PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF WENDY WAX

“[A] sparkling, deeply satisfying tale.”

—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author

“Wax offers her trademark form of fiction, the beach read with substance.”

—Booklist

“Wax really knows how to make a cast of characters come alive…. [She] infuses each chapter with enough drama, laughter, family angst, and friendship to keep readers greedily turning pages until the end.”

—RT Book Reviews

“This season’s perfect beach read!”

—Single Titles

“A tribute to the transformative power of female friendship…Reading Wendy Wax is like discovering a witty, wise, and wonderful new friend.”

—Claire Cook, New York Times bestselling author of Must Love Dogs and Time Flies

“If you’re a sucker for plucky women who rise to the occasion, this is for you.”

—USA Today

“Just the right amount of suspense and drama for a beach read.”

—Publishers Weekly

“[A] loving tribute to friendship and the power of the female spirit.”

—Las Vegas Review-Journal

“Beautifully written and constructed by an author who evidently knows what she is doing…. One fantastic read.”

—Book Binge

“[A] lovely story that recognizes the power of the female spirit, while being fun, emotional, and a little romantic.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Funny, heartbreaking, romantic, and so much more…. Just delightful!”

—The Best Reviews

“Wax’s Florida titles…are terrific for lovers of women’s fiction and family drama, especially if you enjoy a touch of suspense and romance.”

—Library Journal Express

Titles by Wendy Wax

Ten Beach Road Novels

Ten Beach Road

Ocean Beach

Christmas at the Beach

(eNovella)

The House on Mermaid Point

Sunshine Beach

One Good Thing

A Bella Flora Christmas

(eNovella)

Best Beach Ever

Just Beachy

The Break-Up Book Club

My Ex-Best Friend’s Wedding

A Week at the Lake

While We Were Watching Downton Abbey

Magnolia Wednesdays

The Accidental Bestseller

Single in Suburbia

Hostile Makeover

Leave It to Cleavage

7 Days and 7 Nights

BERKLEY

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Copyright © 2025 by Wendy Wax

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Cover image by Jasmin Sander / plainpicture

Cover design by Reagan Hood

Book design by Jenni Surasky, adapted for ebook

Title page and interior art: Pool float © Sergey Novikov / Shutterstock

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Wax, Wendy, author.

Title: Just beachy / Wendy Wax.

Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2025.

Identifiers: LCCN 2024050603 (print) | LCCN 2024050604 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593335963 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593335987 (ebook)

Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Romance fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PS3623.A893 J87 2025 (print) | LCC PS3623.A893 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20241127

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2024050603

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2024050604

First Edition: June 2025

Ebook ISBN 9780593335987

The authorized representative in the EU for product safety and compliance is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68, Ireland, https://eu-contact.penguin.ie.

ep_prh_7.1a_151805246_c0_r1

In the fictional world you are about to step into, there is no Tropical Storm Debby or Hurricanes Helene and Milton. I left them out intentionally because although I, and so many others, have been forced to deal with the very real damage they caused, I prefer a world in which they never happened.

One

The whole cast of Murder 101 is sitting around a table doing a read-through when I turn the page and see the first hint of what’s coming. I can barely breathe while I race through the bound pages. I know I’m in trouble. I mean, taking a beloved but wisecracking homicide detective and turning her into an alcoholic is, let’s face it, the kiss of death.

“Cassie Everheart is going to develop a serious drinking problem and spiral out of control?” For the last five years, I’ve been playing Cassie, a heroic, plucky LAPD detective who came up the hard way. I owe pretty much everything to Cassie. She not only rescued me from waitressing, for which I have absolutely zero talent, but provides me with a home in Santa Monica, a regular paycheck, a reprieve from my parents’ pleas to give up acting and “find a real job,” and given the audience numbers we’ve been pulling, way more than my allotted fifteen minutes of fame.

Jerry Statler, who directs the show, shifts in his seat. “Yeah.” He nods at a blonde seated at the foot of the table whom I’ve never seen before. “Right after Jason dumps her for the new rookie cop.”

There’s one of those silences that can only be described as deafening.

I stare back at him. “Cassie gets dumped and becomes an alcoholic?” It’s a total nightmare. I close and open my eyes, trying to wake up.

“Um, yeah,” Jerry says, clearly wondering why this is coming as a surprise. That makes two of us. “But she’s got some Emmy-worthy scenes while she grapples with the rejection and loses her grip.”

I look around the table. No one meets my eye. “Cassie Everheart, who has four commendations for bravery, and flew helicopters in Desert Storm, loses it over a man and shows up drunk during a career day talk at an elementary school? That’s ridiculous.” I tell myself my fans will tune out in droves. “Our audience will never buy it.”

There is silence while everyone skims ahead to make sure Cassie is the only character disappearing into rehab.

“It’s outrageous, isn’t it? The audience will be talking about it for weeks.” Jerry wavers between admiration and a growing awareness that I am not a happy camper. Sensitivity is not a requirement in the entertainment industry. In fact, it can be a liability. “In her last episode we see her being dragged into the facility shouting obscenities.”

My mouth drops open. My brain is so full of the words “last episode,” it’s impossible to think.

Around me, my co-stars flip through the pages in earnest, trying to figure out if they have anything to worry about. Lacy Winters, who plays my partner and is not the sharpest tool in the shed, uses her fingers to skim the lines. Her lips move as she reads.

Jerry grows more animated, evidently counting on the presence of the rest of the cast to keep me from flipping out completely.

“So she has some great tear-jerking scenes in rehab then comes back to the force even stronger than before?” I ask, still searching for that silver lining.

“Actually…no. Some of the other characters will mention her now and again, but Cassie’s career as a detective will be over.”

I can see it. A disgraced Cassie leaving the police station for the last time, never to work in law enforcement again. Fade to black. End of episode.

End of Cassie and a regular paycheck. End of the actor who will forever be identified with a once dynamic character who turned so wussy, she couldn’t even handle a breakup. “Who came up with this crap?”

Statler shrugs as the remedial readers in the group reach the last page and sigh little sighs of relief after realizing Cassie is the only one being set up for removal.

I take deep breaths and fight back the panic. As it turns out, it requires zero acting ability to play Cassie spiraling out of control.

When we finish the read-through, I sprint from the room to call my agent, Martin Green. A taller, Waspier, version of Ari Gold from Entourage, he worked his way up at CAA before leaving with a handful of important actors and directors to start his own eponymous agency. He has a ton of charisma and real personal warmth, which he turns on and off without warning. He’s also every bit as attractive as some of the big names he represents, but then here in Southern California, even the baggers at Trader Joe’s look like movie stars.

He likes to claim that his clients are like family, but I’ve seen him drop a big star for not listening to his advice and stare down a studio head at twenty paces. Which is why I was thrilled to sign with him when Murder 101 originally got picked up for the second season.

“He’s not in.” Elise Cranston, Martin’s first line of defense, has been with him since he became an agent. I have no idea how old she is, but if she were a dog, she’d be a Doberman or possibly a Rottweiler. She handles a phone like some people handle money, with authority and reverence and a desire to make it her own. The slightest change of inflection can signal the opening of all kinds of doors. Or slam them shut in your face.

I know from experience that if you pause for breath or thought, Elise is completely capable of deciding the call is over and hanging up.

“I need to talk to Martin.”

“I’ll give him a message, Sydney. But I don’t know when—”

I can feel her finger moving for the disconnect button. “They’re writing Cassie off the show!” I blurt out. “She gets dumped by Jason and starts drinking so much, she disappears into rehab and never comes back! They’re replacing me with someone younger.”

Silence, not dial tone, on the other end. Under normal circumstances I’d be congratulating myself for sprinting past the guardian of the innermost cave, but I’m too freaked out to celebrate.

“Hold for a minute. I’ll put him on.”

I don’t even bother to think about the fact that she lied about Martin not being in. I can’t think about anything except Cassie’s impending termination. And the end of life as I know it.

Martin comes on the line but doesn’t waste time on patter or niceties. It’s clear he already knew. “Sydney, I hate that they’ve made this decision.” I imagine him mouthing one of the expensive Cohiba Behike cigars that he loves but never lights in his Century City office. “I told that new baby producer they didn’t have to replace Cassie with the rookie, but he claimed the network is upset about losing the twenty-five to thirty-fours and they’re worried about the advertisers.”

Well, shit. Although Cassie is supposed to be thirty-five, I’m only thirty, which is way too young to be washed up even here in La-La Land. “You could have warned me that the contract negotiations were stalled out.” Sometimes the obvious just begs to be stated. “I felt like a moron getting that kind of news in front of everybody.”

“I’m sorry, Sydney. There was nothing I could do.”

Translation: nothing he would do. Martin has two other actors on the show, and his primary loyalty lies with himself.

“I’ve played Cassie for five years now. If you couldn’t get them to change their minds, couldn’t you at least get them to let her leave honorably or choose to leave herself? Let me walk out with some dignity?”

Who am I kidding? There’ll be a great ratings spike while everyone tunes in to see Cassie Everheart self-destruct. And then I’ll be indelibly linked to a weak character who loses her shit just because a man dumped her.

“Relax, Sydney. It’ll blow over. We’ll find you something else. Maybe the time has come to make a move to the big screen like we’ve been talking about. Let me make some calls.”

I try to pretend that even better things lie ahead. That Cassie and I had taken each other as far as we could and that when Martin calls back, he’ll have some juicy role for me that I don’t even have to audition for. Only, when I finally hear from him two weeks later, he has nothing. Make that worse than nothing. “I tried, Sydney. I called virtually everyone who might have anything suitable, and I didn’t get a single nibble.”

“How can that be? I’ve won two Emmys and a Golden Globe. I—”

“It’s not that. It has nothing to do with your talent, Syd. Word is you pissed off somebody big. An A-lister. Any idea who that might be?”

I close my mouth and swallow back a groan. Because I stood up to Tonja Kay, an actress who is as high up the Hollywood alphabet as you can get. And who is married to megastar Daniel Deranian, who once hit on me and is the father of my good friend Kyra Singer’s child, which does not endear her (or me!) to his wife.

“Look,” Martin says. “It’s not the end of the world. When you finish shooting, you take a break, leave town for a little while. There are lots of short attention spans out here.”

“And how am I supposed to live while I’m on this break?” I’ve gotten an increasingly impressive salary for my ongoing role as Cassie, but I’ve plowed most of it into my house, which I love, the requisite Mercedes convertible with the vanity plate CASSIECOP, and the ongoing physical maintenance of my largest asset, which up until this moment has been me.

Cassie is going to disappear into rehab and never be heard from again. And I’ve managed to piss off an A-lister with serious clout and the vicious will to use it.

I hear Martin’s shrug across the line. Details, if they don’t involve decimal points, are not really his thing. “Maybe you could rent out the house for a while and go visit your family. They’re in Atlanta, aren’t they? There’s a lot of film and television work in Georgia these days. And it may be far enough away to let you fly under the radar.”

• • •

Somehow, I tough it out until my last episode airs. It takes that long to find a tenant I don’t think will trash my house, put the things I care about in storage, and finally accept that my career as Cassie is over.

I let my friend, Jill Connors, who plays a forensic scientist on one of the CSI programs, throw me a going-away party, even though it feels a lot more like a wake—and not the fun Irish kind my family throws. Determined to act as if my world hasn’t ended, I (ironically!) drink too much and sleep with Jake Bodie one last time, even though he’s already circling the blonde who’s replacing me.

Hungover with no great memories to show for it, I cram my back seat full of clothing, pick up a venti cappuccino that I can’t really afford, and get on I-10. As I point the Mercedes east, I tell myself it’s all just grist for the acting mill. How can you emote humiliation and despair if you haven’t really experienced them?

Two

I spend 10-hour days on the road still unable to focus on anything but the disaster my life has become. My mind plays it over and over in an endless loop. It doesn’t help that everywhere I stop, I run into former fans, “former” being the operative word, who are either angry at or sorry for me.

Like the woman at the Chevron station outside of Las Cruces.

“Oh my God, it’s Cassie Everheart.” Her round face lights with excitement, a reaction I have to admit always gives me a little rush. So does her daughter’s.

Over the last five years I’ve given tons of autographs; I think it goes with the territory. I’ve never understood the actors who court attention and want to be celebrities but don’t think that should involve any personal contact with the people who made them famous in the first place.

I smile and take a step toward her, wiping my hands on my jeans as I approach. Which is when the woman’s expression changes. “I’m glad to see they’ve let you out of rehab. I hope you can manage to stay sober. But such a shame that Jason moved on so quickly and is already dating that young rookie.”

I stand frozen while she turns and heads back to her car. The other customers eye me with either disdain or pity and I slink back to my car and drive off, wishing for an adult-size invisibility cloak. There’s never a wizard around when you need one.

I’m almost to Tallahassee, where my college roommate lives, when my phone lights up. I draw a deep breath and straighten my shoulders when the Psycho theme ringtone fills the car.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, darling. Where are you?” I’m pleasantly surprised and relieved that she doesn’t immediately mention the loss of Murder 101, the boyfriend who defected to the winning team as soon as I was “released” from the show, or demand to know what I plan to do next. Natalie Anderson Ryan likes to “tackle problems head-on” and “discuss possible plans of attack” long before you’ve had a chance to absorb the problem in the first place. I developed the ability to tune out and remove myself from reality in self-defense. The fact that this survival skill helped me learn how to get into character quickly and become a better actor is a lucky by-product.

“I’m about an hour from Linda’s. I’ve been promising to visit for a while.”

“Well, you can stop off and say hello. But I need you here in Treasure Island before the end of the day.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s your grandmother.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you in Treasure Island? What does that have to do with Grand?” I swallow. “Is she okay?”

My grandmother’s name is Lillian Louise Wilde. She’s eighty-three now and has been a widow for almost six years. We call her Grand because she is.

“She came down to visit a friend on Treasure Island and has missed several flights home. Now that I’m here, she keeps going on about how much she loved family vacations on the west coast of Florida when she was a child. Yesterday, out of the blue, she announced that she wants to live here full-time, and I can’t make her listen to reason.”

I slow down for a semi that’s turning off the highway. “There’s really nothing unreasonable about someone in their eighties wanting to move to Florida,” I venture. I don’t add that Grand is an artist and “reason” is not her “go to” setting, because if anyone knows that, it’s my mother.

“Well,” my mother huffs. “If she were actually going to live down here, she’d be best off in a senior living scenario.” She huffs again. “I’ve been trying to get her to go look at Covington Arms, which is a lovely senior living facility in Tampa. It has all kinds of amenities and activities, including a beautiful restaurant with a gourmet chef, but she’s dug in and you know how hard it is to dislodge her.” This belongs in the category of “takes one to know one,” but I don’t mention this, either. Maybe I’m finally learning to think before I speak.

“I need you here so that you can help me convince her to make the right decisions.”

“Gang up on her, you mean?” Okay, maybe I’m not quite there yet with the “thinking before speaking” thing.

“Now, darling, there’s no need to get dramatic,” she chides. My mother enjoys the theater but is not a fan of real-life drama. She used to refer to me as “Sarah Bernhardt” whenever I “gave in to my emotions” as a child. It was my grandmother who gave me a Bernhardt biography for my sixth birthday and convinced me that being compared to Sarah Bernhardt was a great compliment.

“I need you to get down here and help make your grandmother see reason. Now.”

I am, of course, not the most reasonable member of my family, as my mother has often pointed out, which goes to show just how desperate she is. Personally, I think Grand should be free to choose how and where she lives.

On the other hand, I currently have no life. No career. No plans for anything beyond my visit with Linda. And Tallahassee’s only about a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Treasure Island and Pass-a-Grille, where my friend Kyra, her mother, and what I still think of as “the ladies of Ten Beach Road” live.

“I can drive down tomorrow afternoon.”

“Now would be much better…” My mother’s voice gets muffled. The next voice I hear is my grandmother’s.

“Don’t let your mother rush you, Sydney. As much as I’d love to see you, I’m perfectly fine. And completely capable of making my own decisions.” She says this with her usual gusto. But there’s a bit of a tremor in her voice that I’ve never heard before.

“I’d love to come down and hang out with you, Grand.” I realize as I say this just how true it is. My grandmother has always been a “force” and an important part of my life. She was a bold woman before bold was considered beautiful. “I can drive down tomorrow afternoon and be there in time for dinner.”

“That would be lovely, Sydney. But not necessary.”

“I know, Grand. But I am at a bit of a loose end. Would you mind if I came?”

“Of course not. I’d love for you to visit. You’re always welcome wherever I am.”

“Thanks, Grand. I can’t wait to see you.” I smile again, realizing that this, too, is true.

I’ll go down, try to keep my mother from steamrolling Grand, grab some girl time with Kyra, and make sure she knows that Tonja Kay is still on the warpath. Maybe even sip some piña coladas on the beach and get my act together. It’s such a perfect plan that I ignore my mother’s loud—some might say overly dramatic—sigh of relief in the background as I hang up.

This is the first thing I’ve looked forward to since that awful read-through.

• • •

I call Kyra from the road the next day and arrange to meet her for a drink out on Pass-a-Grille before I have to face my mother, which means that once I cross over the Howard Frankland Bridge and get my first glimpse of water, I continue south until I can exit onto the Pinellas Bayway, which deposits me onto Gulf Boulevard directly across from the Don CeSar Hotel, the huge pink wedding cake of a building built in the 1920s.

Kyra’s mother, Maddie Singer; Nicole Grant; and Avery Lawford managed to nurse a Mediterranean-style home named Bella Flora back to life when it was all they had left after losing everything in a Ponzi scheme. Not long after that grueling renovation, megastar Daniel Deranian bought Bella Flora for Kyra and their son, Dustin, which definitely contributed to Daniel’s wife, Tonja Kay’s determination to do as much harm as possible to Kyra, her family, and her friends (apparently including yours truly).

I turn left onto Gulf Boulevard, take a short right then a left onto Gulf Way, which hugs the beach and the Gulf of Mexico and leads to the southernmost tip of Pass-a-Grille, where Bella Flora sits. I drive slowly behind a long line of cars with out-of-state plates and pass a seemingly endless row of parked cars that face the sidewalk and the low concrete wall bordering the beach. Wooden walkovers span the dunes, protecting the sea oats and leading onto the soft, white sand that stretches down to the Gulf.

As I inch along, I lower the car windows to take in deep breaths of the salt-tinged air that’s so different from the lighter, drier air of Southern California.

Even this small thought yanks me back to LA and dredges up all the images I’ve been tamping down the entire drive: the Craftsman bungalow that I fell in love with and turned into my dream home, my life, my career. Thinking of all the things I’ve lost makes my chin quiver. Hot tears turn the sand and water into a blurry mass. Despite the sunshine and the welcoming caw of gulls, I am bereft and pathetic.

I’m so not ready for my mother. For her desire to fix me. To fix my mistakes. To force me to plow forward when all I want is to curl into a ball and hide. It’s hard enough to handle her relentless need for action when things are going well.

I pass the concession stand and the Hurricane. In my humble opinion, this is not the best name for a restaurant on a sliver-shaped barrier island on the Gulf of Mexico, but it’s been around since the seventies, and although they’ve turned it into a massive New England–ish version of its original self, it’s a great place to watch the sunset.

Eighth Avenue, which I guess qualifies as Pass-a-Grille’s “Main Street” even though it’s barely two blocks long—like all the other streets that stretch from the Gulf to the Pass-a-Grille Channel—is dotted with shops, restaurants, and galleries.

I really, really need that drink, maybe even two before I face my mother. Just a small bubble of insulation between me and her opinions. So when I find an open parking spot practically in front of Harley’s, a bastion of bikerdom and thirsty locals, I take it as a sign that the universe approves of me imbibing a little liquid courage.

It’s three thirty when I step through the front door and inhale the mingled scents of alcohol and fried food. It’s dim inside, the sunlight no match for the dirty, salt-caked windows and partially closed blinds. The walls are shadowed and papered with black-and-white photos of the people who drink here and the motorcycles they ride.

A couple of tourist types are shooting pool beneath a flat-screen TV. Four old-timers occupy a table, nursing beers, their eyes on the television.

A waitress in short shorts and an even skimpier halter top is at the register ringing up a sale.

The bartender looks up from the beer mug he’s refilling. Lean and lightly muscled, he has a mane of sun-streaked blond hair that hangs just past his shoulders. His features are even, his cheeks covered in blond stubble. If I had to guess, I’d place his age somewhere between thirty-five and forty.

He nods in greeting. “Welcome to Harley’s. My name is Alan Jay, but folks just call me A.J.” He’s about to turn away when he blinks and does a double take. “Oh my God. You’re…it’s Cassie Everheart!” His face splits into a grin. “Man, I felt so bad when you ended up in rehab. Some people just can’t handle their alcohol. In fact, I recorded your last episode when they lead you away—we’ve replayed it, like, a million times. You know, it’s kind of a cautionary tale.”

Now, there’s a piece of good news. “Gee thanks. Glad everyone enjoyed it. Maybe I can get you a video of my root canals. Those are a real hoot, too.”

He laughs appreciatively then picks up the remote and aims it at the TV. Before I know it, there I am in high-definition, head up, tears streaming down my face, leaving the precinct for the last time.

“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “But I never would have thought you’d lose it like that over a guy.” He says this as if he actually believes I’m Cassie Everheart, not the actress who plays her.

“I’ll have a shandy, thanks.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not even sure you should be in here. And you definitely shouldn’t be drinking so soon after getting out of rehab.” He moves back behind the bar as I slide onto a barstool. “Why don’t you try this instead?”

I take a first sip and realize that, despite the slice of lemon and the little umbrella hanging off the side of the glass, he’s served me straight lemonade. There is not a single drop of liquor in the glass.

“I think you left out an important ingredient,” I sigh.

“Sorry. Just trying to help you stay straight. How’s everything going?”

“Things have been better.” I drink the first sips, slowly trying to imagine there’s at least something that resembles alcohol in it. But while it quenches my thirst, it doesn’t make my life feel less pathetic or the world any less hostile.

I take another long sip and realize I need a restroom.

“Man,” he says with another shake of his head as I get up, “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Right. Well. My friend Kyra will be here soon, too. If I’m not out yet, could you bring her a margarita on me?”

“Sure thing. Is she a detective, too?”

The smile forming on my lips disappears when I realize he’s not joking.

I get up and go to the little girls’ room. This is what it says right on the door. Not exactly what you’d expect in a biker bar, right? Neither is the inside. I close my eyes, but when I open them, it still looks like a Laura Ashley catalog exploded in there—all pink and flowery with a skirt around the sink and potpourri on top of the toilet tank. I imagine the biker babes blinking in disbelief when they stomp in dressed in their leathers, but it’s a small calming oasis of femininity and at the moment I’ll take my calm any way I can get it.

Three

The first thing I notice when I come back to the bar is the pin-drop quiet. Next, I notice the look on A.J.’s face. Then I see the reason why.

Two of the biggest, ugliest men I’ve ever seen are standing in front of the bar. Neither of them appears to own a razor, and if the odor hanging in the air is any indication, they may not have a bathtub, either.

Their attention is focused on A.J. so I shrink back into the shadows.

“We can do this the easy way,” the first hulk growls. “Or we can do it the hard way. It don’t make no difference to me.”

When they raise their arms to point guns at A.J., all thoughts of a grammar intervention evaporate along with the desire to point out how clichéd their dialogue sounds. It’s so quiet, I hear A.J. swallow. Someone’s teeth are chattering. I hope they’re not mine.

“All we want is the money in the register. Just hand it over and we’ll be outta here.” Hulk Two motions A.J. toward the till with his gun.

“But you’re not wearing masks or anything,” A.J. points out. “How can you commit a robbery and then just leave witnesses alive?”

I am tempted to reveal myself just to smack A.J. up the side of his head.

“Not that we would tell anyone.” A.J.’s backpedaling now, but I’m not sure these hulks are that stupid. “The guys at the tables are drunk. And, um, I have Alzheimer’s. Early onset. If you leave right now, I’ll be forgetting you and your faces as soon as you walk out the door.”

The hulks don’t move. They don’t look as if they’re even considering turning around and walking out without getting what they came for.

A.J.’s hands go up in surrender. For about five seconds I consider tiptoeing back to the ladies’ room, locking myself inside a stall, and phoning for help. Except my cell phone is sitting on the bar, and I’m afraid that even if I managed to wriggle out the ladies’ room window and run for help, it would all be over here before anyone arrived; I can’t leave A.J. and the others at the mercy of these no-necks.

Without anything remotely resembling a plan, I step out of the shadows and move toward the bar, channeling the wise-cracking-yet-fearless Cassie Everheart arriving at the scene of a crime.

Hulk One turns and recognizes me. I actually watch the realization dawn. It happens in slow motion, which is apparently the speed at which his brain functions. I’m not surprised. Murder 101 is popular in penal institutions. Given these guys’ tats, shaved heads, and overall pallor, I’m guessing these two have watched more than a few episodes.

“Hey, it’s that cop who had to go into rehab after she got dumped!” Hulk One jabs his partner in the ribs. “So much for turning over a new leaf, huh?”

Loud guffaws follow. Even the regulars at the tables join in, evidently figuring they’re safer siding with the bad guys. The cocktail waitress is too busy trying to squeeze behind the bussing station to speak or laugh. Hulk Two leans in closer to get a better look at me. A blast of garlic and onion blows across my cheek.

“It’s Cassie, all right,” he says, shaking his head. “You had a sweet thing going before you screwed it all up, girl. You aren’t going to try to, like, apprehend us or anything are you?”

I look into his eyes, trying to see past the web of red blood vessels. The lights are on, but I’m not sure anybody’s home. “Damn straight I am!”

“And how’re you gonna do that?” Stupid as he appears, he’s evidently noticed that he and his friend have weapons and I do not.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say coolly, despite the jellying of my knees. “But there are lots of different ways this could go down.”

Unfortunately, I can’t get my panicked brain to come up with even one. I’m a damned fine actress. I can act brave, and I know a lot of cop lingo. But in real life, physical danger scares the you-know-what out of me. If I could have done it without completely humiliating myself, I would have already vaulted over the bar to cower behind A.J.

“Oh yeah?” Hulk One asks.

“Yeah.” I’m not above schoolyard taunts. Like I said, I know how to say all the right things. And if a squad car pulled up right now, and the hulks agreed to get in, I could look good putting them there.

But I am not going to wrestle anyone to the ground, trick them into dropping their weapon, or dive behind the bar to dodge a spray of bullets. Cassie Everheart might know how to pull a miracle out of her ass just before the commercial break, but Sydney Ryan doesn’t.

“I haven’t decided exactly how I’m going to kick your butts yet,” I say. “But I will. And, of course, if I had a panic button anywhere, I’d be pushing it right now.” I raise my eyebrows at A.J. and open my eyes real wide in an attempt at silent communication.

His hand moves slightly beneath the bar, and I hope there actually is a panic button.

“Hey,” one of the hulks says, waving his gun in A.J.’s direction. “No sudden moves!”

I start praying then. I pray that A.J. has pushed a real button that will summon a whole fleet of real policemen. I pray that Kyra doesn’t arrive before the police. I pray that the dumbass duo will suddenly find religion, renounce their life of crime, and slink out the way they came. I pray that if we’re mowed down by a hail of bullets, nobody will be able to identify my body. Because I really don’t want my mother to know that I had to have a drink before I faced her. And I sure as hell don’t want the media getting hold of the news that Cassie—who just came out of rehab—died at a hole-in-the-wall beach bar without lifting a finger to defend herself.

While I’m praying, my life flashes before my eyes, all the good parts anyway, which doesn’t take anywhere near as long as you might expect. Then there’s a sound on the other side of the room, and I turn to see one of the regulars scrape back his chair and stand, grasping the top of the table to hold himself upright.

The intruders turn their attention to the swaying man, and all of a sudden A.J. is pulling a handgun out from under the bar. Before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, he hisses, “Here, Cassie!” Then with what can only be described as a shriek of fear, he flips the gun to me and drops down behind the bar.

“Shit!” I make a grab for the grip, unsure whether it’s more dangerous to catch it or let it hit the ground, where it might accidentally go off.

For a terrifying moment my hands wrap around the barrel. Then the gun is bouncing off the floor and skidding to the side. Having no idea what else to do, I throw myself on top of it and try this little forward roll I’ve done on the show that’s supposed to use your momentum to help you spring to your feet. Only my head slams into something that feels like a rock, and when I come to, I’m sprawled at the hulks’ feet like a beached starfish. The gun is trapped between my shoulder blades and the floor.

I think I hear the faint sound of a siren in the distance, but it might just be wishful thinking. The hulks stare down at me in surprise. A.J. straightens up behind the bar. Whispering breaks out on the other side of the room. No one seems sure what to do next.

Hulk One’s shoulders start to shake. He leans over and slaps his tree-trunk thighs.

“Did you see that, Clint? She knocked herself out on my damned knee!”

The other side of the room erupts in laughter. Then Hulk Two’s shoulders start to heave. The two of them dissolve into belly laughs above me. They don’t even stop when I pull the gun out from behind my back and shove it, in the wobbliest possible way, up between Hulk One’s legs. I’ve never wanted to maim anyone so badly in my life.

“Drop your guns!” I shout in Cassie’s voice. “Or I’ll turn you into eunuchs!”

The hulks keep laughing. Lots of jelly belly jittering above me.

“I don’t think they know what a eunuch is,” one of the tourists shouts.

“Oh, good grief!” I jab the gun higher making my target clear.

A siren stops mid-shriek, and then—thank you, God—the front door slams open. Two sets of boots pound across the wood floor and come to a stop on either side of Hulk One and Hulk Two. I’m still on my back with the gun pointed up between Hulk One’s legs.

“Put your weapons down.”

I groan when I recognize our rescuer’s voice. It’s a voice that belongs in Atlanta, not a small beach town on the west coast of Florida. It was once part of my past.

“Them first,” I say.

“Sydney? Jesus!” Officer Luke Hayes bites out. “For once in your life, could you just do what you’re told?” Even without looking, I can see the tick in his cheek he gets when he’s annoyed.

I don’t lower my gun until the hulks drop theirs. The other policeman retrieves their guns and whips out handcuffs while Luke relieves me of A.J.’s gun and pulls me up from the floor.

I haven’t seen Luke since my grandfather’s funeral, and I don’t like running into him unprepared, let alone on my back with a gun jammed between a fat guy’s legs. I had a crippling crush on him all through puberty. I tried to give him my virginity—a gift he refused and has hopefully forgotten.

The second policeman reads the hulks their rights and escorts them out to the cruiser. A.J. steps out from behind the bar. The waitress pries herself out of the crevice she’s been hiding in and flashes Luke a smile.

Now that it’s over, I start to shake. “What were you thinking, throwing me that gun?” I demand.

A.J. shrugs, looks sheepish. “I, uh, just figured you’d know what to do. You know. After all those years as a cop and all.”

I blink then check for a smirk or wink. But A.J. still seems to think I’m Cassie Everheart. “I’m an actor, A.J. I pretend for a living. But if you ever even think about throwing a loaded gun at me again, I’ll use you for target practice.”

“Sounds like police brutality to me. You really don’t want to be making idle threats.” Luke shakes his head. His eyes, which are a bright blue, twinkle. “But I guess that’s what living in LA will do to a person.”

“Oh, stop it!” I snap. “What are you doing here on Pass-a-Grille anyway?”

“I transferred down from Atlanta about five years ago. I’ve been with the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Department for the last two.”

I step away from the two of them. Now that the threat of imminent demise is over, I’m in no mood to take any guff from anyone. Besides, standing too close to Luke has always made it hard to think clearly.

“It would be a very bad idea to do any of that pretending here,” he says. “It’s called impersonating a police officer and there are some stiff penalties attached.”

Okay, I don’t know if it’s just me, but when a good-looking man in uniform, even one you’ve known since childhood who can be as annoying as hell, uses the word “stiff,” it’s hard not to feel a little tingle of sexual awareness. Still, I’ve never reacted well to being told what to do. Just ask my parents.

“What are you going to do?” I demand. “Run me out of town on a rail?” I’m starting to build up a good head of steam.

“I’m not kidding, Syd,” Luke says. “You have to think before you act.” He fixes me with a cop stare. “I mean it, ‘squirt.’ ”

I bristle at the old nickname. The pool players go back to their game. Two of the old guys wrap their arms around each other and weave toward the door.

“You won’t be operating any motor vehicles now, will you, gentlemen?” Luke fixes them with a milder, more tolerant look than he turned on me.

“Nope. Jes’ walkin’ home to get cleaned up. I think I peed my pants laughing when Cassie here knocked herself out on that guy’s leg.”

I sigh. But I don’t even bother to protest that I am not actually Cassie Everheart.

Luke’s lips twitch, which is even more irritating than the big-cheese attitude he’s been copping. I’d rather piss off a man than have him laugh at me any day.

“How long are you in town for?” He does a last scan of the bar.

“I’m not sure.”

“You need a ride or anything?” The tone is surprisingly inoffensive.

I look up but don’t quite meet his eyes. “No. Thanks. I’m just going to have a quick drink with a friend of mine before I meet up with my mother and grandmother.”

He smiles, he knows my mother and Grand. “I can understand needing a little liquid courage but take it easy. Wouldn’t want to have to add a DUI to poor Cassie’s troubles.”

Still jangling from the rush of adrenaline that poured into my body while I faced down the hulks, I make no comment. But as I watch him leave, I catch myself wondering what he sees when he looks at me. I’ve spent time and money correcting my physical shortcomings, but I have a strong suspicion that Luke Hayes still sees me as a gangly, flat-chested adolescent.

Where’s the justice in that?

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.

Five

“I’d slit my wrists before I’d live anywhere this beige.” Grand dismisses the restrained elegance of the Covington Arms Senior Living Community with a flick of one of said wrists. “Everything here is beige. Including the residents.”

Her pronouncement complete (there is no more offensive word in my grandmother’s vocabulary than “beige”), she turns her back on the dining room’s grass cloth wallpaper, silk-covered dining chairs, and floor-to-ceiling casement windows, which frame an exquisite pond with a spraying fountain. A bricked walking path cuts through a beautifully arranged flower garden.

“Mother,” my mom says carefully with a nod toward the saleswoman conducting our tour. “This facility is beautiful. It has a fitness center, a state-of-the-art performance hall, a movie theater, tennis courts, and bicycle paths. It even has a clinic, and classes and guest speakers and organized travel. It’s owned and managed by the Ritz-Carlton and was featured in Architectural Digest.”

Grand sniffs. “The apartments are the size of a postage stamp and there’s no closet space, let alone room for a studio. And I do not plan to paint in an arts and crafts room. Nor do I need a group bus or a social director, and I never would have come here today if you hadn’t forced me.”

My grandmother’s voice is strong, but I can feel her trembling next to me. I take her hand and squeeze it.

“Please don’t make a scene,” my mother says. “You know the house in Atlanta is much too big for you to keep up on your own.”

All our eyes tear up at the allusion to Grandpa Henry’s absence. He was the port to my grandmother’s storm. The soft to her loud. The rational to her instinctual. I’ve never seen such a clear example of opposites not only attracting but somehow converting all of that opposite energy into a cohesive unit.

“And since you’ve repeatedly refused to have live-in help or a driver, it only makes sense for you to be in a place where everything’s at your fingertips and you have people around you,” my mother continues. “If you insist on doing it in Florida, this is the perfect place. They provide a town car and driver, for God’s sake. You’re free to come and go at will. They could take you to visit Myra anytime you like.” She shoots me a look that demands backup. But I just can’t do it.

Grand’s eyes narrow to slits. Her cheeks redden. “And who took away my keys so I need a driver?” Grand’s tone is belligerent, her voice too loud for the main dining room of Covington Arms. Even those with hearing aids have given up all pretense of eating in order to focus on the conversation. I’m pretty sure the regular entertainment doesn’t come anywhere close to the show playing out in front of them. “For all I know, you’ve sold my car right out from under me.”

As we exit the dining room, one of three we’ve toured on the property, my mother draws a steadying breath. “You know very well the Cadillac is sitting in the garage back home. No one’s doing anything behind your back.” She glares at me.

I remain mute, unable to come up with an idea that would satisfy either of them.

“I’m perfectly capable of driving,” Grand hisses.

“I’m not the one who hit all those parked cars and then talked their owners out of reporting it to their insurance companies,” my mother hisses back. “And I’m pretty sure I’m not the one stopped for going the wrong way on a one-way street. A street you’ve been driving your whole adult life, I might add.”

My mother takes another deep breath. The saleswoman is still trying to locate the smile she lost somewhere between “beige” and “size of a postage stamp.”

We pass the library, a cozy café, and the movie theater. Just beyond the theater a wall-hung television is set to a game show. But as we’re about to move on, the show is interrupted, and a shot of a newsroom takes over the screen. The shot zooms in on a reporter. A photo of “abstract artist Phillip Drake” appears behind the reporter’s shoulder with the headline Phillip Drake dead from cancer at 90. Some of his best-known works flash across the screen including his Missing Madonna, which disappeared more than sixty years ago. My grandmother gasps. When I take her hand, it’s shaking.

“Grand. Are you okay?”

She swallows. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She gathers herself, turns from the TV, and drops my hand. “I’m fine.” She raises her chin and squares her shoulders, but I can feel her trembling beside me. “But this place is still beige.”

My mother takes another deep breath. One more and she’ll be hyperventilating.

“Covington Arms is one of the nicest retirement communities of its kind on the west coast of Florida.”

Grand turns on her heel and heads toward the entrance foyer, forcing my mother, me, and the no-longer-jovial saleswoman to follow. Our heels clack loudly on the marble floors.

“The only way you’ll get me in a place like this is to drag in my dead body and prop it in a chair.” Grand halts in front of a love seat just inside the front doors. “Like they’ve done to this poor soul.” She jabs a finger toward a wispy-haired woman slumped in the corner of a love seat. The woman’s hair does, in fact, blend with her face and clothing as well as the brocade back of the padded seat. Her blue-veined eyelids, which provide the only hint of color, are closed.

“That’s Mrs. Finklestein,” the saleswoman snaps. “She’s one of our friendliest and most active residents.”

“I can see that,” Grand says.

Despite the decibel level at which she’s being discussed, Mrs. Finklestein doesn’t budge.

“All those water aerobics classes and bingo games must have tired her out.” Grand leans closer as if examining a specimen at the zoo and raises her voice even further. “Or maybe she’s got her hearing aid turned off!”

“Mother!” I can tell that all my mother wants now is to get out of this place before something happens. “I think we should—”

“I’m sure she’s just resting her eyes.” Our tour guide reaches out a hand toward the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Finklestein?” The saleswoman’s hand makes contact with the closest bony shoulder. She prods gently. “Mrs. Finklestein? It’s me, Margaret. Are you okay?”

The answer, apparently, is no. Because instead of responding, Mrs. Finklestein folds in half and slides in a boneless heap onto the shiny beige floor.

• • •

There’s shouting. A crowd forms. We stand in the midst of it as the wail of a siren (my second in less than twenty-four hours) draws closer. We watch the paramedics kneel beside Mrs. Finklestein. When they take her away, there’s no need for a siren.

Badly shaken, we leave Covington Arms and stop for lunch at Athenian Garden, an old-school been-around-forever Greek restaurant back in St. Petersburg. This is the second time in that same twenty-four hours that I intend, make that need, to drink. The second time I’ve contemplated death. The second time someone tries to talk me out of drinking “so soon after rehab.”

“I do not belong in a place like that Buffington Arms,” Grand says for what might be the tenth time.

“Covington, not Buffington. And it’s a beautiful, well-run place. And safe.” My mother’s reply is automatic.

“There are people dropping dead in the foyer,” Grand points out. “When you’ve lost your husband and your friends have started dying off, the last thing you want to do is greet the Grim Reaper among strangers.”

“Oh, Mother.”

Grand takes a long sip of her Chardonnay. I tell myself there must be some way to reach a compromise, but that’s not a word my mother or grandmother has ever embraced.

“I just want you to be safe,” my mother says. “You have high blood pressure, brittle bones, and”—she hesitates—“and you’re taking medication for your memory. The doctors told you to stop driving, yet you completely ignore their advice. You’re just lucky you haven’t killed yourself or anyone else.”

Grand puts down her glass and considers my mother. “I am not going out like Mrs. Finklestein,” she says quietly. “I intend to live the rest of whatever life I have left. In a place of my choosing.”

“I’m not trying to run your life. I’m just trying to be here for you. Like Daddy would have wanted.”

I know I’m not the only one wishing Grandpa Henry were here right now. His name and his memory somehow take the edge off, but when my mother gives me “the look” that tells me I’m now supposed to help her convince Grand that this is the place for her, I just can’t do it.

“I appreciate your concern, Natalie,” Grand says. “But make no mistake. I intend to drop dead in front of a canvas in my own home studio. Not in the lobby of a senior living community.” She takes a long gulp of her wine for emphasis. “In fact, I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you that I’ve already bought a smaller home.”

“Oh. That’s…I mean…” My mother attempts to regroup. “What?”

“I’ve already bought a new home.” Grand’s smile is triumphant. “Right on Treasure Island. So I guess you can go ahead and put my house in Atlanta on the market.”

“But how…why…” It’s deer-in-the-headlights time—a look I never expected to see on my mom’s face.

“But what could you have bought without so much as a conversation?”

“Natalie, darling, there was nothing to converse about. You’re in real estate. You more than anyone know how emotional home purchases can be. When a place is right, it’s right. And the place I bought is absolutely perfect. It spoke to me.”

I want to ask her what it said, but I suspect this would push my mother all the way over the edge. “Where is it, Grand? Can we go see it?”

“Of course. I’ve been dying to show it to you.”

Mom sighs.

“It’s a totally renovated three-bedroom town house—with an elevator and a perfect space for a studio—right on the water in the building next to Myra’s.”

My mother’s face goes white, so I’m very careful to keep the fist bump I’m itching to give Grand to myself.

Six

My mother is still absorbing Grand’s fait accompli when my grandmother drains the last of her wine and announces that she’s also already arranged for her car to be driven down. Then she asks if we’re ready to go see her new place.

My mother’s jaw is tightly clenched, which I assume is how she manages not to say anything. I, on the other hand, can’t wait to see Grand’s new home.

We drive west and turn onto Park Street, a lovely redbrick road lined with huge gated homes on the water and peacocks that strut back and forth across the road, and despite the yard signs that declare this part of Park Street a “Peacock Crossing,” it appears that they cross pretty much at will and without warning.

At Central Avenue, we head west going over the bridge that leads us onto the Treasure Island Causeway. After a turn onto Paradise Island, we pass several condo buildings, some nicely done green spaces, and residential streets with names like Dolphin Drive and Marina Terrace.

Ultimately, we turn into a town house community named Casas de Flores, and we follow a cobblestone street lined with trees, grass, multiple swimming pools, and pastel buildings of town houses. I catch a glimpse of boats bobbing in their slips as well as a fishing dock.

“That’s Myra’s town house.” Grand points to a corner unit in a peach-colored building of three units.

“And this,” she says dramatically as she pulls in front of a garage on the corner of the next building. “This is my place.”

“Oh, Grand! It’s so cool,” I say as we get out of the car and stare up at the façade of her unit. “You’re practically next door to Myra. And…” I lose my train of thought completely when we enter the foyer, climb the first flight of stairs, and enter the main living area, where my gaze is immediately drawn to the bright sparkle of water that lies just behind the wall of glass sliders.

“Wow,” my mother says almost reluctantly.

Seconds later we’re out on the balcony, leaning over the railing, and staring over a lawn bulging with bright flowers and a trio of palm trees to the Intracoastal Waterway, where boats of all sizes and types glide past. Some go as silently as the wind in their sails while others rev motors and blare music. It’s like a parade provided for our amusement.

Across the bay another island neighborhood shimmers in the sun, with finger-shaped spits of land that jut out into the water. Most have docks and boat lifts from which boats dangle. Pretty much all of them have pools.

“Oh my gosh! Look!” I point at three black fins—two large and one small—that glide next to one another then disappear beneath the surface only to rise again a couple yards away. “Dolphins!”

“It looks like two parents and their baby, doesn’t it?” Grand smiles, clearly enjoying the same rush of pleasure I am.

“My goodness, it does, doesn’t it?” my mother says quietly, not even trying to hide her own smile.

When the dolphins disappear from view, I tear my gaze from the water and turn to take in the main floor of Grand’s new home. Light wood floors stretch from the sliders, through the open living and dining rooms, and into the massive kitchen, where windows overlook the cobblestone street. It can’t compete with the water view, but it’s charming in its own right. With glass on both ends of the open floor plan, the space feels expansive. Everything is light and bright.

“The former owners did all this,” Grand says, motioning around the space. “And I love every bit of it. I won’t have to change a thing. Plus, all the furniture you see was included in the sale so I can live here relatively comfortably while I wait for my things to be delivered.”

Up the next set of stairs is the bedroom floor with a large master bedroom, where painted wooden beams give definition to the vaulted ceiling. Sliders open from the master bedroom onto another balcony overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. I feel as if I can see for miles. And when I spot the three dolphins feeding farther down the Intracoastal, my lips stretch back into a smile of their own accord.

Two bedrooms with a Jack and Jill bath sit at the other end of the hall just beyond linen and laundry closets, providing another view of the cobblestones and pastel buildings. One has a queen bed and a dresser while the other has bunk beds—a queen on the bottom and a single on top.

“Well, I have to admit it’s attractive and functional.” This is high praise from my mother.

Although it’s clear she’d like to, Grand doesn’t gloat. “I’m so glad you like it. The first time I stepped out onto that seawall, I knew I wanted to live here. My unit wasn’t listed, but Myra knew the owners were planning to sell. I made an offer that day.”

“And how much did you pay for this place?” my mother asks.

“Does it matter?” Grand replies. “I’m not looking to sell it anytime soon and I doubt I’m going to get hurt financially on waterfront property.”

“You realize sales info is readily available online?” my mother, the Realtor, replies.

Grand shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t stop you from looking it up, but I can’t see why it would matter. Your father left me comfortably off, and once the Atlanta house sells, I’ll be in an even better position.

“Come.” Grand smiles. “Let me show you the pièce de résistance.”

We take the stairs down to the foyer then exit into the two-car garage, where she grasps a doorknob and pushes open a door into the ground-floor “bonus” room.

The room is wide and open with whitewashed concrete walls, and an AC unit of its own. Sliders open onto a covered brick patio, a swath of grass dotted with flowering bushes and palm trees that stretch out to the seawall.

“This,” Grand says with relish, “will be my studio. And that”—she nods toward the water—“will be my inspiration.” She smiles. “And with the Gulf just a little over a mile away, I can walk to the beach. Or drive and set up an easel anytime I like.” Her smile deepens. “Surely you can see why I couldn’t pass it up.”

“Oh, Grand.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s awesome. I don’t think I could have resisted it, either.”

My mother doesn’t argue, which is a relief.

“And Myra’s already introduced me to people,” Grand continues. “There are a good number of retirees, but there are younger couples and families, too. And while there are snowbirds and people with second homes, there are also full-timers. I like that it’s not all one thing or another. And there’s lots to do here without even leaving the complex.

“There’s a water aerobics class in the west pool once a week and a mah-jongg game most Wednesdays and Thursdays. And monthly potlucks around the east pool. People are friendly, and from what I hear, they look out for one another.”

“It is lovely,” my mother concedes. “But since you need to stop driving, you’ll be stuck here. There’s no real transit system.”

“Nonsense,” Grand sniffs.

“Not nonsense,” my mother sniffs back.

So much for détente.

“First of all, my car is already being driven down with a few things I’ve requested, so unless you’re planning to stay here and police my every move, whether I drive or not will not be up to you,” Grand says. “Second, there’s Uber and Lyft if I ever need them. And Instacart and DoorDash. And I understand there’s a stop for the SunRunner Bus just up on Central Avenue that can take you to the beach or to the downtown waterfront shops and restaurants and lots of places in between.”

Grand speaks firmly but I feel her tremble beside me. Something’s upsetting her, and though I don’t know what it is, it’s something more than the normal friction between her and Mom.

“But this doesn’t make sense. You can’t just—” Mom begins.

“But I have ‘just’!” Grand insists even as she sways slightly.

“I could stay with Grand for a while,” I say, putting my arm surreptitiously around Grand’s shoulders to steady her.

I don’t add that if things continue the way they have for me, I could stay here forever. “And I could, um, be her chauffeur and companion while she gets settled.”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Grand jumps on this immediately. Her trembling ceases but she doesn’t shrug off my arm on her shoulder. “Not that I need a driver or help, but I’d love to have you here, Sydney. What fun we’ll have.”

My mother doesn’t look completely convinced, but Grand doesn’t stop talking long enough to give her a chance to object. “Kyle Donovan—Gracie Donovan’s grandson—and a friend of his are bringing certain furniture, art, and accessories down in a U-Haul that will also tow my car. And I thought perhaps you could use what’s left to stage the Atlanta house so that it can go on the market as quickly as possible.”

My mother sighs. “Maybe we shouldn’t list the house quite yet. In case this doesn’t work out. Or you decide to split your time. Or—”

“No!” Grand cuts her off sharply. “I appreciate your input,” she says more gently. “I know you’re pushing for what you believe is right for me. But I’m ready for a fresh start…I need this change…and I’d like things taken care of sooner rather than later.” She pauses, swallows. “I believe your father would be glad I’ve found the perfect place. I hope you will be, too.”

Mom sighs. And just like that, Grand has stormed my mother’s defenses without technically firing a shot.

• • •

I’m in bed and about to nod off when Mom walks into our hotel room after gassing up the car for her trip home tomorrow. When she drops her bag on the dresser and kicks off her shoes without putting either away, I know I’m not going to be able to feign sleep.

“I simply cannot believe this has happened. She’s eighty-three and acting like a child,” my mother huffs.

“I wouldn’t call choosing to move to a smaller home next to a good friend in Florida childlike. She’s a grown woman, Mom, and still entitled to make her own decisions.”

“But everyone including her knows she shouldn’t be driving. She could kill someone—or herself!”

“Mom, she’s slowed down a bit for sure, but she’ll have a good friend next door and I’ll keep an eye on the driving thing while I’m here.”

“But something’s off. Something more than her usual ‘bull in a china shop, let’s play life by ear’ attitude. I just can’t tell if it’s physical or mental, or what. Did you see how she reacted to the news story about that artist? And she’s, I don’t know, but something’s going on.”

I sometimes forget how observant my mother is and have always regretted it.

“And you know she shouldn’t be driving.”

It’s my turn to sigh. “You’re just beating a dead horse here. You need to let her live her life; one that she chooses.”

“That just shows what you know. You’ve never been a parent or dealt with an eighty-three-year-old who’s as headstrong as a five-year-old. You couldn’t even hold on to the role you created.”

There’s a brief silence as I absorb the blow.

“Wow,” I finally say. “That was low. And for your information, I didn’t lose that role, it was intentionally taken from me.”

She huffs. I sniff. Then I turn my back to her and pull the covers over my head. As any five-year-old might.

• • •

In the morning, we act as if we never argued then pack up our cars. Mom checks out of the hotel while I go pick up Grand so that the three of us can have a farewell breakfast during which I hope we can avoid an argument or rehashing who’s right and why.

We meet at a place called Foxy’s, and I’m relieved that we all seem to be on our best behavior. I settle into my meal, and after a couple of bites of my French Toast Combo, I can see why this restaurant has been around since 1981. And as Ahhhhnold Schwarzenegger used to say, I’ll be back…!

When we’re duly stuffed, we kiss my mother goodbye and I see what it takes for her to drive off without issuing admonitions or comments. When her taillights disappear into the distance, I turn to my grandmother. “Shall we stop off for some groceries? I think I saw a Publix supermarket a few streets over.”

“Absolutely.” She smiles and gives me a wink. “Because we definitely need some staples. And I need to find something for us to bring to the Friday evening potluck mixer tonight. And maybe something new to wear to it.”

I look at my grandmother and blink. “Mixer?”

“Oh yes. I understand they’re a lot of fun, and it’s a good way to meet other residents.”

I study my grandmother’s face but am unable to read it. There is, however, no doubt that she has something up her sleeve…

Seven

It’s a gorgeous seventy degrees and the pale blue sky is streaked with wispy white clouds, so I drop the top on the Mercedes, and Grand and I drive south on the aptly named Gulf Boulevard enjoying the salt breeze that riffles our hair and caresses our cheeks.

Our destination is historic Corey Avenue on St. Pete Beach, where Grand has gone with Myra. It’s peppered with shops and restaurants and extremely pale-skinned people (the word “albino” springs to mind) who have apparently not yet found the beach and painfully red crusty-skinned people who have.

I stop thinking about the skin abuse of strangers when we step into Annabel’s, where we have an absolute blast putting together a “Florida wardrobe” for Grand. Rebecca, our saleswoman, opens a dressing room, shows us around the store, then steps back, available but experienced enough not to spoil our fun.

Soon the dressing room is packed with capris, flowing linen pants, breezy tops, sundresses, gauzy jackets, brightly colored dusters, and adorable short summer-weight sweaters.

Grand loves bright whites and vibrant colors so we focus on abstract patterns and florals drenched with color until her dressing room looks like an art installation.

“Is it my imagination,” Grand asks, twirling in front of a three-way mirror, “or is everything absolutely perfect?”

“Everything is absolutely perfect. On you,” I agree, looking at the bulging rack of “keepers.” “Now all we need are a few accessories.”

Minutes later, Grand is choosing from handbags, sandals, scarves, and bold costume jewelry that Rebecca and I deliver to the dressing room.

“Oh, Grand! You look like a forties pinup girl,” I say as she steps out of the fitting room mimicking a model on a catwalk in a sleek black swimsuit with a full-length mesh coverup and adorable kitten-heeled sandals. A wide-brimmed straw hat and oversized sunglasses complete the look.

By the time we’re done, Grand and I are giddy—they don’t call it retail therapy for nothing—and Rebecca looks happy, too, which I’m guessing means she works on commission.

In fact, we buy so many things that it takes me, Grand, and the glowing saleswoman to carry and stow everything in my trunk.

“I probably don’t even need to have my winter clothes shipped down,” Grand muses as we drive back up to Treasure Island.

“Probably not,” I agree. “But you might keep a few things—for when you come up to Atlanta to visit or when we go to New York in the fall.” Grand has been taking me and my sisters, Francis (Frankie) and Melissa (Mel)—Did I mention my father kept hoping for a boy?—on a yearly “girls trip” up to New York City, where she once studied art, since we were kids. While there, we hit museums, stores, and restaurants. We also see as many Broadway shows as we can fit in. (Yes, we sometimes do a matinee and an evening performance the same day because that’s the way we roll.)

“Good point,” Grand concedes as we park at the Treasure Island Publix, where we choose a variety of freshly baked cookies for tonight’s potluck mixer.

• • •

At six on the dot, Grand puts on one of her new multi-hued pants outfits topped by a bright turquoise sweater, and we take our drinks (one piña colada and one vodka tonic—I’ll let you guess which belongs to whom) and the box of bakery cookies to the pool, where people are already mingling. At eighty-three, Grand is not the oldest attendee, but she’s also not the youngest. There are lots of welcoming smiles as we set down our drinks and place the open box of cookies with the other desserts. We’ve just affixed our name tags to our chests when Myra arrives.

With spiky silver hair, hazel green eyes, and a cushiony body encased in a Hawaiian print kaftan, Myra’s an inch or two over five feet, which puts her and Grand at eye level. Her chin is firm, and her nose is slightly too large for her face, but her smile and air of good humor make her sum even more attractive than her parts.

She gives Grand a hug and offers me a cheery smile. “It’s great to meet you, Sydney,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re able to stay on for a while.”

“Thanks, it’s great to meet you, too,” I say as the three of us clink glasses. “The complex is beautiful and I’m already in love with Grand’s view. How long have you lived here?”

“As your grandmother may have told you, my family used to vacation down here when I was a child and so did hers. We met out on St. Pete Beach—I think we built a sandcastle together for the first time when we were five or six—and, I don’t know, something just clicked. We’ve been friends ever since.”

“That’s right.” Grand takes over the story. “Myra and I were in each other’s weddings. And over the years your grandfather and her husband, David, also became close friends. The four of us had a lot of wonderful times down here together.”

“That we did,” Myra agrees. “I moved down full-time after David died. It’s been close to fifteen years now.”

Both Myra’s and Grand’s eyes tear up.

Myra is the first to shake it off. “Come on, it’s time for you to meet some folks.”

We sip and nibble and follow in Myra’s wake as she makes introductions. “This is Donna and her husband, Grady. They’re in the building on the other side of yours. And this is Cheri, the president of the HOA. This is her husband, Mike.”

“Welcome to Casas de Flores, Lillian,” Cheri says. “We’re very glad to have you in the neighborhood. We’ll make sure you have a directory, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions at all.”

Grand smiles. “Thank you. I’m very happy to be joining the community. Myra’s told me great things. And this is my granddaughter, Syd—”

“Oh my God, it’s Cassie Everheart!” A reed thin, out-of-breath woman speed-walks toward us. “I certainly hope there’s no alcohol in that drink when you’re barely out of rehab,” the woman says as she nears. Her eyes are overbright, and her cheeks are flushed.

I cringe and try not to panic as I remember what happened at Harley’s when people insisted on believing I was Cassie Everheart.

“Helen,” Myra says, taking the woman’s arm. “This is my good friend Lillian—she just bought the Spectors’ place.”

Grand smiles and says hello.

“And this is Lillian’s granddaughter Sydney.”

“I just don’t understand how you could have lost it over a man like that,” Helen says on a sigh.

I cringe again, but I can’t really step away because we seem to be drawing a crowd. It takes every ounce of my acting experience to hold on to my smile.

“I’m not Cassie, you know,” I say to Helen and the group that’s forming. “She’s just the character I play…played.”

“Such a shame,” someone else chimes in. “I guess not everyone can handle the stress of police work.”

“I’m not Cassie,” I say again. “And I’m not a police detective. I’m an actress.” Or at least I was.

Grand takes my arm and gives it a gentle squeeze. But the look in her eyes tells me she’s trying not to laugh.

“You know, Belinda.” An elderly gentleman turns to a nearby woman. “Maybe Cassie here could help you find your iPhone.”

Grand guffaws. I can’t decide whether to laugh or to cry.

“I’m pretty sure that’s what Belinda’s Find My iPhone app is for, Floyd,” Myra says with a shake of her head. A slight eye roll follows.

If Grand weren’t holding my arm, I would flee the scene right now—but in a sedate, ladylike manner. It’s Myra who eases us out of the group and leads us toward the pool, where a lone, silver-haired man stands.

I brace myself, but he says only, “I thought you were wonderful in that role. I cannot understand what those writers were thinking.”

I fall a little bit in love with him for that, but his eyes are on my grandmother.

“Hello, Brian,” Myra says. “I’d like you to meet my longtime friend Lillian Wilde. She just bought the Spectors’ place. And this, of course, is her granddaughter Sydney.”

“Ladies,” Myra continues, “this is Brian Boyer.”

“Ah,” Brian says. “It’s lovely to meet you both. I must say I enjoyed Murder 101 tremendously up until they created that ridiculous ending for poor Cassie. But I have no doubt you’ll find an even more challenging role, Sydney.”

He takes Grand’s hand. “I’ve always admired your unit, Lillian. The view is gorgeous. Will you be here part- or full-time?”

“I plan on making this my full-time home.” Grand smiles.

For a moment, I think he’s going to lift Grand’s hand and kiss it. And given the way she’s smiling back at him, he might even get away with it.

“Tell me where you’ve come from,” he says.

Grand blossoms under his attention. “Atlanta,” she replies, a bit of a Southern accent finding its way into her voice. Her eyelashes flutter in a decidedly un-Grand-like way. “My home there will be going on the market soon.”

“Do you golf, Lillian?” Brian asks.

“Why, yes. Yes, I do. Or, I guess I should say, I used to. It’s been a while.”

I shoot my grandmother a look of surprise. She hasn’t set foot on a golf course since my grandfather died.

“I’m not sure if you’ve had a chance yet to check it out, but there’s a par 3 next door. It’s just a community course but there’s a putting green and a driving range. It’s a great place to get one’s game back. There’s also a playground and picnic area for grand- and great-grandkids as well as tennis and pickleball courts.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I know the golf pro there. I’d be glad to introduce you. Or if you prefer, I’d be glad to go play a round with you and help ease you back into the game.”

I’ve never heard golf sound quite so seductive before, but Grand says only, “That’s very kind of you.” Her smile is so bright, it takes me a moment to realize she has not committed or declined. Who is this woman and what has she done with my grandmother?

“Right, then.” Myra excuses the three of us and we move on.

“That,” I say when we’re out of earshot, “is an extremely attractive man.”

Grand blushes, which is yet another thing I’ve never seen her do.

“That he is,” Myra agrees. “He’s been a widower for almost a decade. I’ve seen lots of women here set their cap for him, but I’ve never seen him show that kind of interest before.”

Grand blushes again. “I’m sure he was just being friendly.”

“He certainly was, Grand. But I’m with Myra, he was definitely flirting with you.” I’m still trying to absorb it. I’ve never seen Grand flirt with anyone but my grandfather, and it’s more than a little disturbing.

We finish making the rounds with Myra, and even though I’m still surprised by the number of people who can’t seem to separate me from the fictional Cassie and the fact that she should not be drinking alcohol, I’m glad that Grand is going to be a part of this community.

It’s 9:00 p.m. by the time Myra, Grand, and I leave the mixer. When we reach her town house, Myra hugs us both good night and heads into her place. When we get to Grand’s, we wander out onto the balcony and watch the occasional boat cruise by with its running lights reflecting off the dark water.

The three palms behind Grand’s unit sway slightly in the breeze.

“I already love it here,” Grand says softly. “I hope your mother will come to understand. For the first time since your grandfather died, I feel like I can breathe again.”

Eight

I wake up the next morning to the sound of a text dinging in, and it takes me a few minutes to remember where I am and why. Grand’s guest room is small enough to be cozy, and the wood shutters have kept out the morning sun, which is a very good thing. By the time I’ve stretched and convinced myself to get out of bed, it’s 10:00 a.m.

The text is from Kyra asking whether Grand and I would like to come downtown to see the progress on the YMCA reno and then maybe grab lunch.

I pad downstairs to the kitchen, where Grand is already dressed and sipping a cup of coffee. Sunlight pours in from the wall of sliders and the kitchen windows. I yawn and blink the rest of the way awake.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asks.

“It was heavenly.” I yawn. “How about you?”

“I’ll be glad when I have my own things around me and my own bed underneath me,” Grand says. “But overall, I slept just fine.”

We sip our coffee in a companionable silence before Grand gets up and puts muffins on a plate, hands me two small bowls of fruit, and motions me to the dining room table. “It’s a bit chilly to sit out on the balcony just now, but at least here we can still enjoy the view.”

“It is gorgeous,” I say as I settle in a chair facing the water and take a sip of coffee. As if on cue, boats begin to motor and sail by. Then I take a big bite out of my chocolate muffin because not dieting is still the only positive that’s come out of getting booted off Murder 101.

“Would you like to go downtown and see what’s happening with the reno of the Y?” I ask after another sip of coffee. “It’s apparently near restaurants and shops and the Dalí Museum. We could make a day of it.”

Grand polishes off half of her muffin then takes a long sip of coffee. “I’d love to, Sydney, but Brian texted a little while ago to see if I’d like to walk over to check out the par 3.”

She blushes and I draw on every ounce of self-control I possess not to giggle.

“No worries,” I say. “That’s great. But should we come up with a signal, so I’ll know if you don’t want to be disturbed? You know, like a candle in the window. Or the shutters closed at a specific angle?”

Grand blushes again and I get a weird twinge in the pit of my stomach imagining Grand in bed, or even out of one, with a man who’s not Grandpa Henry. But she seems so much happier than I’ve seen her in ages that I keep the twinge to myself.

“We’ll regroup later,” Grand says. “I can make us a reservation for dinner out if you like. And maybe you could pick up some smoked fish spread from Ted Peters on your way back. I already have the saltines and hot sauce. Here’s some cash—they don’t take credit cards there.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I take another sip of coffee then polish off the last of my muffin. “But if Brian doesn’t behave like a gentleman or there’s drugs or alcohol, you call me right away and I’ll come get you,” I say, offering the same parting words my parents always said to me before I left for a party or went out on a date.

“Yes, I’ll keep that in mind,” she says with a mostly straight face. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

• • •

I find a parking spot just a block from the Y, where there’s been no effort to disguise the fact that renovation is in progress. Dumpsters sit on the sidewalk pushed close to the thick pockmarked walls. “Watch out below!” Someone leans out a second-floor window and drops pieces of wood trim into a dumpster.

Kyra and Troy Matthews, former nemesis now boyfriend, are setting up lighting and placing video equipment just outside the huge front doors while Avery and Chase argue in a way that feels a lot more like flirting than their original conflicts back when they were leading the restoration of Bella Flora.

Bitsy Baynard, who owns the historic building, and Nicole Grant Giraldi, with whom she’s planning to open a vintage clothing shop once the reno is done, come out to say hi. Madeline Singer, Kyra’s mother and Dustin’s grandmother, is right behind them. There are hugs all around.

“It’s so good to see you,” Maddie says. “How are you doing?”

“I’m hanging in there. I saw you and Will in People magazine,” I reply, referring to Maddie’s fiancé, William Hightower, the rock star formerly known as “Wild Will.” “Is he in town?”

“Nope. I left him back on Mermaid Point locked in his recording studio working on a new song. Not fit for company of any kind.”

“Ask her if she’s learned to fly-fish yet,” Nikki says.

Maddie rolls her eyes. “That would be a hard no. The fish just kept laughing at me.” She smiles. “Happily, I’ve come to terms with the fact that you don’t have to share everything with the person you love. And that includes fishing, which frankly feels a bit like watching paint dry. Only don’t ever tell him I said that.”

“My lips are sealed,” I promise.

“Kyra told us you took down two oversized bad guys single-handedly at Harley’s,” Maddie says.

“Yeah, sorry I missed it,” Troy adds with a grin. “Wouldn’t mind having some video of that.”

“Well, it wasn’t pretty, but I did manage to subdue them—”

“Yeah, and some people actually believe she’s Cassie Everheart,” Kyra breaks in.

“Strange but true,” I admit. “A shocking number of people want to hold me responsible for my character’s actions and get upset if they see me drinking.”

Troy snorts.

“Hey,” Avery says. “Maybe we should invite Sydney to do a cameo on Do Over. We’d get a ratings bump for sure, and then she could explain that she doesn’t really have an issue with alcohol and therefore never went into rehab. She could tell her side of the whole thing.”

“There are no ‘sides,’ ” I point out. “I got fired from a role I created because I pissed off Tonja Kay. And I really don’t think pissing her off again would be a good move.”

“She’s right,” Chase says to Avery. “You’ve got to learn not to go looking for trouble.”

“I have never once ‘looked’ for trouble,” she fires back. “It just keeps finding me.”

“How long are you in town for?” Nikki asks.

“As long as Grand needs me.” I do not mention that I have nowhere else to go or any sign of acting work in my future.

“Well, we need to get back to figuring out our space. We hope to be able to open the shop within the next few weeks,” Nikki says. “But don’t be a stranger.”

“Seriously,” Maddie adds as she, Nikki, and Bitsy head back inside. “Stop by anytime. And we’re still doing sunset toasts—we alternate between Bella Flora and the Sunshine—come join us whenever you can.”

“Will do.”

I move to stand behind Kyra and Troy as they roll tape for a Do Over promo.

“Good grief, Chase, you’re standing in my light,” Avery complains.

“I am not.”

“Are too.”

“We’re rolling, you know!” Troy shouts.

“And we need both of you in the shot,” Kyra adds more gently. “Lighting is perfect on both of you, Avery. I swear.”

But Chase and Avery continue to argue about everything from trim colors to completion dates, to whether or not to remove the basement pool that’s been there since the Y was built in the twenties.

“Cut. That’s a wrap,” Kyra shouts.

“Wow,” I say to Avery and Chase. “That whole arguing-on-camera thing was very convincing. I had no idea you two could act.”

Avery snorts. Chase folds his arms across his chest.

“Who’s acting?” They say this in unison, and neither of them is smiling.

• • •

Kyra, Troy, and I stroll over to Ferg’s for lunch then say our goodbyes. On my way back to Grand’s, I stop off at Ted Peters as promised. When I get back to Grand’s, there’s a note on the kitchen counter—Out with Brian. Back between 4 and 5—so I retrieve my laptop and head out onto the balcony, where I stare at the water and breathe deeply before calling my agent.

“Oh, hi, Sydney. How are you doing?” Elise, his assistant, asks.

“Great.” I try not to let even a hint of sarcasm into my voice.

“Oh, that’s…that’s good.”

I’ve learned over the years to be careful not to whine or, God forbid, cry. Because that’s how calls “accidentally” get dropped.

“I need to speak to Marty.”

“Oh, he’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

“When do you expect him back?”

“It’s, um, I’m not sure.”

This, of course, is a big fat lie because an agent’s assistant is always required to know where the boss is at all times. So chances are Marty is standing there motioning for her to say he’s out or tied up.

But being a good liar is a prerequisite for gatekeepers in Hollywood. It could cost Elise her job if she put anyone through without permission, and that goes double for clients who’ve been dropped from their ongoing starring role without warning and are persona non grata in Tinsel Town. What I don’t know is whether the non grata part is nationwide and extends into much smaller markets or barrier islands off the west coast of Florida…well, you get my drift.

“I’m sorry, Sydney, I don’t have a way of reaching him right now. But I promise I’ll make sure he knows that you called.”

“I’ll hold you to that. And you might mention that as far as I know, he’s still representing me, and the very least he needs to do is call me back and let me know what’s going on.”

“Absolutely. Will do, Sydney. Have a nice day.”

Since I need to do something, I go to backstage.com, pull up casting calls “near me,” and am reassured to see that there’s a lot of production going on in the area. What I don’t know is whether the local casting directors have an attitude about Cassie Everheart, her struggle with alcohol, or the actress who played her.

If I don’t hear back from Marty today, I may have to go this alone. I haven’t had to audition for anything in a long time, and while rejection is a huge part of being in the entertainment industry, I’m not sure how much more of it I can take. I mean, hanging out with Grand and not putting myself out there—or anywhere—would be a lot safer.

But since my personal mantra has always been “Never give up, never surrender,” that’s not really an option.

So in the end I make a list of open auditions within a forty-mile radius and shut down my laptop. I’ve done enough for one day. Maybe I’ll feel more able to face rejection tomorrow. Or the day after that.

Nine

A U-Haul pulls up in front of Grand’s garage just after four o’clock the next afternoon. It’s towing Grand’s Cadillac convertible and is driven by Kyle Donovan, the twenty-something grandson of a longtime friend of Grand’s. A second young man sits beside him.

The guys hop out and Kyle wraps Grand in a big hug then introduces his college buddy Nate. Her car, her possessions, and her moving crew have arrived.

I’m almost sorry my mother isn’t here to see this. But I take a quick photo so that I can remind her what Grand is still capable of in case push once again comes to shove.

It takes them just minutes to back her car off the trailer, maneuver the U-Haul into place, and raise its rear door.

“Why don’t you show us what’s coming out and what you’d like where before we start unloading,” Kyle suggests.

“Sure,” Grand replies. “Come on in.”

We tromp up to the first floor, and Kyle and Nate head right for the sliding doors.

“Wow. That’s one sick view,” Kyle says.

“That’s for sure,” Nate adds.

“It is, isn’t it?” Grand agrees. She does not ask whether they’re referring to the actual view, the boats, or the bikini-clad girls riding in them.

Kyle and Nate are a dynamic duo, cheerfully carrying out the previous owner’s furniture that Grand no longer wants then unloading and carrying up Grand’s furniture, clothing, and box after box of dishware and accessories. She then shows them into the bonus room behind the garage, where she wants her easels and art supplies. Numerous canvases, wrapped in brown protective paper, are stacked against one long wall.

Two hours after they arrived, the U-Haul is filled with the former owners’ furniture and they’re ready to hit the road.

“Are you heading back to Atlanta?” I ask Kyle.

“Not yet. We’re going to drop the furniture off at Goodwill, turn in the U-Haul, then have a mini vacation on Clearwater Beach.”

Grand hands Kyle a wad of cash then hugs both boys. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. Have fun at the beach and call if you need anything while you’re in the area. And don’t forget to give my best to your grandmother when you get back.”

• • •

After they leave, Grand and I tweak the furniture placement but decide to leave unpacking and decorating until tomorrow. Tired, but satisfied with what we’ve accomplished, I pour us a bowl of nuts and glasses of wine and we plop down on Grand’s sectional to watch the national news.

It’s the usual: natural disasters, the latest political scandal, a sink hole swallowed a house. Personally, I wish the anchors would stop telling the entire news story in the tease up front. The tease is meant to keep us tuned in and whet our appetite for the story, not force us to listen to the story twice word for word. Just sayin’…

After the last commercial, Phillip Drake’s face and a shot of his Missing Madonna appear briefly on the screen. Something about the artwork feels strangely familiar, but given how many times it’s been splashed across the TV screen in these days after Drake’s death, it would have to be familiar, right?

Grand remains silent as yet another glimpse into Drake’s life and career is shared. Then his son, who’s somewhere around my mother’s age, appears on-screen and makes an impassioned plea for the return of his father’s most famous work.

“He looks so much like Phillip,” Grand says quietly as the newscast ends. Her eyes shimmer with tears.

I turn off the TV. “Phillip Drake wasn’t just someone you ran into a few times in the New York art scene, was he?”

“No.” Grand swallows. “At one point I was madly in love with him, and I thought he felt the same.” Her smile is sad and wistful. “He was so talented and so handsome. And he had this incredible energy that lit up everything and everyone around him. I thought we were meant for each other.” She pauses. “I was young and inexperienced. I thought he was a knight in shining armor.” She sniffs. “But in the end, it turned out he wasn’t half the man I thought he was.” Her face hardens for a second. “And I doubt that painting would have ever been so famous if it hadn’t gone missing.

“Anyway…I came home…disillusioned…and ready to do all the things my parents expected of me.” Her lips tremble. “Then I met your grandfather, who was the opposite of Phillip, and we built a wonderful life together.”

My grandmother begins to cry.

• • •

Images of Phillip Drake, his missing painting, and my grandmother’s tears fuse into my dreams so that I toss and turn most of the night. I wake up way too early and pad downstairs past Grand’s closed door to the kitchen, where I make myself a cup of coffee, which I carry back up to bed. There I google “Phillip Drake,” past and present, and learn everything I can about the man who broke my grandmother’s heart.

• • •

We don’t start unpacking boxes until almost noon, but we’ve set up the kitchen and hung a good bit of art when, wonder of wonders, my agent calls back. The news is not good.

“Sorry, Syd,” he says. “Tonja Kay is still on the warpath. There’s just nothing I can do right now. But if you lay low long enough, maybe she’ll get back on her broom and fly after someone else.”

“I hear you, but I’m not independently wealthy and not at all inclined to give up on my acting career,” I say through gritted teeth. “Surely there are casting directors out there who remember the kind of ratings we racked up on Murder 101 and how beloved the character I created was. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be your job to remind them of all those things.”

“No one’s forgotten anything,” he says. “But no one’s going to cross her, either. However, given that you’re currently as far from Hollywood as you can get without falling into the ocean, you might be able to pick up some work down there. Personally, I’d recommend a disguise and a name change.”

“So you’re no longer representing me?”

“I didn’t say that. However, I do think my getting involved right now would call attention to you in a way that neither of us would like and could prove counterproductive.”

“You are a liver-lilied chicken,” I say.

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I also know when not to rock the boat. Take care of yourself. If we’re lucky, this, too, will pass. Ciao!”

I hang up with a sigh. Ciao my ass.

• • •

The next day while Grand is out for lunch with Brian, I go online and make a list of casting calls in the Tampa Bay area. Then I promise myself I’m going to go to at least one.

There are several national commercials being cast with upcoming shoots in Clearwater and Tampa, a reality show called Bosom Buddies (yes, like the old sitcom) that will shoot in Sarasota that is looking for “real people,” or more precisely, “actors between the ages of 25 and 30 who can act like real people who have been looking for love in all the wrong places and just want to be friends.” Possible nudity is required.

A grocery chain is casting a female in my basic age range to do point-of-sale cooking videos for their store. Happily, no actual cooking ability is required as the female only has to act as if she’s cooking, or has cooked. I’m really good at this, having disposed of the evidence of food delivery before my dinner guests arrived, on more than one occasion.

Scanning further, I find two local theater companies casting for female supporting characters and a dinner theater, which I didn’t realize existed anymore, that’s looking for a woman in my age range to play the female lead in a musical version of Romeo and Juliet. After what I’ve been through with men and, most recently Jake, I’m not sure I can convincingly act as if I believe in true love or that any man would be worth dying over. But with my career in the toilet, this is not the time to get picky.

• • •

“See you later, Sydney,” Grand calls as she heads for the stairs. “I’m going to go over to play a round of golf with Brian so that he can assess my skills.” She says this with a straight face even though she isn’t really dressed for golf. But then the course next door is just a small par 3 so maybe golf attire isn’t required? Except that yesterday when she was going to walk on the beach with Brian, she wasn’t dressed for that, either. I’ve been so focused on trying to figure out how to salvage even a semblance of my career that I’ve mostly left Grand to her own devices. And Brian’s. Hmmm…

Days later I’m still trying to figure out which casting calls to show up for and what sort of disguise might help me land a role, when my phone rings. It’s my mother.

“Hello, darling. Can you put your grandmother on? She hasn’t been answering her cell phone.”

“Sorry, Mom.” I try to remember where Grand said she and Brian were going this time. “She’s out.”

“How can she be out every time I call either one of you?”

“It’s very social here,” I point out.

“But where is she?”

For the last week and a half I’ve lied to my mother every time she’s called. I have not told her that my grandmother is dating a man I’ve come to think of as “the silver fox” and that it seems entirely possible that if she continues seeing him as often as she is, she could conceivably end up having S-E-X with said “fox.”

The truth is, I’m torn between saying “Atta girl” and asking Grand for details and wanting to believe she would never ever consider sleeping with anyone who wasn’t my grandfather. But it’s hard to begrudge the new smile that lights her face and the ease with which she’s making new friends here in Casas de Flores.

“I’m pretty sure she’s playing mah-jongg,” I say.

“Mah-jongg? Again? I didn’t even know she knew how to play.”

“One of the women here taught her and invited her to join the group.” This part is true, though she’s spent far more time with the silver fox than with the mahj ladies. “Like I said, it’s a very social place. And, well, I think it’s great that she’s busy and making friends already.” I don’t mention that soon she could be making love, too. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do,” my mother replies. “All of this is just so…out of the blue. She never stops and thinks before she acts.”

“That’s Grand all right. And I don’t see that changing at this point or at any point really. She’s made it to eighty-three, Mom. Don’t you think it’s time to let go and let her be who she is?”

My mother’s sigh is long and suffering.

“Honestly, she’s happier here than I’ve seen her since Grandpa died. And I’m not going to let anything happen to her. I promise.”

As we say goodbye, it doesn’t occur to me that this could ever be a promise that I won’t be able to keep.

Ten

I’m not gonna lie, it’s weird when your eighty-three-year-old grandmother has a better social life than you do. Weirder still when you’re trying to decide whether to offer her a refresher on the birds and the bees. Or mention an Ann Landers quote that my mother used to repeat about a man not wanting to buy the cow when he can get its milk for free. Not that I think Grand is a cow that the silver fox only values for her milk because my grandmother is not a cow and, well, yuck!

Still, I don’t want to see her taken advantage of, and while I may be living vicariously through her since no one is interested in my milk at the moment, I also googled “STD statistics in retirement communities” and am happy to report those numbers are grossly exaggerated though I’m not sure why or by whom.

We’re at the table chowing down on pressed Cuban sandwiches and black beans and rice from the Floridian, when I oh-so-subtly bring up Brian.

“How did the golf assessment go?” I ask.

“Great,” she replies. “I think I’m going to sign up for some private lessons with the pro.”

“That is great.” Wow, this being subtle thing really sounds inane. “Was Brian upset that you chose to work with the pro rather than him?”

“No, not at all.”

“He really is attractive.”

Grand’s eyebrow sketches upward.

“Brian. Not the pro. I haven’t met the pro.”

“The pro’s pretty hot, too,” she says. “But he’s closer to your age than mine. Would you like to meet him?”

“No, Grand. I wouldn’t. Let’s stay on topic here.”

“But we’re talking about golf, aren’t we?”

“No,” I reply. “We’re talking about Brian. And how attractive he is.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

Now she’s just playing with me. So I go ahead and ask what I really want to know. “You aren’t sleeping with him yet, are you?”

“The pro? Certainly not!” She feigns shock but her eyes twinkle.

“Seriously, Grand. You know what Ann Landers said about cow milk. And, well, women have to be careful. Especially these days. Because—”

“I do hope you’re not planning to bring up birth control.” Grand’s tone is wry. “Because I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed. Which I must admit is wonderfully freeing.”

She winks. I blush.

We carry glasses of wine to the living room, settle into the sofa, and click on the TV. I scroll through the Guide and carefully avoid Murder 101, current and past seasons, and we end up watching episodes of Fixer to Fabulous on the Magnolia Network.

• • •

By ten o’clock, we’re yawning. By ten fifteen, I’m in bed and slipping into dreamland. Where I happily remain until a huge crash and my grandmother’s shriek yank me awake.

Torpedoing out of bed, I race down the hall to find her bedroom door open and the room empty. I fly down both flights of stairs and find her in the foyer getting ready to yank open the door that leads into the garage.

“Wait! What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Someone’s in my studio!” she whispers back.

“Which is why we want to stay in here with the doors locked and call the police!” I reply.

“No,” she insists. “Let go of me. Someone’s in my studio!”

“I know you’ve got work in progress, but there can’t be anything down there worth dying for!”

She looks at me, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t let go of the doorknob. We’re still struggling over possession of it when we hear the sound of feet crunching on glass followed by shouts and the sound of a boat engine roaring to life back behind Grand’s town house.

We race into the garage and through the door into the bonus room, where Grand’s things have been tossed around, paper ripped from canvases in progress, easels knocked over. One of the sliders has been smashed and glass litters the floor of her studio and the porch outside.

“Do you have your cell phone with you?”

She nods.

“Call nine-one-one!” I shout to her while I race outside, only to see the boat disappearing around a spit of land.

“What did they say?” I ask when I return out of breath. “How long until a car can get here?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Are you okay? What did they say?”

“I didn’t call,” Grand replies.

“Are you kidding me? Why not?”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she says.

I straighten and look her in the eye. I see fear in them but also something that I can’t identify.

“Of course it’s a good idea,” I say as calmly as I can. “Somebody, maybe two somebodies, if you count whoever was driving the getaway boat, smashed your slider, broke into your home, and tore your studio apart. They were looking for something, Grand. And if they left empty-handed, they could decide to come back and look some more.”

“I’m sure it was just some random…something. There’s no need to make a fuss.”

I look at my grandmother, who should be shrieking with fright but isn’t.

“There’s every reason to make a fuss, Grand. We’re just lucky they didn’t come through the garage door and into the foyer to see if there were better pickings inside. Tomorrow, we’re going to call a security company and get information and prices on having a security system installed. Right now, we need to call the police.”

She doesn’t call 911 but only turns and begins to pick up the mess.

“Don’t touch anything, Grand. It’s evidence.”

“Stop overreacting. It’s nothing but vandalism,” she says.

“That we need to report. I may have only pretended to be a cop, but I do, in fact, understand basic police work. Any actor worth his or her salt does research on the kind of character they’re playing. And I prepped for Cassie Everheart by going to the local police academy, doing ride-alongs, and talking to real cops who did the work I would pretend to do.

“Fine,” I say, pulling my own phone out of the waistband of my pajamas, which are too short for a pocket. “I’ll do it. But don’t touch anything else. We don’t want to smear fingerprints or any other evidence.”

A police car arrives in minutes, siren blaring. I press the garage door opener.

“Oh, thank goodness!” I say as the garage door finishes grinding upward and a Treasure Island police car screeches to a stop.

“We’ve had a break-in,” I shout as the two TI cops jump out of their cruiser. They’re already hunching over to get into the garage when another police car arrives. My voice trails off when Luke Hayes and his partner vault out of the second car. Like the TI policemen, Luke and his partner are wearing uniforms, glossy black shoes, and badges.

I am wearing shorty pajama bottoms, a sleeveless crop top with a picture of Bugs Bunny on it, and no bra beneath it.

Where’s the justice in that?

Eleven

The next morning, Grand and I stand in her bonus room/studio and survey the damage.

“It looks worse than it is. Nothing’s really missing,” Grand says.

“Doesn’t that seem a bit odd to you?”

“I don’t know, Sydney. I don’t have any experience with this kind of thing. Maybe they broke into the wrong place. Or maybe mine was just one of a number of places that were ransacked for the hell of it.”

Luke Hayes shows up and stands with his arms folded, surveying the mess. He’s no longer wearing a uniform, and the sports car he arrived in is clearly not government issue, so I’m guessing he’s no longer on duty.

“They were clearly looking for something,” he says.

“Like what?” I ask. “Drugs? Money? Mischief? Surely they hit the wrong unit or hit a bunch of them at random.”

“Nope. Only this unit,” Luke says, his eyes on Grand’s face. “Any idea why?”

“Not a clue,” Grand replies. “Maybe it was just proximity to the fishing dock?”

“But Myra’s unit is even closer to the dock,” I point out.

Grand shrugs. But she also trembles.

“Are you sure you have no idea what they were after?” Luke asks quietly, his gaze locked on Grand.

“I can’t imagine what they thought they’d find in a garage bonus room.” Grand’s chin goes up but she’s having trouble meeting his gaze. “Maybe they hoped the silver hadn’t been unpacked yet. Or were targeting the previous owners and didn’t know it was just a studio.”

“Or maybe Grand is right and it was totally random mischief.”

“I don’t think so,” Luke says. “This feels intentional. And the fact that nothing was taken indicates they either made a mistake or they were looking for something that they didn’t find. Yet.”

“Or it was completely random vandalism,” Grand says.

“Either way I suggest you have an alarm system installed.” He hands Grand a piece of paper with a list of local companies and their phone numbers. “This is generally an extremely safe area and neighborhood, but if you’re going to be living here alone, you really should have a system put in.

“I’ll be back this afternoon to put up a piece of plywood to secure the garage until you can have a new slider installed. I’m also going to ask the Treasure Island Police Department to make regular drive-bys. And I’ll do a late one when I go off duty.”

“You?” I beat back the vision of myself in skimpy pajamas knowing Luke will be just outside. “I really don’t think—”

“Don’t bother arguing,” Luke says. “I’m doing this for Grand. And to prevent you from having to go all Cassie Everheart on any bad guys ever again.”

“That’s very kind of you, Luke,” Grand says. “I know we’ll both feel much safer knowing you’re keeping an eye out.”

I sigh but manage not to roll my eyes.

He cocks his head as if waiting for something further.

“Thank you,” I say through gritted teeth.

“You’re welcome.” He winks and tips his hat. “You ladies take care and have a good day.”

He turns and walks back to his car. I try to keep my eyes focused on his broad shoulders and not on his backside, which proves a lot harder than it should be.

• • •

Two days after the break-in, Grand’s alarm system is installed. A day after that, I go to an audition for a grocery chain’s point-of-purchase videos. There I discover that acting-as-if-you’re-cooking is not as easy as acting-as-if-you’ve-already-cooked—something I’ve pulled off numerous times while trying to impress men with culinary skills that I don’t possess.

On the bright side, this audition doesn’t require me to bare my bosom or any other part of my anatomy like Bosom Buddies would, and I’m pretty sure that Tonja Kay has not reached out to in-house production departments or local dinner theaters. At the moment, all I have to do is make an ice cream sundae.

“Try that again, please. And try not to make it look as if the container and scooper are difficult to use.”

“Right. Sorry.” I roll my shoulders, take a deep cleansing breath, and plaster a smile on my face.

On cue, I dig the scooper into the carton. But the scooper gets stuck, and when I finally jerk it out of the carton, the block of vanilla is way too big to fit into the sundae bowl. I freeze (okay, pun intended) while I try to figure out whether to attempt to cram it in anyway. Or break off part of the chunk. Or—

“Cut!”

“Sorry.” I manage to keep my smile in place. “Can we try that one more time? I’m sure I can…” I swipe at the hair that keeps falling in my eyes, only to realize I shouldn’t have used the hand holding the scooper to do it. I reach up with my other hand and feel the ice cream in my hair, which I dyed a chestnut brown last night in hopes of disguising my normally blond self.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work,” the casting director says.

“Oh, but I can definitely do better…” Because let’s face it, that’s not exactly a high bar at this point.

“That’s all right. I think we’re clear on how you come across on camera,” she says. “And honestly, even if you could manage to scoop the ice cream better or pretend to cook in a convincing way, I don’t see how we can cast Cassie Everheart, who is still supposed to be in rehab, for a national grocery chain. And how would we handle the whole wine-pairing scenario we offer for each dinner recipe?”

I don’t bother to point out that I’m an actress (though not an impressive one today) and not the fictional character I played for the last five years because, really, shouldn’t that go without saying?

On principle, I hold my head high as I leave, even though it makes vanilla ice cream dribble down my forehead.

In the parking lot I check to see whether I still have time to make it to the dinner theater audition for a musical version of Romeo and Juliet. After all, I’m an actress, not a pitch person. And I’m pretty sure I sing better than I cook.

• • •

“Goodness, what happened to you?” Grand asks as I drag myself into the town house late that afternoon and plop down on her sofa.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, your hair is an odd shade of brown and there are sticky clumps in it.” Her smile is sympathetic. “You look like you’ve been through the ringer.”

Damn. I guess that explains why the casting director at the dinner theater not only couldn’t see the former Cassie Everheart singing and dancing when she was supposed to be in rehab, but never actually looked me in the eye.

“I went on a couple of auditions. One of them involved scooping ice cream, which is apparently not my forte.”

“Is it still Tonja Kay that’s the problem?” Grand asks quietly.

“I intentionally stayed away from film companies and anyone doing a SAG-AFTRA production that might be afraid of her. But even without her in the picture, I’m apparently way too closely identified with the character I played.” I shake my head woefully. “People look at me and see Cassie. And as far as they’re concerned, I’m either still in, or just got out of, rehab.”

To her credit, Grand doesn’t smile or laugh. “I’m sure things will improve, and that reaction will fade with time.” She gives me a comforting hug. “Why don’t you go take a nice hot shower and maybe wash the color and ice cream out of your hair? I’ll order us some Thai food for dinner.”

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 naïve.” 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?”

Thirteen

The new slider gets installed in Grand’s bottom floor bonus room/studio and we spend the morning organizing the space. Grand sets her easel back in its spot and puts her paints and brushes on shelves. When she can’t find her charcoals, I empty the last of the boxes in her studio and double-check the garage shelves. When I run out of obvious places to look, I go down and search her car, finally popping open the trunk.

“Hey, look what I found.” I hold up the box of charcoals along with a number of rolled-up canvases.

“Oh. Great.” She clears her throat, takes the charcoals, and sets them on her worktable. “Where did you find those?”

“In the very back of your trunk.”

Grand nods at the canvases but looks almost reluctant to take them from me.

“What are they?” I ask as she finally reaches for them.

“Nothing important,” she says. “Just a couple of works in progress that I lost interest in.” She sets them on an empty shelf without unrolling them. “I asked Kyle to bring everything from my Atlanta studio and figured I’d go through it all when it got here. I completely forgot about these.”

Her tone is casual; her body language is not.

“I truly appreciate your help and your company but I’m fine down here,” she says. “I’d like to finish up on my own. It’ll help me clear my head and ensure that I know where everything is.”

“Okay.” It is her studio after all and I know she’s capable of setting it up, but I also know she just lied to me. What I don’t know is why. Or even what she might be lying about. “I’ll be upstairs checking out casting calls. Yell if you need extra muscle.”

Up in my room, I stare out the bedroom window for a few minutes watching the dog walkers and delivery people, the trucks for electrical companies and AC companies, and plumbers, and car detailers, and neighbors out tending the small gardens in front of their town houses. It’s peaceful here yet there’s no lack of activity.

Ultimately, I force myself to boot up my laptop, where I waste a few more minutes checking email and deleting the junk and spam while I accept that there’s nothing from my agent, nothing from anyone I’ve already auditioned for, nothing new. Nothing positive.

On the bright side (I smile and make a note to save this for the next time I join Kyra and crew for sunset toasts), when I check the email forwarded from my professional site, there’s no hate mail awaiting me. No fans asking how I’m doing in rehab. And only a handful expressing their disappointment that I (aka Cassie Everheart) succumbed to alcohol and ruined my life over a man.

Finally, I log on to castingcalls.com and discover that the bra company is still looking for women willing to bare their bosoms, something I tell myself I’m not yet desperate enough to consider—unless they’re planning to provide body doubles, which seems highly unlikely.

The call for Romeo and Juliet is gone and so is the faux food prep opportunity for Publix supermarkets, which means someone else got the gigs.

I spend a solid thirty minutes searching the site and find absolutely nothing for which I, or Cassie Everheart just out of rehab, could be considered a good fit. When the doorbell rings, I breathe a sigh of relief for the interruption and glance out the window to see who’s there.

By the time I get downstairs, Grand is already ushering Myra inside. We meet up in the kitchen, and although she did not come bearing muffins, she’s beaming. “You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

“What?” Grand and I chorus.

“I bought the most adorable bungalow on St. Pete Beach.”

“St. Pete Beach?” we chorus again.

“Pass-a-Grille actually.” Myra looks like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.

“Are you moving?” Grand can’t quite keep the horror out of her voice. After all, it was Myra who drew her to Casas de Flores.

“No, of course not.” Myra laughs.

“Then why did you buy a bungalow there?” Grand asks.

“Because I’m going to turn it into a bookstore,” Myra replies gleefully.

Grand and I both stare at her.

“It’s right next door to the Gulf Beaches Historical Museum and on the corner of Tenth and Gulf Way right across from the beach. It was originally a single-family home. Then it was an arts and crafts gallery, so it’s already been opened up a bit, and has lots of shelving and storage.

“But it has a lot of its original architectural features. Plus, there’s a space in the back that used to be a sunroom that could be great for book club meetings or a kids’ story time, or I don’t know, maybe kids’ art lessons?” She beams at Grand.

Grand smiles. “Sounds like fun.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Myra continues. “And with all the tourists that vacation on the beaches here, I think there’s a built-in market. There’s a Barnes & Noble on Tyrone Boulevard and Tombolo Books near downtown St. Pete, but there are no bookstores actually on the beach. So I’m considering calling it Beach Reads. Or maybe Beach Books. And I’ll have a huge section of the kinds of books you want to read while you’re lying on the beach or around a hotel pool. And a kids’ section, and maybe some literary books as well. I’d have room to host author events, and I bet I could sell books on-site at the St. Pete Beach Library when authors come to town on book tours.”

Myra’s excitement is palpable and contagious. I feel like I’m in the middle of one of those black-and-white films from the thirties that we used to watch at Grand’s house where Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney would get everybody revved up and say, “Let’s put on a show!”

Grand is clearly intrigued. I’m just grateful that she’s not begging to be Myra’s partner, because all I’ve ever heard is how tough the book business can be. Not quite as tough as acting maybe, but not generally the road to riches, either.

“It’s been vacant for a while and is in serious need of some TLC,” Myra admits. “But if you’re not busy, I’d love for you to come look at it with me and help me figure out what it will take to turn it into a bookstore. Lunch is on me.”

“I’m in,” Grand says. “And I can be ready to go in ten minutes. Sydney?”

I hesitate because what I should be doing is figuring out how to convince (or even trick) someone into giving me a chance to act. But that will expose me to rejection again. Looking at Myra’s bookstore presumably will not.

“Absolutely!” If nothing else, I can make sure that Grand doesn’t invest in Myra’s venture. Giving art lessons to children could be fun for her—she’s great at it and some of my happiest memories were made in her home studio, where I was encouraged to express myself. And while I know it wouldn’t be smart for her to risk her money on a bookstore, it would be good for Grand to have someplace to be on a regular basis and people to interact with.

• • •

The house is a Craftsman bungalow (I know this because I fell in love with the style five minutes after I arrived in California) with a wide front porch, tapered square columns, and a low-pitched gable roof.

We step into the living room with its center fireplace flanked by built-ins beneath double-hung windows, beamed ceilings, and dark wood wainscotting and moldings. The wood floors are scuffed but appear original. Leaded and stained glass in the prairie style give off a muted glow. We walk through the living room, dining room, two former bedrooms, one bath, and kitchen, which open onto one another without benefit of hallways. The enclosed back porch runs the width of the first floor and overlooks a shaded alley.

Upstairs we peek into a smallish bedroom-turned-office with a dormer window that looks out over the street, across the green space and rooftops, to what I think is Bella Flora’s barrel tile roof. Two double-hungs on the west-facing wall provide a stellar view over Gulf Way, Paradise Grille, and the sidewalk that borders the white sand beach.

“It’s adorable,” I say as we head back downstairs.

“It certainly is,” Grand agrees. “I don’t think I could have resisted it, either.”

Outside we pause on the front porch and watch the palm trees that line the street and Gulf Way sway in the cool breeze.

“So what do you think it needs?” Myra asks me.

“Well, originally, I assumed I’d call and see if Avery and Chase could come take a look to give us input on possible renovations. But honestly, I think the physical space is already great for what you have in mind.”

“I concur,” Grand says. “Maybe a fresh coat of paint, which I’m sure the three of us could handle. And I’d love to paint a mural for the story time/book club area.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful.” Myra smiles. “And a bit of a relief. That would leave more money than I was expecting to purchase furnishings and inventory.”

“What do you say, Sydney?” Grand asks. “Are you free to get started tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.” I grin. Now I’ll have a legitimate reason not to audition. Compared to facing rejection, a little painting and arranging furniture will be a piece of cake.

Fourteen

“Whose idea was this?” I ask two days later as I swipe my hair out of my face and feel a glob of “Extra White” paint, billed as a “clean white with nearly invisible warm undertones,” land on my cheek. I try to wipe it off and feel the paint coat my right earlobe.

My pleasure at having a genuine reason to blow off auditions and avoid rejection evaporated thirty minutes ago when I climbed the rickety ladder and started on the living room ceiling. (I am, after all, the only one here who is not in her eighties!) The windows are thrown open to keep the paint fumes to a minimum, and the breeze is cool and fresh. They definitely knew how to take advantage of cross breezes back in the day.

I’ve made it to the middle of the ceiling and am admiring my handiwork when I hear footsteps on the front porch followed by a knock on the front door.

“Come in!” I shout.

The door creaks open and Kyra steps inside. “Wow!” She does a slow turn, taking in the room. “This place is awesome!”

“It is, isn’t it?” I climb down and carefully tuck my paint pan and roller up against the ladder on the drop cloth.

“And that’s a great white. But I think you’re wearing almost as much of it as the ceiling is.”

“Tell me about it.”

Grand and Myra come out of the bedrooms they’ve started painting and pull bottled waters out of the ancient fridge. They are perfectly clean with just a few speckles of paint on their sneakers, which, frankly, look intentional.

The people who are not covered in paint hug hello.

Kyra shoots me a smile. “Avery’s planning to come by and check things out, but she and Chase are tied up at the Y today.”

“No worries.” Grand smiles. “We’ve got this.” She and Myra high-five each other. I’m assuming they leave me out of their “up high, down low” because my hands look as spattered as my face feels. “Why don’t you take a break and give Kyra the grand tour?”

I jump on her suggestion, which feels a bit like a last-minute reprieve from the governor, and even though this place doesn’t belong to Grand or me, I can’t help feeling gratified by Kyra’s enthusiasm for the bungalow.

When we reach the enclosed back porch, I talk her through our plans for the space and Grand’s ideas for a mural that will cover the wall and wrap around the run of clerestory windows. Then I expound on our ideas for book clubs and story time and kids’ art and maybe even acting classes.

“How wonderful to see you giving this place a facelift and a purpose again,” Kyra says when I walk her to the door. “I’m sorry I can’t stay and help, but why don’t you meet me at Harley’s for a drink when you’re done for the day? Just text me when you’re on your way. And bring Grand and Myra if they’re up for it. Something tells me they’ll love the place.”

• • •

I’m back up on the ladder and almost finished with the living room ceiling when another knock sounds on the front door.

“Come in!” I shout because I’m in the middle of trying to wipe yet another glob of “Extra White” from my face and am covered in too much paint to climb down or touch the front door.

I try to hold back my groan when Luke Hayes steps inside.

“Wow!” he says but it’s unclear whether he’s referring to the space or the amount of paint I’m wearing.

“Wow,” he says again as I make my way carefully down the ladder with the paint tray and brush in my hand.

I keep my “wow” to myself along with the tingle I feel as he approaches. Luke is wearing swimming trunks slung low on his hips and a muscle T that does what it’s designed to do, which means I have to rip my gaze from the muscles on display. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m off today and I thought I’d hit the beach. When I saw your car, I figured I’d stop by and make sure you weren’t fighting off felons or impersonating a police officer.”

“Very funny.”

He looks me up and down, and I tingle again. “You do know that the paint is supposed to go on the house, right?”

“Of course I do.” I smile, toss my head, and let loose with what’s meant to be a nonchalant laugh. A glob of paint flies off my hair and lands at the edge of the drop cloth. I laugh again. “It’s just hard to have this much fun without making a bit of a mess.”

He snorts.

“But don’t think for a minute I’m going to let you join in.” I swipe at my forehead, and the back of my hand turns “Extra White.” “I don’t think you can handle this much fun.”

He laughs full out. “Fun, my ass. Who are you impersonating now, Tom Sawyer?”

I grit my teeth and try to keep the back of my hand away from my face. Grand and Myra take pity on me and give Luke a tour of the place. The tour involves a lot of what can only be called giggling; theirs, not his.

“Thanks for the tour, ladies,” he says to Grand and Myra when they arrive back at the front door. “Pass-a-Grille will definitely benefit from having an indie bookstore. And the place is looking great.” He shoots them a wink.

I get a shake of his head and a smirk. “Have fun!”

“Oh, I will!”

“Wow,” Myra says as the door closes behind him.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Grand smiles.

I roll my eyes. But I can’t quite keep the grin off my face.

• • •

We knock off at four o’clock, and I manage to scrub most of the paint off my face and hands. Then I pull on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I look basically presentable. Unfortunately, I smell like turpentine.

It’s brisk and sunny outside. Harley’s is only a couple of blocks away, so the three of us walk over to meet Kyra.

“Well, look who’s here!” A.J. calls out from behind the bar. “How ya’ doing, Cassie?”

I sigh. “Just fine, thanks.”

“And who are these lovely ladies with you?”

I make the introductions as we take seats at a vacant table near the bar. There’s a bit of a stir as the white-haired bikers at the pool tables ogle Myra and Grand.

Kyra and Troy enter a few minutes later, and the younger males in the room snap to attention.

I, it seems, am not only the character I played, I am also chopped liver.

Troy dimples and glares at the same time—something I’ve never actually witnessed before. Then he puts his arm around Kyra’s shoulders. “Forget it, guys. I’m still not sure how I got so lucky, but she’s with me.”

A.J. comes over to wait on us personally. “What’ll it be, ladies?”

We give our orders, but he sighs and tuts when I ask for a margarita. “No can do, Cassie. I am not going to be the one who helps you fall off the wagon.”

Sure enough, when the drinks arrive, mine looks like a margarita on the rocks right down to the salted rim, but it doesn’t contain so much as a drop of tequila. At my first sip, my whole mouth puckers with longing.

I’m still sipping gingerly at my drink when A.J. comes back to the table to check on us. Everyone but me orders a second round.

“So, Cassie, I’ve been thinking,” he says when he delivers the second round to the table. “I know it’s wrong to ask you this when you really shouldn’t be hanging out in bars, but I had to let our bouncer, Jesse, go. He only worked Friday and Saturday nights, but he was drinking more than he was bouncing.” A.J. shakes his head sadly. “I was thinking that since you’re not on the police force anymore and you did such a great job handling the two guys that tried to rob me, maybe you’d like his job?” He smiles. “I know it will be a test of your willpower. But I’ll help by making sure not a single drop of alcohol crosses your lips while you’re here.”

Fifteen

Since I’m the only one of us who hasn’t consumed so much as a drop of alcohol, we leave Myra’s car at her soon-to-be bookstore, and I drive us home in Grand’s Caddy. Our own little beach version of Driving the Miss Daisies.

I realize as we travel north on Gulf Boulevard that, although I’m relieved Grand is not planning to invest in the bookstore, I have no idea whether Myra has any experience in books or business. Even though this is none of my business, I ask, “What made you decide to buy that particular house and open a bookstore, Myra?”

I expect her to say that she was bored and did this on a whim, but what she actually says is, “My grandmother owned and ran a bookstore here in St. Pete when I was a child. And some of my happiest moments were spent there, reading my way through the children’s section and then the teen section and so on. I first read Gone With the Wind when I was nine. I discovered romance novels when I was thirteen, and I’ve been a fan ever since. I don’t understand why some people turn up their noses and act as if they’re ‘too literary’ for romance when ‘literature’ is full of romance. And I hate it when a male author writes a romance novel and it’s somehow considered more mainstream or ‘important’ simply because a man wrote it.”

I feel a desire to say, “Amen, sister!” because this prejudice also rears its head in the film and TV worlds, but I don’t interrupt because Myra is clearly on a roll.

“If left alone, I can, and have, read a book a day,” she continues. “Even the smell of books makes me feel happier. And I’ve kept myself up to date on the evolution of the book business and reading trends, because they fascinate me.”

I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and realize I’m smiling and nodding.

“To recap,” Myra continues, “I know the book business inside out, including its pitfalls. And as for the bungalow, I’m never going to lose money on a home with that kind of history sitting on a prime location.” She shoots me a wink.

“If you can make the time to teach children’s acting classes at the store, Sydney, you’ll still be exercising your acting muscles. And as far as I’m concerned, story time done well is acting, too. We could organize it so that parents pay you directly for the acting lessons. And if you host story time once or twice a week for me, I’ll pay you a hundred dollars per story time, which would also supplement your acting income.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Grand adds. “If Sydney teaches acting, I could give art lessons to promising students. Or even to a class if we have room. Ooh.” She brightens further. “Maybe we can offer a figure drawing class for adults in the evening.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Do you think Luke would be willing to pose? He’s got the perfect body and musculature for it.”

“Grand!”

“What?” She shrugs. “There’s no shame in admiring or painting the male form.”

• • •

Ten days later, I’m still striking out at landing an acting gig even though I forced myself to audition for everything from minor roles in feature films shooting in the area to maxi pad and antacid commercials.

The problem is the same each time: None of the casting directors are capable of looking at me without seeing Cassie Everheart and/or Tonja Kay.

Once upon a time I believed that being so closely identified with my character was a good thing, but I know better now.

So I meet Kyra and Troy at Harley’s on Saturday night to see what’s what. Maybe the hulks notwithstanding, no bouncing will actually be required there.

A.J. gives us drinks on the house. Kyra’s and Troy’s have alcohol in them. Mine does not.

There’s a crowd at and around the large square bar. The pool tables are full. People seem to be having a good time.

Customers who spot me fall silent, and even the rowdiest of them take it down a notch.

“See, I told you you’d be a good influence,” A.J. crows. “They’ve watched you take down bad guys on TV for years. And word’s already spread about you cutting those two goons down to size. Only a few people know you got knocked out by that guy’s knee.”

Oh, joy.

I sip at my drink—if it had even a hint of alcohol in it, I’d be downing it in one long, thirsty gulp. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it totally sucks to be in a bar and not get a real drink when everyone else is enjoying theirs.

Ten minutes later there’s an altercation at one of the pool tables. It’s between two burly guys with mohawks and tattoos of what look like their mothers on their beefy forearms.

A.J. angles his head in their direction. Fortunately, he doesn’t reach under the bar for a gun to toss my way.

Half-heartedly, I amble over to the pool table and flash my best Cassie Everheart smile. “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?”

They stare at me.

I quirk an eyebrow like Cassie did on every episode. It was her trademark “Don’t mess with me or you’re definitely going to be sorry” eyebrow quirk.

“Wow, it really is you!” Player One says.

“Yeah, man, I told you!” says the other player.

I sigh. “Yes, it’s me. Now. Seriously. What’s going on?”

“He pushed the ten ball in with his finger!” Player One points his finger at the side pocket, and I’m not sure if he’s demonstrating the finger that was used, or offering the ten ball in that particular pocket as proof.

“Is that true?” I speak to Player Two as if he’s an unruly child because that’s what these guys are. And because that’s how Cassie would have sounded.

“Huh-uh!” The accused shakes his head.

“Uh-huh!” the accuser fires back.

“Enough.” I reach into the pocket, retrieve the ball, and place it on the table. “Time to play nice.”

“Or what?” they chorus.

“You’ll have to leave.”

I wait for them to ask who’s going to make them leave like the would-be robbers Hulk One and Hulk Two did. But these two are still staring at me.

Finally, the accused looks at the ball and then at his opponent. “Sorry, man. My finger must have slipped.”

“Yeah. No problem. I can see how that might’ve happened,” the accuser replies.

They turn to me. “Thanks, Cassie,” Player One says.

“Yeah, thanks,” Player Two adds. “We’re gonna take that shot over.”

As I walk back to the bar, I have this weird feeling that I’ve somehow ended up in an episode of The Twilight Zone. (FYI—it’s a really cool TV series from the sixties, but you can stream it on a number of platforms.)

“Way to go, Cassie.” A.J. slaps me on the back. “I knew you were the woman for the job!”

When I reach our table, Kyra and Troy are attempting to suppress their laughter.

“Sorry!” Kyra is the first to apologize. “I just…Oh my God! Sorry!” She tries to hide her laughter by lifting her drink to her lips, but that turns out to be a messy move.

“Gee, thanks.” I try not to roll my eyes. Or laugh.

Then I remind myself that it’s not at all unusual for actors to have to cobble together part-time jobs before they land a regular gig. I have lost my regular gig and am sliding backward professionally inch by humiliating inch.

But in the meantime, I can be a bouncer. And a story time lady. And an acting coach/teacher.

Best of all, if I give acting classes at Myra’s bookstore, I’ll have a legitimate reason to turn to my students at some point and say, “Hey, kids, let’s put on a show!”

Sixteen

I live for the day when the bookstore is completely painted and Grand is able to start on her mural, though she hasn’t yet offered a clue as to what she’s planning, or how she’ll make it work in a space that needs to function for both children and adults.

Grand has already claimed the upstairs corner bedroom, which overlooks 10th Avenue toward the southernmost tip of Pass-a-Grille, where Bella Flora sits, and Gulf Way and Paradise Grille to the west, thereby providing southern and western exposures, as well as views that practically beg to be painted.

She plans to use it as a second studio for herself—she says the light is perfect and the views out over the beach and the Gulf of Mexico are inspirational. She’ll also use it to give individual and very small group art lessons. The beach will serve as her “large group” classroom when the weather allows.

The kitchen isn’t fancy but has everything we’ll need to keep people caffeinated and hydrated. There’s a sink, stove, and refrigerator as well as a new wine fridge still in its box, which will no doubt come in handy.

By the time we break for lunch, all three of us are spattered with paint and eager to get outside, so Myra opens containers of Ted Peters smoked fish spread with the requisite saltine crackers and hot sauce along with a quart of their German potato salad, while Grand and I drag a small wrought iron table and three chairs out onto the front porch so that we can enjoy our picnic beneath the palm fronds and the soft Gulf breezes. Note to self: Make sure a hammock ends up on this porch.

“All right, ladies,” Myra says as we polish off every bit of food and a bottle of pinot grigio. “I want to have a sign and bookmarks and paper bags with the new logo on them printed as soon as possible. And maybe flyers we can pass out to let everyone know that a bookstore is ‘coming soon.’ ”

“What do you think, Lillian?” Myra asks Grand. “How long after we agree on a name for the store can you create a logo that we can use?”

“Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.” Grand grins. “I’ve already got a few ideas that I can tailor to whatever name we choose.”

While Grand finishes off her glass of wine, Myra goes inside and returns with an easel then sets a chalkboard on it.

“All right, then,” Myra says. “Let’s just throw out whatever comes to mind. I’ll put the suggestions on the board. We can narrow the list down later.”

“Okay,” Grand calls out. “How about the Beachfront Bookstore? Or Beachfront Books and Arts as a nod to the acting and art classes we’re planning to offer?”

“Clear and to the point,” Myra says as she writes them on the board. “What else have we got?”

“Sandcastle Books?” I throw in though it’s more question than suggestion.

“Promising,” Myra says. “And also lends itself to a great beach-related logo.” She pauses for a second before asking, “What do you think of Sunshine Books? It gives a nod to the old Sunshine Elementary School that was just a few blocks away from here and it pretty much compels us to use bright sunshine-y colors on the logo and sign.”

We all nod enthusiastically. Frankly, I could go with any one of the four with the addition of “and Arts,” but we are clearly on a roll.

“Okay, how about Paradise Books?” Grand asks. “Since we’re right across the street from Paradise Grille? And this beach is a veritable patch of paradise.” Grand smiles. “Or maybe Flamingo Books? I mean, flamingos don’t typically inhabit the beaches here except when blown in by hurricanes, but they’re a very Florida thing.”

Myra scrawls these latest suggestions on the board noting that “and Arts” will be included with whatever we choose.

“What do you think of Just Beachy?” I ask.

“I like it a lot,” Myra replies. “But Just Beachy could apply to anything from beachwear to rafts and beach toys.”

“Then what if we add the books in a tagline? You know, like…Just Beachy: Your Beachfront Bookstore.”

“It’s catchy. But I think the fact that it’s a bookstore is too important to be an afterthought,” Myra points out.

It’s hard to argue with that. “Right,” I agree. “So let’s finish up the list so that we can vote. Though obviously the final decision is Myra’s.”

“Okay,” Myra says. “Anyone have anything to add or a point to make?”

“I still like Beach Books, because it’s direct and alliterative,” I say as Myra scribbles it on the chalkboard.

“Well, I still like Beach Reads,” Grand says.

“But,” I begin to protest as Myra’s chalk flies over the board. “Wasn’t that the title of a novel that was published a few years ago?”

“I believe so,” Myra concedes. “But there was also a book written quite a while ago by Jennifer Weiner in which a troubled granddaughter goes to stay with her grandmother in a retirement community and ends up turning her life around.” Myra winks. “And you’re still allowed to live with your grandmother at Casas de Flores.”

Ouch.

“In the end, the existence of those or other bookstore-related novels doesn’t matter,” Myra says. “Because while it’s good to avoid confusion where possible, book titles can’t be copyrighted in the way that an actual book is. Plus, Beach Reads is basically a genre, not just a title of one book.”

“So,” I say, taking one last stab at this. “What if the name of the store is Sandcastle Books and Arts? But just beneath it in standout lettering we add, ‘We’re Just Beachy!’ ”

“Huh,” Myra says. “I really like that.”

“Me too,” Grand adds.

They both sound a bit surprised, which is a little insulting, but they’re also both nodding and smiling. And I lived in Hollywood long enough to take a “win” anytime one presents itself.

“Okay,” I say with a smile of my own. “All in favor of Sandcastle Books and Arts for the name of Myra’s store with a tagline of ‘We’re Just Beachy!’ say ‘Aye.’ ”

There is a resounding “Aye” from all three of us.

“All righty, then.” Myra erases everything but the winning name and tagline. “Let the games begin!”

I, alas, go back to painting while Grand sits down with a sketch pad and starts working on the store logo. Two hours later I’ve finished two of the kitchen walls and its ceiling. Grand has created three distinct designs, which we debate enthusiastically. There’s really no pressure because we know that any one of them would work great.

The one we choose shows a sandcastle sitting on a small patch of sand. A little girl, sunhat askew, is patting the castle, her face creased in smiles. Two adults, presumably her parents, are perched on their knees helping her. SANDCASTLE BOOKS has been carved into the castle. On the sand in front of it in cursive, are the words: We’re Just Beachy! A beach bag nearby has an open knapsack with books poking out the top.

A golden sun hangs in a powder blue sky behind them, and you can just make out the sparkle of turquoise water in the background.

• • •

“Don’t wait up,” Grand says the next evening. “And don’t be worried if I’m not back until tomorrow.”

I blink. “But…where, exactly, are you going?” Oh God. I sound exactly like my mother. “And what could you possibly find to do all night?”

Grand raises an eyebrow. I’m the one who blushes in embarrassment.

“I’m having dinner with Brian and then I’m going to spend the night with him.”

“But it’s already too late for the Early Bird.” It’s the only thing that comes out.

“Yes. Brian’s making dinner for me at his place. And then I’m going to stay over.” She shoots me a cat-about-to-lap-up-the-cream smile.

I feel what I’m ashamed to admit is a quick stab of jealousy. “But, Grand…”

“There’s no point trying to talk me out of it, sweetheart. My mind is made up.”

“But…but…”

“But what? Do you think we’re too old for sex?”

“No, no, of course not.” This is a lie. I totally think she and Brian are too old for sex or should be. And what do we really know about Brian anyway? He could be a mafioso or an ax murderer or…a fortune hunter. Not that Grand has one.

“Stop worrying, darling. I’m a grown woman. And I’m going to be what? A few buildings away?”

“I, um, I just thought—”

“Enough.” She smiles again. “There’s no need to worry. Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. After the breakfast in bed I’ve been promised.”

Seventeen

When the security alarm goes off in the middle of the night, I crawl out of bed, stumble to the upstairs keypad, and automatically turn it off. I realize this is a stupid move the moment I finish punching in the passcode to disarm it, because now that the alarm is no longer blaring, I can hear noise coming from what sounds like ground level.

I tiptoe quietly down to the living room, where I pause in a spot not visible from the foyer to listen intently.

For a moment I think Grand must have decided to come home rather than stay with Brian, but as I tiptoe down to the living room, I realize that the sound is coming from the garage itself; not her studio behind it or the front door, which Grand would be using if she’d come home.

Not wanting to involve the police, I dial Luke’s cell.

“What’s wrong?” He sounds completely awake even though it’s 2:00 a.m. Sheets rustle.

“Syd, what’s going on?”

“Um, it sounds like someone’s down in the garage again. I…I think whoever it is, is fooling with Grand’s car.”

He puts the phone on speaker, and I hear what sounds like Luke pulling on clothes, which, oddly, given that there are bad people just one floor below me, makes me wonder whether police detectives leave them puddled next to the bed ready to be stepped into, like firemen leave theirs next to the firepole.

“Where are you and Grand right now?” Luke asks.

“I’m in the living room. Grand’s out for the night.”

There’s a brief silence but he doesn’t waste time asking me where she is.

“Go into your bedroom right now and lock the door. I’ll be there in ten minutes or less. Do not open your door or leave your room—your locked room—until I get there.”

“But…” I begin to protest as I realize there’s no longer noise coming from below.

“No. No buts. I’m not going to hang up. I don’t want you to hang up, either.”

As much as I dislike being ordered around, I’m relieved that he’s on his way and that we can continue to communicate. But I can hear no reason to go upstairs and hide.

I stare out the kitchen window until Luke pulls to a stop in front of Grand’s unit, at which point I race downstairs.

“I told you to stay upstairs,” he says when I throw open the front door.

“I waited until you pulled up. And I haven’t heard anyone in the garage since just after I called you,” I shoot back because, although I’m uber relieved that he’s here, I really don’t love how bossy he gets.

He looks me up and down. His forehead wrinkles and I can’t tell whether it’s because he’s pissed that I didn’t follow his instructions, or because he’s never seen a grown woman wearing puppy-covered flannel pajamas.

He opens the foyer door that leads into the garage. “Wait here.”

I ignore this and follow him into the garage, where the Cadillac sits, trunk open, leather seats slashed, trunk lining ripped out. Through the open door that leads into the bonus room (aka Grand’s studio), I can see that one of the back sliders has been forced open but at least neither of them is damaged. This is a good thing. Heavy PGT glass doesn’t grow on trees.

Back in the garage, I turn on the overhead light and Luke shines his flashlight under the car and all around it.

“I’m glad you didn’t go charging into a dangerous situation this time,” Luke says. “Though I guess I should point out that if you don’t turn off the alarm so quickly, the police—the ones who are actually on duty—will show up.”

“I know. I forgot. It was just an automatic reaction. And I didn’t really want to bother the police again.”

“I am the police, Syd,” he points out.

I know this, of course. And at the moment I hate just how quickly I turned to him the minute I got scared.

“But for a long time, you were like a member of the family,” I argue. “And I didn’t want to have to explain to strangers that my grandmother is spending the night at her boyfriend’s.”

“Boyfriend?” He blinks back his surprise. “How do you know she hasn’t been abducted? Or hurt in some way?”

“Because she has a boyfriend—a real live ‘silver fox’—who’s lived in the complex for years. She’s spending the night with him so that they can have sex. And he’s promised to serve her breakfast in bed.”

I sniff. Not only do I not have a boyfriend at this time, none of the boyfriends I have had ever served me breakfast in bed—if you don’t count the occasional cup of Starbucks. For just a moment I let myself imagine having sex with Luke.

“Call her right now, Syd, and make sure she’s okay.”

“But it’s two a.m.”

“I am painfully aware of that,” Luke counters. “But someone, or several someones, are clearly looking for something they believe your grandmother has. Therefore, we need to make sure that she’s okay. For all we know, the silver fox could be part of whatever is going on.”

I shudder at the thought that Brian’s attraction to Grand might not be as “genuine” as it seems. And while I’d like to believe that the idea that criminals, including or not including Brian, are specifically targeting my grandmother because they think she has something they want, is farfetched, deep down I know these break-ins are not random. There’s definitely something dangerous going on, and it seems to be getting more dangerous by the day.

“Okay.” I walk into the town house with Luke at my heels and speed-dial Grand’s cell phone. It rings upstairs in her bedroom.

“Shit,” we say in unison.

“What’s his name and his town house number?” Luke demands. “We need to go check on her.”

“His name is Brian.” As I say this, I realize that I don’t remember his last name and have no idea which building he lives in, let alone his unit number.

“Seriously, Sydney?”

“She’s a grown woman,” I point out as calmly as I can. “And I haven’t wanted to pry.”

I get a huff of irritation and another look of disbelief.

“But I do know there’s an owners’ directory,” I say. “Which means I can look him up.” I wince. “Assuming I can find the directory and remember the first letter of his last name.”

Luke rolls his eyes at me. Which, I’d like to point out, is highly unprofessional even if he is technically “off duty.”

For several long seconds I’m completely stymied. Then relief floods through me. “But I can call her friend Myra. She’s lived here forever and knows everything about everyone.”

I call Myra and hold my phone to my ear as she sputters awake. “What? How? Are you? What’s going on?”

“I need to know Brian’s last name and his building and unit number.”

“Boyer,” she answers without hesitation. “Building six, that’s three buildings to the left of your grandmother’s, two past mine. Number 520. Corner unit.”

“You have everyone’s addresses memorized?”

“Of course not. Just close friends. And the attractive single men. Do you want me to meet you there?”

“No, thanks. Luke, um, Detective Hayes is here. There was another break-in at Grand’s. We’re going to go to Brian’s and double-check that she’s okay.”

“But why wouldn’t she—”

Luke takes my phone, ends the call, and drops it in his pocket.

“Come on!” He takes my hand, and we speed-walk to Brian Boyer’s, where Luke pounds on the front door. “Police! Open up!”

The light comes on in Boyer’s foyer. As do those in the unit next to his. “Who’s there?” a male voice, presumably Brian Boyer’s, shouts through his front door.

“Detective Luke Hayes and Lillian’s granddaughter, Sydney. We need to see Lillian. Right now.”

Boyer opens the door. He’s wearing pajama bottoms, but his chest is bare. And solid. And tan. With a dusting of white hair. Which is way more attractive than one would expect.

“Where’s Grand?” I ask.

“She’s upstairs. Sleeping. Or at least she was.” His eyes get kind of steely. “What’s the problem?”

“We need to see her.” Luke steps into the foyer, forcing the silver fox back toward the stairs that lead up to the main floor.

“You have no reason to intrude in this way.”

“In fact, we do,” Luke replies. “There was another break-in at Lillian’s home. Is that anything you would know about?”

“Of course not!” The irritation is still there but now it’s laced with a certain wariness.

“Is everything all right down there?” Grand’s voice floats down from the top of the stairs. “I’ve got a gun!”

“I sincerely hope that’s not true,” Luke says to Brian and me.

“She does not own a gun,” I say. Careful not to add the “that I know of” that flashes through my mind.

“May we go upstairs and see Lillian now, Mr. Boyer?” Luke asks, though we all know it’s not really a question. “We need to speak with her. Now.”

Boyer steps out of the way and waves a hand toward the stairs in an “after you” gesture that feels distinctly unwelcoming.

Then he follows us up the stairs to where my grandmother stands, arms crossed over her lacy robe, one foot tapping on the floor. She isn’t glad to see us, either.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she asks me. “And why have you brought Luke with you?” Grand shakes her head. “I’m pretty sure I’m too old to be a runaway. And I certainly don’t need anyone’s permission, especially not my granddaughter’s, to sleep with a man of my choosing.”

Luke blushes, which is not something you see a policeman do every day. Though I kind of wish the writers had thought of it when my now ex-boyfriend, Jake Bodie, was playing Cassie Everheart’s cheating boyfriend. Like they say, one look can be worth a thousand words.

“We’re here because there’s been another break-in, Grand. They came in the back again and this time they went through your car. The lining in your trunk is slashed and so is the upholstery.”

“And once again you appear to be the only target,” Luke says to Grand, though his eyes are on Brian.

“But that’s crazy,” Brian says.

Luke spears him with a look. “Are you suggesting that we’re lying, Mr. Boyer? And if so, for what possible reason?”

Luke keeps him pinned with that look and I’m glad I’m not on the receiving end of it.

“No, of course not. This is all just so…”

“So, what, Brian?” I ask, surprised to hear my voice sounding a lot like Cassie’s while talking to a perp.

“It just seems so…odd. I mean, what could she possibly have that someone would want so badly?”

Grand stiffens.

“No offense,” Brian says.

“None taken,” Grand replies. But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean it.

“That would be the question, wouldn’t it, Mr. Boyer?” Luke adds. “What could she have that someone would want badly enough to break in repeatedly? And while we’re at it: Did you and Lillian know each other before she moved here? Or at any time in the past?”

“No, of course not!”

Luke and I exchange glances while Grand and Brian go up to retrieve her things.

“I’ve never heard someone say ‘No, of course not’ quite so many times,” Luke says quietly.

I nod in agreement. Methinks the man doth protest too much.

Grand, Luke, and I walk back to Grand’s place. Myra’s lights go out once we’ve passed and I have no doubt her curiosity is killing her.

I wait until Luke does a thorough look around Grand’s unit, her garage, and her bonus area to make sure no one is lying in wait.

After he leaves, Grand and I stare at each other for a long moment.

“Do you want coffee?” I ask.

“Might as well.” She still sounds annoyed at being dragged out of Brian’s bed. Or maybe she’s afraid, as she should be, of what’s going on.

• • •

Grand rummages in the fridge while I make us cups of coffee. She retrieves a leftover piece of pound cake and brings it, and two forks, to the table.

For a few minutes we sip our coffee and demolish the piece of cake in silence. Then Grand takes the empty plate and puts it in the sink. “I think I’m going to go upstairs and lie down for a bit,” she says.

I reach out a hand to stop her. “Before you go, I need you to tell me one thing.”

Reluctantly, Grand sits back down.

“You know what the thief, or thieves, are looking for, don’t you, Grand?”

Her chin juts out. For a moment I think she’s going to lie right to my face. In the end she says, “Yes.”

We lock gazes and I remember her reaction to seeing Phillip Drake’s face on the TV screen at Covington Arms when his death was first announced. And how soon afterward the break-ins began.

“It has something to do with Phillip Drake and his Missing Madonna, doesn’t it?”

She doesn’t comment but something in her eyes confirms it.

“Did you steal it when you left New York because of how he hurt you?” I ask quietly. “Are you the person who made it go missing?”

Grand sighs. She drops her gaze briefly. But then her chin goes up and she locks gazes with me again.

“No,” she says so quietly, I have to strain to hear.

“No,” she says more firmly. “When I left New York, what I took with me was the self-portrait that I had painted.”

She folds her hands on the table in front of her, and I suspect she’s trying to keep them from shaking. “Days later, he circulated photos of my painting and officially claimed it as his own work. Then, when he’d grabbed the spotlight and the art world’s full attention, he announced that it had been stolen. In one fell swoop, he climbed a mountain it would have taken years to scale.”

Grand draws another breath and squares her shoulders. Her voice vibrates with a mixture of anger and sadness. “He kept The Missing Madonna in and out of the headlines for over sixty years. As a result, he became a household name and his other works commanded ridiculously high prices. My painting made him and his family extremely wealthy. Ultimately, Phillip Drake became famous for a work that was not his, and his name will always be associated with something that I painted yet can never claim.”

“Do you think it’s his family that’s behind the attempts to steal your self-portrait?”

“It could be. Or it could be his longtime agent. Who still gets a commission on every work of his that sells. Or even a gallery owner who sells his work regularly and wants the money train to keep on going.”

“Wow.” I say the only thing that pops into my head.

“What I don’t know,” Grand almost whispers, “is whether they’re trying to steal it to make sure my Madonna never sees the light of day. Or so that they can control the timing of its ‘discovery’ in hopes of sending its value even further through the roof.”

Eighteen

The next evening at exactly 6:00 p.m., Grand’s doorbell rings.

“Are we expecting someone?” I call into the kitchen, where Grand seems to be cooking up a storm.

When she doesn’t respond, I pound down the stairs and pull open the front door. Luke is standing on the front step with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your grandmother invited me for dinner.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Grand?” I yell up the stairs. “Someone’s here to see you!”

“Bring him on up!” Grand shouts down, now apparently able to hear.

I stomp up the stairs with Luke behind me. When we get to the kitchen, I look at the two of them. “What’s going on?”

“I just wanted to thank Luke for all his help,” Grand says innocently. I’ve known her since birth, but I’m still shocked by how completely innocent she can seem while she’s telling a lie.

“And yet you never mentioned it.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” she says as she fills a vase with water, arranges the flowers in it, then positions the arrangement in the middle of the dining table, which is already set for three.

“And you did,” I concede. Just not necessarily in a good way. Partly because he can be annoying. But mostly because even a five-minute warning would have allowed me to put on something more attractive than the cutoff jeans and off-the-shoulder midriff top I’m wearing.

Grand, of course, is wearing an especially attractive palazzo pants outfit with an equally beautiful apron tied at her waist. A green salad sits in front of each dinner plate. A large platter of paella and a wooden board with what appears to be a loaf of warm Cuban bread are sitting on either side of the floral arrangement, which now serves as our centerpiece. A serious-looking bread knife sits next to the crusty loaf of bread while pitchers of water and sangria have been placed within easy reach.

As she ushers us to our seats, her pleasure in feeding us is clear. Which is why I keep my complaints about her underhandedness to myself. At least for now.

Food is passed and plates are filled. Everything tastes even better than it looks, and for a few minutes I’m able to focus on enjoying every bite rather than the pull of the man beside me.

“This paella is delicious,” Luke says.

“It is,” I agree. “And the bread is perfect. Where did you get it, Grand?”

“There’s a small Cuban bakery just off 22nd Avenue that Myra turned me on to. Their breads and rolls are baked fresh daily, and their desserts are killer. You’re going to love the flan we’re having for dessert.”

For a while we simply stuff our faces and enjoy the meal. I’m in the middle of inhaling my last bite of flan when Luke looks up from his plate, sets down his knife and fork, then says to Grand, “We need to figure out who’s targeting you and why.” He takes a bite of his flan and studies her while he chews it. “If you already know who it is, you need to share that information with me right now so that we can get more proactive.”

He gives Grand a serious High Noon, “I’m the law in this town” kind of look.

Grand counters with an “I’ve been on the planet a hell of a lot longer than you have” look.

While she’s at it, Grand spears me with what I understand is a warning not to mention that she’s in possession of what the world believes to be Phillip Drake’s The Missing Madonna.

Frankly, it would be a relief to tell Luke because it’s clear that whoever’s looking for the painting isn’t planning to give up until they find it. If you’ll excuse the pun, Grand’s possession of it has painted a great big target on our backs.

After a few long moments of silence and locked gazes, Grand puts down her fork, blots her lips with her napkin, and says, “Since Luke has seen fit to offer me unsolicited advice tonight, I think it’s time to offer a bit of advice to both of you.” Her eyes narrow slightly; her head tilts as she says, “It’s more than time for you two to grow up and stop pussyfooting around.”

Luke looks understandably confused. I just put down my fork and brace myself. Not only because it’s wrong not to tell Luke what’s going on and then expect him to help protect us, but because once Grand’s decided there’s something you need to hear, you are going to hear it whether you want to or not.

Still, I’m not quite prepared when she says, “Here’s the thing. You’re young. And you think you have forever to decide whether to act on your attraction to each other. But I know from experience that life doesn’t work that way.” She pauses and lets her opening salvo sink in. “Shit happens. People die. Someone thinks they can’t have you and settles for someone else.”

She draws a long breath and squares her shoulders. “You only get one go-around, and right now I could cut the sexual tension between you two with this knife.” She picks up the serrated bread knife and holds it aloft.

“Furthermore, to my knowledge,” Grand continues, “neither of you are married or committed to someone else, so what the hell are you waiting for?”

When neither of us responds, she tsks, which isn’t something you hear every day. “And in conclusion, even though you spoiled my night with Brian, I sincerely hope you two will make the most of the rest of tonight.”

With that, Grand stands, pushes in her chair, then puts her empty plate and glass on the counter. Since the meal is now officially over, Luke and I stand, too. Then Luke thanks her profusely for dinner and insists that we’ll do the dishes.

“Thank you,” Grand says quite grandly. “I think I’ll head upstairs for the night.” She moves toward the stairs but turns at the last moment. “And just so you know, I’m a very heavy sleeper. It would take a lot to wake me once I close my door and go to sleep.” With that, Grand marches up the stairs. Her bedroom door clicks shut behind her.

Luke and I stare at each other.

“Am I imagining it, or did your grandmother just tell us to go upstairs and have sex?” he asks quietly.

“Oh, there’s no question that’s what she just did,” I reply as we continue to stare into each other’s eyes. After we load the dishwasher and wipe down the countertops, we stare into each other’s eyes some more.

“You know I don’t like being told what to do or when to do it,” I whisper. “But it’s not necessarily the worst idea she’s ever had.”

When Luke doesn’t respond, it occurs to me that Grand could be wrong about his level of interest in me. Or maybe she’s just trying to punish us for ruining her sleepover with Brian.

Just when I’m about to step back and make a joke about Grand’s suggestion, Luke leans over and kisses me. Then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me even closer.

“We really shouldn’t let her manipulate us,” I murmur as I loop my arms around his neck and nibble on his earlobe.

“It is kind of late, though,” he whispers as he puts both hands on my ass and pulls me even tighter against him. “No real point in going home and coming back in the morning to check on things.”

“No point at all,” I agree.

He groans against my lips and lifts me off the floor. On instinct, I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on tight as he carries me upstairs, closes my bedroom door with one foot, then lays me on my bed.

I groan with pleasure as he undresses me then trails his fingers and lips over my bare skin. I return the favor and receive groans in return. We kiss for what feels like forever then he gently settles on top of me, and we begin to move together. Just when I start to want more, he rolls onto his back, taking me with him, so that I end up on top, which is my all-time favorite place to be.

Our joining grows more heated, and the delicious pressure builds until I shoot over the edge. His cry joins mine as I convulse around him.

• • •

The next morning when I awaken, Luke and his clothes are gone, and I’m irritated that he didn’t even wake me up to say goodbye. But when I go downstairs in my robe, I find Luke sipping coffee while Grand makes a massive omelet. A bowl of fresh fruit sits on the table. A pan of hashbrowns is being kept warm in the oven.

I blush when Luke smiles and says, “Sleeping Beauty awakes at last. I was starting to get worried.”

“There’s way too much smiling going on for me to believe that much sleeping took place last night,” Grand says archly. “I could barely sleep for all the ‘joyful noise.’ ”

Luke and I exchange glances. So much for her claiming not to hear anything once her door is closed.

Luke says, “Last night was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. That’s some guest bed you have up there.”

We tease and joke over breakfast and when Luke “kisses the cook,” Grand blushes and smiles. Apparently, that’s what his kisses do to the women in my family.

When breakfast is over, he walks Grand and me down to the garage and into her bonus room studio. Then he checks that the sliders are closed and locked, and the alarm system sensors are intact.

“It’s odd,” he says. “These people are getting bolder. And they seemed to have believed that they could find whatever they were looking for and make their getaway between the time the alarm went off and the police arrived.

“The only reason we almost caught them in the act is because I was nearby and got here quicker than that.

“Do you know what they’re looking for, Lillian?” he asks my grandmother directly.

I hold my breath while I wait for her to confess that she knows what the thieves are after, but she just shakes her head and says, “No, Luke. I’m sorry. But I don’t.”

“Do you have anything especially valuable here?”

Grand shakes her head and lies again.

“So, you would have no idea whether they found what they were looking for?”

“Sorry, no.” She shakes her head again and sounds so sincere that even I wouldn’t know she was lying if I didn’t already know she was lying.

“All right, then,” Luke says, and I honestly can’t tell whether he believes her.

Up until now, I assumed that I was the best actress in my family.

Nineteen

Things are moving right along at the bookstore. I’m still painting walls and trim but Grand is getting ready to start on the mural in the back room, and I can’t wait to see what she intends to create that will work for kids’ story time and adult book clubs.

When I walk back to the space, I find her eyeing the back wall with its run of high windows. She’s totally focused, tilting her head on occasion, as if the space is speaking to her. If it is, it’s whispering too quietly for me to hear.

I join her, and when I can’t remain silent a moment longer, I ask, “So what are you thinking? Are you going to divide the place in two? Or use the same space for the adult book club and story time at different times?”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to decide,” she replies with a smile. “I like the idea of one flexible space, but if I divide the space in half with a retractable accordion divider, both spaces can be used at the same time, which means the book club moms can drink wine and enjoy their discussion while the children get to enjoy story time and an arts and crafts project.”

“That does sound perfect,” I agree.

“Also, I saw this cool thing on Motel Rescue,” she adds.

“Motel Rescue?” I ask in surprise.

“Yes, it’s a reality show with this woman Lindsey Kurowski and her family. She started renovating motels that she bought for herself. Later she began working with older mom-and-pop motels. In each episode, she renovates one motel room as a sample for the other rooms and then updates the common spaces then gives the owners tips on marketing and merchandise to increase their bottom lines. Her whole family works on the renos with her.”

I hear Grand’s enthusiasm, but I don’t really understand what it has to do with Sandcastle Books or Myra’s Craftsman bungalow. “And…?”

“And at the end of each reno she creates at least one really cool backdrop or vignette that includes the name and logo of the motel so that guests can pose in front of it for photos to share on social media.”

“And…?”

“And if we create a number of these vignettes here, you know, maybe one out on the front porch and another in front of the bookshelves and maybe another in the book club/story time areas, they’d not only be great decoration but would encourage guests and book club members and maybe even their families to pose and share. Which would be fun for them and great exposure for Sandcastle Books.” Grand searches my face. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re a genius,” I reply, because she clearly is.

“Why, thank you for noticing.” Grand takes a mock bow. “Let’s get Myra in here so we can run this by her, too.”

When Myra joins us, Grand explains her idea, then demonstrates it with a few broad strokes on the wall. “One could be the Sandcastle Books logo itself,” she explains as she roughs out the logo then paints a brightly colored frame around it. “Another could be, I don’t know, maybe a pyramid of book covers.

“And”—Grand points to the tree trunk she’s already sketched out—“maybe we could affix the front half of a real tree trunk on the front porch next to the Adirondack chairs I ordered and paint book covers to form the palm fronds.”

“Then we can paint our logo in the vignette so that it’s in the shot and add our Instagram tag so that it’s easy to share on our social media, too,” I add.

“I love it!” Myra says. “Maybe we can ask permission to use the shared selfies on a flyer or marketing piece, too. How long do you think it will take to create the vignettes, Lillian?”

“I don’t know,” Grand replies. “It just depends on how many we decide we want and how complicated they are. Maybe four or five days? No longer than a week. I can sketch out my ideas so you can approve them before I start if you like. Or I can surprise you.”

“Hmm, I think I want to be surprised.” Myra throws an arm around Grand then pulls me in with her other arm. “I’m so glad you two are a part of this. The space is going to be fabulous, and with acting and art classes on top of book clubs and story time, we’ll have something for almost everyone.”

The three of us high-five. Then Myra goes into her computer to check on a delivery date for the Adirondack chairs. Grand and I head to the paint store.

• • •

On Friday evening, when we’ve finished our work at the bookstore and I’ve scrubbed off as much paint as I can, Myra, Grand, and I head over to Harley’s. It’s only 5:30 p.m. and I’m not due “on the clock” until six, so I’m assuming we can grab a bite before I go into bouncer mode. But when we arrive, the place is already packed.

There’s a hush as we enter, followed by a buzz of conversation as we walk toward the bar, where Luke is already seated. Grand and Myra are not at all surprised to see him, but my pulse kicks up when he stands and waves us over to the empty seats he’s saved on either side of him.

“What’s going on here tonight?” I ask A.J., who’s all smiles when he comes to take drink orders from everyone but me.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I told a few customers that you’d be in tonight and the place just…filled up. Most of them are here because they want to meet you. And quite a few of them would like to get your autograph.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No autographs.”

“Well, what if we just give an autograph to whoever wins the darts tournament tonight?” A.J. suggests.

“No.”

His face falls.

“You can fire me right now,” I say quietly. “I won’t be the least bit hurt or offended.” In fact, it would be a relief not to have to pretend to have anything in common with the character I once played. “We both know you’d be better off with a beefier bouncer.”

“Not true,” A.J. insists. “You handled the guys who tried to rob me, and you kept things from going south the last time you were here. You’re a good influence. Plus, you were a police detective for years.” He adds this last observation so matter-of-factly that I’m no longer sure whether he truly believes this or is just unwilling to give up on using me to attract customers.

“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “I played a police detective for years.”

“But people are here to see you,” A.J. replies doggedly.

“Then they’ll have to be satisfied with the fact that I’m here,” I bite out. “And if there’s trouble, as your bouncer, I’ll do my best to take care of it. But I am not giving autographs or trading on the fact that I used to play a fictional character on television. And FYI,” I continue as I slide onto an empty stool beside Luke, “you have an actual, real live policeman here in your bar right now. That’s way better than someone who only played one on television.”

“But—”

“No.” I turn back to Luke. “What are you drinking?” I ask him. “More importantly, what are you doing here? Don’t you have criminals to catch?”

“This is an old-fashioned, I happen to be off duty, and I’m here because your grandmother called and invited me. She’s a hard woman to say no to.”

“Tell me about it. But I don’t think we should encourage her.”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure how we would stop her. Besides, I can think of worse things than spending the evening in a bar with you.”

“In that case, order another old-fashioned.”

“But I haven’t finished this one yet.”

“I know. But the only way I’ll get a drink from A.J. that includes alcohol is if he thinks it’s for you.”

I sip the old-fashioned that Luke ordered whenever A.J. isn’t looking, and I’m careful not to groan with pleasure. God, I’ve missed alcohol.

Then I watch the white-haired patrons hit on Grand and Myra, break up a fight, eject a troublemaker, and fend off at least ten autograph seekers.

When Grand and Myra decide to head back to Casas de Flores around 10:00 p.m., Luke tells them not to worry. “I’ll be here until her shift’s done. And I can bring her home,” he says without asking.

“But don’t wait up,” I interject. “And don’t be worried if I’m not back until tomorrow,” I say, borrowing Grand’s words when she’d informed me that she intended to spend the night with Brian.

My cheeks heat up when I realize I’ve just invited myself to spend the night at Luke’s. Happily, neither Grand nor Myra seems shocked, and Luke appears to be good with the idea. When A.J. starts closing out tabs and showing the last of his customers out, Luke takes my hand and leads me outside.

“My place or Grand’s?” he asks, giving me one last chance to change my mind.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing your place,” I concede as he holds open his car door for me. I don’t add exactly how eager I am to see his bedroom and spend the night with him again. Given that I invited myself over, I’m guessing this goes without saying.

Luke’s place turns out to be a very cool beach cottage near the tip of Sunset Beach, which sits between St. Pete Beach and Treasure Island and is maybe a mile and a half from Casas de Flores, which goes a long way to explaining how quickly he’s been able to get to Grand’s.

It’s far tidier than most men’s places I’ve set foot in and even has healthy plants in pots. (When I first met Jason, my ex, he had pots of dirt with sticks in them, which was all that was left of the living plants he’d started with. Yet one more sign of irresponsibility that I should have paid attention to.)

We’re both impatient and help each other undress in the moonlight, dropping our clothes as we move through the living room and into his bedroom. When he lays me on my back in the center of his bed, I tremble with anticipation.

Then he climbs onto the bed and kneels above me, his thighs bracketing my hips. He teases my nipples with his tongue until I’m wild with wanting him. I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer until his body covers mine. He moves against me, gently at first, then with more intent. When he slips his penis inside me, it fills me to the core.

And then he’s moving, slowly at first, as the moonlight pours in the open window and dances on his bare skin. My legs encircle his hips. My ankles clasp together, and I hold on tight as he enters and retreats over and over again like the pull and push of the tide as it washes on and off the shore.

The slight swish and sway of palm fronds moving in the breeze outside mimics our rhythm as our breathing grows more labored and his tongue tangles with mine. Then we’re moving faster, the friction building with each deep thrust and retreat until I can’t hold on any longer.

With a cry I shoot over the edge, orgasming in waves that shake my entire body as he spasms inside me.

• • •

The next morning, I wake to the caw of gulls. Luke is sound asleep beside me, so I ease quietly out of bed, pull on one of the clean T-shirts folded in his laundry basket, and go out into the living room, pulling his bedroom door closed behind me.

I use his Keurig to make myself a cup of coffee then settle in a club chair that overlooks the water. The view is incredible, but once the caffeine kicks in, I do what I probably should have done when Grand first started seeing Brian. I take another long sip of coffee then google “Brian Boyer and Phillip Drake NYC.”

I’m staring out the window and mulling what I’ve discovered when Luke comes out of the bedroom and makes himself a cup of coffee.

“The view is even more magnificent than I realized last night,” I say after taking in the long length of white sand that kisses up to the Gulf.

“Yeah.” He comes to sit in the chair beside me. Both of our gazes remain on the view.

“This is why people take pay cuts to live and work down here.”

We sip our coffee contentedly. The conversation is easy. My body is loose and pleasantly worn out. That’s what orgasms can do for a girl. In this moment all is right with the world.

“Well, if the whole law enforcement thing doesn’t work out, you can totally become a barista.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” His tone is teasing.

“So I’ve been wondering,” I say quietly after another long, lovely sip of coffee. “What made you suspicious of Brian Boyer so quickly?”

“This is what you’ve been wondering after two, or was it three, orgasms?”

I hold up three fingers and smile. “Last night was truly lovely and this conversation doesn’t change that. But I need to know if you think he’s actually dangerous to Grand or not.”

“I don’t have proof of wrongdoing,” he admits. “But the way the break-ins began so soon after she met him and started seeing him seemed too much of a coincidence.”

“But she met a lot of new people right around the same time,” I point out.

“Yeah, but something about him felt a little too good to be true.”

“So it was your Spidey sense?”

“Well, given what I do for a living, my Spidey senses are pretty highly developed and I’ve learned to trust them.”

“Yeah, well, I have a tendency to rely on Google,” I say as I hold up my phone. “And it turns out Brian does, or did, have a connection to the New York art scene and Phillip Drake that he’s been keeping to himself.”

“Interesting. And what is that connection?”

“Brian’s wife, Camille, owned a successful Manhattan gallery back in the day. Before she died, she mounted two early shows of Phillip Drake’s work. And according to gossip at the time, she had a rather torrid affair with him.”

Twenty

On Friday afternoon when Grand, Myra, and I arrive at the grand opening of the Historic YMCA, now officially Mediterranean Place, we’re shown up to a first-floor covered balcony, where William Hightower and his band are crushing their greatest hits as invited guests sing along.

Fans not lucky enough to score an invitation do the same from the slice of sidewalk below.

We greet Maddie and Bitsy and Chase and Avery and flash big grins on cue when Troy’s video camera turns in our direction then slowly pans across our faces.

“You remember John and Renee Franklin,” Maddie says, reintroducing me to the Realtor who originally handed over Bella Flora to Maddie, Avery, and Nikki when it was all they had left after being victims of Malcolm Dyer’s Ponzi scheme. It was John’s wife, Renee, longtime president of the Pass-a-Grille Garden Club, who made sure that Bella Flora’s grounds were also brought back to their original 1920s glory.

“Wow, they did a great job of honoring the YMCA’s original Mediterranean architecture while still providing modern amenities.”

“They sure did,” Renee agrees. “Wait till you see the condos on the top floor.”

John has Realtors on-site to show the condos and retail spaces that are still available.

Joe Giraldi, FBI agent and Nikki’s husband, holds each of their twin girls by the hand as they jump up and down to the music. Luvvie rocks out to the music beside them.

Maddie’s ex-husband, Steve, is there helping to keep an eye on their grandchild, Dustin.

William steps closer to the mic, and after a wink and a smile at the little ones present, he begins to pick out the opening notes of what turns out to be a rock ’n’ roll version of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on his guitar.

“This is so awesome,” Myra says when the band joins in and the little ones throw themselves into twirling and giggling. “I came here intending to steal every idea worth stealing. Do you think we can ask Maddie to convince William to come back to play at Sandcastle Books’ grand opening?”

“Definitely.” I laugh as the kids whirl and twirl with glee. “But I don’t see any reason we can’t ask him ourselves.”

It’s at that moment that I feel eyes on me, and without looking, I know that Luke is nearby. I haven’t seen him since I spent the night at his place last weekend, but then we haven’t had a break-in, either. Or maybe the sex didn’t rock his world like it did mine.

“Hi.” I smile.

“Hi.” Luke smiles back, but suddenly I’m wondering whether his smile is strained. Or maybe it’s filled with regret?

Oh my God, this is more awkward than waking up in the morning next to a stranger. Not that I’ve done that more than once. Or possibly twice.

I give myself a mental kick and remind myself that I am no longer the teenage girl who thought he’d hung the moon and stars. I am a full-grown, attractive, intelligent woman. I’m also a damn fine actress. And even if no one will cast me, it’s time I use those skills to act like one.

My chin goes up and I plant what I hope is a completely confident smile on my face. And yet I’m not at all prepared when he flashes his knee-jellying smile, pulls me against him, and drops a kiss on the top of my head.

There are raised eyebrows. Grand pumps one fist into the air. My cheeks heat briefly with embarrassment, but I don’t brush off his arm that wraps around my shoulders or even consider pulling away. Because a large part of that heat is caused by happiness that he is clearly as glad to see me as I am to see him.

Kyra joins us, and being the friend that she is, she doesn’t raise an eyebrow or make a single unwelcome observation.

Instead, she leans close and whispers, “Later tonight there’s a private celebration at Bella Flora. Mom and Bitsy really want you both to come.”

“It’s Friday,” I point out. “I have to be at Harley’s tonight.”

“Hmmm. Why don’t you go in, put the fear of God into everyone as quickly as possible, and then…” She pauses. “Then I’ll call you and you act distraught or worried or, I don’t know, you’re the actress. I’m sure you can pull it off. Then you tell A.J. that you have an emergency and absolutely have to leave. You know, be all apologetic and everything.”

“I don’t know. What if he doesn’t buy it? What if he knows I’m lying?”

Kyra spears me with a look. “Despite all evidence to the contrary, the man continues to believe that you’re Cassie Everheart. How hard could it be to convince him you have an emergency?”

“But—”

“I know,” she says in a pure “Eureka!” tone. “Maybe Luke would be willing to stop at Harley’s and then offer to help out when you have to leave. Off-duty police take security gigs all the time, right? Then you could come join us at Bella Flora, and Luke could come once Harley’s closes.”

“But…” I begin to protest.

She grins. “You would like Luke to join us at Bella Flora, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” I admit.

“And you’d like to come, too, right, Luke?”

“Absolutely.” He smiles.

“Good. It looks like we have a plan then. My work here is done.”

“Okay,” I say. “But if I get fired, you’re going to have to hire me to do something.”

Luke snorts.

Kyra gives me a look. “That man is never going to fire you. Or believe you’re anyone but Cassie,” she points out, which, alas, is true.

Sure enough, when Luke ambles in Friday evening, A.J. is thrilled to see him. In fact, even before I receive my emergency phone call, A.J. is having a bit of a bromance with Luke. So when I explain that I have to leave, A.J.’s thrilled to have Luke cover for me.

I grit my teeth and barely hold back a sigh when A.J. immediately offers him a drink.

• • •

Bella Flora is lit up like a Christmas tree. Children and dogs run wild, while the adults drink and mingle. Best of all, when I belly up to the bar in the Casbah Lounge, no one, including Chase Hardin, who’s playing bartender, gives it a second thought. Soon I’m happily sipping a deliciously dry martini and chatting with Kyra and Troy while Dustin unsuccessfully attempts to get his Great Dane, Max, to roll over and “play dead.” Unfortunately, Max would rather lick people’s faces and any other reachable body parts, which is why I no longer have makeup on half of my face.

By the time Luke arrives, kids and dogs have been put to bed, but the party is still going strong, and I am feeling no pain.

We mingle with the others for a while then carry our drinks outside, where the moon is bright and shards of light sparkle on the dark water.

He leans down to kiss me, and for a while, the feel of his mouth on mine blots out everything else.

I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol talking (I’m no longer used to drinking!) or my automatic reaction to how good it feels to have Luke’s arms around me, but I look up mid-kiss and say, “I think we should go on a date.”

He takes a step back and checks my expression. “A date?”

“A date. You know, where we go out somewhere together to consume food and, hopefully, alcohol. Or go to a movie. Or out dancing. Or…”

“I do understand what a date is.” He smiles, regrouping. “But aren’t dates usually the thing that helps you get to know each other better and makes you want to have sex in the first place?”

I blink at this example of male logic in which dating’s sole purpose is to make you want to have sex with them.

“It’s not like we just met. I mean, we’ve known each other since you were an annoying child,” Luke points out. “When you were a teenager, you made it clear that you wanted to have sex with me. As I recall, there was begging involved.”

“I never begged!”

He smiles. “You looked like a whipped puppy when I said no. And I felt like a heel for turning you down. But you were way too young, Syd. And we were practically family.”

I grit my teeth. I have never forgotten the humiliation I felt when he said no. Or to be precise, “Don’t be silly, squirt,” which made it infinitely worse.

My chin goes up. I am not that pathetic teenager anymore. “All I know is that we have sex whenever possible, but we’ve barely gone out in public together.”

“We’re in public here,” he points out. “We’ve been in Harley’s together. I’ve eaten dinner with you at Grand’s. It’s not like we only have sex.

“But you’re right. We have leapt over some very important steps in building a relationship. And we’re going to rectify that right now.”

I check to see if he’s teasing but he appears completely serious. “Want to do ‘rock, paper, scissors’ to decide who gets to plan our first official date?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I get to plan it because it was my idea.”

“Okay,” he concedes with mock reluctance. “But it can’t be anything embarrassing, or overly girly.”

“Who me?” I ask with the most innocent look I can manage.

Twenty-One

“I guess I should have been clearer about what most men might consider ‘too girly.’ ”

“I don’t know what you mean.” We’re at my favorite nail salon with our feet plunged into warm, scented, swirling water. Sarah and Angela, my favorite nail technicians, are taming our cuticles while Barbra Streisand, Bette Midler, Adele, and Dolly Parton play on the sound system.

Other patrons sneak looks at Luke as if he’s “eye candy” provided for their entertainment, and I suspect if he were willing, the salon would pay him to come back then quietly spread the word to their best customers.

“You owe me big time,” he says with an exaggerated sigh as our hands are dipped into warm paraffin three times then slipped into heated mitts.

“It’s heavenly, isn’t it?” I practically purr. “I knew you’d enjoy this.”

“That was not my happy sigh. And while I appreciate Sarah’s skill as a manicurist, this is not a ‘date’ I would have agreed to.”

“Which is exactly why I decided to surprise you. Sometimes you just need someone to help you push your boundaries a little.”

“I’m as open to new experiences as any man, but I can’t help noticing I’m the only male here.”

“And I can’t help thinking that if you would relax and give this a chance, you’d enjoy it.”

Sarah looks up at us. “Lots of men have manicures and pedicures on a regular basis. Sometimes they come with their girlfriends or wives. Many times, they come on their own. Because if you’re man enough not to feel emasculated by the idea, it can be quite relaxing. And hygienically, it’s good for you to keep your nails clean and trimmed.”

After this faultless explanation, Luke flashes Sarah a smile and thanks her profusely when our appointment ends.

Afterward, I drive us to Woody’s on St. Pete Beach for dinner, where we grab a table outside and watch boats go by as we wolf down our food. Then I drive us a bit farther down Gulf Boulevard to Larry’s Ice Cream, where we choose cones filled with scoops of their duly famous homemade ice cream, which we lick contentedly on the way to Luke’s. Our good night kiss is cold and creamy and eminently satisfying.

Once I’ve pulled into Grand’s driveway, I check her mailbox and find it empty. Which is when I realize that although I’m not the one who always checks, I haven’t seen so much as a postcard or letter lying about since I moved in.

I find Grand at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea and plop down across from her.

“How was the mani-pedi experience?”

“Let’s just say it was not a hit and I’m a little concerned about what kind of date revenge he might be planning.”

Grand snorts and takes a long sip of her tea. “Paybacks can be hell,” she says. “But I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when he realized what you’d planned.”

I laugh. “It was pretty epic. You should have seen all the other customers eating him up with their eyes.”

“Ha!” Grand says. “The salon should pay him.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Did you manage to get any pictures or video?”

“Unfortunately, no. My hands weren’t available to me at the time. And I suspect he would have bailed immediately.”

We laugh again as I get up and pour myself a cup of tea.

After a long appreciative sip, I set down my cup. “I just realized that there hasn’t been any mail delivered since I got here. Have you filled out a change of address card?”

“No, I just had it put on hold when I came down to visit Myra.”

“Because you were already planning to stay longer than you let on?”

“No.” Grand shakes her head. “Because I wanted to keep my options open. And because I can release the hold online and arrange to have the held mail and future mail shipped here whenever I want.”

“Do you need me to help you set that up?”

She gives me the second eye roll of my day. “I’m not the incompetent scatterbrain your mother thinks I am. I can manage.”

“I know that. And I was wondering…” I hesitate.

“Wondering what?”

“Grand, are you absolutely certain you didn’t know Brian Boyer or his wife in New York?”

She sighs but doesn’t avoid answering. “I’d heard of Camille because she’d given Phillip a show back in the early days of his career, but I never met either of them. And before you ask, I also never heard that either of them ever suspected that The Madonna wasn’t Phillip’s work.”

“You’re sure.”

“Cross my heart,” she says, miming the gesture. “In my experience, people tend to see what they want or expect to. And what reason would they have to suspect Phillip would ever try to pass off someone else’s work as his own? Especially the work of an art student no one had ever heard of?”

I watch her face carefully as she says this because I really, really want to believe that she’s telling the truth when she insists she never met the Boyers in New York. Or had any idea that Phillip and Camille had had an affair.

But given everything else she’s admitted to, I can’t help wondering if these are just things she wanted to believe.

• • •

Three days later the reno/refresh of Myra’s bookstore is finally complete. All that’s left is to get the books on the shelves and the signage in place. At the moment the three of us are sitting at Grand’s dining room table, where Myra and Grand stuff envelopes with grand opening announcements and Sandcastle Books bookmarks, while I tweak the website and schedule grand opening posts for social media.

Later, Luke and Brian Boyer arrive for a celebratory dinner that Grand has prepared. Myra, the guest of honor, sits at the head of the table while Luke and Brian are careful not to sit next to or directly across from each other, which isn’t easy, given the size of the table and the small number of people sitting around it.

When Grand raises her glass of sangria, we join her in a toast to Myra and the grand opening to come. We chat, some more comfortably than others, while we consume the Ensalada Mixta. Then I help Grand carry a huge platter of her duly famous arroz con pollo, a basket of crusty Cuban bread, and a bowl of green beans to the table.

Between mouthfuls of my favorite meal, I fix my attention on Brian, eager to see whether his answers will jibe with the ones my grandmother gave me.

“So, Brian,” I say, “Grand tells me that your wife owned a gallery in New York.”

“Yes,” he answers almost tentatively.

“Did she really put on one of Phillip Drake’s first one-man shows?”

“Why…yes.”

“And was she one of the first gallery owners to call attention to his Madonna that later went missing?”

“Yes,” he says more firmly as his eyes narrow.

Luke’s gaze is fixed on Brian. In fact, Luke’s been watching Brian since he arrived.

“So you knew Phillip Drake personally,” I continue. “And you were familiar with his work.”

“Yes, of course. But I knew most of the important or up-and-coming artists in New York at that time through my wife.” Brian’s brow furrows. “But I have to admit The Madonna was very different from his body of work at that time.” He dabs at his chin with his napkin. “But surely this is ancient history. Why does it matter now that he’s gone?”

“Oh, I don’t know if it does or not,” I admit. “I guess I’m just curious why you didn’t already know my grandmother.”

Brian hesitates, and for a moment I think he’s going to admit that he did know her. But what he says is, “It’s my understanding that Lillian wasn’t in New York very long. And not to offend her or her talent, but she simply wasn’t on the art world’s radar.”

Grand shoots me a “cease and desist” look. Myra keeps her thoughts to herself, which is rare. Luke gives me a look that I refuse to interpret. Only Brian seems unperturbed.

What I don’t know is whether he is actually unconcerned about this line of questioning or is a really skilled liar.

“And what do you think of her work now?” Luke asks Brian.

Grand blushes. “I haven’t shown Brian any of my current work yet. When and if I do, I’m sure he’ll give me his honest opinion.” She stands. “Sydney, will you help clear the table for dessert?”

I stand and begin to gather the dirty dishes. As we carry them into the kitchen, I hear Brian ask Luke, “I’m curious. What’s your problem with me?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” Luke replies. “But I’ve learned to trust my instincts, and those instincts tell me that something about you doesn’t add up.”

I head back to the table with a water pitcher in hand and begin to top off glasses as unobtrusively as I can.

“And you’re here tonight to figure that out?” Brian asks Luke.

“No. I’m here because Lillian invited me. And because Sydney and I are dating.” He winks at me. “Or trying to. And because I would do anything I needed to, to protect both of them.”

“And you believe I’m a threat.” Brian’s question is more of a statement.

“That remains to be seen,” Luke replies. “But Lillian has always treated me like a grandson, and she’s very important to me.”

“And would you step over the line to protect her from some imagined threat?” Brian asks quietly.

Luke locks gazes with Brian’s.

“In a heartbeat.”

My heart squeezes, and I have to look away. My hero.

Twenty-Two

Under Myra’s supervision, we label the shelves and unpack what feels like a million books. Then we arrange them on the shelves. Including those that bracket the kitchen.

Grand puts the finishing touches on the book club/story time wall mural then completes the camera-worthy vignettes for people to pose in front of. Each is framed by the Sandcastle Books’ logo and social media links, which should make for easy posting and sharing. We also decide to offer a 15 percent discount to anyone who shares and tags us.

An hour later, our Sandcastle Books and Arts (We’re Just Beachy!) sign hangs out front, and bright turquoise Adirondack chairs are arranged on the front porch, just beneath the sign, for those who prefer to shoot their selfies seated.

“Oh my gosh!” I say, taking it all in. “It looks like a bookstore.”

“It is a bookstore.” Myra grins. “And now all we have to do is make sure that everyone knows it. I think we should split up and visit every shop, gallery, bar, hotel, and restaurant on Pass-a-Grille and ask them to give their customers these grand opening bookmarks with the fifteen percent discount on them. Whoever delivers a stack to Paradise Grille could also stay a bit and hand them out in the area and on the beach to anyone who seems interested.

“Sydney, will you stop by Harley’s and make sure A.J. puts them somewhere visible? Or maybe you could convince him to give a bookmark to everyone who comes in?”

“I’ll give him a batch and I’ll hand them out myself when I work this weekend. Do we have a target demo? What kind of customers are you hoping for?”

“I feel very strongly that they should be breathing,” Myra says with a straight face. “And it will probably help if they have the ability to read, and a desire to do so. I don’t care how old they are or whether they’re locals, snowbirds, or simply passing through. We just need people to come in, look around, and buy books.”

“And the more people who take pictures in front of our vignettes and share them on social media, the better,” I add.

“Clear?” Myra shouts.

“Crystal!” we shout back.

“All right, then!” Myra laughs. “And I am extremely grateful that you are loud and enthusiastic! Bring it in!”

We do as she says, huddling together then bumping fists. On the count of three, we raise those fists and shout, “Sandcastle Books and Arts. We’re Just Beachy!”

Now that she’s got us pumped, Myra doles out assignments to each of us. Two minutes later we head out to spread the word and as many bookmarks with discounts as we can.

• • •

When we finally straggle back to the store, Myra opens two bottles of wine and starts filling glasses. Parched from talking up the grand opening and convincing neighboring businesses to put the bookmark discounts in their customers’ hands, we toast the store and ourselves and everything we can think of.

“How’d it go, over all?” Myra asks as we drain our glasses.

“No one turned down the bookmarks,” I say.

“Yeah, I think the locals are almost as excited as we are to have a bookstore here on Pass-a-Grille,” Grand adds.

“Now we just have to plan the grand opening,” Myra muses. “What kind of entertainment should we have?”

“Hmm…maybe a clown or a magician for the kids? Or a clown who is a magician. Or vice versa,” Grand suggests.

“And William Hightower playing live? I keep pinching myself,” Myra says. “The word’s out and I know he’s going to draw a huge crowd.”

“And do you think A.J. might be willing to serve as bartender?”

“Absolutely.” I laugh. “I think he’d love to participate. And I know from personal experience that he’s unlikely to say no to Cassie Everheart.”

There’s agreement and laughter.

“And maybe one of the local restaurants will give us a good price on appetizers?” I suggest.

“Posh,” Grand says. “I’ll make the appetizers. And some desserts, too.”

“That would be great. And you’ll have Sydney to help you.” Myra beams.

I nod and smile though Grand and I are both well aware that cooking is not my superpower. Or one I aspire to.

“I could ask Kyra to help me photograph people in front of the vignettes and post them to social media,” I offer, relieved to have a task that does not require culinary skill. “And if Luke’s not on duty, I bet he’d be willing to come provide security. Just in case the clown or any of the children get too rowdy.”

At the mention of rowdy kids, I suddenly picture Luke surrounded by them. Kids that look like both of us. Which is completely ridiculous because although children are something I vaguely imagined might be part of my future if I ever met the right man who had parent potential, I’ve never once wondered this about any of the guys I’ve had relationships with. Including Jake, who’s already “in a relationship” with my replacement on Murder 101.

I don’t even know whether Luke wants to be a dad one day. Or whether he sees me, let alone children with me, as part of his future.

Then I blush at the odd yearning I feel at the idea of having Luke’s children. It’s one I’ve never felt before. And I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be feeling it now.

• • •

It’s Saturday afternoon, barely 3:00 p.m., and Sandcastle Books is already bulging with people. A long line zigzags across the porch and down the front steps as guests wait to have their photos taken in front of the vignette.

Kyra takes the individual photos while Troy shoots video of the event, which they’ll ultimately edit together. My job is to welcome each guest and help them tag and post with the hashtags #Sandcastlebooksgrandopening and #justbeachy!

A.J.’s in the kitchen pouring wine and mixing drinks for the adults while Grand passes out juice boxes to the kids, whom she sends out to the enclosed porch. There the adults ooh and ahh over Grand’s murals while the kids drop onto beanbag chairs and kid-size rockers to watch wide-eyed as the clown blows up balloons, twists them into animals, then puts on a comedy sketch with them. Troy is there catching it all on video, which he immediately shares with all the right hashtags.

Nikki and Joe Giraldi arrive with their twin girls, Sofia and Gemma. Maddie’s ex-husband, Steve, is right behind them with Kyra’s son, Dustin. Maddie greets her grandson with a kiss on the head. As we adults hug one another hello, Sofia, Gemma, and Dustin make a beeline for the clown. Whom I hope will survive their enthusiasm.

“I heard you’ve been home for almost ten days, Joe. Are you resting up and taking it easy?” I ask.

“Ha! I’m exhausted. Luvvie’s left for a vacation and Nikki’s got a lot going on with the new store.”

“And?” I prompt.

“And I love my children dearly, but parachuting in to almost any hotspot on the globe would feel slightly less scary than being a full-time stay-at-home dad right now.”

“Men!” Nikki snorts. “It’s only been, like, two weeks. And they call us the ‘weaker sex.’ ”

“Well, those two words will never cross my mind, let alone my lips, now that I’ve been up close and personal to pregnancy, childbirth, and everything that comes after,” Joe says. “I’ve started thinking we should rain dirty diapers down on our enemies from the sky and see how fast they surrender.”

Nikki rolls her eyes and heads toward the back room to make sure the kids are okay.

Locals, including some of the regulars from Harley’s, show up. Brian Boyer is here, of course, always close to Grand and ready to do her bidding. I wish I could take him and his interest in Grand at face value, but there’s something in his manner that feels off. Or maybe it’s the way that Luke, who’s still in uniform, keeps Boyer in his sights even as the kids gather around Luke and pepper him with questions like “How’d you git to be a po-ees-man? Kin I be one? Why are poeesman called Leos? Is it becuz they’re like lions? Where’s your gun? Kin I hold it?”

Some of the kids watch every move Luke makes, having apparently never been this close to a real-life law enforcement officer.

I have no problem with the children’s adoration. But I’d like to tell those women lusting after the man I’m sleeping with to get lost.

Except I know that while Luke might find my jealousy amusing—he’s just glanced my way, eyebrow raised—Myra might never forgive me for chasing off even a single handsy female customer.

Then Maddie Singer and William Hightower, who’s toting a guitar case, arrive and the adults present buzz with excitement.

“Oh, thank you so much for coming,” Myra gushes as she hugs them both.

“We’re so glad we could be here.” Maddie smiles. “Will and the band head out on tour next week, but neither of us wanted to miss your grand opening. It’ll be so wonderful to have a bookstore right here on Pass-a-Grille.”

Myra beams. “Well, you just let me know your favorite authors and genres and I’ll make sure to keep them stocked.”

“Absolutely.” Maddie’s smile grows even larger.

“I hope that applies to me, too,” Will adds.

“Yeah, Will’s a voracious reader. He likes the classics, biographies, and history especially.” Maddie gives Will a wink. “But he’s been known to read the occasional romance. I think he’s learned a lot from them.”

“Guilty on all counts,” Will agrees. “I realized back when I got out of rehab for the last time and started touring again that a good book can make life on the road way more bearable.”

“Gosh, I don’t remember seeing that little tidbit about you in the tabloids,” Grand teases.

“That would be because an aging rock star who’d rather read than trash a hotel room is not something the publicists play up.” Will smiles. “They’re afraid someone will notice that I’m an old fart.”

“Ha! As if.” I laugh.

“Fortunately, Maddie here likes her men old and grizzled,” Will teases.

“Well, I choose to think of him as rugged and mature.” Maddie plants a kiss on his cheek. “But I think it’s time for you to ‘stop jawing’ and entertain these folks.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nods to a mini stage that we set up over in the corner near the window. “Is that where you want me?”

“Yes. There’s an outlet there if you need it and no one will be able to sneak up behind you.”

“Perfect. Let me just get set up and plugged in and we’ll get this party ramped up a bit.”

Moments later, Will sends me a smile and nods to those already in the living room as he steps up on the stage. Then, not waiting for, or needing, an introduction, he begins to pick out a familiar tune on his guitar. The living room fills up as Will launches into “Mermaid in You,” one of his biggest hits. Soon, without urging or warning, the crowd gathered in front of him begins to sing along, swaying in place, clearly thrilled to be in the same room with the man formerly known as “Wild Will.”

Kyra and Troy shoot Will and the crowd from every possible angle then livestream the video. When it goes viral, I start to worry that we’ll end up with more people than we can stuff into the space, front and back porches included.

I’m almost relieved when the grand opening officially ends a little after five, but even though a lot of alcohol has been consumed, no one seems eager to leave. Myra grins as she rings up book sales on the cash register and thanks people for coming.

Kyra, Troy, Maddie, and Will get hugs from all of us, and it’s six o’clock by the time all our guests, with the exception of Luke and Brian, have departed.

“To Sandcastle Books!” I say, raising a glass in toast. “We are just so frickin’ beachy!”

“We sure are!” Grand crows.

Myra laughs. “I can’t thank you all enough. You made the grand opening a huge success.”

After another round of toasts, Grand and I head back to Casas de Flores. Luke tags along behind us.

“That was incredible, wasn’t it?” Grand says as we leave Pass-a-Grille behind. “I’m so happy for Myra. And glad to be a part of her new venture.”

“Me too,” I agree. It’s not exactly an acting gig, but it’s a worthwhile venture, and I’m excited not only for Myra but for the place Grand is creating for herself here.

In fact, I’d call this day pretty close to perfect. If it weren’t for the fact that when we get back to Grand’s, someone has smashed in her side light and the front door is wide open.

Twenty-Three

“Wait here,” Luke says as he jumps out of the car and strides toward the front door.

For once, Grand and I do as instructed. But I have my phone in my hand before he reaches the front door and have already punched in, but not called, 911.

He’s out in less than five minutes and he doesn’t look happy. “Obviously, someone broke in. Again. Only this time they took the time to search the entire house. It’s trashed.”

“Oh no!” Grand and I make a move toward the front door.

Luke stops us with a look. “Isn’t the alarm system working?” he asks quietly.

“No, it works fine.” It takes everything I’ve got to meet his gaze. “It’s just that it’s, um, you know, daytime.” I swallow. “And we, uh, usually just put it on at night when we go to bed.”

He sighs. Somehow, he manages not to say a lot of the things he’d clearly like to. What he does say is, “Someone is still looking for something.” His gaze grows steely. “I find it hard to believe that neither of you has any idea what that thing or things might be.”

I blink and focus on looking innocent.

Luke shakes his head and sighs. “Nope. Not falling for that look. You’ve been using it since elementary school.”

This is the trouble with trying to outwit someone who’s known you since you were a child. If Luke and I are going to have any kind of relationship as adults, I’m going to have to up my game. Or tell him the truth.

“I…I think I need to go inside and sit down,” Grand says, swaying slightly. “Could you, could you help me, Luke?” She reaches for his arm before I can determine whether this is a performance.

“Of course.” Luke wraps one strong arm around her shoulder and gently grasps one of her hands.

I hope he doesn’t see the wink she aims my way as I begin to move from her other side and step behind her to prevent any chance of her falling backward.

“Oh my,” Grand whispers as we step off the stairs into the living room.

There’s no winking or smiling as we take in the main floor with its slashed sofa cushions and paintings ripped off the walls, their canvases peeled back. Luke wasn’t exaggerating when he used the word “trashed.”

“It’s even worse upstairs,” he says as we move into the kitchen. “Why don’t you take a seat?” He leads Grand to a dining room chair.

“You too,” he says to me, only it’s not a question.

The only thing missing as he interrogates us yet again about what Grand has that someone wants this badly is a bare lightbulb over our heads and two-way glass into an observation room. But the longer we hold out, the more determined Luke becomes. (Which is exactly how Cassie Everheart and every other television cop or detective would play it.)

It’s only when Grand, who can apparently cry at will, has tears streaming down her cheeks that Luke stops firing questions at us.

“I’m sorry,” he says to her as he plucks a tissue out of a nearby box and hands it to Grand. “I know how stressful this must be for you. You need to arm your alarm system anytime you leave home, and we can ask the Treasure Island Police Department to continue doing regular drive-bys until we figure this out.” He draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “But I don’t know how to help or protect you if you won’t tell me the truth.”

• • •

Grand and I let out audible sighs of relief once the front door closes behind Luke, but we don’t speak until we hear him drive off. Neither of us are remotely ready to begin cleaning up the mess that surrounds us, so I grab bottles of water and plop back down at the dining room table.

“We need to tell Luke what’s going on,” I say to Grand. “ASAP.”

“No.” She shakes her head.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean, I haven’t kept The Madonna hidden all these years just to bandy it about now.”

“I don’t think telling a police officer, whom you’ve known practically his entire life, that bad people are breaking into your home in order to steal a painting that actually belongs to you is ‘bandying.’ ”

She stares at me.

“It’s not safe, Grand. Whoever’s after it is clearly serious. And dangerous.”

“No.” Her eyes flash with indignation. “I not only painted The Madonna, it’s a self-portrait, for God’s sake. Even if no one else ever knows or acknowledges it. It belongs to me.”

“I hear you, Grand. But do you have proof of any kind?” I ask quietly.

“You’re doubting your own grandmother?”

“No, I’m not. But others will. Especially since for the last sixty-plus years, the world has been told that it was painted by Phillip Drake.”

“Hmph.” Grand folds her arms across her chest.

“Hmph? Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?”

“What else would you like me to say? It’s not that complicated. I painted The Madonna for the man I had stupidly fallen in love with. When he proved to be a liar and cheater, and I discovered he’d signed his own name over mine, I took it back. The fact that the world has been told otherwise isn’t really my problem.”

“I’d agree with you if someone wasn’t trying so hard to steal it.”

Grand takes a long swallow of her water and shrugs.

I look her right in the eye and force myself to say what needs to be said. “You do realize that given Brian’s wife’s affair with Phillip and her place in the New York art scene, Luke could be right. It’s possible that Brian could be after more than just your company.”

“That’s so insulting.”

“I know, Grand. And I’m sorry to have to even suggest it. But at this point he’s our only logical suspect.”

Her hands tighten around her water bottle, but she doesn’t argue.

“So,” I say carefully, “I’m assuming you have it hidden somewhere that the people who’ve been after it haven’t yet discovered.”

“I think that’s a fair assumption.” Her tone remains serious, but her eyes twinkle.

“You’re actually not going to tell me?”

“No.”

“I’m your own flesh and blood and you don’t trust me?” It’s more statement than question.

“Well, you are sleeping with a policeman.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “What if it accidentally slipped out in the throes of passion?”

“Grand. This is serious.”

“Believe me, I know that, sweetheart. But I promise you it’s in a safe place.”

“Like a bank vault? Or a safe-deposit box?”

“My lips are absolutely sealed. But only because I believe that the less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

“Well, that’s funny,” I snap. “Because I think we’d both be safer if you weren’t hiding the painting. Surely there must be someone who knows the truth.”

“Most definitely,” Grand replies. “It’s clear that Phillip must have told someone before he died. I’ve had that painting for almost sixty years. And it’s only now that Phillip’s gone that someone is trying to steal it from me.”

“Well, that someone seems unwilling to give up. And the attempts are escalating,” I point out. “We need to tell Luke the truth and we need to do it right now.” I pick up my cell phone.

“But,” Grand sputters.

“No, no buts. I’m going to call him right now and ask him to come back.”

“But it has Phillip’s signature on it. What if he doesn’t believe that it’s mine? What if—”

“Grand, he’s known you since he was a child. I seriously doubt that he’d confiscate the painting or arrest either of us. Especially not for a theft that isn’t technically a theft. That took place in another state. Before Luke was even born. At least then you wouldn’t be the only one with a target on your back.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Grand says with what sounds like real regret. “But I need more time to—”

“No. No more time. No more lying.” I call Luke and ask him to come back. Less than ten minutes later he calls and tells me he’s at the front door.

• • •

It’s Saturday afternoon, and Sandcastle Books’ Book Club and Story Time are underway in the back room.

On the adult side of the wall divider, six women sip wine, laugh, and join in a discussion of The Second Life of Mirielle West by Amanda Skenandore, led by Myra.

On the other side of the divider, their children, who range in age from four to six, sit on the floor in front of me while I hold up a board book of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are so that they can see his illustrations as I read the story to them.

An eagle-eyed off-duty cop, sent by Luke and introduced to everyone as Myra’s nephew James, stands guard just inside the divider. I do my best to ignore his presence and focus on the children.

Where the Wild Things Are was my very favorite book when I was their age, and I try to do the characters and their voices justice as I read.

At the end of the story, I pass out paper and crayons so that they can draw and color pictures of Max and their favorite wild things. Then I arrange them as best I can in front of the vignette on the kids’ wall and use my phone to get a picture of them.

When the adult conversation comes to an end a few minutes later, I open the divider all the way so that I can get a shot of the whole crew in front of Grand’s mural, which I tag and share on social media.

Despite our need for private security, the afternoon has been a win-win for both age groups and the bookstore, because each mom buys next month’s book club read and a copy of Where the Wild Things Are for their child.

• • •

I’m still smiling hours later when Luke shows up just off duty and still in his uniform.

“Hey there. How’d story time go?” His tone is affectionate and relaxed, and a small shiver of happiness snakes up my spine when he puts an arm around me and drops a kiss on the top of my head.

“Good. It was comforting having James here. And it turns out kids are a pretty undemanding audience. I mean, there was some herding and gathering involved, but it was way less stressful than auditioning.” I smile up at him. “I think the kids and their mothers enjoyed themselves. We also got some great shots for social media, and Myra sold quite a few books.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah, it was. How did your shift go?”

“Fine,” he says. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Now, I’m hoping to have dinner with a beautiful bouncer before escorting her to work. It’s pretty much every man’s fantasy.”

I roll my eyes, but mostly to fight off my urge to throw my arms around his neck and kiss him senseless.

“James is going to drive Grand home and stay there until the night shift arrives. Are you up for grabbing a bite over at Paradise Grille? You’ve got close to an hour before you need to be at Harley’s. We can catch the sunset and get some food in you in case you need to kick some butt tonight.”

“Perfect.”

I hug Grand and Myra goodbye. Luke and I stroll across the street hand in hand and place our orders at the counter. Then we nab an empty picnic table overlooking the Gulf.

The sound of the tide washing in and out is soothing. Luke toasts me with his beer and I raise my margarita to him in return, then we sip contentedly as the cool breeze skims over us.

When our burgers and fries are ready, Luke retrieves them from the counter, and we chow down.

“So,” I say between bites, “I do believe it’s your turn to plan a date.”

He finishes off a French fry then grins. “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten. In fact, I’ve got the perfect thing in mind.”

“Which is?” I ask.

“Oh, no you don’t.” His grin gets bigger. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Not after the trouble you went to, to surprise me with those mani-pedis.”

Ruh-roh, I think, but do not say.

We share a dessert while we watch the sun sink slowly into the Gulf. Then we amble over to Harley’s, where he gives me a lovely, lingering kiss at the door.

“Have a good evening and don’t take any shit from anyone,” he says quietly. “Text me when you get home, okay?”

I nod and place a kiss on his cheek. It’s kind of nice to have someone unrelated to you by birth who cares what happens to you.

“If you’re free tomorrow at four, I’ll pick you up for our date.”

“Okay. Why don’t you give me a hint where we’re going so that I know how to dress?”

“Nice try.” He laughs. “But my lips are totally sealed.” He does a locking motion in front of his lips.

“But—”

“Sorry,” he says, though it’s clear he isn’t. “I want it to be a surprise. Just like the date you planned for me.”

Twenty-Four

When he picks me up at Grand’s, I attempt to pry our destination out of him but his lips remain sealed.

It’s not until we pull up to a squat concrete building on the north side of 9th Avenue that I tune all the way back in. While Luke backs into a space between two shiny Ford F-150s, I take in our surroundings.

“You brought me to a gun range,” I say quietly when I spot the sign that dangles between two wooden posts. “Our date is going to involve firearms.”

“Yeah.” He looks at me. “This is kind of the guy version of a mani-pedi. Is that a problem?”

I can tell he’s waiting for an objection or a complaint. Or a rant about gun control. Or something that will prove I don’t have the “balls” to fire a gun at a target.

“But I don’t have a gun,” I say as we climb out of his car.

“No problem. I’ve got you covered.” He pops the trunk open, pulls out a large canvas bag, and hefts it over one shoulder. Then he motions for me to follow him.

Inside, it’s dark and cool. The pings and pops of gunfire echo off the hard surfaces and reverberate in the windowless concrete space.

Shooting stations are spread across the width of the room. Vertical concrete pillars separate the lanes, each of which has a chest-high table and a direct line of sight to the lane’s target hanging from a pulley system about forty-five yards away.

Most of the lanes are occupied.

A tall, heavily muscled Black man around Luke’s age steps up, flashes a smile, and claps Luke on the back.

“Hey, man. Good to see you.”

“Same here.” Luke grins. “Sydney, this is Tank Barnes. We were on the force together for a while. He owns this place. Tank, this is Sydney Ryan.”

“Nice to meet you, Tank.” My hand disappears into Tank’s meatier one.

“Glad to meet you, too,” the aptly nicknamed Tank replies. “Though I don’t know what you’re doing with this troublemaker.”

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering that myself.”

“Ha!” Tank laughs. “Glad to see you with someone who can see you for who you are, my man.” Tank looks at me more closely. “Hmmm. You look awfully familiar.”

I shoot Luke a “don’t you dare” stare, but it’s Tank who snaps his fingers and points one at me. “I’ve got it! You’re Cassie Everheart. Man, I couldn’t believe it when they sent you off to rehab like that. Hope you’re doing okay now.”

The way he says this makes it hard to know whether he believes I’m actually Cassie just out of rehab or understands that I was only the actress playing her. But at least he’s not hostile like some of the fans and law enforcement officers I’ve encountered.

“That was a tough exit from the show,” Tank continues with a shake of his head. “I liked the way you played Cassie, though. You were way better than the actress they brought in after you left. Much more authentic.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” My shoulders unhunch a bit and I begin to truly relax for the first time that day.

“Right,” Luke says. “It looks like lane ten is open.” He points to a nearby shooting station. “Okay if we set up there?”

“Absolutely,” Tank says. “In fact, I held it for you. Just let me know if you need anything.” Tank shoots me a grin. “And if this guy gives you any trouble, Sydney, all you gotta do is give me a shout.”

“Thanks.” I smile. “Will do.” But all I can think about is making sure Luke understands exactly who he’s dealing with. And this is the perfect place to do it.

When we get to lane ten, Luke opens his duffel and pulls out two pairs of headphones, two Glocks, and two boxes of bullets. He’s just starting to explain where the bullets go when I take the smaller handgun from him, release the magazine, and check it to make sure it’s empty. Then I chamber a round.

“So I’m taking it you’ve loaded and fired a real gun before.”

“Yep.”

“But don’t you only use blanks on a TV show or in a movie?”

“Yes, of course. But I was taught never to fire or point even a prop gun without first checking the magazine.” I do not bring up the deadly mistakes that took place on the set of Rust, though it remains a stark reminder of just how horribly wrong things can go when even prop guns are involved. “And as far as I’m concerned, looking like you know how to load and shoot a dummy gun requires knowing how to load and shoot a real one. Or at least it should.”

We both make sure our headphones are secure. Then Luke takes a step back and motions me to go ahead. Although he now knows that I know how to load a gun, the cocky grin on his face tells me that he still doesn’t really believe that I’m capable of hitting a target with one. And I have a ton of residual anger that I have to aim somewhere.

“Thanks.” Tuning him, and everything else, out, I step up directly behind the table, face the target, legs spread shoulder-width apart. Then I raise my gun, place my left hand under the heel of the hand that holds the pistol, and take a deep breath, which I exhale slowly. Then I fire all six bullets in rapid succession.

Twenty-Five

“You could have told me how good a shot you are before you shot the whole center of that first target out. Not to mention the second. And third.”

“And miss seeing the shock on your face?” I feel calmer, more in control of myself, after decimating those targets. “God, I wish I had a picture of your expression.”

“Funny.”

“Extremely.” I know my grin is what could only be described as “shit eating.” “That’s what you get for making assumptions. I don’t remember you asking me if I’d ever shot a real gun before you planned this ‘date.’ ”

“Point taken.”

“You really don’t want to go around underestimating me.”

“No, I do not.” He raises his hands in surrender. “I’ll try not to do it again. But to be fair, the fact that you didn’t actually use a gun to subdue those two morons that day at Harley’s caused me to think you weren’t comfortable handling one.”

“So you think I should have discharged a weapon in a crowded bar?”

“No, of course not. But—”

“I did what made sense in that situation. And for the record, I personally don’t believe anyone who’s not military or law enforcement should be carrying a gun around in public, concealed or otherwise. Once A.J. threw that gun at me, my main goal was to make sure the bad guys didn’t get ahold of it.”

“Got it.”

“And you know that saying, ‘When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me’?”

“I do.” Luke nods. “And I apologize.”

I have to admit that Luke is saying all the right things, but I can also see how hard he’s trying not to laugh.

“Absolutely no more ass making,” he promises with a big smile.

“This isn’t funny,” I say.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s kind of funny,” Luke teases.

“You totally rock, Sydney,” Tank says, walking over to join us. “You, my friend,” he says to Luke, “just got schooled! I am so glad I got to witness it. And get it on video.”

Luke sighs. “It’s a sad day when your girl and your friend treat you like the moron you are.” He aims a wink my way. “You have shown me the error of my ways. I’ll try to be less moronic in the future. Let’s go grab dinner. I need to drown my sorrows and embarrassment in food and drink.”

“It’s going to take a lot of food and drink to forgive you. And a really chocolatey dessert.”

“Done,” Luke concedes. “Wanna join us, Tank?”

“Nah. I’m guessing you’d probably rather get down on your knees and beg her forgiveness for underestimating her without an audience.”

• • •

I wake up naked the next morning to the sound of Luke whistling in the kitchen. I stretch and yawn, reliving the great meal at Doc Ford’s, the excellent apology sex that followed, and the fact that when I called Grand to let her know I wasn’t coming home, I was also able to tell her that Luke had arranged things so that when the off-duty cop who was handling overnight security left in the morning, the Treasure Island Police Department would step up their drive-bys.

I’m debating whether to get out of bed to see what’s going on when Luke, who’s wearing only a somewhat tented towel, comes into the bedroom bearing coffee.

“Ah, my hero.” I sit up against my pillow, tuck the comforter around me, then reach for the steaming mug. “Mmm, so good.” I down several long, wonderful sips before placing the mug on the nightstand. “Is there anything in the world better than a half-naked man delivering coffee in bed?”

“A completely naked man?” He drops the towel and I see just how aroused he is.

“Maybe next time we should skip the mind-blowing sex and go right to the coffee delivery.”

“Oh no.” I reach out and wrap one hand around the hard, silky length of him, enjoying the sensation and the low groan it draws out of him. “I think those things belong together. And in that order.” I smile. “God, I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed.”

Luke takes this as the compliment it is then leans over and brushes his lips across my cheek.

“My pleasure,” he murmurs as his lips move over mine.

“Mmmm.” It’s all I can manage as he hardens even further in my hand, and his tongue tangles with mine.

Luke puts one knee on the bed, throws his other leg over both of mine. When he lowers himself over me and begins to rub his shaft up and down my clit, my body begins to move with his.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs as his hands move to cup my breasts. His thumbs tease my nipples until they harden. “That’s it.”

I’m so wet and ready for him, I’m afraid I’m going to combust.

“That’s it,” he croons. “It’s okay. Just let go.”

“No, no, I want…” I try to hold on. “I want you inside me. So we can come together.”

“There’s plenty of time for that. You first.” With his eyes locked on mine, he pinches one nipple lightly and I feel a tug deep inside me. Then he trails one finger between my breasts, down my abdomen, over my belly button, and between my legs.

“Oh God.” I’m hanging on by a thread. “But I want you inside me. I need you inside me.”

His thumb moves over my clit as he pushes that finger deep inside me.

“I love how wet and hot you are for me,” he says, turning that finger into a magic wand of wonderful.

I try to resist, but within seconds I orgasm around his finger, the waves of pleasure so intense, I’m not sure I can survive it.

“Oh God, oh God,” I gasp. “I…” I pull him down on top of me, feel the tip of his penis brush against my folds.

“Hold on.” He reaches into the nightstand, pulls out a foil packet, and rips it open with his teeth. I watch as he raises himself up and rolls it on.

I whimper as he enters me and begins to move. The whimper grows louder as he pushes deeper.

I meet each thrust greedily, wrapping my legs around his waist, holding him tight against me and inside me.

He fills me and withdraws. In and out. Over and over. Until every inch of me quivers in anticipation of the orgasm that’s about to consume me.

“I frickin’ love being inside you,” he groans as he pumps harder. Faster.

I’m hanging on by the slimmest of threads when he shouts, “Now! Oh, my God, Sydney! Come with me now!”

My body does as he commands. Wave after wave of sensation ripples through me.

• • •

We lay tangled up together for a time, breathing heavily. Then he rolls off me and onto his side, pulling me against him. My back tight against his chest. My buttocks pressed into his crotch. Our breathing slows. I float on a cloud of satisfaction. My eyes flutter shut. The next thing I’m aware of is his arms tightening around me and his penis stirring against me.

He draws a deep breath. “I can’t get enough of you.”

I flip myself over so that we’re face-to-face. I smile. “Yeah, I can feel Mr. Sleepy Head looking for attention.”

His hand brushes up my stomach and across my breasts. His penis hardens, its tip teasing against my belly. I’m more than ready to show it, and him, exactly what I’m in the mood for when Luke lifts his head and steals a look at his phone. “Are you sure we have time for another round?”

“Yes.” I actually feel like I might die if he doesn’t bury himself inside me right this minute. I push him onto his back, climb on top of him, and take his penis in both hands, running them up and down the length of him. Then I lean over to take him into my mouth.

He fists his hands in my hair and gives himself up to me. When I lower myself onto him, he groans and wraps his hands around my waist. I ride him slowly at first then faster as I take him all the way into me. “Are you sure?” he says on a groan. “About the time, I mean?”

The friction builds. I’m so turned on, I can barely absorb what he’s saying. “What are you talking about?”

He groans again. His head falls back. His hands are on my buttocks. “I’m talking about your audition,” he grits out. “Don’t you have one this morning?”

“Holy crap!” I practically throw myself off him, and swivel to look at the clock. It’s 9:00 a.m.

The audition for a national chain of beauty clinics is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. In downtown Tampa. Which is a good thirty to thirty-five minutes away. If rush-hour traffic is over.

I vault out of bed. “Damn it! There’s no way I can get back to Grand’s, shower, dress, get fully made up, and make it there in time.”

I’m dangerously close to tears. Because this is the first time since I got dropped from Murder 101 that a casting director has specifically requested me. Only I’m going to be a “no show” because I chose a night of sex over what I still hope will be my career.

“Don’t you have something in my closet?” Luke asks. “I know I’ve seen makeup in one of the bathroom vanity drawers.”

It’s hard to focus when your brain is stuck in a frantic loop of Oh my God, Oh my God…And not in the good orgasm way. Which is when it occurs to me that it might be all those orgasms, and Luke in general, that’ve helped me feel positive and hopeful.

Tears well up.

“Sydney, stop.” He places his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Calm down. Get yourself into the shower. Put on makeup. Get dressed.”

This is when I realize I don’t have anything to put on except what I wore to the gun range. I race to the closet and find a pair of heels buried in a corner and a dress crumpled on the closet floor. I hold up the horribly wrinkled dress but can’t quite hold back the tears.

Luke puts a gentle finger under my chin and looks into my eyes.

“Go take a shower and put on makeup,” he says again. “I’ll steam your dress. Then I’ll drive you to the audition.”

“You have a steamer?” I ask in amazement.

“Doesn’t everybody?” He grins. “Hurry up. There’ll still be plenty of northbound traffic at this time of day.”

“But, but…” I sputter. “Don’t you have to get to work?”

“Don’t worry about what I’ve got to do.” He’s already pulling on jeans and reaching for a T-shirt. “I’m sure I can get someone to cover for me.”

“Really?” I feel the first glimmer of hope.

“Really.” He shoos me toward the bathroom. “Go on. Hurry up. I’ll make you a coffee to go.”

Twenty-Six

All I can think about as we race toward Tampa is getting there in time. I stare straight out the window, watching the scenery flash by. I don’t try to envision the audition, worry about who the casting director is, or wonder whether I’ll be deemed “too Cassie,” “too old,” or “too” anything. Because the casting director knows exactly who I am and what roles I’ve played and requested me anyway.

When Luke screeches to a halt in front of the correct building near the Tampa Bay Arts Center, I jump out of his car with four minutes to spare. I use them to lean in to say goodbye. “I can’t thank you enough, Luke. Seriously. You’re a rock star!” I press a hurried kiss to his cheek. “I have no idea how long I’ll be so I’ll take an Uber home.”

“No need,” he says. “Now that I’m off for the day, I’m going to visit a friend in Hyde Park and hang out.”

A text dings in on his phone and he glances down then up at me. “That was the friend who took over the drive-bys at Grand’s this morning. Apparently, she brought out a breakfast sandwich for him.” Luke grins. “She gave the officer on duty last night a tin of homemade brownies. If she keeps this up, the guys will be begging for ‘Grand duty.’ ”

“I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know you’ve got people keeping an eye out,” I say, pressing one last kiss to his cheek.

“Text me when you’re done, and I’ll come get you. I know you’re going to knock ’em dead.”

When I reach the audition space, I tell myself it doesn’t matter how many other actresses I’m up against. I remind myself that I’m either exactly what they’re looking for or I’m not. I’ll either get the job or I won’t. I’m an actress, which means I’ve been facing potential rejection my entire adult life. If the people making the decision decide I’m too this or not enough that, that’s just part of my profession.

I’ve already got two jobs and barely an hour ago I had the best sex of my life. (Okay, I’m not sure how that fits here, but it belongs in the “plus” column.) If I don’t get this gig, it won’t be the end of my world.

Then, pep talk completed, I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and stride into the room. Where I see zero other actresses waiting to audition.

“You must be Sydney Ryan,” the woman at the front desk says with a smile. “Here’s your copy.” She hands me a sheet of paper with the copy I’ll be delivering. “They’ll be ready for you in just a minute.”

I look around the empty waiting area again. “I know I wasn’t meant to be here until ten. Has everyone else already auditioned?”

“No,” she says pleasantly. “There is no one else coming in today.”

Confused, I sit down and study the commercial copy I’ve been given. Which is when I discover that what was billed as a commercial for a national chain of beauty clinics is, in reality, a commercial for a national chain of clinics that specialize in breast augmentation. That chain is called Lift.

Don’t get me wrong, I lived and worked in Hollywood long enough not to judge anyone for investing in their appearance, especially if they work in front of the camera. I had my breasts “enhanced” shortly after I got to LA, only I wanted my breasts perkier, not noticeably larger.

“They’re ready for you now, Miss Ryan,” the receptionist says, leaving her desk to show me through the door and into a boardroom, where I’m introduced to the casting director, the creative director, and a representative from the chain.

There are handshakes all around. Then the creative director looks me over and says, “I’m assuming your agent explained what your role will be?”

“Um, no, not exactly,” I hedge because the only things Elise at the Martin Green Agency told me were that a chain of beauty clinics had specifically requested me to audition, where I needed to report, and the time I needed to be there.

“Well, you’re here because our client, Lift, wants you to star in a commercial for their nationwide chain. You would, in essence, become their spokesperson.”

“And no one here is concerned that my character, Cassie Everheart, became an alcoholic?”

“No, not at all,” the creative director replies. “In fact, Lift wants you partly because your character became an alcoholic and let it ruin her life.”

“And…?” I prompt, certain that I must be missing something.

“And,” the chain rep says, “we believe that if the actress who played Cassie Everheart has her breasts augmented, her still sizable fan base will see that as Cassie being ready to turn her life around.”

I blink. “Seriously? Lift actually believes that if someone with a drinking problem had their breasts enlarged, it would turn their life around?”

“Well, maybe not immediately,” the chain rep concedes. “But it would certainly be a start.”

“In fact, your agent has already negotiated a very attractive talent fee for you along with residuals,” the creative director adds. “The plan is to shoot your ‘before’ sequences as soon as your schedule allows.”

“Then,” the chain rep explains, “we will do your augmentation, which will be necessary for the ‘after’ shots. And we’ll even do it completely free of charge.”

Everyone watches me expectantly, clearly waiting for me to erupt in paroxysms of joy. But I am horrified by the whole idea. And even more horrified that I consider saying “yes” for almost fifteen seconds.

She shows me the total amount that I would be paid, and I close my eyes in disbelief. Disbelief that I’m about to turn down not just an acting gig, but an amount of money that I could live off for years.

• • •

“You seem to have finished a lot earlier than you expected,” Luke says as I climb into his car. “And the look on your face leads me to assume you didn’t get the gig.”

“Worse,” I groan.

“What’s worse than not getting the job?”

“Having to turn down a well-paying acting gig because you have scruples.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It turns out the audition was for a national chain of clinics that specialize in breast augmentation.”

“Breast augmentation?” His forehead wrinkles.

“Yep. I was asked to come in because I do not have a huge chest. And because the chain believes that since Cassie Everheart ruined her life with alcohol, Murder 101 fans would see Cassie having a boob job as her first important step in trying to turn her life around.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I mean, I’ve never envied women with huge breasts, and I have no desire to ‘enhance’ mine now.” I do not mention that mine have already been enhanced though in a much less obvious way. “And apparently, I didn’t need to audition because my agent had already negotiated a hefty payment for the role without telling, or warning, me.”

Luke nods, making it clear that he’s listening but is smart enough to let me vent.

“They want to use me and Cassie to try to convince other women to have boob jobs,” I continue. “Oh, and they’re throwing in a ‘free’ augmentation, which I would be contractually required to have, before they shoot the ‘after’ part of the commercial.”

“Okay. That is kind of creepy.”

“It’s completely creepy and doing it would have felt like an all-time career low, at a time when I didn’t believe my career could tank any further.” I shake my head. “But as desperate as I am to get an acting gig, I’m not prepared to alter or display my breasts for the world to see.”

Luke starts the car. “So it sounds like you did the right thing in turning it down. Shouldn’t you be feeling good about refusing to compromise yourself and your principles?”

“Oh, it felt great in the moment. But it turns out that doing the ‘right thing’ is not what it’s cracked up to be. Especially when it keeps you from earning a good-sized paycheck plus residuals.”

“Gotcha. Well, I think you should focus on feeling good about the decision you made. It’s not everyone who’s strong enough to walk away when something doesn’t feel right.”

“Thank you.” We ride for a few minutes in silence while I try to clear my head. We’re on the Howard Frankland Bridge on our way over Tampa Bay when my cell phone rings.

“It’s Grand,” I say as I answer. “Hi, what’s up?”

“I’m calling to see if you’d like to invite Luke to come for an early dinner this evening. Maybe around five thirty? I’m making meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and I have an apple pie in the oven for dessert. I can’t wait to hear about your audition.”

“Can I help?” I ask, though what I really need right now is a long walk on the beach. And maybe a little time in the sack with Luke to help me get over the damn audition that wasn’t.

“Thanks.” I can hear the smile in Grand’s voice. “But I’ve got everything under control. And I know the kitchen isn’t exactly your ‘happy place.’ ”

“What’s going on?” Luke asks. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Grand invited you to join us for an early dinner. Are you up for it?”

“Sure.”

“We’re both already salivating,” I assure Grand. “I just need to decompress, and Luke has the day off.”

• • •

By the time we leave Luke’s for dinner at Grand’s, we’ve taken a long, leisurely walk on the beach, showered together (sometimes you need help to make sure you’ve gotten rid of every particle of sand regardless of where it’s been hiding), then tangled with each other in Luke’s bed until we basically passed out, exhausted from the day and the number of times we had sex. It’s close to 5:00 p.m. when we have a final shower and force ourselves to put on clothes.

Grand has appetizers waiting for us, and in moments I’ve filled two wineglasses with a favorite pinot noir and poured Luke a Stella Artois.

We clink glasses and toast each other.

I’ve already downed my wine and poured another before Grand asks how the audition went.

“I was offered the job, but I had to turn it down,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.

She raises an eyebrow, and I give her the details she’s waiting for. “Bottom line, the commercial turned out to be for a chain of clinics that do breast augmentation and they wanted me to showcase mine both before and after the augmentation they expected me to have.”

“Goodness!” Grand says.

“Yeah.” I sigh. “And my agent agreed to all of this on my behalf without telling or warning me. Which means I’m going to have to find another agent, assuming I can even get one, given Cassie’s demise and Tonja Kay’s dislike of me.” I blink back tears. “Okay, enough about me. Dinner smells delicious. Let’s eat.”

Luke nods his agreement. “Everything smells wonderful. Here, Grand. Why don’t you let me carry the filled plates to the table.”

Minutes later we’re seated and chowing down. We stick with safe topics and chat all the way through the heavenly apple pie à la mode.

When we can’t eat another bite, I clear the table and load the dishwasher while Luke makes us espresso martinis. Once we’re all seated, we hold our martinis aloft, click rims, and toast one another.

“These are so delicious.” I smile. “I don’t know why it took so long for them to become popular.”

“Yeah, I read somewhere that they were invented by a bartender in London in the late 1880s,” Luke says. “But they only began to catch on in the US in 2022.”

“Well, I’m glad they made it ‘across the pond.’ Bottoms up!” Grand says, though she’s sipping much more slowly than Luke and I are. “And I just want to add how proud I am of the way you stood up for yourself today, Sydney. Sometimes we just have to trust our gut and do what we believe is right, even if we pay a price for it.”

“Thanks. I’m pretty sure I learned that from you.” Then I look her in the eye. “Which is why you need to tell Luke exactly what the thieves are after and why.”

“But I don’t think—”

“No, Grand,” I cut her off. “No more evading and pretending. We’re relying on Luke to protect you. You need to tell him what’s going on so that he can do that. And you need to do it now.”

Grand begins to shake her head. “It’s not a good idea. I don’t want—”

“And I don’t think you’re thinking about anyone but yourself right now,” Luke interrupts. “Simply because she’s living with you, Sydney’s at risk, too. And I can’t believe that keeping this secret is more important than your granddaughter’s life.”

“But I never meant—” Grand begins.

“It doesn’t matter what your intentions were or are. If you don’t tell me exactly what’s going on, I have zero chance of protecting either of you.”

Twenty-Seven

After Luke leaves, I make sure all the doors and sliders are locked then I arm the alarm system. Tired and emotionally drained, I spend a lot of the night tossing and turning, planning exactly what I’m going to say to Martin when I tell him off and fire him, while listening for an intruder.

I don’t get much sleep, but I wake to the heavenly aroma of freshly brewed coffee. When I open my eyes, rays of sunshine slat through the shutters. Throwing off the covers, I stretch and yawn, then make a quick pit stop in the bathroom before heading down to the kitchen. There, Grand places a mug of coffee in my hands and motions me toward a barstool at the counter.

“Scrambled or over easy?” she asks as I practically inhale those first lovely sips.

“Scrambled.”

“With spinach or feta?”

“Both.”

“Bagel or whole wheat toast?”

“Hmmmm…toast. With lots of butter.”

“Done!”

I start to stand to help, but Grand waves me back into my seat. Then she heads to the refrigerator and starts pulling out ingredients.

I stare out the open kitchen window. The blue sky is still streaked with wispy white clouds. A light breeze stirs the palms bracketing the cobblestone street that stretches between two rows of pastel town houses.

“God, it’s beautiful here,” I say.

“It is, isn’t it?”

“How’d you sleep, Grand?” I ask as she unwraps a stick of butter then begins cracking eggs.

“Like a rock. You?”

“More like a pebble bouncing down a cliff. Things just kept rolling around in my head. Between thinking about the job and money I threw away and building up the nerve to fire Marty, I barely slept.”

“Well, I have no doubt you did the right and honorable thing in turning down that Lift business.”

“Thanks.” I take another long, lovely sip of coffee that doesn’t quite dispel my unease. “Unfortunately, my decision doesn’t feel quite as clear-cut today as it did in the moment.”

“They rarely do, dear. When I look back on my relationship with Phillip and how I let it derail me and my plans, I don’t know what I was thinking. But I’m proud of you for taking a stand.”

Grand places a finger under my chin and lifts it gently so that our gazes meet. “I have complete faith that you’ll get back on your feet and figure things out. In the meantime, you have Harley’s on the weekends and story time and potential acting lessons at the bookstore. And I have absolutely no doubt that you’ll have plenty of acting opportunities once people start forgetting about the whole Cassie Everheart drama and you have someone new representing you. But no matter what, there’ll always be a place for you wherever I live. ‘Mi casa es su casa,’ ” as they say. “No matter where that casa is.”

I reach over and wrap my arms around her. “Thanks, Grand. You’re the best.”

“I feel exactly the same way about you.” She shivers slightly. “Now, all we have to do is make sure that home is never at Buffington Arms.”

I nod my agreement. “I’m with you.”

When we’ve finished our breakfast and drunk as much coffee as we can hold, we do some light housekeeping and a bit of laundry. Then we take a lovely stroll around the complex, greeting people who are out enjoying the weather or walking their dogs.

“I just love how friendly everyone is here,” Grand says after a woman she met at a mah-jongg lesson smiles and waves as she drives by.

When we get back to Grand’s town house, we carry glasses of ice water out to the main-floor balcony and settle at the table to watch the boats go by. Grand is the first to spot the three dolphins just beyond the seawall while I try, unsuccessfully, to capture them with my cell phone camera. I’ve been attempting this since I arrived and I’m always just seconds too late to get a shot before they dive.

Grand points to bubbles that appear just a few yards farther out that indicate the dolphins are about to surface again. “They say if there are three, it’s a mother, father, and baby. If it’s only two, the father is off somewhere else. And if it’s alone, it’s a male.”

I look at my grandmother. She looks as relaxed as I feel in this moment. Seconds later our dolphin watch is interrupted when my phone shrieks out the Psycho ringtone.

“I feel so wonderfully relaxed. Maybe we can call her back a little later…”

I wince as I drop the call. I love my mother, but she and relaxation are rarely used in the same sentence.

I’m just starting to unclench when Mom calls back.

“You really need to replace that ringtone before your mother accidentally hears it,” Grand says.

I inhale then exhale but it just keeps ringing. “Hi, Mom,” I say as I answer.

“Are you and your grandmother all right?” Her tone is urgent.

“Yes, of course. What’s wrong?”

“Is she there with you now?” She sounds increasingly frantic.

“Yes.”

“Put me on speaker. I need to talk to both of you.”

My heart kicks up a beat as I do what she’s asked. “We’re listening.”

“I came to check on your house this morning, Mother,” she says in a rush. “I wanted to make sure everything was okay and that your mail was being forwarded and not just sitting in the box.” The breath she draws is loud and shaky. “But when I got here, the front door was ajar and the security system had been disarmed. Whoever was inside made a huge mess in your house and your studio. They were clearly searching for something.”

“Oh no. You shouldn’t have gone in. Are you sure they’re gone?” Grand says.

“I haven’t seen or heard movement of any kind since I got here. The police are on the way. So is Sean. Right now, I’m standing next to the open front door waiting for them.”

Grand and I stare at each other. I give her a “we need to tell her” look.

Grand shakes her head. “Could you tell what they were looking for, Natalie?” she asks, her voice shaking.

When I’m sure I’ve got Grand’s full attention, I mouth, “You need to tell her right now.”

There’s another too long silence. Finally, Grand says, “Please be careful, Natalie. I should be able to get a flight up late this afternoon.”

“No,” my mother says. “I can handle it. And I don’t want you to have to see it this way.” I hear her blow out a breath. “Sean and I will put things to rights. Then I’ll have Maritza come in and do a thorough cleaning.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Grand says almost formally. “I appreciate it. Please don’t—”

This is when I not so gently take my phone out of Grand’s reach and say quite clearly, “There have been several break-ins down here, too. Someone wants something they believe Grand has, and I have no doubt the break-in up there is connected to what’s going on down here.” I come as close to glaring at my grandmother as I’m capable of.

“Good God. What on earth have you gotten yourself involved in, Mother?”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Grand says. “I’m fine and so is Sydney. Luke is looking out for us.”

“It’s true, Mom. Luke’s been great and I know he’s still in touch with friends on the police force up there. I’m going to ask him to reach out to them on Grand’s behalf. Maybe they can figure this out together.”

“All right.” My mother’s voice becomes slightly less shaky. “But you need to be careful and keep an eye on her at all times until I can get back down there.”

Twenty-Eight

“I feel like this might be taking ‘keeping eyes on Grand’ ”—yes, I actually use air quotes—“a step too far,” I say as I walk across a patch of sandy white beach where a large group of women stand at easels trying to reproduce Luke’s form on paper. “Tell me about it,” Luke replies, careful to move only his mouth and not his body, which has been posed so that his bare chest and legs are angled just so and the gym shorts that ride low on his hips show off his physique.

“When your grandmother talked me into posing for her figure drawing class, I assumed we’d be inside the store, and I’d be wearing more clothing.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t try to talk you into posing nude.”

“Yeah, well, when she brought it up, I reminded her that that would be indecent exposure and I would have to arrest myself.”

I try not to laugh, but when I notice how carefully the class members study him and the looks of longing on their faces as they study each patch of skin and the sinew of muscles, I come pretty close to losing it.

“This is not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” I tease, throwing his words to me at the shooting range back at him.

He rolls his eyes, which I guess are the only things he’s allowed to move. “What time is it?”

“It’s three thirty.”

One bare shoulder droops before he catches himself. “The class isn’t over until four fifteen.” He eyes me. “I’m going to need someone to unbend me and buy me alcohol when this is over.”

“You poor thing,” I say. “Do you want me to bring you a margarita from Paradise Grille now? I’ll hold the drink right in front of you and lead the straw to your mouth so that you can take a sip without moving any body parts except your lips. Or you could have the women in the class take turns holding the cup and helping you sip.”

I glance over toward Paradise Grille and fumble to a stop when I notice the man sitting in the shade of an umbrella at the concession stand. His face is shadowed but not obscured. “Do you see who’s over under that umbrella? It’s Brian Boyer.”

“Yeah.” Luke speaks quietly with as little lip movement as possible. “He’s been watching your grandmother the entire time we’ve been here.”

“She hasn’t mentioned him recently,” I say. “I wasn’t sure if they were still seeing each other.”

“Based on what little I’ve been able to observe without moving my head or shoulders, she’s definitely aware that he’s here and doesn’t seem unhappy to see him.”

The faint sound of a ringtone reaches us on the breeze and I’m careful not to turn around. I do, however, watch out of the corner of my eye as Boyer answers, nods, and speaks to whoever called him. Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible to really read lips with only that small corner of my eye.

He ends the call, puts his phone back in his pocket, and I tell myself there’s no reason to believe that the call had anything to do with Grand or is in any way nefarious. Nonetheless, I cross the patch of sand that separates us and take a seat beside him.

“Hi, Brian. I haven’t seen you around for a while. Have you been out of town?” I ask pleasantly.

“No. Just tied up taking care of some family business.” His reply is also pleasant, and his smile is relaxed and friendly. What I don’t know is whether he’s telling the truth or is a better actor than I realized. But then, I can’t think what reason he’d have for lying. “Lillian mentioned she’d be out here teaching, and I thought I’d come watch her at work. She’s quite a dynamo.”

“Yes, she is,” I agree. “Do you two have plans for after the class?”

“Not yet. But I thought I’d wait and see whether she’s available for a cocktail or an early dinner.”

“Ah, okay. I guess I’ll see you around.”

“You can bet on it.” His smile remains pleasant, but there’s something in his eyes that isn’t as relaxed as his smile.

I turn to leave, and as I walk back to Luke, I tell myself that I’m imagining things.

“I’m going to run over to the bookstore for a few minutes. But I’ll be back in time to have a table waiting so that we can have that drink and watch the sunset.”

Luke’s answer is a smile and the slightest of winks.

I wave goodbye to Grand then take the steps up to the sidewalk, where I look up and down Gulf Way. I step off the curb and am halfway across the street when I hear the revving of an engine followed by the screeching of tires. A dirty white cargo van rounds a corner barely a block away and comes right at me.

“Watch out!” people shout behind me. The engine revs again. The van pulls up beside me. A side door slides open, and a man reaches out and attempts to grab me.

I jerk away. His fingers rake my skin as I turn back toward the beach, take two long strides, and dive over the sidewalk.

“Sydney!” Luke’s voice cuts through the noise as I slam into the sand, tuck myself into a ball, and roll down a slight incline.

I feel people scatter around me. I get a mouthful of sand and then another. Things blur around me. My cheek slams into something hard. My arm bounces off something I can’t identify.

“Watch out for the—”

I roll through a patch of beach grass, then come to a full stop when my head plows into what feels like the base of a sand dune.

My head is throbbing.

When I pry open my grit-filled eyes, Luke is kneeling over me. Grand is kneeling beside me. Brian stands a few steps behind her.

“Oh, thank God,” Grand whispers as she takes my hand and kisses it despite the sand that clings to it. “I was afraid we’d lost you.”

“You definitely gave us a scare, squirt.” Luke’s hand touches my shoulder. Even through my gritty eyes and his teasing tone, I can see how worried he was.

“Don’t move yet,” Luke says as he gently runs his hands over me, checking for broken bones, then makes sure my eyes can track the finger he moves back and forth.

Everything hurts. But Luke confirms that while I’m definitely scraped up and bruised, I’m apparently intact. He helps me up and places me in a beach chair. “Can you remember what happened?”

I squinch my eyes shut and see the white van barreling toward me. “Van. White. Thought it was trying to hit me but then someone tried to—”

“Yes, we saw someone try to kidnap you. Did you see his face? Or the driver’s face? Was it anyone you’d seen before?” he asks gently.

“No. I don’t think…no.” I close my eyes and try to rerun the scene again, but all I can think about is how much I want to get off this beach. “Wanna go home…to Grand’s. Hungry.”

“Well, that sounds like good news,” Grand says.

“I’d be glad to pick up dinner and bring it over,” Brian offers.

“No,” Luke says without the least hesitation. “Sydney needs to take it easy. And I want to make sure to be there to keep an eye out.”

“Yes, that’s probably what we should do tonight, but thank you so much for offering, Brian. It was a nice surprise to see you here this afternoon,” Grand says.

“No problem,” Brian says with a polite smile.

“Why don’t you come with me,” Grand says to Brian. “I need to let my students into the store so that they can put their easels away. Since Luke is taking Sydney home, we can catch up while I close up the store.

“I won’t be long,” Grand says to Luke and me. “When I get home, I’ll warm up some chicken noodle soup for Sydney and prepare us a light dinner.”

• • •

Back at Grand’s, Luke gives me Tylenol for my pounding headache and aching body, helps me take a bath, cleans my cuts, and dresses my wounds. Then he zips me into my fuzziest robe, settles me on the couch, and tucks an afghan around me.

I doze for a while, opening my eyes only when Grand gets back. Minutes later, Luke helps me to the table, where I sip soup and they eat salad and a casserole that Grand whips together.

As the meal comes to an end, Grand looks at both of us and says, “I am beyond relieved and grateful that Sydney’s okay and I agree completely that this evening Sydney should have peace and quiet. I know you were as upset as I was, Luke. But I don’t think you needed to be quite so rude to Brian.”

There’s a brief silence before Luke speaks. “So you don’t see anything odd in the fact that a break-in occurred when you were spending the night at Brian’s place and your home was vandalized while he was unavailable taking care of family business? Or that today when he showed up, someone tried to kidnap Sydney?”

“Certainly you can’t be suggesting that Brian’s behind what’s been happening,” Grand replies.

“I can and I am. There’s something about him that just doesn’t add up.”

Twenty-Nine

It takes Grand and me a few days to calm down after the kidnap attempt. Once we’re no longer jumping at every sound or stranger who walks by, my anger at Martin for not telling me he’d already negotiated a contract with Lift that would require me to not only bare my breasts but have them altered, before I showed up for what I thought was an audition, comes roaring back. Unfortunately, despite that anger, it still takes a lot of self-talk to actually pick up the phone and make the call.

I’m kind of hoping Elise won’t pick up so that I can put off the task of firing the agent I was so relieved to land, for another day. Like tomorrow. Or the day after that or…

“Hello?” Elise’s voice is professional but more than a touch impatient. I may only have seconds before she ends the call.

“Oh.” I clear my throat. Swallow. And command myself not to mumble or ramble.

“Sydney?”

I can almost hear her deciding to disconnect. “Yes. Hi. Sorry.” I swallow again and square my shoulders. “I need to speak to Martin.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. He just stepped—”

“No,” I say hurriedly before she can end the call. “You are not going to blow me off. Or promise me a return call that will never come. I need to talk to him right this minute. Wherever he is…whatever he’s doing…I—”

There’s a click and then, “Sydney, baby.” Martin sounds exactly like himself. Calm, collected, and not the least bit worried about anything. There’s not the smallest hint of guilt in his voice.

“Don’t you dare call me ‘baby.’ ”

“I’ve always called you ‘Sydney, baby,’ ” he says as if this is just any conversation.

“And I’ve always hated it.” I also hate that I sound like a petulant child. But I am not his baby or anyone else’s.

“Sydney, bab—” He stops himself just in time. “We’ve been together for a long time. I’ve helped make you who you…are.”

There’s a silence as he remembers that the current state of my career is not something to brag about. His tone becomes conciliatory. It reeks with understanding. “I realize that things have been a bit tough for you lately.”

This, of course, is the understatement of all time.

“Tough? Try impossible. And you didn’t do a damn thing to stop them from replacing me with that…that…” I simply don’t have the words and I refuse to call her names. “This is on you and there’s no point denying it. And breast augmentation? Required breast augmentation? Good God, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking you needed work.”

“Bullshit. You sold me out without a thought. Sure, why shouldn’t Sydney bare her breasts, be required to have a boob job, and then have to bare those, too?”

“Darling, I’ve never known you to be squeamish about—”

“Squeamish? What about humiliated that you even thought that was the best role I could land. If you can even call that a ‘role.’ ”

“But, Sydney, ba—”

“No, no buts! And you will never have the chance to call me ‘baby’ or ‘darling’ or anything else.” I draw a breath. “Because you are fired!”

There’s a silence that can only be called “pregnant.” Then Martin says quite matter-of-factly, “You’re going to regret this, Sydney. Baby. I can promise you that.” And then he hangs up on me.

Tears blur my vision, but I’ll be damned if I let a single one of them fall. It takes a couple of minutes to banish them.

Because while I feel wonderfully empowered, I’m also no longer represented by one of the most sought-after agents in Hollywood.

• • •

In addition to being agent-less, I am now under what feels like almost constant police surveillance. I know Luke is just trying to protect Grand and me, but between him, his coworkers, and his off-duty law enforcement friends, Grand and I are rarely alone. He also insists on sharing my Friday and Saturday night shifts at Harley’s, giving A.J. two-for-one coverage that A.J. is eating up with a spoon.

“Police Detective Cassie Everheart and a local cop?” A.J. crows. “No one in their right mind would come in here and cause trouble!”

“Yeah, maybe you need to put a sign on the door to that effect,” Luke says when he escorts me into Harley’s that Friday night and takes “his” seat at the bar, where he has his back to the wall and his eyes locked on the front door. “That way the bad guys will know not to come in.”

“Righteous, man,” A.J. says, clearly missing the tinge of sarcasm in Luke’s voice.

“I don’t think that would have stopped Hulk One and Hulk Two,” I say. “But it might deter bad guys who can read and think through the negative consequences attached to criminal behavior.”

“Exactly.” A.J. nods even more enthusiastically.

“Of course, it could also deter upstanding citizens who don’t want to be in a bar where that kind of warning is the first thing they see,” Luke adds.

“True that,” A.J. says gravely. “Man, this shit is complicated. I think I’m just going to stick with you two and the baseball bat I’ve started keeping behind the bar. Although I’m pretty sure the law says that I can carry a gun to protect my property.”

“Not so much,” Luke replies. “The law actually states that firearms are not allowed in ‘any portion of an establishment licensed to dispense alcoholic beverages for consumption on the premises,’ ” Luke points out. “And since Harley’s is, in fact, a bar, I think we need to make sure you no longer have a gun back there.”

“Good thinking.” I walk behind the bar and begin to check the shelves and cubbies. Then I get A.J. to open the safe.

Luke pats A.J. down. “Nothing on his person.”

“Nothing back here,” I confirm. “Which is a good thing. I would hate to have to make a citizen’s arrest. Or be forced to catch a gun ever again.”

• • •

After a quiet, hulkless evening we leave Harley’s at midnight. Luke follows me back to Grand’s and walks me to her front door. Then he leans over and kisses me until we’re all wrapped around each other and breathing heavily.

“Come on. Let’s take this inside,” I whisper as I open the front door, take his hand, and lead him stealthily up the stairs, past Grand’s closed bedroom door, and into my bedroom. There I discover just how orgasmic quiet sex can be. It’s keeping the orgasms quiet that proves the most challenging, but since we don’t hear a peep or snore from the direction of Grand’s room, I assume we weren’t loud enough to disturb her.

It’s after nine in the morning when we wake up. Grand’s bedroom door is still closed so I make us coffee, which we carry out onto the balcony. There we watch the dolphins frolic while pelicans dive into the water after fish. Seagulls excel at snatching fishy morsels out of one another’s mouths.

Grand’s door is still closed around ten o’clock when we go back inside. Worried that she’s not well, I call out her name, push her door open, and step into her room. When I don’t see her in bed, I move to the bathroom, afraid I’m going to see her slumped in her closet or sprawled on the bathroom floor. But all I find is a note taped to the mirror above her sink.

I pull it gently from the mirror careful not to rip it. It reads, “If you want to see your grandmother alive, you will bring The Madonna to us. If you contact the cops, even the one you’re sleeping with, your grandmother dies. A car will pick you and the painting up tomorrow at noon.”

Thirty

I stand frozen in Grand’s bathroom trying to figure out what to do. More than anything, I want to go to Luke and ask him for help, only I don’t know how nearby the kidnappers are. For all I know, they’ve placed tiny cameras or recording devices around the town house and are watching me now.

Oh God, oh God, I think but do not say because I don’t want them to see how freaked out I am. Or see my lips moving and think I’m talking to someone.

I freeze when Luke’s voice reaches me from downstairs. “Sydney? Where are you?”

“Just throwing on some clothes. Be right down!” I shout as I run into my bedroom and do just that. Then I stroll downstairs as nonchalantly as I can with my heart pounding like a bass drum in my chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Sure,” I lie. “I’m just dragging a bit from all our, um, nocturnal activity.”

He cocks his head, and I can practically see his Spidey senses kicking in. “Where’s Grand?”

“She’s having a lie-in this morning. And I think I’m going to take a bit of a nap, too.”

“Okay. I’ll call you later and—”

“That would be great.” I yawn and stretch when what I really want to do is throw myself into his arms and tell him what’s happened to Grand.

“So I’ll call you later,” he says again, studying me more carefully.

“Okay,” I say as I follow him downstairs into the foyer. “Sounds good.” I go up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek then practically push him out the door, afraid that if he lingers, the kidnappers will assume I’m asking him for help.

When he’s gone, I plop down on the sofa, drop my head into my hands, and somehow manage not to cry. Because if they are watching me, I don’t want them to see how frightened I am.

I breathe deeply, in and out, while I try to push the fear away. Think, Sydney, think. Where would you hide The Madonna if you were Grand?

The one thing I know for sure is that Grand thinks the way she paints—in broad strokes and startling color. She is a “seat of the pantser,” driven by her emotions and instincts.

Trying to trust my own instincts, I force myself off the couch. Then I search her studio, her car, her bedroom, and every cabinet, closet, nook, and cranny in the town house where a rolled-up canvas could possibly fit. Nada.

Then I sit at the dining room table and stare out at the water. There, I think until my head starts to pound, which doesn’t take long, given how frightened for Grand I am. I command myself not to give up because time’s wasting. But ultimately, I’m forced to accept the fact that despite how much I love my grandmother and how close I’ve always felt to her, I can’t put myself all the way into her shoes or her head. Trying to think like Grand is not working, but I have to do something.

Blinking back tears, I realize that while Grand is the person who hid The Madonna, Cassie Everheart is the “person” who could figure out where The Madonna is hidden; and she’d do it in one episode. Cassie wouldn’t be sitting around whimpering. She’d take action of some kind.

Unable to sit still another moment, I leave the town house and begin to walk the cobblestone street that weaves through the complex. With each step, I ask myself, What would Cassie do?

Despite having played her for years, I do not have the epiphany I’m so desperate for. No solution or course of action pops into my head, so I force myself to think about all the crimes Cassie solved. There were a few that involved kidnappings and hostage situations. But regardless of the crime, the first thing Cassie did was focus on the things she did know, not the things she didn’t.

Cassie would mentally sift through the people in Grand’s world until she came up with a suspect or person who she could get information from. In my case, it needs to be someone who’s not in law enforcement, who spends time with and/or has access to Grand and has some connection to the art world.

As Luke has pointed out more than once, Brian Boyer checks all these boxes. And he began courting Grand practically the moment he met her. Luke believes Brian is the bad guy or is at least tied to them. If Luke is even partially right, Brian may be the only person who can conceivably help me find Grand.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and head for Brian’s building. Channeling Cassie, I march up to his front door and ring his doorbell. When there’s no response, I bang on the door until my fist is raw. But Brian Boyer does not come to the door or buzz me inside.

When I call his cell, it immediately goes to voicemail. I’m afraid to leave a message and I’m not even sure what I’d be asking for.

• • •

Back at Grand’s, I sink into her sofa and stare out the living room sliders. I have no idea what to do next.

I can’t tell Luke what’s going on, and Brian is not responding, which only increases my suspicions that he’s involved. I’m all my grandmother has. But I’ve looked for The Madonna everywhere I can think of and still haven’t found it. I can’t leave Grand in the hands of the kidnappers, whoever they are, a moment longer than necessary. Especially since I’m not going to be walking into their lair with the painting.

I need a plan B. Something that will get me in with some chance of getting Grand and me out alive.

I feel myself spiraling toward the pit of despair, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to pull myself out of it. If I let myself panic, I won’t even have a chance to save Grand.

I need something devious that will take the people who have Grand by surprise and give us an opportunity to escape. I ask myself what Cassie would do, and when she doesn’t pipe up with an answer, I run through scenarios the Murder 101 writing staff came up with for her over the years. There was drug trafficking, human trafficking, murders, and missing persons cases, but I can’t remember any that feel applicable. And of course, this is not a television show. And the kidnappers are not actors.

My heart pounds. My fear of failing Grand is a living, breathing thing. I’ve got to come up with a bluff convincing enough to get me into where she’s being held so that I can do everything in my power to make sure we at least have a shot at walking out alive.

I walk back down to Grand’s studio and stare at her easel. Then I look over at her stack of blank canvases and pull up a photo of The Missing Madonna on my phone. I used to copy Grand’s work when I was younger. I couldn’t create anything impressive on my own, but I painted some credible copies.

I waste valuable time trying to convince myself that I could paint a convincing copy of The Madonna with Phillip Drake’s signature on it, but I haven’t painted in years, and I don’t have the time or the talent to even attempt to re-create Grand’s Madonna, not to mention figuring out how to “age” it.

I rack my brain trying to come up with a plan C, but the only option left is to bluff my way in with a rolled-up canvas of the right size, hand it over, then pull Grand behind me and a pistol out of my boot so that I can hold it on the kidnappers while I back Grand and I out of there, hopefully before they fully realize they don’t have the real Madonna.

I know this is a risky plan, but I’m pretty sure that while they’re likely to pat me down when I arrive, they’re not going to make me take off my boots. I tell myself that this could work because men tend to underestimate women—a truth Cassie Everheart used to her advantage in numerous episodes.

Now, all I have to do is find a pistol small enough to fit in a boot. Before I lose my nerve, I call Luke and hope like hell he doesn’t let it go to voicemail.

He answers on the third ring. “Hey, Sydney. How’re you doing?”

“Great!” I lie.

“And Grand?” he asks. “How’s she?”

“Good!” I put a smile on my face to help me sound “upbeat yet nonchalant.” “She’s on a plane to Atlanta right now. Her best friend is in the hospital and Grand wanted to spend some time with her. Plus, she wants to see the family and check out her house for herself post-break-in.”

Okay, that was totally TMI. I clamp my mouth shut and remind myself to be careful not to lie too enthusiastically. Then I remind myself that this is not really lying. This is me trying to save my grandmother’s life.

“And, um, I have the afternoon off so I thought it would be fun to go to the shooting range and blow off a little steam.”

“I’m off this afternoon, too. Do you want to go grab lunch then hit the range together?”

I hesitate because I’d give anything for this to be just an ordinary day when Grand’s life isn’t in danger and spending time with Luke is an option. “I’d love to, but I have a really limited amount of time.” This at least is true. “I, um, wondered if I could borrow the pistol I used last time.”

“Sure,” he says after the briefest hesitation. “Do you want me to bring it by?”

“No! I mean, no thank you.” If anyone’s watching the town house, I cannot be seen talking to Luke. “I’m, um, already in my car heading back up the beach. Is it okay if I stop by to pick it up?”

“Yeah. Okay. See you in a few.”

Luke’s waiting in the parking lot near his truck when I arrive. He has a smile on his face as he hands me a small black canvas bag that holds the smaller Glock and a full magazine, but I can feel his full attention on me. He knows me far better than I’d like, so I flash him my biggest smile. “Should I bring it back to you when I’m finished?” Assuming Grand and I aren’t dead?

“No, don’t worry about it. Keep it as long as you like.”

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it,” I say as I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his shoulder so that he can’t see the panic and fear I’m trying so hard to hide. And because if my attempted rescue of Grand doesn’t go well, I might never see him again.

• • •

Back at Grand’s, I keep the gun close to me in case they decide to come after me and The Madonna rather than send the car to pick me up as planned.

After an hour I’m close to climbing the walls.

My phone rings. I grab it. But it’s only Myra.

“I haven’t seen your grandmother around. Do you think she’ll be able to make her art class tomorrow afternoon?”

“Oh, um, I don’t think so. She’s been under the weather.”

“I thought something must be wrong. Why don’t I bring over some matzo ball soup? They don’t call it Jewish penicillin for nothing.”

“That’s so incredibly sweet of you. But please don’t do that just yet. She’s sleeping. A lot. And she really has no appetite. And I wouldn’t want you to be exposed to her germs. My throat’s already feeling a bit scratchy.” I use my acting skill to cough pathetically.

“Ach, I never get sick. I have the constitution of an ox.”

“No, really, Myra. Please…”

“Fine. I’ll leave it on the front steps when it’s ready and ring the bell to let you know it’s there.”

“No, Myra…”

But she’s already hung up. If Grand and I survive, I’m going to work on becoming a better liar.

• • •

I sit up on the couch all night worrying about Grand and all the things that could go wrong once the car arrives. After a cup of coffee that I hope will kick my brain into gear, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on clothes that I can move in easily. I make sure that the gun’s magazine is full and that the gun is not cocked. Then I spend thirty minutes practicing walking in the boots without favoring the one that has the gun in it. I spend another thirty minutes bending over, whipping the gun out, and cocking it so that I’m ready to fire. When I can do this smoothly in under ten seconds, I use the time that’s left imagining all the possible worst-case scenarios. The worst, of course, is that Grand is already dead, and they kill me the moment they discover I don’t have The Madonna. Then there’s the scenario in which they discover I don’t have The Madonna and immediately kill us both. Or they kill me and torture Grand until she tells them where The Madonna is. Or they torture me until Grand tells them where The Madonna is, at which point they kill me then force Grand to take them to The Madonna. I’m also somewhat worried that Myra will show up with her matzo ball soup at the exact time the car comes to pick me up. And she ends up getting killed, too.

When the dark sedan pulls up in front of Grand’s unit at twelve on the dot, I walk outside, trying to appear unafraid, which proves almost impossible when I see Brian Boyer behind the wheel. A second large scary man climbs out of the passenger seat, ushers me into it, buckles the seat belt around me, and puts a pair of sunglasses on me that are so dark, I might as well be wearing a blindfold. Then he slides into the back seat, where I can feel, but not see him, positioning himself in the exact middle of the back seat; a spot from which he can presumably shoot either of us easily.

“I’m sorry.” Brian doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “I didn’t want to be a part of any of this. But when the Drake family discovered I’d met your grandmother, I owed them so much money, I couldn’t refuse.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” I shoot back. “In my experience there’s always a choice—even if it’s the lesser of evils. But I’ll promise you one thing: If you let my grandmother get hurt, I will hunt you down, even if it’s from the grave.”

Thirty-One

I have no idea where we are or even how long we’ve been driving when the car finally comes to a stop and the motor is turned off. Brian helps me out of the car, but the sunglasses are not removed as we walk across what I assume is a parking lot, through an exterior door of some kind, then up a flight of stairs. I stumble on the stairs several times, and if it weren’t for Brian’s grip on my elbow, I would have fallen down the stairs by now. Or at least into the Huge Scary Guy who’s so close behind us, I can feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. I hear the crinkle of paper and assume that Brian’s holding the rolled-up canvas in his free hand.

When we reach what seems to be a landing, Brian lets go of my elbow and knocks once on a door. Footsteps approach on what must be a wood floor. The door creaks open, Huge Scary Guy (whom I will forever think of as Lurch) pushes Brian and me inside then steps in behind us, which means I’ll have to get past or through him to get Grand out.

Someone steps up in front of me and removes my sunglasses. As they pat me down, mercifully neglecting to order me to remove my boots or check inside them, I blink rapidly to adjust to the light so that I can assess the threat just like Cassie would.

The sight of my grandmother slumped, head down, in the chair she’s tied to sends adrenaline coursing through me. I begin to calculate how best to incapacitate, or kill, Lurch, the armed men standing on either side of her, and presumably, Brian, so that I can get Grand out of here. Clearly the odds are not in my favor, but when Grand raises her head, sits up straighter, and pins her gaze on me, I see that her anger and frustration outweigh her fear.

I also see the huge bruise on her cheek. And a murderous rage takes hold of me.

“So this is the way you treat an eighty-three-year-old woman?” I shout. “What on earth is wrong with you people?”

The men on either side of her stand fast. The guard to her right says, “She’s tied to the chair because she broke Tom’s nose.” He nods toward the guard on the other side of Grand, who’s wearing what looks like a makeshift splint.

I glance at Grand and see a smile tug at her split lip. Then I see one eyebrow go up. She nods in my direction and mouths the word “Now.”

I bend down, yank the pistol out of my boot, and aim it at Guard One while trying to block Lurch’s view. “Untie her! Now!”

While they’re doing as instructed, I whirl around and shoot Lurch in the kneecap, giving Grand time to scurry out of the way. Then Cassie Everheart’s instincts take over—or at least the ones I used when I played her—and I whirl back and drop Guard One with a bullet to the hand that’s holding his gun. I’m just about to drop Guard Two when I realize he also has a gun in his hand. Before I can react, he manages to get off a shot that comes so close, I feel it fly past my ear before I take him down with a shot to his upper thigh. Okay, that’s not where I was aiming, but it was apparently close enough to his “manhood” to discourage him from firing back.

Having taken every other threat out of commission, I turn and walk toward Brian, leading with the Glock.

His hands go up. One of them holds the rolled-up canvas I’d hoped to use to get Grand and me out of here. “I’m not armed. In fact, I’m here to help. I’ve done my best to throw them off the scent, including sending them to search your grandmother’s house in Atlanta to get them out of town while I tried to figure out how to protect you both.”

The door creaks open and swings inward, pushing Lurch out of the way. A tall, lean man somewhere in his early sixties steps over Lurch and walks toward Brian. He’s holding a gun. I’m still trying to figure out who he is and why he’s here when he snatches the decoy canvas from Brian’s hand. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I thought.”

“Marc!” Brian says, the tremor in his voice unmistakable.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come to see things done right?” the man named Marc says. “Drop your guns. Now! Or my first shot will end the life of the bitch who started all this.”

Brian does as instructed.

With a sinking heart, I follow suit.

But Grand is not cowed. “You mean the bitch whose work your father claimed, and your family has lived off your entire life?” she snaps back, her voice steady, her gaze locked on the man who is apparently Phillip Drake’s son.

“Yes, you!” Marc hisses. “The one who ruined my mother’s life. The bitch he never forgot.”

Grand shakes her head. “You look so much like your father but you’re nothing at all like him.”

Drake’s son snorts. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m my mother’s son. She was the one who loved and raised me while my father was out screwing any willing piece of ass. She’s hated you most of all because, cheater that he was, my father never got over you. He actually wanted to acknowledge you as the painter and rightful owner of The Madonna. Fortunately, he died before he could make that happen.”

Grand gasps. “Tell me you did not kill your father over that painting.”

“Nope, didn’t need to.” He shrugs. “The cancer took care of that.”

His lack of remorse, as well as his willingness to harm Grand to get what he wanted, sends a shiver up my spine. For a second, I’m frozen in place. Then anger ignites deep inside me.

“Enough talking, let’s end this.” Marc snatches the decoy canvas out of Brian’s hands then backhands Brian hard enough to send him crashing to the floor, where he lands face down. When Brian doesn’t get up, Marc turns his attention to the decoy canvas. Any chance of getting out of here before he discovers that what he’s holding is not actually The Madonna evaporates.

This is the only opportunity I may get. There are guns lying everywhere, but I have no confidence that I can reach down, grab a gun, and shoot Marc before he can kill both Grand and me.

So I do what Cassie would have done. I take two quick steps so that I’m within striking distance. Then I pull up one knee, bend, rotate my hips, and send the gun flying out of Marc’s hand with a roundhouse kick. The gun skitters across the floor toward Grand, who swoops it up with an agility that takes everyone by surprise.

Cassie and I, yes, we are still one in this moment, use their astonishment to close in farther and land a kick to his chin that snaps his head back and knocks him off his feet.

Marc doesn’t get up. I’m contemplating the idea of “ending this” permanently for Marc when the door crashes open and three men race into the room, guns drawn. One of them is Luke. The other is a Treasure Island policeman, the third is wearing a vest that identifies him as FBI. Additional law enforcement officers from St. Pete Beach, Treasure Island, and the FBI stream in behind them. A siren sounds in the distance and grows louder as an ambulance approaches.

• • •

“What the hell just happened here?” Luke demands before I can even ask him how he and the other law enforcement officers got here.

“These men kidnapped me on that man’s orders.” Grand points an unshaking finger at Marc Drake, whose eyes are just now opening. “He’s Phillip Drake’s son and he’s been behind all the break-ins and threats.”

“But Brian is the one who made sure Marc’s instructions were carried out,” I add. “He played a big role in all of this.”

A Treasure Island cop scans the room and the wounded men strewn around it. “Who took all these men down?”

“My granddaughter took out most of them.” Grand nods toward me, her voice filled with pride. “Marc knocked Brian down,” she says as Brian struggles to his feet despite the blood dripping down his forehead.

When the EMTs arrive, one immediately checks on Grand while the others focus on the bad guys. Luke and his partner, Rod, handcuff Brian then handcuff the wounded to their stretchers. Once the FBI agents have gathered up the confiscated firearms, taken statements, and departed, I walk over to Luke and slip the Glock I borrowed from him into his jacket pocket as unobtrusively as I can. The last thing I want is for him to get in trouble for what I’ve done.

Although she’s clearly shaken, Grand refuses to go to the hospital.

I turn to one of the EMTs for help in convincing her.

He shrugs apologetically. “It’s hard to believe, but she made it through whatever went down here without a single broken bone. And she doesn’t seem confused or in need of anything more than rest.”

“You’re sure?” I ask him.

He nods. “But we can take her in to be checked out.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to do that, Grand?” I knew I’d feel better. “You know, just to be sure?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I want to go home.” Her eyes tear up a little, but I happen to know she can do this on cue. “I promise I’ll rest.”

“But—” Rod begins.

“No point wasting time trying to convince her,” Luke tells his partner. The women in this family don’t give in easily.

“You go ahead to the hospital. One of the Treasure Island guys is standing by to run Lillian, Sydney, and me back to Lillian’s once I’ve taken their formal statements. Then I’ll stay to hold back the media, who are no doubt already on their way to Casas de Flores, until we can get someone out there.”

When everyone else but Grand and I have departed, Luke turns to me. “You took the gun I loaned you to use at the gun range and used it to shoot three men. Then you knocked out their ringleader.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think you should tell me the truth about why you wanted to borrow the Glock so that I could help?”

“I would have loved to, Luke. Truly. But they told me that if I spoke to you or anyone else in law enforcement, they’d kill Grand.”

“But they could have just taken The Madonna and killed you when you came to make the exchange.”

“Theoretically, yes. Only I didn’t have The Madonna with me because I couldn’t find it, so I brought a rolled-up canvas of the right size and hoped that I could get us both out alive.”

“Good God.” Luke inhales a huge breath of air and takes his time exhaling it. I don’t think it helped. If he were a bomb, he would have already detonated.

The ambulance sirens fade into the distance. Jaw set and face stony, Luke says, “I warned you about Brian, Sydney.”

Only he, Grand, and I are left in the now-silent room, and he looks like he could explode at any moment. “I know you did,” I reply in the most conciliatory tone I can manage. “And you were right. But how did you know where to find us?”

“I attached a microscopic tracker to the bottom of the barrel of the gun I loaned you.” He takes the gun from me and removes a flat, tiny black sphere.

“Wow, and people call me a control freak,” I say.

“I’m a cop. Protecting people is my job. It doesn’t make me a control freak. It makes me well prepared.” He flashes me a smile.

When Luke and I walk outside with our arms around Grand (she refused to be seen in a wheelchair), a fleet of news vans are waiting. Cameras track our every move while reporters beg for statements, and on-camera talent and their producers try to convince us to stop for interviews.

With Luke as our escort, we walk as quickly as Grand can move. When we make it through the gauntlet to the Treasure Island squad car, Luke gently places Grand in the back seat and fastens the seat belt around her. I slide in beside her. When Luke slams the car door shut and climbs into the front passenger seat, I realize that Grand and I look as if we’ve just been arrested.

When we reach Grand’s town house, Luke jumps out, helps Grand out of the back seat, and escorts us to her front door. “I’ve arranged for a few of my friends to stand guard at Grand’s until things quiet down. They’ll hold the media back and keep an eye on things in general. I’ll be over to check on you as soon as I can get away. But call or text me immediately if anything feels the least bit off.”

We both nod obediently. Then we each give Luke a hug and our thanks. When I’m finally able to let go, I follow Grand inside and send a silent thank-you to Cassie Everheart for all the things she taught me.

Thirty-Two

“So,” I say to Grand as soon as we’re inside her town house with the front door locked behind us. “You need to tell me where The Madonna is. And you need to do it right now.”

“But—”

“No, no buts. Clearly, it’s hidden somewhere that no one, including me, could figure out.”

“I was just trying to protect you.”

“Well, I think that ship has sailed. Is it here in Florida? Or at your place in Atlanta? Or in some kind of safe-deposit box? Does it even exist at all?”

Grand sighs. Her shoulders sag. For a moment I almost feel guilty for pressing her on this after all she’s just been through. But not knowing where The Madonna was hidden proved to be just as dangerous as knowing, maybe even more so.

“Seriously, Grand. You know the media is already all over this. There’s no way Mom isn’t aware of what happened. If you don’t tell me right now, I’m going to call her and ask her to fly down immediately to deal with you herself.”

This time her sigh is far more heartfelt.

“I mean it, Grand. No amount of sighing is going to stop me from telling her how much we need her. In fact, I think we should call her right this minute to find out how quickly she can get on a flight down.” I pick up my cell phone to prove that I’m serious.

“No. There’s no need for that. And I don’t need to tell you when I can show you.” She motions me to follow her up the stairs and into her bedroom, where she leads me to her dresser. Carefully she pulls open the middle drawer, which is filled with bras and what can only be called “granny panties.”

“But this is your underwear drawer.”

“Exactly.” She pulls out her underclothes and sets them on top of the dresser. “I figured even thieves would be reluctant to handle an old woman’s underclothes. Then she reaches into the empty drawer, removes what turns out to be a false bottom, and pulls out a rolled-up canvas, which she places face up on the bedspread, securing the corners with bed pillows.

When I look down into The Madonna’s face, my grandmother’s eyes, young and mischievous, stare up at me. A soft smile tugs at her lips. Anyone who knew my grandmother at this age would have recognized her. In the bottom-right corner, where she always signed her work, Phillip Drake’s signature is painted over a patch of dark paint.

• • •

Five days later, Grand’s town house has begun to feel less like a haven and more like a prison.

For the first few days after Grand revealed her Madonna to me, we were content to lie around, protected from the horde of reporters by off-duty friends of Luke’s.

“I don’t think I’m winning any neighbor of the month awards,” Grand observes as she peers out the kitchen window to her driveway, where reporters continue to jostle for position.

“I don’t know, I think your neighbors have been pretty understanding, considering what’s been going on out there.”

“True,” she concedes.

“And after her initial freak-out, Mom’s done a lot better than I expected.”

“Also true,” Grand agrees. “I was afraid she was going to insist on coming down.”

I keep waiting for Grand to break down or wake up in the night screaming, but while she’s tired and a little more tentative than usual, I’m the one who can’t seem to let go of what happened. Or the guilt I feel for allowing it to happen at all.

“I don’t get it, Grand. How can you be so calm? You must have been scared to death when they snatched you.”

“It was definitely frightening, sweetheart,” she admits. “But it isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I was betrayed by the man who claimed to love me. Then I lost the man I shared my life with and loved completely.” She smiles. “People threatening my life? Scary. But I’ve lived a long and mostly wonderful life. I’ve done the things I wanted to. Fulfilled pretty much every one of my dreams. While I’m hugely relieved that we both made it out of there in one piece, I’m not afraid of dying. I’d rather go out when I’m still me than linger until I’m someone no one, including me, recognizes.”

“How on earth did you get so wise?” I throw my arms around her and sob uncontrollably as the full reality of what could have happened to both of us grabs hold of me yet again.

“Shhh…it’s all right.” Grand holds me until I finally sniff to a stop.

“I’m not ‘wise,’ sweetheart. I’ve just been around for a really, really long time. And I’ve learned to keep an open mind. And to appreciate how lucky I am to have family and friends who love me.”

I sleep through the night for the first time since Grand was abducted, and I wake up refreshed. When I glance out the bedroom window, there are fewer reporters, which makes me believe that sometime soon Grand and I will be able to leave the house without an audience. We’re lounging in the living room with our coffee when Stan, the policeman currently out front, calls me on my cell phone. “Someone named Kyra is here to see you,” he says quietly. “She says she’s a friend of yours.”

“She is. Please send her in. But don’t say her name out loud again.”

“Are you sure?” He lowers his voice even further. “I’m pretty sure she’s wearing a disguise. And, um, she’s been handing out sunflowers to everyone in the crowd.”

I smile, eager to see what kind of disguise Kyra’s got going this time. “Then that’s definitely Kyra. Please let her in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Moments later a pregnant flower child steps off the stairs and into the living room. A large straw hat shadows her face while long blond hair falls almost to her waist. She’s wearing a gauzy off-the-shoulder top, long flowing skirt, and Birkenstock sandals. Her hands are clasped around a bunch of sunflowers, and she has a shit-eating grin on her face, which even without makeup is beautiful.

As the mother of megastar Daniel Deranian’s “love child,” Kyra has received more than anyone’s fair share of attention, much of it negative. Like Daniel, who has often shown up in disguise to see his son without alerting the media, Kyra has learned that sometimes, in order to fly under the radar, it’s best to become someone less paparazzi-worthy.

“Wow!” I say. “If I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t have known you.”

“That’s good. I didn’t want to give the vultures out there anything else to pounce on,” she says as she removes the hat.

“That’s very thoughtful of you. But I kind of wish you’d come as a sumo wrestler or the Jolly Green Giant so you could mow down at least a few of them on your way in.”

“I hear you.” She gives Grand and me big hugs and a sunflower. Then she kicks off the Birkenstocks, turns her back to reach under her skirt to remove the pillow stuffed under it, and drops into a chair. “I’m beyond thrilled to see you both alive. Now tell me all about your ‘adventure.’ ”

“Oh, I don’t know if Grand wants—” I begin.

“It’s all right,” Grand interrupts. “Sometimes it’s better to talk about it than to keep it in.”

Once again, I’m shocked that my grandmother has it so “together.” I only hope some of her philosophy of life rubs off on me. Surely there must be a chance, given that we share the same DNA.

“All right, then,” I say. “CliffsNotes: These people who wanted a painting of Grand’s took her hostage and demanded that I bring them the painting. They said that if I didn’t bring the painting, they were going to kill her.”

Kyra’s eyes grow big.

“Only I couldn’t find the painting they wanted, so I went in with a blank rolled-up canvas and hoped that I could hand it over and bluff our way out of there before they discovered it wasn’t the painting they wanted.”

“And you were able to do that? Bluff your way out?” Kyra asks.

“Not exactly,” I admit.

“So why did they let you go?”

“They didn’t,” Grand replies. “But Sydney managed to smuggle in a pistol in her boot, and quick as a flash, she wounded and disarmed the kidnappers before they could even unroll it.”

“Holy shit! No wonder the media is after you.”

“Yeah. We’ve been trapped in here ever since. But I have to admit that shooting our way out of there was really empowering. I discovered that I’d learned a lot more from playing Cassie all those years than I realized.”

“Interesting.” Kyra smiles.

“Yeah.” I smile back. “Now, tell us what’s going on in your world. It would be a lovely break from ours at the moment.”

“Well, let’s see. Troy and I are editing the video of the Y’s grand opening. We’re going to work it into an episode of Do Over.”

“Cool!”

“And Dustin?” Grand asks. “How’s he doing?”

“Good.” Kyra smiles. “Despite all the unwanted attention he still gets, he’s pretty down to earth.”

“Thanks to you and Maddie.”

“Troy’s great with him, too, and so is my dad. Daniel does his best to see him when he can and runs interference when Tonja Kay aims her broomstick in our direction. Dustin has a lot of people who love him.”

We chat for a while, which feels wonderfully normal. I can see that her visit has perked up Grand, too.

Kyra’s tying her pillow baby back in place and plopping her hat back on her head when the guard out front calls up to let us know that Myra is here.

The first time she showed up, one of the guards frisked her, which Myra thoroughly enjoyed.

“Please send her up.”

“Will do.”

Myra huffs up the stairs and I get up to take the pot of soup she’s carrying.

“Want to stay for soup?” I ask Kyra once I’ve set the pot on the stove as directed.

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to get back.” There are hugs all around then Kyra hands Myra a sunflower on her way out. “See you all later.”

Myra checks on the soup then takes a seat next to Grand. “You’ve both been missed at the bookstore. Everyone’s been asking when story time will resume, several children are signed up for acting classes, and the list of people eager for art classes is growing. So whenever you feel up to it, just let me know and I’ll get things scheduled.”

“I’d love to get back to the store, but I’d just like to wait a bit longer until we don’t have to worry about the press anymore,” I reply.

“I totally understand. No pressure at all.” Myra hesitates. “I haven’t seen Brian around for a while. Have you?”

Grand and I exchange glances.

“No,” Grand says. “I haven’t. I think he might be out of town on business.”

“Oh, I see,” Myra replies though it’s clear she doesn’t. “Well, I’ll let you be for now. I look forward to having you both back at the store whenever you’re ready.”

Slowly, other stories make the news. Tragedies more tragic, if less titillating, take place and the crowd in front of Grand’s becomes a handful, then one or two. A week after we brought Grand home, there’s no one outside who doesn’t belong there. Life slowly returns to “normal.”

I’ve always thrived on attention but apparently too much of even a great thing is not so great.

If you don’t count the number of people who suddenly start showing up at the bookstore and Harley’s just to get a look at us.

Thirty-Three

“Just look at this crowd!” Myra is smiling when we arrive at the bookstore. Grand and I are not.

The room divider has been pulled back to accommodate the crowd that showed up for story time, book club, and art class. We blink in surprise as the adults applaud, and the kids jump up and down in excitement though I doubt they know why.

“I’m thrilled to have such a great turnout, but I’m not sure we can all fit in here at the same time.” Myra’s smile slips slightly.

“No problem,” Grand replies. “We can have art class out on the beach.”

“Oh.” Myra turns to Grand. “I just assumed you’d rather not be out on the beach and so visible right now. You know, after all that’s happened.”

I’m the one who shudders at the memory of Grand’s abduction and their attempt to kidnap me, but Grand brushes off Myra’s concern. “I’m not prepared to hide inside. The press has had enough of us, the bad guys are in jail, and I see two men in plain clothes out on the sidewalk that I know are Luke’s friends. Plus, that’ll give you plenty of room for story time and book club.”

“But—” I begin.

“What do you say, class?” Grand shouts over my protests as she gathers up drawing pads, clips to hold paper in place, and charcoals.

“Beach! Beach! Beach!” Grand’s art class chants.

Before I can come up with a better argument, her students grab their easels, form a line behind Grand, and follow her outside.

Book club members steal peeks at me as Myra ushers them to the other side of the room and begins to pull the divider closed between us.

Once I get the children settled, I try my hardest to lose myself in Hans Christian Andersen’s The Ugly Duckling. I’ve loved this story since I was a child, but it’s hard to stay focused while my brain continues to contemplate all the worst-case scenarios that might still befall Grand.

First, I worry that not all the bad guys are in jail or under guard. Then I worry that if the bad guys are all in jail or under guard, even badder guys might be sent to go back into her town house and continue their search for The Madonna.

Finally, I manage to remind myself that I’m an actress and that no matter how bad or frightened I feel, I cannot share that fear with the children. The “show,” aka story time, must go on.

When book club finally breaks up and the art class returns from the beach chattering happily, I wrap up story time and hand my charges over to their mothers, glad that I can finally stop smiling and acting.

Then I do what I should have done as soon as Grand told me that she, and not Phillip Drake, had painted The Madonna. I pull up Google. Thirty seconds later I discover infrared examination and something called ultraviolet luminescence: scientific techniques that could be used to reveal Grand’s signature beneath Phillip Drake’s. Then I call the nearby Dalí Museum to ask whether there’s anyone on staff or affiliated with the museum who can perform these scans.

As I wait for a response about the scans, I realize that the very technology I’ve just learned of could have been the impetus for the Drake family’s determination to find The Madonna. Back in the day, it would have been Grand’s word against the prominent Phillip Drake and his family. But once the science existed and Phillip was ill and talking about admitting that Grand had painted The Madonna, the family clearly became desperate to destroy the painting or at least make sure it stayed hidden.

• • •

Luke shows up at the bookstore at six, waits while we lock up then double-checks every door and window. Grand and Myra drive back to Casas de Flores together. Luke and I stroll over to Paradise Grille for a quick bite before I report to Harley’s.

“What kind of plans do you have tonight?” I ask once we’ve devoured our burgers and fries.

Luke smiles. “My plan is to escort you to Harley’s, where I will hang out with you until you’re done for the night. After which I’d like to take you back to your grandmother’s, where I plan to spend the night providing you with as many orgasms as possible.”

I tingle at the thought. “I’d love for you to spend the night. And, of course, no woman in her right mind is going to turn down multiple orgasms.” I tingle again because I know this is not an idle promise. “But I really don’t think we need a bodyguard anymore.” As the sun slowly sinks into the Gulf, I tell him about the techniques I’ve discovered and how they can prove that Grand painted The Madonna.

“That’s sounds great,” Luke says. “But until Grand’s signature has been revealed, and the proof that Grand painted The Madonna is formally announced to the world, and especially the art world, you’re both potential targets. Which means there’s no way I’m going to leave you alone at Harley’s or your grandmother’s now that the security detail has been pulled and the press is gone. I have someone watching Grand’s place tonight, but he can only stay until one a.m. So I will be sleeping over. But we don’t have to have sex if you don’t feel up to it.”

I roll my eyes. There’s pretty much no way I’m going to turn down sex with Luke, and his grin indicates that he knows it.

“I understand what you’re saying, but the scan is set for Monday, and I’ve reached out to a friend from college who covers ‘Arts’ for the New York Times. I’ve given her an exclusive as long as it comes out in the Tuesday morning edition. She’s confident the story will be picked up by the wire services and on social media, so theoretically we just have to keep ourselves alive for four or five more days.”

“Fine, but I’m sticking to you like white on rice until the news has spread far enough to keep you and Grand safe.”

I stop arguing. I’m not stupid. There are way worse things than having Luke glued to my side and spending the night in my bed.

“Fine.” I try to sound put out, but this arrangement seems like a win-win even if it’s not necessary.

“Come on.” Luke reaches for my hand. “Let’s get you to work. And while we’re at it, I’ll make sure A.J. gives you a proper drink.”

“No need.” I heft my bag onto my shoulder and pull an airline-size bottle of vodka out of it. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner.”

When we get to Harley’s, A.J. rings the cowbell he keeps behind the counter and shouts, “Let’s hear it for Cassie! Our hero! Hip hip…”

The entire bar shouts, “Hooray!”

This goes on long enough to leave me blushing and oddly touched. After the rousing greeting, A.J. pours Luke a scotch on the rocks. He brings me a tonic water over ice with a twist of lime. I raise my glass in toast and take a sip. Then I excuse myself and head to the ladies’ room, where I lock myself in a stall and add a shot of vodka from the mini bottle.

I’m working and I need to keep my wits about me, but even one vodka tonic is better than none. Plus, multiple orgasms have been promised. The evening is definitely looking up.

• • •

I wake up the next morning with a smile on my lips and a body that’s totally satisfied. If I were a cat, I’d be purring.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Luke walks through the bathroom door and into the bedroom. His skin is damp from the shower. A towel is wrapped around his waist.

“I made a few calls earlier this morning,” he says as he sits down on the bed. He’s close enough for me to reach what’s no longer hidden beneath the towel, but given the serious look on his face, I manage to keep my hands to myself.

“I’ve taken the next four days off. We’re going to lay low here until Tuesday morning when the shit should start hitting the fan for the Drake family.”

“But…” The idea of spending four more days locked in at Grand’s is not appealing. Not even with Luke.

He doesn’t wait for me to mount an argument. “Now, where were we?” he asks, dropping the towel on the floor and lying down on the bed facing me.

His eyes hold mine as he cups my breast then teases my nipple with his thumb before taking it into his mouth. I’m already way past tingling when the tip of his penis brushes against the most sensitive part of me.

My mind goes blank as my body and senses take over. By the time he enters me, I’ve forgotten about the Drakes, The Madonna, and everything outside of this bed in this moment.

Thirty-Four

Grand, The Madonna, and I arrive at the Ringling Museum of Art in Sarasota at 10:00 a.m. I can feel my grandmother trembling in the chair beside me as we wait to be shown to the conservator’s office.

“This is a good thing, Grand.”

“I know.” She swallows. “But what if it doesn’t work? What if they can’t find my signature under Phillip’s?”

“Let’s not worry ahead, Grand. Today could end up being the validation you’ve been hoping for all these years.”

“Right.” Grand swallows again. “You’re totally right.”

“Hello.” A young man wearing white gloves comes to retrieve us. “I’m Barbara’s assistant, Clay. May I?” he asks as he reaches out toward The Madonna.

“Oh yes. Of course.” Grand gives her permission.

“She certainly is beautiful in person.”

“Thank you,” Grand replies.

“If you’ll follow me, we’re going to meet Barbara in an examination room.”

I know just how worried Grand is when she takes my hand and doesn’t even look at the incredible art on the walls as we pass. But I’m worried, too. Because if even the slightest doubt remains after The Madonna is examined, the Drakes can just keep hiring bad guys to steal it. Or continue pressuring Grand into giving it up.

I squeeze her hand and feel how clammy it is.

She squeezes mine back as Clay knocks on a closed door. It’s opened by a middle-aged woman with close-cropped red hair, bright blue eyes, and a welcoming smile.

“Hello. I’m Barbara. Please come in. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lillian. And you must be Sydney. Thank you for bringing this lovely lady.” She nods toward The Madonna. “I’m thrilled that the Dalí referred you to me. I can’t wait to examine her.”

The room is windowless, and utilitarian. Tools line the walls. A variety of handheld lights sit on a long shelf.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,” Grand says to Barbara. “I’m afraid I haven’t kept up with technology as it applies to the art world. Can you really see through the surface layers of a painting to what’s underneath?”

“Yes.” The conservator smiles. “There are a number of ways to use light from the ultraviolet and infrared portions of the spectrum to expose areas in a painting that have been added to or painted over, which I understand is what we’re looking for in this case.”

I nod. “My grandmother painted and signed The Madonna over sixty years ago when she was studying art in New York. Phillip Drake, whose signature is on the painting, was one of her instructors.”

Barbara cocks her head in Grand’s direction. “Clearly there’s a story here.”

“Yes,” Grand agrees. “I was young and silly and fancied myself in love with Phillip. The Madonna was a self-portrait that I’d hoped he’d see merit in. He kept it to study for several days, but when I went back for his feedback, he belittled it and told me that I didn’t have the talent to make it as an artist. I went back to my dorm in tears. A few days later when I’d calmed down and went to Phillip’s studio to retrieve it, I discovered he’d painted his signature over mine and I realized that he intended to claim it as his own work.”

“Goodness.” Barbara shakes her head. “How awful.”

“I was crushed,” Grand continues. “But I was also angry. So when I left New York and fled home to Atlanta, I managed to take my painting with me. Of course, after he reported it stolen and started referring to it as The Missing Madonna, he and my painting became even more famous.”

Grand’s smile slips. “I’ve kept it hidden all these years out of fear that his signature would support his claim that he’d painted it.”

Barbara’s eyes reflect her sympathy. “I always wondered why The Madonna felt so different from his other work, yet no one, including me, ever thought to question it.” She smiles again at Grand. “Shall we go ahead and see what we can uncover?”

“Absolutely,” Grand replies.

The curator hands out safety goggles, waits while we all put them on, then turns off the lights. When the room is dark, she lifts a handheld ultraviolet lamp and shines it over The Madonna, ultimately focusing on the lower-right edge of the painting. “There,” she says. “Do you see that dark blotch that’s showing up? And the paint glowing underneath it?”

We press closer. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one holding my breath.

“Oh my gosh. Look.” I grab Grand’s hand and squeeze it. “There it is! There’s your signature!”

Grand sniffs and I realize she’s crying. Then I realize my own eyes are also wet with tears.

“Indeed it is,” Barbara says. “And I think it’s time to let the world know that your claim has been validated. That The Madonna is your work and not Phillip Drake’s.”

• • •

On Tuesday morning we’re back in the headlines. Our faces stare out at us from the TV screen.

An internet search of The Madonna pulls up pictures of Phillip Drake and Grand from her time studying art in New York while pictures of me highlight my career as Cassie Everheart, the demise of that career, and the shot of Luke and me helping Grand to the car after I, and I quote, “rescued her grandmother from kidnappers and totally kicked the bad guys’ butts just like Cassie Everheart would have.”

Marc Drake calls me a thief and denies any responsibility for what happened to Grand.

Marc’s mother stays out of the fray, but she hires an attorney to defend him then lets his fancy lawyer do all the talking.

When I walk into the living room, Grand is staring down at the newspaper, crying.

“What’s wrong?” I rush to her side, but when I get there, I notice that, despite the tears, she’s smiling.

Grand brushes the tears away. “I…after all these years…I can’t quite believe the art world finally knows my name and recognizes that I have talent. They’re totally on my side.”

Her phone rings. Tentatively she answers it. Her eyes get big. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. But, um, thanks for asking.”

“Who was it?” I ask, but her phone is already ringing again.

She holds up one finger for me to hold on, then answers. She smiles even as she shakes her head then says, “No. Thank you for asking but…absolutely, um, no.”

My phone rings before Grand has hung hers up. When I answer, a woman speaks hurriedly. “Please. Don’t hang up.”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Lara. I’m a booker for 60 Minutes and…”

I put a hand over my phone. “It’s 60 Minutes. Don’t you want to at least hear what they have to say?”

Once again, Grand shakes her head.

There’s another call. Grand mouths the word “no” before I can pick up.

It rings again and I’m about to drop the call without answering when the name of the caller shows up. “Oh my God, Grand. It’s from Harpo Productions!” I hiss before I pick up.

“Hello?” I say tentatively.

“Hello, is this Sydney?” The voice is unmistakable, but she introduces herself anyway. “This is Oprah.”

“Yes, this is me. I mean yes, I’m Sydney.”

“I was blown away by the revelation that your grandmother painted The Madonna and how you managed to save her after she’d been abducted. I’d love to interview both of you and share her story with the world.”

Grand is shaking her head. I cover the mouthpiece. “It’s Oprah! She wants to do a special interview of us together and broadcast it on her network.”

Grand stops shaking her head. “Oprah?” she asks in the same way one might question a phone call from the tooth fairy. “I don’t believe it.”

“It’s her all right. And she’s the perfect person to help you share the truth,” I whisper. “Millions of people will watch the interview live and millions more will hear about it and stream it later.”

“Oh, I don’t—” Grand begins.

“Grand, it’s Oprah. You can always say no to the interview, but I think you should at least speak to her.”

• • •

Two days later, Luke and Rod escort Oprah’s crew through the press and paparazzi outside.

A young woman steps forward and shakes our hands. “Hi. I’m Melissa. Thanks so much for agreeing to the interview on such short notice,” she says, as if anyone has ever turned down an interview with Oprah on the grounds that it happened too quickly. “I’m one of Oprah’s producers. It will be my job to make sure you’re comfortable and understand what’s going on at all times.

“This is Todd. He’s our camera operator.” She points to a tall, lanky guy somewhere in his twenties.

“Jay’s here to handle lighting. Gina’s our sound person. She’ll get you miked up and ride audio. Chris and Sandy are going to pull the sofa forward, so we get some separation from the wall and room for backlighting.”

Once the sofa is pulled forward, Chris makes sure we’re reseated directly across from the video camera.

“You’ll be able to hear Oprah and each other through your earbud,” Gina says as she hands us tiny flesh-colored earbuds and shows us how best to tuck them into position. “Hal is setting up the boom microphone.” She motions to a large hot-dog-shaped padded microphone being mounted on a stand just high enough to be out of the shot. “Anything you say will be picked up,” Gina continues. “And while we’ll be able to edit out mistakes later if we need to, you want to be careful not to say anything you don’t want going out live once we get started.”

I look around at the crew and the equipment, the cables snaking along the floor, and for a couple of seconds I feel like I’m back on the set of Murder 101.

“Okay,” Melissa adds as lighting is set up all around us. “We’ve got less than ten minutes until air. You want to look directly into the monitor in front of you as much as possible so that you appear to be engaged in a conversation with Oprah. This second camera”—she points to another being set up at an angle—“will allow us to do individual cutaways as well as a two-shot.”

I squeeze Grand’s hand. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “All we have to do is pretend that Oprah’s sitting across from us.”

Grand nods her understanding but she doesn’t let go of my hand.

“We’re going to keep recording until Oprah signals us to stop for her wrap-up,” the producer continues. “She’ll keep things on track.”

We both nod. But Grand’s grip on my hand tightens.

I want to ask her if she’s sure she wants to do this, but Oprah is now visible on the monitor. Oprah waves. I hear her hello through my earbud. Grand startles beside me, and I know she can hear her, too. It’s my turn to gently squeeze Grand’s hand.

“You okay?” I mouth and am relieved when Grand nods and looks as if she means it.

Oprah thanks us for agreeing to be interviewed then explains, “We’ll be doing this live, so we won’t be stopping and starting. The interview will be recorded and will air again this evening.” Oprah gives us a reassuring smile. “Remember, I’m just the conduit. My job is to help you tell the real story behind The Missing Madonna and make sure it reaches as many people as possible. Melissa will count us down and I’ll start things out by sharing The Madonna’s history and introducing you.”

Melissa holds one fist up so that we can all see it. Silently she unfolds one finger at a time, and when all five are open, she points her hand at the camera to let us know we’re live.

With skill and grace, Oprah sets up the situation and gently pulls the whole story out of Grand. Then video of The Madonna with Drake’s signature is shown first in close-up. As Oprah explains ultraviolet luminescence in layman’s terms, the audience sees Phillip Drake’s signature disappearing from the top layer of paint to reveal Grand’s signature beneath it.

Grand’s eyes water. She draws a sharp breath. “I always dreamed that the truth would come out one day, but so many years went by that I finally gave up.” She turns to me, and her forehead briefly touches mine before she turns her attention back to Oprah. “If it weren’t for my granddaughter,” she says directly into the camera, “everyone would still believe Phillip Drake painted The Madonna. I’m only sorry my husband isn’t here to see the truth finally coming out.”

Tears stream down both of our cheeks. I’m pretty sure they’re tears of joy.

When we finally look up and at the monitor, Oprah’s smiling. Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears.

“Thank you so much,” I say to Oprah. “For finally righting this wrong.”

Grand brushes a tear off her cheek. “I wish I had the words to let you know how very grateful I am.”

“It is truly my pleasure,” Oprah replies. “I’m just glad to be able to help set the record straight and see you finally get the recognition of your talent that you deserve.

“How about you, Sydney? Which do you prefer—pretending to kick butt and solve crimes or actually doing it?”

“Hmmm.” I blink in surprise. “Great question.”

Oprah laughs. “Thanks for the validation.”

“My pleasure.” I grin back. “I guess I’ll have to give that some thought.”

Oprah falls silent for a beat. Then a smile stretches across her face, and she shoots us, and the audience, a wink. “Hmmm,” she muses. “What do you think? Should I invite the Drakes to come on the show so that they can explain their actions?”

Thirty-Five

It takes only a matter of days after Oprah’s interview and the article in the New York Times for the media and art world to rally around Grand. There are headlines and TV stories. We trend on social media.

Invitations to appear on talk shows both local and national continue to flood in. Jay Leno makes Grand the subject of man-on-the-street interviews, and a surprising number of “people on the street” recognize Grand’s name. Saturday Night Live invites her to be a guest host.

Museums, large and small, all over the country and in parts of Europe, want to organize exhibits around The Madonna. The Dalí is interested in including it in a special exhibit featuring female artists whose work was initially ascribed to, or claimed by, male artists.

I get a lot of attention, too, and for the first time since Cassie Everheart was sent to rehab and booted off Murder 101, the attention is positive. At least for the moment, Grand and I are media darlings. The press is outside again in full force, but at least this time they’re polite and respectful.

It takes almost ten days for things to completely die down. But finally, the phone stops ringing. No one’s camped outside. It’s safe to go to Pass-a-Grille. The grocery store. Out for a walk.

• • •

At Casas de Flores’ next Friday night mixer, it’s Grand’s autograph people are seeking. I’m still in bed the next morning when my mother calls, which is why I’m yawning when I answer.

“I’m sorry, darling. Did I wake you?”

I glance down at my phone and attempt to hold back another yawn. “No, I’m just kind of lying here.” I yawn, struggling to sit up. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. But I’ve been trying to reach your grandmother. Is she there?”

“Hold on. Let me go check.” I yawn again as silently as I can. Then I follow the smell of coffee downstairs, where I find Grand in the kitchen.

Mercifully Grand pours me a cup and places it on the counter in front of me.

“I’ve got Grand right here. Shall I hand her my phone? Or do you want to call back?”

I take a long, lovely sip, careful not to slurp.

“Why don’t you put me on speaker? There’s something I need to run by her. And I’m hoping you’ll help make sure she listens.”

My grandmother rolls her eyes but doesn’t protest when I set my phone on the kitchen counter and put it on speaker. “We’re both here, Mom.”

“Great. Good morning, Mother.”

“Good morning, Natalie,” Grand replies. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. We’ve had an incredibly nice patch of weather, today included.”

“That’s nice.” Grand raises an eyebrow in my direction, and I shrug.

“So,” Mom says. “I’m calling because a Realtor I know has clients who seem to have fallen in love with your home, at least from the outside. She’s asked for permission to show your house to them and wanted to know if you’d consider selling if the price is right.”

“Interesting.” Grand’s tone is droll. “The last time the subject of selling my house came up, you insisted that I hold on to it in case I wanted to move back.”

There’s a brief silence. “Yes, I know,” my mother finally concedes. “But you’ve made it clear that you have no intention of ever doing that.” There’s another brief pause. “And the way you’ve handled everything that’s happened down there has, well, I guess it’s helped me see just how capable you still are.”

“Imagine that.” Grand’s reply is more than a little sarcastic, but she’s clearly pleased by the admission.

“Yes, well. In the meantime, the post office has delivered the last of your mail that was on hold. I’ve packaged it up and am overnighting it down to you.”

“Thank you, Natalie. I appreciate it.”

“But there’s no pressure, you know, about your house, I mean. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Grand and I exchange shocked glances. My mother’s tune has certainly changed.

My grandmother’s expression turns mischievous. “Thanks so much for letting me know, darling. I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”

• • •

The package of forwarded mail arrives the next day as promised, but it sits on the kitchen counter for a few days while Grand debates the pros and cons of selling her home in Atlanta, which I think is more about torturing my mother than an unwillingness to sell.

When Grand makes no move to open the large, padded envelope, I do it for her and casually leaf through it. There are long expired invitations, ancient copies of AARP The Magazine, cruise brochures, and all kinds of flyers and junk mail.

I’m about to ask Grand to double-check that I’m not throwing out anything that might matter when I notice a small envelope with Grand’s name and address written in what looks like a shaky hand. The return address is New York.

“Grand. Come look at this.” I remove the envelope from the pile and hand it to my grandmother.

“I’m sure it’s just a…” Her voice trails off as she glances down at the envelope then back up at me. “Oh my God.”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s…it’s from Phillip. The return address is his studio.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Even with the smears and shakiness, I’d know his handwriting anywhere.”

She stares at the envelope. Then she looks up at me. The hand holding the envelope trembles.

“Are you okay?”

Grand doesn’t respond.

“Do you want to open it or should I?”

She rips the envelope open without answering and unfolds the stationery. Her eyes skim the handwritten note. A tear slides down her cheek.

“What is it, Grand? What does it say?”

She swallows. And even though her hand is shaking, she begins to read.

Dear Lillian, this comes far too late but apparently it becomes easier to tell the truth and finally attempt to correct your mistakes when you know you are dying.

I cannot explain why I hurt you so badly and then claimed your work as my own. There’s no accounting for it except that even though I loved you dearly and have never for a moment forgotten you, my jealousy of your talent proved stronger.

The time has come to do what I should have done all those years ago. And while I know you’ll never forgive me, I am determined that you be recognized for the talented artist that you are.

Therefore, I hereby freely admit and confess that The Madonna was never stolen nor was it painted by me. It is the work of Lillian Wilde, and should be recognized as such. My family and I have no claim on it, nor did we ever.

Tears stream down Grand’s face. “Look.” She places the open note on the counter, where I can see it. “It’s witnessed and notarized.”

She wipes away her tears, and for the briefest moment, I see her not as my grandmother but as the young budding artist and woman she once was.

“Phillip always had a spotty moral compass,” Grand says with a wobbly smile. “But in the end, he finally did the right thing.”

Thirty-Six

With Grand validated by technology, and Phillip Drake’s notarized deathbed confession, the furor intensifies. Although it’s only a matter of days, it feels like an eternity until the craziness finally dies down and things go back to normal.

It’s Saturday, and as soon as I finish story time at the bookstore, I give an acting lesson to a young girl who reminds me of myself at nine—a true Sarah Bernhardt determined to take the world by storm. Her mother is only humoring her, but I know a kindred spirit when I meet one.

“I knew when you were her age that you had the talent and the drive to succeed as an actor,” Grand says. “But I don’t think you fully realize even now just how talented you are.”

“Thanks, Grand. Your confidence in me has always meant the world to me.” I give her a hug and hold her tight, grateful that she’s safe. Grateful that she’s my grandmother. “I love you.”

“And I love you, Sydney. I’ve always been proud of you but never more than now.”

I’m still basking in her declaration of pride and love for me when I leave to meet Luke at Paradise Grille, where we take our time downing burgers and fries and enjoying the sunset. I’m still basking and smiling when we arrive at Harley’s.

A.J. greets me with a hug then raises his glass. “To Cassie Everheart!” he shouts.

The regulars raise their glasses in response. “To Cassie!” they shout back.

A round of applause follows.

If I’ve learned anything in my time here, it’s that there’s no point in trying to convince these people that I am not Cassie Everheart. So instead of arguing, I smile and bask and take a bow.

I’m ready to take my seat at the bar when an unfamiliar voice shouts, “She’s not Cassie, you fools! She’s just a mediocre actress who couldn’t hold on to a good gig.”

There are mutters from the regulars. An argument breaks out. Luke starts to stand, but I put a hand on his shoulder and push him back onto his barstool.

“Oh, no,” I say loudly enough for the loudmouth to hear. “You don’t need to get involved, Luke. I’ve totally got this.”

The troublemaker snorts and struts toward me like an overgrown barnyard rooster. “That’s mighty big talk for such a little gal,” he declares when we come to a stop steps away from each other.

“You didn’t really just call me a ‘little gal,’ did you?” I ask. “What century did you grow up in?”

“I surely did. You’re like one of them little froo-froo dogs that are all yap and no bite.”

“And now you’re calling me a dog?”

He takes a step closer. “Not exactly. But you do seem to have a pretty high opinion of yourself for such a yappy little thing.”

There are “ooohs” of anticipation. They’re followed by “ahhhs” as I close the distance between us, intentionally crowding him.

“And you don’t seem to have much of a brain in that big ole head of yours,” I drawl back. “I suggest you go back and sit down and stop mouthing off or you’re going to start a fight you can’t possibly win.”

His bloodshot eyes widen in surprise. When he laughs, his hot breath riffles my hair. “Huh! A fight? With who? You?” He doubles over with laughter, his hands on his thighs, which allows me to land an uppercut to his chin. When his head jerks back, I step closer, grab his shirt, and knee him in the balls.

I’m considering my next move when he crumples to the ground with a girly kind of scream.

The entire bar erupts in applause.

• • •

Once Harley’s closes for the night, Luke and I go to his place, where we celebrate my takedown of the troublemaker with what Luke insists on calling “the great K-O.”

We celebrate on Luke’s bed…on his floor…and in his shower before falling back into his bed, where we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

We don’t wake up until noon and are still lying in bed drinking coffee when my cell phone rings. I reach for it assuming it’s Grand, but when I look at the screen, I see a Los Angeles phone number that I know all too well.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Luke asks on a yawn.

“Nope.” I roll over and run a finger down Luke’s naked chest, trying not to wonder or care why my former agent is calling.

When the ringing finally stops, I refocus on Luke’s naked body and all the deliciously wicked things I’d like to do to it. Before I can begin those wicked things, the phone rings again. And again.

This time it’s an LA number I don’t recognize.

“Do you want me to get it?” Luke asks.

“No.” I lie there listening to the ringing phone until I finally accept the fact that if I don’t answer, I won’t enjoy any of the deliciously wicked things and could, in fact, waste half the day wondering why I’m suddenly getting calls from LA.

“I’ve got it,” I say as I pick up. But the moment I hear Marty’s voice, I move to hang up.

“Wait! Don’t hang up!” My former agent’s tone is urgent. “You’re going to want to hear this.”

“Fine,” I snap. “But make it quick. I’m all out of patience for bullshit.”

“Right. I hear you. I get it.” Marty’s talking so quickly, he sounds like he’s about to hyperventilate. “Just give me a second. I need to, need to catch my breath.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t hang up.

“Bottom line,” he continues, “the rookie’s not working out.” He draws another deep breath. “And now that you’ve had all this positive attention and become a national hero kicking butt and saving your grandmother, they want Cassie Everheart back on Murder 101.”

I blink. This is not at all what I was expecting.

“Best of all, they’re ready to throw buckets of money at you in order to get you back.”

For a long, lovely moment I savor the fact that they want me back. That they’re offering me a chance to act again.

Then I realize just how happy I am here with Grand and Luke and the life I’ve begun to build. My attempted rescue of Grand may have gotten a little messy, but she’s healthy and alive.

Who knows, maybe it is time for me to learn how to solve real crimes instead of just pretending to.

Acknowledgments

Thank you so much for choosing to read Just Beachy. I hope you enjoyed it.

After a long break following my husband’s death due to Covid, it feels good to write again and to once again critique with longtime critique partners (and fabulous authors) Susan Crandall and Karen White, who always encourage me to “dig deeper” when I’d apparently rather write snappy dialogue and skim over the surface.

This time out thanks also go to:

Actress/screenwriter Leandra Terrazzano, who shared some of the harsh realities of Hollywood and how best to survive them.

John Barkley, chief of police of the Treasure Island Police Department, who coached me on the details of policing and read critical scenes to make sure I got things right.

Ingrid Jacobus, whom I was lucky enough to meet during our first television jobs right out of college, which was shockingly fifty-plus years ago—and whom I’m convinced knows pretty much everyone on both coasts of Florida.

It was Ingrid who introduced me to Barbara A. Ramsay, chief conservator at the John & Mable Ringling Museum of Art.

Thanks also go to my agent, Stephanie Rostan of LGR Literary, who keeps a cool head and understands exactly how the publishing world works.

And to my editor, Kate Seaver, and the spectacular team at Berkley.

Photo by Joanna Souza

Wendy Wax, a former broadcaster, is the USA Today bestselling author of sixteen novels and two novellas, including the popular Ten Beach Road series. After over thirty years in Atlanta, she once again lives on the water on the west coast of Florida near the home she grew up in and Ten Beach Road’s fictional Bella Flora.

Visit Wendy Wax online

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