Page 8 of Ten Beach Road

“No, Mom, it’s too late for that.”

She drew a deep breath, less worried now about serenity than not exploding.

“How can it be too late? You’ve got another month left and a final exam still to take.” She fingered the stem of her wineglass and looked at it with real longing, but there was not even a fraction of a drop left.

“I’ve got a fifty in that class.” There was a brief pause. “And a sixty-five in History. I may be able to pass, but my academic scholarship’s finished.”

Madeline heard the words, she processed them, but she simply couldn’t believe them.

“If I take them again this summer and get a B or better, I could get my GPA up where it needs to be by the end of next fall and re-qualify.”

Madeline reminded herself to remain calm, but it was a tall order. “You knew what you had to do to maintain that scholarship,” she said. “And the work is certainly not too difficult for you. How did this happen?” She had asked this question far too many times lately. And never once gotten a good answer.

“I guess I just got a little lazy,” he admitted sheepishly, as if he’d forgotten something insignificant like returning a library book on time. “If you just send me the tuition money for summer session, I’ll . . .”

“No.”

“What?” Clearly it had never occurred to him that his request might be refused.

Madeline couldn’t remember the last time they’d said no to Andrew, which just might be the problem. “No,” she said, careful not to raise her voice. “No.” She stood and paced the deck, knowing that there was no other answer she could give. “No scholarship, no Vanderbilt.”

“Aw, Mom, that’s not . . .”

“That’s the way it is. You’ll do everything you can to get those grades up and then you can come home and spend the summer working to earn next year’s tuition. Next year is on you.”

“But I can’t afford private school tuition. There’s no way I can . . .”

“Neither can we,” she said. “Not anymore. If you can’t make enough to go back, you’ll have to apply in state.”

“But . . .”

“There are no buts, Andrew. That’s just the way it is.”

“Put me on with Dad then,” Andrew said. “He’ll send me the money.”

“Your father’s not available.” This was the understatement of the century. “And he’s put me in charge of our finances.” This was far too true. “So I wouldn’t waste any time lobbying. Especially when you need to be spending that time studying.”

She said good-bye then, and for the first time in pretty much forever she didn’t feel at all guilty about saying no. She was in charge of their finances, by default perhaps, but nonetheless in charge. And she would have to figure out what to do next.

Treating herself to one last glass of wine, she carried it into the office and sat down at the desk. Pulling the crumpled letter from her pocket, she spread it out in front of her and reread it carefully. On the computer, she did a Google search of Pass-a-Grille and saw that it was a tiny comma-shaped spit of land that curved out into the Gulf of Mexico about midway down the west coast of Florida.

Then she Googled the names of the two other owners and discovered that one of them, Avery Lawford, was a host ofHammer and Nail—the remodeling show on HGTV that Edna liked to watch. The other was Nicole Grant, who was listed as founder and owner of Heart Inc., an elite matchmaking service with offices in New York and Los Angeles. Her résumé listed at least fifty marriages to her credit as well as a bestselling book on dating dos and don’ts.

Madeline spent another thirty minutes looking at both women and another fifteen trying to find a photo of the house they owned, but although she found its location, she was unable to get a clear look at it on Google Earth.

She could tell she had nothing in common with these women other than being taken by Malcolm Dyer. They were younger and far more glamorous, and she sincerely doubted that either of them was as desperate financially as she was. But surely they’d at least want to take a look at their asset? Or better yet, maybe one of them would like to buy out her share? Either way would give her a shot at covering their most pressing expenses until Malcolm Dyer was found and the remainder of their money returned.

“Please, God,” she thought as she dialed the first number. “Please let them catch him soon. And please don’t make these women too difficult to deal with.

“Oh, and while you’re at it,” Madeline Singer, who was now channeling not only the Little Red Hen but Chicken Little asked, “could you please keep the rest of the sky in place for a while?”

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