The House on Mermaid Point

Chapter Twenty-three

With no plan in mind, Will threw a dry box of camping supplies, a cooler of drinks and sandwiches, and a couple of his more utilitarian rods and a tackle box in the skiff. He took his time winding through Florida Bay, reading the water as he went, curving through teardrop-shaped mangrove islands and dark saw-grass prairies that sat next to sandy-bottomed shallow basins. He fished desultorily, without purpose, moving from spot to spot with no real intention. The fish, most likely sensing that he was not in real pursuit but only hiding out, ignored his flies and halfhearted casts.

After a stop for gas and snacks on Flamingo, he rounded the mainland and staked the skiff to the sandy beach of Cape Sable, where skeletons of buttonwood trunks curved out of the sand like decomposing dinosaur ribs and a curtain of mangroves isolated him from what lay inland. There, with water gently licking the shore, he watched the sunset; the color streaking the sky so boldly that he imagined he might breathe it in along with the salted air.

When night fell he lit a small fire to keep the mosquitoes at bay, lay on top of his sleeping bag, and stared up into the stars. The night sky twinkled above, and the warm breeze floated over him, but the comfort they usually afforded eluded him. The mangroves and the bay teemed with life. The rub and thrum of insects, the scurrying of small animals in the brush, the hoot of an owl, all teased his senses. Once he’d believed that being high out here connected him cosmically—made him one with the mud, the sea grass that swayed beneath the surface of the water, the crabs that scurried across the sand, even the star-filled sky. When the drugs and alcohol that buffered him from reality began to replace reality, he’d clung to the hope that this was where he’d hear the music again. That the words and melodies would come to him on the breeze as they had in the beginning; that they’d replace the white noise of fame that had filled his head for so long.

But that had been bullshit, just one more way in which he’d convinced himself that the universe revolved around him.

The moon was so full it made him wish he could let loose and howl. Or cry for all the things he’d lost and especially those he’d pushed away. When he finally fell asleep he dreamed of a thirst he couldn’t quench. An oasis of clear blue water sparkling across a desert that no amount of crawling allowed him to reach. A good-bye flip of a mermaid’s shimmering tail disappearing beneath a storm-tossed sea.

In the morning he watched the sun rise above a distant mangrove hammock. He barely moved or breathed as a white heron took to the air in an elegant spiral of flight and watched in awe while a magnificent frigate bird soared from its roost in a nearby buttonwood, its massive wings spread, its forked tail cleaving the powder blue sky.

When the rain began to fall out of a virtually cloudless sky, he welcomed the feel of it on his skin, allowing it to cleanse and cool him. He lost track of the days spent on his own very screwed-up vision quest, at which his Seminole ancestors would have scoffed. But he began to feel alive from the inside out and see the beauty around him with a new knife-edged clarity. Over the following days, Will poled the skiff through Snake Bight then meandered through mangrove canopies and winding waterways, allowing his mind to wander at the same slow pace. Occasionally he stopped at a spit of mangroves or a favorite backcountry flat, but he didn’t bother to make a cast or drop a line. Not even when a school of tarpon rolled right off his bow practically begging to be caught. He ignored the siren call of home as long as he could, not yet ready to face the invading army that had assembled at Mermaid Point.

In those first weeks of June each day became hotter, the air heavier until it was like a sack of rocks they carried around with them. Spontaneous sweating occurred; sometimes even the thought of stepping outside caused beads of water to form on their skin. There were light morning rains that arrived gently and tiptoed across U.S. 1, only to disappear across the bay. Even the darker, heavier storms that roared across the Atlantic like a dark locomotive, and hit the asphalt in a saunalike cloud of steam, didn’t linger for long.

“No landmass here. Nowhere to loiter,” Roberto had said, and he seemed to be right.

The hippy-dippy carpenter bopped through each day mellow, unhurried, and seemingly immune to the heat, the humidity, and the amount of rainfall. Best of all as far as Avery was concerned, he and the two-man crew he’d assembled wasted not a nail or a hammer blow. Roberto Dante did in fact seem able to make wood sing—or at least hum along happily.

He worked to a personal playlist dominated by southern rock bands that had emerged on the national scene in the seventies, a time Avery had been too young to remember and that she had never given much thought to. It was alternately bittersweet and hard-driving and had its roots, according to Roberto, in blues, rock, and country.

“The southern rockers themselves argue that it’s just good rock and roll and that it was only labeled southern rock because the performers were from the South.” He’d paused a moment to hum along to what she now knew was a Wet Willie song. “I agree that there is a truth to the lyrics and stories they tell that is universal. But they all came from a pretty similar background. And of course the southern groups did have the reputation for a certain level of . . . rowdiness.” He smiled at this and closed his eyes as he listened, his lips moving silently along with the lyrics.

Avery was happy to listen to Roberto’s music and his insights into the songs and the bands that performed them, but she was even happier at the progress they were now making. The kitchen was an empty shell waiting to be refilled and reconfigured. The new stair that would run up the back kitchen wall had been roughed in, as had a guest bath, laundry room, and walk-in pantry behind the kitchen. These new spaces opened off the back hall and could be accessed from the main house common area as well as the front and back porches. A large hole gaped above the new stairs and in the foyer ceiling where the original stair had been, but already Avery could feel the space taking shape. The heady scent of sawdust filled the air. And while she appreciated Roberto’s soundtrack, it was the sound of the power miter and radial saws the carpenter had set up on the front porch, and the rhythm of hammer on nail as his assistants framed in the new walls and bathrooms for the upstairs and downstairs guest suites, that were the sweetest of melodies to her.

William Hightower was still MIA, and Deirdre and Nicole were still in Miami when the second episode of Do Over aired. Avery, Maddie, Kyra, and Roberto watched it on William’s big-screen TV in the sawdust-scented space, sprawled on his living room couch. Troy and Anthony shot and recorded their reactions, which in Avery’s case went from mildly nauseated to ready to hurl as they once again watched themselves at their worst: struggling to nurse the Millicent back to life while adjusting to the fact that they were being turned into reality TV stars—every bit as reluctantly as William Hightower was being forced to turn his private island into a B and B.

“Mario looks pretty good for a man his age,” Roberto said.

“Yes.” Avery was grateful to have something positive to say. “And the man can cook, too.”

“All Dante men cook. It’s in our genes. And our mammas teach us. It’s also part of our mating ritual.” Roberto’s smile turned mischievous. “It looks like he had a little bit of a crush on Madeline.”

“Oh, no. He was very sweet to all of us.” Maddie said this quickly. “And I was married then.”

Roberto shrugged. “Sometimes married or not married isn’t the most important thing.”

“I can hardly believe how awful we’ve been made to look.” Kyra had her laptop on her lap. Dustin sat on the couch beside her. She spoke directly into the lens of the camera Troy held on his shoulder.

“From what I’ve seen online, people are watching and talking about the show.” Avery’s eyes were on the screen. The show was like a train wreck from which she couldn’t look away.

“It’s good that we have an audience. I mean, we need there to be a big one, right?” Maddie hesitated. “It’s just that we look so vulnerable. And inept.”

“Yes, let’s not forget inept.” Kyra’s tone was dry and angry. “Avery’s the only one who looked like she had any idea of what was going on.”

“That’s because she was.” Maddie sighed.

Kyra’s fingers moved on the keyboard of her laptop. “Great. Someone went on the Do Over Facebook page and offered to do our hair and makeup free of charge.” She tapped some more. “Someone else offered financial coaching to dig us out of the hole we’re in so that we won’t have to humiliate ourselves on national television.”

Avery was too appalled even to groan in embarrassment.

More keyboard tapping. “There are a lot of posts loving Max Golden and the Millicent.”

“And Dustin’s a pretty big hit, too.” Kyra sounded far less happy about this.

The program finally ended on a freeze-frame of Max and Dustin at the kitchen table. There was a promo promising “surprising revelations” to come. Troy and Anthony circled them, shooting at will.

“Max is getting all kinds of fan emails and posts. There was news coverage last August about what happened, but a lot of the people watching and falling in love with him don’t know that he’s . . . gone. I’m not sure how the scene with Parker Amherst is going to go over.” Kyra closed the laptop, set it aside, and pulled Dustin onto her lap.

“It’s so bittersweet to watch him,” Avery said.

“But you know he would have loved all the attention.” Kyra snuggled Dustin closer. “Max never met a camera or an audience he didn’t like.”

“I know.” Maddie’s tone lightened. “I’m kind of picturing him up there with his Millie, gloating that he’s got a role on a reality TV show.”

There was laughter but it was tinged with sadness.

“I hope there’s no backlash when that final episode airs. I’m not sure our viewers are looking for anything that heavy.” Kyra dropped a kiss on her son’s head. “God knows, we didn’t choose what to air.”

“That’s true,” Avery said. “But we’re the most visible targets. I don’t think Lisa Hogan has posted her email or contact information for complaints.”

“No, she hasn’t.” Kyra stood with Dustin in her arms. His head lay on her shoulder; his thumb had stolen into his mouth. Her look turned thoughtful. “Maybe someone needs to take care of that omission.”