* * *

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.

Chapter Fourteen

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.”