Page 23 of Ten Beach Road

They agreed, leaving their cars in the drive and walking to the Paradise Inn’s tiny office. Tomorrow morning the fate of their beachfront mansion and their summer would be sealed.

Somewhere around three A.M. Madeline gave up trying to sleep and simply lay in bed waiting for daylight. She watched the sunrise over Boca Ciega Bay through the parted curtains of the cottage window. With hours left before they were to meet, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and dressed. Tucking her cell phone into her pocket, Madeline headed toward the beach.

Lingering in front of Ten Beach Road, Madeline watched the house emerge from shadow as the morning sun began its ascent and deepened the pale gray sky to a robin’s egg blue. The house was battered and bruised. It had been buffeted by sand and wind and time. Worn down. Neglected. But did that mean it should be torn down and carted away?

In a perfect world, this house should be showered with love, carefully restored, and sold to someone who would appreciate it. But she had reason to know this was not a perfect world. And rather than fretting over Bella Flora’s fall from glory, she should be calculating its monetary value. Could they really finish the house under Chase Hardin’s direction? And if they did somehow manage this by Labor Day, how long would it take to find a buyer?

It was a gamble all around, filled with uncertainties; one she’d be taking with two total strangers who had their own goals and agendas she knew nothing about. And who were not, by all appearances, anywhere near as desperate as she was. She thought about Avery Lawford’s television series and her career as an architect, Nicole Grant’s classic car and vintage clothes, not to mention her high-profile matchmaking business.

Would it be better to simply tear the house down and hope the land would sell quickly? But where would she come up with the five thousand dollars for her share of the demolition? She didn’t even know how they were going to hang on financially without having to dig into what little they had left.

Madeline followed the sandy path that led to the jetty and forked to the beach. At the end of the concrete pier a handful of fishermen were already baiting hooks and casting their lines. The seabird population loitered with intent—the more patient pelicans hunkered on boulders and pilings waiting to see what might be caught and tossed their way while their less patient relatives skimmed low over the water and dive-bombed at will. Sleek white herons perfectly balanced on one pick-up-stick leg arched S-shaped necks and stared out to sea.

The beach itself was postcard perfect, the sugar white sand so pristine she felt almost guilty marring it. Removing her sandals, she stepped gingerly onto the cushion of night-cooled sand. Dangling her sandals between the fingers of one hand, she began to walk along the water’s edge, her bare toes sinking into the damp sand and enjoying the feel of the water playing over them.

For a while she just walked, the Gulf sparkling blue green on her left, the breeze coming off it so light its surface barely rippled. Schools of needlelike fish darted in the shallows, turning on a dime and moving with military precision. Ahead of her the beach stretched in a gentle curve well past the Don CeSar. On her right, beyond the clumps of seaweed deposited at high tide, wooden walkways arched over the dunes to the sidewalk, protecting them and the wildlife that sought refuge there.

Seagulls flew overhead, gliding and diving while a flock of smaller birds raced here and there on impossibly fragile legs. As she passed the Paradise Grille, where they’d agreed to meet for breakfast, the flow of people increased. Some stopped to search for treasures in the sand while others moved at a faster pace, but no one intruded with more than a smile or a nod.

As she walked Madeline’s gaze scanned from the Gulf, across the beach, and up to the homes and condos—many of them large and clearly expensive—that bracketed the beach on her right.

She drew in soothing lungfuls of the warm, salt-tinged air and lost herself in the gentle rhythm of the water as it advanced and retreated. Everything slowed, her heartbeat, the swirl of her thoughts, the pitch of the panic that had consumed her since Steve’s confessions. She wished he were here with her now to share in the decisions that had to be made. The “old” Steve wouldn’t have been intimidated by Nicole or in awe of Avery. But then if Steve were himself, these decisions wouldn’t feel so much like brain surgery, and she wouldn’t be so horribly afraid that the wrong choice would put her family’s future at even greater risk.

Before she could stop herself she hit the speed dial for home and lifted the cell phone to her ear; the ringing was harsh and discordant against the wash of gentle sounds around her.

“Singer residence.” Her mother-in-law’s voice was not the one she’d been hoping to hear.

“Edna? It’s Madeline. Is Steve there?”

“Oh.” Madeline could picture the pinched lips that had produced the word. “He’s . . . resting.”

Madeline couldn’t stop the thought “from what?” that popped into her head. Ashamed, she drew in another breath of beach air and expelled it slowly. “Could you get him on the phone for me, please? I need to speak to him.”

“But he’s . . .”

“Edna, I have to speak to him. Now.” Madeline tried to focus on the feel of the sand beneath her feet and the warmth of the sun on her back. She did not want to think about the fact that her mother-in-law had started screening her son’s calls.

“Well!” Edna huffed. A few moments later Madeline heard the murmur of voices and then the blare of the television as Steve came on the phone.

“Hi,” he said, and she wondered how one word could convey such defeat. “Have you seen the house yet?”

“Yes. Yesterday,” she said. “It’s, um, it is, um, actually a really interesting house. And large—about eight thousand square feet. It was built in the twenties.”

“And?”

“And it’s beautiful. Well, it was beautiful,” she amended. “And apparently it’s a great architectural specimen. The style is called Mediterranean Revival.”

There was a small sound of surprise. “Really? That’s great.” It was the most enthusiastic she’d heard him in far too long. “How much can we get for it?”

“Well, that kind of depends on what we decide to do to it.”

“Do to it?” Wariness crept back into his tone. “I thought we were just going to sell it and take our third.”

Madeline stared out over the Gulf, processing his use of the word “we.” In the distance a person dangled from a brightly colored parasail tethered to a speedboat by a long umbilical cord.

“Yes, well, it’s not quite that simple. It needs work before it can be put up for sale. A good bit of work.”

“Jesus,” he said. “I should have known anything to do with Dyer would be bullshit.”

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