faces had begun staring back out at her. She reminded herself that she knew absolutely nothing about the
real
William Hightower. Like a million other girls, she’d had a juvenile crush on a bad-boy rock star.
Now he was the homeowner they were here to help. No different from Max Golden, the former vaudevillian they’d fallen in love with on South Beach. Except that Max, who’d had a professionally honed sense of humor, superb comedic timing, and a boatload of heart, had been ninety. William Hightower was barely sixty and had a wounded look in his eye that only made him more attractive.
The house looked larger and more weary in the bright morning light; its wooden façade and heavy double doors weather-beaten; its windows obscure and glazed.
Nicole jogged into the clearing to join them. She bent at the waist, hands on her knees, to catch her breath as the rest of them studied the house. Avery scribbled in a notebook while Troy and Kyra shot video of the house’s exterior and those assembled in front of it, seemingly unaware of each other but somehow managing not to collide.
Thomas and William Hightower stood near the steps. The younger Hightower was dressed in business casual, which seemed oddly formal in this setting. His father wore bathing trunks that rode low on his hips, an old World Wide Sportsman T-shirt, and a well-worn pair of flip-flops. His hair and T-shirt were damp as if he’d been dragged out of the pool against his will. His dark eyes were sharp and not the least bit hospitable.
“So, the house and the structures you saw yesterday are pretty much as they were when William bought Mermaid Point in 1983. It hasn’t really been remodeled or redecorated in any significant way since the early nineties.” Thomas cleared his throat, ran a hand over his short dark hair. “There’s been a good bit of deterioration over the last ten or fifteen years.”
Will snorted with impatience. “I imagine they can see that for themselves,” he said. “Why don’t we just give them the tour and be done with it?”
Avery stopped scribbling and looked at the aging rocker. “I love the clean lines of this house,” she said. “The board and batten gives it lift and a classic Florida feel. And the keystone in the foundation surround and on the steps gives it an indigenous feel—almost as if it grew out of the island itself.”
Will eyed her suspiciously for a moment, not sure of her agenda. His brows lowered and his eyes lasered in on her. Maddie was glad she wasn’t under that kind of scrutiny.
“I agree,” Deirdre added, taking everyone, especially Avery, by surprise. “And the metal roof not only reflects heat but has accurate island detail. Of course things are a bit more . . . weathered . . . than they might be in another environment. It’s hard to avoid the elements when you’re completely surrounded by salt water, wind, and hot sun,” she said graciously.
“But then if the house didn’t need any work we wouldn’t be here,” Avery added, getting to the point.
Mother and daughter turned identical blue eyes on the Hightowers.
“Can you give us the tour now, Will?” Deirdre said. “I hardly slept last night from the anticipation of seeing the interior.”
Deirdre tried not to laugh at her daughter’s shock as they stepped inside and took in their surroundings. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that made it through the salt- and grime-caked transom and sidelights. The foyer was wide and high with rooms to each side and a stairway running up one wall, but the air was slightly damp and carried the scent of a load of towels left too long in a washing machine. Or a locker room that had gone too long between cleanings.
The walls were pecky cypress. Solid wood trusses—a triangular web of beams that drew the eye upward—filled the voluminous ceiling. Ahead a sun-infused space beckoned, but Hightower led them into the room just left of the front door, which had been set up as an office.
real
William Hightower. Like a million other girls, she’d had a juvenile crush on a bad-boy rock star.
Now he was the homeowner they were here to help. No different from Max Golden, the former vaudevillian they’d fallen in love with on South Beach. Except that Max, who’d had a professionally honed sense of humor, superb comedic timing, and a boatload of heart, had been ninety. William Hightower was barely sixty and had a wounded look in his eye that only made him more attractive.
The house looked larger and more weary in the bright morning light; its wooden façade and heavy double doors weather-beaten; its windows obscure and glazed.
Nicole jogged into the clearing to join them. She bent at the waist, hands on her knees, to catch her breath as the rest of them studied the house. Avery scribbled in a notebook while Troy and Kyra shot video of the house’s exterior and those assembled in front of it, seemingly unaware of each other but somehow managing not to collide.
Thomas and William Hightower stood near the steps. The younger Hightower was dressed in business casual, which seemed oddly formal in this setting. His father wore bathing trunks that rode low on his hips, an old World Wide Sportsman T-shirt, and a well-worn pair of flip-flops. His hair and T-shirt were damp as if he’d been dragged out of the pool against his will. His dark eyes were sharp and not the least bit hospitable.
“So, the house and the structures you saw yesterday are pretty much as they were when William bought Mermaid Point in 1983. It hasn’t really been remodeled or redecorated in any significant way since the early nineties.” Thomas cleared his throat, ran a hand over his short dark hair. “There’s been a good bit of deterioration over the last ten or fifteen years.”
Will snorted with impatience. “I imagine they can see that for themselves,” he said. “Why don’t we just give them the tour and be done with it?”
Avery stopped scribbling and looked at the aging rocker. “I love the clean lines of this house,” she said. “The board and batten gives it lift and a classic Florida feel. And the keystone in the foundation surround and on the steps gives it an indigenous feel—almost as if it grew out of the island itself.”
Will eyed her suspiciously for a moment, not sure of her agenda. His brows lowered and his eyes lasered in on her. Maddie was glad she wasn’t under that kind of scrutiny.
“I agree,” Deirdre added, taking everyone, especially Avery, by surprise. “And the metal roof not only reflects heat but has accurate island detail. Of course things are a bit more . . . weathered . . . than they might be in another environment. It’s hard to avoid the elements when you’re completely surrounded by salt water, wind, and hot sun,” she said graciously.
“But then if the house didn’t need any work we wouldn’t be here,” Avery added, getting to the point.
Mother and daughter turned identical blue eyes on the Hightowers.
“Can you give us the tour now, Will?” Deirdre said. “I hardly slept last night from the anticipation of seeing the interior.”
Deirdre tried not to laugh at her daughter’s shock as they stepped inside and took in their surroundings. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that made it through the salt- and grime-caked transom and sidelights. The foyer was wide and high with rooms to each side and a stairway running up one wall, but the air was slightly damp and carried the scent of a load of towels left too long in a washing machine. Or a locker room that had gone too long between cleanings.
The walls were pecky cypress. Solid wood trusses—a triangular web of beams that drew the eye upward—filled the voluminous ceiling. Ahead a sun-infused space beckoned, but Hightower led them into the room just left of the front door, which had been set up as an office.
Similar Books
