by Wendy Wax
Maddie brewed a large pot of coffee and pulled a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. A box of donuts, Mario Dante’s contribution, sat on the counter. He had presented them to her with a flourish when he’d arrived to walk through the house with Deirdre and finalize the plans for the tile floors, which he insisted he could either walk them through or handle himself. His son, Donatello, and a nephew were up on the roof with Avery. She could hear them tromping around even down here.
He’d also handed her a carefully wrapped container. “This is the pasta Milanese I told you about,” he’d said. “See what you think of it. The recipe has been in my family for a very long time. But if you like it, I would be more than happy to share it with you.” His smile had grown warm. “Or perhaps I could make it for you one night.”
“Why, thank you, Mario.” His admiring gaze had made her feel unaccountably attractive despite this morning’s lack of hot water and the humidity that had enlarged her hair so that it floated around her head like a mushroom cloud.
Kyra appeared now with the baby riding on her hip and went into the refrigerator for a glass of orange juice. “When did you have time to go out for donuts?” she asked, helping herself to one.
“Mario brought them,” Maddie said. “He’s very thoughtful that way.”
“Ha,” Kyra said, settling Dustin into his high chair. “I think he’s got a crush on you. Dad better watch out.” She laughed as if Steve would find this amusing; they’d had so little contact Maddie wasn’t sure he’d notice if Mario went down on one knee and sang “O Sole Mio” to her right in front of him.
Max shuffled into the kitchen and took a seat at the banquette within reach of Dustin.
“Good morning,” Max said jovially as Maddie brought him a cup of coffee. “Thank you.”
He blew a raspberry at Dustin. The baby laughed and reached toward the old man’s lips.
“Are you hungry?” Maddie asked as the comedian and the baby communed. “I was thinking I might scramble up some salami and eggs.”
“Thank you,” Max said, sipping his coffee contentedly. “You’re spoiling me,” he said. “And I’m enjoying every minute and morsel of it.”
“My pleasure,” she said as she began to crack the eggs into a bowl. She’d sliced the salami earlier and turned the electric skillet on to warm; Max had not yet refused an offer of food or drink.
“Is it okay if I leave Dustin with you all?” Kyra asked.
“Absolutely,” Maddie and Max said in unison.
A few minutes later Maddie plated the salami and eggs, added a piece of buttered rye bread toast and a slice of cantaloupe, and put the dish in front of Max. The old man was shaking a rattle in front of Dustin, much to the baby’s delight.
“He’s a beautiful boy,” Max said. “And he hardly cries at all.”
“He is wonderful, isn’t he?” Maddie agreed, sliding onto the opposite side of the banquette. She had a small plastic plate of scrambled egg and toast for Dustin. “But then he has no real reason to cry, seeing as there’s always someone here ready to feed him, entertain him, or pick him up.”
She went back to the pantry for a napkin and brought it to Max, who tucked it into the open collar of his shirt. “I’ve even seen Troy down on his hands and knees in front of the playpen when he thinks no one’s watching.”
She fed Dustin tiny bits of egg while Max tucked into his meal. Although the morning paper and that week’s Variety sat on the table awaiting him, Max kept his gaze on Dustin. His forehead was furrowed in concentration as if he were memorizing the baby’s features. Or perhaps remembering another’s.
“Tell me about your son,” Maddie said softly when Max put down his fork. “If it won’t upset you too much to talk about him, I mean.”
Max took a long sip of coffee. When he set the cup down, his face was set, his eyes filled with regret. “Millie always wanted to talk about him. But it was so painful that I wouldn’t let her.” He shook his head then looked up at her. “I can’t believe how selfish I was. As if the pain I felt in talking about him somehow trumped the pain she felt in not being able to. I don’t know what I was thinking. Or why she let me get away with such awful behavior.”
He wiped his mouth again and tucked the napkin under the edge of his plate.
“Losing him was like having my gut ripped out. Everything about it was just…I kept thinking I’d wake up and we’d find out it was some awful nightmare and not real at all. But it was real all right. And the pain never goes away.”
“What happened?” Maddie asked. “Do you know who took him or why?”
“No,” he said. “There was no ransom. No demands. No explanation.” He swallowed and looked away. “No body. He was just gone. Forever.”
“What did the police say? Did they have any ideas at all?”
“No. I think they tried their best. They brought in the FBI, searched every inch of The Millicent for clues or fingerprints. They interviewed us, our friends, our family, the neighbors, the deliverymen…” His voice trailed off.
“But it wasn’t like today. There was no such thing as a registered sex offender, no databases to check. For a few days I prayed that he’d just wandered off somehow. But no one ever reported seeing him anywhere. It was like he went up in some puff of smoke.
“And Millie always felt responsible.”
“Why?” Maddie asked.
“Because she was out in the front yard with him when she got nauseous. She was pregnant and still had morning sickness. She ran inside into the bathroom. We have a big gate and it was closed. Aaron…” His voice broke. “He was playing in the sandbox right near the front steps. Millie was only gone for a few minutes.”
“Did anyone ever find anything at all?”
“No. When the police gave up I hired a private detective. But there were no clues to follow, no leads, no suspects. Nothing to go on. No one saw anything out of the ordinary.” He swallowed. “A few days after we lost Aaron, Millie had a miscarriage.”
“I’m so sorry,” Maddie said, even though the words were completely insufficient. “That must have been so horrible for both of you. I can’t even imagine…” She looked at her grandchild and couldn’t finish the sentence. She’d barely made it through her husband’s breakdown and wasn’t doing all that well with their current standoff; she didn’t know how she would have survived the loss of Kyra or Andrew.
“Have you thought about trying to look now? With all the new technology and the cold-case units, maybe…”
“The original detective retired a long time ago. When I contacted the police department, they told me the only way they can reopen a case is if there’s something new to justify taking another look.” His sad brown eyes grasped hers. “I promised Millie I’d look for him. I promised her on her deathbed. So I hired another private detective. I spent close to everything I had and there’s still no trace of Aaron.”
“Oh, Max.” Maddie put a hand over his and squeezed gently.
“I promised Millie I’d get the house ready for him. That his old room—the one upstairs at the front of the house that you’re using—would be waiting for him if someone could find him and bring him home. But he’s gone.” Max sniffed and swiped at his eyes with the back of one wrinkled hand. “I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”
Maddie couldn’t get Max’s tortured face or the emotional rasp of his voice out of her mind. All day, while she tended to Dustin, ran to the grocery store, prepared pickup sandwiches, even while she made calls to theater groups around the Southeast to offer Millie Golden’s fabulous wardrobe and accessories, she thought about the couple’s lost child. Who’d be just a few years older than Maddie right now, assuming he were still alive, but who remained a frightened and vulnerable toddler in his father’s eyes. That Millie had also lost the baby she was carrying at the time seemed almost inconceivable.
Haunted by the specter of that kind of loss, she got Dustin up from his afternoon nap, strapped him into the stroller, and set out for the play
ground at Marjory Stoneman Douglas Ocean Beach Park. There she angled the stroller into the shade of a palm tree and stared down at his beautiful golden face while the warm ocean breeze brushed across his dark curls.
Settling on a stone bench beside him, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Andrew’s number. He was back in Atlanta and she caught him at the neighborhood pool. “I thought you and Dad might come down when the Do Over pilot airs on the first of July. Apparently we’re having a premiere party.” She was still trying to absorb this little tidbit. “Have you seen any of the footage of The Millicent that Kyra has been posting online?”
They chatted for a few minutes as Maddie built up her courage to place her next call, one to Steve. This time, when he tried to put off committing to a trip down to Miami, she refused to let him off the hook.
“The party’s on July first,” she said. “That’s a Saturday. I’m going to expect you and Andrew here for the weekend.”
“That’s a ridiculously long drive for a weekend, Maddie. And there’s no way we can afford to fly.” There was a pause. “Besides, you seem to be doing fine on your own.”
There it was. The reminder that in his mind she’d chosen Miami over him. That he still hadn’t forgiven her for being okay.
“This show is important to our whole family,” she said. “And so is spending time with your daughter and your grandson.” She left the “even if you don’t want to spend time with me” unspoken, but it hurt just the same.
“Is there money in the budget for a party?” Steve asked dubiously. Another jab at how little she was being paid, how uncertain the payoff was.
“I guess so,” Maddie replied. “Fortunately, Deirdre’s handling the details, so that’s not our problem. All you have to do is show up and be charming.”
Steve grumbled.
“You will be charming, Steve,” she said when he complained again, though she was beginning to wonder if he remembered how. She hesitated, not wanting to fight with him over the phone. But she was growing tired of the effort it took to tread so carefully. “I need you to be here.” She hesitated again, but knew that backpedaling now would get them nowhere. “Just let me know your ETA and I’ll make sure that the welcome mat is out.”
Chapter Seventeen
Avery dragged a stepladder into the foyer and climbed onto the top rung so that she could reach and clean the chandelier that dangled from the vaulted ceiling.
It was quiet now in the early afternoon, the scrape of the ladder over the tile a mere whisper in comparison to the morning’s pandemonium. Then Donatello Dante and his crew had swarmed over the flat roof above their heads; Ted Darnell, the master electrician, and his young assistant had replaced the last of the knob-and-tube wiring; and the air-conditioning crew had cut into The Millicent’s ceilings and walls to accommodate new ductwork, registers, and returns, piercing the plaster like so much Swiss cheese.
In the living room, Maddie knelt in front of the fireplace attempting to sand the last of fifty years’ worth of paint off the carved fireplace surround. Kyra sat on the sofa nursing Dustin and talking to her mother. It was just the three of them and the baby in this welcome calm after the morning storm.
The chandelier, which was suspended on a chain from a hammered brass starfish escutcheon, was made of luminescent glass shot through with flecks of gold. Shaped like an upside-down umbrella, its eight glass panels curved up and outward and were held together by upright metal spines. Each panel featured a bas-relief of real or imaginary sea creatures even more fanciful than those that surrounded the front door.
Carefully, Avery sprayed the ammonia-water mixture onto a clean cloth and began to wipe the first panel, a delicately sculpted school of swimming fish, keeping her eye out for the artist’s signature or mark that Deirdre seemed certain they would find. As she worked, her thoughts turned to the upcoming premiere party and its ever-expanding invitation list.
Lisa Hogan had come through with large-screen TVs, digital transfers, and all of the other technical things that Troy and Anthony had requested. The network’s publicity people were all over the local tie-ins and press. Avery did not plan to come out and say so, but as much as she hated showing The Millicent in its wounded state, she was beginning to believe that the party might not only help build an audience, but provide the underwriting they so badly needed to give the house its due.
From her perch on the ladder, Avery saw a dented car pull into the drive. It stopped with a rattle and a cough of dark smoke. A gaunt white-haired man eased himself out from behind the wheel. He wore a red Hawaiian print shirt, beige Bermuda shorts, and black socks, which he’d paired with sandals that a tire had clearly given up its life to provide.
Leaning on a brass-handled cane, the man moved carefully toward the entrance. Avery’s head bumped hard against the glass chandelier as she bent to hurry down the ladder, worried about how he’d manage the front steps. She reached out to steady it, but she was too late. Several panels of glass slid out of their brackets and beat her to the ground, shattering on the tile floor.
Avery looked down at the shards of glass then back up at the damaged piece of art, appalled.
“Are you all right?” Maddie called from the living room as a surprisingly brisk knock sounded on the door.
“Yes,” Avery called out, although she wasn’t sure if this would still be true once Deirdre saw what had happened to the fixture she was so in love with. Avery pushed large shards of glass aside with her shoe then pulled open the door, shaking her head to clear it.
The old man was quite tall. Even hunched over his walking stick, he had a good four or five inches on her. He also had a full white mustache and bushy eyebrows of the same color, suspended over Coke-bottle-lens glasses.
“I’m sorry,” she said before he could speak, her thoughts on the broken glass. Perhaps if she swept it all up carefully, she could find a way to piece it back together. “Max isn’t here right now. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”
The man craned his neck to see past her then looked back over his shoulder and she wondered if he was hard of hearing. “I said Max isn’t here.” She raised her voice and enunciated carefully. “But I’ll be glad to give him a message.”
He glanced over his shoulder once more then stepped inside. She heard the crunch of glass under his feet. Avery fell back a step and heard the same sound.
Shit.
“Now wait a minute,” Avery began as he took another step into the foyer and the last of the shards crunched into pieces too small to ever go back together. Annoyed, she watched the old man close the door behind him. She was just beginning to wonder if there could, in fact, be such a thing as an octogenarian home invasion when the old man said, “I went to a lot of trouble not to draw a crowd and I don’t want to give away anything now.”
There was one more crunch of glass as Daniel Deranian stepped around the ladder, leaned the cane against the foyer wall, then removed the glasses with hands that were young and firm and unspotted. Without the Coke-bottle lenses to obscure them, his eyes were dark and sharp, in stark contrast to the pasty white makeup that covered his skin.
“Who is it, Avery?” Maddie called out.
“It appears to be Daniel Deranian,” Avery replied as she followed the man into the living room. She was so close behind him that she almost plowed into him when he came to a sudden stop in front of the sofa where Kyra held Dustin to her breast, a baby blanket draped strategically over her shoulder. A tiny hand was curled against Kyra’s bare skin.
From her vantage point at the fireplace, Maddie could see exactly what it took for Kyra to maintain her aura of calm. All three of them watched the actor’s face, or rather the artfully aged face of the white-haired man, as he stood watching mother and child. Maddie didn’t feel at all good about the expression on Deranian’s face, the way that, despite all of the makeup, it reflected awe and wonder.
“What are you doing here?” Kyra asked, shifting the baby’s weight in her arms while being careful not to
detach him from her nipple. In the quiet that had fallen, the sound of Dustin suckling seemed as loud as a thunderclap.
The actor didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed on the nursing child. His nursing child.
“Good grief,” Kyra said, but quietly so as not to disturb the baby. “You act like you’ve never seen a baby breast-feed before.”
Kyra’s tone was laced with the same irritation she’d displayed the last time Deranian had arrived in disguise. But Maddie could see that her eyes were drinking in the actor almost as greedily as Dustin was drawing down her milk. Despite the ridiculous disguise and Maddie’s and Avery’s presence, the tableau of mother and child was extremely intimate.
“I haven’t,” he said. Without asking, he crossed to the sofa and sat down next to Kyra. “My children are adopted. They’ve always been bottle-fed.” He reached out a finger and traced the baby’s cheek. “And usually by a nanny.”
Avery excused herself and went into the foyer. Maddie saw her sweeping up something and then saw her climb back up onto the ladder. Maddie knew she should go help her, but hesitated, unsure whether she should leave Kyra and Deranian alone. She wanted to believe that Kyra was immune to the actor’s charm—she had after all rejected the idea of continuing their relationship once she’d understood he wasn’t planning to leave his wife—but those charms were considerable. And he was Dustin’s father.
Kyra was so focused on Daniel’s face that she barely noticed when her mother left the room. He smiled. And despite the white hair and eyebrows and pasty makeup, it was the same smile that had made him one of Hollywood’s biggest draws. The same smile that had slain her completely the first time it had been turned on her.
“And here I thought you’d appreciate my disguise,” he said to Kyra. “At least I got to be male this time.” He smiled again. “I had to swear my makeup person to secrecy and convince the car wrangler that I needed something that wouldn’t call attention to itself. I think I look pretty damned convincing. I drove right by a herd of paparazzi camped out near the set and no one even looked up.” His voice rang with delight, like a child who’d pulled off a complicated prank.