by Wendy Wax
Madeline could hardly believe what she was seeing. There were photos of Sammy Davis Jr., Dean Martin, and Jerry Lewis standing next to an impossibly fresh-faced Max and a small blond woman, who had to be Millie. In another picture Max and Millie stood with Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball, arms entwined, smiles lighting all four faces.
“Desi went to high school here on Miami Beach, though nobody was that wild about him. Lucy and Millie went to the same hairdresser,” Max explained. “And they played canasta occasionally.”
“So you actually knew all these celebrities?” Kyra asked as she continued to shoot.
“Of course,” Max said. “Miami Beach isn’t all that big. Back then it was even smaller in lots of ways.” He adjusted the belt of his smoking jacket and his smile slipped a bit. “We weren’t as big, but we were in the same business.” He shrugged as if it were no big deal. “There are old films of a lot of those years somewhere. If I can find my projector and screen, we can pop some popcorn and have a movie night.”
“We’re in,” Kyra and Maddie said while Avery, Nicole, and Deirdre chorused their agreement. Dustin kicked his feet happily behind their protective barrier. The Lifetime crew filmed on.
Chapter Six
Kyra stood in the grocery-store checkout line. She’d already helped her mother unload a bulging cart full of cleaning supplies and now waited impatiently for the checker to finish scanning their items and for the bag boy to pack them up.
Dustin was hanging in his canvas carrier, his head tucked beneath her chin. With her free hand she scrolled down her iPhone, but although it had been almost four days since Kyra had started trying to reach her, there were no unread messages or missed calls from Lisa Hogan at Lifetime. It was starting to become apparent that the lack of response was not an accident.
As she waited she scanned the rack of celebrity gossip magazines. Her irritation kicked up a notch as she studied the airbrushed photos of the already beautiful people. Beneath the photos were superficial articles designed to make celebrities seem like real people with regular problems. Which was absolutely ridiculous. Kyra knew from her embarrassingly short career in the movie business that by the time a celebrity made the cover of any one of these magazines, any semblance of their original selves had already been surgically removed.
She and Dustin had appeared on the cover of People and in the pages of other less stellar rags, but her photos had not been touched up in the slightest. They’d appeared under nasty headlines like YOUNG FILM ASSISTANT TRIES TO BREAK UP HEARTTHROB’S MARRIAGE and later DANIEL DERANIAN “LOVE CHILD” PATERNITY QUESTIONED. She needed no reminders that the famous and outwardly beautiful rarely looked as attractive when their true emotions and motivations were displayed.
Kyra shifted Dustin slightly in the canvas carrier and tickled one of his feet before burying her face in his soft dark curls. He was the one good thing that had come out of her brush with celebrity. Do Over was her chance to build something for herself and her child; she couldn’t let anyone—not a cocky cameraman or a nonresponsive network executive—compromise that opportunity.
In the parking lot she buckled Dustin into his car seat and helped her mother store the bags in the back of the minivan. “Can you give me just a minute?” she asked Maddie. “I’m going to try Lisa Hogan again. I can’t take this standoff with Troy Matthews. I’m tired of trying to hide Dustin from him.”
“Go ahead.” Maddie leaned over to rub noses with her grandson. “We’ll be right here. Won’t we, big guy?”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Kyra walked around the corner of the building wishing that Karen Crandall, the development director who had originally offered them the show, was still at the network. Although they’d only spoken with Lisa Hogan a few times, it had become increasingly clear that her vision for Do Over had little in common with her predecessor’s.
In a shady spot beneath a palm tree, Kyra dialed Hogan’s phone number. She was preparing yet another firm but succinct message, when the network head answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Yes,” Lisa Hogan replied.
Kyra felt a brief burst of nerves and shoved it away. This show was too important to all of them to jeopardize, but she was not going to spend a whole summer being screwed with.
“Hi, Lisa. This is Kyra Singer. Down in Miami.”
“Oh,” Hogan said. “I thought this was…Never mind. Hold on just a minute.”
“No!” Kyra practically shouted. “No, don’t hang up or put me on hold. I’ve been trying to reach you most of the week. There’s a problem down here.”
“Oh?”
Well, at least she’d gotten the woman’s attention. Though not necessarily in a good way. Still, if she didn’t speak she’d have no one to blame but herself.
“Yes,” Kyra hurried on. “It’s your camera guy, Troy. He’s shooting without my permission. We weren’t expecting and we don’t need a crew here. I thought you were happy with what we did at Bella Flora. Isn’t that why we’re here in Miami to…” She paused to regroup. She needed to stay direct and on target. “I understood we were shooting a show about renovating a really great home, but this is a—”
“Reality show,” Lisa Hogan finished for her. “I know. Lock a bunch of disparate people up in a stressful situation with a camera rolling and watch what happens. It’s genius. And relatively inexpensive.”
“But—”
“Reality shows are huge right now, Kyra, and so is home renovation,” the network head said. “Do Over is a win-win as far as we’re concerned.”
“But…” Kyra’s stomach was churning from a particularly awful combination of horror and humiliation. How had she let this happen?
“Is there something else?” Hogan asked. “Because I’ve got someone waiting on the other line.”
“I can shoot what we need,” Kyra said. “We don’t need the crew. I don’t want—”
“The crew stays.” Hogan’s tone was crisp and firm.
“Then I need them to answer to me.” Kyra was scrambling now, looking for a way out. If she couldn’t be calm and collected, she’d have to settle for firm. “I can’t have them just shooting whatever they want whenever they feel like it. They’ll disrupt everything. No one will be able to relax long enough to focus on the work.”
“That’s a no,” Hogan said. “Troy and Anthony are network employees, so we really can’t have them answering to a freelancer. And especially not to a freelance talent.”
“I’m not talent,” Kyra said. “I’m a videographer and I understood that I was the show’s producer.”
“Sorry,” Hogan said, though it was clear she wasn’t. “I didn’t see that anywhere in the notes Karen Crandall left me or the contract you all signed. Troy and Anthony have their instructions and Troy will be feeding footage to my office on a regular schedule.”
Kyra took a deep breath and thought, briefly, about counting, but she knew she’d be in the thousands before she cooled down. Lisa Hogan would have already hung up.
At the moment she was zero for two. It was time to focus on the most important part of the conversation.
“My son can’t be a part of that footage,” Kyra said. “I don’t want him on camera.” She stared out over the parking lot.
There was a silence. And then: “You’re joking right?”
Kyra didn’t answer. Partly because she couldn’t.
“Well, I’m afraid that belongs in the land of ‘not gonna happen,’” Hogan said. “Your child is Daniel Deranian’s son.” She said the last words slowly and with relish. “That alone will have people tuning in. I assumed you realized that was one of the reasons you were offered this show.” She no longer seemed in a big hurry to hang up. In fact, Kyra was getting the uncomfortable feeling that Lisa Hogan was enjoying herself.
“There have to be some camera-free zones,” Kyra continued. “I’ll shoot them myself so that footage exists, but your guys will have to acknowledge that certain places and times will be off-limits.”
“No,” Lisa Hogan said blithely. “That’s not going to work out either.”
Kyra’s stomach stopped churning. The anger was back and there was far too much of it even to feel her stomach, let alone what might be taking place inside it.
“The upstairs bedrooms and baths are off-limits,” Kyra said clearly. “And we get sunset toasts to ourselves.” She named the tradition her mother had started in the grimmest days at Bella Flora, when they’d each had to come up with at least one good thing that had happened that day.
“Oh no,” Hogan said. “I don’t think so.”
Kyra closed her eyes. The phone turned slippery in her sweaty palm as she prayed that the others would never find out about the gamble she was about to take with their futures.
“We get those camera-free zones and times,” Kyra said on held breath, hoping that twenty-four was, in fact, too young to stroke out. “Or we walk.”
By the end of their first week, The Millicent’s rolled-up-and-forgotten-bathing-suit smell had been banished, replaced by the potent scent of eau de Pine-Sol. Cobwebs had been ripped out of corners, floors had been swept and mopped multiple times, vinegar and water had been used on every reachable window and piece of glass. Every stick of furniture had been polished.
It would be a stretch to say that the house gleamed or shone, but the improvement was noticeable. Avery drew in a great gulp of air and was delighted to discover that it was now safe to breathe through both nostrils.
Needing some time and space to herself, Avery left the house on foot, and with no clear destination in mind, she headed south. As she walked she drew in deep breaths of warm salt air along with the tropical foliage and the mix of residential and commercial structures that drew her eye. Within minutes she found herself at South Pointe Park, which lay beyond a towering condominium building and turned out to be a pedestrian-friendly mixture of green space and waterfront promenade that ran along Government Cut, a man-made channel designed to provide a direct route from the Atlantic to Miami’s seaport. Fisher Island lay stranded across it.
She strolled past Smith & Wollensky’s with its outside bar and bayside tables. Keeping the Government Cut on her right, she followed the walkway to the very tip of a long narrow jetty. There she stood, wrapped in a current of warm air, gazing out over the turquoise expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. To her left lay the very beginning of Miami Beach, which seemed to stretch into infinity.
Her cell phone rang and she answered it.
“Avery?” Chase Hardin’s voice sounded warm and loud in her ear. “Are you there, Van?” Avery wondered how he managed to turn the very nickname that had so incensed her into an endearment.
“Yes.” She turned her back to the wind to block the noise and stared out over the ocean and the beach that bounded it.
“I kept thinking I might hear from you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. But she was far too intent on proving herself to give even the appearance of asking for help. “It’s just been nonstop here.”
There was a pause in which he waited for her to go into specifics. When she didn’t he said, “So, tell me about the house.”
“The house is great,” she said. “It’s Art Deco Streamline—a perfect example of it. With incredible lines and insanely fantastic nautical accents. And it’s a frickin’ Henry Hohauser.” She let that sink in. “Built in 1939.”
“Seriously?” Chase asked.
“Completely,” Avery replied. “I mean I couldn’t have found a house I’d want to work on this much if I’d had the whole world to choose from.” She paused, thinking. “Which kind of worries me. I mean why did they pick a house this perfect for me in particular?”
Chase laughed. “Count on you to look for the tarnished part of that silver lining. Maybe they just happened to find a great house that they knew you could make better.”
She wanted to believe it was as simple as that, but nothing about this project felt anywhere near that simple. “I don’t think that’s it,” she said, filling him in on the network camera crew and the whole reality-TV nature of the shoot.
“So there’s not much that has to be done?” he asked.
“I didn’t say that.” It felt good to talk to someone who understood. Maybe too good. She knew that Chase’s love of and appreciation for a well-designed home rivaled her own. She wanted to share the house with him. What she didn’t want was unsolicited advice.
“The Millicent is a mess,” she said. “There was a kitchen fire that was never dealt with, the floors are a nightmare, the upstairs has been carved up into apartments—someone stuck a really awkward wall at the head of the stairs. And, of course, everything’s been horribly neglected.”
Avery watched a cruise ship angle its way into the channel. Close up, it looked immense; the people lining its railings were tiny in comparison.
“What about the electrical?” he asked.
“Completely insufficient,” Avery said. “It’s all knob and tube and pretty much anything you plug in blows a fuse. We can’t put in air-conditioning or do much of anything else until that’s taken care of.”
“I think I know a guy down in Davie that—”
“Thanks, but I’m all set,” she said quickly. “I’ve got an electrician scheduled to put in a breaker box and rewire. Everything will have to be brought up to code.”
The ship cruised past and she studied its wake, white and frothing.
“And the plumbing?” he said. “I once worked with a—”
“I’ve got a plumber,” she said. “He’s scheduled to come in after the electrician.”
“I’m assuming there’s a flat roof.” Chase tried again.
“Yes,” she said. “And it needs an overhaul. And I’m still looking for a good plaster-and-tile guy—there’s a ton of both in this house and it’s going to take skilled artisans with a delicate touch.”
“How about En—”
“I’ve got Enrico Dante’s number.” She named the roofer who’d brought a number of talented family members in to work on Bella Flora. “I know his grandfather worked in Palm Beach for Mizner back in the day, and I’ve got my fingers crossed that at least a few Dantes migrated south.”
Avery made her way off the jetty and followed the promenade, heading back the way she’d come. The cruise ship had passed out of sight like it had never been. Seagulls swooped and cawed over the water.
“If you’d like I could…” Chase began.
It seemed she’d been too subtle. “I appreciate that you want to help. But I don’t need it, Chase.”
There was a beat of silence followed by the creak of what she knew was the old office chair that his father had once sat in.
“It’s my license and my reputation on the line,” Chase said, clearly stung. “As far as the state of Florida is concerned, I’m responsible for everything that happens on that job. And I don’t think either of us should forget that.”
Avery stiffened at his tone but kept her voice even. “I’m not likely to forget it,” she said. “But the last thing I want is for the network to think that I need someone male to help me figure out what to do. In ten seconds flat I’ll be Vanna again and you’ll be the big buff construction guy.”
There was another pause and Avery knew her rejection of his help was not going down easy. She girded herself for battle. With Chase, you never knew for sure. She let out a sigh of relief when he said, “So you think I’m buff, huh?”
“Completely,” she said.
“Well, I guess that’s something,” he replied. And then added a grudging, “You do seem to have things under control.”
“The biggest issue is the budget,” she said, wanting to offer something.
“It always is,” Chase agreed.
“Right. But usually that’s because there is no money,” Avery said. “This time I think it’s intentional. The network wants us desperate. I mean what’s a reality-TV show without stress and conflict?” She was going to have to find some way around
the money thing. She was not going to turn The Millicent into “Do Over on a Dime.”
“Reality shows need sex, too,” he said. “Lots of it.” His voice brightened. “I could definitely help with that.” There was a pause. “Assuming that’s not too intrusive of me.”
Relieved that he seemed to have regained his sense of humor, Avery laughed. “That would be a little easier if we were actually in the same place at the same time. And I weren’t sharing a bed with Deirdre.”
“It may take me a little longer than I’d like, Van. But I’ll be there…” There was a beat of silence and then: “I’m having a hard time picturing you and Deirdre duking it out over mattress space,” Chase finally said. “And frankly I’d really prefer you were sharing that bed with me.” A smile had stolen into his voice and she could picture it lighting up his face.
Avery felt her own face go hot. She was a lot more eager to share a bed with him than she should be. But she was not about to get all mushy and moony about Chase Hardin. Not until she’d proved herself here. After that she could figure out where, if anywhere, she might fit into his overfull life.
His tone turned teasing. “Maybe you should see what you can do about getting Deirdre out of your bedroom before I get down there. I’m a pretty open-minded guy, but there are a few things I’m going to want to ‘discuss’ when I get there that are definitely going to require some privacy.”
“As long as it’s not construction advice, you’re welcome to ‘discuss’ away.” Avery smiled and hung up, his chuckle of amusement echoing in her ear.
Chapter Seven
Sunrise that morning took place at 6:55. Maddie knew this because she was wide-awake and out on the ship-styled sundeck when the sky began to lighten and the sun’s first rays pierced the low-lying clouds.
It was quiet outside. The morning dew clung to the tubular railings and to the leaves of the palms that jutted up around them. She couldn’t see the Atlantic Ocean over the tops of the buildings, but she could feel it in the heavy air and the faint scent of salt and the not-so-distant cries of seagulls.