Wendy Wax - The House on Mermaid Point

Maddie grimaced. “But his underwear will probably be in the dressers there. I can’t go through his personal things.”

“I’m sure he’d rather find you handling his unmentionables than any other member of the crew. I’d ask Roberto to do it, but I’m afraid he might turn Will’s boxers into some sort of drug paraphernalia.”

Maddie couldn’t help but laugh at that image. Avery left quickly before Maddie could figure out a way to wriggle out of the task she’d been assigned.

* * *

By the time she’d finished making her calls, Maddie was pleased with the response she’d gotten from the resale shops. One vintage clothing store owner in Key West had explained that although she didn’t have room on her floor for furnishings, she’d take “anything that had touched William Hightower’s body in the last four decades.” Which had Maddie thinking that while she emptied the master closet, she should keep an eye out for old tour T-shirts or anything else Will might be willing to part with. By the time she had a sandwich and headed to the main house she’d pretty much convinced herself that emptying William Hightower’s closet was no more personal than emptying his kitchen cupboards, a feat she’d accomplished quickly and efficiently and with no qualms of any kind.

But William’s bedroom didn’t feel at all like his kitchen. For one thing his kitchen had not contained his unmade king-sized bed. Which she stared at for far longer than necessary. Its black-and-gray-striped sheets were rumpled, the pillows strewn across it, the comforter half on and half off it. Maddie had no idea if this was how William always left his bed or if he’d left so early that he hadn’t had time to make it.

She stood mesmerized for a ridiculously long period of time before finally stepping closer; close enough to touch the sheets he’d slept on, trace the pillows he’d placed his head on.

Okay, she was starting to creep herself out. She was not some groupie who would live forever on the memory of a look or glance. She was not going to stand here staring at William Hightower’s bed with her head full of . . . well, it didn’t matter what it was full of.

With a nervous laugh she berated herself for her childishness. For her ridiculous desire to . . . well, she didn’t want to think about what she might desire, either. And so she did what she would have done if the bed in front of her had belonged to anyone but William Hightower.

She made it. Neatly. With hospital corners. And a knife-edged crease on the edge of each pillow sham.

Then she marched into the closet. Where she breathed in the heady scent for several long moments while she attempted to absorb where she was and what she was seeing. It took some time to figure out the categories into which she might sort William Hightower’s belongings, but once she got started she tuned out everything else.

She was, in fact, so absorbed in her task that she heard nothing but her own thoughts until late afternoon when the front door slammed and heavy footsteps stomped up the newly built stairs and into the master bedroom.

“Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell are you doing?!”

Maddie whipped around at the sound of Will’s voice behind her. The stack of boxer briefs she held went flying into the air before landing all around them.

She wasn’t sure which of them looked more shocked. But she knew who looked angriest. She flinched at the look in his eyes, her worst fears realized. She’d been caught like an errant child with her hand in the underwear, er, cookie jar.

Yelling at Madeline Singer was even worse than kicking a puppy, and Will regretted it almost as soon as, possibly even before, he’d started doing it.

It might not have happened if he hadn’t reached Mermaid Point tired and thirsty and pissed off at himself for almost running aground out near Shell Key because he’d zoned out and forgotten to pay attention; something no one who lived in a place where water depth often hovered in the inches could afford to do. He’d had the oddest craving for a tall, ice-filled glass of lemonade all day, but from the moment he’d gotten close enough to see the strange boats tied up to his dock he was spoiling for a fight. The racket of saws and hammers and the shouts of strangers ricocheting all over his island had turned the normally relaxing act of hosing off the skiff and easing her into her cradle an annoying task.

The overflowing Dumpster didn’t help. The scaffolding that choked his house was like a match to his tinderbox. That was when he should have dived into the pool to cool off mentally and physically. Instead he’d headed inside. Where he’d felt like one of the frickin’ Three Bears when he discovered the missing staircase in the foyer with the gaping hole above it, the shell of a kitchen, and the rough-cut stairs that rose in a totally different spot and poked through yet another gaping hole.

His bedroom had been invaded, too. All his things picked up. His bed made by some anal-retentive intruder—all tight and creased with military precision.

He was still telling himself to calm down, patting his pockets for a Tootsie Pop—something he hadn’t done all week—when he went into the closet and found Goldilocks surrounded by piles of his clothes and possessions, each pile organized and labeled with handwritten descriptions.

When Madeline Singer turned to face him she had his frickin’ underwear in her hands. Some small part of his brain registered that this particular woman didn’t have a malicious bone in her body. The rest of his brain was already roaring in anger and indignation that she had invaded his privacy like no other adult had since his mother’s brief stint of sobriety during which she’d found and thrown out his teenage cache of Playboy magazines he’d kept hidden under his bed.

Maddie looked even more surprised than he was when his underwear flew up in the air as if shot from a cannon then rained down around them.

“What the hell is going on in here?” He didn’t think he’d shouted quite as loud this time. But her eyes batted and her face started to screw up like she was trying not to . . .

“Aw, hell no! Don’t you dare cry!”

“I’m not crying!” she shouted back. “You surprised me, that’s all.” She dropped down to the floor and began to pick up his underwear, crouching at his feet as she scooped up his boxers one at a time, refolding each one while he watched.

She pressed the pile into his hands as if offering some great prize. He had no choice but to take them. Not that he knew what frickin’ pile they belonged in.

He shoved them onto the top of a now empty dresser. Taking a deep breath, he reached out a hand to help her up.

“What is this?” He gestured around the closet, trying to swallow back his anger. She was clenching the very hands that had made his bed and folded his underwear. Her shock seemed to be fading into something that resembled irritation. He looked around his closet. His dresser drawers had been emptied. The hangers that held his hanging clothes had been aligned in the same direction. All of it had been arranged by color.

“What are you doing?” The anger had ebbed a notch, but he and his voice were a million miles from calm.

He braced himself for tears, but her chin shot up as she met his eye. “Roberto’s ready to frame in your kitchenette in the morning. We had to empty the closet first.”

His own anger was dissipating, but he was nowhere near ready to apologize. The best thing would be to get out of this closet. Go for that swim. Blow off whatever steam remained.

“I was going to put them in the closest upstairs bedroom. I just thought it would be easier for you if everything were arranged so that things are easy to find while they’re in the other room. And then to put back when the closet’s ready.”

He kept his mouth closed. But he did nod. He spotted a bag of Tootsie Pops on an emptied shelf and moved to retrieve it. Rolled-up posters, most likely from some long-ago tour, were stacked in a pyramid beside it.

“I wasn’t sure what to do with this.”

He turned to see her holding a soft fabric sleeve that stood almost to her shoulder.

“I hope you don’t mind that I looked inside. It has pieces of a fishing rod in it. I didn’t know if that meant it was broken or . . .”

He reached for the rod sleeve that he’d shoved in the back of his closet so long ago he’d almost forgotten it was there. “It’s not mine,” he said gruffly. “It was a gift for Tommy’s mother.” He couldn’t even say her name, hadn’t said it for twenty years.

Something made him go on. “It’s a custom rod I got at one of the first Redbone Foundation celebrity fishing tournaments I ever did. It’s a fund-raiser for cystic fibrosis started by a local family named Ellis.” He pulled out all three pieces that formed the whole. The wood still gleamed and so did the gold decorative thread under the coat of polyurethane. He ran a finger over the glossy surface and studied the signature and gold-threaded logo. “It’s signed by Jose Wejebe.”

He saw that the name meant nothing to her.

“He was a well-known fly fisherman and guide. And one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He was known as the Spanish Fly.”

The good most definitely died young. Ornery assholes like him could try all they wanted to kill themselves with drugs or alcohol or whatever. The real punishment was to live alone for fucking ever. He shook his head to clear it. He needed to get out of this closet and this conversation. He made a move to go. She reached out unexpectedly and put a hand out to stop him.

“Before you go. I . . . we . . . I’m supposed to ask if you would donate some memorabilia that we could sell or auction off to raise funds for the renovation.”

“I thought the network was responsible for the budget.”

“They like to keep us stressed and ‘on our toes.’ So they cut the budget in half. Deirdre and Nikki went up to Miami to ask the companies that sponsored work at the Millicent to sign on. We’re going to place some of the—your—accessories and furnishings with consignment stores if that’s all right with you. Your name is really valuable.” She swallowed and soldiered on. “If you could just maybe autograph a few of the tour T-shirts or maybe a couple of posters?”

“Don’t you think you should force the network to do what they’re supposed to?” he asked curtly.

“Yes. We’d love to do that. But you may have noticed they’re not particularly concerned with how we come across or what we feel. None of us are in a position to walk away from the show. Or Mermaid Point.”

Her tone had turned a little frosty. But it was his house—hell, his whole island—that had been ripped apart. He didn’t want to see anybody leaving until it was put back together.

“Fine.” He bit out the word. “As long as you’re not thinking about auctioning off my underwear. And now, if you’ll excuse me.” His mind was on the pool, cooling down.

“There is, um, one last thing.”

“What?”

“Deirdre says she can get a brand-new outdoor kitchen donated and installed in the pavilion.” She hesitated. “All you have to do is a brief on-camera cooking demo in it.”

He barked out a laugh at the idea of anything so ridiculous. “Nobody wants to watch me cook.” Hell, nobody wanted to hear him sing, either. Maybe he should be grateful she hadn’t asked for that. With her worried brown eyes and that tilted chin.

“You’d be surprised at what people would like to watch you do.”

He looked at her then, watched as she blushed. But she didn’t take it back.

“I think it’s safe to say those people are not going to be watching me cook on camera.”

She continued to study him. “Sorry. But I really can’t take no for an answer.” Her eyes shone with a determined gleam. “I choose to believe you’re a nicer, more honorable man than you pretend to be. And that when the time comes you’ll think of the rest of us and not just yourself.”

“That would be a mistake,” he said. “Because the chances of that happening are somewhere between slim and none.” But she’d turned while he was still speaking and his final words were aimed at her retreating back.

Fred Strahlendorf, the electrician sent down from Miami by East Coast Electric, didn’t look like any electrician Avery had ever met. When he arrived on Mermaid Point, along with the plumber sent by Randolph Plumbing, the AC guys from Hendricks Heat and Air, the supervisor from Superior Pools, and the sales manager from Walls of Windows, Strahlendorf wore a short-sleeved plaid cotton shirt neatly tucked into belted khaki shorts. His tool belt was buffed and shined, his fingernails manicured, his iron gray hair buzz cut. A pocket protector housed a small assortment of mechanical pens and pencils.