by Wendy Wax
“I’m very sorry, Bitsy,” her former money manager said in a genuinely apologetic tone. “It’s a horrible thing. I’d love to see Bertie caught and punished. No one would blame you for shooting him on sight should you find him.”
She’d vowed to find him. Shooting was too good for him. But even if she found him, how would she get the money back?
“We did try to protect you.” He looked at her. “But you took Bertie’s advice over ours in almost every instance.”
This time she didn’t point out how well Bertie had handled her money before he stole it. Or how he’d protected her assets from Malcolm Dyer’s Ponzi scheme and sidestepped any number of other losses and downturns that other managers, including the man sitting in front of her, had not.
“You refused to ask him to sign a prenup. You insisted that all your accounts be joint. Then you allowed him free rein over a trust with assets exceeding thirty-five million dollars when you made him sole trustee.”
Shame heated her skin. She had actually petitioned a judge to do this.
“When the remaining assets were liquidated and the funds wired offshore, we assumed it was with your approval.”
“But you didn’t check with me. You used to check with me.”
“Yes. And in virtually every case you told me that you had complete confidence in your husband’s actions on your behalf.” He sighed. “If I’d been in town, I have no doubt I would have called you. But he chose the perfect time. He waited until I was out of the country—cell reception is a bit spotty when you’re climbing Kilimanjaro—and he demanded that everything be liquidated and the funds be transferred to a Cayman account that had been set up for some time. In fact, he bullied the young woman who handled the actual liquidation orders and transfers. Rained down all over her. The employees in that position sit in a windowless closet-size room and move money around as directed. We are required by law to respond immediately and make the money available within three days.” He steepled his hands, rested his chin on them, in half prayer, half condemnation. “We’ve been over this before.”
That had been days after she’d discovered that Bertie and her money were gone. When she’d been in shock, too bruised, too beaten, too panicked to absorb it.
“Is she here now?”
“No. She’s no longer with us.” His look of discomfort was brief. “She had a bit of a breakdown afterward.” He sighed. “If I’d been her and in that situation, I’d probably be in a padded cell myself right now.”
Yet here he was nattily dressed and going about his business. Bitsy closed her eyes against the press of tears. She could no longer remember why she’d thought coming back to Palm Beach was a good idea or what she thought she’d achieve. A year had passed and Bertie and her fortune were still gone. Her losses were still her fault. Because she had not protected herself and her fortune as she should have.
She felt Gene’s eyes on her and for the millionth time asked herself what others had been asking from the beginning: Had Bertie been working a long con? Had he simply taken his time, building her trust in him over their fifteen-year marriage the same way he built the holdings he planned to steal from her? Had he ever really loved her?
“We provided copies of all the liquidation and transfer orders the moment we were notified that Bertie was not acting on your behalf.” And no doubt to protect their asses.
Bitsy nodded numbly. She vaguely remembered large cardboard boxes coming from the firm. But she’d been a basket case, having to get out of her home, handing everything she owned over to the auction house in an attempt to try to pay off some of her massive debt. She’d put the boxes in the Land Rover with her remaining belongings. But she had not had the internal fortitude to open them.
She barely felt Gene’s hand on her elbow as he escorted her to the elevator. Nor did she remember crossing the parking lot to her car. She only knew that her heart was too heavy for her chest and her thoughts were weighted with self-doubt and recriminations as she drove back to the Wyndhams’. She slowed in front of her former home, which up until today she’d been careful not to even look at. Without planning to, she pulled onto the side of the road and stopped just before the gate.
Now she sat and stared at the entrance to the Palm Beach estate that Bertie had fallen in love with on sight and had spent close to five years restoring. Anger and hate coiled tightly inside her as she contemplated the wrought iron Bertie had agonized over and that now kept her out, but so did the ache of loss and the memory of his smile. He’d made her feel cherished, had convinced her that he was in love with her and not her bank account. And she had believed him. Right up until the moment last January when he’d fled, taking her fortune and his pregnant exotic-dancer girlfriend with him.
Her heart thudded as she pictured the child that had most certainly been born. A child that might have been hers if Bertie had ever seemed the least bit interested in fatherhood.
The Land Rover’s engine idled roughly, emitting sporadic puffs of exhaust into the crisp morning air. An army of palm trees rose behind the gates and ran along the driveway that curled through the lushly landscaped property to the Palladian villa that both Maddie and Kyra Singer had described as Bella Flora on steroids. Bitsy had taken their home’s size and grandeur for granted just as she had the millions of dollars that had been poured into it, never for a second imagining her flow of money from the Fletcher family timber fortune could ever end.
Now the home she’d last seen in her rearview mirror as she’d slunk out of town belonged to Alex Binder, a preening peacock of a man that Bertie had hated. For a moment she pictured the peacock and his shiny new wife traipsing through the marble hallways and entertaining guests in the massive formal dining room, and renewed her vow to hunt Bertrand down and drag him back so that she could divorce him, regain her fortune, and put him in jail for being so crushingly disappointing.
Her head dropped as the first tear fell. A second followed it. She was attempting to stem the flow when a knock sounded on the car window. Startled, she looked up. A young, sandy-haired Palm Beach policeman peered in at her.
He tapped again and motioned for her to lower the window. Her eyes met his. She saw him register her tears and her undoubtedly blotchy face. She pushed the button and the window began to lower. It got stuck halfway and refused to go farther.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?”
She nodded numbly.
“Then I’ll have to ask you to move your car.”
His eyes traveled over the Land Rover with its faded paint and dented bumper. Their cook and housekeeper had used the vehicle for errands. Bitsy had driven it out these very gates when the house and all its contents had been repossessed. It and the things she’d managed to fit inside it were all she had left.
“We had a call from the owner and one of the neighbors. They said there was a, um, lone woman”—he said this in the same tone one might say “lone gunman”—“sitting outside the gate with the car running.”
“And they were right.”
“Yes, ma’am.” God, he was young. And almost ridiculously good-looking.
“I’m pretty sure I’m on public property, Officer.” Actually, she knew this for a fact. “I don’t think I’m doing anything illegal.”
“Not technically, no,” he agreed politely. “But you are making the owner uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable? Clearly the perimeter cameras weren’t properly aimed. If Alex or the latest Mrs. Binder had seen who was sitting in the driver’s seat staring longingly at their property, they’d be the opposite of uncomfortable. They’d be rolling on the floor laughing or patting each other on the back.
A car slowed as it drove by, and she felt the burn of embarrassment. “I promise I’m not here to case the joint. I used to live here.” She held up her hands. “I’m just going to reach in my purse so I can show you my driver’s license, okay?”
A
t his nod she attempted to lower the window. This time it inched up before it stuck. She tried to reverse it. Nada. “Here, let me show you.” Bitsy fumbled with her purse, pulled out her wallet, and retrieved her license. Her hand shook slightly as she passed it through the partially open window.
He looked at the license then back at her.
“I used to live here, Officer,” Bitsy said. “My husband and I remodeled the entire estate. I moved a year ago. I haven’t had a chance to change my driver’s license. I’m in town visiting and I just thought I’d take a look. You know, for old times’ sake.”
His expression was more dubious than suspicious. They both looked up at the sound of the gate opening. A white stretch limo emerged. The rear passenger window slid down. Alex Binder’s ferret face appeared. He took in the policeman currently holding her driver’s license, the dented and dusty Land Rover with its temperamental window, and grinned. She had no doubt he had already rolled on the floor laughing at her. And was probably only leaving the estate at this particular moment in order to enjoy her humiliation up close and personal.
“Well, hello there, Bitsy!” he crowed happily as a breathtakingly beautiful and very young face appeared beside his. Extremely lush lips tipped into a smile. Perfectly arched brows rose almost to the matching cap of shiny blond hair. A peal of merriment escaped her mouth as Alex whispered something in her undoubtedly lovely ear. “I heard you were in town. I can’t tell you what a treat it is to see you again!”
Bitsy smiled tightly, trying to keep the flush of heat from staining her cheeks and telegraphing her humiliation. She and her car might have seen better days, but she was still Bitsy Fletcher Baynard. Heiress to the Fletcher Timber fortune, former pillar of Palm Beach society. Bitsy straightened her shoulders, raised her chin. “Alex.”
“Be sure to give my best to Bertie if you ever hear from him!” Malicious satisfaction rang in Alex Binder’s voice. “Don’t worry about her, Officer. She’s no threat at all.” There was another burst of laughter as the window slid up effortlessly and the limo pulled away.
Bitsy turned to face the officer. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed to keep her chin up and her voice from quivering. “I know when I lived here I was very impressed with the efficiency and responsiveness of the local police department.” She managed a smile. “I can understand that my little stroll down memory lane might have looked a bit odd, but as you just saw, I know the new owner, and I didn’t come to do anyone bodily harm.”
He watched her face for a long moment and she saw what could only be pity flash briefly across it. “My mistake, ma’am. I’m sorry to have bothered you. You be sure and have a nice day.”
“Thank you, Officer. You too.” She put the car in gear and drove with extreme care past the high plaster wall topped with sharply pointed wrought iron to the next property.
He stood beside his police cruiser until she’d punched in the Wyndhams’ code and driven through their gate. As if he were memorizing every detail of what had just taken place for future retelling. Or in case she decided to make a break for it and come back to ram the gates she had built to keep other people out.
Four
The breeze off the water was cool and the temperature in the low sixties as Avery carried an industrial-size bowl of Cheez Doodles and her beach chair through the Sunshine Hotel property. She found Maddie, Kyra, and Nikki setting up on a patch of sand that afforded an unobstructed view of the Gulf of Mexico and the sky above it. Paper plates of Bagel Bites and crackers smeared with Ted Peters smoked fish spread sat on a makeshift table of coolers.
“I come bearing offerings of puffed cheesiness.” Avery set down the Cheez Doodles, opened up her beach chair, and accepted an insulated glass from Kyra. Nikki filled it from a pitcher of margaritas. Glasses in hand they sat and turned toward the sky where the show would soon play out, and set about getting comfortable.
“It’s weird to be doing our sunset toasts in such a public place,” Kyra said, motioning down the beach, where other sunset watchers were settling into position. Up on the rooftop bar and grill behind them there was the tinkle of glassware and conversation.
“I think it’s kind of nice,” Avery said, reaching for a Cheez Doodle. “I mean, it allows us to have our feet in the sand. And we are close to the water and theoretically the sunset.” She took another long sip of the margarita, enjoying the crisp tartness that slid down her throat. “Hey, I think that could be my one good thing. Does that qualify?”
“I am not the arbiter of one good things,” Maddie said, though it had been she who started the tradition of finding something good to toast at sunset back when they were first desperately renovating Bella Flora. At the time, coming up with anything good had been a challenge. “But I’m glad to see you finding a silver lining in Bella Flora being rented. It could have been worse.”
Kyra snorted. “Worse than Troy? He pretended to be poor. He drove a beat-up car and acted like he had no job and nowhere to live. He refused to leave. And now he just shows up like some Rockefeller or something. What kind of project could he possibly be working on?”
“Maybe you should ask him instead of giving him shit,” Avery said, reaching for another Cheez Doodle. Kyra and Troy had always sparred with each other. Kind of like she and Chase had in the beginning. Oops. She nipped the comparison off before it could take hold. She had vowed not to think about Chase tonight. Or the things he’d said. Or how hard he’d begun lobbying to get her to move back in with him.
“What do you think, Nikki?” Maddie asked.
“Sorry, Kyra,” Nikki said. “But I think Troy being the tenant is a lucky break.”
“Seriously?” Kyra shook hot sauce onto the smoked fish spread and popped the cracker into her mouth.
“Yes,” Nikki said. “Because he isn’t a stranger. And he loves Bella Flora, too. And if we needed to pick up something or borrow something, we could.” She took a long sip of her margarita. “I don’t know. Now that he’s not working for the network and his job isn’t trying to catch us on video in the most humiliating way possible, he’s not really a problem.”
“He clearly didn’t need that job humiliating us,” Kyra countered. “Plus he’s a guy. Which means he won’t clean up after himself. Ever.”
“But he can afford a cleaning service,” Avery pointed out, shocking herself with her own positivity. “Can that be my good thing?”
“No,” Nikki said. “I think we’re still waiting for Kyra to come up with a positive.”
“All right then, my good thing is that I haven’t killed Troy Matthews,” Kyra said. “Yet.”
There was laughter.
“At the risk of actually sounding like the ‘good enough’ police, I have to tell you I really don’t think not killing someone qualifies,” Maddie said.
“Fine. How about, it’s a good thing I’m not in prison for killing Troy Matthews,” Kyra said. “That puts the emphasis on not being in prison and not what I would have been put in prison for.”
“Kyra.” Maddie’s tone was suitably disapproving, but Avery could see her fighting off a smile.
“Sorry, Mom. That’s the best I can do. I mean, did you see that shit-eating grin on his face? All I could think about was wiping it off. Preferably in the most painful way possible.”
Nikki laughed and poured them all another round. “I think someone better come up with an actual, intentional good thing before we run out of alcohol to toast with. We’ve done a lot of debating, but not a lot of accepting.”
“You could always go back to the cottage and whip up another batch,” Avery pointed out.
“No, I could not,” Nikki said. “Because if the girls are still awake and they catch sight of me, I won’t be able to get out again. I am so not going back until they’re in bed. I told Joe to text me when they were asleep and the coast is clear. When that happens I will not be running a blender.”
&nbs
p; “I don’t blame you,” Maddie said. “Steve and I used to go out on Saturday nights when Kyra and Andrew were little. One time we sat through the same movie twice, so the babysitter would have enough time to get them to sleep. I think both of us fell asleep during the second showing.” She smiled. “Get your glasses ready. I have a good thing.”
“Thank God,” Avery teased, enjoying the warm glow provided by the margaritas and the women around her.
“Okay. Steve seems to be happy selling real estate, and Kyra and Dustin will be away on location,” Maddie said. “So I think I’m going to go down to Mermaid Point to visit Will and then go on tour with him.”
There was applause. Avery held up her glass. “To Maddie getting to say, ‘I’m with the band.’ And to being whisked all over the place in limos.”
They clinked glasses and drank. Avery stared up at the sky and watched the red ball of sun slip smoothly toward the water.
“You’re the girlfriend of a rock star, Maddie. That’s like every woman’s secret fantasy.” Nikki’s smile dimmed. “And you’ll have enough energy for sex. And go places without a double diaper bag stuffed to the max. And wear clothes that aren’t stained with formula or baby food. And . . .” Nikki’s voice trailed off.
“Nikki?” Maddie said quietly.
“Hmmm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“The tour is only for a month,” Maddie said. “Then I’m going to come back and . . . well, I need to find something I’m good at and passionate about. A purpose.”
“God, that sounds lovely,” Nikki said.
“You have a purpose, Nikki,” Maddie said. “Raising children is one of the most important jobs on earth.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Kyra raised her glass and they clinked and drank.
