Well, I do. I bet Steve’s already kicking himself for being such an asshole. And if he isn’t, we can suggest it to him later. In the meantime, you’ve got five minutes to get dressed.”
“But—”
“Four minutes and forty-five seconds.” She motioned for Maddie to hurry up. “Come on, let’s go. We deserve it. And I’d like to get outside while the humidity is under ninety percent.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Like a patient on an operating table, The Millicent lay open, her guts spilling out, her innermost self put on display. The kitchen had been stripped down to walls, floors, and windows. They were down to one bathroom for however long it took to replace miles of rusted galvanized iron pipe and reconfigure an equal amount of cast iron. Because they were trying to preserve rather than rip out existing walls, tiles, tubs, showers, and sinks, it often took an excruciating amount of time to move a pipe as little as ten feet. It seemed that for every hole that Mario and Salvatore patched, another was opened up as first electricians and then plumbers reached inside to remove, rearrange, or replace The Millicent’s vital organs.
The workday finally over, Avery stood in the shower directly under the stream of frigid water, her eyes closed. Getting shower time wasn’t easy and she didn’t intend to move until her body temperature lowered to something approaching normal. It was mid-July, which meant temperature and humidity levels that melted your bones and zapped your will. The breeze off the ocean and bay was neither cool nor dry.
“Are you almost done?” Deirdre’s voice sounded through the closed bathroom door.
Avery sighed but didn’t move. The water was still running. She’d answered what seemed like a million questions today and made even more decisions; she wasn’t about to use up the last of her energy to answer Deirdre. Leaning her forehead against the shower wall, letting the cold water sluice down her back, she wondered if people, like horses, could sleep standing up.
The shower door slid open and the water stopped. She straightened and opened her eyes. A towel appeared in her line of vision and was placed in her hands.
“Come on,” Deirdre said. “We need to be at Ted’s in less than fifteen minutes and we can’t all leave together.”
Avery wrapped the towel around her body but didn’t dry off. She did not want to get dressed. Or move. She’d forgotten that they’d agreed to find ways to leave that wouldn’t arouse the Lifetime crew’s suspicions and wasn’t sure she had an ounce of subterfuge to spare.
“Giraldi picked up Nikki a few minutes ago,” Deirdre continued. “They’re going to get a table. Maddie and Kyra are going to meet us there; they’re pretending they’re going to a movie.”
“So what are you doing here?” Avery finally asked. “Other than harassing me?”
“I know how hard you’ve been working and how tired you are.” Deirdre stepped aside so that Avery could get out of the shower. “I told them that I was taking you out to dinner.”
“Seriously?” Avery asked. “You couldn’t come up with anything better than that? They’ll never buy it.”
Hurt blossomed in Deirdre’s eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. It was nowhere near as satisfying to Avery as it should have been.
“Hurry up,” Deirdre said. “I don’t want to give them time to think about it or follow us. We don’t want them to film us talking about Max’s son—not until we have something positive to report anyway.”
Avery blew out a breath and walked into the bedroom with its battered walls and scarred floors. At the moment the amount of work that remained to be done seemed endless. She moved toward the dresser.
“Here,” Deirdre said, gesturing toward the bed. “I’ve already laid something out for you.”
Avery moved to the bed. A turquoise-and-white-striped sundress with a fitted halter top and a dropped waist had been artfully arranged on the spread. A strappy pair of wedged sandals sat on the floor ready to be stepped into.
“Thanks,” Avery said. “But I’m not wearing that.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, because Ted’s is not a sundress kind of place. And for another, because it sends out the wrong signals.”
“Which ones?” Deirdre asked. “‘I’m young and attractive? I don’t buy my clothes at Walmart’?”
Avery moved toward the dresser and pulled out a T-shirt and a pair of baggy khakis. “No,” she said, stepping into underpants then turning her back and dropping her towel to shrug into a bra. “My message is actually, ‘I have a brain and I’m not afraid to use it.’”
“You looked incredible at the premiere party,” Deirdre replied. “I thought you’d come to terms with things, with your body. There’s a happy medium between presenting nothing but cleavage like those morons on Hammer and Nail wanted to do and dressing attractively.” She grabbed the pants and top from Avery’s hands and shook them at her. “These are ugly and boring. And they’re two sizes too big.”
Avery grabbed them back. She had talked a good game at the premiere and she had enjoyed keeping Chase a bit off balance, but when they’d screened the footage from the party, she’d seen what kinds of shots Troy had gotten. She couldn’t really count on the network to be moderate.
“You tried hiding yourself once before,” Deirdre pointed out. “Did that work out well for you?”
“How would you know?” Avery snapped, remembering the “camouflage years” after college when she’d been so desperate to be judged on her abilities. “You weren’t there.”
“I was trying to be,” Deirdre said. “The fact that you wouldn’t see me doesn’t mean I didn’t see you. Beige and baggy are not any woman’s friend and they’re especially brutal for vertically challenged blondes like us. As your mother, I—”
“Oh, please,” Avery said, unwilling to listen to another word. “Stop with the mother crap already.” She put on the pants and zipped them, then pulled the T-shirt down over her head. “I don’t need anyone, especially you, picking out my clothes or dressing me.”
Avery expected Deirdre to huff off or at least concede the point, but she refused to back off.
“When you’re ready to stop hiding, there are other ways to get respect, you know. Trent wouldn’t speak up for you. He liked being top dog on Hammer and Nail, but I’m willing to bet that if you make it clear that you won’t accept being presented in such a one-dimensional way, everyone here will stand behind you. You don’t have to go to such…unattractive…extremes.”
Deirdre kept talking even though Avery was no longer responding. She followed Avery back into the bathroom, yammering on while Avery swiped on mascara and lipstick and ran a comb through her still-wet hair. “No one’s going to be looking at your face or hair when the rest of you is so…” She finally gave up on trying to find the right word, for which Avery was grateful. “Besides, we’re not going to be on camera tonight—or if we are it’ll only be whatever Kyra shoots. And while she always showed our ‘warts,’ she never dwelt on cleavage.”
