Three
The first of the paparazzi makes an appearance Christmas Eve morning and my first thought is that certain celebrities’ public relations people do not shut down for the holidays.
“Hello, luv! G’morning Dustin!” Nigel Bracken is tall, pale, and British and I’ve come to know his face and voice almost as well as my own. He’s wearing one of his ill-fitting Hawaiian shirts and a pith helmet to protect his sparsely covered head from the sun. He stands on a spot just beyond the property line that he’s made his own, as if he had a reserved parking space. I don’t answer or smile as I wheel Dustin’s jogging stroller out of the garage. Dustin’s getting a bit big for the stroller, but it’s the only way I can take him with me and jog any distance. Plus it has storage for his sand toys, which are an important part of any beach outing.
I used to wear disguises and prided myself on evading or fooling the paparazzi, but it takes a huge amount of time and effort and in the end these bottom-feeders know where we live, what cars we drive, and even what grocery stores and restaurants we frequent.
“Aww, come on, luv! It’s practically Christmas!” he says when he’s unable to get a clean shot. I remain silent and attempt to keep my face expressionless, but not bitchy, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. My neutral look comes off as royally pissed in tabloid photos. I suspect there is some special paparazzi face-correcting or mood-modulating lens that can turn carefully impassive into an ugly sneer. You know, like an Instagram filter, only instead of Crema through Perpetua they’ve got a full range from Mildly Disgruntled to Bitch from Hell.
My son, who is far friendlier and more generous than I am, flashes one of his gap-toothed smiles at the photographer.
“What time do the Hightowers arrive?” Nigel shouts as he shoots. “Is Sydney Ryan’s boyfriend going to show up? Or has he already ditched her?”
I wonder how he even knew the Hightowers and Sydney were coming and how much he already knows about her relationship with Jake Bodie, but I remain silent. If Nigel’s going to continue to make money stalking us, he’s going to have to do his own damn research. I am not my paparazzi’s keeper. “Will Daniel be coming into town?”
“My Dandiel!” Dustin’s smile gets bigger, and I pray that Nigel is only fishing for answers and not about to ruin the big fish’s surprise. I take a few minutes to stretch, careful to block his money shot of Dustin while attempting to keep moving so he can’t focus on my butt.
“Come on, Kyra! It’s almost Christmas!” He says this as if we’re friends and the fact that he considers us on a first-name basis makes my stomach turn. “Just one clean shot of the two of you and I’m out of here.”
This is a lie that I’ve fallen for before. At one point we tried offering a daily photo opportunity while keeping things boring so they’d give up and go away. But boring only works if there’s bigger game in town and given our holiday guest list, I don’t think that’s going to happen. Unless we figure out how to fake a Kardashian sighting. Or spend the entire holiday sitting around staring at our navels. Even then they’d probably want to document it.
Still silent, I jog slowly down the driveway then cut to the right so that I can jog along the bay. He doesn’t follow, and I try to enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face and arms and the soft breeze off the water. A whiff of fish reaches my nostrils at the historic Merry Pier and I turn west onto Eighth Avenue, which serves as Pass-a-Grille’s “main street.” Like all of the avenues that stretch between the bay and the Gulf, it’s exactly one block wide.
* * *
The architecture is Deco. The concrete buildings are painted in bright tropical colors. They house a few small galleries, boutiques, and restaurants along with a well-known jewelry store owned by a former hippie. A photographer I don’t recognize steps off the sidewalk in front of a biker bar called Shadrack’s that’s been there since the motorcycle was invented. “When do you and Dustin leave for location?” he shouts. “Tonja Kay says she has a very close relationship with your son and that it’s you who is the problem!”
I grit my teeth to keep myself from responding. Tonja Kay hasn’t been allowed anywhere near my son since she showered profanity all over the two of us then tried to take him away from me.
I reach The Hurricane Seafood Restaurant, which sits on a prime corner across from the beach. Personally, I think naming a restaurant perched at sea level near the tip of a barrier island The Hurricane is asking for trouble, but over the decades it’s mushroomed from a rambling concrete shanty into a multitiered Victorian-style building that might have been transported from New England.
Someone calls my name and I look up to see yet another paparazzo lying in wait like a third tag team member. Bill has a potato-shaped nose and a face that’s even pastier than Nigel’s. That’s what comes of hiding under rocks waiting for your prey. His camera drive is firing, but I don’t break my stride as I maneuver the jogging stroller down to firm sand and head north.
My breathing evens out as we pass the Sunshine Hotel and then the Don CeSar, the huge pink castle of a hotel that was built right around the same time as Bella Flora. I don’t bother to look behind me because these paparazzi aren’t into running or working out. The only things they “lift” are alcoholic beverages. I slow behind an old hotel on Gulf Boulevard across from the neighborhood where my father now lives. Dustin clambers out of the stroller and retrieves his mesh bag of sand toys, which he carries down to the hard-packed sand near the water’s edge. Within minutes he’s hunkered down, happily filling a first bucket with wet sand. I hunker down next to him.
In about an hour or so my brother will pick us up in the hotel parking lot so that we can shower and dress and grab some lunch at my dad’s place. Afterward, I’ll take Andrew’s car to the airport to pick up Sydney. I hate having to put effort into avoiding people whose sole mission in life is to harass us, but like I said, it’s not my job to make the paps’ job easier and there’s no reason to call attention to ourselves. My brother’s car is about as nondescript as you can get and our mission is to blend in. Or at least not to stand out.
* * *
We wait in the cell phone lot at Tampa International Airport for about fifteen minutes—this is a very civilized invention and any airport that doesn’t have one totally should. When we pull up outside baggage claim, I’m glad I didn’t waste any energy on a disguise, because Sydney is not trying to blend into the crowd in any way. But then she’s never been one to “hide her light under a bushel.” Not that there’s room for anything, including a sliver of light, under the skintight clothes she has on.
I work my way up to the curb, put on the parking brake, and walk around to open the trunk as several photographers aim cameras and shout questions at Sydney. The best thing about Andrew’s ancient Mustang is how darkly tinted the windows are. Even I can’t see Dustin through them, and I know exactly where he’s sitting.
Sydney spots me and walks over, ignoring the photographers. When she throws her arms around me, I feel her sinewy strength. I’m in pretty good shape from jogging and running after a four-year-old, but Sydney’s workout regimen has always been brutal. Her face and body are important assets to her career, there are no leading lady detectives with back fat on prime-time television, and Sydney has never aspired to comedy. Plus she was that girl who played on the boys’ baseball, basketball, and football teams in high school. There was no hurdle Sydney refused to jump to please her father.
Despite the five-hour plane trip, she looks like she’s just stepped out of hair and makeup. Although she looks like a “high-maintenance” type, she only has one carry-on. A gaily wrapped Christmas present pokes out of her handbag. If she ever decided to walk away from acting, she could totally start a consulting business on packing light.
“Can you give us a smile?” one photographer shouts at us.
“Are you upset that Jake is in Vail with another woman?” the other adds.
Sydney’s smile falters and I see a flash of surprise in her eyes, but she says nothing as she stows her carry-on in the trunk then lets herself into the passenger seat. She slumps slightly as soon as the door clicks closed, but by the time I start the car and begin edging away from the curb, she’s turning in her seat and grinning at Dustin. “Hello, my gorgeous man,” she says. “You are looking very grown up.”
This gets a huge smile and giggle from my son. She puts her fingers to her lips and blows him a kiss. He pretends to catch it then makes a big kissing sound against his fist and flings one back. They’ve been doing this routine since he was a baby. Sydney has a real way with children.
“Is almost Chritsmas!” Dustin proclaims happily. “I get to open a present tonight!” He looks at her through his lashes. “Did you bring me a present?”
“Dustin!” I try to catch his eye in the rearview mirror.
“Jus wondrin,” he says innocently.
“Of course I did,” Sydney says. “And I bet you’ll get presents from Santa Claus, too.”
Dustin nods and his smile gets bigger. This is undoubtedly true. With all the friends and family sharing Christmas this year, Dustin will be buried in gifts and he’ll be thrilled with every one of them.
Sydney turns around and tightens her seat belt as we leave the airport behind us. Dustin yawns and settles into his car seat. We’re barely halfway across the Howard Frankland Bridge. when Dustin’s head starts to nod.
“Are your parents upset that you’re not going home for Christmas?” I ask Sydney tentatively.
“No. The whole family was going on a cruise and I had already passed.” She hesitates briefly. “I was supposed to spend the holiday skiing with Jake. But that sort of fell apart. Apparently he didn’t want to waste the reservations.” Her jaw hardens as she turns her gaze out the window, and I do not ask who he’s in Vail with. Sydney’s rarely at a loss for words. She’ll tell me what’s going on when she’s ready.
When we arrive at Bella Flora, I carry Dustin, who’s sound asleep and a dead weight in my arms, into the house. My mother hugs Sydney hello then begins to flutter around. “Will and Thomas will be here within the hour,” she says happily. “I’ve gone ahead and moved into the master. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Yep,” I reply easily, having thought this through from lots of angles. “That way you guys will have some privacy and Syd and I can share a room and still each have our own bed.” Sydney and I have been known to sit up talking most of the night and it’s been a while. We have a lot to catch up on.
“Positive?” my mother asks.
“One hundred percent,” I say, even though it is a little weird that my mother has a romantic relationship and I don’t.
“I could use you in the kitchen once Dustin’s down for a nap and Sydney’s settled,” she says. “I need an eggnog taster and someone to help wrap a few last-minute gifts.”
“Be right down,” I say as we start up the stairs. On the landing I point Sydney toward the bedroom we’re going to be sharing then carry Dustin into his room, where I slip him gently into his car bed and pull his door closed behind me.