“No kidding.” Avery’s tone was dry.
“Hopefully they’ll just get tired of waiting and go away,” Chase said. “I don’t know, though. They’re pretty inventive. One of them put on work clothes and followed Umberto out back to the pool house—we’re going to stub out a bath and kitchen area and frame the interior rooms. We all thought he was another one of Enrico’s cousins until he whipped out his camera.”
Maddie carried a cup of coffee into the dining room. Through the back window, Avery could see Nikki and Joe Giraldi working on the last of the interior doors under the shade of the triple palm. Not for the first time, she wondered what was going on between them; they didn’t seem like lovers or even great friends, but there was something not at all casual between them.
“So.” Avery joined Chase and Deirdre in the center of the kitchen. “Deirdre says we’re discussing the kitchen renovation.”
Chase looked between Deirdre and Avery in surprise and it was clear Deirdre hadn’t warned him.
“Do you have a problem with that?” Avery asked.
“And if I did?” He snagged her gaze.
Deirdre stepped between them. “The kitchen is too important for egos to get in the way. I want to show you what I have in mind so that you can both sign off on it.”
She gave Chase an eyebrow.
“Fine.” His agreement was grudging.
Avery got the other eyebrow.
“Sure.” Avery shrugged. “Why not?”
“Good,” Deirdre said. “Because whoever did this to this house should be shot.”
Avery had to agree. The kitchen could have been a set on
That ’70s Show
with its speckled turquoise Formica countertops that coordinated with the boxy turquoise Frigidaire. The white twelve-by-twelve floor tiles were cracked and without character while the turquoise-and-white laminate cabinets screamed Florida almost as loudly as the white seashell knobs.
“Shot in front of a firing squad,” Avery added.
“Live on HGTV,” Chase said, shooting Avery a look. Avery shot one right back.
“Right,” Deirdre said, taking charge. “I’m glad we’re in agreement. Of course, the footprint of the kitchen has already been changed with the incorporation of the butler’s pantry. And I love the original built-in along that wall.” She waved an arm to encompass the space. “All we need to do is restore the kitchen’s harmony to the rest of the house.”
Avery and Chase nodded; they kept their gazes on Deirdre and off of each other.
“I think we should go for reclaimed wood countertops—I can get solid pieces of oak twenty-four inches wide that’ll look fabulous and tie the room to the rest of the house. The floor should be real Spanish tile and I’d do the backsplash in hand-painted reclaimed tiles. I’ve got a great salvage person over on the East Coast.”
“And the cabinets?” Avery asked, not wanting to be impressed.
Deirdre did a three-sixty, taking in the space in one final glance, though Avery suspected she’d been measuring and thinking about the kitchen since the day she’d arrived.
“I think soft green glass-fronted cabinets would be spectacular in here.”
Chase nodded. “Sounds good.”
It would, of course, be far more than good. It would be fabulous. “Would you put in a stainless-steel sink?” Avery asked casually.
“Absolutely.” If Deirdre had been hoping for praise, she didn’t show it, continuing with complete assurance. “Of course, we’ll want top-of-the-line appliances. There’s room for a Sub-Zero refrigerator with matching cabinetry. And I’d put a freestanding Aga stove over there.” Deirdre pointed to the spot. “And we’ll put in some spectacular period lighting, something iron I think, over a Biedermeier table and chairs.”
Avery, who could see it all, realized she was nodding far too happily and stopped so abruptly she nearly gave herself whiplash.
“What do you think?” Dierdre asked.
“It sounds . . .” Avery paused, searching for the right word. “Fine.” She threw in a casual shrug for good measure.
Deirdre’s eyebrow went sky high. Chase gave her a knowing smirk; he read her far too well. But Avery didn’t care. It would be a cold day in hell before Avery handed Deirdre a compliment no matter how well deserved.
“We need to go ahead and start the kitchen and pool house,” Deirdre said. “But I’ve been thinking I might pitch the house to the designer and symphony guilds. I don’t know when they do their primary show house here, but maybe they’d be open to an additional fund-raiser.”
Avery felt a real stirring of excitement. Turning Bella Flora into a designer show house would be a great way to get the house furnished and decorated for almost nothing. It would also give John Franklin a whole lot of additional marketing opportunities.
“That’s a great idea!” Chase broke into a smile. He nodded with complete abandon. “That would be huge!”
Avery’s smile was considerably smaller and her nod briefer; she imagined a letter “H” for hypocrite scrawled across her forehead. If anyone but Deirdre had proposed the idea, Avery would have been bobbleheading, too.
Nicole swiped at her forehead with the back of her arm and stuck her cell phone back in her shorts pocket. If they hadn’t had a camera-toting audience she would have lifted her sweat-soaked cable company T-shirt and mopped her face.
“Well?” Avery asked. “What do you think?”
“I left him a message. His secretary said he’d be back in later today. I’ll do my best to convince him.” “Him” was Tim White, a former New York client who owned a company that installed and repaired steam heating systems. Something that didn’t seem to exist in Florida.
“Great. Thanks.” Avery handed her a glass of iced tea and watched as Nicole drained it, then held the empty glass to her neck and cheek. Maybe the
National Enquirer
would like to run a shot of a former dating guru reduced to refinishing doors in ninety-five-degree heat with one hundred percent humidity. “We can’t really take care of the pool until we have these steam heat pipes taken care of; they run awfully close to each other.”
“I’d give everything I own and then some if that pool actually had water in it right now,” Nicole said. She was so ready to take the Nestea plunge.
“Where’s Giraldi?” Avery asked.
“He went down to the beach for a swim.”
“Smart guy. And now’s the time. In another few weeks it’ll feel like bath water.”
Giraldi came up the beach path still wet from his swim, his dark hair slicked back, water sluicing down his beautiful chest and muscled legs.
“Wow,” Avery said, waving to him before she went back to whatever she’d been doing in the pool house.
Wow was right, Nicole thought. Even compared to the social and Hollywood elite she’d dealt with over the years, Giraldi was a standout. Too bad he was only here for Malcolm. And to expose her if necessary.
“Come over here and drip on me a little,” she directed.
He obliged, not only dripping but shaking himself off like a dog.
“Ahhhh.” The droplets were cool, her skin so hot she thought she heard a slight sizzle. She smiled. Maybe if she got someone from Tim’s company down here she should get them to check out her personal thermostat. It seemed to run a little too hot whenever the FBI agent was near. “That feels good.”
“There’s a whole Gulf full of it right over there.” He motioned past the gauntlet of photographers.
Staring at them staring at her, she felt like an animal on exhibit at the zoo.
“I like salt with my margaritas,” she said. “Not in my bodies of water.”
He smiled and one of the paps aimed a camera their way. “Hey, Nicole! Who’s your friend?” he shouted.
For a fraction of a second she considered telling him who Giraldi was and why he was there. So that if Malcolm was watching he’d know to keep his distance. Except, of course, that that would expose her to far worse than just the anger of her partners.
Giraldi shot her a look. “Those people are disgusting. They’ve already gotten shots of Kyra, and the story about her and Deranian is out. I don’t know what the hell they’re still hanging around for. But they’re screwing up my surveillance.”
It seemed being thwarted didn’t agree with Giraldi. She knew exactly how he felt.
“Everybody here except you and Madeline are ‘names’ of some kind,” she said. “And I guess Maddie is the mother of a ‘name.’ I don’t think they’re going anywhere until people get tired of the story. Or Daniel Deranian actually shows up.”
“Do you think that could happen?” He didn’t sound at all happy about the prospect.
“I don’t know,” Nikki said. “My experience tells me no. But Kyra seems pretty convinced.”
Giraldi shook his head, but no water sprayed her way. In the few minutes they’d been talking all signs of his swim had evaporated. “Bottom line,” he said. “I need them out of here. If they don’t lose interest on their own, I’ll have to help them along. There’s no way in hell your brother’s going to try to make contact with you with this crowd around.”
They went back to work, Nikki hot and sticky with sweat, her hands slippery on the brush, Giraldi bare-chested and sure-handed. He couldn’t have been more certain or determined. And as it turned out, he couldn’t have been more wrong.
That night’s YouTube posting was titled “Paparazzi in Paradise.” The video, which Kyra had shot almost entirely inside Bella Flora looking out, was cut to the Jimmy Buffett song “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”
There were the usual shots of the crew working on the house: Nicole and Joe side by side beneath the reclinada, stopping only long enough to study one another or to argue. Avery and Chase in the kitchen alternately glaring at each other and getting the eyebrow from Deirdre.
Umberto’s putty knife caressing Bella Flora’s thickly textured walls as he repaired them, Robby cutting an imaginary ribbon to the master bathroom, Maddie stoically working her way through crystal after crystal—the dunk in the ammonia and water bowl, the scrubbing, the bathing in clear water, the hand drying. The light fixture itself hung denuded of its crystals, the strength behind the shimmer. Like a peek into the secret mechanical tunnels at Disney World.
Each of the work shots was intercut with a shot of their personal paparazzi. The fat ones, the tall ones, the land and the sea ones. Each and every one of them had multiple cameras laced around his neck. Each and every one watched and waited. Occasionally one of them shouted in hope that something, anything, would finally happen.
When she viewed it, Nicole gave it only two stars, not at all happy with being caught staring at Giraldi’s bare chest. Avery would have given it three except that she said she had a feeling she looked like Miss Piggy, what with the fists on her hips and the way she had to stare up at Chase when they argued.
Deirdre professed to love it. But then she was in full makeup, with her hair in place, and hadn’t been caught on camera staring at anyone.
Twenty-eight
It was the Fourth of July and so far no one had cleaned, sanded, or stained a single square inch of Bella Flora. They’d slept in, dunked day-old doughnuts in freshly brewed coffee for breakfast, and then spent most of the day lounging around the house like ladies of leisure.
Outside the heat was furnace-like; the humidity clinging to the air made it thick enough to choke on. Bella Flora’s castle-like walls and newly juiced air conditioners kept the engine buzz of boat traffic muted and almost made Maddie feel sorry for the paparazzi still stationed outside.
In the early afternoon Deirdre left for a cookout hosted by the president of the designers guild, whom she was courting. The rest of them made sandwiches. Now Kyra was planted on the couch with her already dog-eared copy of
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
. Her video camera sat on the floor within reach.
Maddie picked up her phone and tried to reach Steve and Andrew again, but for the second time that day she got no answer. She could hear the click of fingers flying over a keyboard in the kitchen, where Nikki sat at the table searching the Internet for . . . something. For the last thirty minutes, Avery had been wandering Bella Flora with a legal pad in one hand and a pen in the other.
Kyra laid the book open on her rounding stomach. “Who do you keep calling?”
“Dad and Andrew.”
“And?”
“No answer.”
“Is there ever?” Kyra asked.
Maddie sighed. She’d been getting a text or two a week from Steve since she’d issued her ultimatum, but they were completely impersonal and maddeningly inconclusive:
The weather’s good. The magnolia tree’s blooming
, or
Andrew met the contractor at Mother’s yesterday
. She wasn’t sure why he bothered and at the same time reread each one over and over, looking for some sign of hope or hidden meaning.
“Do you think the fact that they’re not answering could be a good thing? You know, maybe they’re out at your grandmother’s, working on the house,” Maddie couldn’t help adding.
Kyra gave her the “you’re dumber than dirt” look.
“Or at the neighborhood pool.”
Another look.
“You know . . . swimming.”
This earned Maddie an eye roll.
Nicole wandered into the room on the tail end of their conversation. “Swimming would be good. Maybe we should go down to the Don and take a dip in the pool, have a drink, and pretend we really are on vacation.”
“That’s a great idea,” Maddie said. “We could invite the photo crew to come with us so that they can get some good action shots when we’re thrown out of the pool for not being guests.”
“Well then, maybe we should be guests,” Nicole replied. “We could chip in on a room and take turns napping on a mattress that’s not lying on the floor. Then we could spend the whole day by the pool.”
“It’s a holiday weekend. I seriously doubt they have any rooms available,” Maddie said. “And if I got ahold of a real bed I don’t think I could make myself share it.”