by Wendy Wax
Joe snorted. “Sounds like you all need to work a little more on the details of your operations. Not incapacitating the members of your own team is a pretty important consideration.”
“Tell me about it,” Nikki said. “We totally underestimated Bitsy. All those years of drinking at society fund-raisers while keeping her wits about her have clearly given her some serious evasion skills.” Nikki yawned and sighed. “Now we have to get everybody inside and up to bed.”
“Do you want me to run Bitsy back to the hotel?” Joe asked quietly.
“No.” Maddie heard Nikki struggle to her feet. “Let’s let Sherlock tinkle then put him and Bitsy on the couch.”
As if in a dream, Maddie heard movement and murmurs, and felt herself moving. Unsure how she’d gotten there, she felt her bed beneath her. Someone gently laid her head on the pillow and pulled the cover up over her.
“Do we find why she’s came?” Maddie roused herself to ask.
“No.” Nikki’s voice floated somewhere above her. “She didn’t share a single important piece of information about herself. But she was pretty spot on about the rest of us.”
Eight
Kyra’s dream was vivid and filled with images of Daniel Deranian. The dark bedroom eyes noticing her on the set of Halfway Home. The first time they really saw her. The way they’d worshipped her just before they glazed over the first time they made love.
Hints of morning began to intrude on the memories. Shards of sunlight. The scent of coffee brewing. The whine of a Jet Ski. No. She tried to call the dream back but it refused to be summoned. Her eyes were still closed against the reality of the new day when she felt the throbbing in her head. With a groan, she opened her eyes and discovered that the sunlight was far brighter than it should be. She reached for the iPhone on the nightstand even as she registered the fact that Dustin’s car bed was empty. She shot up and the throbbing turned to jagged lightning bolts of pain. At three, Dustin knew how to swim, but the pool was just outside and the Gulf and bay just beyond it. If he had wandered out on his own, anything could happen.
Her head spinning, her eyes caked with sleep, she sprinted out of the bedroom and raced down the back stairs, her head pounding with each step. The house was quiet—too quiet for Dustin to be in it. She reached the salon and scanned the back patio for some sign of him then skidded into the kitchen praying that he’d be there. A note on the kitchen table snagged her gaze. A glass of water and two aspirin sat next to it. Took Dustin to Paradise Grille for something to eat, the note read. Take two aspirin. I’d say call me in the morning except it’s already going on noon. It was signed, Doctor T.
Relief flooded through her. It was immediately followed by anger that Troy would have taken Dustin without waking or asking her.
Upstairs she opened her mother’s bedroom door a notch and saw Maddie and Avery in their beds apparently still sleeping off last night’s attempted interrogation/intervention. One or both of them was snoring. Nikki, Joe, and their two cars were gone. Ditto for Bitsy Baynard and her dog.
Anger mixed with the residue of panic still coursing through her, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled on shorts and a Do Over sweatshirt. Shoving her feet into flip-flops, she took the sidewalk that bordered the beach and walked briskly toward the open-air restaurant that had once been a concession stand.
They were sitting side by side at one of the picnic tables that overlooked the Gulf. Dustin was eating with gusto, his legs swinging happily, his sandals dangling far above the ground. His hair was uncombed and he was still wearing pajamas with his beloved Sunshine Hotel sweatshirt pulled over them.
“She lives,” Troy said as Kyra slid onto the picnic bench across from them.
“Hi, Mommy!”
“Good morning, little man.” He was holding a hamburger in both hands. Ketchup covered most of one cheek. Despite the grid of string crisscrossing the air above the tables, a nearby seagull was eyeing the French fries on his plate.
“We played-ed porn cold!” He said this with joy. “I got two beaned bags in the hold!”
Kyra had yet to figure out why the bean bag toss game set up on the sand beside the Paradise Grille was called corn-hole, but wasn’t completely sure she wanted to know. “How long have you been out here?” she asked Troy. “He’ll be burnt to a crisp.”
“You don’t look so good. I’m guessing the aspirin haven’t kicked in yet.” Troy pulled the sunscreen out of his pocket. “And FYI, I’ve got it covered.” He looked down at his watch. “We’ve been out here a little over an hour, and we’re only out here because some people can’t hold their alcohol.” His tone and look were taunting. “A simple hello and thank-you would be good.”
“I appreciate the gesture, but you could have woken me up.”
“I tried-ed,” Dustin said. “I couldn’t get your eyes open.”
“I was in the kitchen when he came down. He was a little concerned about your corpse-like state, so I came up to make sure you were okay.” He ruffled Dustin’s hair. “I told you she was fine. Just a little lazy this morning.”
She speared him with a look, which he ignored.
“Broy let me wear my pajamas!”
“So I see.” She wasn’t sure why she was so angry with him, but she knew she didn’t like the idea of him standing over her bed seeing her at her most vulnerable. Anytime he did something nice, he ruined it with a backhanded slap of some kind. His niceness made her suspicious. They’d been on opposite sides of the fence too long to fall for a flag of truce. He was the Trojan horse who’d taught her to examine each kindness for a trapdoor. Still, the fresh air and sunshine were beginning to banish her initial panic just as the aspirin seemed to be fighting off the worst of her hangover.
“I’m getting a refill. Want a coffee?”
She wanted to say no, but her entire system was now clamoring for caffeine. She patted her shorts pockets but it seemed she’d raced out of Bella Flora without so much as a dollar bill in her pocket. “Thank you,” she said primly when he returned with their coffees.
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“You’ve got that wrong. Everything you do seems to have some ulterior motive attached.”
“So you think I had some sinister reason for taking Dustin out so you could sleep?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t you?”
“You don’t know anywhere near as much about me as you think.”
“Oh, no?”
“No.”
“I know you act a lot tougher than you are. I know that you have a weak spot for a certain undeserving movie star that’s big enough to drive a semi through. And I know for a fact that if I brought you an order of French toast swimming in syrup with a side of bacon right now, you’d act like you don’t want it and then eat every single bite.”
“So you know what I like to eat,” she said. “I don’t think that makes you an expert on me.”
“Maybe not.” He shrugged and then pulled a copy of Variety out from underneath his plate. “But I’m pretty sure how you’re going to react to this.” He turned the paper so that she could see the front-page photo of Daniel and his wife, Tonja Kay, taken on a red carpet at some awards ceremony. Kyra tried not to appear interested. Tried not to look too closely, to see if he looked happy, to see how close they stood to each other. Daniel Deranian and Tonja Kay were one of Hollywood’s golden couples, at the top of the A-list.
“Dandiel!” Dustin said, smiling and placing a finger over his father’s face. Kyra was glad that he ignored Daniel’s beautiful wife, who had once tried to take Dustin from Kyra in order to add him to their familial entourage. Her eyes moved to the headline, which read, Deranian to direct and star with wife in family drama.
She drew a deep, hopefully cleansing breath. “So what’s the big deal?” she said, shoving away the hurt of finding this out like t
he rest of the world. “He’s been looking for the right opportunity and vehicle. It was only a matter of time.”
“Probably. I guess if you’re big enough box office, directorial talent isn’t a requirement.”
“Daniel has loads of talent,” she said, dropping her voice. “Lots of actors move successfully from acting to directing. Lots of them do both.” She picked up a fry from Dustin’s plate and ate it angrily. “You’re just jealous that he’s getting this chance when you’re stuck shooting video for room and board.”
“I’m jealous?” Troy asked. “You should see your face right now. You can’t stand that he’s going to be working with his wife.” He emphasized the word cruelly then reached over to wipe Dustin’s face and hands as if he were the parent and she wasn’t there at all.
She schooled her features. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how sucker punched she felt. Not for a million dollars. Not even for the two million she’d need to pay off the loan she’d taken out against Bella Flora.
“Bid catsle?” Dustin looked up at them expectantly.
“We can do that,” she said, glad for the distraction. “But first we’ll have to go back to the house and get your—”
“Not necessary.” Troy held up the mesh bag of Dustin’s sand toys.
She wanted to tell him to get lost, wanted to tell him to shove the plastic shovel where the sun didn’t shine. But Dustin was already jumping up off the bench and grabbing for Troy’s hand. “Les go, Broy!”
She trailed them down the steps to the beach and over to a prime spot near the water, her coffee in hand. Once Dustin was digging happily, Troy came back to stand next to her. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” he said in a sympathetic tone that made her want to punch his lights out.
“Daniel doesn’t owe me explanations or advance warning of his business decisions,” she snapped. “And I don’t owe you insights into my thoughts and feelings.”
He shook his head and shrugged. “You’re really something, you know. I just hope you’re only lying to me and not to yourself.”
She gritted her teeth and somehow managed to remain silent.
“He’s never going to leave his wife for you or anyone else. You do know that, right?”
She turned to face him. His smug, satisfied smile was still missing, which somehow made his sticking his nose into her life all the more infuriating.
“Thank you for your concern,” she said as calmly as she could. “But I’m not the imbecile you seem to think I am. And I certainly don’t need you protecting me from anyone or anything.”
“Got it,” he said evenly. “I’d settle for protecting you from yourself.”
• • •
Nikki eased out of bed. No, “ease” was far too graceful a word for the scooting, rolling, and hefting it took to sit upright on the edge of the bed with both feet on the floor.
“You okay?” Joe murmured sleepily. He was by nature and occupation a light sleeper.
Though she’d never caught him at it, she suspected he slept with one eye open. The bag he’d insisted she pack for the hospital sat near the bedroom door ready to go, and she was fairly certain he’d already timed the drive to Bayfront Medical Center, which they had toured together and where Dr. Payne would deliver the babies. The thought had her reaching for the nightstand so that she could knock on wood. She pulled back her hand at the last moment. “Yes. Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Another scoot, a push, and a bit of levering and she was finally on her feet. God, when had getting out of bed turned into a workout? She turned to look down at Joe. His eyes were closed and his breathing was once again rhythmic. A sliver of moonlight sliced through the slit in the wood blind and fell across his rugged jaw and one strong cheekbone. The window was partially open and a cool breeze accompanied the wash of the Gulf on and off the shore. Joe didn’t feel the cold, and with her increased bulk and her thermostat continually set at “high,” she welcomed the crisp air.
After what felt like her hundredth potty break of the night, she found herself in Ray Flamingo’s “ode to pink,” where she stood attempting to visualize two babies sleeping peacefully in their cribs in the same way that she’d once visualized the ladder on which she’d climbed out of poverty rung by rung. The image was blocked by her fear that something might still go wrong and by the equally pressing fear that even if both girls were somehow, miraculously, born healthy, she would discover that she did, in fact, lack the mothering gene. That she’d have no idea how to soothe them, or care for them, or bring them up to be good people.
The closet door was open, and the tiny pink clothes that hung on tiny pink padded hangers caught her eye. She lifted a pair of footed pajamas from a shelf and held them to her cheek. In that moment she would have given anything to be Maddie, who’d been born to mother, or Kyra, who went about raising Dustin as if it were the most natural thing in the world, or Joe’s mother, Gabriella, whose children, grandchildren, and husband practically worshipped at her feet. She wouldn’t even have minded being Nonna Sofia, who did not seem to possess a single doubt or fear.
Clutching the pajamas, she dropped into the glider and put her feet up on the ottoman. The mound of her stomach rippled. Little Girl One and Little Girl Two were apparently awake and taking a midnight kickboxing class.
“Shhhh,” she said quietly, beginning a slow glide. “I can’t promise I’m going to be the mother you deserve, but I promise I’ll do my best.” The promise echoed in her mind and deep in the recesses of her heart though she wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to them or herself.
• • •
“Come on, let’s go for a walk.” Bitsy dangled the leash in front of Sherlock. He cocked his large head and twitched his bat ears as if considering her idea. But there was no tail wagging or signs of enthusiasm, just a sad little whimper. “We are not going to sit here all day feeling sorry for ourselves,” she said sternly. “You’re a dog. You’re supposed to want to go outside.”
He whimpered again and sat back on his haunches.
“I know, I know.” She clipped the leash to his collar and headed for the door. Sherlock remained where he was. When the leash grew taut, she pulled gently and he slid across the terrazzo on his bum as she reeled him in. “But we both need to stop wallowing. And I am not going to carry you to the toilet.”
Another pathetic whimper. He lay down on his tummy. The folds of skin on his face wrinkled in misery as he rested his muzzle on his front paws.
“I know. It hurts. But we are not going to roll over and play dead.”
Sherlock lifted his head. She wasn’t certain but she thought he might have rolled his eyes at the obvious dog humor. “Seriously, Sherlock. If I can move on with my life, so can you.”
He looked at her with the same pitiful expression she’d seen on her own face this morning in the bathroom mirror.
“Okay, so maybe I’m not really moving on. Maybe I’m squatting in this cottage that doesn’t really belong to me and praying that Bertie either dies or comes to his senses.” She hoped one of these things would happen before she was forced to admit the truth that Maddie, Nikki, Avery, and Kyra had tried to pry out of her last night. She wasn’t going anywhere until she had somewhere to go and enough money with which to get there. In her former life she would have already hired a battalion of private investigators to find Bertie and retrieve her money, and a second battalion of lawyers to prosecute him.
When she’d been rich, she’d rarely thought about money at all. Now she couldn’t stop.
She reached down and gathered Sherlock up into her arms tsk-ing as she did so. But she held him tight, pathetically grateful for his company and for the cool, wet nose he nudged against her neck.
The sun was bright, the sky blue, the breeze mild as she carried Sherlock outside and over the concrete path to Thirty-first Street, where she set him on his feet in front o
f the first nice bush they came to. Not that she actually knew what constituted an acceptable bush for an unhappy dog.
“All right,” she said after he’d piddled halfheartedly then looked up at her with those sad, betrayed eyes. “I’m doing the best I can here.” But was she? She could still see her great-grandfather Phineus, founder of the Fletcher Timber Company, staring down at her from his gilt-framed portrait as he was carried away for auction. She would be the Fletcher known for losing the last of a great family’s fortune.
She tugged on the leash, but Sherlock refused to move. He simply looked up at her, shook his head, and gave a short bark.
“Oh, come on. Have a heart.” She felt every bit as wretched as Sherlock. Only she had no one to carry her to the nearest bush or to hold her in their arms. Her life, once so clearly prescribed and finely oiled, had turned into a soap opera with a heavy dose of sitcom. “Oh, God. I’m starring in my own version of 2 Broke Girls. Only there’s only one of me, and it’s my husband, not my father, who shoved me into poverty. And I didn’t take a horse into exile with me. I took you.”
As she carried Sherlock to a second bush and then to the base of a nearby palm tree, the comparisons bombarded her. Most important, Bertie wasn’t in prison like the fictional Caroline Channing’s Ponzi-perpetrating father, and he never would be. Unless she found a way to earn enough money to hire people to find him and put him there.
As the first tears fell and she clutched Sherlock tighter to her chest, she pictured herself in that sitcom working as a waitress and trying to start a cupcake business. Then she wondered just how many cupcakes putting Bertie behind bars would take.
Nine
Maddie removed the egg soufflé from the oven and carried it to the table, where Steve, Dustin, Kyra, Troy, and Avery sat. Its golden brown top was impressively poufed.
