Ocean Beach

by Wendy Wax

  There was a pause and then the designer said, “Oddly enough, she placed one almost exactly like the one you described in hers.”

  Nicole noticed that Max had moved closer to Deirdre and was listening intently.

  “It hung in the foyer of her home until the day she died. I never understood why she had this fanciful nautical piece in the entry of a suburban Chicago Prairie-style home. Especially given how not a fan of Miami she was.

  “But no matter how many times she redecorated, she would never take it down. It was beautiful, but not of a piece with the whole, you know?”

  “Yes,” Deirdre said. “I do. But it obviously meant something to her.” She aimed a small smile at Max. “So where is it now?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t thought about it in years. But I can check with my sister to see if she knows what happened to it. She’s the one who dismantled our grandmother’s house after she died. I have no idea whether she sold it or put it in one of our warehouses.”

  Deirdre thanked the designer and hung up, her expression far more optimistic than Nicole would have expected. Given the way their luck seemed to be running at the moment, she estimated the chances that this particular chandelier was simply sitting in a convenient place waiting to be shipped off to them at zero-point-zero-zero-zero.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “I can’t feel my fingers anymore.” Nicole held up her hands, which were bent like claws, as they staggered out of The Millicent to collapse around the pool. “I have to keep looking to make sure they’re still there.”

  Their breathing masks hung down around their necks. Their knee pads were dark from the days spent kneeling and crawling from spot to spot as they hand-sanded the hard-to-reach areas of the The Millicent’s wood floors.

  “I’d go for a swim, but I don’t think I could get my clothes off or put on a bathing suit without the use of my fingers.” Like the rest of them, Nicole’s face was streaked with fine wood dust and dirt. “Actually, it’s not just my fingers. I don’t think I can move at all. Could someone please roll me into the pool?”

  Maddie would have smiled except she didn’t have the strength. Her shoulders and back ached from days spent hunched over as they’d hand-sanded around the upstairs baseboards, down the edges of the stairs, under cabinets and toe kicks, wherever the belt sander had been unable to reach. The physical exhaustion was made even worse by their inability to come up with a counter to Tonja Kay’s threat. “We could probably get you in, but I’m not sure any of us have enough muscle left to get you back out.”

  Avery just grunted. When Chase had been unable to come down to Miami with the belt sander as planned, she’d rented one; then she and one of the younger Dantes had used it on the large expanses, while the rest of them—and their hand-numbing, sandpaper-wrapped blocks of wood—had tackled the rest.

  “I must have blanked out how horrible hand sanding actually is,” Kyra said. “It was just last summer that we were doing the same thing at Bella Flora. But it all came back to me about fifteen minutes after we started.”

  “Yes,” Madeline said. “It’s like giving birth. If the brain didn’t blot out the worst of it, we’d all be only children.”

  “Tomorrow we apply the stain and let it sit overnight,” Avery said. “Then we’ll do the first coat of polyurethane—I’m thinking Maddie and I can handle the upstairs and Nicole can do Max’s room.”

  One, or possibly all, of them groaned. Funny how their mouths were moving while their bodies were so “not.”

  “That muriatic acid before sanding really got rid of the stains on the parquet,” Deirdre said.

  “You looked like an astronaut in the rubber gloves and boots and mask,” Kyra said to Avery. “But the footage is really cool. I posted it on YouTube with the sound track from 2001: A Space Odyssey.” She laughed, something that had become rare of late. “It got a ton of hits.”

  Madeline stole a glance at Kyra. The furtive afternoon walks had ceased and Daniel Deranian hadn’t shown up in or out of disguise since Tonja’s threatening phone call, but all of them had been uneasy, waiting for the actress to make her next move.

  Maddie had begun hoping that they’d be finished with the house and out of Miami before the woman began to throw her considerable weight around at the network. Maddie was not a religious person, but she’d taken to praying for some sort of miracle, one that would convince the Deranian-Kays that they didn’t need another child in their menagerie.

  “Mario said he’ll have the Morrocan tile ready for staining and sealing by the end of the day tomorrow,” Deirdre said. “I can work with him while you all finish the wood floors. That way we’ll be ready to start on exterior painting at least a day sooner.”

  Maddie half expected Avery to take exception to Deirdre’s interfering with her “schedule” or for her to point out that Deirdre didn’t typically “do” manual labor, but Avery just said, “Thanks.”

  Deirdre’s smile of surprise was quickly squelched, but Maddie knew she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Avery becoming less combative.

  “Well, I’m taking a sleeping pill or something tonight,” Nicole said, still eyeing the pool but not making a move. “Refinishing floors is bad enough. Dreaming about refinishing floors is cruel and unusual punishment. I swear I’ve been inhaling the dust and hearing that damned belt sander in my sleep. I say on the next house we hold out for a budget big enough to hire professionals to redo the floors.”

  “We’ll be professionals by then,” Avery said.

  “If there is another house once Tonja Kay’s finished with us,” Kyra said, her tone doleful. “I keep trying to think what we could do that would stop her in her tracks, some secret or something that we could hold against her.”

  “Maybe she’ll fold up her tent and go away if you make it clear she can’t push you around,” Maddie said.

  “I don’t think she’s a folding-up-her-tent kind of person,” Nicole said.

  “Me neither,” Deirdre said. “But there’s no point worrying about things that haven’t happened yet.”

  It sounded like something that should be stitched on a pillow. Or hung on the wall. But like most hand-stitched sayings, it was easier said than done.

  Moving was no easier the following morning when Maddie awoke. Dustin was still sound asleep, but Kyra’s bed was empty. Once she’d levered herself out of bed and through her morning toilette, she walked into the pool-house living area, where she found Kyra checking her camera and a pot of coffee already made.

  They both looked up when Troy walked into the pool house with Max’s morning paper. An odd smile twisted his face.

  “I guess some things never change,” he said, dropping the paper on the table in front of Kyra. “It looks like your boyfriend sees his movie sets as one big pickup opportunity.” He went into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee while he let the comment sink in.

  Kyra took the paper and skimmed the headline. Her face went white.

  “What is it?” Maddie asked.

  “‘Daniel Deranian Caught on His Dressing Room Couch with a Young Production Assistant,’” Troy said. “A real shocker, huh?”

  Kyra set the paper on the table and turned to him. Her mouth was tight and her eyes welled with tears but her tone was combative. “What did I ever do to you that would make you feel so good about this?”

  The question hung there for a long moment, filling the space between them, while Maddie skimmed the article.

  “If you want to keep pretending like you don’t know, I’ll tell you,” the cameraman said. “You got your job on Deranian’s movie just like this assistant probably got hers.” He gestured to the photo of the dark-haired girl, which had been positioned next to a publicity head shot of Daniel Deranian. “A good friend of mine was supposed to be the production assistant on Halfway Home.” His eyes blazed with anger. “This was supposed to be her big break. She gave up other work. She was on that shoot. Until Deranian saw you come in to apply and decid
ed he wanted you on the picture.” His lips twisted into a sneer. “I’m sure he insisted they hire you because of your obvious talent.”

  Kyra’s chin jerked up at the blow. Her eyes squeezed shut. When she opened them, the first tears oozed out. “I guess I’m as stupid as you seem to think I am,” she said. “Because I actually thought they hired me because of my demo reel.”

  Maddie watched the tears slither down Kyra’s cheek. She ached to wipe them away, but kept her hands occupied stirring sweetener into her coffee.

  Troy’s sneer faltered.

  “You want to know what else?” Kyra asked him. “You’ll really like this part. I thought Daniel wanted to sleep with me because he cared about me.” She looked down at the newspaper before forcing herself to look back up into the cameraman’s eyes. “And when he told me that he loved me?” Kyra continued. “I believed that too.”

  The tears were in free fall now. Maddie felt her own eyes tearing up in sympathy.

  “Stupid, huh?” Kyra sniffed but made no move to wipe away the tears that dampened her face. “I’m a frickin’ moron.”

  Troy shifted his weight. The sneer had disappeared completely. It was clear this confrontation was not playing out the way he’d envisioned.

  Kyra began to sob full-out.

  Troy watched her helplessly for a few minutes and then he looked at Maddie as if for guidance. Maddie put her arms around her sobbing daughter and rocked her in her arms, trying her best to soothe her. But in the end, heartache, just like reality, was something you had to accept and somehow get through. Maddie had learned that one the hard way.

  Nikki sat on the scaffolding, her legs dangling in front of her, her paint tray and brush at her side. It was ninety-eight degrees wrapped in a wet blanket of humidity. She was supposed to be painting around the porthole on the upstairs landing, but she was tired and sunburned to the point of crispy-critterdom. The only places she wanted to be were in front of an air-conditioning duct or in the pool, preferably both. If this hadn’t been the last day of painting, she would have already jumped ship and never looked back.

  In an effort to cool down, she poured the last of her bottled water on the bandanna she’d used to tie her hair back and tied it around her neck instead, but it was practically useless by the time she finished and offered little in the way of relief. It didn’t smell all that great, either. For a minute she contemplated standing, tiptoeing to the edge of the scaffold, and threatening to jump. But she suspected Avery would just tell her to be careful not to hit The Millicent on the way down so as not to dent her newly smoothed plaster or mar any of her fresh white paint.

  Her phone dinged and she reached for it. It was Amherst again. He’d taken to texting, which was far harder to ignore than the recorded messages. She refused to respond, but the texts were impossible not to read. This one said, Sorry for awkward last meeting. Can we talk? His cell-phone number followed. As if he actually thought there was some small chance in hell that she might call him back.

  She dabbed the paintbrush in the tray and began to cut in around the edge of the circular opening. She’d finished the opening and was contemplating whether to move to the next assigned space or simply blow her brains out to escape the heat and boredom, when her phone rang. She perked up appreciably—and decided to continue living—when she recognized Giraldi’s number. He’d been out of town far too much for her to pass up an opportunity to talk to him.

  “All Girl Painting,” she answered. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi,” Giraldi said. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” she said automatically. Which was mostly true if you didn’t count the fact that they were all waiting for Tonja Kay to drop the other stiletto, that Amherst refused to disappear, and that she had no idea where she would go or live once The Millicent was done.

  “You don’t sound so good,” Giraldi said.

  “Well, we’re painting the exterior and it’s a wee bit on the warm side out here,” Nicole said. “But we’re really close to done. The paint company comes in behind us tomorrow. After that, all that’s really left is placing the furniture and artwork, which is really Deirdre’s thing. Apparently a small volunteer army has been raised to do the landscaping.”

  “Congratulations,” he said. “That’s quite an accomplishment. Why don’t we take the boat out for dinner somewhere to celebrate?”

  “Sure,” she said, already imagining the feel of the breeze in her face and the wind in her hair. Giraldi’s hands on her…“Oh, I almost forgot. You’re invited to a celebration here too. Maddie wants to break in the new kitchen. And we thought we might give Max the age progression of Aaron then if you can bring it.”

  “Absolutely,” Giraldi said. “I left a message for the artist yesterday. I’ve been in and out of town so much that it’s taken a lot longer than I anticipated. I didn’t want to rush him since the work wasn’t tied to a case.”

  There was the rumble of a truck out on the street. Nicole looked down to see a UPS truck angle onto the drive. Two guys climbed out and walked around to the back.

  “Shall I come to your place?” Nicole asked, glancing down at her watch.

  “Yes,” Giraldi said. “I’ve got to run over to the Bureau to take care of a few things, then I’ll come back and get the boat in the water.”

  They agreed to a time and Nicole hung up as the two UPS guys carried a crate up to the front door. They set it down carefully then rang the doorbell. She read the word stenciled across the top of the crate in big black letters: FRAGILE.

  Nicole pulled her sweat-soaked tank top away from her body and stuffed her cell phone into her shorts pocket so that she could carry her paint tray to her next porthole. She got one last glimpse at the crate before the door opened and it disappeared inside. As she lifted her paintbrush and used the thick white paint to blot out The Millicent’s pockmarks and age spots, she reflected on the black stenciled letters on the top of the crate and wondered how just hearing Giraldi’s voice could make her feel so much less fragile than she’d felt before he called.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “Rise and shine!”

  “Oh my God!” Avery’s eyes flew open and she stared up into Deirdre’s face. She closed them again. “I’m sleeping,” she mumbled, feeling around for the covers so that she could pull them up over her face. The painters had finished and The Millicent was in the process of drying. The gardeners wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. For the first time since they’d arrived in May, there was no rush to be up. If it weren’t for the weight of Tonja Kay’s threat hanging over them, she would have been savoring all that they’d accomplished instead of worrying that it was about to be snatched away. “Leave me alone.”

  It was quiet for a few moments, no footsteps retreating, no doors opening and closing, leaving her in peace. But she could feel Deirdre looming over her.

  The smell of coffee, warm and full-bodied, teased her nostrils. She breathed in the scent and her eyelids fluttered open. Deirdre was fully dressed and completely made up. Her eyes were that of a child eager for permission to go downstairs on Christmas morning to see what Santa had brought. Afraid she might be told no.

  “What?” Avery snapped. She didn’t know where Deirdre had gotten this ability to be so upbeat in the face of possible ruin. Unlike the oversize bust and lack of height, Avery had apparently not inherited Deirdre’s positivity gene.

  Deirdre waited for her to sit up then handed her the cup of coffee, already creamed and sugared just the way she liked it.

  “Now I’m not only irritated, I’m suspicious. What do you want?” Avery sipped the coffee, barely resisting the urge to sigh over its wonderfulness.

  “I’ve got Pamela Madsen’s chandelier uncrated—Andrew helped me—and I just spoke with East Coast Electric,” Deirdre said. “Ted’s on his way over to help hang it.” Her blue eyes glowed with excitement like that of an expectant child. “I’m so glad Max gave me permission to trade Millie’s sterling-silver dresser set and the Limoges boxes
for it. I can’t wait to see it up. Kyra and Troy and Anthony are going to come shoot it being put in place.”

  Avery groaned. “You don’t really need me for this.”

  “Come on,” Deirdre said. “This is the crowning touch. I want you to be a part of it.”

  Avery gave an exaggerated yawn.

  “Then he can install the kitchen light fixtures and we can start to position some of the furniture. There might even be time to hang some artwork in the dining room before tonight’s dinner.”

  Avery took another sip of coffee while Deirdre whipped around the room, throwing open the blinds and pulling clothes out of the closet.

  “And why don’t you wear these?” Deirdre laid a pair of capri jeans and a Miami Design Preservation League T-shirt on the edge of the bed. “There’s absolutely nothing risqué or revealing about them, they just happen to be your size instead of two sizes too big.”

  Avery opened her mouth to object, but really, what was the point? She was tired of all the baggy beige; wearing it had begun to feel less like making a point and more like abject cowardice. The same was true of her reactions to Deirdre. Even a week ago she would have automatically refused to get out of bed; now she looked at the excited eyes, which were the exact same shade of blue as her own, and knew that refusing this too would be cowardly.

  Deirdre must have read the decision in Avery’s face, because she smiled and said, “Thanks. I’ll give you a few minutes to get dressed, but I want you to come meet us in the foyer as soon as you can.”

  Maddie was alone in the foyer when Max came in to inspect the chandelier. It had been uncrated and rested on a furniture pad on the floor. The glass panels had been arranged on a card table beside it. Max studied the panels solemnly for several minutes then picked one up and, holding on to the wall with his free hand, carefully lowered himself to a seat on the stair. Maddie sat down next to him.