Ocean Beach by Wendy Wax Page B

There wasn’t a toast point, a caviar jar, or any foie gras—Deirdre’s usual contribution—anywhere in sight.
    There was laughter.
    “Is this your idea of a joke?” Avery asked, not seeing the humor.
    “No, it’s my idea of indigestion,” Deirdre said, handing Avery a paper plate of Cheez Doodles and a neatly folded napkin. “But I know how much you like artificially colored cheese-food products.”
    Pinkie up, Deirdre took a small bite of a Cheez Doodle and chewed tentatively. She grimaced as if in pain as she swallowed, then contemplated her orange-stained fingers.
    “Thanks,” Avery said as Deirdre passed the hors d’oeuvres. And then because she couldn’t help herself: “They really taste better out of the bag.”
    “I think it was very nice of your mother to serve something she knew you’d like,” Madeline said.
    All of them looked up at Maddie’s use of the word
mother
. Deirdre flinched and braced, as if waiting for Avery to object to the term, but Avery wasn’t about to debate Deirdre’s lack of qualifications or claim to the title. There were things that needed to be accomplished tonight. Slapping down Deirdre wasn’t one of them.
    “Right,” Nicole said, raising her glass. “But I’m voting for something a little more elegant and a lot less orange next time.”
    “They did have a gourmet, no-artificial-coloring version,” Deirdre said.
    “Good God, no,” Avery replied. “That would suck the pleasure right out of them.”
    They sipped their drinks for a time with only the low buzz of insects and the sharp slap at the occasional blood-seeking mosquito to break the silence. Maddie had arranged the chairs facing west, and for a few long moments they watched the golden ball of sun shimmer in the sky and reflect off the glass of the condo buildings that lay between them and Biscayne Bay. They were farther removed from the display than they had been at Bella Flora, but the show was well worth watching just the same.
    Licking a cheesy finger, Kyra stood and walked to the opposite corner of the deck, where she leaned over the railing and scanned the backyard. The baby monitor was clipped to the waistband of her shorts.
    “What are you looking for?” Maddie asked.
    “I want to make sure the dastardly duo isn’t hiding behind some bush or up a palm tree aiming a parabolic microphone our way,” Kyra said. “I wouldn’t put anything past Troy Matthews.”
    When she was satisfied that they were not under covert surveillance, Kyra plopped back into her chair. “I can’t believe what a mess everything is,” she said. “I was so excited about the opportunity to shoot and produce a series. Karen Crandall seemed to be so on board with our vision for
Do Over
that we didn’t spell enough of it out in the contract.”
    Avery sighed. She had been there, done that, and alreadyowned the T-shirt. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Even if we had covered everything, there wouldn’t have been much we could do if they changed their minds. The only power we ever really have is to walk away. And none of us are in any position to do that.”
    Kyra stilled.
    “How can you be so calm?” Kyra’s voice was as tightly clenched as her hands. “I thought we were shooting and producing a television series about redoing really interesting houses for important reasons, but we’re really just starring in a reality-TV show. The only thing missing is the professional athlete husbands and the outrageous amounts of money.”
    Watching Kyra’s troubled face, Avery saw herself, shocked and horrified by what her role on the HGTV show
Hammer & Nail
had become. How her then-husband Trent had become the star of the show Avery had conceived and sold, while Avery, a trained architect who had grown up on her father’s construction sites, had been reduced to pointing and gesturing and smiling—a role that had caused a whole slew of additional IQ points to be deducted.
    “It sucks,” Avery said. “But you have to