A Ten Beach Road Christmas

by Wendy Wax

  “I love them!” Avery exclaims. “My old ones are on their last legs.”

  “Your turn.” Avery hands him a box.

  Chase makes quick work of the wrapping paper. He holds up what looks like some ancient instrument of torture.

  “What is it?” Nicole asks as we all stare at the U-shaped piece of wood with a knob at one end and a squared pointy thing on the other.

  “It’s an antique brass-plated brace,” Chase’s father, Jeff, says. “It looks English.”

  “It’s gorgeous.” Chase runs a hand over the worn wood, turns it gently in his hands. “I’ve been lusting after one of these for years.”

  They’re handling their tools intimately and staring into each other’s eyes. Chase leans down and whispers something in her ear and she blushes. I’m surprised nobody tells them to “get a room.”

  “How incredibly romantic,” Deirdre says drily. “You are clearly and irrevocably your father’s daughter.”

  “The last time I got that excited about a gift, it had four wheels and a convertible top,” Nikki says. I wonder if she’s referring to her classic Jag.

  There’s a flash of light on camera lens and I see Troy framing a shot of my mother, who’s handing a fresh mimosa to Deirdre. Troy turns smoothly, panning the camera across the room to my dad, who’s just kind of staring into the fire. My parents have been through some really rough times in the last year and a half; neither of them behaved in quite the way I expected—my dad fell apart, and my mom was a rock—but they’re an inspiration. Not that I have any real options or anything, but I’m not planning to marry anyone who’s not in it for the long haul.

  My mom and Nicole and Deirdre head to the kitchen. After asking Avery to keep an eye out for Dustin, I join them. I love the kitchen, with its reclaimed wood and tile and its glass-fronted cabinets. Deirdre can be a bit much at times, but she’s one hell of a designer. Bella Flora and The Millicent down in Miami wouldn’t be anywhere near as spectacular without her input, and she can talk anyone except Avery into pretty much anything. The furnishings and artwork that fill Bella Flora now are on loan for staging purposes. The mystery owner bought it all, which is a win-win for the design firms and stores who installed everything. And it says something about the buyer, though I’m not sure if it says he’s lazy but has good taste or just has more money than he or she knows what to do with.

  “Oh, good. Will you help set the table?” My mother gives me a hug and a smile, and I see that she’s brought a tablecloth and her good silver from home. Nicole, Deirdre, and I cart everything into the dining room and start laying it all out while my mother bastes the turkey and pops the sweet potato soufflé into the oven. It looks like a total repeat of Thanksgiving, which was also Dustin’s birthday, and I wonder if she just made double then and had everything waiting in the freezer. That’s so Maddie: the perfect homemaker and mother. I don’t have a Martha Stewart thought or bone in my body. No home, no matter how spectacular, is as exciting to me as a film set. Even though none of my film and television experiences have turned out remotely the way I hoped.

  Chapter Six

  Our Realtor, John Franklin, and his wife arrive at 11:30, and we sit down to Christmas “dinner” at noon. John Franklin is somewhere in his eighties with a ruff of white hair and a long face dominated by the droopy brown eyes of a basset hound. He’s lived on St. Pete Beach since God was a boy and is full of information about Pass-a-Grille, which began as a small fishing village, and Bella Flora, which was built in 1928, when he was a boy.

  All of us except my father adore him, but even we are surprised that he found a buyer for Bella Flora. And that that buyer paid almost full asking price. His wife, Renée, is younger and more robust than John, but they sit close to each other and lean even closer. It’s possible that this is more about maintaining balance than affection—John does use a cane—but it’s hard to miss the fact that they gaze adoringly at each other. My parents do not.

  “The replica playhouse is beautifully done,” John says when he’s cleaned his plate. “Maybe we should have left it out front with a matching sold sign outside.”

  This is too depressing to contemplate.

  “I can’t even let myself think about how much it cost,” Chase says. “I probably could have built a real house from scratch for that. Or renovated another Bella Flora.”

  Except there is no other Bella Flora, and all of us know it. Bella Flora brought us all together and she’s practically a member of the family.

  “It’s a waste of money, if you ask me,” my dad says. “I guess when you have that much you don’t even give it a thought.”

  I can’t meet his eyes. Ever since he lost everything to Malcolm Dyer, he seems to have a major issue with anyone who’s managed to hold on to their money.

  The cut glass chandelier throws shards of light glinting off the silver and spotlights the acres of food my mother has prepared. Despite the fact that we have thirteen and a half people chowing down, three of whom are teenage boys, it could take hours of eating to even make a dent. My mother’s in her glory. Dustin’s already rubbing his eyes and is in major need of a nap. I’m reaching for a third homemade biscuit when my phone rings.

  The name Deranian appears on the screen. Even now, after Daniel’s proved himself untrustworthy and somewhat lacking in moral fiber, the sight of his name on my caller ID creates this embarrassing rush of excitement, which I try to hide. He’s probably calling to wish Dustin a Merry Christmas. Or to make sure his present got here. I’m definitely going to give him some shit about his extravagance, but the truth is I like that he wants to do nice things for our child. He’s a hard man to say no to, even from a distance. It can be even harder to separate the roles he plays on-screen from his behavior in real life.

  I leave the dining room so that I can talk to him in private, but it’s not Daniel on the other end.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tonja Kay’s voice is cold and hard.

  It’s almost impossible to reconcile the actress’s angelic face and silky on-screen voice with the way she swears like a truck driver in real life. Fuck is her go-to adjective, adverb, and noun. My mother has lectured her on this, and I have to think her publicity people must spend a ton of time and money trying to keep her limited—and ugly—vocabulary out of the tabloids, but she really doesn’t give a shit. The fact that she talks this way around her children is horrifying. The fact that Troy got video of her doing it with a vengeance in front of mine is the only thing that prevents her from taking Dustin—and Do Over—away from me.

  I want to hang up, but Tonja Kay is a foul-mouthed force of nature. Like a tornado or a hurricane, she sucks you in against your will. If she knocks you down she’ll roll right over you.

  I walk out onto the loggia, where I breathe deeply and try to calm myself with the view of sky and water. It’s a gorgeous, un-Christmas-like day, the kind that belongs on a postcard with the words Wish You Were Here scrawled across the bottom.

  “I don’t know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing buying that fucking house!” Tonja Kay shouts.

  My eyes move to the replica of Bella Flora. Of course, she just hates that Daniel sent his son anything this extravagant. Her children are all adopted from troubled third-world countries, and Daniel’s other biological children—he isn’t exactly a poster boy for marriage or monogamy—are girls. The fact that Dustin is Daniel’s only biological son drives her absolutely insane.

  A boat slows in the pass and I see the glint of a telephoto lens. I turn my back as she says, “I mean, he has a fucking lot of fucking nerve!”

  I sigh and wish I could hand off the phone, but I can’t go running to my mother or anyone else to fight my battles for me. And, frankly, it’s hard to take this conversation seriously, because although the playhouse might have been outrageously expensive, Daniel Deranian and Tonja Kay earn more millions per picture than I can count. I
don’t think the playhouse is going to bankrupt either of them.

  Tonja Kay—I can never think of her by only one name—rants on. It’s hard to tune out when there’s that much bad language, which I guess is her goal. I see more lenses glinting—the paparazzi have gotten into position in hopes that one of us will be stupid enough to come outside. For just a second I consider putting Tonja Kay on speakerphone and inviting them closer, but I’m saving Troy’s video for emergency purposes. And besides, today is Christmas.

  She’s just finished calling Daniel some nasty names I don’t even know the meaning of. I hear the word cunt and know she means me. I’ve definitely had enough. “Listen, it’s been great talking with you and all,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can squeeze in, “but it is a holiday and I have to go now.”

  I’m about to hang up when she shrieks, “I don’t even want your piece-of-crap house. Who names a house Bella fucking Flora?”

  “What?” I ask. A shiver runs down my spine despite the sunny seventy-five degrees when I register what she said. “What did you say?”

  “I said, I don’t know why the fuck Daniel bought that stupid fucking house without telling me.”

  Another stream of curses fly from her mouth, but I barely notice.

  Daniel is the mystery buyer? Daniel has bought Bella Flora for his family?

  I pace the loggia, my eyes shut to the beautiful day. I hear boat motors and the whine of a WaveRunner. Someone’s shouting for me to “Look this way” and asking, “What’s your mom serving for Christmas dinner?” but it’s just noise.

  The biscuits turn to rocks in my stomach.

  “Aren’t you going to fucking say anything?” Tonja Kay demands.

  I can barely think, let alone speak, so I just keep pacing, even though I’m going to look like a crazy woman in the tabloids. Please, God. Not them in Bella Flora. Let it be anyone but them.

  I look in horror now at the playhouse. Did Daniel send it as some sort of sick joke?

  My silence has given Tonja Kay time to cool down. A taunting tone steals into her voice. “Of course, now that I think about it, since we own it, I can bring my contractor and designer in to fix whatever you’ve done to it.” I don’t respond—I can’t—so she continues. “I saw this great indoor pool on Million-Dollar Rooms.”

  I hang up while she’s cackling in my ear about how many walls they’ll have to rip out to fit in the pool. I stare out over the pass, trying not to picture Tonja Kay and her brood and the governesses—one for each child—swimming in what is currently the salon and tramping all over the house that we brought back to life and that did the same for us.

  I have this ridiculous image of Avery chaining herself to the front door and the rest of us lying down across Beach Road, blocking the driveway and the front steps to keep them from entering Bella Flora. But there aren’t enough of us. And we’ve already closed. I don’t think you’re allowed to change your mind once that’s happened and money has changed hands. And it’s not as if anyone has enough money to give it back even if we could.

  Finally I go back inside. But I can’t bring myself to tell anyone that Daniel has bought Bella Flora. Not today; not on Christmas. I sit and stare at the slice of apple pie that someone’s put on my plate. When I feel everyone looking at me, I force myself to take a bite. It tastes bitter on my tongue and in my mouth. It tastes like disappointment. And regret.

  I ignore my mother’s concerned looks and the questions in her eyes while we clear the table and load the dishwasher. The guys are out on the beach throwing a football around—how do they get away with that? Everyone’s looking at me by the time we finish in the kitchen, but I scoop up Dustin and announce that we’re going upstairs to take a nap. No one argues with this. Around here Dustin’s naptime is almost as sacred as our sunset toasts.

  Upstairs I lie on the bed staring up into the ceiling. Beside me Dustin’s breathing grows regular and his thumb finds its way into his mouth. I wish I could suck my thumb or twirl my hair like I did when I was his age, but I’m a grown woman now and those comforts are no longer available. Counting sheep and trying to regulate my breathing as if I’m in a yoga class are a bust. So I just lie there with my thoughts flittering wherever they choose. I think about trying to reach Daniel to ask him why he bought Bella Flora, but it doesn’t really matter why. And the only time he really listens to me is when he thinks he has a shot at getting me back into bed.

  I must fall asleep at some point, because I wake to Dustin’s chubby fingers cupping my chin and his face pressed to mine. I open my eyes to stare into his. “Beeeech.” He says this expectantly. “Castle?”

  I look out the window and see that it’s late afternoon, which means we’ve been asleep for a couple of hours. Sunset can’t be far off.

  “Okay.” I throw off the covers, splash water on my face in the bathroom, change Dustin’s diaper, and carry him down the back stairs. The kitchen is empty, and I fill a sippy cup with juice and pour some Goldfish crackers into a Ziploc snack bag. I hear what sounds like my father’s voice in the salon. He pauses occasionally and I don’t hear anyone respond, so I guess he must be on the phone.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Suddenly Troy is in the kitchen doorway, video camera on his shoulder. When he reaches us, he gives Dustin a high five with his free hand. Dustin’s face breaks into a smile. Even down in Miami, when I hated Troy and he disapproved of me, he and Dustin had a mutual admiration thing going. Still, he’s shooting for the network, and his assignment does not include making us look good.

  “Nothing. Where is everybody?”

  “The guys took a break from bowl games to go out on the beach. Your mom and the others are out on the pool deck, waiting for sunset.”

  “Beeeeech,” Dustin says, reaching toward Troy. It’s a money shot, I know, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “I can take him out on the beach to hang with the guys,” Troy says.

  Our sunset is a network camera–free event. I’m the only one allowed to shoot them. Usually there are no males, except Dustin, allowed. I only hesitate for a minute. Chase and my brother will help keep an eye out, and I know Troy will shield Dustin as much as possible from the paparazzi if only to protect the network’s interests. “Okay. But don’t let him eat sand. Or drink the salt water. Or . . .”

  “I’ve got it under control.” Dustin reaches for him again, and I let Troy tuck him into the crook of his free arm. Which has the added advantage of making it almost impossible for him to get a good shot of my son. “We’ll be up after the sun goes down. I’ve got to get footage of you opening the envelope with the next Do Over location.”

  Of course he does. I say nothing, but it’s yet another unwelcome reminder that I have almost zero control over the show I created.

  When they’re gone I putter for a little bit, trying to push back the image of Tonja Kay in this kitchen or presiding over cocktails in the Casbah Lounge. Or worse, ripping them both out in order to wedge a pool in their place. I breathe deeply for a while, trying to steady and slow my thoughts, but it doesn’t work any better while I’m vertical than it did while I was trying to nap. There’s no point in getting worked up about Daniel owning Bella Flora. We’d be leaving her behind, no matter who bought her. And there’s always the chance that Dustin will get to spend some time here with his father.

  I drink a Coke and pick at some leftovers until I feel ready to go outside and come up with ‘one good thing.’ I hang my video camera over my shoulder. As I leave the kitchen I realize my father’s still on the phone. His voice is pitched low, but I catch a few words and phrases.

  “I know,” he says. “But I’ll be back soon, and we can celebrate then.” He chuckles, which is so not a Steve Singer sound that I stop dead in my tracks. When I look through the French doors, he’s got this kind of goofy smile on his face and I realize that it’s affection I hear in his voice.

  “
I’ve missed you. But I’ll be back in Atlanta soon,” he practically coos. It’s then that I know for sure that he’s talking to a woman. And that woman is most definitely not my mother.

  Chapter Seven

  I’m still standing in the hall outside the salon when he gets off the phone. I tell myself not to say anything. That this is not my business. That I should just erase what I heard from my memory banks and go outside to toast the sunset. But I’m a cameraperson, not an actor. And this is my father, not some stranger. The next thing I know I’m in the salon and moving toward my dad. Who’s got a perfect view of my mom and the others gathered near the pool with drinks in their hands. So that she couldn’t possibly overhear him or catch him unaware. The shit!

  He sees me and smiles, but I see guilt stamped across his face. Too bad they don’t have big red letter As for men. At the moment I’d be glad to nail it to his forehead.

  “Hi, kitten. Did you have a good nap?”

  I don’t trust myself to speak. I nod, my eyes pinned to his face while I try to think of any other explanation for what I’ve overheard than the obvious one.

  “Is everything all right?” His brow is furrowed as if with concern. But I don’t trust any of his expressions now. He fell apart when he lost all our money and his job, and my mother was forced to step up and try to put our lives back together. And this is how he repays her? By screwing around with someone else?

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Is it?” I glance through the floor-to-ceiling windows and see my mother laugh.

  He shrugs. “It’s Christmas, and pretty soon it’ll be a brand-new year. There’s nothing like the prospect of a fresh start.”

  He looks so smug and happy that I want to gag. I am gagging on all the things I want to say. I feel like I did when I was five and the boy next door told me there was no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny.