by Wendy Wax
“We should be able to pitch other networks now that we have a track record of sorts. HGTV would probably be the best fit,” Nikki said.
This time it was Avery who groaned. She’d been pushed out of her original HGTV series Hammer & Nail after the network turned her into the Vanna White of the DIY set and her ex-husband, Trent, into the star of the show. Then Lifetime had taken the renovation show they’d envisioned and made it over into a mean-spirited reality TV show. “No, thanks,” Avery said. “I’d love to find a way to produce something of our own. Even if we started with a pilot that would demonstrate our vision for the show to potential backers.”
“Me, too,” said Kyra, who’d also been pushed out and devalued over the last two renovations while forced to watch as Dustin was used to draw viewers and unwanted media attention.
“If we did something of our own it would have to be local since we can’t afford to travel,” Avery said. “And we’d need an interesting property owned by someone with an actual renovation budget.”
“If we go it on our own, we’d have to fund production, too,” Kyra said. “I mean, I can shoot and edit pretty economically, but we’d need at least another production person and we’d need more in the way of editing than I can do with my own equipment.”
They’d all gotten a lump sum when Bella Flora had sold. But given their debts and their lack of real income, that money was dwindling, not growing.
“And we wouldn’t even have the insulting pittance the network gave us,” Nikki added. There was another silence.
“We can all live here,” Kyra said. “We wouldn’t have a mortgage or rent payment or anything, but we still need to pay for utilities and food and, I don’t know, I love Bella Flora and I still can’t believe Daniel bought her for Dustin and me, but she’s not exactly cheap to run or maintain.”
“Elegant grande dames never are,” Maddie said looking around her. “We owe it to her and ourselves to figure this out.”
“I thought we weren’t going to actually talk about this until tomorrow,” Nikki said over the top of her now-empty wineglass. “Do I need to grab another bottle?”
“No,” Avery said. “We’re done. But I’m glad we’ve laid out the basic options so that our subconsciouses can mull them overnight.”
“I don’t think my subconscious is in mulling mode,” Nikki said. “I think it’s ready to start shrieking. All of these options have a certain nightmare quality to them.”
“I still think we have a great opportunity ahead,” Maddie said. “We just need to choose a path. I’m sure we can figure it out together.” She said this with all the certainty she could muster. But there was far more wishful thinking wrapped up in her pronouncement than she wanted to examine. The last time they’d had this conversation she’d insisted that the future looked so bright it would require sunglasses. But at the moment she’d settle for a flashlight and a really good road map.
Chapter Five
If Nikki’s subconscious had spent the night mulling, it hadn’t reached any significant conclusions. She woke early, still unsettled from the stray thoughts and worries that had floated through her dreams, her stomach in a knot. Not yet ready for coffee and unable to face food, she pulled on her running clothes, laced up her sneakers, and let herself out of the house. On the sidewalk that paralleled the beach, she stretched against the low cement wall in the early morning hush that matched the muted sky.
She jogged slowly, feeling her body loosen, nodding to the occasional passerby. At the Paradise Grille, already opening for breakfast, she took the steps down to the beach and headed north toward the Don CeSar.
As she ran, she scanned from the Gulf, across the beach, and up past the dunes and crossovers to the buildings at the beach’s edge. She passed other runners and a few early sun worshippers who were already spreading their blankets and setting up chairs. There were meanderers, too, and shell gatherers who moved from spot to spot with the concentration of art lovers at a museum. There were nods and smiles. No one, least of all Nikki, felt compelled to speak, but the atmosphere was friendly, hospitable. As if they all knew how lucky they were to be here at this particular moment.
She’d discovered Joe Giraldi running behind her on this very beach when he’d decided she was the FBI’s best chance of getting to Malcolm. She could picture Joe’s broad shoulders, the way they triangled down to slim hips and what could definitely be considered washboard abs. His interior was even more attractive. He was so many things the men she’d dated and even married were not. If only he were willing to leave things as they were, she knew the ever-present knot in her stomach would loosen.
Nikki arrived back at Bella Flora with a pleasant ache in her calves and feeling far more relaxed than when she’d left. She found Maddie in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator and scribbling on a yellow pad. The kitchen was a warm and welcoming space with its Spanish tile floor, reclaimed wood countertops, and soft green glass-fronted cabinets. Sunshine poured in the floor-to-ceiling windows and dappled the wood kitchen table. The coffeemaker gurgled sending the scent of dark roast mingling with something cheesy. “Mmmm, smells good. What’s in the oven?”
“Egg soufflés I had in the freezer,” Maddie replied. “I thought we should have something special for our ‘business’ brunch.”
“Sounds good to me,” Nikki said pulling a coffee mug from the cabinet.
“I think there’s enough fruit and coffee cake to round out breakfast, but I’m going to have to make a grocery run. It looks like Kyra and Dustin have been living on cereal, Goldfish crackers, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I’ll pass the list around so everyone can add any special requests.”
“Great,” Nikki said. “What can I do to help?”
“Could you set the table? And then maybe pour orange juice into this pitcher and cut the rest of the pineapple into the bowl of mixed fruit?” Maddie placed the juice and pineapple on the counter. “The soufflés should be out in twenty minutes.” She moved with an easy competence, the only one of them with bona fide homemaking credentials.
Thumps and murmurs from above indicated the others were up. Footsteps sounded on the back stairs. Maddie poured a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, and put it into Avery’s hands as she entered. Nikki’s mother had been too busy working multiple jobs trying to keep a roof over their heads to spend any real time creating a homey atmosphere beneath that roof, but Nikki had come to appreciate the warmth and comfort of a real home that Maddie had created in each of the places they’d found themselves.
“Bless you,” Avery said lowering her face to the mug and inhaling the scent. “I don’t suppose you have . . . ?”
Maddie placed a small chunk of coffee cake into Avery’s other hand.
“You are magnificent.” Avery’s eyes opened another notch. She sniffed appreciatively. “Are those egg soufflés?”
“They are.”
Avery smiled with pleasure. Her eyes opened fully. “I’m going to nominate you for sainthood. What do you think of Madeline Singer, Patron Saint of Mornings?”
Maddie laughed. “I’m not sure my soufflés merit that degree of religious zeal. They are the never-fail version, nowhere near as fancy as their name implies. But thanks for the vote.”
“Hey, they’re poufy and filled with cheese,” Avery said after another long pull on her coffee. “Is there a patron saint of stomachs?”
“If there were, I’m pretty sure you’d already know about it. I don’t understand how you can eat all the crap you do without gaining weight,” Nikki said.
Everyone was present and accounted for by the time the soufflés came out of the oven all golden brown and impressively puffed up.
“I love egg soufflés,” Avery said.
“That’s just because they’re as close to a Cheez Doodle as anyone’s willing to give you this early in the morning,” Nikki pointed out.
“True,”
Avery agreed. “Maybe next time we should try crumbling Cheez Doddles on the top.”
Everyone dug into breakfast with gusto. Avery gave them a few minutes before calling the meeting to order. “So,” she asked after a last forkful of soufflé. “Do we want to discuss each possibility and go over the pros and cons? Or should we take a vote and see if we already have a consensus?”
“Why don’t we take a vote and see where we are,” Maddie said.
“Okay, all in favor of pursuing a conversation with Lifetime’s new production head say aye.”
Nikki raised her hand. “Aye.”
“All in favor of approaching other networks?” Avery said.
Again, Nikki responded with an “aye.” Maddie joined her.
Seeing his grandmother’s response, Dustin raised his hand and chimed in with a loud “Hay!”
“All in favor of finding a project and producing Do Over ourselves as originally envisioned?” Avery’s hand went up the moment she’d finished speaking. Kyra’s joined hers.
“Does the vote have to be unanimous?” Maddie asked.
“Good question,” Avery said. “That would be nice, but I’m not sure how we’re going to get there.”
They considered each other. The decision was large. The risks even larger no matter which choice they made.
“Listen,” Nikki said. “I’m tired of working for other people and being abused in the process. I’ve had more than enough humiliation to last me pretty much forever.”
There were nods and murmurs of agreement.
“But renovating and producing on our own, not to mention purchasing airtime? That’s a lot to take on. And to find investors we’ll need real numbers and time for fund-raising. We could spend a year figuring it out and trying to secure the money.” Nikki shook her head. “And that could be a year without income.”
There was a silence as they all absorbed this.
“I’d like to find a way to do our own thing,” Maddie said finally. “But I think Nikki’s right. We need to pursue all of our options so that we can make an informed decision.”
“Agreed,” Avery said. “But we need to find a renovation project to even come up with a budget. And the only way I’d agree to go back to Lifetime or any other network is if the renovation, and not humiliating us, is the focus of the program. Which means we choose the project so there are no unpleasant surprises.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Since we need to stay local I can ask Chase and his dad to keep an eye out in the Tampa market.” She paused for a sip of coffee. “And whatever we choose needs to be architecturally interesting with some sort of . . . history.”
Nikki pushed her plate away, her appetite disappearing as she contemplated the number of hurdles they were going to need to jump.
“I saw something unusual yesterday that might be worth taking a look at,” Kyra said wiping egg and coffee cake crumbs from Dustin’s hands and face. “It’s just up the beach. I stumbled on it by accident.”
“Really?” Avery asked. “Is it a bungalow? Or one of the smaller Mediterranean-style houses?”
“Not exactly.” Kyra shifted uneasily in her seat. “It’s a small hotel not too far from the Don CeSar.”
“We’ve never done a hotel before,” Maddie said. “Is there a For Sale sign? Or a real estate company listed?”
“No. It doesn’t seem to be for sale.” A strange look crossed Kyra’s face. “And it’s just sort of sitting there . . . abandoned.”
“That’s odd,” Maddie said, her eyes on Kyra’s face.
“Yeah and that’s not all,” Kyra said. “I Googled it early this morning. And I got a lot of hits.”
“Oh?” Nikki brightened. “Did somebody famous own it? Or sleep there? An interesting history would definitely help pull an audience.”
“It has a history, all right,” Kyra said. “Only it’s not a happy one.” She paused. “A man died there under mysterious circumstances in the early fifties. The main suspect disappeared the same day and was never found.”
Chapter Six
If you wanted to know anything that had happened on Pass-a-Grille since the first homestead was established in the tiny fishing village back in the 1880s, the man to ask was John Franklin, who had grown up in its two and a half square miles, sold a good share of its real estate, and striven to preserve its history for most of his eighty-plus years.
Avery, Maddie, Kyra, and Dustin arrived unannounced at the small bungalow that housed Franklin Realty and found John’s wife, Renée, at the reception desk giving a potted plant a stern talking-to. As head of the Pass-a-Grille Garden Club, and the person who’d orchestrated the restoration of Bella Flora’s original gardens, Renée could coax and/or command desired results out of most anything with a trunk, stalk, or petal. Avery thought she was pretty good at coaxing desired results out of people, too.
“Hello. How great to see you.” Renée moved toward them, her smile warm and welcoming, her suntanned arms already reaching out for Dustin. Recognizing a grandmother when he saw one, Dustin leaned toward those arms and happily accepted the hug and kiss she gave him. “I heard you were gathering at Bella Flora,” she said running a hand through layers of short gray hair. “Come on in. John’s in the conference room. I’ve got coffee and cupcakes.”
Dustin’s smile grew. “Cut cakes! Choc cut, Neh Nay?”
“Absolutely,” she replied leading them into the room with its mahogany table and chairs set in front of a large plate glass window. It was here that they’d signed the papers selling Bella Flora to a then-unknown buyer.
“Well, hello.” John Franklin stood.
They came one by one to hug him. His shoulders were stooped and his cane stood at the ready. But his basset hound eyes were sharp and the ruff of white hair encircling his bald head gave him a rakish look. His weathered face was wreathed in smiles. “I heard you were all back. It’s wonderful to see you.”
He motioned them to seats and Renée hustled out briefly, returning with a tray of drinks and cupcakes. Dustin’s was placed on a large paper napkin in front of him. He wasted no time in lifting it in both hands and aiming it toward his mouth.
“Now then, to what do we owe this pleasure?” the Realtor asked jovially. “You’ve already got the best property on Pass-a-Grille.” He had believed that even when Bella Flora smelled like a men’s locker room and had varmints living in its vacant rooms. As it turned out, Avery thought, he’d been right.
“We were hoping you could tell us something about the Sunshine Hotel,” Kyra said.
“Ahh.” He busied himself creaming and sugaring his coffee, but his eyes had lost some of their sparkle.
Renée took the seat next to him. The husband and wife exchanged glances.
“What is it you’d like to know?” he asked.
“I happened on it by accident the other day when I was out on the beach with Dustin,” Kyra said. “We’ve been here on and off for almost three years and I never even knew it existed.”
He nodded in acknowledgment, but said nothing. Renée shifted in her seat.
“It seemed strange that it would just be sitting there rotting away. But there was no For Sale sign or anything,” Kyra said. “Do you know who owns it?”
John looked down into his coffee cup, but still made no move to pick it up. “Yes.”
“I looked it up online,” Kyra said. “It opened in 1942 and was owned by a man named Ezra Handleman.”
The Realtor nodded but made no comment.
“Most of the articles were about a man, one of the Handlemans, who died there in the early fifties. His wife disappeared the same night. Police named her as the main suspect but they never found her.”
“Yes.” The Realtor exchanged another glance with his wife. Both Franklins remained uncharacteristically quiet.
“But I couldn’t find any m
ention of the hotel or the Handleman family after the hotel closed in the eighties,” Kyra added.
The Realtor nodded.
“Can you tell us anything about the current owner or the property?” Avery asked.
Renée reached over and busied herself straightening Dustin’s crumb-covered and increasingly tattered napkin. Her husband watched her for a long moment.
“All I can tell you is that the owners have no interest in selling,” John said.
“Well, that’s not a problem,” Avery replied. “We’re not in any position to buy it.”
“What is your interest in the property, then?” Renée looked up from the tattered napkin, her expression wary.
“We’re looking for a project to renovate,” Avery said. “Our relationship with the network is—under review.” Though there had been some press at the time, the network had not yet gone public with their mass resignation, no doubt saving it for the finale of season two, which would air that summer. “We want to do a less exploitive version of Do Over.”
“They were very heavy-handed with Dustin and with poor Max Golden,” Renée said quietly referring to the owner of the home they’d renovated on South Beach.
Dustin, who had been single-mindedly consuming his cupcake, looked up at this. “Gax! Neh Nay!” He reached out a chocolate-covered hand and patted Renée’s arm. Her features softened as he clambered onto her lap.
“We need a project, one we choose and control ourselves,” Avery said. “And we need it to be as close to home as possible.”
“I understand,” the Realtor said. “Normally I’d love to see one of our historically interesting properties getting attention.” John stirred his coffee carefully. “But in this case . . .”
“Couldn’t you just ask the owner for permission to show it to us?” Avery interrupted, hoping to forestall the “no” that was clearly coming. “So we could determine whether it would even be a viable project?”