Ten Beach Road (18 page)

Robby and several other of the subs who now streamed in and out of the house offered to help with the carpet, but Avery refused at almost the same instant Chase asked them to get back to the work they were being paid for. The two of them hadn’t spoken directly to each other since the last Vanna incident, but the amount of glaring and nonverbal communication between them was deafening.

Enrico and his helper tromped around overhead calling up and down to each other while a crew of six assembled and placed scaffolding around Bella Flora. Chase had set up a sawhorse and a pile of two-by-fours out on the pool deck and was cutting long strips of wood for new baseboards. The house was like some big patient told to open up and say “ahhhh.” One who’d been expecting a hygienist’s cleaning and ended up with double root canals.

Nicole had already heard more carpentry and construction noises over the past days than she’d expected, or wanted, to hear in a lifetime. Bottom line, it was well past lunchtime and Nicole wanted out. Without asking or discussing, Nicole ran upstairs to shower, put on her favorite vintage Dior sundress, and jumped in her car. In a word, she bailed.

Even though she knew she shouldn’t spend the money, she parked at the Don CeSar and walked through the lobby, breathing in the once-familiar scent of expensive beachside hotel, and exited through the back doors to the pool area, where she took a table overlooking the beach. It took her a few minutes of deep breathing and staring out over the bathing-suited crowd to regain her equilibrium. When the waiter appeared she ordered a glass of Chardonnay and a Nicoise salad. When the wine arrived she sipped it slowly, focusing on the sun glinting off the Gulf, the breeze riffling the palms, and the gentle touch of both on her skin. Soothed, she took her time enjoying her salad, then splurged on a small piece of key lime pie.

When she’d finished, she dabbed the napkin at the corners of her mouth, then reapplied her lipstick. In no hurry to return to “camp,” she ordered a last glass of Chardonnay. Knowing she’d stretched her budget and could soon be back on Cheez Doodles, she savored it. If she were filling out her tax form right now, she’d file the receipt under “mental health.”

When her phone rang she considered letting it go to voice mail; no news had begun to feel like good news, but there was always the small chance it might be business of some kind. When she saw her assistant, or rather her former assistant’s cell phone number on caller ID, she answered and raised the phone to her ear.

“Nicole?” Anita’s voice was hesitant when Nicole answered. “I wanted to say thanks for setting up that interview with the Date Doctor. It won’t be remotely the same as working for you, but she’s offered me a position.” There was a brief pause in which Nicole allowed herself to miss the young woman she’d trained to run her back office. She’d become a miracle of efficiency and had devoted herself to making Nicole’s life run smoothly. Lord knew Nicole could use a little “smooth” in her life right now.

“That’s great,” she said, meaning it. “She’s lucky to have you.”

“Listen, Nicole,” Anita said, her voice lowered. “I’m not sure where you are, but I wanted to let you know that I heard from the, um, FBI.” She paused as if to let this sink in. Nicole wished it were coming as a surprise.

“They wanted information about your bank deposits. They asked me if there had been any unusual deposits or more frequent transactions.” Anita paused. “I told them no. That you’d always been really diligent about your bookkeeping and that I was sure you’d show them your books if they wanted to see them.” Another pause. “I hope you’re doing okay.” It was a statement and a question.

“Thanks, Anita,” Nicole said. “I’m fine.” The lie tripped off her tongue automatically; if there was anything Nicole had learned over the years of reinventing herself, it was that perception could be far more important than reality. No one, not even those who seemed to be on your side, needed to see your vulnerability.

“Anything else I should know?” Nicole asked at the same moment she spotted Agent Giraldi crossing the pool deck and heading toward a nearby chaise. Nicole wasn’t the only woman who’d noticed him or watched as he spread a towel on the chaise and then pulled his T-shirt over his head in one smooth, unhurried move. In fact, there was what might have been a faint collective sigh as he rubbed lotion across his chest and over his abdomen.

“There was a strange email on your old AOL account, too.” Anita said. Nicole was listening but her gaze remained riveted on Agent Giraldi. Was parading around in front of her without his shirt a part of his surveillance, too, or just a byproduct of it?

“Does that mean anything to you, Nicole?”

“Hmmm?” She watched Giraldi settle onto the chaise, pillow the back of his head in his hands, and cross one ankle carelessly over the other. Despite the sunglasses, she could feel him watching her. He probably had a damned black belt in lip reading.

“I said there was a weird email on your old account,” Anita repeated. “All it said was,
Sing it, Gloria
.” Anita paused again. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Nicole turned so that the FBI agent’s only view was of her back, though she was painfully aware that if she said anything incriminating here he wouldn’t have to read her lips to know it. Anyone who’d ever read a mystery novel or watched television knew that cell phones were about as secure as Swiss cheese. Not that she was planning to say anything he would want to hear.

Still, the message was a bit of a shock. “That
is
weird,” she said in as casual a tone as she could muster, because to disavow the weirdness of such a message would, in fact, be completely weird. “When did that email come in?”

“Late last night,” Anita said. “About midnight.”

Which was when Nicole had been tossing and turning on her mattress in the echo-y house, trying not to hear the pitter-patter of little rodent feet in the attic above her; a noise she had, fortunately, not heard since her childhood and had hoped never to hear again.

“Hmm, I can’t imagine what that would mean,” she said, though of course she could. “Who did it come from?”

“I don’t know. I think it came from some kind of blind address. I wasn’t able to reply in any way.”

“Hmmm,” Nicole said one more time for good measure. “Well, it must be spam or something. I don’t even know anybody named Gloria—except for that woman we fixed up once with Terrence Sim.”

“I don’t know,” Anita said. “I just wanted to see if it meant anything to you or not.”

Nicole felt Agent Giraldi’s gaze on her back and was careful not to tense her shoulders or give any clue that anything of importance was being discussed. It was possible he had an advanced belt in body language, too. “Thanks, Anita. You can go ahead and delete it. I’m sure if it’s actually meant for me, whoever it is will make another attempt to get in touch.”

They said good-bye and, still striving for casual, Nicole took a last sip of wine and signaled her waiter for the bill. When she’d paid it she stood, and with a small nod at the sunbathing FBI agent, she walked past the pool and back through the Don, too busy thinking to even breathe in the heady scent.

Sing it, Gloria
was a definite reference to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” which had served as her and her younger brother’s personal anthem. It had been a promise of sorts that things would somehow work out.

As she left the hotel and walked across Gulf Boulevard toward her car, she tried to think what the point of the message was and if another would follow. The only thing she knew for sure was that after all the months of trying unsuccessfully to reach him, for some unknown reason Malcolm had finally tried to reach her.

When Madeline left for Tampa International Airport the next morning to pick up Kyra, Bella Flora was almost completely encased in scaffolding and footsteps thudded on the roof overhead. Four trucks, including Chase’s and Robby the plumber’s, were lined up along the front garden wall. The house bulged with people and reverberated with the noise they produced—in stark contrast to the gently swaying palms and the folks strolling the sidewalks and along the water’s edge.

It was a gorgeous weekday. The lush greens teemed with golfers and cars puttered in and out of the condo communities and strip malls that lined the Bayway. The population as a whole was significantly older, and unlike in Atlanta, no one seemed in a particular hurry to get wherever they were going. Madeline eased up on the gas pedal and resisted the urge to tailgate or rush around the large Cadillac in front of her. According to her GPS’s stated arrival, she had plenty of time to get there.

As she drove she thought about the dynamic at Bella Flora and tried to picture her daughter, make that her pregnant unmarried daughter, thrown into the mix. After a short wait in the Tampa airport’s cell phone lot, a far more civilized alternative to the constant circling required at Hartsfield-Jackson in Atlanta, she pulled up to the Delta arrivals to find Kyra already waiting. A suitcase and a collection of equipment bags sat at her feet.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it.” Kyra accepted Madeline’s hug but shrugged off her offer of help. “I’m used to carting equipment around.” Her skin was pale, and her long dark hair was pulled back in a barrette at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses.

Madeline climbed back into the driver’s seat while Kyra stashed the bags in the back. In a matter of minutes they were on the Howard Franklin Bridge and heading toward St. Petersburg.

“It’s pretty,” Kyra said as she gazed out the window to the water. Her tone, like her smile, was brittle.

“Are you all right?” Madeline asked, though it was obvious she wasn’t. “Are you still nauseous?”

Kyra turned to her then. “The morning sickness is pretty much gone, thank God. But I don’t feel any of that energy that the book says is supposed to kick in after the first trimester. And before you ask, the answer is no, I still haven’t heard from Daniel.” She swallowed and looked away again, out over the concrete balustrade of the bridge to the sparkling blue green water of Tampa Bay. “But I’m sure I will.”

Madeline would have liked to agree, but she had no idea what the celebrity’s feelings or intentions might be, or if he even had any. The things Nicole had said about his wife, Tonja Kay, did not bode well. Maybe Daniel Deranian’s publicist knew what he was talking about.

“I, um, haven’t mentioned your pregnancy to Avery or Nicole,” Madeline said. “And maybe it’s not a bad idea to keep Daniel’s name to yourself until you’ve had a chance to talk with him.”

Kyra’s hands stilled in her lap. Her face was ashen as she turned to look at Madeline. “You’re embarrassed, aren’t you? You don’t think I’ll ever hear from him.”

“No, Kyra, it’s not that. I just . . .”

“Well, I’m not ashamed of being pregnant,” Kyra said quietly. “And I’m definitely not ashamed that Daniel and I are in love.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “You’ll see,” she said, sounding like a desperate child. “I won’t say anything for now if that’s what you want, but you’ll see how important the baby and I are to him when he comes to get us.”

Madeline couldn’t think of a thing to say to this, so she remained silent. Not far from St. Petersburg’s downtown, they shared a bowl of black beans and rice and a pressed Cuban sandwich at a tiny Cuban restaurant. Without her sunglasses, Kyra’s eyes reflected an unhappiness that smote Madeline’s heart; the dark circles beneath them attested to her sleepless nights. The last bites of Cuban bread stuck in Madeline’s throat. She wished she could wave a magic wand that would produce her daughter’s hoped-for “happily ever after,” but the days when a word from her or a kiss on a skinned knee could make it all better were long gone.

The thrift store she’d found online was just a few blocks away and was filled with interesting accessories and old bits and pieces of furniture that Madeline imagined had been shed over the years as the elderly population continually downsized. In the housewares section she picked up a blender, pots and pans, a decent cast-iron skillet, and a set of utensils. Eight place settings of surprisingly fine china and silver along with an equal number of water glasses and wine goblets brought the total to just over fifty dollars.

In the furniture department, Madeline pulled out a full-sized futon in a bright floral print. “This would be a lot better for you than sharing my mattress, Ky. What do you think?”

Kyra pulled a face. “I think we should go to a real store. Don’t they have any here?”

“We can get a lot more here for a lot less,” Madeline said, waving to the sales clerk to carry the futon up front for them. “And that’s pretty important right now.”

On the way to the cash register they passed a display of old Halloween decorations. Madeline’s gaze was drawn to a life-sized Frankenstein with big blocky feet and the bolts sticking out of its neck. It hung from a tall shelf by its own frayed noose. Madeline headed right for it. “Here, help me pull this down.”

“I had no idea a stuffed Frankenstein could be so cheap,” Kyra said once they’d gotten it down and laid it across their cart. “Or that you’d become so . . . thrifty.”

Kyra’s tone made it clear this was not a compliment and Madeline realized that in her effort to give her children all she could, she’d done them a disservice. No life was without its bumps, and even in the best times, money wasn’t something that simply flowed from a faucet.

“I knew the thrift stores in the Atlanta area intimately when you were small and your father was trying to build clientele,” Madeline said. “I’d forgotten how satisfying it is to wring as much as possible out of each dollar. At this point, it may be my most valuable skill.”

Kyra made no comment.

They checked out and carried their purchases to the van, an employee following with the futon. “It makes me realize how much I’ve taken for granted. How much I didn’t teach you and Andrew.” She blew a stray bang out of her eyes. “I wish I’d known how much pressure your dad was under. I wish he’d told me what was going on. If he hadn’t felt like he was facing everything alone he might not have . . . reacted so badly.”