Sunset Bridge (20 page)

The Statler house was in the most exclusive gated community in Palmetto Grove. At the gatehouse, Wanda gave her name to the guard, who waved her through immediately without even checking his clipboard. The waterfront Mediterranean-style home didn’t look as if it had fallen on hard times, although the former owner, Edward Statler, certainly had. One of the very banks he had tried to defraud had foreclosed on the house with both haste and relish. From what Wanda knew, the bank was now making whatever money it could by leasing it to high-ticket clients while loan officials scoured Florida to find somebody who could afford to own it. This made sense to her, since the two-story house spread out over the gargantuan lot and looked to be as large as most motels and a bunch fancier, to boot.

She sat behind the wheel of her six-year-old Japanese sedan and imagined what it would be like to actually belong here, maybe to be coming home from an exhausting afternoon of manicures, massages and martinis. She would have a Lilly Pulitzer shopping bag on the seat beside her…no, the store would have anything she bought delivered, of course. What was she thinking? Maybe a little blue box from Tiffany & Company. Something she could carry in her Gucci purse, a big one, like
the one she’d seen in a photo of Halle Berry. Even bigger, maybe.

Or she could just be little ol’ her, trotting inside to bake pies for her favorite movie star.

Wanda could feel herself grinning so wide, her back teeth felt a zing from the air conditioner.

She got out and crossed the marble courtyard, two well-washed canvas bags from some forensics seminar Ken had attended slung over her arms. While Zippy had promised she would have everything she could possibly need right here, she didn’t trust the man. She had her favorite pastry mat, crust shields and double-sided pastry cutter, and her new fancyschmancy silicone rolling pin. She still used her well-seasoned, tried-and-true maple one more often, but the silicone wasn’t half bad, either. She was superstitious about the maple one, though, because her mother had given it to her, and she never took it anywhere, just in case.

The door opened before she got to it, and a little bald man with huge red glasses and a tie hanging loosely over a white T-shirt leaped forward to hug her.

“You came! I told myself you would. Told myself and told myself, but—”

“Zippy,” she said, trying to wriggle free, “I presume?”

“Zippy, here,” he agreed, releasing her. “Let me get your bags. Let me get you a drink. Let me get down on my knees and kiss your pretty toenails.”

“Not necessary,” she said, leaving out the part where she would kick him in the nose if he dared try. “You get all the ingredients I told you to?”

“Double. Triple. I bought everything in the store that looked like it could be baked in a pie.”

“Well, that ought to be interesting. Got me those blackbirds I asked for, too?”

Zippy chortled. “I like you already. I’ll show you to the kitchen.”

“Been here before, so I know the way. Made pie for a party here back in the spring.”

“Weren’t they the lucky folks!” Zippy was practically chirping.

“Your boss at home?”

Zippy started toward the kitchen. Apparently the Statlers had moved out but their heavy dark furniture and elegant Oriental carpets had refused to go with them. The house was much as Wanda remembered it.

“Not yet, but he will be,” Zippy said. “And he’ll be in a much better mood if he finds you here. He was unhappy with me. But how was I to know the man’s completely addicted to pie in general and yours in particular? I mean, I had a pastry chef making cupcakes, all kinds of cupcakes. That’s all people are eating these—” He seemed to realize his mistake. “With the exception of your wonderful pies,” he went on smoothly after the hiccup. “And, of course, we only want the very best for this party. Everyone who’s anyone in this part of Florida will be here. But it won’t be o-
ver
-whelming. Just the cream of the crop, the best of the—”

“Got it,” Wanda said. “And ten pies will do?”

“It was too late to cancel the cupcakes, so yes, that will be perfect. We’ll put them in the front. Plate the slices beautifully. Guest list is seventy-five or so, and you know women. They’ll drool themselves silly, but they won’t eat dessert in public.”

Wanda’s head was beginning to throb. Any woman who
was afraid to be caught eating pie was a woman in need of a brain transplant.

The kitchen really was a stunner. She hadn’t blown the memory out of proportion. Stainless-steel appliances and dark cabinets lined the walls. A sun-dappled granite island the length of a canoe divided the kitchen, and over it, a skylight provided natural light, filtered gently through glass shelves that had held pots of herbs when the house was constantly occupied. Now the shelves were sparkling clean but empty.

“Nice, huh?” Zippy said, watching her face. “The best of everything, but I don’t think it’s been used very much. Does that seem fair to you?”

“Life’s just full of stuff like this,” Wanda said. “Bet they never used their swimming pool, either.”

“Derek certainly uses it. Bring your suit to the party. He’s determined to get people in the water. He’ll throw them in if he has to.”

She turned. “Me?”

“Didn’t I mention that?” Zippy looked stunned. He slapped his own cheek. “Tell me I told you Derek insists you come tonight. Insists! Please, please, tell me I told you that!”

She just stared at him. “Me?”

“I was so upset about the pies. I was so worried you’d say no.” Zippy looked as if he was about to burst into tears. “I can’t believe this. Tell me you’ll be there. Bring a friend, a lover, a husband, but come!”

“Me?”

“Who else?” The question was not Zippy’s. The voice was lower, warmer, less affected. Derek Forbes came into the room. “So Zippo managed to get you here. He can be persuasive when he remembers.” He glanced at Zippy, but not with rancor. “He’s excitable, aren’t you, Zip?”

“She’s here and she’s coming tonight, right?” Zippy’s expression was pleading as he stared at her.

“Sure. Of course,” Wanda said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Derek walked over and kissed her cheek. Then he rested his hands on her shoulders. “You really are priceless, you know? And now, let’s make pies.”

“Let’s, as in let us, as in you and me?”

“Why’d you think I wanted you to come
here
instead of making them at the shop? I need lessons. I need instruction. I need Wanda Gray.”

“You planning to get that shirt all covered with flour?”

“Want me to take it off?”

For a moment she couldn’t move or speak.

Then he laughed. “Zippo, find me an apron.”

“Good idea,” she said, having discovered her lungs still worked. “And wash your hands good. You and me are about to turn pie into an art form right here in God’s favorite kitchen, Mr. Forbes.”

“Deke,” he said. “Everyone I love calls me Deke.”

She smiled and felt that zing on her back teeth again. “You got it…Deke.”

J
anya hung up the telephone just as someone knocked at her door. Behind her, from the children’s bedroom, she heard the rhythmic thump of a tennis ball hitting the wall. The thumping had been nonstop for half an hour, and she hoped the arrival of company would convince Vijay to do something else. Nothing she had suggested had worked, and she sensed another tantrum in the offing if she took away the ball. Tantrums were frequent now, and increasingly hard to manage, and today she preferred the coward’s way out. Lily was happily working on a plastic bowl of diced fruit at the little play table Rishi had bought and installed for her in the corner, seemingly oblivious to the noise.

Wanda and Tracy were waiting on the doorstep and came right in as soon as the door swung open. Tracy was still in shorts and a loose top, but Wanda was wearing black capris and a matching linen shirt.

“She’s a basket case,” Tracy announced. “We’re here for a consultation.”

Since Wanda herself had called just minutes before, Janya knew the story. Wanda had been invited to Derek’s impromptu pool party, and since Ken was working late that night, Tracy had been tapped to go with her.

“I am to be the fashion consultant?” Janya asked.

“More like the critic,” Wanda said. “More like the one to tell Ms. Deloche that she can’t mess with my image and make me over.”

“No makeover in the works,” Tracy said. “We’re just going to fix your hair and makeup. The outfit works great, and I have some jewelry we can use to brighten it even more. Janya does, too. And maybe one of her gorgeous scarves? I remember something turquoise and silver.”

“When I invited you to be my date at the party, I didn’t know you were going to take the night so seriously!” Wanda said.

Janya knew Wanda well enough to realize this was all part of her act. In reality, Wanda was delighted Tracy and Janya were going to help her prepare.

“We’ll sit you down at the table and work on the hair a little,” Tracy said.

“My hairdresser’s on vacation. How could she do this to me?” Wanda frowned. “What is that god-awful noise? You got a woodpecker in a birdcage?”

“Vijay.”

“Where is he?” Wanda demanded.

Janya nodded to the bedroom.

Wanda pursed her lips, then she rummaged through a polka-dot handbag the size of Nebraska and pulled out a spiral notepad and three different pens. Without another word she marched into the bedroom. Janya watched from the doorway.

“Hello, Vijay. You stop that noise this minute, you hear?”

Vijay looked up, his eyes suspicious.

“I got a job for you,” Wanda said matter-of-factly. “I need a book to read tonight, and I don’t have time to go to the store and buy me one. So I want you to write one for me. Write about anything you want, you hear? Just make it interesting. You don’t know how to write, just draw me some pictures. Got it?” She picked up the tennis ball and walked out.

“Now, let’s get down to business,” she told the other women.

Janya waited in the doorway for a moment to see what Vijay would do. He threw himself facedown on the floor, and she waited for the tantrum to begin. Instead, he just lay there, inert, and after a moment she left him in hopes of his getting a little rest before the next assault.

“Things not going any better?” Tracy asked softly. She had Lily balanced on one hip and was feeding her a melon cube.

Janya shook her head. “His therapist says it will take much time. But it is so difficult just to get him into her office, I am not sure we do anyone a service by trying.”

Tracy handed her charge a grape. “Any news?”

Janya lowered her voice so Vijay couldn’t hear it. “The social worker just called. She says they have found one set of grandparents.”

“And?”

“She would say nothing else except that they are still searching for the second.”

“Have you spoken to an attorney?”

“Rishi has engaged one. She believes we have a case for keeping them. Rishi is an American citizen, and I soon will be. The children were born here, and the grandparents refused all contact.”

“But it’s not a slam dunk,” Tracy said, aptly reading between the lines.

“It will not be simple.”

“And that’s all this social worker said?” Wanda asked.

“I inquired if I could get into the Duttas’ apartment to collect the rest of the children’s toys and clothes. She said she believed that could be arranged, since the police have been and gone. The rent has been paid for another month. I think they will be most comfortable with as many familiar things around them as we can provide.”

“You take Maggie with you if you get in,” Wanda said. “She’ll want to see that apartment.”

Tracy handed Lily to Janya and motioned to the dining table. “Okay, let’s see what we can do to make you Hollywood gorgeous,” she told Wanda.

Wanda complained; Tracy ignored her; Janya ran interference. They did this so well and had so many months of practice behind them that the roles felt natural. Forty minutes later—and just sixty before the party was to begin—Tracy stepped back.

“I don’t wear my hair down,” Wanda said flatly. “Makes me look dumpy and old as a Studebaker.”

“What’s a Studebaker?” Tracy asked.

“I rest my case.”

“I spent the first decades of my life learning how to be gorgeous and snag a man. Look in the bathroom mirror first, before you show Vijay how to have a real tantrum.”

Janya and Tracy looked at each other as they waited for the shriek of indignation from the bathroom. Tracy had loosely pinned up part of Wanda’s hair, but she’d left the back down and curled a few wisps around her friend’s face. Gone was the trademark layered eye shadow, in its place two shades of a soft
gray, with Wanda’s eyes outlined in a warm brown. The lipstick Tracy had chosen was peachy and clear, and her friend’s cheeks glowed peach, as well.

“One, two, three…” Tracy counted slowly.

Janya smiled.

Wanda returned. “Well, it’s different.”

“Definitely,” Janya said. “And different is good for a party.”

“You like it,” Tracy said, nodding. “I can tell. You aren’t cursing.”

“I am a lady.”

“And you are a lovely lady at that,” Tracy said. “You deserve diamond earrings. We’ll go back to my house, and you can take your pick of all my jewelry. The feds left me a few nice things when they put CJ in prison. I’ll wear what you don’t.”

“I will get a scarf.” Janya returned with the one Tracy had remembered, and another that was black with a gold-filigree design laced through it and a long fringe with gold beads.

“You really think I could pull this off?” Wanda asked, running the filmy scarf along her wrist. “You’re the exotic type, not me.”

“In India,
you
would be exotic. Pretend you are in India tonight.”

Wanda gave her a quick hug. “Off to make a fool of myself. Come on, Ms. Deloche. We might as well try those diamonds.”

Janya was still smiling ten minutes later when Vijay came out of his bedroom. Lily was lying on her back on the floor, playing with a rag doll, and Vijay had to walk around her. He was clutching the notebook Wanda had given him and forgotten to take back with her.

Janya squatted so they were eye to eye, something the therapist had said might help bring him out of his shell. She had become accustomed to one-sided conversations with the little boy, who was silent most of the time, except when he was screaming.

“Miss Wanda went home. Did you write a book for her? We can take it to her house.”

Vijay held it out, which surprised her. She took it and nodded seriously. Then she paged through and found six pages filled with childish scribbles, but there were recognizable letters, as well.

“Why, Vijay, you write very well.” She nodded again. “Miss Wanda will be happy.”

“I want to write a real book.”

For a moment she was so surprised by an entire sentence that she didn’t know what to say. “Do you?” she asked after she recovered. “Do you need more paper?”

He shook his head angrily. She considered. “Do you need a little help?”

He nodded so hard she thought he might fall over.

“I can help if you wish,” she said. “It does not surprise me you are a writer, because your father was a wonderful writer himself.”

“Now,” he said fiercely.

“Of course.” She sat on the floor beside Lily and crossed her legs. “What shall I do?”

“You write. I will talk.”

“Good. We can get started.” She turned to a fresh sheet of paper and waited.

The little boy was silent for a long time. Janya began to wonder if he had changed his mind.

“Once there were very bad parents,” he said at last. “They ran away and left their children.”

Through a mist of tears, Janya carefully printed Vijay’s words.

Tracy remembered when parties like the one at the Statler mansion had been a normal part of her life. She knew how to dress, who to talk to, how much to drink and how little to eat. The last two rules were irrelevant tonight. She was drinking sparkling water and eating everything in sight. The food was fabulous—not the least of it Wanda’s pies—and the water kept her cool, since she was not about to get into the pond-size infinity pool where some of the other guests were splashing and playing.

Derek Forbes had greeted her warmly and laughed when she reminded him of the party back in California. Then he’d dragged Wanda off to meet his friends, and for almost two hours Tracy had wandered and chatted and nibbled until she was finally full.

Now she stood in the shadows of the house admiring the twinkling lights that adorned the shrubbery and palms, and the jazz quartet that was playing just loudly enough at the edge of the patio. She was growing tired, and she imagined Wanda was even more so. Adulation could be wearing.

“I thought I recognized you,” said a male voice.

She turned to find Blake Armstrong beside her. “You’re Marsh’s friend,” he said.

Since Maggie had mentioned their dates, she knew more about Blake than he probably knew about her. She doubted Marsh had mentioned her at all. She put on a smile, gratified that he remembered their brief encounter.

“Yes, Marsh’s friend,” she said, and wondered if that could be said now. “And wow, do you look different.”

He seemed surprised. “Do I?”

She touched her hair in emphasis. “You were pretty shaggy last time I saw you. Long hair. On your way to a full beard.” Blake had curly hair, which a lot of men cropped nearly to their scalps for easy management. But now his was beautifully cut and styled, and she told him so.

“The shaggy look wasn’t the one I needed for this job, that’s for sure. Just takes a good barber and a little bit of gel.” He rippled his hands over his head in demonstration.

“Maybe we could convince Marsh to give your guy a try.”

“I’m guessing Marsh might cut his hair for a big donation to Wild Florida, but not for any other reason.”

She was more or less partial to Marsh’s ponytail; in fact, at the moment, she was more partial to the ponytail than the man. She laughed at the suggestion, and they chatted about the party and the food.

“So how’s the bridge going?” she asked. “When do you break ground? Or is that even what they call it when you’re building in the water?”

“Works for me. There’s a lot to do in advance, so we won’t start construction until well after hurricane season ends. I’ll be more or less part of the scenery for some time to come.”

She wondered how Maggie felt about that. Her newest tenant walked a fine line between sharing her life and keeping the truly intimate parts to herself. Tracy liked Maggie and enjoyed their conversations, but she was always aware that Maggie kept secrets.

“Might be here even longer,” Blake said when she didn’t pick up the conversational gambit. “If one of those tropical
depressions brewing off the coast of Africa strengthens and turns this way.”

“Tropical storms?”

“Nothing to worry about now, but you don’t keep track?”

Tracy felt a little foolish. But she wasn’t going to list the topics that were uppermost in her mind these days, not to a friend of Marsh’s. “I confess I don’t,” she said. “I figure when the cops come knocking on my door to tell me to evacuate, I can pack anything of value and cross the bridge in fifteen minutes. The advantage of being poor.”

“I’m surprised Marsh doesn’t keep an eye out. Hurricanes wreak havoc on the things he holds most dear.”

The things Marsh held most dear. Alligators. Swamps. Barrier islands. “Pretty much anything that doesn’t shave its legs,” she said. “Ouch.”

“Forgive me. Marsh and I have our ups and downs.”

“The path of romance. Never easy.”

“Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Had a long-term relationship that went kaput right before I moved here. That’s what the scruffy look was all about. I did the human-vegetable thing for a while, just to recoup.”

“Did you? Recoup?”

“I now consider myself lucky to be rid of her.”

She wondered if she would ever feel that way about Marsh. Of course, she would have a lifelong walking, talking reminder of her failed love affair. Better make that “affair” and leave out the love.

“So how bad are these tropical depressions?” she asked, to change the subject.

“Not bad enough to be on everybody’s lips at the moment. I’m just a tad sensitive, since if any of them hit southwest
Florida very hard, we’ll have to make changes in our plans to accommodate any and all alterations in the landscape. Roads could get washed out and so forth. Lots to delay us.”

“I can see why you worry.”

“And I can see why Marsh is so crazy about you.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment. “Figure out what the problem is and fix it. The two of you are a nice fit.”

She smiled, despite every inclination to tell him to talk to his friend, not her, and watched him melt into the crowd to shake more hands.

Tracy was glad when Wanda found her a few minutes later, because her feet were beginning to hurt, and she was tired of talking to strangers. She’d been having an internal conversation in which the old Tracy tried to explain to the current Tracy why parties filled with chatting strangers were actually fun. Not having come up with a good reason, she was afraid she looked disgruntled, but Wanda was too elated to notice. She glowed, and not from anything Tracy had done with foundation and blush.