“Floyd, what’s up with my credit cards?” Marcie’s strident voice accosted the beleaguered lawyer. He lowered his newspaper to eye his wife. “I was at the Twig, yesterday, buying swimsuits for our cruise, and my American Express was declined. I was so humiliated. I had to pay cash, and now I’m broke.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“Sorry? I have an image to keep up. And so do you. We can’t have that kind of thing happening around Vero. No one will trust you.”
“Don’t worry, babe.” Floyd dug through his wallet and withdrew a wad of bills. “Here, take this and go buy what you need. I’ll handle the American Express.”
Marcie snatched up the greenbacks, seemingly mollified. “Thanks, sweetie.” She kissed the air and then spooned a dollop of yogurt into her craw. “Do you want me to pack for you? I can’t believe we’re leaving the day after tomorrow. You’re still good to go, right?”
“Absolutely.” Floyd didn’t finish his fruit. His stomach was giving him fits.
Probably ulcers. What else is new?
He drained his coffee mug and pushed away from the breakfast table. “Gotta go,” he said. “I have an early appointment with Sally Bray.”
“Okay, honey.” Marcie didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle. “Tonight’s Riverside Theatre, and The Producers. Remember? We’re meeting the Sweeney’s at Quail Valley for a pre-show dinner at six.”
Floyd’s stomach flip-flopped. After what would surely be a trying day of deception, a night of more subterfuge loomed before him. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to his den, slug back a couple of bourbons, and lose himself in some mindless sitcom. But he said, “Great,” infusing his voice with an enthusiasm he did not feel. What he felt like was a rat on a treadmill, running and running and going nowhere. But he had no choice, had to keep going through the motions in hopes that no one would catch on until it was too late.
It was an old photograph taken with a Kodak Instamatic, and the blacks and whites had morphed into strange shades of pink and gray. Still, the image captivated her. They were all together in another, happier, life—John, so robust and good-looking, the kids, John Junior, Toby, Andrea, and a much younger version of herself—smiling hugely at the camera.
Margaret stared at the photograph and tried to gain a purchase into the psyche of the woman she’d been back then when life had been so full of promise. She sighed, replaced the photo on the bookshelf, and then gazed about the great room, thinking about all the good times she and her family had shared in this space.
The kids were all grown now, each of them successful in their own rights, involved in their own families. She truly believed that she and John would, one day, be reunited, but that didn’t make the loneliness easier to bear now. Margaret squared her shoulders. She was stuck here, for the time being, and she had a great deal to be grateful for.
Margaret’s eyes fell upon a recent photograph of Madison. She picked it up and brought it to her face to examine it more closely. She loved all of her grandbabies, but Maddy tugged at her heart like no other. She worried about Andrea. Her daughter put up a good front, but Margaret knew she was struggling under too much stress. She was sorry for adding to her burden, but what else could she do? The bills were pouring in, and she was falling behind on her credit cards. “Oh, John,” she said, her voice echoing off the plastered walls. “How could you leave me to deal with all this by myself?”
“Dad, can we go now?” Madison tugged at Derrick’s sleeve. “It’s hot. I’m bored.”
The Farmer’s Market had dwindled to just a few vendors, and the remaining booths were being broken down.
“Mom will be here soon, honey.” Derrick glanced at his cellphone display. It was ten past one. He hefted a bushel basket of squash and was carting it to the open bed of his pickup truck when Andrea’s white Mercedes pulled up to the curb.
“Mommy.” Madison hastened toward her.
Andrea parked and then hopped out of the car, and Madison crossed the difference between them in seconds. “Where were you?” the teen whined. “I thought you forgot me.”
“Aw, Maddy, I couldn’t forget you. Did you get tired of working for Dad?”
“It was okay,” Madison said sulkily. “I got all sweaty.”
“I’m sorry. We’ll go home, and you can jump in the pool while I fix lunch. How does that sound?”
“Hey there,” Derrick cried. “How did it go?”
“Great,” Andrea said, a note of irony in her voice. “I think I just sold the farm.”
“Wow. That is great!” Derrick exclaimed. “You’ll be rolling in it.”
“Not really.” Andrea glanced at Maddy. “I’m not taking a commission on this one, and Mother’s been falling deeper and deeper into debt. She’s been living on credit cards, and what my brothers and I can throw her way. I’ve been telling you for years: There’s no more money in the estate.”
“How can that be? I thought she was set for life?”
“Derrick, let’s not go over this just now, okay? Suffice it to say, when all the bills and back taxes are paid, she’ll be left with a tidy sum, which will allow her a comfortable lifestyle.”
“Is Nana poor?”
“Oh, Maddy, no,” Andrea said. “But she’s going to have to move out of Casa Rio and get a smaller place.”
“I like Casa. Where will she go?”
“To some other nice place that doesn’t require so much upkeep. Not to worry.”
“Say, who’d like to celebrate over lunch at the Lemon Tree?” Derrick asked.
“Me,” Madison cried.
The sun was pouring through the partially raised veins of the plantation shutters, flooding the great room of Casa Rio with light. This Sunday morning, three generations of Sheridan’s—Margaret, Andrea, and Madison—were gathered around the game table.
Margaret grinned sheepishly at her daughter and granddaughter. “The sad fact of the matter is that I’ve got to get rid of a lot of—” she extended her arms. “Stuff.”
“I can help, Mom,” Andrea offered.
“Me too, Nana,” Madison chimed in.
“Thank you, my darlings. But the problem is sorting through all this. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve been a terrible packrat. Honestly, I’d just as soon pitch the lot of it, but I’m sure there are things you and the boys or the grandkids will want.”
“True,” Andrea agreed, thinking the task that lay before them was a monumental one. “We’re going to have to pick through every drawer and cupboard, huh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Gosh, this could take forever.”
Margaret pursed her lips and nodded her head. “That’s why I’m putting it out there. We need a game plan. Otherwise, it’s going to be overwhelming.” The three women were momentarily silent, each lost in thought.
Madison was the first to break the silence. “We should have a party.”
Margaret and Andrea cut their eyes to the teen. “Maddy, what are you saying?” Andrea asked.
“A party,” the girl reiterated.
“A party…” Margaret’s face slowly lit up.
“I must be dense because I don’t have a clue what you two are talking about,” Andrea complained.
“A party, Mom.” Madison bounded out of her chair. “You know… like a going-away party.”
“Right,” Margaret said, warming to the idea. “Only this one will be a working party. Madison, you’re a genius!”
“Yeah. Everybody has to work.” The girl crossed to a console and opened a drawer. “Like, clean this out,” she said, indicating the drawer’s contents.
“I get it,” Andrea said, her mind working in overdrive. They could do this. Not only would it work, but it might bring some closure as well—maybe even prove fun in the bargain.
“We’d have to get oodles of cardboard boxes and plastic bins,” she said as a plan began to formulate in her mind.
“To say nothing of garbage bags,” Margaret added.
“And food.” Madison grinned. “Delicious food.”
“I’ll put Derrick on it,” Andrea said. “He loves to cook, and he could do something organic. It’s a super-duper idea, Maddy.”
Suddenly, Alicia Key’s sultry voice, singing No One, erupted from her cellphone. She dug for the phone, pulled it from her bag, and flipped open the clamshell.
“It’s Daniel,” she mouthed silently to her mother. “Hi, Daniel.”
“I was wondering if you had plans for this evening?”
“Not really. I was going to hang with my crib.” She bobbed her head while affecting a rapper idiom and gazed at Madison with wide eyes.
Madison snickered at her mother’s poor attempt at humor.
Margaret watched the exchange between them. She so wanted Maddy to be a typical teenager, whatever that might be in today’s world.
“By that you mean?”
“Stick with my girl,” Andrea explained.
“Why don’t you both join me? Dining alone at the bar is most unsatisfactory, and I swore I wouldn’t do it ever again. If you decline, I’ll have no alternative other than to order room service. Now tell me, do you want that on your conscience?”
“Honestly? Room service sounds divine to me,” Andrea said. “I think you must be spoiled.”
“Come on down, Ms. Biz, and we’ll order in.”
Andrea strolled to the French door and lowered her voice. “You know I can’t come to your room, sir. That would be highly improper.” She turned and winked at her mother, and Margaret grinned.
“Nothing of the sort,” Daniel protested. “I bet the kid would love it.”
“Hmm… Let me see.” Andrea returned to the table. “Madison,” she said, speaking loudly enough so that her client could hear. “How would you like to join Daniel and me for dinner tonight?”
Margaret nodded her head vigorously in Madison’s direction. “Sure,” Madison said.
“Okay then. Would you like to dine in or eat outside at the Vero Beach Hotel and Club?”
Madison clapped her hands. “Eat out at the Club!”
“There you have it,” Andrea said. “Could we do that, Daniel?”
“Sure thing. I’ll meet you poolside at six.”
It had been a trying day, and Floyd sat stiffly in the dining chair, willing the night to be over.
“Here they come,” Marcie hissed, nervously finger-combing her highlights. “Whatever you do, don’t talk business.” Floyd took a generous swig of Maker’s Mark and steeled himself for the encounter.
“There you are!” Clarisse Sweeney’s horsey face wore a phony grin that exposed a mouthful of bluntly capped teeth. She turned to her husband and simpered, “Here they are, honey. Come and sit down.”
Phil Sweeney had a good twenty years on Clarisse, and she was no babe in the woods. Like so many successful men with an excellent head for business, Phil was clueless when it came to women. As for Clarisse, she’d been marrying up her entire adult life. But her third husband was the prize, and everyone but him knew it. Like Clarisse, Sweeney had no children—no heirs. The gold-digger was sitting pretty, just waiting for the old coot to kick.
Sweeney settled in slowly, his spine's curvature and arthritic joints precluding any vigorous movement, but Clarisse seemed not to notice. Instead, she beamed at Floyd and Marcie, pretending to be having the time of her life. It was clear that Marcie bought it—hook, line, and sinker—always up for climbing the social ladder. But Floyd didn’t give a shit. He saw right through the pretense.
“Well, isn’t this fun?” Clarisse said.
“Yes,” Marcie agreed. “I’m so looking forward to the show. We saw it on Broadway with Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane—”
“We did, too,” Clarisse interrupted. “Ab fab.”
“It’s nice to support our local theater,” Marcie chimed in, thinking of all the money Floyd had invested in advertising, getting his company name on the marquee for having underwritten productions. “Did you know that Riverside is the largest regional theater in the South?”
“No,” Clarisse said. “But the shows are first-rate, what with the New York casts. We’re certainly fortunate to have so much culture in itty old Vero Beach. Which is why I settled here in the first place.”
Right, thought Floyd, bitterly. He’d heard the mean-spirited gossip about Clarisse, that she’d been born and raised in some hick town in the Appalachians. No wonder she thought Vero the cultural capital of the South. But all he said was, “Yes, this place has changed a great deal over the years. When I first opened up my practice, way back in the eighties, they rolled up the sidewalks at six o’clock. Now they wait until at least ten.”
A waitress approached the table. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney,” she said. “Shall I get you the usual?”
Clarisse eyeballed her husband, and Phil gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll have a split of champagne, and Phil will have his Chivas—”
“On ice in a tall glass,” the waitress said, finishing her sentence. “Coming right up,” she said, before sailing toward the bar.
Marcie kicked Floyd under the table, nodding toward Phil.
Taking the none-too-subtle hint, he said, “So, Phil, hitting any balls lately?”
“Oh, yeah,” Phil said. “I played eighteen holes yesterday. Unfortunately, my drive is crap.”
“It’s the weather,” Floyd said. “Too damn hot.”
“Maybe. But my putting’s even worse. It’s hell getting old.”
“Sweetheart, you’re not old,” Clarisse protested. “Look around you.” She waved an arm about the room, indicating the snowdrift of graying heads occupying the surrounding tables. “You’re a spring chicken in God’s waiting room.” Clarisse laughed too loudly at her mixed metaphor. Marcie tittered as well, but Floyd and Phil merely looked uncomfortable.
The waitress appeared with sparkling wine and a whiskey, and Floyd held up his nearly empty glass while nodding toward Marcie’s, indicating they desired refills. He reckoned it was going to be a long night, and liquid fortitude was required to get him through it.
Not two miles away, Daniel was laying claim to three lounge chairs set before a blazing fire pit. The fire was unnecessary, but it provided a cheery backdrop. He eased his tall frame into a patio chair and draped his arms around the backs of those on either side of him. It was a mild evening; The heat had seeped out of the day. A gentle ocean breeze kept the no-see-ums at bay, and Daniel gazed toward the steely Atlantic, breathing in the intoxicating fragrance of salt and sea. Vero, he admitted to himself, had cast a spell over him. He was hooked. A skeptic, he’d come here on the advice of his financial advisor and good friend, Nathan McCourt. Nathan was the one person in the world Daniel trusted completely. They’d been college roommates and best friends ever since, and McCourt had never taken advantage or steered him wrong.
“There are up-scale communities all over the country—Chagrin Falls, Montauk, LA, Jolla, Vail, New Canaan—but there’s something special about Vero,” Nate had said. “Besides, real estate is a bargain here just now. You can pick up a property for a third of its former valuation. Four, five years down the road, these prices are going to skyrocket.
Daniel figured Nate was right about Vero, just as he’d been about so many things. But more than that, he’d been bowled over by the Casa Rio property. The main house looked like a hacienda out of a storybook. With its lush plantings leading down to the incredible stretch of pristine beach, it reminded him of the Breakers in Palm Beach. He’d stayed there during a business trip years ago and been thoroughly impressed by the grand old resort. There was a sense of understated refinement about the Mizner-designed architectural gem; the place exuded a solid sort of permanence, one that said some things—some good things—don’t change. No, that’s not right, he thought, after a moment of reflection. Better put: No matter how the world changes, some things are worth preserving. He was about to purchase one of those exceptional properties, and he found the prospect exhilarating.
The hostess, a striking blonde, approached, interrupting Daniel’s reverie. And following her were Andrea and a young, auburn-haired beauty, presumably Madison. “Here he is,” the woman said, waving an arm in Daniel’s direction. “Mr. Armstrong, your girls are here.”
Daniel rose from his chair, a welcoming smile on his face. He turned toward Madison, giving the teen his full attention. “Hello, Miss Madison.” He extended a hand, taking the teen’s in his. “This will be such fun, the three of us dining alfresco. Please, sit.”
Daniel indicated that the women should be seated on either side of him, and once they’d situated themselves, he regained his seat.
“What is your pleasure, ma’am?” the hostess asked.
Andrea glanced at Daniel, a question on her face, but he simply shook his head. “I’ll have a glass of the house white,” she said.
“No, no, no,” Daniel remonstrated. He eyed the hostess. “You wouldn't have a 1928 Krug, would you?”
“Unfortunately, no, sir.”
“Well then, bring a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”
“Daniel!” Andrea protested.
“Shush,” Daniel commanded. “This is a celebration.”
“It is?” the teen asked, looking confused.
“Yes, Madison,” Daniel exclaimed. “Look at that ocean. Heck, look at you! Life’s for celebrating, don’t you think?”
Madison knit her brows and peered at her mother.
“Sweetie,” Andrea said. “He means that on such a lovely evening, we should celebrate the fact that we’re alive, and—”
“And enjoying it,” Daniel interrupted exuberantly. “What would you like, Maddy, a Shirley Temple?”
Again, Madison searched Andrea’s face, but her mother only shrugged. “Could I have a virgin strawberry daiquiri?”
“If that’s what you’d like,” Daniel said expansively.
“And for you, sir?”
“Bring me a glass, and I’ll have some of the bubbly.”
“My pleasure.” The young woman graced them with an orthodontist’s dream smile before scurrying toward the kitchen.
“Ahh…” Daniel gazed out over the ocean. “Isn’t this the life?
“Yes, indeed,” Andrea said. “This is a real treat for us. Isn’t it, Maddy?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I imagine the rooms are sumptuous?” Andrea turned back to Daniel.
“Very comfortable,” he said. “But traveling alone… It leaves something to be desired.” Daniel suddenly became aware of the fact that Madison was fidgeting in her chair. He pivoted to her, saying, “Madison, what do you say we take a quick run down the beach?
“No,” Andrea protested. But it was too late. Maddy had already risen to her feet, obviously eager for the challenge.
“Sure.” She craned her neck to assess the dune crossover.
“Which way?” Daniel asked, sloughing off his loafers and rolling up his pant legs.
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“South?” Daniel pointed in the direction of the Ocean Grill.
“You’re on.” Madison darted past him and scrambled toward the deck stairs.
“Oh, ho!” Daniel cried.
He cut his eyes to Andrea, and she shook her head and laughed merrily. “What madness!”
“Watch out, wench,” Daniel hollered as he closed in on Madison, one stride of his equal to two of hers.
As they tore down the beach, the hostess appeared with stemmed glasses and drinks—a towering pink confection for Madison and a bottle of Dom Pérignon. The young woman uncorked the bottle with a loud pop, poured a small amount into a crystal flute, and offered it to Andrea. “Will you do the honors?”
Andrea swirled the wine in her glass before breathing in the fruity bouquet and taking a sip. “Umm, wonderful.”
The blonde filled the glass and then cut her gaze to the shoreline where Madison was charging after Daniel. “They’re so cute together. You must be so proud.”
Andrea realized the waitress assumed the two were father and daughter. “I know,” she said, thinking there did seem to be chemistry between them. How she wished that were true.
Garrett climbed the stairs to his walk-up apartment and unlatched the door. The place was a mess, dirty clothes and pizza boxes strewn about. Maybe he should hire a service. He could well afford one, bring some order to this chaos. But he was too distracted to think about that now. He had other, more important matters on his mind.
Garrett collapsed in his desk chair and burrowed in his back pocket for his cellphone. He searched through his photos, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he came across the latest pic, an image of that cute girl he'd seen at the Farmer’s Market. She was so hot! He had to devise a plan and think of some way to introduce himself that didn’t come off as dorky. No sooner had the idea occurred to him than Garrett quashed it. What was he thinking? He was a complete and total nerd, had nothing to offer a babe like that.
Garrett tossed the phone onto his desk and powered up his PC. He was ready to escape into Monster Hunter World, to battle Alien’s Xenomorph Queen. That was about all the excitement this geek could handle.