Page 9 of Ten Beach Road

Four

Working with your ex-husband was almost as much fun as a double root canal. Without anesthesia. Doing it in front of television cameras was four impacted wisdom teeth thrown in.

Avery Lawford stood between her ex-husband, Trent, and a Sub-Zero refrigerator on the studio set of a partially remodeled kitchen. Behind them the key grip adjusted their backlights. Arranged in a loose triangle in front of them, three cameramen ran through their moves. Trent leaned against a nearby counter, reading through his lines on the teleprompter while their makeup woman, Dorothy, carefully mopped his brow and applied a fresh dusting of powder. Avery got a quick pouf of her shoulder-length blonde hair and a smear of gloss on her already heavily painted lips.

“When we’re back in, we’re going to get a close-up of Avery smiling and motioning to the corner cabinet that Trent just installed. Dottie, spray her hair some more so that it can’t fall forward. It’s hiding her, um, profile.” This was Jonathan the director’s euphemism for cleavage, which always seemed to get more close-ups than the rest of her.

“Camera one, I want you to stay with Trent. Camera two, you’re going to start tight as he explains the installation and then pull out to a two shot. Three, you’re tight on Avery. I’ll cut to a shot of her looking up at him impressed.”

Avery flushed with anger and bit back a retort as the hair person did as instructed and the wardrobe mistress tugged on the back of Avery’s fuchsia sweater, which had to be a full size too small, so that the deep V dipped even lower.

When they’d sold the first season ofHammer and Nailto HGTV, she and Trent had been cohosts in the truest sense of the word. Married for three years at the time, she’d been designing single family homes for the Bradley Group, an architectural firm in the Nashville area. Trent was sales manager for a well-known cabinet manufacturer and dabbled at designing custom furniture on the side. On a whim, they’d documented their own home remodel and then turned the footage into a demo for a weekly do-it-yourself show.

For the first three seasons their on-camera time and billing had been pretty equal. But then the network had hired a new program director who’d wasted no time turning Trent into the main spokesperson and “expert.” Avery became his “assistant.” Over the last twelve months, during which their marriage had deteriorated and then limped to an end, her role had shrunk even further until she was little more than the Vanna White of the remodeling set.

“Stand by. We’re on in ten.” The floor director held up both hands and then began the countdown. When only an index finger remained, she pointed it at Trent. The light on his close-up camera glowed red.

Trent flashed an easy smile directly into the camera’s boxy lens. Sliding the hammer back into his tool belt, he read the lines on the teleprompter that explained how he’d affixed the cabinet to the wall. The light on Avery’s camera blinked on and she turned her gaze to Trent’s face.

Just over six feet tall with broad shoulders, strong, even features, and a Cary Grant–like cleft in his chin, Trent Law-ford was just as good-looking now as he was the day he’d first called on the Bradley Group. She’d been attracted to his air of calm confidence infused with ambition and swept along by his easy charm. It was only later after the yearlong courtship and the planning of their wedding followed by the excitement of buying and remodeling their first home that she’d begun to realize still waters did not necessarily run deep. And the air of confidence masked a deep-seated need for attention.

One day she’d realized that her frantic treading of those too-still waters was barely keeping them afloat. Her father’s death had stripped away all patience for pretense.

“Cut.” The director’s voice rang out on set. “Avery, you can’t roll your eyes like that when you’re in the shot. You’re supposed to be pointing and smiling. And nodding in agreement.”

Avery sighed. She’d done so much nodding lately she felt like a bobblehead doll.

Trent raised an eyebrow in her direction. His lips twisted into a bit of a smirk. He’d been shocked when she’d first questioned the direction, or lack thereof, of their marriage. Given the number of women who’d pursued him over the years, it had clearly never occurred to him that any woman, especially his wife, might question her luck in landing him. In Trent’s estimation, if neither party was lying or cheating, there was no problem and certainly no reason to put the relationship under a microscope. His shock had turned to anger when, in the wake of her father’s unexpected death, she’d pulled out not only a microscope but a dissection kit. By the time it was over, the dissatisfaction had been all his; the fault all hers.

“Let’s try it again,” Jonathan said.

Trent smiled into the camera and removed the hammer from his tool belt to start the second take. Over the top of the three cameras Avery spotted Victoria Crosshaven, the network’s program director, watching intently. Somewhere in her early fifties, Victoria had a good fifteen years on both Avery and Trent, but she was still beautiful in a knife-edged, well-preserved way.

The red light on the center camera flashed on as the floor director lowered her hand once again. Trent slid the hammer into his tool belt and delivered his lines. This time Avery flashed her most admiring smile, batted her eyelashes, then pointed happily at the cabinet, even though she could see that he’d hung it more than a little off center.

“Cut! That’s the look!” Jonathan’s voice boomed through the intercom. “Let’s break for lunch. I want everybody back in exactly one hour.”

The set began to empty as Victoria Crosshaven strode past the cameras to where Avery and Trent still stood. James, their producer, followed.

“You were great,” Victoria said to Trent. “You are golden on camera. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows it.”

She motioned James closer. “I thought we might add a viewer mail section for the next season. Maybe Trent could answer questions about architectural design and home styles.”

“That’s a great idea,” James said. “We’ve had viewers asking for something like that.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “But Avery is actually the degreed architect. Maybe we should have her handle that segment.”

There was a brief but potent silence. Avery stepped into it, forcing her way into Victoria’s line of sight. James put a warning hand on Avery’s shoulder.

“I’ll give it some thought,” the network exec said without an ounce of sincerity. She looked Avery up and down. “Great sweater.” Her smile was dismissive as she hooked her arm through Trent’s and led him off the set.

Avery spent most of their lunch break fuming. “The whole idea forHammer and Nailwas mine,” she pointed out to James. “I’m the one who pitched it. And I’m the one who sold it to the network. And now I’ve been reduced to smiling and pointing like I don’t have an architectural degree or a thought in my head. I grew up on my dad’s construction sites. I redesigned Barbie’s Dream House and the interior of her Motorhome when I was eight.” She took a sip of ice water but could barely swallow it. “Can Victoria just do whatever the hell she wants?”

“Yes,” James said with complete certainty.

Avery touched a hand to the poufy blonde do. “I feel like a Dolly Parton imitator.” She shoved her plate away. “It’s so humiliating.”

She saw agreement in James’s eyes along with something else she couldn’t identify.

“All I know is I’m not signing any contract that doesn’t give me equal billing and promotion.” She glanced down at the sweater that would have been too tight on a B cup, let alone her D. “And I think a wardrobe clause might be in order.”

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