Ocean Beach (29 page)

It was midnight and still early in South Beach party terms. The strip of Ocean Drive hotels was awash in neon, but their nightclubs and sidewalk cafés were just sputtering to life when Avery and Chase checked into the Clevelander Hotel. The fabulous Art Deco bones of the late-thirties structure stretched over a sleekly remodeled interior and had been joined to newer buildings so that the property anchored a whole block of Ocean Drive.

Avery accepted the welcome package from the desk clerk and laughed when he informed them that they were free to use the contents in any order they deemed fit.

“What’s so funny?” Chase asked, pocketing the room key card.

She drew him away from the desk and opened the package to show him their choices.

“Ah…” He smiled, contemplating the drink tokens, condoms, earplugs, and aspirin. “Only a partial dilemma.” He shot her a wink. “I’m not ready to go to sleep yet and I
definitely don’t have a headache. Should we flip a coin to decide between the other two?”

“I think not.” Avery had been bone tired when they left The Millicent. Her jaw ached from talking and smiling, her back throbbed from standing so long in high heels. But now that the party was behind them, she could feel the exhaustion begin to lift. “We should get a drink. Because we have all night together.” A thrill of anticipation shot through her. “And all day tomorrow. And the night after that.”

She’d been too preoccupied with the house, getting everyone settled, making it through the party without having a wardrobe malfunction, to even let herself think about having so much time alone. “We’ll have lots of opportunities to use the condoms. And I’m pretty sure we’re not going to want to come downstairs again for a drink anytime soon.”

“There’s always room service.” Chase’s voice went husky.

“True,” she said, feeling the warmth in his voice course through her. But let’s get a drink first.”

Chase handed their bags to the bellman along with a tip. “Can you take these to our room?”

“Absolutely. The pool bar’s right through that door.” He nodded to the corner of the lobby. “And we have a fourteen-screen sports bar and a nightclub. There’s a description of each in your packet.”

They stepped outside to the pool area, which dominated the corner of Tenth and Ocean, their gazes drawn by the neon bar and a flying-saucer-shaped structure fashioned out of concrete. The umbrella’d tables along the front sidewalk were almost full, but the music and the party atmosphere at the pool bar were just cranking up. They carried their drinks to a small bar-height table where they could watch
the cars and people parade up and down Ocean Drive, their clothes almost as bright as the hotel’s neon lights and the stars that shimmered over the Atlantic.

Any one of the people who packed the bar could have easily won a spot on an episode of
America’s Next Top Model.
Their bodies were spectacularly formed, their skin smooth and taut. No matter how hard she looked, Avery didn’t spot a single muffin top, unintentional hair, or wrinkle. Compared to the bits of shiny fabric that passed for their clothing, Millie’s dress and Avery’s cleavage appeared downright sedate.

At first she felt old, which was not something that normally occurred to her thirty-six-year-old self. And then she began to feel invisible to everyone but Chase, which was actually incredibly liberating. The way he looked at her—and only her—his blue eyes all smoky, was almost as intoxicating as the drinks of which she’d somehow lost count.

He signed the tab and lifted an eyebrow in question, then led her through the gyrating throng, across the terrazzo’d lobby, and into the elevator, all to a pulsing beat that infused the hallways and echoed in the elevator.

In their room they fell onto the king-size bed with abandon, Avery giggling over the gift condom, both of them eager to put it to use.

Midway through their lovemaking Avery realized that the sound track of music and partying was not in her head, but was seeping through the hotel’s hallways, insinuating itself beneath the door.

She and Chase were naked and entwined. His sweat-soaked body melded to hers as he moved inside her. The tension built. She was close, so close she could feel the tiniest of tremors. With a whimper she wrapped her arms
and legs more tightly around him. Her nerve endings pulsed with—

There was a shout. The blare of car horns. A curse in a language she didn’t recognize.

Her brain stopped speeding through the tunnel and instead began trying to identify the language. She didn’t think it was Spanish. Knew it wasn’t French. Wondered if it might be something Slavic.

Avery’s eyes flew open. Her body slowed.
Damn.

“What?” Chase asked. “What is it?” He lowered his weight onto his forearms, but his eyes remained shut and his body remained tightly clenched against what had, until a moment ago, seemed like an inevitable orgasm.

“Wait,” she said quickly. “Don’t move.”

Careful not to disengage, Avery ran her hands through the sheets then got a hand onto the nearest nightstand. “It’s so loud I can’t concentrate. I’m trying to find the earplugs.”

Now his eyes opened.

“Hold on,” she said.

He blinked as her fingers closed around the welcome packet and fumbled open the cellophane package.

There was a chorus of shrieks outside followed by a thunderous splash. A microphone fed back loudly. Her brain began to picture what was taking place at the pool bar.

She began to move again, slowly and intentionally, holding his gaze with her own, as she managed to jam the rubber stoppers into her ears.

“That’s it,” she said as his eyes closed, though even her own words were muffled.

Now the sounds that reached her came wrapped in cotton wool. She felt, but couldn’t really hear, his breath
against her ear, the slap of their bodies moving in tandem, and the faint tremors that began deep inside her and built to a nine or ten on her personal Richter scale.

Sleep did not follow. At three
A.M.,
the bed began to vibrate, not from the heat of their lovemaking but from the throbbing bass of a particularly offensive rap song. To which Avery could have shouted along if she’d had a mind to.

Her fingers went to her ears, but the earplugs were gone.

Chase lay on his side facing her. His eyes were open.

“I can hear every single word of that song,” she said as the beat throbbed between them. “I think I can even hear what the DJ’s
thinking
.”

Chase flipped onto his back and pillowed his head in his arms. “I’m thinking about submitting a bid on the soundproofing they obviously need here,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “Actually, I’d do the work for free if they’d let me start right now.”

At four
A.M.,
they split the aspirin.

At four-thirty, Avery located the earplugs—one under each end of the bed. After a brief debate about how best to deploy them, they each stuffed one in an ear and pressed a pillow against their other.

“I thought the welcome packet was a joke,” she said at five.

“It should have been labeled ‘survival kit,’” Chase agreed. “And they need to up the number of aspirin and earplugs.”

At six, the noise evaporated and the sky began to lighten. Palm-tree shadows danced on the curtains. A bird chirped. Avery imagined she could hear the sound of the ocean skimming onto shore. “I thought we’d have brunch out, take a look at the hotels, maybe do a tour if you’re up for it.” She’d
walked up and down Ocean Drive casually once or twice, had been in and out of a few of the hotel lobbies, but she realized now that she’d been waiting for Chase to tour it more thoroughly. “But I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“I know the feeling. But we should sleep while we can,” Chase said. “Today’s Saturday, which makes tonight Saturday night. I don’t think things are going to shut down any earlier than they did last night.”

“You mean this morning,” Avery corrected with a yawn.

Chase reached for his iPhone and flicked his thumb over the screen. “I think the north part of South Beach is a little quieter. We could move up to the Palms, that’s up around Thirtieth. I stayed there a couple of years ago. It’s very upscale. It might be a little more appropriate for old farts like us.”

She rolled onto her side and burrowed up against Chase, burying her nose in his shoulder.

“They’ve got rooms available,” Chase said. “I’m going to make a reservation. Is that okay with you?”

Avery breathed him in. She wanted to sleep all day and never get up. “’S okay,” she said groggily as she began to drift off.

His arm wrapped around her and she sighed, exhausted but content. “But don’t tell Deirdre.” Her thoughts began to blur as her breathing grew more even. “…don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

Nikki couldn’t wait to get out of bed. It was still dark when she heard footsteps on the landing. A few minutes later there was movement downstairs in the kitchen. A car started up outside. The Maureen McGovern song “There’s
Got to Be a Morning After” from
The Poseidon Adventure
had played out in her head for most of the night as she jockeyed for a sliver of the bed she was sharing with Kyra while listening to Dustin’s amazing repertoire of snuffles, whimpers, and cries.

Now she lay at the extreme edge of the too-small mattress waiting for some semblance of light as she tried to remember why she’d turned down Giraldi’s invitation to stay at his house, where the mattress would have been larger and any lack of sleep consensual. And, she assumed, enjoyable.

She stared up at the pockmarked ceiling as she contemplated her refusal. They were both single adults and the attraction between them was palpable. So…

So, Joe Giraldi was different from any man she’d ever dated and light-years from the men she’d married.

Because…she prodded when her mind wanted to retreat from the subject.

Because the others had accepted her as she’d presented herself—strong, successful, and polished. After her first marriage, which had been all about what she thought was love while she was actually serving as a doormat, she’d chosen only successful, wealthy type A personalities who saw her as the same.

Giraldi was type A all right. He was also successful in his field and far more sophisticated than she’d expected. But he would be difficult if not impossible to control and not easily fooled. Even now Nikki wasn’t sure whether she’d successfully evaded him when she attempted to get Malcolm to turn himself in, or had simply played out some scenario he’d managed to stampede her into.

Morning noises arose from the kitchen. Water ran, the
refrigerator door banged shut. The smell of coffee wafted up, crooked its aromatic finger, and drew her out of bed.

Was she playing games with Giraldi? Simply holding out until she felt she wasn’t jumping unthinkingly into bed?

She moved quietly to the bathroom, not wanting to wake Kyra or Dustin. She paused near the portable crib to watch the baby’s small chest rise and fall. “Sure, now you’re quiet,” she whispered, pulling the baby blanket up and tucking it in around him.

She continued to mull over her reticence with Giraldi. It wasn’t as if she’d never had a purely sexual relationship before. She was forty-six after all, too old to marry every man she wanted to sleep with. If they could just keep it light, enjoy each other, and move on when it wasn’t fun anymore, she might actually consider it. But she sensed Giraldi wanted more from her. And she wasn’t sure she had “more” left. Unlike most of the men she’d known, Giraldi would recognize, and probably care about, the difference.

Nicole washed her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled her hair into a low ponytail, then applied a light dusting of powder and lipstick before pulling on her running clothes. Not, she assured herself, because she might run into Giraldi while jogging but because she never left the house without light armor.

On the stairs she looked over the stepped wall to the living room, noting the big-screen TV still affixed to the wall and the stand-up microphone in its place near the piano. She was relieved to see that the room required no additional cleanup, but was surprised to see the pillow and blanket on the sofa. She’d been fairly certain everyone had had a bed—or at least a portion of one.

She found Maddie at the kitchen table staring out the
window. She still wore her pajamas and robe. A cup of coffee sat in front of her. She barely stirred while Nicole poured a cup then joined her at the table.

“What’s going on?” Nicole asked when Maddie didn’t speak.

Maddie turned her face to Nikki. It was tear-streaked and hollow-eyed.

“What’s wrong?” Nicole pressed.

Maddie shook her head, mute.

“Where’s Steve? Still sleeping?”

Another head shake. “Gone.”

“Gone to pick up bagels? Gone to watch the sunrise? Gone to…” Nicole let the question dangle.

“Atlanta,” Maddie said. “He went home.”

“Seriously?” Nikki asked, trying to take it in.

Maddie nodded, her lips tight, as if she were trying to hold words in, when in fact Nikki was pretty sure they needed to come out. She thought about what Maddie’s friendship had come to mean to her, the way Maddie mothered everyone around her, even those who’d thought they were long past needing it. She’d already hung in with Steve far longer and through far more than many women would or could have.