by Wendy Wax
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF WENDY WAX
“[A] sparkling, deeply satisfying tale.”
—New York Times bestselling author, Karen White
“Wax offers her trademark form of fiction, the beach read with substance.”
—Booklist
“Wax really knows how to make a cast of characters come alive . . . [She] infuses each chapter with enough drama, laughter, family angst, and friendship to keep readers greedily turning pages until the end.”
—RT Book Reviews
“This season’s perfect beach read!”
—Single Titles
“A tribute to the transformative power of female friendship, and reading Wendy Wax is like discovering a witty, wise, and wonderful new friend.”
—Claire Cook, New York Times bestselling author of
Must Love Dogs and Time Flies
“If you’re a sucker for plucky women who rise to the occasion, this is for you.”
—USA Today
“Just the right amount of suspense and drama for a beach read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] loving tribute to friendship and the power of the female spirit.”
—Las Vegas Review-Journal
“Beautifully written and constructed by an author who evidently knows what she is doing . . . One fantastic read.”
—Book Binge
“[A] lovely story that recognizes the power of the female spirit, while being fun, emotional, and a little romantic.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Funny, heartbreaking, romantic, and so much more . . . Just delightful!”
—The Best Reviews
“Wax’s Florida titles . . . are terrific for lovers of women’s fiction and family drama, especially if you enjoy a touch of suspense and romance.”
—Library Journal Express
Titles by Wendy Wax
Ten Beach Road Novels
TEN BEACH ROAD
OCEAN BEACH
CHRISTMAS AT THE BEACH
(eNovella)
THE HOUSE ON MERMAID POINT
SUNSHINE BEACH
ONE GOOD THING
A BELLA FLORA CHRISTMAS
(eNovella)
BEST BEACH EVER
A WEEK AT THE LAKE
WHILE WE WERE WATCHING DOWNTON ABBEY
MAGNOLIA WEDNESDAYS
THE ACCIDENTAL BESTSELLER
SINGLE IN SUBURBIA
HOSTILE MAKEOVER
LEAVE IT TO CLEAVAGE
7 DAYS AND 7 NIGHTS
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Wendy Wax
“Readers Guide” copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House LLC
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wax, Wendy, author.
Title: Best beach ever / Wendy Wax.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017055517| ISBN 9780399584411 (paperback) | ISBN 9780399584428 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Female friendship—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. | FICTION / Humorous.
Classification: LCC PS3623.A893 B47 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017055517
First Edition: May 2018
Cover design by Rita Frangie
Beach huts © by Andrew Demie/Getty Images
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Each book leads in new directions and presents opportunities to learn and explore new things. The Internet is great, but for me talking to people willing to explain what they do—and why—is even better.
This time out I’d like to say thank you to First Assistant Director Bobby Bastarache, who shared his time, insights, and vast experience in the world of film to help me bring this part of the story to life. Thanks also go to Gary Kaufman, GK Associates for his expertise in forensic accounting and for loaning me his name, to Hugh T. Moody, CIMA for discussing money and its management and to attorney Deborah W. Young, my brother Barry Wax, and Corporal H. Glenn Finley of the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office for their help with the legal aspects of the story. Whitney Manns of WM Wardrobe Consulting “dressed” Maddie and others.
Though I always try to get things “right” this is a work of fiction and sometimes liberties are taken.
I’m overdue in thanking longtime friends Ingrid Jacobus and Justine Fine who are always willing to answer questions about St. Petersburg and Islamorada, respectively. The Ten Beach Road series would not be what it is without them.
As always, huge thanks go to BFFs and critique partners Susan Crandall and Karen White. I’m pretty sure I’ve said this before, usually after wine, but I hope I never find out what it feels like to write a book without them an email, text, or conference call away.
I also want to thank all of you who’ve read and shared in my characters’ journeys. You’re the best.
To my husband John who keeps asking why, after writing so many novels it hasn’t gotten any easier, I can only say, I love you, but I’m going to have to get back to you on that.
Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.
—ELEANOR ROOSEVELT
Contents
Praise for the Novels of Wendy Wax
Titles by Wendy Wax
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter T
hirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Epilogue
Readers Guide
About the Author
One
Nicole Grant Giraldi stood in front of a far-too-full-length mirror that hung on a wall of the too-small cottage where she, her husband special agent Joe Giraldi, and their twin daughters currently lived. It exposed two primary reasons women were not designed to give birth at forty-seven: lack of elasticity and surplus gravity. She closed one eye and shifted slightly, but the expanse of flesh did not become easier to contemplate.
Despite all of her fears and doubts, the body she was staring at had performed admirably. It had adapted and stretched to accommodate Sofia and Gemma. Against great odds, it had carried them full term, propelled them into the world nine months ago, and then provided sustenance. What it had not done was snap back into anything that resembled its previous shape.
Her eyes slid away. She forced them back. It was time to accept reality. Her breasts hung lower than seemed anatomically possible. Blue veins streaked across them, no doubt to match the ones that now crisscrossed the legs she’d once been proud of. Stretch marks cut across the stomach that jiggled as she turned. Although she knew it was a mistake, she looked at her rear end, which had grown wider and had somehow been injected with cottage cheese. Most likely while she’d been sleeping. Or confined to bed rest.
“Are you ready?” Joe called.
She sighed and turned her back on the mirror as she wriggled into a jogging bra, slipped her arms into a T-shirt, then began to pull the too-tight spandex up over her thighs. “Almost!”
“I’m going to put the girls in the stroller. We’ll be outside.”
Nikki tied her hair back into a low ponytail, donned a lightweight running jacket, and laced up her shoes. Careful not to look at herself again, she left the bedroom and made it through the tiny cottage in a matter of seconds.
It was the second day of January. On the west coast of central Florida, that meant a vivid blue sky, butter yellow sun, and a cool salt breeze. She breathed in the crisp air as she stepped onto the concrete path that bisected the Sunshine Hotel property and nearly stumbled at the sight of Joe and the girls waiting for her.
Were they really all hers?
Tamping down a swell of emotion, she moved toward the stroller taking in the pink and white knit hats neatly tied beneath their chins and the streaks of sunscreen slathered over their cheeks. Sofia had her father’s dark hair, sparkling brown-black eyes, and sunny temperament, while Gemma was auburn haired and green eyed like Nikki. Where Gemma’s oversize lungs and the will to use them had come from was still under debate.
“All present, recently diapered, and accounted for. Requesting permission to move out.” Joe shot her a wink and saluted smartly.
Though he was closing in on fifty, Joe remained broad shouldered and hard bodied with a chiseled face and piercing dark eyes that too often saw right through her, a skill she blamed on his FBI training. They’d met when he’d used her to help him catch her younger brother, Malcolm Dyer, whose three-hundred-million-dollar Ponzi scheme had left Nikki and then-strangers Madeline Singer and Avery Lawford with nothing but shared ownership of Bella Flora, a 1920s Mediterranean Revival–style mansion at the south end of the beach.
She saluted back and fell into step beside him. A few doors down they passed the two-bedroom cottage that Madeline Singer and her daughter, Kyra, and grandson, Dustin, had just moved into.
“It’ll be great having Maddie here, but it’s so strange to think of someone else living in Bella Flora,” Nikki said, thinking of the house they’d brought back from the brink of ruin and that had done the same for them. After they’d first renovated Bella Flora, Dustin’s famous father, mega movie star Daniel Deranian, had bought it for Dustin and Kyra. It had become home to all of them when they’d needed one most, but Kyra had been forced to rent it out.
“Yeah,” Joe agreed as they wheeled past Bitsy Baynard’s one-bedroom, which the former heiress had taken in lieu of repayment for the money she’d put into their now-defunct TV show. “When is Bitsy coming back?”
“I don’t know. She said she was going to stay in Palm Beach until she found someone who knew something about where Bertie is hiding.” Nikki grimaced. In her former life as an A-list matchmaker, Nikki had brought Bitsy, heiress to a timber fortune, and her husband together and had counted them as one of her biggest successes. Right up until last January when Bertie disappeared with Bitsy’s fortune and an exotic dancer who was pregnant with his child.
When the walkway split they wheeled the stroller toward the low-slung main building, a midcentury gem that they’d renovated for what they’d hoped would be a new season of their TV show, Do Over. The sound of voices and the scrape of furniture reached them from the new rooftop deck, where tables and chairs were being set up. The pool area was quiet. The lifeguard would take his place on the retro lifeguard stand at noon when temperatures had risen and the rooftop grill started cranking out hot dogs and hamburgers.
By the time they wheeled through the opening in the low pink wall and onto the beach, Nikki was feeling slightly winded. Joe was not. Despite the weak morning sun and the breeze off the gulf, he pulled off his T-shirt and tucked one end into the waistband of his running shorts. His chest and abs were hard, his arms and legs muscled. Dark hair smattered with gray dusted his chest and arrowed downward. She considered his body with an unhealthy mixture of admiration and jealousy. And a devout wish that men carried the babies in our species.
“You know we don’t have to run,” he said when they reached the hard-packed sand near the water’s edge. “It’s a gorgeous day just to be outside.”
“Definitely gorgeous,” she agreed, admiring the dip and dance of sunlight on the slightly choppy water’s surface. A windsurfer skimmed by as she began to stretch, his brightly colored sail bulging with wind. “But I know you’re ready for a run.” She had to hold on to his shoulder as she reached back to grab her foot and stretch her quads. “And so am I.”
“All right.” When she’d finished stretching, he flashed her a smile and opened his arms wide, leaving their direction up to her. “Lead the way.”
To their right lay the historic Don CeSar Hotel and the northern half of St. Petersburg Beach. In the other direction . . . she shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but she could not deny the tug she felt. Without a word she pivoted left and broke into a slow jog, heading toward the southern tip of Pass-a-Grille. And Bella Flora.
Joe turned the stroller and fell in beside her. For a few heady minutes she simply gave herself up to the fresh air, the wash of water on and off the sand, and the caw of gulls wheeling through the sky. But it wasn’t long before her breathing grew uneven and her strides became shorter. She flushed with embarrassment when she realized that he had checked his stride to match hers. Her chin went up and she picked up her pace. She’d recently weaned the girls to formula, and while nursing had helped her drop weight, she was going to have to do more than crawl if she ever hoped to get her body back. “You worry about yourself and the girls,” she snapped, careful not to huff or puff. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” he said easily. “You’re the boss.” His movements remained fluid, but she could still feel him holding back. “There’s no shame in taking it easy, Nik. And walking is exercise, too. A walk could be nice.”
“Right.” Surely that wasn’t her breathing that sounded so . . . labored. Or her legs that had turned into lead weights. She pinned a smile on her lips and focused her eyes down the beach. She’d run this distance a thousand times. There was no reason she couldn’t do it now. She would do it now. And if she felt a little uncomfortable, well, no one had ever died f
rom discomfort. Otherwise she would have expired early in her pregnancy. She picked up her pace another notch and ignored Joe’s look of concern. She was not going to whine or complain, and she most definitely wasn’t going to walk. Breathing was overrated. And it was nothing compared to pride.
* * *
• • •
Shortly before her life imploded, Madeline Singer had decided to refurbish it slightly. Her nest had emptied and she’d hit the big five-oh. The time seemed right to take down a few metaphorical walls. Raise a few ceilings. Open things up.
What she’d envisioned as a minor renovation turned into a total gut job when her husband lost everything in Malcolm Dyer’s Ponzi scheme. The life she’d only planned to tweak got demoed, blown to bits before her eyes.
There were casualties. Somehow she managed to drag her family clear of the rubble. Ultimately, those who were still standing constructed a new life, one that bore almost no resemblance to the original. Not exactly a “do over,” but a chance to do and be more.
Today was January second. The first usable day of a brand-new year and once again her life was under construction. Yesterday she, her daughter Kyra, her four-year-old grandson Dustin, and Dustin’s new puppy Max had moved out of Bella Flora into the newly renovated two-bedroom cottage she stood in now. Soon Kyra and Dustin would go to Orlando so that Dustin could play his father’s son in Daniel Deranian’s directorial debut. At which point Maddie would be completely on her own. A fact that both excited and terrified her.
In the kitchen, the lack of counter space forced her to work more efficiently, and in less than fifteen minutes she’d assembled an egg soufflé, slid it into the oven, and set the timer. The soufflé was of the never-fail variety, guaranteed to pouf in exactly sixty minutes. Unlike life, which came with no guarantees and often “poufed” when you least expected it.
Soon the scent of melting cheese teased her nostrils and began to fill the air. She pictured it wafting down the short hallway to the second bedroom, slipping under the closed door, and crooking its finger. While she waited she put on a pot of coffee and puttered, unpacking and organizing the exceedingly compact kitchen. The cottage felt like a dollhouse after the castle-like Bella Flora, but Maddie felt oddly content. She lacked space and income and her résumé consisted only of a brief and excruciatingly public stint on their renovation-turned-reality-TV-show. But the cottage belonged to her. And so did the new life that lay ahead.
