The House on Mermaid Point (11 page)

Deirdre’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she said only, “Good. That’s . . . I’m glad.”

This, of course, made Avery feel like shit. She looked away and moved into the sun-filled space. “I was thinking that I’d like to rip the stairs out of the foyer.” She led Deirdre into the kitchen and gestured to the back wall. “And move them here.”

Deirdre surreptitiously wiped away her tears as she considered the space.

“And I was thinking maybe we could even build in part of the kitchen under the stairs.” After a long moment, and without looking at her mother, Avery asked, “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Deirdre asked as the smile spread over her face. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Nicole surfed the Internet looking for water taxis or other transportation. The options were far more limited than one would expect in a place where the landmasses were small and the bodies of water that surrounded them large. But then, most people who were holed up on an island probably either had no interest in leaving or had their own seaworthy transportation. It would be far easier to get a limo to the Miami airport than a boat to the marina a couple of mile markers away.

She was contemplating something called a Nautilimo—a boat that had been designed to look like a pink Cadillac—when a text dinged in. It was Giraldi.

You okay? Where are you?

Islamorada,
she typed.
Private island called Mermaid Point.

Will Hightower?
His immediate response told her he had been well aware of this possibility. Or had received secret FBI smoke signals of some kind documenting their arrival.
Loved Wasted Indian. Especially Mermaid in You.

She smiled as she pictured a pre-FBI, possibly long-haired version of Joe Giraldi rocking out to the driving beat beneath William Hightower’s soul-searing vocals.

Hightower doesn’t love us,
Nicole typed back.

Hard to imagine,
he replied quickly.

Well said,
she responded.
Where r u?

Hartsfield. En route to Chicago. Home Monday.

Nicole stared at the text. Hartsfield International was in Atlanta, where her brother was incarcerated. But there were a lot of financial criminals besides Malcolm Dyer there. And Joe’s specialty was financial crime profiling.

Oh?
It was all she could manage.

The cursor blinked. She could envision Giraldi strapped into the bulkhead seat that would accommodate his long legs, waiting. She wanted to ask if he’d seen Malcolm, but not quite as much as she didn’t want to know. She hadn’t spoken to her brother since he’d tried to use her one last time and she’d finally understood that the closeness she’d believed they’d had had never really existed. That he had, in fact, been playing her, just as he did everyone else, his whole life.

Another text from Joe appeared.
Can come down next weekend.

She was grateful that he knew her well enough to follow her lead and didn’t offer information about her brother that she might not be ready to hear.

Living on houseboat. Short on doors and bathrooms. Dreaming of hotel bed and bath. Maybe room service.

I’m there. And then some. Making reservation. Pack light. A toothbrush should do it.

She felt a distinctly sexual tingle even as she typed.
Leaving island is complicated.

A little rusty,
Joe replied,
but have extraction training.

Nicole smiled.
A boat would do.

Have that, too,
he typed.

My hero.
The words might be flip, but that didn’t make them untrue.

Cleared for takeoff,
he typed.
See you next weekend.

She typed her good-byes and wished the weekend—and Joe—weren’t quite so far away.

•   •   •

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll catch up with you in a little bit. I just want to go through the footage I have so far.” Kyra sat at the banquette, her laptop and a notepad in front of her.

Avery and Deirdre hadn’t yet come back from their walk-through. Maddie hoped they hadn’t killed or maimed each other.

“All right. We’ll be down on the beach.” Maddie wore her bathing suit and another long T-shirt. She would have rather stayed here near the docks, except that on this side of the island most of the beach was mangrove covered and the breeze was a fraction of what came from the east.

She carried Dustin’s speedboat and trailer, along with a straw bag filled with sunscreen, towels, drinks, and sandwiches. Dustin carried his pail and shovel. He’d buckled the tool belt Avery and Chase had given him for Christmas around his hips. Orange floaties surrounded his upper arms.

She took the path to the house, then followed it between the pool and the pavilion, hoping that William Hightower had finished swimming and gone back inside. As they drew closer she spotted him lying immobile on a chaise, the back of his head pillowed on one bent arm, his chin tilted up to the sun. His eyes were closed.

For a long moment she watched his chest go up and down in the rhythm of sleep. She did not let her eyes drop or wander over his mostly bare body, but she did soften her step and moved as quietly as one could with a one-and-a-half-year-old boy in tow.

They were almost past the pool when Dustin shouted, “Look, Geema! Billyum is sleeping!”

“Dustin,” she whispered, “you don’t yell when you know someone’s asleep.”

“Look, Geema,” he shouted. “He waked up!”

Maddie stopped tiptoeing. She turned. Hightower was indeed awake. He raised up on one elbow, his eyes wide open.

“Sorry,” she called, holding tight to Dustin’s hand. “We’re still working on levels of enthusiasm. If it won’t disturb you, I was going to take him down to the beach for a while.”

“No problem.”

She stared back, trying to keep her attention on his face. Not the broad shoulders, the ripple of muscle as he shifted slightly, or the chest hair that triangled downward. It occurred to her that bringing up the use of his laundry and kitchen might be better than staring so stupidly, but she could hardly stand still, given the way he was now studying her, let alone ask for something. Dustin pulled on her hand.

“Is it safe to swim in the shallows off the beach?” she asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t strike out for the lighthouse or anything, but as long as you’re not flashing diamonds or other shiny objects, the barracuda probably won’t bother you.”

“Twim!” Dustin raised his floatie-ready arms in excitement.

There was a surprising flash of white teeth from Hightower. “Nothing like a good swim,” he agreed.

“Thank you,” Maddie said, waiting for him to tune them out and lie back down, or at least close his eyes. He did none of these things. In fact, he seemed to be looking at her legs with what appeared to be an appreciative gleam in his eyes.

“Come on, Geema.”

There was no help for it. Trying to blank her mind so that it would not dwell on the view Hightower would now have of her less-than-pert behind, Maddie nodded and turned. She felt his eyes on them all the way to the spot where Dustin threw himself down, pulled out his shovel, and started digging in the damp white sand.

•   •   •

Because she couldn’t help it, Kyra Googled Daniel Deranian then forced herself to look at picture after picture of him, his equally famous movie star wife, and their children, who seemed to be together on some extended tour of European capitals to promote Daniel’s latest film. They hadn’t really spoken since January, when Kyra had called him out for buying Bella Flora and turning it over to the one person she couldn’t bear to picture setting foot in it.

The child support payments continued on an automatic deposit schedule set up by one of Daniel’s financial people, and she in turn sent him the periodic photos of Dustin that their agreement stipulated. But ever since she’d refused to allow Dustin to visit when Tonja Kay was present, there’d been little contact between Dustin and his father, aside from the playhouse-sized version of Bella Flora that had been delivered to Pass-a-Grille on Christmas Eve.

She continued through the pictures, her attention focused on the smile on Daniel’s face, the adoration with which his children looked up at him, the close-ups of Tonja Kay’s angelically beautiful face, which totally camouflaged the angry, ugly person who dwelt inside. All of these were important reminders of why both she and Dustin were better off several steps removed from Daniel, who could so easily suck both of them back into his orbit. Reminders she couldn’t allow herself to forget.

•   •   •

After he completed both a sand castle and parking garage for his speedboat and took numerous dips in the ocean, Dustin looked at Maddie and asked for a “hand-witch.”

Certain that Hightower must have abandoned the pool deck long ago, Maddie smiled down at her grandson and helped him rinse the sand off his hands and face. “Come on, let’s gather up our things and have a picnic.”

After the bright midday sun, the pavilion was dark and cool. The ocean breeze streamed through it. Her eyes were still adjusting when Dustin yelped, “Billyum!” and raced toward a nearby table. Maddie looked up and spotted William Hightower, his long legs crossed at the ankles in front of him.

“Oh, no, Dustin. We don’t want to disturb Mr. . . .”

But Dustin was already settling in the chair next to Hightower, the sandwich she’d allowed him to carry smashed in his fist. He pried the plastic wrap off it and offered a mangled half to William.

“Billyum hand-witch?” Dustin held a smooshed, drooping triangle up to Hightower.

Surprisingly, Hightower was smiling. His eyes lit with amusement. “I hate to eat your lunch,” he said to Dustin before turning to Maddie. “I don’t suppose you have another one of those hand-witches in that bag?” He motioned her to the vacant chair across from him.

She sat. Pulling the beach bag onto her lap, she rummaged through it.

“Here you go,” she said, handing the rock star the equally battered second sandwich, followed by napkins for both of them. “What kind of juice box would you like to go with it? I have apple and grape.”

“Duce,” Dustin said.

“Which one do you like best?” William asked Dustin.

Dustin gave this some thought. “Gwape.”

“I’ll take the apple, please,” he said to Maddie. “My friend here will have the gwape.”

They drank their juice boxes companionably while Maddie tried to process William Hightower’s easy warmth toward Dustin, the unfeigned interest with which he listened to her grandson’s chatter, the way he consumed the mangled peanut butter and jelly sandwich as if he’d never tasted anything better.

“So, does your husband have a problem with you being gone all summer?”

Surprised, she looked up to find William studying her, his dark eyes more intent than his tone.

“Oh, no. My husband doesn’t . . . I mean, my husband has no . . .”
Good grief
. She stopped talking. The man was just making conversation; there was no need to read anything into it. “What I meant to say is I’m recently divorced. So it’s not really my ex-husband’s concern where I go or for how long.”

William nodded, his expression giving no hint of anything more than idle curiosity. Bemused, Maddie drank in the extraordinary sight of William Hightower chatting easily with her grandson as they finished off their PB&Js and drained every last drop from their juice boxes. A sight she could never have imagined and would most likely never forget.

Bruce Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac” boomed in the early evening air, the tune reaching them long before the Nautilimo pulled up to the Mermaid Point dock Saturday night. The floating pink stretch limo, which appeared to have been fused onto a boat hull, had the smooth lines of a vintage Cadillac complete with whitewall tires, a Caddy grille, fins, and a trunk-mounted spare tire. Its T-top, white leather seats, and mahogany dash completed the illusion. Kyra loved it on sight.

The white-bearded captain touched the brim of his straw hat in salute then deftly parallel-parked the floating limo at the dock as if it were a curb. The song continued as the captain bounded out, tied up, and effected a snap to attention. He wore navy shorts over stork legs. His barrel chest was encased in a short-sleeved white T-shirt with painted-on epaulets and skinny blue necktie. A painted gold cord dipped into a faux painted pocket.

“Ladies.” The driver tipped his hat, which was banded with nautical-style ribbon, to Nicole, Avery, Deirdre, Maddie, and Kyra, who had shot his arrival and now filmed them being helped aboard. Troy and Anthony shot from the deck of their houseboat. Hudson and William Hightower had left by boat hours before with no word of their destination.

“SS
Nautilimo
at your service.” His smile was large and welcoming. His wink was mischievous. “I understand we’re going to do a run up the bay side to the Lorelei, with a return drop-off whenever you’re ready.”

Bruce Springsteen sang on about crushed velvet seats and cruising down the street as the captain handed each of them aboard. Kyra stopped shooting long enough to join her mother on the back bench seat. A life-vested and very excited Dustin sat in his grandmother’s lap.

“Boag!” he said. “Kink Padiback!”

Troy and Anthony jumped off their deck. “Hey, wait up!”

“Sorry, no room,” Kyra called.

“Let’s go,” Nicole said to the driver.

“I could probably squeeze them on.” He nodded to the camera crew as they bounded down the dock, shooting as they came.

“Absolutely not,” Kyra said even as she smiled and waved at Troy and Anthony. “They’ll have to order their . . . own Cadillac . . .” They all sang along with the chorus as the driver pulled away from the dock and headed south. “Or they can follow in the Jon Boat. Or swim. Who knows, maybe the network will send a helicopter. That’s not our problem.”

The captain cut west along the overgrown causeway that no longer connected Mermaid Point to land, then headed south, paralleling U.S. 1, before cutting west under the bridge to the bay. The captain turned down the music and began to point out the highlights.

“If we’d taken the channel east out to the ocean we would have come to Alligator Reef; that’s the historic lighthouse out there that you can see from Mermaid Point. If we were to head south here you’d come to Robbie’s—there’s a marina and shops and a restaurant. And you can take the little one there to feed the tarpon.”

They headed north and began to skirt a series of mangrove-covered islands. “Some of the best flats fishing anywhere is out here. Flats boats can cut in and out since they draw so little water. They use poles to move over the flats. We can’t get quite as close in the Caddy.”

He continued north, pointing out the sights as they went. They passed a marina with docks sticking out into the bay and dry storage off to one side. Another warehouse-sized building rose on the opposite side of a large parking lot. “That’s Bass Pro Shops’ World Wide Sportsman. The sister boat to Hemingway’s
Pilar
sits in the middle of the floor. You can climb up into it and there’s also a fish tank and all kinds of interesting things mixed in with the fishing gear and tackle and so on. It’s become a real tourist attraction.

“If you want a nightcap on the way back to Mermaid Point we can stop off at the Zane Grey Lounge—it’s a nice watering hole.” He gestured toward the back of the immense World Wide building.

“Or there’s Morada Bay.” He pointed to brightly painted tables and chairs on the beach. Adirondacks were positioned to catch the sunset. A band played on a small stage. “Upscale, but very kid friendly and there’s a full moon party every month.

“That building next to it is Pierre’s—that’s a good bit fancier. Same owner has the Moorings Village across the road on the ocean side. Eighteen villas on eighteen acres. Lots of big-time film shoots on the beach there.”

The stream of information was steady. Kyra panned and zoomed over the bars, restaurants, and sights that their captain pointed out, but mostly she tried to just enjoy the salt-tinged breeze, the waterbirds that took flight from the mangrove-covered islands as they passed, and the sky that was beginning to grow pink above them. And the fact that for the moment, at least, they weren’t being followed.

“There’s the Lorelei over there.” The captain pointed inland to a multitiered grouping of buildings that included what looked like a bar/restaurant built on a dock. An eating area surrounded a thatched hut where some sort of entertainment was in progress. Additional tables and chairs were scattered across a small beach. “A number of well-known backcountry fishing guides go out from the docks behind the restaurant, and there’s a live-aboard population here, too. I keep the Nautilimo here.”

He slowed as they entered a small harbor, where ten or twelve small sailboats floated near each other. “Are these anchored here?” Avery asked.

“They’re on mooring balls. People live on them and take dinghies in and out. The mooring balls they’re tied up to belong to the Lorelei and they pay rent each month for the privilege.”

“They just live out here in the middle of the harbor?”

“Mm-hm,” the captain replied. “The Keys are full of people who come here because of the freedom to just . . . be. Others maybe can’t afford much more. You sure can’t beat the view.”

“Why aren’t the boats closer to shore?” Avery asked.

“That’s a water landing strip—you know, for seaplanes and such.” He took them around the beach, where a number of houseboats were tied to land. Old appliances and stray bits of furniture were piled on the ground around them. “Boy, those look even more rickety than ours,” Nicole said.

“And they don’t even have their own port-o-let!” Avery said.

“Who lives there?” Maddie asked.

“It varies. But it’s a cheap way to live—so some of the guys who do manual labor, or those in . . . transition might live this way.” He rounded the houseboats and the mangrove-covered end of the beach.

“Oh, over there’s the library and the playground I told you about,” Maddie said, pointing as they passed the inlet then slowed further to pass between the Lorelei’s parallel lines of docks where boats of varying sizes were tied. A couple and their dog sat on the deck of one, sipping drinks, their attention split between the crowd and the sunset.

“I’ll be up at the bar,” the captain said as he led them off the dock. Tables, all of them filled, covered a railed deck area. In the corner a magician performed on a stage built into the thatched hut. As they watched, the magician tucked a bird into a box and tapped lightly with a wand. The bird disappeared.

Dustin clapped his hands together. His eyes grew big.

“Why don’t you stay and watch with Dustin a little,” Maddie said to Kyra. “We’ll see if we can get a table down on the beach.”

“Okay.” She stayed on the small bridge that spanned a small slice of bay, bracing Dustin on one hip so that he had a clear view of the stage. “Just give me a wave when it’s time to order.”

•   •   •

The sunset was spectacular, a symphony of pinks and reds that played out before their eyes.

They slipped off their shoes and dug their toes into the cool sand as they wolfed down conch fritters and smoked fish dip, followed by blackened fish tacos and homemade potato chips—all of which was served by an amiable waitress who managed to be both casual and efficient. The magician had finished, much to Dustin’s dismay, and a twentysomething brunette with an hourglass figure sang in a breathy voice as smooth and light as the breeze it rode.

She sang of love and heartache and moving on, and Maddie could have taken any one of her songs as her anthem. That was how she felt—not emancipated in a Gloria Gaynor “I Will Survive” kind of way as she had when she’d first grappled with the decision to end her marriage, but free and light and breathy with possibility.

This time they toasted without prompting, relaxed by the sand beneath their toes, the water that surrounded them, and the star-filled sky that hung over them.

“My good thing is the plans for Mermaid Point,” Avery said, flushed with excitement. “I don’t think even William Hightower will find fault with them.”

“I’m going with that tonight, too,” Deirdre said. “My good thing is being allowed to contribute to those plans. And I agree that not even William Hightower will be able to find fault with them.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Kyra said. “And I’m also glad that we seem to have lost Frick and Frack for the evening.” She held Dustin tightly in her lap. “It’s nice to just be lost in the crowd.”

“I’m glad to be here with you all and in this moment,” Maddie said, a little more fervently than she’d meant to. “I feel like I could sit here forever.”

They raised their glasses and drank their frozen concoctions as the night settled around them and the warm breeze riffled their hair.

“Well, I’m grateful to our captain for springing us from captivity. And my good thing is his . . . ‘pink Cadillac . . .’” Nicole sang the last words in a poor imitation of Bruce Springsteen then pointed at Avery.

“‘Crushed velvet seats . . .’” Avery sang, handing off to Maddie, who chimed in, “‘Riding in the back of a . . .’”

Kyra squeezed Dustin tightly and all of them shouted, “Kink Padiback!”

Maddie laughed, feeling wonderfully light and buoyant. She was still smiling when she excused herself and practically floated up the walkway and over the small bridge in search of the ladies’ room.

Her eyes skimmed right out over the deck, past the bar, then left. She froze briefly at the sight of William Hightower sitting and chatting at a table with Hudson Power.

Hudson’s face lit up when he spotted her. He stood and beckoned her over. William looked up, too, but his dark face was unreadable.