Free Ten Beach Road by Wendy Wax Page B

in its mouth; one she couldn’t quite bring herself to drop or bury.
    “Probably about three million,” Franklin conceded, turning his hound-dog eyes on the three of them. “But as an active member of the Gulf Beaches Historical Society and president of the preservation board, I have to say it would be criminal.”
    There was a silence broken only by the caw of a seagull and the high whine of a wave runner speeding along the seawall’s edge. They were all smiling over the three million, their collective relief palpable. Nicole could taste it; her share would go a long way toward getting her life back on track in every way possible.
    Franklin led them around the west side of the house and pointed out the path that led to the jetty, with its concrete fishing pier, and also forked to the beach, which really did stretch as far as the eye could see. Just a few steps from the front of their property, a sidewalk began. It was separated from the beach it paralleled by a barrier of sea oat–topped sand dunes.
    At the Cadillac, Franklin stopped and reached in his pocket to pull out three keys, which he pressed into their palms. “Don’t be fooled by the dirt and grime,” he said, making eye contact with each of them in turn. “You need to wait out the summer anyway—nothing significant will sell until fall. And you’ll get far more if you use that time to finish the house properly. A well-done renovation in harmony with the house would allow us to ask for and get a full five million.”
    He had their complete attention then and he knew it. John Franklin might be in his eighties, but he not only still knew how to sell, he knew how to make an exit. He handed them each his card and left them standing on the driveway, his stooped shoulders squared and his spine so straight Nicole wondered if the cane had been some sort of a prop rather than a necessity.

Eight
    They stood in the driveway, holding their keys and John Franklin’s business cards, clearly unsure of how to proceed. All of them bore physical evidence of Bella Flora’s neglect.
    “This is both better and worse than I was expecting,” Avery said.
    “Yes,” Madeline agreed. “The good news is we could each walk away with over a million dollars.” She swiped at what looked like a bit of cobweb on her cheek and left a smear of dirt in its place. “The bad news is we have no idea what it would cost to pull it down or finish it.”
    “Or how long it would take to do either of those things and then sell it,” Nicole said. A streak of dirt marred one bare shoulder.
    Their smiles dimmed a bit as they considered the fact that no one was going to hand them even one dollar tomorrow.
    Avery looked at her partners, knowing she must look equally smudged and wondering if their thoughts and feelings were as disjointed as hers. “My father’s former partner, Jeff Hardin, has been building in Tampa for the last fifty years,” she said. “He offered to come by this afternoon to take a look. Why don’t we ask him to give us a quote on demolition and some sort of ballpark of what it might take to get it in good enough shape to put on the market?”
    “That sounds great,” Madeline said, skimming a nervous hand down the side of her white capris. “I don’t really see how we can make a decision without educating ourselves first.”
    Nicole nodded, her green eyes veiled. “Sure. What time are you expecting him?
    “Two o’clock.”
    They agreed to meet back at the house and then, like boxers retreating to their respective corners, they dispersed. Nicole slid into the Jag, tied a scarf around her head, and drove off. Madeline locked her purse in the trunk of her car and with a wave of good-bye, took the path that led to the beach. Avery, who had no appetite and couldn’t think of anywhere she actually wanted to go, wandered out to the back of the house and plopped down on the seawall.
    The day was warm and the sun high in the bright blue sky. Boats packed with people