by Wendy Wax
“Be right down,” I say as we start up the stairs. On the landing I point Sydney toward the bedroom we’re going to be sharing then carry Dustin into his room, where I slip him gently into his car bed and pull his door closed behind me.
Four
It’s a good thing Bella Flora has so many thousands of square feet, because we’re planning to pack a lot of people inside her tonight and we’ll have even more people here tomorrow for Christmas.
It turns dark and rainy about four. By five o’clock we’ve got the Casbah Lounge all decked out. A large punchbowl of spiked eggnog sits on the bar, and each tile-topped table has small bowls of spiced nuts and Chex Mix and its own candle. The Casbah has leaded glass windows, red leather banquettes, and a riot of Moorish tile that covers everything from the floor to the bar to the arched pillars and posts. Whenever I’m in here I picture Bogie toasting Bacall while “As Time Goes By” plays softly in the background.
The unspiked eggnog has been relegated to the salon along with more nibbles and finger foods. The main event will take place tomorrow. A fire has been lit in the fireplace, and the tree, now completely decorated, stands in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the pool and the pass. The star at the top of the tree is the one Andrew and I grew up with, and the ornaments we made in kindergarten and elementary school share pride of place with tinsel and colored lights. Dustin’s ornaments, which include a small fire truck and a palm tree that says Pass-a-Grille on it, hang wherever he could reach. Garlands and strings of popcorn encircle the tree, and candy canes and chocolate Santas dangle from the tips of the lower branches.
Dustin shrieks with glee when Bitsy Baynard arrives with Sherlock—who has a large red bow tied around his neck. He follows Dustin back to the salon and settles on the floor at his feet, his chin on his front paws. Avery’s right behind them, and I assume she rushed here after working on one of the Sunshine cottages, because there are still small globs of paint in her blond hair.
“Where are Nikki and Joe and the girls?” she asks as she pinches a Cheez Doodle from a bowl and ladles herself a cup of eggnog. “Their cottage was dark when we left. I figured they were already here.”
“They were supposed to be, but Joe’s parents and Nonna Sofia had car trouble on the way down . . . they went to pick them up in Gainesville.” My mother hands her a holiday napkin. If a snack doesn’t turn her fingers orange, Avery isn’t interested. “They’ll all be here tomorrow along with the Franklins and the Hardins.”
Maddie is in perpetual motion, refilling trays, making sure the eggnog keeps flowing, making everyone feel welcome. When she pauses it’s next to William Hightower, whose dark hair is threaded with gray and whose high cheekbones and hatchet nose attest to his Native American forebears even though he insists he has far more Florida Cracker blood running through his veins than Seminole. His dark eyes follow her wherever she goes and a small smile plays at the corner of his lips. The laps he began swimming every day during his last and final stint in rehab have left him lean and chiseled. Hours fishing out on the flats that dot the Florida Keys have left his face bronzed by the sun.
My father frowns slightly when my mother comes in or out of Will’s orbit, but I’m all out of sympathy. He’s the one who screwed up. And he was the first one to date even before they announced their plans to divorce. But living with the ramifications of his own actions is not my father’s strong suit. I’m relieved that he’s moved out of Bella Flora and is finally attempting to get on with his life. I love him, but seriously, it’s way past time.
Thomas Hightower steps through the French doors, his dark hair slick with rain. He’s a less rugged and weathered version of his rock star father. Because of, or in spite of, his turbulent childhood he skipped the drug scene his father once wallowed in and prefers numbers to music. He may not be the player his father once was, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t noticed Sydney. I mean, who doesn’t? Even my not-so-little brother Andrew lights up like the Christmas tree when she smiles at or speaks to him.
“Are you ready to light Max’s menorah?”
“Max Nemorah!” Dustin beams as I pull out the menorah and set it on the mantel.
Hanukkah is over—I never have grasped the Jewish calendar—but we light all eight candles each year to honor Max Golden, who owned the Nautical Art Deco home that we renovated for the first full season of Do Over. The candle holders are shaped like comedy masks because Max and his wife Millie were once the George Burns and Gracie Allen of Miami Beach. We talk about Max often. I don’t want any of us to ever forget that he saved my son’s life.
The others gather around us. Dustin repeats the prayer with me as I light the candles—we’ve both memorized it phonetically. It’s amazing what you can learn how to do on YouTube.
Large quantities of eggnog are consumed. Our collective mood mellows. The mix of Christmas carols is random and eclectic—I’m not sure who curated the playlist—but it includes everything from Johnny Cash’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” to Alvin and the Chipmunks’ “Christmas Don’t Be Late.” We’re listening to Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” and settling in around the tree to watch Dustin open a present when the doorbell rings.
“Maybe it’s Santa Cause!” Dustin jumps up, grabs my hand, and drags me to the front door, Sherlock on our heels. When I open it, it is Santa Claus. A tall, perfectly turned-out version complete with red apple cheeks, white beard and mustache, a stomach straining against a red velvet suit, and matching fur-trimmed cap. I look past him half expecting to see a sleigh hitched to the curb. Instead I see a stretch limo idling in front of the garden wall. Nigel and his passel of paparazzi cohorts are standing near it.
“It’s Santa Cause!” Dustin shouts. Sherlock woofs happily.
In a deep voice that makes his padded stomach go up and down, Santa shouts, “Ho! Ho! Ho! young man. Merrrrrry Christmas!”
Normally, Dustin is the first to recognize his father through any disguise, but it’s Christmas Eve, and despite the department store and Salvation Army Santas, he hasn’t yet begun to question whether or not Santa Claus exists. Beyond excited, he throws his arms around Santa’s waist and shouts “Merry Christmas!” right back.
“You were supposed to text when you were on your way,” I whisper just before Santa lifts Dustin up and whirls him around, sending Nigel, Bill, and the other photographers into a shooting frenzy that lights up the darkness.
“Sorry. Didn’t get the chance.” He covers this with another “Ho! Ho! Ho!” while Dustin squeals happily and Sherlock gives another woof and wags his tail.
“Are you deriviring presents?” Dustin remembers Santa’s actual function as Daniel sets him back on his feet.
“I have one for a Mister Dustin Deranian. His father asked me to deliver it.”
“I’m Dustin Deranium.” Dustin is quivering with excitement. “What did my Dandiel send me?”
“I’ve got it right here,” Santa says cheerily as he reaches into the shadowed area just beyond the door and comes back with a large wrapped box. “May I come in?”
Dustin looks up at me, his mouth an O of surprise. He didn’t think twice about Santa ringing the doorbell to hand deliver a gift, but it apparently strikes him as strange that Santa not only wants to come inside, but has to ask me for permission.
“Of course,” I say, not wanting to be the one to ruin the moment. “Maybe you can go ask Geema to wrap up the Christmas cookies you made for Santa so that he can take them with him.”
“Want my present first.” His chin juts out and I see the determined look I’m learning to recognize settle on his face. He flew past the terrible twos without the slightest eruption, and his threes were pretty mellow, but lately he’s become less malleable and more unpredictable.
“Dustin . . . ,” I begin.
“No problem, ma’am,” Santa chuckles. He places the box on the floor of the foyer. “He can open it
right now.”
Dustin grins in triumph and immediately squats down in front of the box. I move to close the door but Daniel steps slightly to his right so I can’t reach it. Santa’s eyes twinkle. Daniel is clearly excited about this gift and is already anticipating Dustin’s reaction to it. I’m just relieved it’s not another replica of Bella Flora or something else too big to deal with. Sherlock sniffs the box aggressively then looks up at us and whimpers.
“Lift off the top, Dustin,” Santa urges as he moves even further to his right.
The lid comes off and I hear another whimper. But it’s not Sherlock or Dustin who makes the sound. It’s. . . .
“It’s a puppy! My Dandiel gived me a puppy!” Dustin lifts the squirming, wriggling, whimpering gift and clutches it in his arms, his face suffused with happiness.
Flashes go off like fireworks and I realize that Dustin and the puppy are perfectly framed and lit in the doorway. This is not an accident.
My eyes narrow as the puppy licks Dustin’s face. Sherlock doesn’t look any happier than I do. This puppy is all long legs and huge feet. His head is big and square. “What kind of dog is this?” I demand.
“Great Dane,” Daniel says in his Santa voice. “They’re great with children.” If he Ho! Ho! Hos right now, I don’t think I’ll be responsible for my actions.
“This is not the kind of gift Santa Claus, or anyone else, should just deliver without checking first,” I say through gritted teeth even though we both know there’s nothing I can do about it. Dustin is holding on to that puppy like he has no intention of ever letting go. Plus there’s a crowd of photographers outside shooting their pestilent hearts out. Photos of Daniel/Santa leaving with a rejected puppy while Dustin sobs would go viral before I got the front door closed.
Daniel looks at me like he can’t wait to see what happens next. Slamming the door in Santa’s face would be almost as bad as sending him away with the rejected puppy. Daniel has staged a coup without firing a single shot.
“Dustin, why don’t you go show everybody the puppy and ask Geema to wrap up those cookies for Santa.”
Dustin looks up. “Can’t Santa stay and bisit?” The puppy squirms in his arms. It’s almost as big as he is.
After a quick look at my face, Daniel shakes his head. “Thanks for the invitation, but I have to get back to my deliveries,” he says in that hearty Santa voice. “I’ll wait right here for those cookies.”
Daniel steps inside and closes the front door behind him as Dustin runs back down the central hallway, the puppy crushed to his chest. Sherlock runs after him. I am seething with anger. If I were a cartoon character, steam would be pouring out of my ears.
Ignoring my reaction, Daniel wraps his hands around my waist and pulls me close to him. I hold myself stiff, determined to cling to my anger, but underneath the padding and the fake fur I can feel his lithe hardness. He leans his head down and grazes his lips over mine. I do not respond and I’m pretty sure I don’t whimper. The fake beard tickles, and I inhale his spicy scent as his hands slip over my rear to bring me closer. The song “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” runs through my head, and I order myself to disengage. But myself refuses to obey. A woof from the salon and Dustin’s excited voice tell me he’s busy showing everyone his new puppy and not on his way back with cookies.
Daniel nuzzles the top of my head with his chin and runs his hands up my back, gentle but knowing.
“No. I’m not doing this again.” I say this even as I feel my will weakening like it always does when he applies himself to seducing me.
“Not doing what?” It’s a husky murmur I feel more than hear as his lips trail their way down my neck. One hand comes to rest just beneath my breast. My body rouses and clamors for more. In my defense, he is one of the all-time sexiest men alive. Just ask People magazine.
“Giving in to you. To this.”
His lips linger over the sensitive spot in the hollow of my shoulder then stretch into a smile.
It takes way longer than it should, but I finally detach myself and step back. I draw a deep breath. “Where’s Mrs. Claus and the family?”
“North Pole,” he says easily.
I give him a look.
He shrugs. “Disney World. We’re combining the holiday with some last-minute preproduction details.” This is where The Exchange is supposed to start filming in the middle of January. It’s based on a bestseller about a kidnapping that takes place at a theme park. I still can’t believe Disney would allow itself to be tied even fictionally to a child’s abduction, but I guess Daniel Deranian and Tonja Kay may be too big to say no to. Now that Brangelina has broken up, they are the Hollywood power couple.
“So what was all this about tonight?” I manage to put another couple of inches between us.
“I’ve always given Dustin a gift.”
“But not in person. Not dressed as Santa. And not with a pack of paparazzi cued up and waiting for your arrival.” I watch his face, what I can see of it through the Santa makeup and hair. “And a Great Dane? Really?”
“Bella Flora’s big enough for a big dog. And every child should have one.”
I’ve seen the pictures of Daniel and Tonja Kay with their children, their children’s individual nannies, and the family dogs traveling all over the world. If you have enough money and staff, nothing is too difficult to manage. We don’t even have enough money to hold on to Bella Flora.
“We’re moving out of Bella Flora on January second. We have a tenant. I told you I’d find a way to pay off the loan and I have.” Once again I try not to think about how I put Bella Flora at risk and why this tenant insists on anonymity.
“For God’s, sake, Kyra. All you have to do is let Dustin be in the movie and spend the six weeks on location with him and you won’t have to rent it out.”
“I haven’t decided about the movie yet,” I snap. “And I’ve already signed a rental agreement.”
“We’ll use Dustin’s salary to pay off the loan up front so that Bella Flora will be free and clear before you’re due on set. Plus we’ll reimburse the tenant for his deposit. We need Dustin to play the part.”
“Just like you needed photos of him receiving your adorable gift tonight?”
His lips turn downward into a frown, which is not a good look on Santa. “You’re making this way more complicated than it needs to be, Kyra. Dustin wants to be in the movie and we want him to be a part of it.” The we is instinctive. He and Tonja are one, at least when it comes to business.
“For the publicity.”
He doesn’t admit this, but he doesn’t deny it, either. “Because he’s perfect for the role.”
“I told you I’m still thinking. The harder you push the harder it is to say yes.”
“Don’t be crazy.” He reaches out a hand to cup my cheek. “There’s no need to cut off your nose to spite your face.”
“I hate that saying. And I’m not crazy. The only crazy thing I’ve ever done is fall for you.” I reach for his hand and pull it from my face. “I told you I’m thinking. I’ll let you know when I reach a decision.”
At that moment Dustin runs up to us clutching a paper bag filled with what are undoubtedly crushed Christmas cookies. He hands them to Daniel. “Thank you for the puppy, Santa Caus! Thas exactly what I wanted forever!”
“You’re welcome, young man,” Daniel says in that gruff yet warm Santa voice. “You be sure and let your father know that I delivered it as promised.” He nods down at Dustin, still completely in character. But as he turns to go, I see what look like tears glistening in his eyes.
“I hope you and your mother have a very Merry Christmas, too.”
Five
It’s after midnight by the time most of us make it up to bed. I look in on Dustin and see him wrapped up with the puppy and the blankets. I know letting them sleep together from the beginning is undoubtedly a mistake, b
ut it’s not like we have a spare dog bed or a crate lying around. Plus it’s Christmas Eve and tomorrow—or actually today—is a big day. I don’t have the strength to deal with a lonely puppy up crying all night and I don’t want to inflict it on others.
I’m way too tired to do more than splash water on my face and brush my teeth, but I do have the energy to give Sydney some shit for the number of tiny plastic containers of cosmetics arranged on the sink—I’m amazed she fit any clothes into that carry-on—and the amount of time she’s spent on her “beauty regimen.”
“I’m thirty,” she says as she massages a second layer of cream onto her face and down her neck. “Which is practically fifty in Hollywood. I’m my only real asset and I’m not a big enough name to let myself go.” She applies some sort of conditioner to her hair and then begins to tweeze her eyebrows.
She’s wearing a plum-colored satin nightgown trimmed in lace with a matching robe, which is about as far from the ancient boxers and T-shirt I sleep in as it’s possible to get. On the outside she looks like an exotic butterfly, on the inside she’s more like a squirrel cataloging its acorns. Not for the first time I’m grateful that I’ve always worked behind the camera and not in front of it, and that my inside and my outside are in sync.
“Is it weird knowing your mother’s having sex down the hall?” she asks, catching my eye in the mirror.
“I’m willing to bet they’re already asleep,” I say as we share a smile. “But, yeah. I never even thought of her as anything except my mother until my parents got divorced. And if you would have asked me then, I would have said they’d had sex twice—once about nine months before Andrew and I were born. But I’m getting used to it. It’s kind of nice to know that fifty’s not too late to start a relationship. You know?”
Sydney makes no comment. She’s still looking at herself in the mirror, but I can tell she’s thinking about something—or someone—else. I’m pretty sure it’s not my mother and Will.