Chapter Four
Four
Time flies when you’re facing death. It takes some long deep breaths to slow it back down.
I’ve moved to a table and am finally breathing normally when Kyra walks in.
“Hey, there,” she says as she reaches me. “Great to see you.” Her brow furrows. “Are you okay?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” We hug and I hold on a little longer than I might have if I hadn’t had the run-in with Hulk One and Hulk Two.
Then we step back and contemplate each other. Kyra Singer is almost a year younger than me, and although she’s extremely attractive in a refreshingly casual way, she’s always chosen to work behind the camera rather than in front of it. We met on the set of Daniel Deranian’s film Halfway Home , where Daniel hit on both of us.
Experience helped me resist his charms, but it was Kyra’s first shoot, and she made the mistake of not only falling in love with him but getting pregnant by him.
Their son, Dustin, is the spitting image of his father. Which his father exploited while attempting his directorial debut, putting his own son at risk and finally forcing Kyra to see him for who and what he really is—a self-serving, serial adulterer.
You’d think I’d be safe from Tonja Kay’s animosity because I did not sleep with her husband, but I’ve nonetheless found myself in her crosshairs simply because he wanted me and, I assume, because of my friendship and support of Kyra. It’s clear she still hates the fact that her husband remains attracted to Kyra and is madly in love with their son.
“Are you okay?” Kyra asks again. “I saw a sheriff’s car pulling out with two extremely large men in the back. Did something happen?”
“You could say that.”
“Damn straight.” A.J. walks over and presents Kyra with the margarita I ordered for her earlier. He brings me one, too, and sets down a bowl of pretzels. “Cassie here foiled a robbery attempt. These drinks are totally on the house.” He gives me a wink and heads back to the bar.
“Did he just call you—?”
“Yes.” I sigh then fill her in on my run-in with the “welcoming committee.” I sigh again when I take my first sip of my margarita and once again discover it contains no alcohol. “But I’d much rather hear what’s going on with you.”
Kyra sets her drink on the table and sits back in her chair. “Okay. Let’s see. Chase and Avery are almost done with the YMCA reno, and they’ve done a great job of turning it into a mixed-use space without destroying its historic charm. They really knew how to build things in the twenties. Troy and I’ve been shooting the reno from day one and are finally starting to edit our footage into an entire season of Do Over as we originally envisioned before the network hijacked it.”
“Wow. That’s awesome.” I nibble on some nuts. “I can’t wait to see the series, and I’d love to go see the Y.”
“We can go anytime you’re free, then maybe have lunch downtown or along Central Avenue?”
“That sounds great. I’ll just have to see what my mother has in store for me.”
Kyra nods; she’s been listening to me talk about my mother for years. “I hear you. But if you need a little ‘space,’ there’s always room at Bella Flora. In fact, the guest house is vacant.”
I assume this means that cameraman Troy Matthews, former nemesis, unexpected renter of Bella Flora, and Kyra’s current love interest, has moved back into the main house with Kyra and Dustin. Her blush tells me this is exactly what’s happened.
“I’d love to stay with you, but Grand’s been here visiting a friend on Treasure Island and doesn’t seem to want to go home to Atlanta. My mother expects me to help convince her to go look at some senior residence in Tampa. It’s a mess. Unless she’s declined significantly since I last saw her, it seems wrong to push her into aging faster than she has to.” I glance down at my watch. “In fact, they’re expecting me at Middle Grounds Grill right now, so I’m going to have to head out.”
“Well, let me know when you can get away or if you all need anything. We still do sunset toasts. And you’re always welcome.”
“Thanks.” We raise our glasses, click rims, and drain the last drops. “I’ll text you once I know what’s going on with Grand.”
I drive north on Gulf Boulevard to Treasure Island then take a right when I spot the restaurant. The hostess leads me back to the table where my mother and grandmother are already seated.
As always, my mother is immaculately groomed. Each blond hair is in place. Her makeup is subtle but effective.
“Where have you been?” she asks when I reach their table and lean over to hug them both.
My grandmother, who has always been slightly larger than life, has lost weight. Her smile is as warm and encompassing as ever and her green eyes are bright, but her red hair has faded and is streaked with white. When I wrap my arms around her, I’m careful not to squeeze too hard.
“I, um, got in early so I met Kyra at Harley’s out on Pass-a-Grille for a drink,” I say as I take my seat.
“You know alcohol never solves anything. It just distracts you from the problem temporarily,” my mother points out.
“Yes, well, sometimes a temporary reprieve is better than none.” I don’t mention the run-in with the hulks or the fact that the bartender refused to serve me a real drink because of Cassie Everheart’s issues with alcohol.
Her eyes narrow at my response, but she doesn’t argue.
When the waitress arrives at our table, her eyebrows shoot up and I can tell that she recognizes me. Which is the only reason I don’t even bother to ask for a drink.
“It’s wonderful to see you, Sydney,” my grandmother says.
“It’s great to see you, too, Grand.”
My grandmother grew up in Atlanta but went to New York to study art at a time when genteel young women didn’t do those kinds of things. Even after she came back to Atlanta and married Grandpa Henry and helped him run his commercial landscape business, she continued to paint, creating huge canvases that were as bold and bright as she was. The mingled scents of turpentine and pigment mixed with her Estée Lauder Youth-Dew perfume are forever stored in my memory. Her light-filled studio, where she kept smaller easels and a table in the corner for children’s projects—something too messy for my mother to ever allow in her perfectly structured world—was always my favorite place. Even though I was much better at acting like an artist than being one. Which seems to be an ongoing theme in my life.
Mom’s been attempting to turn her mother into an ordinary, rule-following, organized individual for as long as I can remember. Fortunately, she’s failed spectacularly.
· · ·
When the food arrives, I dig into my filet then slather the baked potato with butter and sour cream, ignoring the green salad that comes with my meal. If there’s any upside to losing a recurring television role, it’s no longer having to eat like a rabbit.
“I cried when they kicked you off the force and sent you off to rehab.” Mom is the one who introduces the demise of my career. She lowers her voice. “Those close-ups weren’t the least bit flattering.”
This, alas, is true. It’s hard to look your best while being “escorted” out of a police station and folded into a car against your will. I reach for a slice of bread and another packet of butter.
“I never thought you were suited to law enforcement anyway,” Mom says. “I’m sure a better role will come along.”
“Of course it will.” Grand gives me a smile. “I’m afraid I couldn’t bear to watch that final scene, but perhaps it will be nice to have some time off before you take on another role?”
I nod. “Absolutely.” I demolish the piece of bread and reach for another. “Are there any plans for tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
My mother and grandmother speak in unison then frown at each other.
“We’re taking a tour of Covington Arms at ten thirty tomorrow,” my mother says.
“No, we’re not,” Grand says with a roll of her eyes, which is not something you see an eighty-three-year-old woman do every day. “I don’t want to waste a perfectly good day with Sydney here. And I want to show her Myra’s town house community on Paradise Island—don’t you just love the sound of that? Can you imagine getting to tell people you live in Paradise?”
My mother’s jaw clenches. “You promised you’d take the tour,” she says tightly.
“I didn’t want to go in the first place and I’m definitely not going tomorrow.” My grandmother straightens and looks my mother squarely in the eye, but I can see the effort it takes. I know when someone’s acting. So does my mom.
“We have an appointment. And I’m going to have to get back to Atlanta soon. I have several closings scheduled.”
“Reschedule them.”
“Not possible.”
Stalemate. I keep my eyes on my plate and my mouth full.
Surprisingly, it’s my grandmother who budges first. “I’ll go if Sydney does,” Grand says. “That way I know you can’t check me in and leave me there without my consent.”
“It’s not an institution,” Mom hisses. “It’s a highly rated five-star retirement community.”
There’s chin jutting and arm folding. “Not without Sydney.”
My mother knows that tone as well as I do. She gives me a look I also know.
“I’ll be glad to come. What time will we need to leave?”
“It’s only about thirty minutes away,” Mom says. “Maybe a little before ten.”
I nod and tell myself I’ll get a run on the beach in first. Or not. I order dessert.
When my stomach is completely full, yawning commences. I was on the road for four-and-a-half hours, foiled an attempted robbery, and have now consumed a steak, a baked potato, two pieces of bread, and a slice of key lime pie. I need a shower and then I need to be horizontal.
As soon as the bill comes, I help Grand up and we make our way outside to retrieve our cars from the valet.
“I’ll drop Grand off at Myra’s,” my mother says when her car arrives. “See you back at the hotel.” She hands me a room key.
The Bilmar Beach Resort is only a block away, and I’m in bed by the time my mother gets back. Although I’m not proud of it, I pretend to be asleep. When I finally begin to drift off, thoughts of my lost career, the role my mother expects me to play in her plans for Grand, looking inept in front of Luke, and hulks with guns assail me. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to dredge up a pleasant memory or two, which finally, mercifully, allow me to drift off to sleep.