The House on Mermaid Point (6 page)

“Be still, my heart,” Nicole murmured as he drew closer.

Kyra had already hoisted her video camera onto her shoulder and was shooting the famous one’s approach. A small smile quirked at her lips, which was the only part of her face that could be seen.

“I know I have to be dreaming this.” Maddie grasped Avery’s hand. Her voice was hushed, almost reverent. “I had the hugest crush on him for . . . ever.”

“I thought he was dead,” Nicole whispered as he drew closer.

Avery had never seen eyes quite so black. The tiniest pinprick of what might be amusement flickered in them. Or maybe it was irritation. “He looks pretty alive to me.”

Maddie clutched Avery’s hand more tightly.

He came to a stop directly in front of them, clearly aware of but not at all intimidated by the cameras. Slowly he removed the small white stick from his mouth; whatever had been attached to it was gone.

With an ironic smile, the man formerly known as William the Wild bent slightly at the waist in what might be construed as a bow. His eyes never left them.

The voice that had sold millions of records said, “I’m William Hightower. Welcome to Mermaid Point.”

He wasn’t sure what to do with the damned stick now that the entire group was staring at him. After the last six months of quiet—much of it spent avoiding the bars and people he’d partied with in them—these people’s very presence was an onslaught to the senses. His days had been long and ludicrously quiet, the solitude punctuated only by the hours out on the flats fishing, endless laps in the pool when he could no longer sit still, and the AA meetings over near the library.

The quiet had been so profound that had he not emptied his house, and yes, his grounds, of everything that might provide a high of any kind he would have been driven to drink, to pop, to snort . . . something, anything that would make him feel like himself again. But these strangers weren’t like the fans looking to interact for a minute or two before they were cleared from his path. The thought of having them here in his face and on his island made him feel even more alone. And Tommy thought he was going to open his home to a never-ending string of such strangers? He’d off himself first. Or get a little lighter fluid and a match and set the whole island on fire. Or maybe he’d just let them fix it up so he could sell it and . . . it was the “what” that stopped him. What the hell were sixty-one-year-old former rockers supposed to do with themselves when their careers were over? No wonder Mick Jagger was still on the road.

He schooled his features as the introductions were made and did his best to stay tuned in. The small Kewpie doll with the major rack who said she was an architect and in charge of the renovation was named Avery. The older, better-dressed version of her was going to handle the interior design. There was something about this Deirdre and her appraising gaze that had him remembering a mother and daughter he’d once had in the back of his plane. Back when he’d been a frequent flyer in the Mile High Club. But these two didn’t look like they played all that well together. And when was the last time he’d even thought about a three-way?

The woman holding the little boy was slightly above average height and had dark brown hair that brushed her shoulders. Her brown eyes went wide the moment she saw his face, and her cheeks turned a pretty pink when she told him her name was “M-M-M . . . Madeline.” When she shook his hand her cheeks deepened from pink to red, but her lips turned up in a smile before she dropped her gaze to the little boy, whom she introduced as her grandson.

The little boy gave him a blinding smile that he would have had to be totally wasted to resist. The boy’s mother looked to be somewhere in her early twenties, tall and long limbed. Her dark hair had mostly escaped the knot it had been tied in. She had a camera propped on her shoulder and although she had Madeline’s even features, she didn’t stutter at all when she was introduced and either had no idea who he was or simply didn’t care.

The expensive-looking redhead watched him almost as carefully as he watched them, but there was no sexual vibe coming off her. Her name seemed vaguely familiar but he had no idea why since he’d informed his son that he didn’t want or need bios on the crew who would be handling this renovation that he didn’t want or need. He had resisted so much as Googling their show,
Do Over
. As if there were any such thing. And he had managed to lose the article Tommy had emailed him.

“You didn’t bring a mother or daughter with you,” he said to the redhead, who seemed to be the only one who’d come solo.

“Only because I don’t have either.” The redhead didn’t seem at all perturbed by this fact or by his question. Unlike his son, who winced at the comment. “How about you? Any other family members or wives present?” she asked.

Will wasn’t sure if she was flirting or simply curious. Good Lord, he
was
out of practice. Or maybe it was just the novelty of interacting with women without even an ounce of alcohol in his bloodstream.

“No,” Tommy injected into the silence. “As far as we know, I’m it.”

Will said nothing. He didn’t want a gaggle of females—not even attractive ones in a variety of ages and sizes—in his home. Didn’t want them changing things. Chattering at him. If they were looking for jovial or whatever the hell an innkeeper was supposed to be, they’d come to the wrong island.

“If you’re going to own a bed-and-breakfast you’re going to have to get used to having guests,” Tommy had said reasonably, as if having strangers tromping around your home would ever be reasonable.

But Will was not going to share his personal space with anyone until he absolutely had to. Until the first paying guest arrived, he’d hope for some last-minute reprieve. Or a lightning strike of luck, like the one that had yanked him out of obscurity and poverty and put him on that first rung on the climb to the top of the charts.

The network had wanted the
Do Over
cast in the house with him while they renovated. His refusal was the only argument he’d won. Once, no one, not even his son, would have argued with him. Those were the days—when people jumped to please him. And everyone agreed with pretty much any stupid-ass thing he said.

The little boy’s mother pulled a plastic cup and a baggie of little cheese things out of her camera bag and handed them to her son. “You can put him down, Mom. He can get pretty heavy.”

The moment the boy’s feet hit the ground he toddled toward the pool, clutching the snack and the drink. Will watched his progress and the way his mother and grandmother stayed close but somehow managed to give him space.

“Poo!” the little boy said. “Sim!”

The older woman smiled as the boy wrapped an arm around her thigh. Not the slightly nervous one she’d offered him when they’d been introduced, but a pure and unself-conscious thing that lit her entire face. “Yes,” she said to her grandson. “I bet Mr. Hightower will let you swim sometime. But you never go near the pool without an adult. Never.”

His son nudged him. “Will,” he mouthed.

“Will,” Will said before he could decide not to. “You can all call me Will.”

The little boy buried his face against his grandmother’s leg. Will looked at the pool area, seeing it for the first time in a coon’s age through other eyes. Tommy had brought a cleaning crew out and the pool water sparkled. The Jacuzzi and the decking had been scrubbed, too, but it was hard to ignore the cracks in the concrete or the missing decorative tiles. The iron outdoor furniture was scarred and peeling, the cushions ripped and faded. It had been years since anyone had tried to tame the jungle that crept ever closer to the house and the pool deck. A cleaning crew had been all over the house, too, with instructions to eliminate the cobwebs and dust bunnies that Will had never even noticed back when daylight had been for sleeping through and nighttime had been spent so bleary-eyed he wouldn’t have seen an alligator if it were soaking in his bathtub.

Without the cotton wool of alcohol wrapped around him, this place looked as old and tired as he felt.

In the pavilion he stood silent, letting the breeze wash over him while they studied the built-in outdoor kitchen that had once been state-of-the-art. A couple of wooden tables and chairs sat on the sand-covered concrete slab floor. The place was wired for sound, but he wasn’t even sure if the system worked. A massive fan and light fixture hung from the center of the vaulted ceiling. It circled, emitting a loud squeak each time it completed a rotation.

“The ceiling is tongue-and-groove Dade County pine,” the older blonde, called Deirdre, said, all excited. “This would be a great spot to serve breakfast and maybe even casual lunches.”

He had no response for this. His eye caught Madeline Singer’s and they contemplated each other until someone, he had no idea who, cleared their throat.

“Can we go ahead and see the house now?” the young blond one asked.

He angled his head to gauge the sun’s position. There was plenty of time before sunset—once a time of day he’d enjoyed almost as much as sunrise—except that now he spent a good part of “the show” battling his thirst for alcohol while he watched the sun sink into the bay. He had no idea how long it was going to take to separate alcohol from the pleasure of sunset and absolutely no interest in sharing that evening struggle with any of them.

Back in the day he would have just said no. Or stalked off, which would have been even clearer and far more satisfying.

“Why don’t we just do the grounds and the outbuildings for now?” Tommy suggested smoothly. “That’ll give you tonight to get settled and we can tour the house in the morning when the light is good.”

Will cut a look at his son, oddly pleased. He’d have at least one more night to pretend that none of this was happening.

The little boy looked up. The child’s mother lowered her camera, letting it hang from a strap on her shoulder, and reached for the child. When she had him she turned so that his face was hidden from the network camera.

“Why don’t we start at the back of the island and work our way toward the dock?” Tommy suggested. Before Will could object or bail out on the tour altogether, Tommy was leading the way down what had once been the main driveway.

At the northwestern edge of the island, the three-car detached garage sat in a clearing near the narrow strip of fill that had once served as a land bridge to U.S. 1. The electric poles that had been placed along it could still be seen above the dense foliage and water that had obliterated the road.

The three-bayed wooden structure housed his Jeep and a rust-riddled riding lawn mower that hadn’t been used in this millennium. Several boat motors that Hudson used for parts had been propped against one wall. Broken gardening equipment and assorted junk was stacked throughout the space in no discernible order, and oil covered the floor. An outside staircase led to the second floor, which was the same size as the garage and had balconies facing east and west. Part of it had been finished for the cook/maid he’d employed for a while. It had a small sitting room and a bedroom and bath.

“How come there’s no road anymore?” the redhead called Nicole asked.

“Didn’t really need it,” he replied with a shrug.

“It’s not actually completely . . .” Tommy began, but for once he obeyed Will’s cease-and-desist look. They didn’t owe these people an explanation for everything—or anything—as far as he was concerned. “The backup generator is over there near the utility shed.”

Will looked down at his watch and tried not to think about how thirsty he was. He’d managed to ditch the little white stick while they were tromping through the overgrowth. He pulled another Tootsie Pop out of his pocket and led them back down the path. At the fork he cut over toward the dock on the southern edge of the island.

“What’s over there?” the older blonde asked, gesturing to the path he hadn’t taken. Toward the one building he had no intention of showing them.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said, but she was already turning the other way, peering through the tree branches and leaves and vines. He had no idea how she’d spotted it through the overgrowth that screened it from the path. The others followed, forcing him to turn back.

“It’s adorable!” Deirdre said. “And so quaint.” It might have been Christmas and Easter all rolled into one, the way she carried on.

The small one-bedroom house had been here when he bought the island, a squat single-story building built of coral blocks, called keystone, that were set in a mosaic of rectangles. It was topped by a simple gabled tin roof. A bamboo pole fence slip-knotted loosely together with rope bounded it on three sides and left gaps that you could see through. It sat on a small rise and overlooked a wide swath of ocean. He happened to know that the small porch commanded the best sunrise view on the island.

“Why is there a padlock on the door?” Deirdre asked, as if being allowed on his property somehow entitled her to ask whatever the hell kind of personal questions she wanted.

“I would have thought that was pretty self-explanatory,” he said. It was all he could do not to ask her what part of “keep out” she didn’t understand.

“What’s inside?” Avery asked as the video guy swung his camera lens Will’s way.

The cameraman’s fingers moved subtly. It had been a while since he’d had cameras regularly shoved in his face, but he could tell the guy was zooming in for a close-up.

“It’s my studio,” he said as if it couldn’t matter less. Even though he hadn’t set foot in it for what felt like a lifetime and sometimes almost managed to forget that it existed.

“Will we be renovating it?” Avery asked.

“No,” he said in a tone intended to end the conversation.

“But why not?” Deirdre asked, clearly missing or ignoring his tone. Which was just one more indication of how very far off his game he was.

“Because even once the main house becomes a bed-and-breakfast”—his throat actually tightened when he said the words—“my studio will still be off-limits.”

No one went into the studio anymore. Especially not him. And it was unlikely anyone ever would again.

They looked at him, not understanding. Except for Madeline. Who had probably read that damned article about how he hadn’t written or recorded in more than a decade. Her big brown eyes held questions he had no intention of answering.