A Ten Beach Road Christmas Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF WENDY WAX

  “[A] sparkling, deeply satisfying tale.”

  —Karen White, New York Times bestselling author

  “Wax offers her trademark form of fiction, the beach read with substance.”

  —Booklist

  “Wax really knows how to make a cast of characters come alive . . . [She] infuses each chapter with enough drama, laughter, family angst, and friendship to keep readers greedily turning pages until the end.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “This season’s perfect beach read!”

  —Single Titles

  “A tribute to the transformative power of female friendship . . . Reading Wendy Wax is like discovering a witty, wise, and wonderful new friend.”

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

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

  —USA Today

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

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[A] loving tribute to friendship and the power of the female spirit.”

  —Las Vegas Review-Journal

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

  —Book Binge

  “[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 . . . Just delightful!”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Wax’s Florida titles . . . are terrific for lovers of women’s fiction and family drama, especially if you enjoy a touch of suspense and romance.”

  —Library Journal Express

  Titles by Wendy Wax

  Ten Beach Road Novels

  (In Series Order)

  TEN BEACH ROAD

  OCEAN BEACH

  CHRISTMAS AT THE BEACH

  (eNovella)

  THE HOUSE ON MERMAID POINT

  SUNSHINE BEACH

  ONE GOOD THING

  A BELLA FLORA CHRISTMAS

  (eNovella)

  BEST BEACH EVER

  Standalone Novels

  MY EX-BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING

  A WEEK AT THE LAKE

  WHILE WE WERE WATCHING DOWNTON ABBEY

  MAGNOLIA WEDNESDAYS

  THE ACCIDENTAL BESTSELLER

  SINGLE IN SUBURBIA

  HOSTILE MAKEOVER

  LEAVE IT TO CLEAVAGE

  7 DAYS AND 7 NIGHTS

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Wax

  Christmas at the Beach copyright © 2014 by Wendy Wax

  A Bella Flora Christmas copyright © 2017 by Wendy Wax

  Excerpt from Best Beach Ever copyright © 2017 by Wendy Wax

  Penguin Random House 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 Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780593199961

  Berkley mass-market edition / November 2017

  Berkley mass-market edition / October 2020

  Cover art: Christmas berry wreath © Maria Dryfhout; Sand dune © Cheryl Casey

  Cover design by Alana Colucci

  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.

  pid_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  Dear Reader,

  Some authors know exactly where a story is headed before they sit down to write the first paragraph.

  I am not one of those authors.

  When I first introduced Madeline Singer, Avery Lawford, and Nicole Grant in Ten Beach Road, they were strangers and Ponzi scheme victims who woke up one day to discover that all they had left was shared ownership of Bella Flora, a crumbling 1920s Mediterranean style beachfront mansion. In that first (and I thought only) novel, they spend a long sweat-soaked summer bringing Bella Flora back to life. It does the same for them.

  At the time, I had no idea Ten Beach Road would be the first of a series that now includes six novels and the two holiday novellas in this book. Did I mention I’m not a planner?

  Because novellas (a fancier word for short story) are, well, shorter, Christmas at Ten Beach Road and A Bella Flora Christmas were originally published only in digital form, each at the time it was written.

  Over the years, I’ve heard from many Ten Beach Road fans who wanted to read the holiday novellas in print. So I am incredibly happy to share with you this print edition of A Ten Beach Road Christmas, which contains both holiday novellas in chronological order. You can read these novellas on their own. You are also free to read the series in any order you choose. (Each book stands on its own.) There are also notes on the title page of each novella indicating which Ten Beach Road novels it falls between. So whether you’re a longtime Ten Beach Road fan catching up on a missed holiday novella (thanks!), or a brand-new-to-me reader (yay!), I’m so glad you’re choosing to read A Ten Beach Road Christmas. I truly hope you enjoy spending time with Maddie, Avery, Nikki, and crew as much as I do.

  Wishing you all the very best,

  Wendy

  PS: For more information on me and my novels, please visit my website, authorwendywax.com, where you can read descriptions and excerpts of all my novels, download book club kits and discussion questions, or send me an email. I love to hear from readers!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Praise for Wendy Wax

  Titles by Wendy Wax

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dear Reader

  Christmas at the Beach

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  A Bella Flora Christmas

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Excerpt from Best Beach Ever

  About the Author

  CHRISTMAS AT

  THE BEACH

  This story takes place between the

  novels Ocean Beach and

  The House on Mermaid Point.

  Chapter One

  Having your own personal pack of paparazzi gives you sympathy for hunted animals and is nowhere near as exciting as people think. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if they kept regular business hours—you know, showed up around nine and clocked out at five. But celebrity stalking is a twenty-four seven occupation wi
th no time off for good—or bad—behavior. Because if they don’t get pictures that make you look nasty, stupid, or even less attractive without makeup than the average tabloid reader, they don’t eat.

  Of course, it’s a lot easier to become a celebrity today than it used to be. You can be famous now for the size of your boobs and butt, a five-minute cameo on a reality TV show, doing a below-average tango on Dancing with the Stars, or dating and/or marrying someone who’s done any of the above. The celebrity bar has dropped so low that if it were being set for a game of Limbo, that bar would be ankle-height.

  You can even become a celebrity by accident. I happen to know this because that’s what happened to me.

  My name is Kyra Singer, and I became famous for falling in love with a movie star named Daniel Deranian while I was working as a production assistant on my first feature film, believing him when he said he loved me, and then getting pregnant with his child.

  I might regret this more if Dustin, who just turned one last month, weren’t so incredible. And if Daniel’s movie-star wife, Tonja Kay, were a normal human being whose head doesn’t do a 360 when she gets pissed.

  If Dustin is the best thing in all of this, and he is, the worst is the extra burden it put on my mother, who was handling a lot already when I got booted off the set by the head-spinning Tonja Kay and then sliced and diced in the tabloids.

  Unlike a lot of other ankle-height celebrities, I’d way rather be behind the camera than in front of it. But today, which is Christmas Eve day, when I get out to the curb at the Tampa International Airport with my son, his car seat, our suitcase, and my film gear, a bunch of paparazzi are waiting at the curb. My mother and her minivan are not.

  I’m careful not to make eye contact with any of them while I try to figure out what to do. I’m considering turning around and going back inside to regroup, when a text dings in. It’s from my missing mother. It reads Sri. My fats in fyre.

  I read it twice, but it doesn’t get any clearer. My mother, Madeline, is fifty-one, and she’s impressive as hell in a lot of respects, but I think she communicated way better before her phone got so smart. Her next text reads Sree. Mint tries flit.

  IMHO, most people over forty don’t have control of their thumbs and shouldn’t be allowed to text.

  “Kyra, over here!” The accent is British and I recognize the voice. Every once in a while you’re forced to realize that there are real people behind the cameras. People who barge into your life uninvited and then become strangely familiar.

  I look up and see Nigel Bracken at the front of the pack. As always I try to shield Dustin as best I can, but he’s one now and not a baby that I can hold in any position I want. Plus he’s a veritable clone of his movie-star father, with the same golden-skinned face, dark brown eyes, and curly hair. The paparazzi can’t get enough of him. A couple of weeks ago a crazed Daniel Deranian fan stole one of Dustin’s dirty diapers out of the trash and tried to sell it on eBay. That’s how weird it gets sometimes.

  “Over here, Kyra!” another one of the paps shouts. His name’s Bill and he has bad teeth and a potato shaped nose. They are their own League of Nations—American, British, French, and lots of Heinz 57s. They’re tall and skinny, short and round, and everything in between. Some of them are good-looking enough to walk the red carpet. Others, like Bill, have faces only a mother could love. You rarely see women doing this. I like to think it’s because women are too smart and sympathetic to view stalking celebrities as gainful employment, but it could just be that, like the movie business, it’s a good old boys’ club that women have to work twice as hard and be twice as talented to break into.

  “Just give us a couple shots and we’re out of here!” Nigel shouts.

  This is a lie. One clean shot will madden them like bees whose hive has been swatted. When I don’t respond, they surge closer.

  An airport security guard passes by and warns them to keep out of the traffic lanes.

  The transportation line is downstairs and so are the car rental desks. What I really need to do is call my mother and find out why she’s not here, but I don’t want to do this on-camera. Most of these guys can read lips better than an NFL coach with a pair of binoculars trying to decipher the other team’s plays.

  “Come on, Kyra, luv! It’s practically Christmas! Give us a smile!” I’m not sure who died and elected Nigel spokesman, but at least they’re not all yelling at once.

  Dustin’s arm loops up around my neck, and he lifts his head from my shoulder. “Krimas!” he says. The camera drives whir and the digital flashes explode.

  I feel the pack moving in, and I fall back a step, not wanting to be surrounded. I turn and move quickly—I prefer not to think of it as running—into the terminal. I head for the only place I might be safe: the ladies’ room.

  In a locked stall I check the floor on either side to make sure there are no size-twelve shoes. I drop our suitcase and my camera bag on the floor, stand the folded stroller in a corner, and perch gingerly on the edge of the toilet seat with Dustin in my lap. I could text my mother—she reads texts better than she sends them—but then she might text me back and if I can’t read it it will be another big waste of time. I hit speed dial for her number.

  “Mom?” I keep my voice down when the phone is answered just in case. And because it’s always kind of gross when you hear someone making a phone call from the toilet regardless of what they are or aren’t doing there.

  “Oh, Kyra, thank goodness.” My mother sounds agitated and out of breath. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I had a flat tire on the Bayway and I’m still waiting for AAA.” I can picture the beige-gold minivan on the side of the causeway that leads from Pass-a-Grille Beach, through Tierra Verde, to the interstate, while Cadillacs and old Chryslers putter past. The population of St. Petersburg and its environs is largely elderly. The joke goes if you leave a glass of water sitting out someone will put his or her teeth in it. My mom hasn’t even made it off the beach. Even if she got the tire fixed in the next five minutes, which is unlikely, she wouldn’t be here for another thirty-five minutes after that.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll rent a car and meet you at Bella Flora.”

  “Are you sure?” My mother has witnessed the paparazzi up close and personal from the day they first found me while we were desperately trying to restore Bella Flora, which is a really cool Mediterranean Revival–style home that was built in the 1920s and was all my mother and the equally unfortunate Avery Lawford and Nicole Grant had left after they lost everything to Malcolm Dyer’s Ponzi scheme. That’s where I’m headed right now.

  “Absolutely. Who’s at the house?”

  “Avery, Deirdre, and Nicole are there. Chase and his sons are joining us tomorrow morning to open presents. Your dad and Andrew are driving down from Atlanta today.”

  “Okay. I’m going to pick up a car. I’ll take the Bayway from 275 so I can stop and help if you’re still there.”

  “Be careful. I don’t want them chasing after you and Dustin.”

  I know from the way she says this that she’s thinking about what happened to Princess Diana. But I’m not a princess, and the Howard Frankland Bridge to St. Pete is not a Paris tunnel. Still, it will be better if I can just disappear. I don’t want to lead the paparazzi to Bella Flora, even though I’m sure they all already know that Dustin and I are headed to Ten Beach Road.

  “We’ll be fine,” I say because we’ve had this conversation before. Or at least we will be, once I put on my disguise.

  The car rental agent looks at my driver’s license and then up at my face. Or rather what can be seen of my face, namely my eyes. “Eees there a problem?” I ask in what I would like to believe is a decent Middle Eastern accent.

  “I’m, ah, afraid I need to ask you to uncover your face for just a moment, Ms. . . . Singer.” It’s unfortunate that my disguise, politically incorrect as it might be, comes with a veil but n
ot a fake ID. I’ve worn the burqa before because it’s easy to slip on over whatever I’m wearing. Unlike some of my other disguises, it covers almost all of me. From the back, which is all anyone including a photographer walking by right now can see, the only thing it gives away is my height. My son has Armenian blood, courtesy of his father, and can pass for vaguely Middle Eastern. I’m a hundred percent white bread, and while I’m not a dog or anything, nothing about me is the least bit exotic.

  When we were working on the house in South Beach and shooting the first season of Do Over, Daniel used to come in disguise to see Dustin. Honestly, he looks just as good in a miniskirt and heels or doddering on a cane as he does on the big screen. But then he was in Miami shooting a film and had a whole makeup and special effects department at his disposal.

  I look to both sides and behind me before I undo my veil from the headscarf and hold it slightly away from my face so the agent can compare it to my driver’s license photo, which, let’s face it, is virtually unrecognizable and completely unflattering.

  He looks up and down a few times just to be sure, taking in my gray eyes and pale skin. He’s clearly registered that I’m not Middle Eastern and that I’m traveling without a male family member. I hope he doesn’t recognize my name or my child. Any one of the paparazzi would pay good money for this information. I hide a smile at the idea of them chasing after every woman in the airport wearing a burqa, but the sooner I get us out of here and on the road, the better.

  “What size car would you like?”

  What I really want is something built like a tank and with darkened windows, so that if I mow down a few photographers no one will see the satisfaction on my face, but I just ask for a midsize, which I understand is what used to be called compact. The weather is gorgeous—all pale blue sky and puffy clouds and what feels like a perfect seventy degrees. It’s convertible weather—but it wouldn’t do to whip by the waiting paparazzi with my veil flying in the breeze. Would it?