Page 17 of Ten Beach Road

“Wow.”

“Oh, my . . .”

“Good God!”

They stared in wonder out over the very tip of the tip of the barrier island and watched the bay and Gulf meet head-on in a choppy dance of whitecaps and sea swell. The water slapped into itself, swirling and eddying. They were surrounded by water on three sides, the house at their back. To the west a jetty angled out toward the shipping channels and, presumably, the distant shores of Mexico. On the east lay Boca Ciega Bay. But in front of them in this slim comma of water, the vastness of the Gulf funneled into the more intimate confines of the bay. Beyond the pass, small mounds of land poked haphazardly out of the water, seemingly uninhabited but for the birds using them as landing strips.

It was an intensely personal experience. Like having all of nature—sky and sea and everything that lived in either—performing for your own enjoyment.

“Nowthis,” Nicole said, “is worth serious money. But the house . . .” She didn’t even turn to look at it. “Maybe we should just knock it down.” Her hands fisted at her sides. Given all she’d been through, all she’d lost, she could probably pull the place down with her bare hands and call it therapy.

The little blonde tensed beside her and Madeline gave a small gasp of surprise as Nicole turned from the view to meet John Franklin’s eye. “There can’t be many pieces of property available with a better view or situation.”

“Well, no, there aren’t,” he conceded. “But you can’t just raze a home of this significance. It’s on the National Register as a designated property.”

“So we’re not allowed by law to demolish it?” Avery asked with what Nicole thought sounded like relief.

The Realtor looked distinctly uncomfortable. His ears turned a bright red. “I don’t see how, in good conscience, you could do that.”

“Conscience aside,” Madeline asked, her tone tentative, “could we?”

There was a protracted silence while Franklin apparently tried to come up with a stronger argument. Finally, he sighed and shifted his weight on the cane. “Unfortunately, we don’t actually have the power to prohibit that.” He brightened. “But there are some powerful tax and financial incentives to restore rather than tear down. And you gain an exemption from the FEMA fifty percent rule, which would allow you to put as much money as you wanted into the restoration.”

Nicole thought about just how much she could afford to put into this house. That amount was zero. “But we could tear it down and just list the lot?” Nicole asked, thinking at the moment she was, in fact, desperate enough to rip the structure apart with her bare hands.

“Well, you’d have to come before the preservation board and we, um, I meantheywould most likely impose a ninety-day waiting period in which you would be asked to hear reasons for choosing to restore or renovate. I think the community would do everything it could to stop the loss of such a significant property.”

“Such as?” Nicole pressed.

Franklin removed a white handkerchief and mopped his brow while Avery and Madeline looked on. In the end he didn’t answer her question, but said, “Even in this economy there is a market for well-restored, or even renovated, historic homes. I have a Realtor in my office who specializes in that and has a list of potential clients across the country. I believe that’s how we originally found Mr. Dyer.”

“Gee, and look how well that turned out,” Nicole said.

John Franklin cleared his throat; the wattle of extra skin that surrounded it shook. “Shall we?” Despite the cane and his age, he motioned them down the circular stair that led to the back courtyard, then followed carefully behind. He must have realized walking back through the house might send them running for the wrecking ball.

The exterior damage was worse back where the house met the elements head-on. Chunks of pale pink stucco and pieces of red roof tiles lay dashed against the concrete pool deck and surrounding bricked courtyard.

A drainpipe hung down the corner of the east wing and tapped rhythmically against the dented and chipped stucco, the tune dictated by the breeze. But it was harder to focus on the signs of neglect when you were surrounded by water that sparkled so brilliantly under such a cloudless blue sky.

“We’ve had sales of several renovated Mediterranean Revivals in the last year, none of them anywhere close to your property in size or relevance. And every one of them sold for several million dollars.”

Clearly, John Franklin was not yet ready to roll over and play dead. Nor had he forgotten how to sell. “You’ve got one hundred fifty feet of prime waterfront, far more than any of the others.”

“So how much do you think we could get just for the land?” Nicole asked. She felt like a dog with a bone in its mouth; one she couldn’t quite bring herself to drop or bury.

“Probably about three million,” Franklin conceded, turning his hound-dog eyes on the three of them. “But as an active member of the Gulf Beaches Historical Society and president of the preservation board, I have to say it would be criminal.”

There was a silence broken only by the caw of a seagull and the high whine of a wave runner speeding along the seawall’s edge. They were all smiling over the three million, their collective relief palpable. Nicole could taste it; her share would go a long way toward getting her life back on track in every way possible.

Franklin led them around the west side of the house and pointed out the path that led to the jetty, with its concrete fishing pier, and also forked to the beach, which really did stretch as far as the eye could see. Just a few steps from the front of their property, a sidewalk began. It was separated from the beach it paralleled by a barrier of sea oat–topped sand dunes.

At the Cadillac, Franklin stopped and reached in his pocket to pull out three keys, which he pressed into their palms. “Don’t be fooled by the dirt and grime,” he said, making eye contact with each of them in turn. “You need to wait out the summer anyway—nothing significant will sell until fall. And you’ll get far more if you use that time to finish the house properly. A well-done renovation in harmony with the house would allow us to ask for and get a full five million.”

He had their complete attention then and he knew it. John Franklin might be in his eighties, but he not only still knew how to sell, he knew how to make an exit. He handed them each his card and left them standing on the driveway, his stooped shoulders squared and his spine so straight Nicole wondered if the cane had been some sort of a prop rather than a necessity.

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