Emilia’s eyes were glued to the mottled flamingo. “I think it’s a good idea.”
“What?” snapped the elder of the two failed interior designers.
“Then let’s call Uncle Tino.”
“And let Aunt Maria think she was right all along, that we’re too spoiled and coddled to make it on our own? No way.”
“Then Mark’s our only other choice.” Emilia began ticking her points off by tapping her fingers. “We don’t want to call a local contractor, and we can’t afford to hire anyone from the mainland. Heck, Gina, we don’t even know how to get this rug cleaned. What if it needs to be dry-cleaned in Sarasota or somewhere? That alone might cost us all our reserve funds. Regardless of your issues with Mark, he may be our best option.”
She huffed. “Well I’m certainly not going to call him.”
“Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll stop by the dealership tomorrow.”
Despite innumerable efforts, Gina failed to reach Emilia all day, nor did her sister return any of her calls or texts. Gina hurried home after work and anxiously checked the street, but there was no sign of Mark’s blue Honda Accord. Her disappointment surprised her.
She took one step inside Mrs. Castillo’s house and nearly stepped on Emilia, who was on her hands and knees trying to pick globules of plaster from the rug.
“Hey, watch it! My back is already shot. Don’t cripple me too.”
Gina decided against scolding her sister for not returning her calls. “How long have you been at this?”
Emilia looked up at her in utter exasperation. “It was Mark’s suggestion, since we’re attempting to salvage a so-called priceless heirloom. And by the way, you’re supposed to say, ‘Wow, Emilia. You’ve really done a great job. The rug looks much better.’”
“Sorry. It does, really. I was just wondering how much more time it would take, based on how long you’ve been at it.”
Emilia sat up and crooked her finger in her sister’s direction. “Don’t you worry. There’s plenty of fun to go around.”
Gina flashed a sarcastic grin and headed into the kitchen. “So . . . you spoke to Mark today?”
“Yeah, and I’m giving you a heads-up. He’s coming by in a bit to assess our damage, so if you want to bail out, consider yourself forewarned.” Emilia went back to work.
Gina tried to act nonchalant about the news. “Did he mention what he’s going to charge?”
Emilia sat up again and shot her sister a curious glance. “He’s not going to charge us anything. We’ll have to buy the supplies of course, but—”
The curious tone in her sister’s final word made Gina apprehensive. “But what?”
“Well, he may want one thing in return.”
Gina lowered her chin and looked at Emilia like a bull about to charge. “And that would be . . .”
“Well, he asked me if you were still wearing your rings, and I told him no, and he said if you weren’t going to wear them, then—”
Gina’s hands hit her hips and her upper body began leaning in Emilia’s direction. “Then what?”
“Then he wants them back. He doesn’t want to keep paying for them.”
“Money!” Gina hollered, her eyes flashing fury. “It’s always about money!”
Emilia stood up and walked over to her sister. “I think it’s a fair request, since you stopped wearing them in April. A monthly jewelry store installment payment is a pretty cruel reminder that his marriage is over.”
Gina tightened her jaw. “Fine!” she said as she retrieved the rings from her purse and placed them in a teacup. “I certainly don’t want them anymore.” Then she headed for her room, emerging twenty minutes later, dressed in jeans and a lime green T-shirt, with her hair knotted loosely on her head.
Emilia sat back on her haunches and scowled. “Nice hairdo, Gina. Aren’t you afraid those perfectly coiffed curly tendrils dangling along the side of your face will get mussed when you’re down here on your hands and knees picking plaster with the manual labor crowd?”
“It’s just loose hair, Emilia.” Gina huffed and knelt beside her sister, fighting stray tendrils for the next thirty minutes. After craning her neck at regular intervals to check the time, she finally said, “I thought Mark was coming by soon.”
Emilia merely shrugged her shoulders. A few minutes later a soft tap sounded on the screen door.
“Hi, Mark,” said Emilia in a pitiful tone.
“Let me see your plaster disaster,” he answered in a voice clearly designed to sound casual and comfortable but that came out tense and overly cheery. “How’s it going?” he asked as he entered the demilitarized zone.
“Slow . . . ,” Emilia answered, dragging out the word as she stood to give him a hug. “I’ve already ruined a thirty-five-dollar manicure. Thanks for coming. You’re a real peach.”
“No problem.” His eyes darted quickly in his wife’s direction. “Hello, Gina.”
“Mark,” she replied, as she scraped another hard, white glob from the rug.
He crossed the room, and a whiff of his cologne wafted past Gina—the cologne she’d given him just the previous Christmas. The very cologne she selected after sniffing dozens of samples until finding the perfect scent. As he climbed the ladder to look at one of the holes in the plaster, she decided he was definitely baiting her. After all, he was wearing the Lucky Brand jeans he reluctantly bought after she coaxed him for days. She almost regretted having made the suggestion after seeing how good the darn things looked on him. She never complimented him on the fit or confessed that she wished he’d only wear them when they were out together. She realized she never said a lot of things she probably should have.
Mark gently poked at the plaster, then scribbled a few lines in a small notebook he pulled from his pocket. Before he descended, Gina caught him staring down at her, causing the skin on her neck to prickle. She rubbed at the spot, shocked that Mark should still have such an effect over her, considering their complicated history.
She felt as awkward as an adolescent with her first crush when she saw the longing in his eyes. Emilia evidently noticed it too, offering her big sister a knowing raised eyebrow and a smile before withdrawing from the room. Emilia’s exit caused Gina to tense, knowing she’d inadvertently revealed longings for Mark. Longings he also saw, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable.
“You look beautiful,” said Mark.
The prickles spreading over her skin were multiplied by his haunted eyes and mellow voice. Gina felt the mood in the room shift, but she refrained from acknowledging either the change or Mark’s compliment. As the seconds ticked by, Mark blushed, pulled his pen and notebook from his pocket again, and started writing.
She wished she could offer a modest thank you, but because the compliment came when Gina felt too vulnerable to handle it with confidence, she instinctively fired back with her natural defense—sarcasm. “It’s your perfect dream, isn’t it? Me, on my hands and knees, being domestic.” Her tone was bitter, and she regretted it as soon as it left her mouth.
Mark’s face reddened, but not from embarrassment this time. Frustration showed on his face, but he quickly cooled. “I was simply trying to tell you that you look nice.” He climbed down the ladder, hanging his head. “But now that I think about it, you’re right,” he added with a smug half-smile. “Since I rarely saw you at home when we were married, this is a sweet finale.”
Gina noted his reference to “were married” and was surprised how much his closure hurt her. Once again, she had to have the last word. “Well, I can make it all the more final.” She pointed to the counter. “Payment for your services is in the teacup.”
Mark’s brow furrowed in confusion as he picked up the cup and looked inside. A melancholy fog seemed to surround him as a sad smile tugged at his lips. He fished Gina’s rings out, held the band up, and sadly read the inscription aloud. “Around the moon and back.” He shook his head and scoffed. “In a teacup? Do they mean so little to you?”
Gina felt her
eyes sting. “Well, now you can cash them in and buy a new set for the blonde with the convertible!”
Mark’s face went completely blank, and then he scowled in confusion. “What?”
“My mistake. Why should I assume that the bimbo from the Sandbar is anyone special?”
Again, Mark’s faced reflected utter confusion, and then a curious smile broke across his face. He closed his hand over the rings and shook them up and down rhythmically while staring at Gina. His chin dropped to his chest, and when he lifted his head, he met Gina’s furious eyes with his smile still intact. She wanted to scream but she glared back in silence instead as he dropped the rings into his pocket.
“Glad I stopped by,” he added with another dimpled smile. He tore the page from the notebook and laid it on the counter. “Here’s the list of what I need. Tell Emilia to call me when she gets the supplies.”
Emilia walked in the house the next day and was astounded to find Gina dressed in old clothes and picking at the rug. “I thought I’d have to hogtie you to get you to work on the rug again.”
“I thought I could finish cleaning it so we can put the room back together when Mark comes to plaster the holes.”
Emilia pointed at the repaired wall. “Oh, Gina. He’s already fixed it. I bought the stuff this morning before classes. Mark met me here at nine, before his shift at the dealership.”
Gina swallowed hard. “Well, that’s great. I mean, now all we have to do is touch up the paint and we’re done . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Emilia noticed the mournful tone and added, “He’s coming by in a few days to do the painting. I told him we planned to do it, but he said he’d handle it, to make sure it looked great for Eva.”
Gina nodded and picked another white clump from the rug.
“Don’t get mad, but I didn’t realize how much I missed Mark until yesterday. Losing him really will be like losing a brother. I’ve practically grown up thinking of him that way.”
“I’m not mad at you. I understand.”
“How did it feel, seeing him last night?”
Gina just shrugged her shoulders.
“You’ve missed him too, haven’t you?”
Gina slumped back and closed her eyes. “Falling in love was the worst thing that could have happened to us. I still love him—I probably always will—but falling in love changed everything. I can’t go back to being friends again, so I guess it really is over between us.”
Mark Donovan was at an eatery less than a block from the beach and Eva Castillo’s home when he got an idea. He knew the Castillos’ old orange paint would be difficult to match from a paint chip, so he decided to try to find the original can. Neither of the girls’ cars were in the driveway, when he arrived, but using the key Emilia had given him that morning, he let himself in. After a futile forty-minute search of every closet, he remembered the old shed in the home’s backyard. Sure enough, the can was there, with the magic recipe for the surreal shade of orange printed on the lid.
He carried the trophy into the house to lock the front door, but as he entered through the back he heard voices, and he knew the girls had arrived. He hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to risk another encounter with Gina, though the previous night’s occasionally acrid repartee left him feeling hopeful. He believed that in some carefully concealed corner of her heart, Gina still loved him, and that thought stiffened his back and convinced him to plow ahead. He was further encouraged by snippets of the women’s conversation drifting from the living room, and with an innocent heart he halted and listened in.
“You’ve missed him too, haven’t you?”
It was Emilia’s voice. Then a pause ensued, during which Mark’s heart pounded with a mixture of hope and fear. Finally, he heard Gina’s reply: “Falling in love was the worst thing that could have happened to us. I still love him—I probably always will—but falling in love changed everything. I can’t go back to being friends again, so I guess it really is over between us.”
Mark steadied himself against the fridge in the corner by the back door. I should never have gotten involved again. I was almost past the pain, and now look . . .
He carried the paint can out the back door and returned to the restaurant where his car was parked. He would finish the job, and that would be it. He would finally close the door on his marriage and the Carsons—for good.
Chapter Twelve
Sarasota, Florida, April 26
Avery arrived at the Sarasota airport on Monday morning, and, as promised, Mark Donovan met her at the security gate. He chatted with her while they waited at the baggage claim, and then he helped her wheel her items to the red Ford Escort he’d arranged for her to lease during her stay.
On the way to the parking lot, Avery halted and faced the sun, allowing the bright afternoon rays to wash over her. She stared at the palm trees as floods of Florida memories engulfed her—the ghostlike babbling of her children, frantic to get to the beach or a theme park, and Paul’s pleasure over their enthusiasm. There was a moment of pain, then peace settled over Avery, telling her it would be okay.
“There’s sunscreen in the glove box, Mrs. Thompson.”
“Please, Mark, call me Avery. I know I’m old enough to be your mother, but I hope we’ll be good friends.”
He nodded and smiled sweetly. “How about a brief refresher tour of the area?”
“That’d be great. I’m free as a bird until two, when I have to meet the realtor.”
The first location on the tour was only a brief drive down the road. A sign caught Avery’s eye: The Ringling Museum of Art and Cà d’Zan. “You know, I’ve never been there.”
“You’ve never visited Ringling’s place?” Mark wondered. “When were you down here last?”
“We always flew into Tampa. We hardly left the beach unless we visited a theme park.”
“And Gabriel didn’t tell you about this place?”
“Maybe. He told me about so many places.”
“You’ve heard of the Ringling Brothers Circus, haven’t you? This is where John Ringling brought the animals during the winter. He built an amazing mansion back there, right on Sarasota Bay, for his wife Mabel. He named it the Cà d’Zan, or ‘House of John’ in—I don’t know—Italian, I think. They reportedly loved Venice so much that the house was built to resemble two hotels Mrs. Ringling loved there. I attended a fund-raising gala held here a while back.” His voice became pensive. “It’s not my cup of tea, but, being a writer, you might like it. The tours make you feel like you’re stepping into The Great Gatsby or something. There’s also quite an art collection, with pieces from all over the world. And the gardens—you’d love them. But the view from the terrace? It’s like another world. You’ve probably seen it in movies before.”
“Do we have time to see it now?” Avery asked with childlike enthusiasm. “My treat.”
“Hmm. We can probably get through the tour of the mansion, but we’d never have time to see the museums today, at least not to do them justice and still make your appointment with the realtor, but let’s try to get on a tour of the house.”
Mark and Avery parked the car in a lot owned by the University of Florida, the guardian of the estate, and passed through the wrought-iron gate and on to the arched doorways of the museum entrance, where the tickets were sold. They booked spots on the next tour and boarded the tram that drove them past enormous, exotic banyan trees and Mabel Ringling’s sprawling rose garden, which led to the magnificent Cà d’Zan.
Its terra-cotta exterior seemed like a coral-colored sandcastle set against the splendid backdrop of the sparkling blue waters of the bay. Extraordinary plants—some gifts, some purchases from all over the world—adorned the grounds, adding to the mystery and intrigue of the opulent, two-hundred-foot-long structure. Handmade tinted-glass windows from Europe looked like giant jewels encrusted in the baked clay walls, adding a touch of whimsy to what would otherwise seem an imposing edifice. Room by room, they saw the most beautiful furnishings and dec
or Avery had ever seen, remnants of an almost obscenely lavish lifestyle cut short by Mabel’s illness and subsequent death.
“It’s pretty sad, isn’t it?” Mark handed Avery a postcard depicting one of the ornate rooms. “They spent a fortune building this place and a lifetime collecting treasures to fill it, and then Mabel died only two and a half years after its completion. It’s almost poetic, the way we squander our lives collecting things we’ll eventually leave behind anyway.”
Avery sensed his musings were based on something more personal than the Ringlings’ house. “Sad? Well, it’s sad that they had so little time to enjoy their beautiful home, but just think how much pleasure they must have had together on their adventures when they found each of these treasures. It’s the living we do along the way that counts. I’d say they did a lot of living . . . and loving.”
“But think of all the good this money could have done.”
Avery cocked her head and studied the young man. “I suppose there are lots of categories of ‘doing good.’ On first appearances this wealth is pretty overwhelming, but the brochure says the Ringlings spent their fortune protecting beautiful things from around the world, and then they set up the museum foundation.”
“I don’t know,” Mark muttered. “It just seems wrong that some people have so much in this world and others have so little.”
Avery diverted her eyes to the ornate ceiling while she said, “Someone once told me that it’s not what you have that matters, it’s what you do with what you have. Think how many people have been enlightened and educated because of what the Ringlings did with their fortune.”
Mark stared at a postcard wistfully. “Maybe.”
“Rich or poor, everyone still has sorrows. The Ringlings certainly had theirs. Ultimately, happiness is a choice, despite our circumstances. I’ve learned that the hard way.”
“But some of us have more choices than others.” Mark set the postcards in the rack and headed over to a window overlooking Sarasota Bay.
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