Ocean Beach (4 page)

He smiled again and ran a hand through his short dark hair. “She’s trying, you know.” They stepped apart as Deirdre reappeared.

“Maybe.” But with Deirdre there was inevitably an angle. Something self-serving that you only discovered when it was too late to protect yourself. Avery wasn’t sure what she dreaded more, dealing with Deirdre or the network.

He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. “The power of attorney with you listed as my legally designated representative is in here along with a copy of my contractor’s license.”

“Thanks.”

“You can call me anytime,” he said. “You know, to consult.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” she replied. She’d grown up on her father’s construction sites and she was, after all, a trained architect.

“I could put together a list of potential subs through people I know down there. And I thought we could do a conference call once a week. I know you—”

Avery put a finger to his lips to stop him. While she needed the POA to pull permits and satisfy the municipality, she didn’t need Chase Hardin or anyone else to get her through this renovation. She raised her chin and silently dared him to argue, but inside she could feel the flutter of nerves.
Do Over
was more than a renovation project—way more. It was a lifeline for all of them. There could be no screwups.

She gave him a last kiss and Deirdre gave him a hug. They both watched him climb back into his truck and drive
off, only wedging themselves into the Mini Cooper when Chase’s taillights had disappeared from view.

She didn’t speak to Deirdre as they left Pass-a-Grille and turned onto the Pinellas Bayway. Nor did she waste a thought on how uncomfortable Deirdre must be with the travel case on her lap and the purse balanced between her feet. She drove onto the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, which soared high above Tampa Bay, lost in her thoughts. All of those thoughts were unsettling.

She and her mostly merry band were headed to an alien city where they would be expected to renovate a house they’d never seen for an owner they knew nothing about. And they had to keep things interesting enough while they did it to convince the network that
Do Over
deserved to exist.

Avery’s hands tightened on the wheel. She knew the sinking sensation in her stomach had nothing to do with the dizzying height of the bridge, but everything to do with fear of the fall.

It was almost 7:30
P.M.
by the time they reached the MacArthur Causeway, which would deposit them on Miami’s South Beach. Avery’s bare skin was sunburned. Her hair, which had already blown to smithereens hours ago, was heavy with dirt and barely moved in the warm salt-tinged breeze coming off Biscayne Bay. The sun was at half-mast as they caught their first glimpses of the docked cruise ships in the Port of Miami, then watched Palm, Hibiscus, and Star Islands whiz by.

“Nervous?” Deirdre asked.

“No, of course not,” Avery lied. They were at the corner of Fifth and Ocean Drive, facing the palm-tree-studded
beach that bounded the Atlantic Ocean. It was time to call in for the address of the house they’d be renovating. In a matter of minutes, all her vague fears and worries could be put to rest. Or prove far worse than she’d imagined.

She felt Deirdre’s eyes on her. “The call can wait a couple of minutes,” Deirdre said. “Take a left. We deserve at least a drive-by of the Art Deco District.”

A text “dinged” in but Avery was already turning. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear a celestial choir kick in as she spotted the first of the historic district’s famously restored hotels. She held her breath, drinking in the tropical Art Deco façades and details, many of which echoed the themes and shapes of ships at sea. She drove as slowly as she could past the Park Central, the Beacon, the Colony, the Clevelander, the Carlyle. For ten fabulous blocks she pushed both the worry and the anticipation aside.

At a red light, she glanced down at the texts that had continued to ding in.

We’re here. Where r u?
Like the sender, Nicole Grant’s text was direct and to the point.

Madeline Singer, whose thumbs and her iPhone often seemed at odds, had sent one that read,
Ee rhrwre. Bit te plce is…‘awh7gfplndy’

Kyra’s text arrived next. It sucked the air from Avery’s lungs.

“What?” Deirdre asked. “What is it?”

Avery held her phone out so that Deirdre could see.
Were you expecting film crew today?

“Shit,” Deirdre said.

“No kidding,” Avery said. She’d planned to have the weekend to get settled in and come up with some sort of plan.

Camera is on us, not house!!!
Avery felt a flutter of panic at the exclamation points at the end of Kyra’s next text.

Another text from Maddie arrived and Avery had a flash of Madeline, Kyra, and Nicole standing next to one another, fingers flying. It was an image that might have made her smile if not for the unexpected film crew and the near clarity of Maddie’s message. It read,
Uree pup!

Meridian Avenue was tree-lined and well maintained with a mishmash of single-family homes and small apartment and condo buildings that ranged from spectacularly restored to “please pull me down.” Lush tropical plants and flowers spilled over wrought-iron gates and rose junglelike above stucco walls. New plantings dotted the islands of fresh dirt between the sidewalk and the curb and the streetlights were sleek and black and looked newly installed.

Number 301 took up most of one corner of Meridian and Third and was bounded by a shoulder-high wrought-iron gate that was only marginally taller than much of the grass inside it. A section of gate stood open and Avery pulled across the sidewalk and onto the concrete strip driveway next to Nicole’s Jag and beside Madeline’s minivan.

She and Deirdre climbed out of the car, staring up at the imposing two-story structure. “They couldn’t have picked a house that was more ‘you,’” Deirdre observed as
they both took in the house’s streamlined design and whimsical nautical accents.

This was true, but Avery had no idea what, if anything, it signified. The house had magnificent bones, but its gouged plaster walls and the hodgepodge of window types and paint colors attested to long years of neglect.

Avery craned her neck in search of the others, but the grounds were a Florida fantasy run amok, overgrown and unkempt. Not sure they could actually make it through the yard without a native guide and pith helmets, they walked back out the gate and down the sidewalk to the front of the house, where they found Madeline, Kyra, and Nicole trying to ignore the two-man film crew and the camera and microphone currently aimed right at them.

The cameraman was tall with shaggy sun-streaked blond hair. The audio guy had a dark beard and a teddy-bear face. He was considerably shorter and stockier than the camera guy, with a thatch of dark hair that barely reached the video camera that sat on his partner’s well-developed shoulder. They both looked to be somewhere in their twenties.

The camera and boom microphone swung toward Avery and Deirdre as they drew closer. Avery could practically feel the video camera’s boxy lens zooming in for its close-up. She tried to imagine what it was focusing on; the jiggle of her breasts in the unfortunate halter top or the expanse of skin bared by the even more unfortunate Daisy Dukes.

“I don’t want to hear anything that sounds like ‘I told you so,’” she muttered to Deirdre out of the side of her mouth.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Deirdre replied. “Even though this is exactly what I was trying to protect you from.”

“And no performing for the camera,” Avery added. As soon as there was a camera within a five-mile radius, Deirdre had a tendency to flip the on switch.

“Who me?” Deirdre asked innocently, but her smile had already spread attractively across her face and she’d tilted her chin at an angle designed to camouflage neck sag.

The women hugged stiffly, all of them aware of their unexpected audience. Nicole looked the most together in one of her vintage sundresses, her deep red hair swirling around her slim shoulders. Maddie looked exhausted, the eleven-plus-hour drive from Atlanta with Kyra and her baby written all over her.

Kyra had fared better, but then when you were twenty-four, long hours were not as formidable an enemy. Her long dark hair had been pulled back in a ponytail and she neither wore, nor needed, makeup. Her tall, lean frame had grown curvier with motherhood and she held the baby easily in her arms, his head of dark curly hair resting on her shoulder, a thumb slipped into his bow-shaped mouth. At six months, he was already a dead ringer for his famous father.

Kyra made the introductions, her lips tight with suppressed anger, her free hand on the video camera that dangled at her side. “This is Troy,” she said nodding curtly to the tall, blond, broad-shouldered young man whose chiseled features could have easily put him in front of the camera rather than behind it. “That’s Anthony on audio.”

Anthony nodded. His eyes were dark and crinkly and his smile was far readier than the cameraman’s.

Kyra reached out and pushed the camera lens aside. “I was told someone might be sent down later this week to start picking up some extra video,” she said. “I don’t understand what you’re doing here now.”

“I would think that’s kind of obvious,” the cameraman replied, swinging the camera back into position.

“I shot all the footage at Bella Flora,” Kyra said. “And it was my YouTube posts of the renovation that led to the whole series idea.” She resettled the baby on her hip.

The cameraman shrugged, but he didn’t lower his camera.

“We weren’t expecting a crew,” Kyra said again. “And we don’t need one.”

“Noted,” Troy said. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d shift slightly to your left so I can get a better shot of the baby.”

Kyra’s gray eyes flashed with fury. “No,” she said, shifting her weight so that he couldn’t shoot around her. “Dustin’s not pertinent to the project. As far as I’m concerned, he’s off-limits.”

Troy’s finger moved on the zoom, but his movements were subtle and Avery couldn’t tell whether he was zooming in to try to frame a shot of the baby or out to include all of them.

Unease snaked up Avery’s spine. She knew just how little a network could care about what its talent thought or felt. “Look,” she said. “We realize we need to document the experience here, but we have Kyra and none of us signed on for constant surveillance.” Even as she said this she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised that a network that would force them to choose a renovation project sight unseen would want to record their initial reactions. “We’re here to do a renovation, not a reality show.”

Kyra reached out again and pushed the camera lens away. “That’s right,” she said as the rest of them nodded their agreement. “And my son is off-limits.”

“Sorry,” Troy said, his tone making it clear he wasn’t.
“There is no ‘off-limits’ that I’m aware of. We’re here twenty-four/seven and we shoot what we see.”

Without discussion, Avery, Nicole, Deirdre, and Madeline stepped closer to Kyra to form a protective circle around Dustin. They were still huddled in the waning light, unsure how to end the standoff, when the front door creaked open.

The camera, the microphone, and all of their gazes swung toward the figure that stepped out of it.