Ten Beach Road (23 page)

“But what if he’s only staying married for business reasons? Or because his wife’s publicist says it’s important for her image?” The question was so earnest it almost hurt to hear it.

“Kyra,” she said. “I don’t know who you’re referring to, and I’m not sure I want to know. But that’s just bullshit. It belongs in the same category as ‘my wife doesn’t understand me,’ ‘we don’t sleep together anymore,’ and ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’ ” She gave her a stern look, hoping to help the message sink in. “And that’s especially true in Hollywood, where most marriages
are
business deals or based on mutual convenience. People in the movie business often confuse fact and fantasy. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“But he’s not . . .”

“If I were your mother,” Nicole continued, “and I’m sure we’re both glad I’m not, I’d tell you to forget about him, whoever he is, and move on. Chances are if he’s out on the West Coast and you’re here, he’s already done that.”

“That’s what my mom says.” Kyra drooped in her seat. “But haven’t you ever listened to your heart instead of your head?”

Nicole hesitated. “I have,” she admitted reluctantly. “And it didn’t end well.” Not with either of her husbands. And certainly not with her brother, whom she’d loved so intensely from the moment he was born. “Listen to your mother. She loves you and she’s trying to protect you. Which is exactly what mothers are supposed to do.”

That put an end to any confidences that might have been coming Nicole’s way.

They were in the outskirts of Palm Beach County now. Nikki had left just enough time for a manicure and pedicure before she had to be at Bitsy Baynard’s; there was no way she could arrive with her hands and feet looking like she’d been working on a chain gang.

She pulled the Jag into the first strip center in West Palm with a nail salon; she didn’t have the time or the money to be fussy. “I’m going to run into that nail place,” she said to Kyra. “Why don’t you have your friend pick you up here?”

Kyra followed her into the shop, her thumbs already flying over her phone keyboard. An older Asian woman led Nicole back to a well-worn spa chair and waited for her to remove her shoes. Nikki sighed with pleasure as she sank her bare feet into the warm bubbling water and set her hands where the technician could reach them. The place was nothing like the salons that lay just over the bridge in Palm Beach, but it had been a long, grueling month and Nikki was too tired to care. She closed her eyes, eager for some pampering.

“Shit!” Kyra said.

Nicole’s eyes flew open. “What? What’s wrong?”

“My friend got a call for a commercial shoot in Miami this morning and she’s leaving within the hour. She says she’s been trying to reach me.”

“Now? But . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” Kyra said.

“What wrong?” the manicurist asked. “You try relax.”

Right.
“Can’t you go with her?” Nikki asked. “Or maybe stay at her place while she’s gone?”

“No,” Kyra said. “She’s taking the place of an assistant camera operator who got sick and she doesn’t know anyone on the shoot. And I can’t stay at her place; apparently her roommate got all freaked out about having a complete stranger in the condo all weekend.”

There was no time for making other arrangements or putting Kyra on a bus; she doubted Palm Beach possessed anything as pedestrian as a bus station, and she didn’t have time to look for one here.

The manicurist removed the remnants of Nikki’s polish and began to slough the dead skin from her feet, but Nicole’s brain was racing down the possible courses of action.

“You’ll just have to come with me to Bitsy’s,” Nikki said when nothing better presented itself. “After lunch we’ll figure something out.”

“Bitsy?” Kyra wrinkled her nose. “Really?

“Really. And when you’re worth the kind of money Bitsy is you can be called anything you want. Like Smuckers for rich people.”

“Who is she?”

Nicole sank lower in her chair and tried to relax, but all she could think about was how to explain Kyra and how much more carefully she’d have to tiptoe around the truth once they got to Bitsy’s.

“She’s a former client of mine. One of the few who isn’t embarrassed to admit I helped her find her husband.”

Kyra nodded. “Out in L.A. people pay plastic surgeons tons of money for a service and then want to pretend it never happened.”

“Exactly.”

“That would make you the plastic surgeon of love. The Botox of boogie. The . . .”

The nail tech giggled.

“Kyra, please,” Nikki said.

“Hmmm?”

“I’d really like to enjoy this experience in silence.”

“Got it.”

Now if only her freaked-out brain would get the message to slow down and shut up.

An hour later they’d passed Worth Avenue and were in a residential area where the gates and walls covered increasingly large acreage and you were lucky to catch a glimpse of a roof line off in the distance. Nicole looked Kyra over briefly, wondering if she should have taken the time for the girl to have a manicure, but it had seemed somewhat pointless since it was unlikely Kyra had anything approximating an appropriate ensemble stashed in the duffel bag she’d thrown in the trunk of the car.

“Listen,” she said as she slowed the Jag. “There are a few things we should discuss.”

Kyra turned to Nicole. The girl was lovely in a completely unaffected way, the recipient of enough natural gifts that she didn’t need to put much effort into enhancing them. “You’ve worked in the movie business so I’m sure you understand that sometimes, actually many times, perception is more important than reality.”

They were at Bitsy’s gate now. Nicole hesitated briefly before punching the intercom button. “I’m going to introduce you as the daughter of a friend. I’m not planning to offer a lot of information.”

Kyra’s brow furrowed. “You’re not going to tell anyone that you’re spending the summer on St. Pete Beach working on the house because that’s all that’s left of what you had invested with Malcolm Dyer?”

Nicole was careful not to wince since she could no longer afford Botox or collagen injections to repair the resulting damage. “Not exactly.”

Kyra didn’t respond, but she did pull out her video camera as the curved wrought-iron gate opened inward.

“No.” Nicole took the camera out of Kyra’s hands and placed it back down in Kyra’s lap. “That’s not going to work.”

Nicole drove forward onto the bricked drive and up a treelined allée. It took several minutes before the landscaping fell away and the house appeared.

“Wow,” Kyra said as the full expanse of the stuccoed Mediterranean villa came into view. “It looks like Bella Flora on steroids.”

The girl was right. Nikki was no expert on architectural styles or periods, but Bitsy Baynard’s home had a lot of the same features: the towers jutting upward, the multi-angled red barrel-tile roof, the massive arched windows across the front, the balconies. Rounded concrete steps led up to a long columned arcade and a massive arched wooden door. The front courtyard radiated outward from a fountain that could have fronted a royal palace.

“I can see why you stopped for the manicure and pedicure,” Kyra said. “This may be the first time in my life I wouldn’t have minded owning something ‘designer.’ ”

At the front door Nicole straightened Kyra’s collar. “Stand up straight; posture’s very important in these circles. In conversation, just follow my lead.” She looked Kyra in the eye. “And try not to react if you hear me fudge a little.”

“Got it,” Kyra said, her eyes telegraphing her understanding, just before the door swung open.

And then they were standing in the magnificent foyer with its glazed marine blue tile floor and sweeping double staircase. A chandelier hung from the domed ceiling high above their heads, its dropped crystals shooting off sparks of reflected sunlight. Bitsy Baynard came toward them with a smile on her long face and both sinewy arms opened wide.

She kissed Nicole soundly on both cheeks. Bitsy Baynard was no air-or-ass kisser. Nor was she thrown by the appearance of an unexpected guest.

“Come on,” she said after the introductions and explanations had been made. “We’re out on the patio. But I have to warn you that Lisa Hanson’s already on her second martini. You either need to hurry and catch up or brace yourselves.” She led them through a central hallway twice as wide as the hallway in the house on Pass-a-Grille, with wide archways leading off to massive rooms on either side. An open-air loggia opened to a patio that overlooked a large invisible-edge pool and a beautifully manicured version of a tropical paradise that stretched on and out as far as the eye could see.

Two women sat at the wrought-iron table, a pitcher of martinis between them. One was Grace Lindell, also a former client of Nikki’s. The other had to be the already tipsy Lisa Hanson.

“So tell me how the season was,” Nicole said once she and Kyra had been seated and the introductions made. A servant appeared to take their drink orders and after a longing look at the martini pitcher, Nicole ordered a glass of white wine. Kyra asked for orange juice.

“Oh, God, it was dismal,” Lisa whined, reaching for her glass. “All anyone could talk about was that damned Malcolm Dyer and how much money he stole. We aren’t even going to summer in Tuscany this year; we’ve had to rent out the villa. Imagine!”

“Oh, how awful!” Nicole said, careful not to give vent to even the smallest drop of sarcasm. For a brief moment she imagined Lisa’s face were Nicole to describe the magnitude of her own loss. Then she could work into what it felt like to sleep on a mattress on the floor, and just how much she was looking forward to spending the entire summer performing manual labor beside two other women she would probably never have spent more than thirty seconds with in her former life.

The chilled crab and avocado salads were served, but Lisa stuck with her martinis and Grace picked at her food tentatively as if unsure why she was eating. Nicole was too busy sifting through what she could and couldn’t say to fully savor the food. Bitsy watched her guests and did her best to smooth things over. Only Kyra tucked into her food with gusto.

“Did you have money with him?” Nicole asked Bitsy, unable to even call her brother by name.

“A little.” Bitsy took a sip of her martini. “Fortunately, Bertrand pulled out early on the advice of our investment manager. But a lot of people here weren’t so lucky.”

Grace’s hand shook as she set her fork down. Very carefully, she folded them in her lap.

“How about you?” Bitsy asked Nicole.

Nicole stiffened for a brief moment. Beside her, Kyra did the same.

“I didn’t escape unscathed,” Nikki said truthfully. “But I’m still standing.” For a moment the Gloria Gaynor lyrics popped, unbidden, into her head. She shoved them out.

“And what on earth are you doing in St. Petersburg?” On Lisa’s lips the name of the city might have been “back of beyond.”

Nicole put her own napkin down and faced Lisa Hanson with a light smile. “Actually Kyra’s mother and another friend and I are getting a home ready to put up for sale there. It belonged to Dyer and was awarded to us as partial restitution after the civil suit was adjudicated.”

Kyra jumped in then, bless her. “Who designed this house, Mrs. Baynard? The house in St. Pete is smaller but very similar in style—I think my mom’s, um, other friend called it Mediterranean Revival?”

“It’s an Addison Mizner,” Bitsy said, clearly relieved by the change in topic. “It’s actually what would probably be classified as a Palladian villa, but it has a very strong Mediterranean influence. We spent close to three years restoring it.”

Nicole doubted Bitsy’s role had been quite as hands on or “monkey-like” as Chase Hardin was demanding. But she filed the information away for the future. One thing she’d learned in the matchmaking business was that you never knew when an introduction or a piece of information might prove useful.

“I’ll be glad to give you the grand tour, but Bertie’s actually the one who spearheaded the whole undertaking. I’m thrilled with how it turned out, though. It’s a wonderfully livable home. Mizner is pretty much revered here; he almost single-handedly created the whole look of Palm Beach back in the twenties.”

They talked architecture for a time, which led to the horrible real estate market, and once again the misfortune of many Palm Beach residents. When Kyra finished her second helping and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, Nicole pushed her plate away and began to probe with more intent.

“Who else was impacted by Malcolm Dyer?” she asked. “Is anything being done about the losses?”

“Who wasn’t?” Lisa asked. “Some were awarded assets in the civil suit against him, but others haven’t gotten back a dime.” Her eyes glittered. “A number of investment firms went under in the process. One or two are facing charges.”

“Dyer made out like a bandit here,” Lisa said. “He was so damned charming. And it didn’t hurt that he kept ponies at the polo club.”

Nicole might have laughed if it hadn’t all been so awful. As a child Malcolm had lobbied hard for a dog, when their mother could barely feed the three of them. He’d had a goldfish once for a week before it had gone belly up and been flushed down the apartment’s finicky toilet. The picture of him owning, let alone riding, a polo pony was a difficult one to conjure. But he’d taken his gentlemanly pursuits very seriously. Those social contacts had afforded him an impressive set of victims.

Grace looked up from her plate then. Her eyes were bleak. “Nathan and I were pretty hard hit,” she said quietly. “But Nathan can make more money. We still have assets. I think I can live without a vacation.” She didn’t look at Lisa when she said this, but the censure was clear.

“But Dyer didn’t just steal from people who could afford it.” She swallowed before going on. “I invested every penny that I’d raised for my foundation—the one that sends children in foster care to college—with him. And every penny of it is gone. What kind of monster would steal from people who have nothing?”