Christmas at the Beach

by Wendy Wax

  “That didn’t sound so good,” Avery says. “What’s the problem?”

  I try not to fidget in my seat. “Well, they really played up Max’s missing son. And Daniel’s visits to see Dustin. And Parker Amherst’s spectacular, um, meltdown. And, of course, our, um, personal issues.” I stop talking. Everyone looks a little sick to their stomach at the reminder that anyone who chooses to tune in—and we need there to be a ton of them—is going to know all kinds of things about us that we don’t want them to. “Troy kept Lisa Hogan happy.” I almost gag on the nasty network head’s name. “But he did try to protect us. In his way.” My voice peters out. “Can my good thing be that we could have looked worse?”

  There’s an uncomfortable beat of silence.

  “I’m not the good-enough police,” Mom says, just like she always does. But I can see how worried they look.

  “Your turn,” Mom says to Avery.

  Avery squirms in her seat. I don’t know if it’s because she hates admitting to anything good in front of Deirdre or something’s going on between her and Chase; Avery and Chase remind me of the whole two dogs, one bone thing.

  “Well, I do like working for my dad’s company. With Chase and his father.” She kind of mumbles this last part. “And with Deirdre.” This last is so quiet I almost miss it. “There’s a continuity to it that feels . . . good.” Her chin juts out and she pops a Cheez Doodle in her mouth then chews it defiantly.

  Deirdre looks like somebody handed her a million dollars. Which maybe someone has. I mean I can’t imagine leaving Dustin, not even with my mother, to go off and have my own life. Taking that bullet was such a motherly thing to do. Plus Deirdre’s been groveling for a while now. I’m no expert, but it seems to be working.

  The sun is pretty low now, hanging just above the horizon. Sunsets are different in the winter—less “look at me” and more “done for the day, catch you tomorrow.” But it’s still beautiful.

  We sit in silence as the sky turns a pale gray. The shadows on Bella Flora’s pink plaster walls deepen as the sky fades to black.

  “Time to light the candles,” I say as I lift Dustin out of the sandbox and kind of fold him over one arm so I can brush the sand off his behind. “We’re going to celebrate Hanukkah for Max.”

  “Gax!” I don’t know what my son remembers, but the name still means something to him.

  Inside I put a candle in each of the eight holders then light the one that’s called the shamas. Sorry, Max, I think, as I read the English transliteration of the Hebrew prayer phonetically—and badly, I’m sure—while I light each candle, moving from right to left just like in the video I watched on YouTube. The translation, which I also read aloud, thanks God, who “commands us to kindle the Hanukkah lights.”

  We all watch the flames flicker. Even with the comedy mask–shaped holders, the menorah appears stark compared to the frolic of color and shape on the Christmas tree. But none of us can look away. “I have a present for you from Max,” I say to my son. I hand him the blue-and-white-wrapped box and help him unwrap the framed photo of him and Max “discussing” comedic timing that I shot last summer in Miami. He stares down at Max Golden’s weathered face, with its oversize but distinguished nose and intelligent brown eyes. His caterpillar eyebrows are the same white as his close-cropped hair and are raised so high they almost reach it. The smile is Max’s dazzling megawatter, and the twinkle in his eyes is unmistakable. An unlit cigar is clenched between two gnarled fingers.

  “Gax!” Dustin pulls the photo up against his chest like he’s never going to let it go. I plan to make sure he never does.

  Four

  I’ve got Dustin bathed and tucked into the portable crib when the doorbell rings. I’m thinking it’s Dad and Andrew until I hear the churning of gears and what sounds like a revving truck engine outside. Which is pretty strange given that it’s eight o’clock on Christmas Eve and even UPS and FedEx are probably finished delivering by now.

  “What’s going on?” Everyone’s huddled in the foyer. The front door is open and a man stands on the front mat.

  “I have a delivery. For Dustin Deranian.” He looks up from the paperwork. “I need him to sign for it.”

  “He’s already gone night night,” I say. “I’m his mother.” I scrawl my signature and scan the garden behind him. When I’m sure there are no paparazzi hiding in the bushes or behind our cars, we follow him outside to where a huge flatbed truck idles in the street. There’s a house on it—one of those big wooden playhouses that kids can go inside. Only it’s about ten times bigger than any I’ve ever seen and it looks exactly like Bella Flora. I mean, on the outside anyway, it’s an exact replica. It’s huge; all of us could probably stand up inside it.

  “Where do you want it?”

  I have no idea. The replica is strangely perfect and feels oddly personal—kind of like receiving an anatomically correct copy of yourself completely out of the blue—and part of me wants to refuse it. But a second delivery guy is already attaching the hook to the crane so that it can be off-loaded. It has the biggest red bow I’ve ever seen tied around it.

  “Listen, lady, I’d like to get home in time to suit up and make an appearance before my kids go to bed.” He has a huge beer belly and I’m sure he makes a convincing Santa. Except for the big MOM tattoo on his neck.

  He hands me an envelope that has Dustin’s name scrawled across the front in Daniel’s handwriting. Not that anyone else could—or would—have sent anything this extravagant. Didn’t I tell him we’d sold Bella Flora?

  “Where do you want it?”

  I still have no idea and look at the others helplessly.

  “Maybe we can fit it around the pool as an additional guesthouse,” Avery says. “It looks like it could sleep at least four.”

  “If we’d had it before, we could have bumped up the asking price,” Deirdre adds.

  “Do you think we can get it out back in the dark?” my mom asks.

  We’re still huddled and trying to figure it out when the first flashbulb goes off. Shit. I pull the hood up over my head and zip up my sweatshirt, but it doesn’t cover anywhere near as much as the burqa. The house is still dangling as the paparazzi start begging for shots and shouting their stupid questions.

  “Can you turn this way just a bit, Kyra, luv?” Nigel calls out. “Is it from Dustin’s da? Did Daniel send it?”

  I hate how they use everyone’s first names as if they’re friends who just happen to loiter outside and take unwanted pictures. So much for time off to observe the birth of Christ.

  “It might fit on that side of the garden,” Nicole says.

  “No, not anywhere near those birds of paradise or the triple hibiscus. Renée Franklin and her garden ladies will never forgive us.”

  “We can’t put it anywhere out front without blocking access of some kind,” Nikki says.

  “And anywhere near the center of the garden is going to put the fountain at risk,” Deirdre points out. The leaping-dolphin fountain is yet another original feature that was painstakingly restored not once but twice. And this garden isn’t really ours anymore, is it?

  The flashes are still firing. The delivery guys start flexing muscle and mugging for the cameras, all thought of Ho-Ho-Ho-ing temporarily forgotten. Given the typical lack of hard news on Christmas Day, this over-the-top Christmas present from Daniel is probably already going viral.

  Is it possible to refuse it? Or have it delivered to my parents’ house in Atlanta? As of January 2, when we have to be out of here, that will be my only existing address.

  “Listen, we can’t really accept this. . . .” I begin.

  “Sorry, lady.” Santa flashes a big, toothy smile for the photographers and does a “hi, Mom” wave for the guy shooting video. “I’ve got to leave it. I got a premium for delivering tonight, but I don’t get squat if I don’t complete that delivery. My orders don’t say a
nything about carrying it out back or nothing like that.”

  “Let them leave it here at the curb,” Deirdre suggests. “If the city gets upset, we can just pretend we didn’t know it was here.”

  “Right,” Avery says. “We’ll just act like Santa dropped it off.”

  “You know Dustin’s going to love it. Tomorrow when Chase and his boys get here, we can figure out how to get it out back.” This from my mother, whose glass always seems to be half-full.

  “Give us a few more shots, ladies!” This time it’s Bill who shouts. “We wasted the whole afternoon and most of the evening staking out the Vinoy Hotel.” He names a restored Mediterranean Revival–style hotel in northeast St. Petersburg. “Someone said Barbara Streisand flew into town and was holed up in the penthouse. But it was just some female impersonator trying to promote his new e-book.”

  I do the whole turtle–pulling-into-its-shell thing and ignore them while I run in for my keys and angle the rental car up into the tag end of the driveway so that most of the curb is available for Dustin’s present. Once the house clatters into place and the flatbed grinds off, we retreat back inside Bella Flora.

  A text dings in on my mother’s phone and I pick it up. “It’s from Andrew and Dad. They got a late start out of Atlanta but should be here within the hour.”

  “Good,” she says, smiling. “That’s great.” I expect her to head into the kitchen to see what she can put together for their dinner, or run out to the pool house to make sure everything’s ready for them, but she shoves her glass toward Nikki and says, “I think that calls for a drink or two.”

  Mine aren’t the only eyebrows that go up. Madeline Singer is many things. A heavy drinker isn’t one of them. I can count the number of times I’ve seen her more than slightly tipsy on two fingers.

  We head into the Casbah Lounge, which is one of the coolest rooms I’ve ever been in. It’s small and intimate, with leaded glass windows, leather banquettes, and a riot of Moorish tile covering everything from the floor to the bar and the arched pillars and posts. Deirdre made sure it was restored to its original 1920s glamour, and whenever I’m in here I picture Bogie toasting Bacall and saying, “Here’s looking at you, kid” while “As Time Goes By” plays hauntingly in the background. Best of all, it’s stocked with enough alcohol to survive a siege.

  “We might as well drink up,” Nikki says, stepping in behind the bar and opening a bottle of brandy.

  Her pours are generous, but since none of us are going anywhere and tomorrow’s Christmas, no one keeps track of who consumes what. I get the impression that my mother is drinking more with intent than enjoyment.

  “To Bella Flora,” Avery says.

  We all drink to that.

  “I’m going to miss her,” Deirdre adds.

  “Yeah. I never thought I’d say that when we were down on our knees refinishing the floors and sweating our asses off without air conditioning,” Nikki says.

  “Or sharing that one bathroom for most of the summer,” I say.

  “Or reglazing all those windows,” Mom adds, and she should know. Bella Flora has about a bazillion windows, and she was the only one of us careful and patient enough to take on the tedious job of reglazing.

  “I can’t let myself think about strangers living in her,” Avery says.

  “I know.” Nikki swallows the remainder of the brandy in her snifter and opens another bottle.

  “I could barely make myself sign the contracts yesterday,” my mother says. “But it was so generous of the new owner to allow us to stay through New Year’s.”

  “I thought Chase was going to cry,” Avery adds quietly.

  “He wasn’t the only one.” Deirdre gives Avery a knowing look. This time when she rubs her arm it looks completely unintentional.

  I smile at that. Avery’s not exactly all girly girl, despite the fact that two networks have tried to present her that way. Chase Hardin looks better in his work boots and tool belt than a lot of guys do in a tux. But he has a soft spot for houses, especially spectacular historically significant ones like Bella Flora.

  It’s close to eleven when we hear a car out front. There’s a soft knock on the door, and we all migrate into the foyer. My mom throws her arms around Andrew, who’s in his junior year of college, then pecks my dad on both cheeks. I do the same and steal a quick look outside. Flashes go off as I close the front door.

  “Where did the mini–Bella Flora come from?” Dad asks after he’s greeted everyone. “I had to put the car in a metered space.” My dad is tall and thin with hair that’s turned more salt than pepper. He’s rumpled from the drive. His tone is distinctly crotchety.

  “It’s Dustin’s Christmas present from Daniel,” I say.

  “Kind of over-the-top, isn’t it?” he grumbles.

  “Not in movie-star terms,” I say automatically, even though he’s right and I have no reason to defend Daniel Deranian.

  His expression is bah-humbug, but he doesn’t argue the point. I don’t think my father would have liked anyone I slept with. But he especially hates that Dustin’s father is a married man who lied his way into my pants and had no interest in marrying me when I got pregnant. The fact that he gets paid a shitload of money for playacting and looking good is especially offensive.

  “Hey, it could have been worse,” Deirdre says. “It could have been a pony.”

  “We have a resident parking pass you can put on the dash.” Avery retrieves the pass from the kitchen and hands it to my brother.

  I almost ask him to tell the photographers outside that we’re in for the night so they can go get some sleep. But then I think better of it. It’s not the deer’s job to tell the hunters when it’s time to go home.

  Nobody comments when my dad and brother carry their things out to the pool house, but it still feels weird to me. “I can move Dustin and bunk in with Andrew if you want to stay in the house,” I say to my dad.

  “Oh, no. That’s . . .” my mother begins.

  “. . . not necessary,” my dad finishes. Strange. You never really think about your parents sleeping together until they don’t.

  When my mom asks if they’re hungry, my brother perks up like he always does at the mention of food. None of us knows exactly where he puts it all, but his metabolism could probably light up the whole eastern seaboard. If it could be bottled we wouldn’t have had to sell Bella Flora. Or put up with the network’s heavy-handededness with Do Over.

  My dad yawns. “I’m really whipped from the drive. I think I’m going to go on out and go to sleep.”

  He’s gone before I can offer again. The rest of us head into the kitchen to see what’s in the fridge, since we’ve had a lot more to drink than eat. Mini–hot dogs and Cheez Doodles can only carry you so far.

  There’s a turkey just waiting to be stuffed for Christmas dinner tomorrow, but my mother pulls out the spiral-cut ham, a pound of deli roast beef, slices of provolone cheese, and a loaf of Italian bread from Casa del Pane just up the beach. We settle around the kitchen table with sandwiches. My “little” brother downs two huge glasses of milk in a gulp each and half the tin of homemade Christmas cookies that are passed around for dessert.

  ***

  Upstairs, we all tiptoe around so we don’t wake Dustin. In her room, I watch my mother set the alarm on the nightstand, climb into bed, and slip under the covers. “Good night, sweetheart.” She yawns. “Sleep tight.” She folds her hands across her chest and closes her eyes, but I can tell she’s nowhere near falling asleep.

  I hear Dustin’s soft breathing from the portable crib and his occasional snuffle. Dustin’s too young to understand the whole concept of getting up at the crack of dawn to see what Santa brought him, so I don’t worry about setting an alarm or anything.

  My mother’s breathing evens out, but I still don’t think she’s asleep. I can practically feel her thinking beside me. I just d
on’t know what she’s thinking about.

  I try to arrange my thoughts to maximize my dream potential. It’s an exercise I read about once in a screenwriting book and that I’ve used when I’m in the middle of a shoot. When I check the clock, it’s after midnight, so technically it’s Christmas. But there are no sugar plums or candy canes dancing in my head. As I fall asleep, Max Golden makes an appearance—he’s on a stage, doing a stand-up routine with his Millie, and he’s holding the menorah we lit tonight. His smile is his megawatter, and his eyes twinkle with mischief.

  Daniel elbows onstage beside them, sexy and stubble-faced. His hot dark eyes meet mine. His wife Tonja tries to join him onstage, but he tells her there’s no room. She lets out a stream of profanities—and even in my half-conscious state I think how shocked her fans would be to find out what a total potty mouth she is. I regret having to edit out the video that Troy shot in South Beach of her swearing her movie-star guts out in front of my son. She’s still swearing when Daniel reaches down to pick up Dustin then shoots me this saucy half wink. It would be a really touching moment if he didn’t send an identical wink to somebody else off-camera; someone who’s probably awestruck and beautiful and hasn’t found out yet that she’ll never beat out Tonja Kay, the rainbow of children she’s adopted, and the lifestyle of the rich and famous that they live together.

  My mother sighs beside me. My son snuffles in response. I teeter on the edge of sleep until almost one A.M. before I finally slip over into oblivion.

  Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

  Five

  Dustin’s first word when he looks out the window and spies his “playhouse” on Christmas morning is “Buhfora!” And while he smiles happily, he expresses no shock or surprise that an exact duplicate of Bella Flora sprang up on the front curb overnight. I wish I could remember being that age where magic can just happen.

  The paparazzi are snapping away at the playhouse and the original behind it as soon as the sun is up, and I know I’m not going to be able to keep Dustin away from it. I toy with the idea of putting him in a disguise, but the paps all know there’s only one toddler in this house. And I haven’t been able to find a burqa in his size.