Wendy Wax - The House on Mermaid Point

The self-talk continued all the way up to Homestead, through Miami, and ultimately onto the MacArthur Causeway that spanned Biscayne Bay.

But as she turned off onto Palm Island and crossed the small bridge onto Hibiscus, she could tell that the self-talk wasn’t working. Because Joe was, well, Joe. And his parents were warm and funny and his sisters adored him and only wanted what they thought was best for him. Even Nonna Sofia, with her old-world accent, wasn’t guilty of anything but willful overfeeding.

How did you keep your guard up against any of that? Especially when you had no one left of your own flesh and blood; at least no one who hadn’t stolen from and betrayed you?

Nicole followed the curve of the oval-shaped strip of land to Joe’s house, an unpretentious one-story white stucco with a barrel-tile roof. Two rental cars were already in the drive along with Joe’s Jeep and the 1960 356 Porsche Speedster that was one of his few indulgences. Two of Joe’s nephews were out front tossing a football with their father.

She slowed, fighting off an embarrassing urge to just keep driving until the road looped around and led her back off Hibiscus.

“Hey, Nikki!”

Joe’s brother-in-law, Dom, snagged the football and ushered the boys onto the grass so that she could angle into the drive.

“Hi!” She smiled brightly as she parked and then thanked Joe’s nephew Gabriel for pulling her bag from the backseat. As she followed her advance greeting party Nicole kept the smile on her face. Inside, the Giraldis hugged and welcomed her so warmly that she had no choice but to give up the last lingering image of herself as a condemned prisoner being led before a firing squad. When Joe took her in his arms all thought of escape evaporated like willpower in the face of hand-rolled cannolis.

The Conch House Heritage Inn was comprised of two main buildings—a large white Victorian, with wraparound porches and Bahamian influences, and a shotgun-style house—both of which fronted on Truman Avenue in the heart of Old Town Key West. The grounds were lushly tropical and beautifully maintained; a far more contained and cultivated beauty than on Mermaid Point and the surrounding keys. The inn also featured on-site parking, which Chase informed her was highly prized; especially on a holiday weekend when Key West was packed with tourists who’d arrived in far more cars than the city had places to stash them.

“Sam Holland and I go way back,” Chase explained after he’d parked Avery’s Mini in one of those prized spaces, unloaded their bags, and led her up the steps of the main house. “This property has been in his family for generations, but Sam’s the one who renovated and turned it into a B and B.”

The “office” was an antique writing desk in a corner of the formal living room, a long space that overlooked the front porch and the pool. The floors were dark wood, the furniture that sat on them antique. The walls, which were accented with period trim, were decorated with family photos and memorabilia. Sam greeted them warmly, clapping Chase enthusiastically on the back and hugging Avery as if they, too, were old friends. He had an infectious enthusiasm that she had no doubt made total strangers feel equally welcome. “I’ve got you in the Marquesa suite on the second floor of the poolside cottage. It has a great view but it’s also extremely private.” He shot them a wink. “It’s one of our most requested suites.”

“Thanks, man.” Chase looked around appreciatively. “The place looks great. I know we’re both looking forward to hearing about the reno.”

Sam escorted them through the dining room and out to the railed porch overlooking the swimming pool. “We’ve got a full house so I’m kind of slammed this afternoon. But how about a grand tour after breakfast tomorrow? We serve from eight thirty to ten and a lot of people eat out here around the pool. I’ll need some sustenance before we talk about the renovation.” He laughed ruefully. “All’s well that ends well, but the renovation was of epic and sometimes terrifying proportions.”

“Ah.” Avery laughed. “I can relate. We’ll have to compare battle scars.”

Their room had tile floors and vaulted ceilings with exposed beams and was painted a tropical turquoise. Avery stepped out through French doors and inhaled the fragrant scents of frangipani and jasmine from the trees that climbed up over the private balcony. “Mm-mm. I think I’m starting to unwind already.”

“Me, too.” Chase stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss just behind her ear. “In fact, I’m thinking maybe we need a bit of a nap.” He yawned unconvincingly.

“But there are so many things to do and we’re only here for a few days.”

“Mm-hm.” He nibbled on her earlobe, dropped his mouth to the nape of her neck.

“You know like the Hemingway House, and the Southernmost Point, and . . .” She swallowed as his hands moved up from her waist. “The . . . uh . . .” She shivered slightly at his touch. “The sunset celebration at Mallory Square. I hear that’s a must.”

He turned her gently to face him and covered her mouth with his.

When the kiss ended she was short of breath and her knees felt distinctly Jell-O-like. “I guess it is a little hot outside right now.”

“Extremely.” He kissed her again. “Extremely hot.”

She went up on the balls of her feet so that their bodies fit even more tightly, driving up the heat between them and leaving no doubt exactly how glad he was to see her.

“I’m going to make sure you see every single thing in those brochures you brought with you, Avery. And a couple of things that aren’t.”

“That’s good.” She sighed as he ran his hands over her. Her skin prickled with awareness. “About that nap, though . . .”

His hands cupped her bottom.

She rubbed against him. “I think I’m a little too . . . awake . . . now to . . . sleep.”

“Not all napping involves sleeping.” He slid a hand under her knees and lifted her easily. Her arms looped around his neck as he carried her inside.

“It’s been way too long, Avery.” He lowered her onto the bed. “Like an eternity.”

She smiled as he lifted his T-shirt up over his head, helped unfasten his shorts, felt a tug of desire when he shucked them.

“I’m not sure how restful this nap is going to be.” Chase settled next to her and began to unbutton her blouse. “But I guarantee we’re both going to feel a hell of a lot more relaxed afterward.”

* * *

Kyra drove over the Howard Frankland Bridge to St. Petersburg with one eye on the currently choppy waters of Tampa Bay and the other in the rearview mirror of the rental car. Dustin was sound asleep in his car seat. So far she’d seen no sign of a photographer of any kind. If she were lucky Nigel and the other paparazzi were still hanging around Islamorada and doing drive-bys of Mermaid Point. Or on their way to some other vacation spot where they could stalk new, hopefully more tabloid-worthy, game.

The Gandy and Courtney Campbell bridges, which spanned the bay on either side of the Howard Frankland, looked equally packed with cars headed toward the Gulf beaches. From the bridge she drove 275 to the Pinellas Bayway, which deposited her onto St. Pete Beach. At the light she came face-to-face with the Don CeSar Hotel, a huge pink wedding cake of a building with white-icing-trimmed windows and bell towers, then turned south onto the two-laned Gulf Boulevard. On Gulf Way she got her first full-on look at the Gulf of Mexico and the wide white beach that bounded it.

Breathing in the warm, salt-tinged air, she drove past mom-and-pop hotels edged up to new construction on her left. On her right, cars filled the parking spaces that angled up to the low concrete wall and sidewalk that paralleled the beach.

The blocks were short; the avenues that stretched from the bay to the Gulf were barely longer. She passed the Paradise Grille and the Hurricane, a name she’d always thought was asking for trouble on a vulnerable barrier island. Eighth Avenue, which served as Pass-a-Grille’s Main Street, came next.

Her heart sped up as she neared the tip of the island. It was the first time she’d been back to Ten Beach Road since Christmas, when she’d accidentally discovered that her parents were getting divorced and then heard from an enraged Tonja Kay that Daniel was Bella Flora’s mystery buyer.

Bella Flora stood tall and pink, a smaller, more intimate wedding cake confection than the Don CeSar, which had been built right around the same time. Rows of arched windows lined both stories and wrought-iron balconies hung beneath them. Her chimneys and bell towers rose above an angled barrel tile roof.

“Buhfora!” Dustin was awake, his face lit with a smile. “Buhfora!”

“That’s right, Dustin.” She pulled slowly into the bricked drive behind what looked like a pool maintenance truck. “You were still in my tummy the first time you came here.” She parked and unbuckled Dustin. “Let’s go see if your daddy’s here.”

She carried Dustin up the curved front steps to the heavy wooden door. It felt odd to ring the doorbell; odder still to arrive as a guest at a home she knew so intimately.

The bell echoed inside and she wondered if she should have just gone around back. Before she was ready the door opened and Daniel stood in the doorway. He was barefoot; his jeans hugged his slim hips. A short-sleeved work shirt, which had Pasadena Pools inscribed over the pocket, hung open, exposing his bare chest and his equally impressive abdomen. His eyes were warm and slightly curious as he ran a hand through his dark curls.