Andrea had picked up a bottle of Chardonnay before driving home to lick her wounds. Now, she poured herself another glass and gazed overhead praying for a sign, some inspiration. The moon was an indistinct thumbprint in a murky sky, and it gave her no answers. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to make sense of the events that were unfolding around her. Andrea’s musings were interrupted when Madison pushed open the French door.
“Hi, Mommy.” Looking fetching in one of Derrick’s old college tees that swam on her slender frame, Madison crossed to her mother and plunked down on the lounge chair next to her. “What’re you doing?”
“Nothing, honey. Just thinking.’’ Andrea searched the teen’s face, noting her lowered brow. “How was your day?”
“Okay.” Madison squirmed in her chair. “Um…”
“What is it?” Andrea asked.
“I don’t know. It’s stupid. I’m stupid…”
“Madison,” Andrea exclaimed, setting her wineglass down on the side table and giving her daughter her full attention. “Never say that. You are a lovely and capable girl. And you’ll make a success of whatever you put your mind to.”
“I know, Mom. But…”
“But what?” Andrea could see that her daughter was troubled, and she was suddenly determined to get to the bottom of it. “Tell me, sweetie.”
Madison came to her feet. “It’s nothing, Mom.”
“Maddy, sit down,” Andrea commanded, and to her relief, the teenager complied.
“Now, what’s upset you. I’m your mother. You know you can tell me anything.”
The girl laced her fingers together and then pulled them apart restively.
“Madison, I mean it,” Andrea demanded. “Spill.”
“Um… I… Never mind. It’s probably nothing.”
“Something’s worrying you.”
“It’s just that I feel like…”
“Like what?”
“Oh,” Madison furrowed her brow, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “I get the feeling that someone’s watching me,” she finally admitted.
Andrea considered her daughter’s statement before venturing a comment. “Madison,” she said, “you are growing up to be a very attractive young woman. Beautiful people draw attention to themselves even when they don’t mean to do so,” she explained. “Don’t you sometimes stare at pretty girls, check out their hair and clothes?”
Madison nodded grudgingly.
“Well, there you have it.”
Although she appeared unconvinced, the teen let it drop. “Okay. So, when is Nana’s party?”
“In two weeks. I was thinking you and I could go over to Casa Rio tomorrow and do a bit of a trial run to see how it goes. What do you say?”
“Sure,” Madison agreed. “Is Dad coming, too?”
“No, Maddy,” Andrea said, struck by a pang of guilt over her daughter’s transparent desire for the three of them to be a family again. “But he’s agreed to cook for the party,” she added. “It should be a grand time.”
“Cool.”
“Honey, it’s past your bedtime. You’d best tuck yourself in.”
“Okay, Mom.” Madison rose from her chair and bent to kiss Andrea. “Night,” she murmured.
“Goodnight, baby. See you in the morning.”
Andrea followed Madison’s retreating figure, noting the teen’s shapely figure beneath the oversized tee. Surely, the girl was imagining things. But an unsettling possibility niggled at Andrea’s consciousness, and she silently vowed to redouble her efforts to protect her child.
The chiming of her cellphone interrupted her musings. A glance at the display told her it was her mother, and she tapped to accept the call. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, Andy. How was your day?”
“It was hell. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Floyd Heller, you know, the attorney who handles our escrows…”
“Yes. His wife, Marcie, is in my book club.”
“Turns out he was embezzling. The escrows have vanished and so has Floyd.” Andrea took a sip of her wine.
“You’re right. I can’t believe it.” Margaret exclaimed. “Good heavens!”
“He’s been operating a Ponzi scheme for years, somehow managing to stay one step ahead of the game. Apparently, he’s been pilfering a generous portion of the escrows to bankroll his lavish lifestyle, using new clients’ deposits to cover the deficits in others. But now, with this recession and no influx of cash deposits, his little house of cards has come tumbling down around him.”
“I’m…” Margaret paused. “I don’t know what to say. This calls for a glass of wine. Okay? Hold on a minute.”
Andrea gazed out over the river, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. Never had she felt so alone and so afraid.
“Ah’m back. I’m just bowled over, sweetheart. What the heck next?”
“I know, right? And it only gets worse.”
“How could it get any worse?”
“Our realty firm’s escrows are not the only ones Floyd managed.”
“Oh, my God. This is terrible.”
“It’s a scandal that is going to knock our sleepy seaside community on its ear, Mom. No one knows for sure how far-reaching the financial fallout will prove to be. Sally’s taken a huge hit, but she’s got reserves, and she’s tough. She’ll recover. Others won’t fare as well. I can’t believe I am saying this, but I am so thankful I don’t have any sales just now. No escrows to speak of.”
“I suppose that is a blessing in disguise, huh?”
“Yeah, but enough of my woes. Have you come to grips with selling Casa?”
“Surprisingly, yes.”
“Really?”
“I love this place, but it’s too much house for me. I’m ashamed to admit it, but a small part of me is eager to climb out from this money pit and move on—to travel, see the world before I’m too old to do so.”
“Oh, Mom.” Andrea exhaled a sigh of relief. “It’s all going to work out. You’ll see.”
“I was just going to say the same thing to you, dearest. We’ll be alright. And on that note, this old lady is off to bed. I’d say sweet dreams, but you’d only laugh.”
“You got that right. Goodnight, Mom.” Andrea tapped to disconnect, and her eyes were drawn to the three-quarter moon above. She remembered her first dinner with Daniel, how the moon had seemed to mesmerize them, casting a magic spell.
There was, she consoled herself, one bright spot in this otherwise gloomy picture. Andrea brought the glass of Chardonnay to her lips and conjured an image of her newest client, Daniel Armstrong. Despite her best efforts to keep business with him on a purely professional level, she was very much attracted to that enigmatic man. Of course, she’d googled him. Not surprisingly, she’d discovered that he was heir to a great fortune—that he had his fingers in lots of pies. But why was he so private? Whatever it was he was hiding served only to heighten her interest, adding fuel to the small fire that was smoldering within her. Yearnings she’d tamped down for a very long time were resurfacing, and for the first time in ages, she felt the stirrings of desire.
She wanted that man in her bed.
Margaret Sheridan cautiously made her way down the pier, wineglass in hand. With considerable effort and much creaking of joints, she lowered herself to the dock, and only a few drops of wine were spilled in the process. The roar of the crashing tide was in her ears, but it was white noise. She'd been inured to the ocean’s voice for so many years that it took the howling of a hurricane or a wailing nor’easter to register in her consciousness. She’d spent a lifetime on the ocean’s doorstep, she thought, as she extended her still-shapely legs out over the deck and let them dangle. It’d been a good life.
Her dad had been a much-admired physician in what was then a little Podunk town: Fort Walden Beach. Being his only child, she’d been thoroughly spoilt. No doubt about it. Margaret sighed and took a generous sip of wine. Gazing towards the heavens, she didn’t see stars. Instead, she saw herself as a girl…
“Maggie, you’d best get in here,” Will Nesbitt hollered. “Dinner’s ready.”
Margaret had just emerged from the sea, dripping. She was climbing the dune—her toes digging into the still-warm sand for purchase—when, at the sound of Doc’s voice, she came rigidly to attention. She peered at the clapboard house set back from the sea oats and scrub. In the gathering darkness, she could barely make out his silhouette at the door. “Coming, Dad,” she cried, but he’d already disappeared inside.
At the dinner table, Doc picked up the subject that only served to irritate her. “It’s time we decided about your higher education, what you’re going to do with your life, Maggie.”
“Um,” Margaret mumbled, chewing a mouthful of one of her dad’s improbable culinary concoctions—spam casserole.
“You need to settle on a chosen field, decide what career you want to pursue.”
“Dad, I’ve told you. I don’t know. I’d like to swim—”
“Swim?” Will snorted, dismissively. “Swimming’s not a profession. How do you propose to make a living?”
Margaret paused, knowing full well that what she was about to propose would meet with pushback. “I was thinking I’d apply for a scholarship to FSU. They’re aggressively recruiting swimmers. Female swimmers, Dad.”
“Really?” Doc looked skeptical. “And why do you think that is?”
“Because—” Margaret lifted her chin a notch.
“Because men want to see women scantily dressed and doomed to failure?”
“What?” She bolted upright in her chair, bristling.
“Maggie, listen to me. Maybe someday. But not now.”
“Dad—”
Doc cut her off. “Mags. Not in your lifetime.”
“But—” Margaret wheedled.
“Darling girl.” Her father shook his head. “Enroll in a business school or take education classes. What about banking? You could be a teller. Or teach. You love children, Maggie. Don’t set your sights on such fanciful pursuits. Be reasonable.”
“I’ve already sent in my application.”
Will searched Margaret’s eyes, and she knew he saw the resolve there. “Fine,” he said, curtly. “But would you humor old Doc? Apply to some other schools, too?”
“Okay.” Margaret had all she could do to act the conciliatory daughter, pretending to heed her father’s wishes, but she could barely conceal her delight at this small victory.
When the acceptance letter arrived, she did a happy dance with the mailbox. She was going to be a member of the women’s swim team at FSU!
The years had flown, and she’d thoroughly enjoyed her college stint at Florida State. Wet more than dry, she’d raced her heart out, accumulating a wall full of trophies to prove it. But when in the spring of 1955 graduation loomed, and Margaret still did not know what her next step would be, her dad’s words reverberated in her cranium: “What are you going to do with your life, Maggie?”
“Hey, gorgeous!” The lanky young man caught sight of her at the bar and strode across the room. “How about I buy you a beer?” he asked, resting a palm on her shoulder.
“Champagne, more like.” Margaret patted the empty barstool beside her. “It’s the least you can do for me after that marathon study session.”
Timothy Kerry folded his long-limbed frame onto the barstool and ogled her.
Margaret looked past the leer, taking in Tim’s guileless freckled face, his curly copper mop, and she couldn’t help but grin. “What’s up, Timothy?”
Tim waved a hand in the air, signaling the bartender. Once he’d gotten the man’s attention, he raised two fingers and then pointed towards Margaret’s empty glass. The bartender nodded and set about filling their order.
In no time, the two were clinking glasses. “Here’s to you, Florence,” Tim said.
It took a moment for Margaret to get his meaning, but when she did, she chuckled. He was, she realized, referencing Florence Chadwick, who, just last year in 1952, became the first woman to swim both ways across the English Channel. “And to you,” she replied, “future scion of business.”
“If that’s the case, it’s thanks to a certain Miss Someone who rides my ass.”
“Pfft! You’ll do fine. I’ll bet you passed your exams with flying colors.”
Tim nodded, a begrudging smile on his face. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. And guess what?” He gazed at her, his eyes twinkling.
“What?” Margaret raised her eyebrows, eager for a bit of good news.
“I’ll have you know I scored an interview next week.”
“Wow!” Margaret was duly impressed. She had no interviews on the horizon. “Congratulations,” she crowed.
“Uh-huh, and guess what else?”
“Oh, c’mon, Timmy, I don’t know. What?”
“I’ve got a lead for you.”
“A lead?” Margaret pivoted on her barstool and gave him her full attention. “What do you mean?”
Tim withdrew a folded paper from his pocket and placed the advertisement on the bar in front of her. Then with undue theatrics, he unfolded it and pressed out the creases.
Margaret laughed, shaking her head at Tim’s dramatics. But then the headline screamed at her—Weeki Wachee Springs Mermaids and she gasped. “Mermaids?”
“Yeah, baby, mermaids. And I think you’d be a perfect Siren of the Sea. God knows you’ve lured me off course.”
“Ha!” Margaret huffed dismissively, but her mind was reeling with the possibilities. Weeki Wachee Springs? She’d never heard of the place. But, according to the advertisement, it was fast becoming a popular tourist destination. The enterprising entrepreneur who’d seen money signs in the backwater springs was avidly recruiting attractive female swimmers in their early twenties.
She figured she fit that bill!
Newton Perry smiled at Margaret from across a desk littered with mechanical drawings—sketches of air hoses and compressors and underwater waystations. He seemed a simple enough man; his shaggy mane framed a wide face that was dimpled and tanned and in need of a shave. But there was something charismatic about him, too. Or maybe it was just the opportunity to swim that she found so appealing. In any case, she was a mermaid hooked.
“The job doesn’t pay much,” he said. “Thirty dollars a week plus board and tips.”
“What?” Margaret was suddenly knocked out of Mermaid Heaven and back to reality. How could she survive on that pittance?
Newt put his hands in the air, shaking them as if to dispel bad vibes. “I know. Doesn’t sound like much. But the tips are considerable. Most girls make so much money, they stay on.”
Somewhat placated, Margaret asked, “And what is the board?”
“I’ve built the cutest little cottages. With all the modern amenities. Two girls to a unit, each with a bath and kitchenette. Plus, there’s a camp kitchen that puts out two meals a day. So, you don’t have to cook unless you want to.”
“Hmm…” Margaret digested this bit of information. She had no other opportunities, but she wasn’t about to admit that. “Okay,” she finally said, sealing her destiny.
Looking back on it, she had nothing but the fondest of memories of her stint as a mermaid at Weeki Wachee Springs. Not only had those been the most exhilarating years of her life, but it was after a performance there that she’d first set eyes on John. He’d been fresh out of Med School, so tall and handsome and eagerly looking forward to a few carefree days before embarking on his internship. But from the moment his eyes latched onto hers, John’s freewheeling days were over, and they’d both known it.
Margaret finished the last of her wine, set the glass down on the raw planks, and gazed out over the fathomless ocean. They’d had a good long run. She only wished her darling boy had stuck around for the golden years. It was hell growing old and doing it alone. She’d never looked at another man. Didn’t want one. She’d had the love of her life, and nothing could top that.
“Buck up, old girl. This is just another chapter,” she told herself. “It’s not the end of the story.”