Barefoot Bay

by Vicky Loebel

  “Let me at it.” Gussie pounced on the bag, lowering the zipper and unwrapping the protective layer of muslin. Inside was a glittering confection of white silk, lace, and flowing waterfalls fashioned out of glass beads. “My goodness,” she breathed, “this will suit Lacey perfectly. Here, take her hair down so we can see.”

  Gussie slipped on gloves, removed the dress, and held it while Willow pulled Lacey’s hair out of its resort-owner bun and shook the strawberry blond curls loose on her shoulders. “You’re going to look just like Veronica Lake.”

  “Veronica Lake with freckles,” Lacey laughed. “But the dress is beautiful. Seems almost criminal to wear it. Have you and Tom figured out where his photo essay will be published?”

  “Not yet—”

  “Vanity Fair,” a whiskey-smooth voice said from the door. “Just got off the phone. They’re putting together a fall issue on offbeat Florida destinations. We’ve got a ninety-percent shot at the cover.”

  “Tommie!” Gussie rewrapped the dress and turned to throw her arms over her husband. “You’re a genius.”

  “That’s what I keep telling people. They say it’s all due to my wife.” Tom DeMille, with his tall frame, blue eyes, and ropy tattooed arms, looked every inch the superstar photographer he was reputed to be. What he didn’t look like was one of the kindest men on earth. Lane had met him two years ago when he’d scouted the Mimosa Theater as a possible site for a photo shoot, and since then he and Gussie had taken her little family under their wings—arranging for Lane to teach theater workshops at Casa Blanca, offering the girls occasional modeling work to help keep the alligators away from the door.

  “Vanity Fair.” Willow slipped Lane an enthusiastic high-five. “That ought to sell a few theater tickets.”

  “Good for hotel reservations, too.” Lacey grinned.

  “Not to mention wedding bookings.” Gussie glanced at the garment bag. “Too bad you’re selling those costumes. I bet there are a lot of brides who’d kill to get married as Titania.”

  “And grooms,” Tom said dryly, “who’d kill not to get married in tights.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Lane told them. “The costumes are too fragile to keep wearing. After tomorrow, they’ll only be exhibited in special climate-controlled cases.” Not at the Mimosa Community Theater, alas. “Besides, MCT needs money for new wiring and seats.”

  “The auction’s going to be amazing.” Lacey twisted her pale hair into its former bun. “But I have to warn you. There’s a rumor Charity Grambling is trying to kill your town council grant.”

  “I heard that.” Blast the woman. “But I refuse to worry until the last possible minute.” It was a technique that had gotten Lane through four years beside her late husband’s sick-bed. “Anyway.” She smiled broadly. “Ari assures me the Universe will provide.”

  “She assured me you’d be on time with the costumes.” Gussie picked up a Dulce de Leche Dum Dum candy and twirled it on its stick. “That’s how I won dessert.”

  “I said she’d be where she needed to be,” Ari objected. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “The rain made me late,” Lane fibbed. “I can’t be held accountable for bad weather.” The image of the guy who’d magically appeared in the parking lot flashed through her mind. Mike Evans—tall, green-eyed, mid-thirties, with a clean jaw, well-filled tee-shirt, and short military haircut. Magic Mike, dripping wet, leaning into the car. The man had definitely looked interested. And he just moved to the island….

  Lane’s phone-alarm rang. She jumped, surprised to find everyone staring at her. “Time for improv class.” She called up acting skills and forced down a blush. “I thought we’d meet on the beach tonight,” she told Lacey, “if that’s OK. My Friday group likes to be close to the bar.”

  “Sure. Maybe Oberon and I” —Lacey grinned wickedly— “I mean Clay and I will stop by and watch.”

  “Do you really think,” Ari asked, “we’ll get all three of our husbands dressed up like fairies for tomorrow’s photo shoot?”

  “Oberon’s the only fairy,” Lane replied. “Demetrious and Lysander are citizens of Athens.” Although they still had to wear tights.

  “I’m positive the guys will go through with it,” Gussie said. “Clay’s a good sport. Nick knows he’s got a sculpted rear-end” —she shot a teasing look at Willow— “and Luke wouldn’t dare double-cross both his wife and sister at the same time, right?”

  Ari twirled a long, dark strand of hair. “I have my doubts.” She opened a drawer and took out a lollipop shaped like a ringed planet. “I’ll bet my Saturn-Pop against your Dum Dum that at least one of the guys weasels out.”

  “Done.” Gussy placed her Dum Dum on Ari’s desk. “You know I can’t resist a sucker bet. Besides, I’ve got a secret weapon. If anyone weasels, Tom will hunt them down and make them pose for my fashion blog.”

  “Don’t drag me into it,” Tom said. “You ladies are strictly in charge of blackmailing your own husbands.”

  “And they do it so well.” Lane laughed, wondering if she’d ever find the kind of happiness these women had. I had it with Alex. And he gave me the gidgets. “Thanks everyone.” Oops. Late for class. “Gotta run.” She hugged Gussie and hustled out the door, thinking of fate. A lot of things, good and bad, had brought her to this amazing group of friends, and many of those things had been beyond her control. Come to think of it, Mike Evans had pulled her out of the street at exactly the moment she was supposed to arrive at Casa Blanca.

  Perhaps she’d been in the right place, at the right time, after all.

  Chapter Three

  The Captain’s Club, across the parking lot from the Mimosa Theater, was a creaky one-story establishment decorated in early American driftwood. By day public sandwich shop, by night reserved for owners who kept their boats at Pleasure Pointe, it offered a short selection of beverages and an even shorter selection of artery-clogging snacks.

  “So you see.” Charity Grambling pushed a real-estate contract around the fake ship’s lantern flickering on the table. “The Captain’s Club is determined to buy the Mimosa Theater building. You won’t get a better offer anywhere else.”

  Mike munched a crisply-fried onion ring and considered the two locals who’d invited him for a drink, Charity Grambling, the frizzy, caramel-dyed proprietress of the Super Min that had gouged him for gas earlier in the day, and Judge Robert Lee Talmadge, a white-haired, full-bellied gentleman whose southern drawl did not quite hide the sharpness of his conversation.

  Talmadge. Mike wondered what his relationship was to the woman he’d met this afternoon. “Your offer seems high.” It was nearly double the appraisal he’d received from Great-aunt Essie’s estate lawyer.

  Charity’s smile was like a lady shark’s on a diet. “We can reduce the price if you like.”

  “Not exactly.” When Mike inherited the estate six months ago, his initial plan had been to sell the old theater and cruise the world in Great-uncle Elias’ fishing boat. But there were a couple of problems. First, it was going to cost a lot to get the building ready to sell. Second, Great-aunt Essie’s will assigned right of tenancy to a local community theater group. As long as the theater covered basic expenses like property tax and utilities, Mike couldn’t evict them, and he didn’t see why anyone would want to buy a building they couldn’t use or rent out.

  “I’m interested in selling,” he told his hosts. “But I’m a little confused.”

  “Well, Sergeant Evans." Judge Talmadge settled more comfortably in his chair. “How can we clear things up for you?”

  “Just Mike. I’ve been a civilian” —he checked his watch— “fifty-two hours.”

  “Must be quite a change after twenty years as a C-130 loadmaster.”

  The judge had apparently done his homework. “Too soon to tell,” Mike admitted. “It does feel strange not to have to set an alarm every day.”

  “And now you’re trading flying for life at sea. Why?”

  “It was my great-uncle
’s dream. Fishing around the world. I thought I’d give it a try in his honor.” The old man had spent his whole life working on Hermia, pouring over sea charts, planning foreign voyages he’d never take. “Besides, I’m used to constant travel, tight quarters, watching the weather report. My buddies have been charter fishing for decades, and I’ve gone along when I could.” In charge of packing, naturally. Mike couldn’t stand the sloppy way his friends treated possessions. “It’s not as big a change for me as you might think.”

  “Still, boat ownership is very different from charter fishing,” the judge said smoothly. “Boats, especially big old convertibles like the Hermia, can be quite expensive to operate.”

  “Just like old buildings. Which makes me wonder why the Captain’s Club is so eager to buy the Mimosa Theater. Are the walls stuffed with gold?”

  Charity Grambling snorted. “Not hardly.”

  “Not in so many words.” Judge Talmadge leaned forward. “Confidentially, the gold’s in the ground.” He drank a little more whiskey. “We’re planning to replace the theater with expanded parking for the Pleasure Pointe docks.”

  “You’re going to knock down the building?”

  “There’s not much value in the structure itself. And with all the growth in Mimosa Key lately, parking is at a premium. You may have noticed our lot between buildings was crammed full today.”

  “My lot. Technically.” The parking was on theater property.

  “Your great-aunt Esther is…was…forgive me.” The judge took out a handkerchief and patted his brow. “Esther Goldman was a fine woman. I deeply regret her passing.”

  “Thank you.” Mike regretted not knowing her better.

  “As I was saying, Esther generously shared her lot with the Captain’s Club. Now that she’s left us, the town council is interested in subsidizing the cost of expanded parking.”

  “I see.” It made sense, Mike supposed. Unless you wanted to use the theater building. “What about Mimosa Community Theater? Aren’t they supposed to debut this fall?” Re-opening the auditorium had always been Aunt Essie’s dream. “You can’t bulldoze the property while MCT’s in operation, right?”

  Charity rolled her eyes. “That’s OK. We can wait thirty seconds until they’re bankrupt.”

  “I thought they had a grant from the town council.”

  “A partial grant. They’ve got to cover basic costs, and it’s gonna be a cold day in Miami before that scatterbrained loser who can’t even feed her own kids—”

  “Charity.” Judge Talmadge touched her arm. “You’re speaking about my daughter-in-law.” He produced a Mark-Twain shucks-pay-no-mind smile for Mike. “What Charity means is that while we admire the ambitions of Mimosa Community Theater, the current director has neither the financial resources nor the organizational experience for such a complicated undertaking. Furthermore, the building itself is unsafe. The Captain’s Club, of course, intends to purchase the property as is and accepts the stipulation that it shall remain standing as long as MCT continues in operation.”

  “As is?” Mike tapped the contract. “At this price?”

  “Completely as is,” Charity said firmly. “Cash offer.”

  “I see.” Instead of starting life at sea with an expensive building to manage, he could be free and clear with healthy reserves in the bank. Mike wondered how many times his aunt had turned down the same deal. “Thanks for the beer.” He drained his glass and got to his feet. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Of course.” Judge Talmadge stood and shook Mike’s hand.

  “Think fast,” Charity warned. “Our offer expires in twenty-four hours.”

  “Then I guess if this deal doesn’t work out,” Mike replied, “I’ll have to find another buyer.”

  He went outside and strolled through the now mostly empty parking lot to Aunt Essie’s building, taking a moment to enjoy the clang of sailboat rigging across the street, the gentle slap of waves on the docks. Gardenia bushes alongside the Mimosa Theater perfumed the night with scents of childhood. The holiday traffic had evaporated. At ten p.m. Friday night, Pleasure Pointe was asleep.

  Mike had spent the afternoon on Hermia, officially reviewing the report he’d gotten from his marine surveyor but secretly basking in the glow of owning the beautiful Striker-44. He’d barely glanced at the Mimosa Theater. Now he took a mag light out of his truck and made a circuit around the corner property, examining the pink neoclassical façade, the carved dolphin reliefs softened by a hundred years of Florida weather, the enormous rolling garage doors Uncle Elias had installed facing the parking lot to allow the Hermia to go in and out of dry dock. The building’s electrical box—located where any kid could get into it—was unlocked and obviously underpowered. There were several deep foundation cracks. The whole structure had the look of something that, like Esther Goldman, had lived a long and vigorous life before succumbing to old age.

  So much for outside. Mike got a spare padlock out of his truck, secured the electrical box, and let himself in through a side door facing the parking lot. Familiar smells punched his gut: boat varnish, mildew, stale tobacco mixed with peppermint candy. He switched on the auditorium lights, half expecting to find Great-uncle Elias gnawing a cigar and reading the racing form up on the lofty deck of his beloved Hermia. But Uncle Elias had been gone nearly three years, and now Aunt Essie had followed him.

  How had it happened? How had Mike lost track of this kind couple when they’d so clearly remembered him? Apart from a few emails, he’d had no contact with either one of them since he was twelve.

  Mike left the auditorium and climbed the back staircase to Aunt Essie’s third floor flat. He stepped in and recoiled at the chaos. His great-aunt had always been a free spirit, better with exciting theater stories than with a mop or broom. But this place looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Clothes of every possible kind were scattered throughout the room, along with scraps of fabric, bits and pieces of mismatched furniture, torn shades stuck crookedly onto lamps.

  Mike picked his way through a maze of theater props to a kitchen that was barely visible beneath stacks of unwashed dishes and dirty paper plates. The stove was coated in what looked like months of spilled food, the refrigerator empty apart from three plastic containers thick with mold. He checked the bathroom and found a similar disaster—burst tubes of toothpaste, smeared makeup, pantyhose hanging from the shower. A load of clothes had been ripening in the washing machine for what smelled like ages.

  Poor Aunt Esther. He’d had no idea she’d sunk so low. I should have known. I should have done something. But her brief emails offering Mike his uncle’s boat had been so strong and cheerful, so full of enthusiasm for her new theater company, he’d never guessed she needed help.

  Well, Mike could help now. At least nobody else would ever see this mess. He found a linen closet, measured laundry detergent into the washer, opened the windows to the warm gulf breeze, and stripped to jeans. Four hours later, he’d taken out six bags of trash, washed the sheets in Aunt Esther’s bedroom, reorganized the kitchen, and replaced the science projects in the refrigerator with a few basic staples from the Super-Min.

  Mike showered under a trickle of water, cracked a beer, switched off lights, and stood naked in front of the bedroom window facing the side street and, invisible from here, the rocky strip of land that gave Pleasure Pointe its name. He drank the beer, recycled the bottle, angled an old floor fan at the bed and then—reminding himself he didn’t have to set an alarm—stretched out between crisp sheets to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  “I hereby declare Barefoot Shakespeare a success.” Lacey Walker held the pool gate open while Lane dragged a stack of borrowed chairs off the sand. The sunset improv class—fueled by Mimosas, complimentary snacks from Junonia, and a spectacular moonlit night—had snowballed into a five-hour Shakespeare workshop with ten official students taking turns reading from Macbeth and many of Casa Blanca’s other guests joining in. By the time Great Birnam Wood rose up and stor
med the castle, it was long past midnight.

  “I think everyone had fun.” Lane yawned, feeling the creeping letdown that always followed a good class. “Those lighted e-readers were a stroke of genius.”

  “Ashley’s idea. We keep them for guests to borrow.” Lacey closed and locked the pool gate. “I think you doubled Junonia’s restaurant business tonight. Also, I had a dozen people ask about hotel packages for MCT’s opening in October.”

  “I guess that means we’ll sell at least a dozen tickets.” Lane grinned. “But I think they’re mostly coming back for Chef Ian’s Tiramisu.”

  “Tiramisu. Mmm. Who can argue?” They walked through the building to Casa Blanca’s main entrance. “Still,” Lacey said, “your class surprised me. I always thought Shakespeare was dull, but you had people shouting lines and swinging swords as if the play was a matter of life and death.”

  “Well, for their characters, it was. Shakespeare’s full of terrific stories—murder, mayhem, love, and jealousy. If people find it dull, it’s their theater’s fault.”

  “And possibly their high school teachers.” Lacey laughed.

  “Maybe.” Lane had always loved theater. She took her phone off silent, realizing with a stab of grief that she’d missed her daughters’ bedtime call. There it was at nine o’clock precisely. Lane listened to the message, hearing the girls’ excited babble, their grandmother’s stern voice cutting them off. She sighed. “I wish I could be here for the photo shoot tomorrow instead of cleaning the auditorium for the auction.”

  “How’s setup coming?”

  “Slowly.” Not at all. What with restoring costumes, teaching acting classes, and raising the girls, there’d been no time to get ready for an auction. “But some of my students are giving up their Fourth of July tomorrow to clean the theater and help set up displays.”

  “Call me if you get desperate. I’ll send over some staff.”