The House on Mermaid Point (17 page)

Thomas looked at his father as if he had never seen him before.

“Are you telling me you don’t remember?” William asked.

“What I remember is that you were always gone. And that about two minutes after my mother died you shipped me off to boarding school.”

William studied his son’s face. “Seriously? That’s it?”

Thomas Hightower nodded slowly. “Yep, I’d say that pretty much sums it up.”

“Man.” William’s voice was tinged with irony. “I’ve spent a huge part of my life trying to blot out the bad things. It never occurred to me that anybody would want to blot out all the good stuff.”

Father and son contemplated each other out of identical brown eyes under identical slashes of brow. She waited for one of them to say something that might facilitate a more in-depth conversation, something that might bridge the distance between them; but neither man spoke. She didn’t know how the male species had survived when so many of them had so little clue. “Are you hungry?” she asked finally. “There are eggs in the fridge. I could scramble a few or maybe make you omelets. Kind of a last semiofficial meal before this kitchen gets torn out.”

They shrugged; same move, different shoulders. “I don’t think I’m all that hungry.” Thomas automatically began to decline as William asked, “Is there any of that lasagna left?”

“Um, yes.” Maddie knew this because she’d wrapped and put it away herself the night before. “But it
is
eight thirty in the morning.”

“There’s never a bad time for Italian food,” William said. “But morning’s the best time in the world for cold lasagna.”

“Okay.” She went to the refrigerator to retrieve the leftovers. “Is that some sort of Hightower family tradition?”

Will snorted. “I don’t think we had anything that could be called a tradition. Unless it was being stoned out of your mind.” He looked at Thomas thoughtfully. “Your grandmother wasn’t much of a cook. Actually, I don’t know how good a cook she might have been because she and my dad were usually too shitfaced to think about food.”

“Tit faced!” Dustin’s pronunciation was a bit off, but there was apparently nothing wrong with his hearing.

“Sorry,” Will said, but his gaze went back to his son. “The thing about the lasagna is I used to steal Stouffer’s from the Stop ’n’ Go in town whenever old Hyram would go to the men’s room and leave the store unattended. The freezer case was right near the front door.” He sounded quite pleased with himself. “It was your uncle Tommy’s and my favorite breakfast.”

Thomas’s eyes registered doubt, but his rigid expression softened. “You’ve never talked about Uncle Tommy. You gave me his name and acted like it was some great honor. But you never talked about him.”

“Yeah, well. I always meant to.” William ran a hand through hair that was still more wet than dry. “You look just like him. Every time I see one of his expressions cross your face . . . some things are just too hard to talk about. Hell, I’ve been doing my best not to even think about them all these years.”

In a movie the two might have embraced, past hurts and grudges magically forgiven. The music would swell. But this was real life. The only sounds here were the thuds, footsteps, and shouts that reached them from the roof and the slurp of the last of Dustin’s gwape juice coming up through the tiny straw.

Maddie pulled the leftover lasagna out of the refrigerator and carried it to the counter. Neither Hightower looked ready for a Hallmark moment, but neither of them had cut and run, either. She was prepared to count that as a victory. “What do people who eat lasagna for breakfast wash it down with?” Maddie cut the hunk of lasagna in half.

“Nowadays they wash it down with milk,” William said. “How about you, Tommy?” he asked. “Do you want some?”

Maddie pulled two glasses out of the cupboard, then retrieved the jug of milk from the refrigerator.

“All right,” Thomas said. His tone was skeptical, but Maddie thought there was a note of pleasure beneath it. “I guess I’ll give it a go. But I’m pretty sure there’s a reason you don’t see lasagna on the breakfast menu at IHOP.”

The houseboat that arrived late the next afternoon was as vivid as its owner. Its hull was painted a bright sky blue, the walls sunshine yellow, the cabin roof streaked pink and red in a way that mimicked the sky at sunset. The windows were open to the ocean breeze and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” blasted from the sound system as it angled in on the southeastern edge of Mermaid Point and nosed up to the retaining wall.

Deirdre and Nicole had left a few hours earlier for Miami, ready to pitch to the suppliers and subcontractors who’d agreed to see them and vowing not to come back until contracts were signed. Avery, Maddie, and Kyra watched the houseboat’s arrival from the pool, where they’d submerged themselves in an effort to cool off after a day spent swinging sledgehammers and ripping out walls in the boathouse. Dustin floated happily in the shallow end, his orange-floatie’d arms outstretched.

The engine shut off, cutting the triple-guitar solo off in midchord. The man who stepped off the deck and tied up with casual efficiency was of average height and build and wore blue jean cutoffs and a rainbow tie-dyed T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The top of his head was wrapped in a red bandana and a braid of gray-brown hair hung down his back. It matched the braided soul patch that straggled from his pointed chin. His swarthy skin appeared baked to a golden brown. He walked slowly, taking in his surroundings and possibly metaphorically stopping to smell the roses, or in this case the bougainvillea. A peace sign dangled from a loop of leather around his neck. Huarache sandals covered his feet. His head bopped to a rhythm that only he could hear.

He looked, Avery thought, like a hairier version of Johnny Depp doing Captain Jack Sparrow.

Troy and Anthony appeared from nowhere and began to shoot his arrival. Which was one more reminder that just because you couldn’t see the Lifetime crew it didn’t mean they weren’t hiding in the nearest bushes filming their little hearts out.

“If I were a little older I’d think I was having a flashback.” Avery couldn’t take her eyes off the man making his way toward them.

“If he asks for directions to Woodstock or the Allman Brothers’ Big House in Macon we’ll know he took a wrong turn in the seventies,” Maddie quipped. “Do you think he could be a friend of William’s?”

“I don’t know.” Avery squinted her eyes against the sun. He looked to be somewhere in his mid to late sixties, but the bare arms that protruded from the homemade muscle tee were strong and sinewy. A tattoo in the shape of a large X ran down one arm. She noticed that the juncture of the X was formed by a handsaw and a hammer. Hope pulled Avery and her aching muscles out of the pool. Dripping water, she walked toward the man, whom she desperately hoped was Mario’s carpenter cousin.

His head was still bopping to whatever music filled his brain and his brown eyes were slightly dilated, but his smile was wide and sincere, revealing a gold-capped tooth near the front. He put out a leathery hand and clasped hers inside it. “Based on Mario’s description, I’m guessing you’re Avery Lawford.”

“And I’m hoping you’re Roberto Dante.”

“That’s me.” The gold cap twinkled in the sunlight, adding to the piratical air. There was no sign of an Italian accent. His grip was firm, his fingers callused. “I was tied up down near Big Coppitt Key when I heard from Mario. I had to finish up the job I was working on.” He looked around, nodding agreeably. “Sweet spot you got here. Good vibes.” He fingered the braided soul patch and cocked his head. “In fact, I think I might have been here before. Cat name of Wild Will live here?”

Avery smiled. “This is his island. How do you know William?”

“Partied together some down in Key West back in the day. I’ve been down here on one key or another since the early seventies. I like the pace and the people, you know? It kind of works its way into your bloodstream.”

“Would you like a cold drink? Something to eat?” Avery would have offered him her firstborn child if she’d had one.

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

“Do you have a regular crew?” Avery asked.

“No. I’m pretty much a one-man show. But I’ve worked with lots of guys in the area. I can round up whoever we need depending on what has to be done. Okay if I leave my house tied up there?” He gestured back toward what she’d already begun to think of as the sunset house.

“Sure. But our houseboats are down off the docks if you’d rather tie up there.”

He tugged on his chin braid reflectively. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did you tie up down there? That’s an odd spot to be in.”

“Why odd?” Maddie had come out of the pool, wrapped in a towel, to join them.

“You can barely get a breath of the trade wind off the Atlantic in that spot. I mean, it’s a little more protected there, makes sense that the boathouse and dock would be there. But for a live-aboard situation?” He shrugged. “Kind of makes you raw meat for the bugs.”

She and Maddie exchanged glances. Avery wondered who had been in charge of placement—the network or William Hightower? She’d bet on the network.

“Our houseboat doesn’t have an engine or steering or anything. Could you help us move our houseboat near yours?” Maddie asked.

“Sure.”

The afternoon sun had already dried her. Avery pulled on a T-shirt. “Let’s walk through right now, okay? Oh, and no reflection on any of your personal choices or anything, but we have a small child”—she gestured toward Dustin and Kyra—“and a recently rehabbed rock star on this island. So no drugs or alcohol on these three-point-four acres.”

He fingered the soul patch thoughtfully. “No problem. I only smoke now and again. You know, for medicinal purposes. And I like to do it in the privacy of my own home.”

Avery had a brief vision of the man sitting inside the sunset houseboat in a cloud of marijuana smoke. As long as his fumes didn’t come anywhere near Dustin or tempt Will Hightower, and he didn’t plan to handle power tools stoned—well, it would take a lot for her to turn this man away when they needed him so desperately. “Mellow” wasn’t the worst adjective one might apply to an important member of the construction team.

He smiled with another flash of the gold-capped tooth. “I’ve been tapering off anyway. If they totally legalize it it’s just gonna suck all the fun right out of it.”

•   •   •

It was odd how quickly and completely everything slid into high gear after Roberto’s arrival given how laid-back the man was. But it took only one walk through each structure for him to totally get Avery’s vision and understand the accompanying constraints.

He shook William Hightower’s hand with a casual “Good to see you again, man. We’re gonna do our best not to inconvenience you any more than we need to, but I won’t lie. The first few days of demolition are going to be loud and dirty. If you have somewhere else to be I highly recommend it.”

Avery had expected Hightower to argue or at least fume a little, but William just nodded. The next morning when they arrived at the main house the door was unlocked and there was no sign of him. She caught the look that passed over Maddie’s face; it was one of half relief, half disappointment.

“Heard him leave just before sunrise,” Roberto said. He handed each of them a sledgehammer and pointed out the most vulnerable parts of the front staircase. “Let’s get this thing out of here. I’m going to rip out the cabinets on that kitchen wall to make room for the new stair.”

They settled Dustin in the back of the living area with a pile of toys near the pool table where he’d be out of harm’s way, and Avery, Maddie, and Kyra swung away.

“Wow! I feel so energized.” Maddie’s sledgehammer smashed into the balustrade and splintered an entire section.

Kyra swung at the stair beneath the now gaping balustrade and produced a huge hole. “It does feel good.” She swung again. “In fact, it feels great.” She sent a look directly into Troy’s camera lens. “This is the perfect way to work out aggression.” She swung again, connected, whooped aloud as more wood splintered. “Just picture someone who’s pissed you off or done you wrong and . . .” Wham! Another stroke, another hole.

Maddie laughed as she lifted the long-handled hammer. “Aiya!” she shouted as she swung it hard at the wooden box of the steps.

“Just be careful of the plank floor,” Avery said as she moved into position to take her swing. “We’re going to have to fill in this space, but I don’t want to damage anything we don’t have to. I’m hoping we’re going to be able to use planks from where the stair is going in up the kitchen wall to fill in here.”

They’d worked up a serious sweat and a huge mess by the time the stair was gone and its parts carried out and flung into the Dumpster. Bits and pieces of wood stuck to their sweaty skin. Avery reached out to remove a chunk from Maddie’s hair. Maddie did the same for Kyra. They looked like a family of chimps plucking insects from each other’s pelts.

Roberto worked to music, his sinewy arms swinging in time to the Allman Brothers Band’s “Black Hearted Woman” blasting through portable speakers. It made her realize that this was the first time they’d heard southern rock in the home of one of the world’s best-known southern rockers.

Roberto had the kitchen cabinets out by the time they finished the stairs. The stove and hood were all that remained. The refrigerator had been moved beside them, freeing up the wall where the new stair would go.

“Will lived at the Big House in Macon for a while with the Allmans back when he was on the rise. He and his band recorded ‘Mermaid in You’ at Muscle Shoals. Always thought that was one of the saddest songs I ever heard.”

“Yeah.” Maddie held the glass of lemonade up to her forehead, seemingly more interested in its cooling than its thirst-quenching properties. “All that raw emotion; the idea of loving someone so much that it sears your soul.”

“Yep, just hearing the opening bars of that song used to give me an ache in the pit of my stomach,” Avery said.

They listened as the music faded out. The room fell silent.

“Wild Will’s voice handled the blues almost as good as Gregg Allman’s,” Roberto Dante said. “But then, I don’t guess you write the kind of music Will was known for without knowing pain up close and personal.”