Beach Town

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “I’ll hate losing you, Allie,” Greer said, and it was true. Her heart was breaking for the kid. Personally, she thought Eb was being a little heavy-handed, making his niece quit a job she loved, but she was determined to extract herself from this no-win situation.

  “Don’t even try to pretend you really care about me,” Allie sneered.

  “Allie!” Ginny’s eyes darted from Eb to Greer.

  “That’s it.” Eb leaned across the table and grabbed the girl’s arm. “I won’t have you disrespecting your elders like that. You’re done here.”

  He released her arm. “Give me your cell phone.”

  “My phone? Are you kidding me?”

  “Not at all. Your phone. Now.”

  Allie backed a step away. “You can’t take my phone. It’s mine! Ginny gave it to me for my birthday. Tell him, Gin.”

  Her great-aunt shrugged and looked away.

  Eb held out his hand. “Ginny gave it to you, but I pay your phone bill. Give me the phone please, Allie.”

  “This is so lame!” Allie took her phone from the pocket of her jeans and tossed it onto the table. It spun across the polished wood surface and landed with a sickening crack on the tile floor. “It’s so not fair! Why are you treating me like a criminal?”

  “I’m not treating you like a criminal.”

  “You totally are. You want to take my phone away, make me quit my job, lock me up for the whole summer. Why don’t you just put me in handcuffs, Eb? You might as well, because you’re ruining my life.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand this, Allie, but I’m trying to save your life, not ruin it. I won’t have you running around…”

  Allie stood with fists defiantly clenched on her hips. “What? Like my mom did? Is that what you were gonna say? You think I’ll get knocked up like she did? Or maybe you think I’ll end up in jail, like Dad? Admit it, Eb, that’s what you think.”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you think it. I can tell. You and Ginny want to pretend like Dad’s dead, or like he doesn’t even exist. Well guess what? Dad’s getting out of jail. Surprise!”

  “What?” Ginny’s voice was strained. “Who told you that?”

  “Dad e-mailed me yesterday. He’s getting out soon. And when he does, he’s coming back here to get me, and won’t make up a bunch of bullshit rules like you two.”

  Allie turned and ran from the room. Her bedroom door slammed.

  36

  Eb got up and started toward the bedroom, but Ginny put out a hand to stop him. “Just let her be. She’s upset right now. I’ll wait a while for her to calm down, then I’ll talk to her.”

  “Girls!” Eb shook his head. “And the mouth on her. If I’d talked to my folks like that, at that age…”

  “You did talk to your folks like that,” Ginny said. Her hands shook as she pushed back a lock of her silvery hair. “And worse. Remember? I was there. Anyway, it’s not her language that’s got me worried. Can that be right? Is Jared actually getting out of prison? Could he really take her away from us?”

  Eb was grim-faced. “This is the first I’ve heard of him being released. As for her going to live with him—that’s not going to happen, Gin. We’re her legal guardians.”

  “Dear God! I can’t bear to think of that child living with him.” Her brow knitted with worry. “I’m sorry, Eb, I realize he’s your brother, but you know what Jared is like. Always chasing the next big scheme. He’d never stay put here so that Allie could finish high school.”

  “What I can’t figure out is how Jared contacted her,” Eb said. “As far as I know, he hasn’t written her, and inmates aren’t allowed to have e-mail or cell phones.”

  Greer hesitated. “I know it’s none of my business.” She picked up Allie’s cell phone and examined it. The case was black, with Allie’s monogram picked out in girlish pink rhinestones. “The screen is cracked, but it looks like this is still working.”

  Eb took the phone and clicked over to e-mails.

  “Honestly, Eb, this doesn’t feel right, spying on the child,” Ginny objected. “I did give her the phone. It’s such an invasion of her privacy.”

  “Allie forfeited her right to privacy when she lied to us and deliberately misled us. What should I do? Ignore the fact that she’s been in touch with her jailbird dad and in some kind of relationship with a guy who’s managed to, at the very least, trash her reputation, if not worse?”

  “Well, no, but there must be some other way.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Eb said. “I won’t read any e-mail unless it’s from Jared or Kregg.”

  “But you can’t help but see personal stuff if you read her e-mail logs,” Ginny pointed out.

  “Fine.” Eb held out the phone back to Greer. “You’re as close to an impartial party as we’ve got right now. You take a look. Do you see anything here that we need to be worried about?”

  “Good idea.” Ginny beamed her approval.

  “Oh no.” Greer held her hands palm out, as if to fend off the phone. “I’ve done enough already.” She stood up and moved toward the door. “I’m sorry, you two. But this is a family matter. And I’ve got to be at work early tomorrow.”

  Eb stood too. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Greer protested. “You two have a lot on your plates right now. I can let myself out.”

  “I insist,” Eb said, and his stern expression meant there would be no further discussion. He put Allie’s phone in his pocket and guided Greer out of the living room.

  * * *

  She waited until they were in the breezeway outside Ginny’s apartment.

  “I can’t win with you, can I?” Greer gave Eb a sidelong glance in the dimly lit hall.

  “You should have come to me the first time you saw Allie with him,” Eb said tersely. “You had no right to keep something like that from us.”

  “Look. I realize that now, but what was I supposed to do? Allie’s a good kid. Anybody can see that. I trusted her, and she let me down. I feel horrible about the TMZ story, the picture, all of it.”

  They’d reached the door to Greer’s motel room. The yellow lightbulb in the overhead fixture threw harsh gray shadows on Eb’s face.

  “Forget it,” Eb said, thrusting his hands into his pockets. The hot, sticky air in the hallway was nearly suffocating. Moths and bugs battered themselves against the overhead light. The awkward silence seemed endless.

  “I guess maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Guess so,” Greer said, bringing out her room key. She felt numb.

  “One more thing,” Eb said. “You tell Bryce, and everybody else connected with this movie, if I see Kregg come anywhere near Allie again I’ll break both his legs.”

  37

  Friday was the first day of shooting at the casino. Trucks and trailers lined both sides of the pier leading to the old building, and a small city of tents had been erected. Greer had arrived at 4:00 a.m., wearing a baseball cap with a flashlight mounted on the bill, to direct the load-in of equipment.

  At dawn, she’d finally had a minute to make her way to the caterer’s truck. She was just about to take a bite of a breakfast burrito when she felt a hand clamp her shoulder.

  She was already a hot, sweaty mess, but Bryce Levy was serene and composed looking in a short-sleeved white Columbia fishing shirt and his favorite black jeans.

  “Everything cool?” he asked, uncapping a bottle of water.

  “Think so,” Greer said. “We had to move the genny to get it out of your sight line. The guys should be done with that in about fifteen minutes.”

  He nodded. “Good. How’s it coming with my ammo dump? You got some pictures for me yet?”

  Pictures? She hadn’t even started looking yet, not that she’d admit that to the producer/director.

  “I’ve seen some possibilities,” she lied. “But nothing worth a picture yet. I should have something you can look at by Monday.”

 
; “You’d better,” Bryce said curtly. He turned to examine the cut up fruits and vegetables arrayed around the gleaming stainless steel Vitamix.

  “Um, Bryce, can I talk to you about something?”

  “Sure.” He held up a lumpy beige root and eyed it critically. “You think this ginger is organic?”

  “We specified all organic in the catering contract,” Greer assured him. “The thing is, we’ve got kind of a sensitive issue brewing, and I think it’s something you need to address.”

  Bryce gave a martyr’s sigh. “What is it now?”

  “It’s about Kregg,” she said. “Did you happen to see the item about him in TMZ?”

  “I never read that crap. You shouldn’t either. It’s all a load of lies.”

  “I normally don’t read it. But this week they ran a photo of Kregg and a topless girl riding around out in the Gulf on a Jet Ski.”

  “That guy is a pussy magnet, right?”

  Greer winced. “The girl is seventeen years old. She’s a minor. And she’s Eb Thibadeaux’s niece.”

  “Remind me who Eb Thibadeaux is?” Bryce was loading chunks of papaya and mango into the juicer’s feed tube. “Have you had the kale?” He held up a leaf. “Is it local?”

  Greer felt herself doing a slow burn. “I don’t know about the kale, but Eb Thibadeaux is not only local, he’s the mayor of Cypress Key. And he is justifiably upset about his niece having her topless image splashed all over the Internet with the lead of this movie.”

  Bryce held a biodegradable cardboard cup under the juicer’s spigot, watching intently as a thick, greenish sludge oozed out.

  He took a cautious sip, rolling the juice around on his palate, then reached for a plastic squeeze bottle labeled Orange Blossom Honey.

  “What would you like me to do, Greer? Hire a nanny for Kregg? Get him fitted with a chastity belt? He’s an adult. I can’t exactly put him in time-out for the duration of this film.”

  “Could you have a heart-to-heart conversation with him? Allie might be just another summer fling to Kregg, but this is an innocent small-town kid we’re talking about. She hasn’t even graduated from high school yet. And you might also want to tell Kregg to lay off the weed while he’s here. The mayor is gunning for Kregg right now. He’ll use any excuse available to keep his niece safe. Including having the cops bust Kregg for possession or lock him up for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

  “Cops?” Bryce frowned. “Cops mean lawyers, and lawyers mean a pain in my ass. Yeah, that’s a hassle I don’t need. Okay, I’ll have a word with Kregg and tell him to keep it in his pants. You can advise the mayor we deeply regret, etcetera. Do we need to get a publicist involved with this?”

  “No publicist needed,” Greer assured him. “Thanks, Bryce.”

  * * *

  By midmorning Greer had moved the generator twice, and the portable bathrooms three times, because each time she’d had them moved Bryce had changed his mind about the direction of his shots with Adelyn Davis and the character playing the sheriff.

  She’d also had the off-duty cops positioned in skiffs behind the casino chase off three different boatloads of paparazzi and rubberneckers, who were probably intent on having themselves a Kregg sighting.

  The sun was merciless, and despite the sunblock she’d slathered on her neck and shoulders hours earlier, she could feel her skin blistering.

  During a lull in activity she wandered over to a tent where CeeJay was applying eyeliner to one of the extras, who were supposed to be milling around inside the casino for a crowd scene.

  CeeJay’s short hair was done up Rosie the Riveter style in a wide bandana headband. She wore a vintage fifties-style halter top and high-waisted red cotton shorts, with a tool belt full of makeup equipment buckled loosely around her hips.

  The extra, a middle-aged man dressed in a garish Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts, sat perfectly still while CeeJay powdered his bald spot and touched up his comb-over with hair spray.

  When he was gone, Greer sank down into his vacant chair. “I’m melting,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I’ve got just the thing,” CeeJay said, grabbing a spray bottle of water from a small cooler at her feet. She started spritzing her friend’s face, but just then Greer’s radio squawked with a call from Zena, who was stationed at the barrier erected across Pier Street.

  “Incoming. You know a Vanessa Littrell?”

  “Yeah. She actually owns the casino. Why?”

  “Says Bryce personally invited her on set today. Okay to send her up?”

  “That’s weird. Bryce is notorious for insisting on a closed set. But if he invited her, that’s all I need,” Greer said.

  “Who’s coming on set?” CeeJay asked, spritzing her own face.

  “Vanessa Littrell.”

  CeeJay’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Interesting. Two months ago Bryce wouldn’t let his own mother come on set. Said it was too distracting for him.”

  A few minutes later, Zena rolled up on a golf cart to deliver the visitor.

  “Hi, Greer.” Stepping out of the cart onto the steaming asphalt, Vanessa was a lemonade-tinted vision, with a short, pale yellow sundress that showed off her deep tan, toned legs, and glossy, dark hair. She stood and took in all the activity surrounding them.

  “This is so cool,” Vanessa exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a movie being made before. Is Bryce around? He said I should check in with him as soon as I got here.”

  “Right over there,” CeeJay volunteered, pointing at a nearby tent, where Bryce was peering into a monitor with his cameraman.

  “See you later,” Vanessa said, as she strolled away.

  CeeJay and Greer watched with undisguised interest as Bryce greeted the newcomer with a hug. Moments later, a P.A. produced a folding director’s chair with “Vanessa Littrell” emblazoned on the back.

  “He never gave me a chair with my name on it,” Greer mused.

  “Because he never anticipated you might sleep with him,” CeeJay shot back.

  “Well, that kind of hurts my feelings. What? I’m not his type?”

  “If you have breasts and a vagina, you’re his type,” CeeJay said. “It’s not that he would mind schtupping you,” her best friend explained. “He thinks you’re cute. But you’re my friend, so that makes you off-limits. Because you might rat him out.”

  Greer nodded in the direction of the tent, where Vanessa was now staring into the monitor, with Bryce standing directly beside her, his hand on the small of her back.

  “You don’t seem too upset about any of this,” she observed.

  “Bryce has the sexual attention span of a three-year-old,” CeeJay said with a shrug. “He likes anything shiny and new. What’s the story on Vanessa?”

  “From what I gather, she’s what passes for royalty in Cypress Key. Her family’s been here for generations.”

  “Married?”

  “Twice divorced,” Greer said. “And actively seeking a suitable man. She says the local pickings are pretty slim for somebody in her tax bracket.”

  “What about the Professor?” CeeJay had an impish twinkle in her eye. “He seems eminently suitable, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody did. Vanessa made a run at him years ago, but I don’t think Eb was interested.”

  “Saving himself for something better.” CeeJay nudged Greer.

  “That was over before it even began. He’s currently avoiding me. Which is fine. It never would have worked out. Anyway, I’ve got enough drama in my life without his and his niece’s.”

  “Oh yeah. I’m guessing the shit hit the fan when he found out about TMZ?”

  Greer gave CeeJay a condensed version of her last conversation with Eb Thibadeaux, including the fact that he’d made Allie quit the film and had placed her under semi–house arrest.

  “Too bad about the kid,” CeeJay said. “But Eb might want to dial it down. Girls that age, you clamp too tight a lid on ’em and you get a backlash that’s even worse than what you’re
punishing them for. I ran away from home the first time when I was only fourteen, after my dad refused to let me get a nose ring. All kids rebel. It’s part of growing up. Right?”

  Greer’s attention had wandered, as she watched the body language between Vanessa and Bryce.

  “Hmm?”

  “Teenage rebellion?”

  Greer’s mind flashed back to an incident in her early teens when her own youthful rebellion had nearly gotten her killed. She shuddered. It was a memory she’d long repressed and didn’t plan to dredge up again any time soon.

  “You seeing what I’m seeing?” she asked CeeJay, nodding at the director’s tent, where Bryce’s hand was now gently hovering over Vanessa Littrell’s posterior.

  “Gag me,” CeeJay said.

  Greer’s radio squawked again.

  “Hi, Zena, what’s up?”

  “You’ve got a guest down here. Okay to bring him up?”

  “Looks like it’s open house on the set today,” CeeJay observed.

  “What guest? I didn’t invite anybody on set,” Greer said.

  “Uh, he says he’s your dad.”

  Greer felt the blood drain from her face.

  “Stay where you are. I’ll be right down.”

  “Did she just say your dad is here?” CeeJay asked. “Like, your real dad?”

  “Alleged dad, is more like it,” Greer said.

  When Greer arrived at the barricades blocking entrance to Pier Street, she spied Clint Hennessy leaning up against a dusty, late-eighties-looking black and white sheriff’s department cruiser, chatting with her assistant. He wore a black baseball cap, black Hennessy Picture Cars logo T-shirt, and baggy, ill-fitting jeans—again with the white tube socks and ten-dollar black tennis shoes. “Dad jeans,” CeeJay would have called those pants. He’d hooked his sunglasses over the neckline of the shirt.

  Oh my God. This old redneck is my father. I have his DNA. How did he and Lise ever end up together? I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. She’s dead, and he might as well be.

  She pulled the golf cart up to the barricade, hopped out, and hurried over to the car.