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  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF WENDY WAX

  WHILE WE WERE WATCHING DOWNTON ABBEY

  “While We Were Watching Downton Abbey is a tribute to the transformative power of female friendship, and reading Wendy Wax is like discovering a witty, wise, and wonderful new friend.”

  —Claire Cook, bestselling author of Must Love Dogs and Time Flies

  “Quite a clever, fun little novel . . . If you’re a sucker for plucky women who rise to the occasion, this is for you.”

  —USA Today

  “Wax’s trendy premise makes for a surprisingly poignant and enjoyable story about friendship.”

  —Booklist

  “In the style of Karen Joy Fowler’s The Jane Austen Book Club . . . The book engrosses its reader in the drama of these women’s love lives and emotional struggles.”

  —Deseret News

  “You needn’t be a fan of Downton Abbey to enjoy While We Were Watching—the show is simply the pop-culture hook that gives the main characters an excuse to ‘meet cute’ but nevertheless create a realistic friendship of such depth and strength, even the Dowager [Countess] would approve.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  OCEAN BEACH

  “Just the right amount of suspense and drama for a beach read.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Wax does a wonderful job of carrying new readers into the story and all the many characters she juggles so well . . . The plot raises both questions and deep emotions to keep readers racing to the end to find out what happens.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Wax puts on display what most would expect when this many women live and work together in the same environment: laughs, tears, anger, occasional cattiness, and every emotion in between.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Beautifully written and constructed by an author who evidently knows what she is doing . . . One fantastic read.”

  —Book Binge

  “[A] very talented writer who knows how to craft a great story with complex characters [and] a great plot, and plug in just enough steamy romance to satisfy everyone. Finely done!”

  —The Best Reviews

  TEN BEACH ROAD

  “Great escape reading, perfect for the beach.”

  —Library Journal

  “If you loved Jennifer Weiner’s Fly Away Home for its wise and witty look at the lives of people grappling with personal setbacks . . . then try Ten Beach Road . . . [a] warm, wry novel.”

  —St. Petersburg Times

  “Showcases three women who rise above their shattered realities with grace, determination, and a little elbow grease.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fun . . . heartwarming . . . A loving tribute to friendship and the power of the female spirit.”

  —Las Vegas Review-Journal

  “A near-perfect summertime read . . . Beautiful setting and lovable characters . . . Full of laughter, heartache, secrets, loyalty, and courage.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “A lovely story that recognizes the power of the female spirit, while being fun, emotional, and a little romantic.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Funny, heartbreaking, romantic, and so much more . . . This story about recovery and restoration on so many levels is just delightful!”

  —The Best Reviews

  MAGNOLIA WEDNESDAYS

  “Wax, the author of The Accidental Bestseller, writes with breezy wit and keen insight into family relations.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “An honest, realistic story of family, love, and priorities, with genuine characters.”

  —Booklist

  “Bittersweet . . . Vivien’s an easy protagonist to love; she’s plucky, resourceful, and witty.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Atlanta-based novelist Wendy Wax spins yet another captivating tale of life and love in this wonderfully entertaining book.”

  —Southern Seasons Magazine

  THE ACCIDENTAL BESTSELLER

  “It’s a definite must for any beach bag this summer . . . Wax does a fantastic job giving readers an insight into the cutthroat world of New York publishing, and the story provides inspiration to budding novelists.”

  —Sacramento Book Review

  “A warm, triumphant tale of female friendship and the lessons learned when life doesn’t turn out as planned . . . Sure to appeal.”

  —Library Journal

  “A wise and witty foray into the hearts of four amazing women and the publishing world they inhabit. This is a beautiful book about loyalty, courage, and pursuing your dreams with a little help from your friends. I loved this book!”

  —Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of The Time Between

  “A terrific story brimming with wit, warmth, and good humor. I loved it!”

  —Jane Porter, author of The Good Wife

  “A wry, revealing tell-all about friendship and surviving the world of publishing.”

  —Haywood Smith, New York Times bestselling author of Out of Warranty

  “Entertaining . . . Provides a lot of insight into the book business, collected, no doubt, from Wax’s own experiences.”

  —St. Petersburg Times

  Also by Wendy Wax

  7 DAYS AND 7 NIGHTS

  LEAVE IT TO CLEAVAGE

  HOSTILE MAKEOVER

  SINGLE IN SUBURBIA

  THE ACCIDENTAL BESTSELLER

  MAGNOLIA WEDNESDAYS

  TEN BEACH ROAD

  OCEAN BEACH

  WHILE WE WERE WATCHING DOWNTON ABBEY

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2014 by Wendy Wax.

  Excerpt from While We Were Watching Downton Abbey copyright © 2013 by Wendy Wax.

  “Readers Guide” copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-59940-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wax, Wendy.

  The house on Mermaid Point / Wendy Wax.—First edition.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-425-26332-7 (paperback)

  1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. Mansions—Conservation and restoration—Fiction. 3. Bed and breakfast accommodations—Fiction. 4. Reality television programs—Juvenile fiction. 5. Success in business—Fiction. 6. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 7. Florida Keys (Fla.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.A893.H68 2014 2014002096

  813'.6—dc23

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / July 2
014

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender

  Cover photo: porch overlooking ocean © Gentle & Hyers / Botanica / Getty Images.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Praise for the Novels of Wendy Wax

  Also by Wendy Wax

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Readers Guide

  Special Preview of While We Were Watching Downton Abbey

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am embarrassed to admit that although I was born and raised in Florida, I didn’t make it to the Keys until I decided to set this book there. I had originally planned on a Key West location, but my husband and I stopped off in Islamorada on the drive down to visit friends Justine and Elliott Fine. There, Justine shared her knowledge and love of Islamorada history, natural beauty, lifestyle, and people in a way that made me fall in love, too. The moment I set foot on Tea Table Key, I was a goner. I knew I’d found William Hightower’s home.

  Heartfelt thanks are owed to Justine, who shared far more than could ever be included in one novel and who read every word I wrote so that I’d get it as “right” as possible given that this is a work of fiction and I make things up for a living.

  Additional thanks go to Larry Gabor, who showed me the fabulous private island on which I based Mermaid Point and who shared everything from aerial photos to his feelings about life, music, and the astounding natural beauty of the area in which he lives. I hope he will forgive me for the liberties I’ve taken. Any mistakes are my own.

  When I realized William Hightower would have to be a backcountry fisherman Larry sent me to Rick Kendrick, who took pity on me and talked me through what I needed to know about fly tying and flats fishing. One afternoon in his driveway, I discovered just how little talent I have for casting, and I am deeply grateful that it isn’t necessary to be good (or even competent) at something to write about it. Thanks, Rick, for the help and for keeping your laughter to yourself.

  Thanks also to Sam Holland, owner of the fabulous Conch House Heritage Inn in Old Town Key West, for sharing his renovation experiences and family history. We had a great stay there and hope to be back soon.

  Once again I have to thank designer and friend Rebecca Ritchie, who has been such an incredible help on all of the Ten Beach Road books. She designed William Hightower’s home and outbuildings and talked me off the ledge several times. I still don’t know how someone who belongs to a family that’s not allowed to own tools because they require medical attention after using them came to write a series that revolves around renovation. I do know that I couldn’t have done it half as well without Rebecca, who does pretty great work on real houses, too.

  As always, my undying friendship and gratitude go to Karen White and Susan Crandall, without whom the act of writing would not be the same. I’m very proud to be a member of the Nittie Club.

  Prologue

  There had been a time, many times, actually, when William Hightower would have left rehab in a limo. That limo, sent by his record label, would have had tinted windows, a fully stocked bar, and an eager woman with long legs, big breasts, and a talented mouth perched on the backseat.

  His release would have been celebratory and newsworthy, with photographers and fans jostling each other outside the gates so that they could snap photos and scream his name as the limo sped by.

  The articles and news stories would run for weeks after his release. Each would begin with pictures of him on a stage surrounded by a vast, undulating sea of enraptured fans. Back when the braid that hung down his back was darker than the night sky over a Florida swamp. When he’d swaggered across a stage as if he owned it. As if he were a real Seminole warrior and not a scared kid from a dusty, no-name town who had two drops of Native American to every gallon of Florida Cracker blood in his veins.

  Back then the alcohol and drugs were just part of the gig. They hadn’t yet slowed his fingers or marred his voice or eaten away the muscle and sinew that held him together, like termites gnawing on a wood shanty. The pain of watching his little brother leave their band, the aptly if offensively named Wasted Indian, in a hearse hadn’t yet been carved into his face like a name slashed into a tree trunk. Back then the roar of the crowds had convinced him that he was alive. And destined to be young forever.

  Today the car that whisked him away from rehab had not been sent by a record company and did not contain drugs, alcohol, or a woman, eager or otherwise. It was a muddy brown BMW driven by his angry, tight-jawed son, whom he barely knew. The only one left from that once-vast sea, the only one bound by the obligation of blood.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” Will said.

  A grunt was his only answer. Which was perhaps more than he deserved.

  “And for arranging my . . . stay.” It was as close as he could come to admitting that he, William Hightower, who had made and blown millions, couldn’t have afforded the month spent at Three Palms Whole Health Center, which practiced a holistic and adventure-based approach to beating one’s demons. Not even if he’d wanted to go there.

  There were no gates to drive through. No waiting press. No screaming fans. Just a clean, modern building sandwiched between a lake where he’d paddled a kayak until his muscles burned and a pool where he’d numbed his mind and his body with lap after lap. He was leaving far fitter than he had arrived. Fitter than he’d been since he’d played his first gig at seventeen. He’d give the Three Palms folks one thing: they’d forced him to clean up his outside while they’d hammered away at his interior. As if there were anything left in there.

  The hair that had once hung down his back barely brushed his shoulders; the glossy black was streaked with gray. His face, bruised and battered by sixty-one years of hard living, was still dominated by a hatchet of a nose and high, harsh cheekbones that the camera had once loved. His dark eyes were framed by a spider’s web of
lines, but they were clearer than they’d ever been, allowing him to see the world around him as it really was: stark and unrelenting.

  They drove south from the hermetically sealed town of Weston, Florida, in silence, palm trees sliding by, bold blasts of tropical color climbing walls and snaking up tree trunks. The flat morning light was unforgiving, leaving only the stingiest triangles of shade.

  In Florida City the turnpike emptied onto U.S. 1 then onto the two-lane, eighteen-mile ribbon of asphalt that locals called “the stretch.” It was here that the real world began to dissolve while paradise crooked its finger just ahead. Even on the crappiest day the stretch could cause heart rates to slow, stress levels to drop, and brain synapses to fire less frantically. But today Will’s mind flitted at random as Tommy drove sedately, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Despite the open windows the silence between them hung hot and heavy, stuffed with things that had never been forgiven and that Will sincerely hoped would never be discussed.

  A chain-link fence was all that held back the scrub and brush as they skirted the Everglades and crossed over the Monroe County line. Will stole the occasional surreptitious glance at his son, who had inherited his size and coloring and who looked so much like the younger brother he’d been named for that it hurt to look at him. He thought about the boy’s mother, who’d been a casualty of the life they’d lived, too. So many people gone for no good reason.

  From the top of the Jewfish Creek Bridge sun glinted off the impossibly turquoise water that flanked them, and a warm salt breeze tinged the air and riffled Will’s hair. In Key Largo scuba and bait-and-tackle shops began to fly by. A strip mall sign promising Pilates in Paradise caught his eye.

  The silence spooled out. Will’s eyelids grew heavy. He was close to nodding off when Tommy said, “I talked to the bank. Then I brought in a Realtor to look at Mermaid Point.”

  Will’s eyes blinked open. This was what happened when you gave your only blood relative power of attorney. In case of emergency. Never thinking that you might be thrashing it out in rehab when they decided to declare one.

  He’d bought the tea-table-shaped key on a whim back in the early eighties when Key West had ceased being a place to hide out, kick back, and chill. When cruise ships began to arrive and depart daily and crowds longing to be wild and eccentric planted a flag and declared Key West their capital of crazy. Everyone he cared about had fled. Will had only made it seventy-nine mile markers up U.S. 1.