by Wendy Wax
There’s more laughter.
“I kind of like the sound of Droolius Caeser,” Jeff Hardin adds.
“Anybody else like Anderson Pooper?” This comes from Joe Giraldi Sr.
We’re really cracking ourselves up.
“Is there somebody you’d like to name him after?” I ask Dustin, thinking he might want to choose something that has to do with Christmas. I’m about to suggest Santa Paws when he looks at me and says, “Can I name him after Max Nemorah?”
“You want to name him Max Menorah?” I ask.
“Jes Max.” For the longest time Max came out as “Gax.” He stops and smiles an incredibly sweet smile. “I wanna name him Maaaax!”
There’s a bit of a silence as those of us who knew and loved Max Golden blink back tears.
“I think that’s a perfect name,” my mother finally says, reaching for and squeezing Dustin’s hand. “Absolutely perfect.”
With that she directs the clearing of the table and all that is to follow. “Let’s just carry things into the kitchen. We can have dessert outside once we refrigerate the leftovers. It’s way too gorgeous to stay inside a minute longer than necessary.”
* * *
• • •
Only Nigel and his cohort Bill are still skulking about as we move outside. If I had the slightest bit of sympathy for them, I’d offer a plate of food or a selection of desserts, but the warning about feeding strays goes double for paparazzi.
On chaises near the pool, Thomas and Andrew hang around Sydney like the Tarleton twins in the opening scenes of Gone With the Wind. She’s polite, even friendly, but she’s flirting on automatic pilot. I see her relief when they leave her alone to toss a football with the Hardins. There’s talk of a flag football game down on the beach to make room for dessert, but nobody actually moves. If I could doze in a portable car seat like the Giraldi twins are or go back to bed right now, I would.
I’ve just plopped down on a newly vacated chaise when my cell phone rings. I let it go to voicemail because my entire family and everyone I care about are here right now. Do call centers operate on Christmas Day?
My eyes are getting really heavy when it rings again.
“I think you might want to answer this.” My mother, who’s passing by with a plate of Christmas cookies, picks up my phone and hands it to me. “Caller ID says Deranian.”
I blow a bang out of my eye and wipe my free hand on the side of my jeans. Even with my mother watching I’m tempted not to answer. I’m still irritated at Daniel’s stunt last night. As cute as that puppy is, he shouldn’t have given it to Dustin without asking me. With Daniel it’s all about the drama, the grand gesture, without any thought about how the reality will play out for anyone else. I get up and carry the phone out to the seawall as I answer.
“It took you long enough.”
I almost trip over my feet when I realize it’s not Daniel, but his wife, Tonja Kay. “What do you want?”
I learned a long time ago that there’s no point in attempting to be friendly. Tonja’s never called for any reason other than to swear, threaten, or demand. I’m not in the mood for any of those things. I actually don’t know where in Orlando they’re spending the holiday. I’ve gone out of my way not to know. “I’m guessing you didn’t just call to wish me a Merry Christmas.”
“No.”
I say nothing. She’s the one who placed the call.
“I called to strongly encourage you to go ahead and officially commit Dustin to The Exchange.”
Once again I leave the ball in her court.
“We’ll make the experience comfortable for him. For both of you. You have my word on that.”
I remain silent. I know just how much her word is worth. She’ll go to the ends of the earth to make someone suffer for an insult or anything that smacks of betrayal, but make someone on her shit list feel good? I’m pretty sure that’s not in her wheelhouse.
“I assume you’ve considered how upset Dustin will be when he’s old enough to understand that you kept him from helping his father when he needed it most.”
Tonja’s mentioned this before. It’s the only argument that carries weight. She’s also made it clear that she’ll be the one who will explain my dastardly deed and monumental selfishness to my son.
“This is not the day to discuss this. Not that there’s anything to discuss, because I’m still thinking through my decision.” I watch the wake from a Jet Ski splash the jetty. A speedboat moves closer. My focus is on the sound of gnashing teeth on the other end of the line.
“The only things you should be thinking about right now are your friends and family.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. But everybody’s vulnerable, you know.”
I absorb the threat even as I turn my back to the speedboat now idling off the seawall. Better an unflattering butt shot than a frightened look that Tonja might one day see. Daniel’s wife is a predator. If she smells even a hint of fear she’ll come in for the kill.
“You really are a piece of work aren’t you?” I ask as if all I care about is getting back to dessert, which is currently being served on the loggia. “You don’t care who you hurt or what you have to do to get what you want.”
“I haven’t noticed you worrying too much about others,” she snaps. “Or you wouldn’t have wagered and lost the house Daniel bought for Dustin.”
I watch my brother fix a plate of dessert for Dustin and see Sydney pour him a cup of milk. Max wags his tail with excitement. I remind myself that this is real life playing out in front of me. The life she’s trying so hard to muck up.
“I’ve had enough of this, Tonja. I realize you don’t know me all that well, but the more you threaten me the harder it is for me to agree to anything,” I explain as calmly as I can. This is the truth. I’ve listened to my gut way more often than I should. But I have absolutely no talent for acting. If I end up on that set with Dustin, I won’t be able to simply suck it up and pretend that everything’s okay. What will that do to Dustin?
“I’m not threatening, I’m promising,” Tonja says in a saccharine-sweet voice that is far more frightening than her curses. “You blow off this film and you and everybody you care about will pay the price.”
We’re already paying the price. A week from today Dustin and I are moving into a tiny Sunshine cottage with my mother so that a complete stranger can move into Bella Flora. “We really don’t have anything left to discuss,” I say. “I’ll let Daniel know what I decide.”
“The answer better be yes. And it better be soon,” Tonja declares. “We need Dustin in Orlando on January fifteenth.”
I have nothing to say to this. I’m aware of their plans and their timetable. I just don’t want Dustin or me to be part of them. My stomach turns, and I know it’s not the Christmas dinner that’s to blame. I move toward Bella Flora in desperate need of the people who have spilled out of her. Everyone is scarfing up the desserts. Teams are forming for a game of flag football down on the beach. Captains Thomas and Andrew both try to draft Sydney.
Just before I disconnect the cursing begins. No one knows as many four-letter words as the angelic-faced Tonja Kay. No one. And I have the videotape of her shouting a lot of them to prove it.
Chapter Seven
Sydney, Thomas, and Andrew are in the salon watching football the next afternoon. My mother and Will have gone for a walk on the beach. I’m in the kitchen making a turkey sandwich for Dustin. My dad wanders in to get a beer, and I try once more to get information about Bella Flora’s mystery tenant.
I had a dream early this morning just before Dustin and Max appeared at the side of my bed, that it was Daniel and Tonja who’d rented it simply to force me out. A couple of Christmases ago when she found out before we did that Daniel had bought Bella Flora, she threatened to gut her and put an indoor lap
pool in the salon. She was not a happy camper when it turned out he’d bought it for Dustin and me. In my heart I believe that she’d drop a bomb on it if she could. Or take it apart brick by brick if she had the time. The only reason she mostly controlled herself on the phone yesterday is that she wants Dustin in the movie and has not yet achieved her goal.
“I’ll make you a sandwich if you just tell me that it’s not Tonja or Daniel?”
“I’d be glad to have the sandwich. But I actually don’t know the name of the tenant. The rental was set up through a company that’s owned by another company. I couldn’t find anything about either of them online.”
“Doesn’t that seem like a lot of trouble to go to unless you’re extremely wealthy or famous or both?”
“Well, anyone who could pay half a million up front and another quarter to exercise the second six month option has money. But it could be anybody who’s looking for privacy. A corporate raider. A Mafioso. A . . .” He shrugged. “We don’t know because they don’t want us to. But I think it’s safe to assume they aren’t going to be holding keg parties or tearing the place apart.”
“Why not? It could be some trust fund baby or something.” I pull out the ketchup and mayonnaise to make a Thousand Island dressing to smear on the bread.
“No offense to Bella Flora or the gorgeous ground she sits on,” my dad says, helping himself to a handful of chips. “But someone young with that kind of disposable income isn’t likely to choose this particular house in this particular location.”
It’s true that the population of St. Petersburg and St. Pete Beach, on which Pass-a-Grille sits, does tend to skew older than, say, the Panhandle or Daytona Beach or Key West. The standing joke is that if you leave a glass of water out someone will put their false teeth in it.
“You need to just accept this rental opportunity as the godsend it is. The money’s sitting in escrow and will be transferred into your account at 12:01 A.M. January second.” He pulls out a jar of pickles and a couple of paper plates. He’s gotten a little handier in the kitchen since he moved into a place of his own. “If you want to reassure yourself, you can stop by and say hello after they move in.”
This goes without saying. Wild horses couldn’t drag me out of town until I make sure there is not a homicidal maniac or destroyer of property living in our home.
“You know John and I will keep an eye on everything.” He puts down the half-eaten pickle. “Kyra, just do the film. Collect the rent. You’ll be ahead of the game.”
“Right.” This sounds so much easier than it is. In fact, everything in my life sounds a hundred times easier than it feels. Just go spend six weeks on location with Dustin, Daniel, Tonja Kay, and family. Then just come back and live in a nine-hundred-square-foot two-bedroom cottage with your mother, son, and a Great Dane puppy for what could be a whole year while some rich stranger occupies the home you are forced to rent out. Oh, and don’t forget to figure out how to salvage the career you thought you were building so that you can earn a living. I stop working on the sandwiches and try to slow the frantic beating of my heart. Because even if I somehow manage all that I’m still going to have to figure out what to say when Dustin gets old enough to ask why his “Dandiel” is married to someone else and has a whole other family.
I cringe at the whiny tone my thoughts have taken and am appalled at the panic that I feel. This is not the person I want to be, but it appears to be who I am. Move on. Grow up. The commands echo in my mind. As the reverberation begins to fade, I try to grasp how such simple goals could seem so impossible to achieve.
* * *
• • •
“Oh my God! I can’t believe this shit! There’s no way that defensive end wasn’t offside!”
I walk back into the salon a while later to see Sydney on her feet shouting at the television screen. Thomas and Andrew are on their feet, too. But they’re looking at Sydney with admiration and a fair amount of lust. Dustin’s eyes are glued to Sydney’s face. They are wide with shock. Even Max looks surprised. It’s not that I’ve never slipped and uttered a swear word, but it’s always followed by a quick apology and explanation of all the reasons we shouldn’t talk that way. You have to grab your teaching moments where you can. But Sydney is not apologizing or explaining. In fact, she looks like she’d like to charge the TV set and do the referee bodily damage.
“Maybe we need to step outside and cool off a bit.” I take hold of Sydney’s shoulders and aim her toward the French door.
“Me and Max wanna come, too!” Dustin and his shadow follow us out the door. Max makes it almost off the pool deck before he pees. I’m not sure whether to praise him for waiting until he was out of the house or pick him up and move him onto the grass so he knows where he’s supposed to do his business. Dustin is already in the sandbox by the time Max finishes.
Sydney paces the pool deck, apparently still worked up about the bad call. I try to imagine getting that upset about a football play, but I just can’t do it. I’ve already got too many things to worry about. Her phone rings. She answers gruffly then abruptly stops pacing.
As I watch, her face goes white. Her grip on the phone tightens. I see her take a deep breath, but she says nothing. I think maybe it’s Jake. Or someone calling to tell her something she doesn’t want to hear about Jake.
When she hangs up after not speaking a single word, she stares out over the water for a while before finally turning to me. Her face is pale. Her features are no longer animated.
“Was it Jake?”
She shakes her head.
“Are your parents okay?”
She nods. “As far as I know.”
“Who was it?”
She looks at me as if trying to decide whether to answer. Finally she says, “Tonja Kay.”
Now it’s my turn to stare. “Tonja Kay called you?”
She nods again.
“What did she want?”
I’m not sure how Sydney manages to get the words through her lips given how tightly clenched her jaw appears. Actually all of her looks tightly clenched.
“She called to let me know that she has friends at the production company that produces Murder 101. That she knows I’m not pulling the audience I used to. And that they really need to consider making some serious casting changes.”
She looks me right in the eye. “She told me that she knows someone who’d be way better in my part than I am. Someone who could take over if something happened to Cassie Everheart. You know, if they decided to write her—and me—out of the show.”
“But Cassie Everheart is the show,” I say. “And she has been from the beginning. You created her. You absolutely rock that part.”
“Yeah, well. She reminded me that characters get killed off all the time. Then she pointed out that one quick call from her could change the trajectory of my career completely. You know?”
I know all right. That’s exactly how I ended up off Halfway Home and out of the movie business. Tonja also threatened to take Do Over away from us, but in the end we managed to lose the show on our own. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”
“I wanted to tell her to shove her threats up her ass, but that show . . .” She swallows. “That show is all I have.”
We drop down on a chaise, our backs to the speedboat still idling off the seawall. I am appalled by how much I hate Tonja Kay at the moment and how neatly she’s boxed me in.
“She told me that if I convince you to bring Dustin to do the movie, she won’t feel like she needs to make that phone call.” She shakes her head. “But really I think the point is to remind you how much power she has and what she’s capable of.” She snorts inelegantly. “I’m just collateral damage. A lever she can pull that might get you to act.”
I can barely swallow for the lump of anger and fear clogging my throat. That lump is wrapped in guilt. Whatever I do, somebody will get hurt. But you aren’t sup
posed to give in to a terrorist’s demands, right? Because then they know that their reprehensible acts work.
I keep my back to the photographers. My hands fist on my thighs. It takes every shred of self-control I have left not to cry or telegraph just how furious I am. “I am so, so sorry, Syd. I just . . . I promise I’ll find a way to make things right.”
“You just do what’s right for you and Dustin,” Sydney says. “I’m a big girl and there are other parts. Other shows.” She gets up and walks slowly back into the house. She’s not the same woman who was yelling her lungs out over a football game.
The truth is, there aren’t unlimited roles floating around out there. Shows like Murder 101 don’t come along every day. And Tonja Kay has lots of pull in Hollywood and a vicious will to use it.
Chapter Eight
I drive Sydney to the airport the following morning, way too bummed to worry about disguises. The paparazzi know where we live, what we drive, and sometimes even where we’re thinking of going. They’re cunning in the way that wild animals are; in order to eat they must successfully stalk and fell their prey. They are the deer hunters in camouflage carrying powerful zoom lenses; we are Bambi.
We take the Howard Frankland Bridge over Tampa Bay, which is a bold vivid blue. The sky is filled with sunshine. My world is not. Threats I don’t want to bow to and decisions I don’t want to make are like dark clouds blocking the sun.
“You are not responsible for Tonja Kay’s behavior,” Sydney says as we take the airport exit. “You did not turn her into a bitch on wheels.”
“No.” I take a deep breath, but I can’t seem to draw enough air into my lungs. “But I did put you in her crosshairs. And I am really and truly sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” she tells me yet again when we arrive at Tampa International Airport. “We’re survivors. Both of us. So we’ll . . . survive.”
