A Ten Beach Road Christmas

by Wendy Wax

  Once I’m safely out of the airport grounds and lost in traffic, I unzip the burqa, drop the veil in the back seat next to Dustin, then open the windows so I can feel the air on my face. When I hit the bridge the air takes on a salty tinge and I can see the Courtney Campbell Causeway, which leads to Clearwater, on my right. The Gandy Bridge stretches north and south on my left. I spent a long, sweat-soaked summer while I was pregnant with Dustin working on and shooting the renovation of Bella Flora, so the Tampa Bay area, and especially St. Pete Beach, feels almost as much like home as Atlanta. At the time I was posting snarky comments and video of the renovation online while I waited for Daniel to come whisk me away on his white horse. He did show up, but only to offer me a position as his mistress—a position I declined. My video and the audience my posts drew led to our Lifetime TV series, Do Over. Which is almost as much about fixing our lives as it is about fixing the houses the network has started throwing at us.

  Dustin is asleep by the time I get off the bridge and onto 275 heading south. His long dark lashes cast minishadows on his golden skin. I look for my mom’s van when I turn onto the Pinellas Bayway, but it’s nowhere to be seen, so I assume she’ll be waiting at Bella Flora. The waterfront condos and a golf course whip by. In minutes I’m over the final bridge and stopped at a red light in front of the Don CeSar Hotel—a huge pink and white castle-like structure built in the same Mediterranean Revival style as Bella Flora. I turn left onto Gulf Boulevard and the road narrows as I enter the historic district of Pass-a-Grille, which occupies the southernmost tip of St. Pete Beach.

  Cutting over to Gulf Way, I get my first full-on glimpse of the Gulf of Mexico and the wide white-sand beach that bounds it. I draw in another breath of salt-tinged air and drive slowly to drink it all in. Little mom-and-pop hotels slide by on my left. It’s all beach and dunes and boardwalks over them on my right. The blocks are short and the avenues, which stretch between the gulf and the bay, are barely longer.

  The streetlights are garland-wrapped, with great big red bows tied at the top. There are lots of blow-up Santas and palm-tree trunks wrapped in Christmas lights. I pass the Paradise Grille, the beach trolley stop, and the Hurricane Restaurant, which has been around forever despite a name that seems to be just asking for trouble.

  Eighth Avenue is Pass-a-Grille’s “main street,” with its shops, restaurants, and galleries, and I see that someone has strung lights across it. I grew up in Atlanta, which isn’t exactly the frozen tundra, but it’s still weird to see people walking around in shorts and T-shirts on December 24. The soundtrack, courtesy of Mother Nature, is all palm fronds stirring in the breeze and waves washing gently onto the sand. Seagulls caw loudly as they zigzag through the sky.

  At the very southernmost tip, where the gulf and bay meet, I come to Ten Beach Road. In the afternoon sun, Bella Flora looks fresh out of the bakery box. Its pale pink walls and acres of windows are trimmed in white icing and accented by bell towers and wrought-iron balconies. The whole confection is topped by a multi-angled barrel-tile roof.

  Avery Lawford’s bright blue Mini Cooper and Nicole Grant’s classic green Jaguar are already parked in the bricked drive. My mother’s minivan, tires intact, is pulled in behind them. I’ve never seen cars that so perfectly personify their owners.

  “Gee-ma.” Dustin has his nose pressed against the car window. He’s madly in love with his grandmother and knows her van when he sees it.

  “That’s right. Gee-ma is here. And Grandpa and Doo will be here tonight.” It’s an eight-hour drive down, and my dad and brother, Andrew, are bound to already be on the road.

  The garden is lush even in the winter and beautifully maintained. Our Realtor’s wife and her gardening club of electric-saw-toting octogenarians are the ones who brought the original 1920s garden back from decades of neglect. The leaping-dolphin fountain sprays a welcome gush of water.

  I pull in next to the low cement wall that fronts the garden and try not to notice the sold sign that dangles over it. I was a scared, pregnant kid running to her mother the first time I came here. Today I have a child of my own, who I love more than anything, and a chance at building a television career. My life hasn’t turned out remotely like I planned, but almost everything good that’s happened began right here. This is the first and last Christmas we’ll ever celebrate at Ten Beach Road.

  Chapter Two

  There’s no sign of the paparazzi—I hope they’re still camped out at the airport waiting for me to come back out—but I leave the burqa on and drape the veil over one arm just in case I need it to slip out of the house later. I do have a few other disguises packed away, but if no one’s figured out this one yet, I might be able to pass as a Middle Eastern nanny or distant family member. Shrugging into my backpack, I scoop Dustin out of his car seat and settle him on my hip so that I can carry in a bag of camera gear.

  My son’s huge brown eyes crane upward to take in the impressive house that was little more than a ruin the first time I saw it. “Bella Flora,” I say carefully and watch him consider the words. “You were in my tummy the first time you came here.”

  “Buhfora,” he says solemnly, trying it on for size. Dustin started talking really early, but sometimes you have to focus to figure out what he’s saying. When his smile flashes in satisfaction he looks just like Daniel, but there’s a gentle happiness at the center of Dustin that I envy sometimes. And an occasional gravity that makes me think he understands a lot more than a one-year-old possibly could.

  The kitchen door is unlocked and I wrangle it open, drop the gear on the floor, and manage to close the door with my foot. My mother is there puttering and organizing, which is not too surprising. If you look in the dictionary under the word mother, you’ll probably find a picture of mine. Hearing us, she turns and smiles. Dustin gives a little squeal of happiness. I know the feeling.

  I hope I look like my mother does when I’m in my fifties. She complains about gravitational pull and all that, but she looks like a mother should, soft and warm and inviting and maybe just a little faded around the edges. It’s only in the last year and a half that I found out there’s a steel rod that runs right through her.

  “There you are!” She hugs us both and takes Dustin out of my arms. I know my mother loves me, but ever since I gave birth I’m definitely coming in second. “Hello, little man,” she coos. “Would you like some juice?”

  Dustin’s smile gets bigger. “Duce!”

  “Sorry I didn’t get there,” she says. “Did you have any trouble getting a car?”

  “No. Eet was not too hard.” I hold the veil up just beneath my eyes and bat my lashes at her. “Although I have been in theese country many years I am still working on my Eengleesh.”

  “God, I hate that you have to disguise yourself just to be left in peace. Daniel Deranian has a lot to answer for.”

  I shrug. As much as I’d like to blame everything on Daniel, I made my choices and I need to make the best of them. I’m learning how to navigate the circus, but that doesn’t mean I like it. It’s kind of like having a permanent skin condition. You don’t have to hide inside all the time. You can go out in the world with it, but you’re always aware of it. And it colors everything. Someday I probably won’t be tabloid-worthy, but I’ll always be the production assistant who got kicked off her very first feature film for having Daniel Deranian’s baby.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask.

  “Avery and Deirdre are in the family room discussing the right spot for the Christmas tree. It could take a while.”

  Avery’s a trained architect and completely competent in construction because she grew up on her father’s construction sites; there would be no Do Over without her. She’s small and curvy with blond hair and blue eyes, which annoys the hell out of her and makes her all about trying to command respect. Her mother, Deirdre, left for a long stretch of Avery’s life to become an interior designer to the stars in Hollywood. My
mother actually gave Deirdre mothering lessons while we were in South Beach, but Deirdre tends to pick and choose the parts that appeal to her.

  “Nicole went out for a run,” my mother continues. “When she gets back we’re going to decorate the tree. Then we’ll have our traditional drinks out around the pool at sunset.”

  “Sounds great. Where should I put our stuff?” I’m already halfway out the door toward the pool house when she says, “You and Dustin will bunk with me. I already set up the portable crib.”

  I turn. “But Dad’s going to be here.”

  My mother shrugs and hands Dustin the juice cup. “Oh, I figured he and Andrew would be more comfortable out in the pool house.” She doesn’t exactly meet my eyes when she says this.

  This is weird. Except for the time my dad spent on the couch with the remote glued to his hand after he lost his job and all our money—and the time they were apart while she helped renovate Bella Flora and The Millicent down in Miami—my dad and mom have always slept together. I mean, I don’t know what they do in bed—that would be TMI—but they’ve always shared one. One of my earliest memories is racing into their bedroom and jumping between them on weekend mornings when I was little.

  “That way I can help with Dustin if he wakes up at night. And Avery and Nicole won’t have to share a bathroom with your dad. Or vice versa.”

  “Okay.” I guess after you’ve been married for more than a quarter of a century, sleeping apart isn’t exactly the end of the world. With a quick look outside to make sure nobody—especially nobody with a camera—is hanging around, I head back to the rental car to get the rest of our stuff, which I carry up to my mom’s room at the front of the house. Avery, Mom, and Nicole, who are the primary owners along with Chase Hardin, the hunky contractor who headed up the renovation and is now Avery’s main squeeze, each have a room. Deirdre, who somehow nabbed the master bedroom the day she arrived uninvited and still hasn’t given it up, has a huge suite all to herself.

  I haul our stuff up the front stairs and I can’t help remembering the first time I saw them. The wood balustrade was scarred and damaged, the plaster walls were gouged and stained, and a Frankenstein monster labeled Malcolm Dyer was hanging over the banister in effigy. Of course, nobody knew then that Malcolm Dyer was Nicole’s brother. If my brother ever stole everything from me, I’d do more than help put him in jail. I’d make sure he was sleeping with the fishes or having birds peck out his eyeballs or some other fitting cinematic retribution.

  I lean out the open bedroom window and look down the beach. Sunshine glints off the gulf and a stream of people walk near the water’s edge. Boats bob out in the distance and a few people are fishing off the pier. Down near the Don CeSar, someone’s parasailing, just dangling in the harness. It looks like a summer day out there, but if he’s smart, he’s wearing a wet suit.

  By the time I get down to the salon that stretches across the back of the house, my mom has Dustin playing with a box of wood blocks and is mediating the tree placement. Avery and Deirdre stop arguing long enough to give me hugs. Avery’s practically a mirror image of her mother, though we’re all really careful not to point this out. They both have chests that are too big for the rest of them, but Avery, whose first network turned her into the Vanna White of the DIY set, tries to hide hers, while Deirdre is all about tasteful showcasing.

  “Every time I disagree with her she rubs her arm like it still hurts,” Avery complains as she tightens the tree stand.

  “I never said it hurt,” Deirdre replies, standing back to eye the tree, which as far as I’m concerned is in the perfect spot in the exact middle of the run of floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the pool and the pass, where the bay and the gulf meet, is spectacular from here.

  “No, but you’re forever reminding me that you took a bullet for me,” Avery says.

  “I am not.” Deirdre turns to Mom and me. “Can I help it if it aches a little bit now and then?”

  “Like when I don’t immediately do whatever she wants.”

  “You never do what I want.” Deirdre rubs her arm where the bullet entered when she threw herself in front of Avery just as the gun went off down in South Beach. I hold on to the box I brought down with me.

  Nicole Grant comes in through the French doors that open onto the loggia. She’s tall and willowy with deep red hair and great skin. She always runs in designer running clothes and she looks good even when she’s sweating. Her eyes are a sharp green that can cut right through you and any bullshit you might be slinging. I’m not sure how old she is—somewhere between forty and fifty, but I don’t know which end. She used to be a famous dating guru and A-list matchmaker until her brother stole everything she had in his three-hundred-million-dollar Ponzi scheme and the press got hold of the fact that they’re related. I guess her bullshit-ometer works better on strangers than family. Though come to think of it, it didn’t work all that well on Parker Amherst IV, the alleged matchmaking client in Miami who was looking for revenge on her brother and not, as Nikki thought, a wife. It was his bullet that landed in Deirdre’s arm. And ended Max Golden’s life.

  Crap. Every time I think about Max my eyes get all wet. He might have been ninety but he had so much life left in him. And he did take the bullet that was intended for Dustin.

  I open the box I brought down with me and pull out the menorah and candles I bought in Max’s honor. The menorah has candle holders shaped like comedy masks because Max and his wife Millie were once the George Burns and Gracie Allen of Miami Beach. I set it on the mantel. Just looking at it makes me smile.

  “Are you thinking about converting?” Nicole asks when she notices the menorah and sees me opening the box of candles.

  “No. I just thought we might light the candles tonight after the sun goes down,” I say.

  “I’m pretty sure Hanukkah’s already over, sweetie. It’s not always at Christmas.” My mom says this gently like she does most things. All of us were attached to Max and The Millicent, his cool nautical Art Deco home that we renovated for the first full season of Do Over. I wonder if they miss him as much as I do.

  “Yeah. I know. But I want Dustin to know who Max was and how much Max cared about him.” Max had already been teaching Dustin about comedy and timing. “And, I don’t know, I just thought it would be a cool thing to do.”

  “I’m in as long as I don’t have to eat potato pancakes,” Nikki says. “I’m still trying to get rid of the pounds I put on at the Giraldis’ Thanksgiving. I’m not used to celebrating all these food holidays.” Joe Giraldi’s the FBI agent who tried to use her to help track down her brother. How twisted is that? He’s completely hot for an older guy and she’s been living in Miami with him since we finished renovating The Millicent. They’ve got something going on; I just don’t know exactly what.

  “If I spend another holiday with the Giraldis, I’m going to end up on The Biggest Loser.”

  “How was it?” my mom asks.

  “It was good,” Nikki says. “If you like eating massive amounts of food and fending off questions about your intentions. As if I’m going to somehow hurt Joe when he’s the one who carries a gun and tries to catch bad guys.” Her cheeks are all pink, and I don’t think it’s from running.

  “Are we set?” My mother looks at the tree and then turns her steely-eyed mom gaze on Avery and Deirdre. They nod without looking at each other. “Good.” She hands out packages of tinsel and boxes of ornaments that I recognize from home. There are candy canes and long strings of popcorn just like we used to make when I was little. The box she hands me has the ornaments I made in kindergarten and elementary school.

  “Come here, Dustin.” She smiles and extends a box out toward my son. “These are yours.” His eyes light up and I watch her help him put them on the lowest branches; there’s a fire truck and a snowman and a palm tree that says Pass-a-Grille on it. My heart does a weird kind of thump when I realize that in
a few years he’ll be bringing ornaments home from school. My mom brings out a pitcher of eggnog and some glasses and Dustin’s refilled sippy cup of juice. Somebody, I think it’s Nicole, puts on some holiday music. It’s way too warm for a fire in the fireplace, but we go to town on the tree. After a few cups of the eggnog, even Avery and Deirdre are harmonizing to the Christmas carols.

  I can practically feel Bella Flora wrapping her arms around us, gathering us close, and telling us how much she’s going to miss us.

  Chapter Three

  “Come on,” my mom says after I’ve climbed the ladder and helped Dustin put the star at the very top of the tree. “It’s almost sunset. I hope you’ve all got a good thing in mind.” In the direst days of Bella Flora’s desperate renovation, Mom made everyone come up with one good thing that had happened that day. Believe me sometimes it wasn’t easy.

  The sun is weakening and everyone puts on jackets and sweaters and we head outside carrying our drinks and snacks. There’s a bowl of Avery’s Cheez Doodles; a plate of the little stuffed hot dogs and Bagel Bites that I like; some animal crackers for Dustin. Deirdre’s carrying a tray with caviar, crackers, and the fancy stuff that goes on them. She’s not a big believer in roughing it.

  “Seriously?” Avery rolls her eyes at her mother. If a snack doesn’t turn her fingers orange, Avery’s not interested.

  Nicole brings out a pitcher of frozen margaritas, which is not exactly the perfect chaser to eggnog. “Hey, I know it’s Christmas, but we are at the beach.” No one argues with this. We’ve done a ton of sunsets right here with Bella Flora hunkered down protectively around us and most of them have been fueled by a frozen drink of some kind.

  We settle in our chairs—the really nice wrought-iron ones that replaced the original folding beach chairs my mom bought at a yard sale—and set the food and drink on the little tables that go with them. Dustin plops down in the sandbox that Avery built for him and starts digging. It’s on the loggia, which means he can’t get past us to the pool. He likes to dig on the beach the best, but the temperature’s dropping with the sun and I’m still keeping an eye out for Nigel and the other photographers. If I’m lucky, they spotted a real celebrity or two at the airport and followed them.