Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Once the garage and its bonus room are secured, Grand and I clean her studio from top to bottom. Then we set up her easel and put everything back in place. Just as we’re finishing, Myra shows up with homemade blueberry muffins still warm from the oven.
“Ummm, those smell delicious.” I pop a large piece of muffin into my mouth and chew it slowly. “Oh my God, they taste even better than they smell.”
Myra smiles. “I’m so glad you like them. It’s nice to have someone to bake for.”
After Myra leaves with promises of future baked goods to come, Grand and I linger over our coffees and share another one of Myra’s muffins, which could be a catchy name if she ever decided to market them.
“So what do you think the thieves were looking for?” I ask Grand between bites.
“I have absolutely no idea,” she replies. “There’s really nothing of value in my studio. Only the canvas I just started working on. And my wedding china. Obviously, I don’t feel good about intruders of any kind, but I can’t see how this could be anything but random. Like I said, bored teenagers out creating mischief.”
“But doesn’t it feel odd that yours was the only place targeted?” I ask as I push my empty plate away.
“I don’t know, Sydney. I have no idea what’s going on.” Grand says this quite forcefully but doesn’t quite meet my eyes.
“Well, if nothing else, having an alarm system should certainly be a deterrent in the future,” I add.
“Yes, it should,” Grand agrees.
As we finish our coffees, I turn the conversation to Phillip Drake once again, eager not to dwell on the break-in and more than a little curious about their relationship. I google “ The Missing Madonna ” and enlarge the painting as far as I can on my phone. I’ve seen pictures of my grandmother in her twenties, and while this is not a portrait in the truest sense, there’s something about it that reminds me of her.
“Did you pose for this painting?” I ask tentatively.
“No. He used to call me his Madonna. He also called me his muse. His love .” Grand closes her eyes; shakes her head. “And I believed him. I was flattered and awed by him and his talent. I practically worshipped him. But I was a little girl playing at being a woman. I was ridiculously na?ve.” She sighs. “Stupid, really.”
“And what did he think of your work?” I ask quietly.
Grand takes a sip of her coffee. “He called my work ‘pretty,’ which was not a compliment. Sometimes he’d tell me that my shading was ‘nicely done.’ Or that my use of color showed promise. But even when he was ostensibly complimenting or encouraging me, he made me feel mediocre.”
She hesitates as if trying to decide whether to go on. “Once he told me that I had talent, but not quite enough to stand out. And I was grateful to him for being honest. As if it was a great honor that he cared about me enough to tell me the truth. Even though it was hurtful.”
Grand draws a deep breath, lets it out. “I didn’t paint for years after I ran back to Atlanta. I let his opinion ruin what I loved most for far too long. And then…”
“What?”
“Your grandfather reminded me that I needed to paint like I needed air.”
· · ·
“Brian’s picking me up in a few minutes for dinner,” Grand says late that afternoon. “Would you like to join us?”
“But it’s”—I glance down at my watch—“it’s only four forty-five.”
“I know. I’m still trying to get used to the whole Early Bird thing.”
“I’m guessing there are no worms on the menu,” I tease.
“Haven’t seen any so far. That would be a deal-breaker. But I’ve figured out that if you skip lunch, it’s possible to be hungry by five.”
“Good to know.” I shoot her a wink. “And I appreciate the invitation, but I’m going to Bella Flora.”
“Have fun.” Grand gives me a hug. “If you get back first, don’t wait up.”
“Okay.” I try out the look my parents used to give me before I left for a date. “But if you’re not coming home, please call or text and let me know. So I don’t sit up waiting and worrying.”
Grand laughs. “Aye aye, Captain.” She gives me a mock salute then makes her exit.
· · ·
After she leaves, I grab a jacket (even a Florida beach can get chilly in February!) and head due south to Pass-a-Grille, where I pull up to Bella Flora about fifteen minutes before sunset. As I walk through the lush front garden, past the dolphin fountain, and up the front steps, I take in the wedding cake of a building with its pink stucco walls, white icing trim, and the run of arched floor-to-ceiling windows and wrought iron balconies.
Kyra opens the front door before I can even ring the bell. “I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, giving me a hug.
“Come on. Everyone’s out back. I’m afraid we’ve had a head start on the margaritas.” We walk through the foyer, past the graceful run of stairs, the dining and living rooms with their coffered cypress ceilings, and the Casbah Lounge with its Moroccan-styled interior, leaded glass, and red leather banquettes.
Avery, Maddie, Nikki, and Bitsy are already seated around a table that overlooks the pool, the narrow pass that connects the Bay and the Gulf, the jetty with its fishing pier, and the sand dunes that lead out onto the white sand beach.
There are hugs all around and I drop into the empty chair beside Kyra, who’s already lifting the pitcher of margaritas and filling my glass.
“To Bella Flora!”
“And having the gang all here!”
We clink rims and take healthy swallows. I sigh in ecstasy when I taste my drink and realize it actually has tequila in it.
The breeze is cool but gentle. Gulls caw and swoop lazily in the sky, wings spread, eyes sharp for anything worth diving for as the sun begins its descent.
My body begins to unclench, and my lips stretch into a smile.
“Where are the kiddos?” I ask after a second long, lovely sip of my drink.
“Troy, Dustin, and Max are with Joe and the girls,” Nikki replies. “It’s Luvvie’s day off.”
Luvvie is Nikki and Joe Giraldi’s Mary Poppins, complete with British accent and an almost magical way with children. “I’m sure pizza will be involved.”
We, on the other hand, have Ted Peters “famous” smoked fish spread, the saltine crackers and hot sauce that go with it, and an extremely large bowl of Cheetos, which are Avery’s favorite food and have been a part of every sunset I’ve spent with these women.
I sip on my drink and nibble on a saltine slathered with smoked fish spread as the sun inches ever closer to the water.
Avery takes handfuls of Cheetos, washes them down with her margarita, then flashes a cheesy smile. (I mean this literally, not judgmentally.)
The conversation is casual and comfortable, and I’m grateful to be with people who don’t expect me to solve anything more taxing than passing the fish spread or mixing another pitcher of margaritas.
The sun is about ready to do its final nosedive into the Gulf of Mexico when Maddie dings a fork on her margarita glass and looks around the circle. “Okay. Who wants to go first?”
This is our call to share One Good Thing: a daily sunset tradition that Maddie instituted while she, Avery, Nikki, and Kyra were first desperately renovating Bella Flora, which was in abysmal shape, covered in filth, and had birds nesting inside. Back then finding even a kernel of positivity amid their grim, backbreaking reality was a challenge.
Maddie smiles and leans forward in her chair as each person sitting around the table finds a positive nugget to offer up. Nikki has the twins and Joe to be grateful for. She also has Luvvie, whom she once resented, tried to get rid of, and now admits she could not live without.
Maddie says she’s happy to have her family around her, her cottage at the Sunshine down the road, and William Hightower in her life. It’s not every fifty-plus woman who’s engaged to a former bad boy rockstar that worships the ground she walks on, has his own private island, and can’t wait to marry her.
Avery swipes at the cheese on her face and says, “I’m loving creating tiny houses. And thrilled to finally get to do our own version of Do Over . Even if Chase can be difficult at times.”
Kyra snorts a laugh, which she tries to cover up when Avery shoots her a stink eye. Then she announces that she’s happy that Dustin’s so happy and glad that Troy has turned out not to be the jerk she thought he was back when they were first shooting Do Over and a big part of his job was making them look bad.
Bitsy is excited about the renovation of the Historic YMCA, and can’t wait to plan the grand opening.
I take another long slug of margarita as their gazes turn to me.
“I’m not sure I can come up with anything at the moment,” I say. “I mean, my career is in the toilet; people actually think I’m Cassie Everheart and have just gotten out of rehab. Plus, someone broke into Grand’s studio, and I don’t think she’s being truthful about not knowing why. Oh, and did I mention that I couldn’t even get a part at a local dinner theater or pretending to cook food for Publix?”
Kyra pours me another margarita. Maddie, who claims she’s not the “good enough police,” but totally is, says, “Things do sound tough, Sydney, but there has to be a positive in there somewhere.”
“Okay, how about I’m really happy to be here with you all tonight?”
Nothing.
“The margaritas are delicious? And it’s extremely wonderful that they actually have tequila in them!”
More silence as I reach for the bowl of Cheetos and stuff a huge handful into my mouth—something I could never have done while my face and body were critical to my career. I blink as my OGT becomes obvious. Even though my mouth is still full of Cheetos, I smile and say, “Rihs his uh fuss hime in amos a deked dat I kin heet anying.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Kyra grins.
I swallow and lick the cheese residue off my fingers. “My good thing is that this is the first time in almost a decade that I can eat and drink anything I want.” I flash a cheesy grin. “Could someone pour me another margarita? And is there anything here for dessert?”