by Wendy Wax
Madeline nodded. The brunette had been worrying her lip between her teeth through most of Chase’s impassioned plea. “We came here to put this house on the market, not to sink a ton of money into remodeling it.”
“Damn straight,” Nicole said, her green eyes fierce.
Avery admired a lot of things about this house. If she’d had the money, she might have enjoyed nursing it back to life. She was even willing to concede that Chase Hardin seemed to know what he was talking about. But his complete dismissal of her made agreeing with him pretty much impossible. So did her lack of money.
“Look,” Avery said. “The house is great. I’ve always admired Mediterranean Revival style and this is a fabulous example of it. But none of us live here or, as far as I know, have plans to. We just want to sell our communal asset as quickly as possible.” She kept her tone chilly, but Chase Hardin didn’t seem to notice.
“You don’t want to put this house on the market right now,” Chase said, his voice ringing with certainty. “Not in this economy and not at this time of year.” He didn’t even refer to the teardown as an option. “It’s already May. In another few weeks summer will be here full blast. You know, the hot, muggy, close-to-hundred-degree days when just moving requires maximum effort. That is not the time to try to get a wealthy northerner to invest in property here. Maybe in Maine. Or the North Carolina mountains. Not here.”
So far Chase Hardin and John Franklin were on the same page, but their agendas were not necessarily hers.
“What would it cost to get the house ready enough to put on the market for a high-end buyer?” Madeline asked softly.
“Well, it would depend,” he said.
“Here it comes,” Nicole said. “Brace yourselves, ladies.”
Avery braced; she sensed Madeline doing the same.
Chase Hardin turned to his father. “Well, first of all I assume we’re talking wholesale prices for materials and labor. New construction is a long way from anything resembling a full recovery, so our regular suppliers are hurting and ready to deal and our subs will kill to work at all.”
His father nodded agreement. “That’s true.”
Chase hesitated, still thinking, then said, “And I would be willing to waive any fees as contractor in return for a share of the profits when the house is sold.”
It was a bold offer. Avery sensed Nicole and Madeline trying to size him up as they weighed it. All three of them had lost more than they should have to a skilled swindler; no one wanted to travel that road again.
“You still haven’t told us how much we’d have to come up with to cover the out-of-pocket expenses,” Avery said. “No matter how bad the construction industry is, your suppliers and subs, not to mention the skilled artisans we’re going to have to call on occasion, aren’t going to give us materials or work for free.”
“Completely true,” Jeff Hardin agreed again.
“All right,” Chase said. “Let me think.”
They watched him for a few long moments, none of them talking as he studied the house, lost in thought. In the silence Avery told herself to just calm down and hear what the man had to say. However condescending and annoying he was, he was Jeff’s son and he was connected in the construction industry here in ways she wasn’t. He had experience they could benefit from.
An odd smile tugged at his lips and she was struck by how handsome he was when he wasn’t scowling. “Okay,” he finally said. “What if I cover those out-of-pocket expenses and keep receipts, and I get paid back at closing, right off the top?”
“So we’d have no up-front expense?” Nicole asked. “You’d serve as contractor for a percentage of the sale price and get reimbursed for documented hard costs out of the proceeds?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “It’s a clear win-win.”
“But that still could be a huge chunk of money,” Avery said, liking the idea but not wanting to leap too quickly. “Even with the hard costs at wholesale, it’ll take a ton of man hours to get this house ready.”
The odd smile turned evil. “Or woman hours,” Chase said. “You all could save yourselves a boatload of money by investing a little sweat equity.”
“Sweat equity?” Madeline asked as if trying the term on for size.
Nicole’s elegant nose wrinkled at the word “sweat.” “We’re already investing the house. That’s our ‘equity’ in the deal.”
“But the house isn’t worth all that much in its present condition,” Chase said. “You need me to help realize its true value.”
Jeff Hardin shook his head and smothered a smile. Avery didn’t like the look of amusement that had stolen into his son’s eyes.
“There’s a lot of . . . grunt work that’s going to have to be done,” Chase said. “Work that I could teach almost anyone to do. Even a trained monkey.”
“Chase,” Jeff Hardin said. “That’s not . . .”
“Some of us monkeys have more training and hands-on experience than others,” Avery said, her body as stiff with anger as her tone.
“That may be,” he replied, the monosyllables ancient history now that he seemed to think he had the upper hand. “But my monkeys won’t be pointing and gesturing for a camera, they’ll be working.” He snagged Avery’s gaze. “Plus it’s going to be way too hot this summer for tight sweaters. Especially without air-conditioning.”
Avery could actually feel her blood beginning to boil in her veins. Her skin flushed from the heat of it. She opened her mouth, closed it, momentarily speechless in her fury.
“So to summarize,” Chase said, breaking eye contact with Avery to include the others in his gaze. “I’m willing to serve as general contractor at no charge. I’ll pay my usual contractor’s rate for all necessary materials and skilled labor. When the house sells I get reimbursed for my documented expenditures and then receive an agreed-upon percentage of your net profits. I’m thinking maybe two percent.”
He flashed a wolfish smile and shrugged. “I’ll guarantee the house will be ready to go on the market by Labor Day. And all you have to do in return is spend the summer doing what I tell you to.”
Nine
“Of all the nerve!” Avery huffed as the three of them crossed Beach Road and walked up the sidewalk toward the Hurricane, a restaurant that had evidently been a Pass-a-Grille staple since her childhood and which afforded both alcohol and a front-row seat for the oncoming sunset. “I have never been so intentionally offended! I mean, what unmitigated gall!” The busty little blonde really had her panties in a twist.
Nicole wanted to laugh. The hunky contractor had only tweaked the woman’s ego a bit. She’d like to see Avery Lawford’s reaction to a baby brother, one you’d raised and protected like your own, who stole everything you had. The urge to laugh died as she accepted that blow to the heart. Looking for a distraction, Nicole turned her attention back to her surroundings. The blocks were short and at each corner a glance to the right provided a view of the bay. Newly constructed homes sat next to fifties-era cinder-block motels with the occasional bungalow thrown in.
“I can’t believe he dismissed me like that!” Avery continued to complain, but with each block they covered the volume and level of outrage decreased.
Eighth Avenue consisted of a couple of restaurants, a post office, an ice cream place, a handful of small shops and galleries, and a bar. Another pier, this one white clapboard, jutted out into the bay.
“That must have been ‘Main Street,’ ” Nicole said. “I’ve never seen such a mishmash of stuff.”
“I think it’s quaint and kind of charming,” Madeline said with complete sincerity. Nicole bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. Based on the rapt expression on Madeline Singer’s face, compared to suburbia this place was freakin’ Utopia.
The Hurricane, which seemed like an unlucky name for a low-lying place pretty much surrounded by water, took up most of the block between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. Its motif, unlike everything around it, was Cape Cod, with gray clapboard sides and Victorian tr
im. They took the last available table on the patio facing the beach and sat shoulder to shoulder at Madeline’s insistence so that they could watch the sunset, which was apparently what all the people streaming onto the beach were planning to do.
“He actually called us monkeys!” Avery muttered as they made room for each other on the concrete bench. “And expects us to be his grunts!” She shook her head, but agreed to a Frozen Mango Daiquiri when the waitress informed them it was a house specialty. It got quiet as they all took first sips of their drinks and helped themselves to the peel-and-eat shrimp they’d decided to share.
They talked as strangers do, sharing snippets and brief histories, putting the best light on things. Nicole noted their hesitations and evasions, storing them for future consideration, though Nicole doubted their stories were anywhere near as airbrushed as hers.
It was clear that the only things they had in common were being screwed by Malcolm—a topic Nicole was not looking forward to rehashing—and their shares in Bella Flora, a topic they all seemed reluctant to broach. She wiped the warm buttery garlic from her fingers and ordered another round of drinks as Madeline oohed and ahhed over the pinkening sky and the sun’s final dramatic exit. Even Nicole, who had watched the sun set over the Pacific, thought it an impressive display, though she found herself unwilling to admit it.
Avery’s outrage finally sputtered out somewhere in the middle of her second daiquiri. Nicole went for a third, savoring the thick sweetness of mango and soothed by its welcome wallop. The other two had slices of key lime pie.
“So, what do you think?” Madeline asked, putting her fork down on her now-clean plate. “Do we tear down, or take Chase Hardin up on his offer?”
There was a silence as Nicole and Avery tried to hide their surprise that the housewife had taken the initiative. Nicole drained the last sweet sip from her glass and waited to see what would happen.
“Are you willing to spend the summer being his . . . grunts?” Avery asked.
“Well, we wouldn’t actually be grunting for him. We’d be grunting for us,” Madeline said with only a slight quiver in her voice. “To up the asking price by two million dollars.”
“Could you really spend the next four months here?” Avery asked. “Don’t you have a family or something you need to get back to?”
Madeline shifted uncomfortably in her seat and Nicole took note. Through necessity she’d learned to read faces and assess “tells,” but she wasn’t sure whether Madeline’s discomfort was caused by the current conversation or what was going on back in the burbs.
“Well, I know you all probably have to get back to your careers and all,” Madeline said. “But I might be able to work things out if we, um, decided that staying and working on the house was the right thing to do.”
Now it was the little blonde’s turn to look uncomfortable.
Ahhh, Nicole thought. We’re all hiding . . . something. But then if there was anything she’d learned over the years spent re-creating her life and herself, it was that nothing and no one was exactly what they seemed.
Nicole needed the money from the sale of their house as soon as possible. The fastest way to get it was to tear the house down and list the land with the most aggressive high-end Realtors they could find, maybe the Yes Girls whose signs she’d seen on the way into town. Except of course that she didn’t even have her share of the fifteen thousand it would take to demolish and had no idea whether her partners did, either. Nor did she know how long it might take to sell the land; the arguments against a summer listing sounded valid, but, of course, there was no actual guarantee that Bella Flora would sell quickly once it was renovated. It was all a great big crap shoot. But when it came to gambling, Nicole had always believed in shooting for the biggest prize.
“There are a lot of places I’d rather spend the summer,” Nicole said. “But I could probably swing a couple of months here if it’s going to add another couple of million to the asking price.”
Avery shifted in her seat again as Nicole and Madeline turned her way and waited expectantly.
“Well?” Nicole asked the blonde. “You’re probably in a better position to assess the house’s potential than we are. What do you think?”
“I think I’m completely pissed off at Chase’s attitude,” Avery said, brushing a blonde bang out of her eye, her tone rising in indignation. “I mean, who is he to talk to me that way?” She drew a deep breath and let it out before continuing. “But I’m not really comfortable with pulling that house down, especially not just as a knee-jerk to his condescension.” She looked out over the beach, which was barely visible beneath the sliver of moon that hung in the dark sky above it. “It is a great specimen,” she continued, “and five million is better than two million any day. I also think he’s right that it’s the wrong time of year to put it on the market.”
This time she looked down at the pie crumbs on her plate before raising her gaze to meet theirs. Her gray eyes were clouded. “And the show is on hiatus over the summer anyway.” Her jaw tightened. “So I could make myself available if we decided to accept Chase’s offer.”
They paid their bill and ambled back toward Beach Road. It was a Thursday night, not even nine P.M., and there was hardly a car on the road. Nicole looked at the empty streets as they passed under streetlights and listened to the dead quiet. She’d never be able to troll for wealthy clients here or make the society column—assuming there was one. On the other hand she wouldn’t be tempted to shop or spend money. Nor would she need to put on her usual dog-and-pony show. If they lived in the house while they worked on it, she’d hardly have any expenses at all.
Out of the corner of her eye she studied her partners once again. Could she spend an entire summer living and working with women with whom she had so little in common? Did she really have a choice?
“I noticed a vacancy sign earlier at those rental cottages next door,” Madeline said as they stopped in front of Bella Flora. Its pale pink walls were shadowed, its windows dark. “Why don’t we sleep on it and meet up for breakfast tomorrow morning to vote?”
They agreed, leaving their cars in the drive and walking to the Paradise Inn’s tiny office. Tomorrow morning the fate of their beachfront mansion and their summer would be sealed.
Somewhere around three A.M. Madeline gave up trying to sleep and simply lay in bed waiting for daylight. She watched the sunrise over Boca Ciega Bay through the parted curtains of the cottage window. With hours left before they were to meet, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and dressed. Tucking her cell phone into her pocket, Madeline headed toward the beach.
Lingering in front of Ten Beach Road, Madeline watched the house emerge from shadow as the morning sun began its ascent and deepened the pale gray sky to a robin’s egg blue. The house was battered and bruised. It had been buffeted by sand and wind and time. Worn down. Neglected. But did that mean it should be torn down and carted away?
In a perfect world, this house should be showered with love, carefully restored, and sold to someone who would appreciate it. But she had reason to know this was not a perfect world. And rather than fretting over Bella Flora’s fall from glory, she should be calculating its monetary value. Could they really finish the house under Chase Hardin’s direction? And if they did somehow manage this by Labor Day, how long would it take to find a buyer?
It was a gamble all around, filled with uncertainties; one she’d be taking with two total strangers who had their own goals and agendas she knew nothing about. And who were not, by all appearances, anywhere near as desperate as she was. She thought about Avery Lawford’s television series and her career as an architect, Nicole Grant’s classic car and vintage clothes, not to mention her high-profile matchmaking business.
Would it be better to simply tear the house down and hope the land would sell quickly? But where would she come up with the five thousand dollars for her share of the demolition? She didn’t even know how they were going to hang on financially without having to dig into wh
at little they had left.
Madeline followed the sandy path that led to the jetty and forked to the beach. At the end of the concrete pier a handful of fishermen were already baiting hooks and casting their lines. The seabird population loitered with intent—the more patient pelicans hunkered on boulders and pilings waiting to see what might be caught and tossed their way while their less patient relatives skimmed low over the water and dive-bombed at will. Sleek white herons perfectly balanced on one pick-up-stick leg arched S-shaped necks and stared out to sea.
The beach itself was postcard perfect, the sugar white sand so pristine she felt almost guilty marring it. Removing her sandals, she stepped gingerly onto the cushion of night-cooled sand. Dangling her sandals between the fingers of one hand, she began to walk along the water’s edge, her bare toes sinking into the damp sand and enjoying the feel of the water playing over them.
For a while she just walked, the Gulf sparkling blue green on her left, the breeze coming off it so light its surface barely rippled. Schools of needlelike fish darted in the shallows, turning on a dime and moving with military precision. Ahead of her the beach stretched in a gentle curve well past the Don CeSar. On her right, beyond the clumps of seaweed deposited at high tide, wooden walkways arched over the dunes to the sidewalk, protecting them and the wildlife that sought refuge there.
Seagulls flew overhead, gliding and diving while a flock of smaller birds raced here and there on impossibly fragile legs. As she passed the Paradise Grille, where they’d agreed to meet for breakfast, the flow of people increased. Some stopped to search for treasures in the sand while others moved at a faster pace, but no one intruded with more than a smile or a nod.
As she walked Madeline’s gaze scanned from the Gulf, across the beach, and up to the homes and condos—many of them large and clearly expensive—that bracketed the beach on her right.