Christmas at the Beach (4 page)

“I think this is the same pink as your hard hat.” Chase nods at a silky thong and
waggles his eyebrows. “Thanks, Deirdre!”

“This was supposed to be
my
present,” Avery complains. “Not his.”

“It’s for both of you,” Deirdre replies. “But you don’t have to wear any of it if
you don’t want to.”

“Even better.” Chase grins. “Here.” He hands Avery a crudely wrapped box that clearly
doesn’t hold lingerie. “I’m going to picture you using my present while you’re wearing
one of Deirdre’s.”

We’re all watching now. Avery rips off the paper. Her face lights up as she pulls
out a shiny new drill and—be still my heart—a tape measure. Apparently it’s possible
to go through these items regularly.

“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.

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.