Free Ocean Beach by Wendy Wax

fact, too young to stroke out. “Or we walk.”

    By the end of their first week, The Millicent’s rolled-up-and-forgotten-bathing-suit smell had been banished, replaced by the potent scent of eau de Pine-Sol. Cobwebs had been ripped out of corners, floors had been swept and mopped multiple times, vinegar and water had been used on every reachable window and piece of glass. Every stick of furniture had been polished.
    It would be a stretch to say that the house gleamed or shone, but the improvement was noticeable. Avery drew in a great gulp of air and was delighted to discover that it was now safe to breathe through both nostrils.
    Needing some time and space to herself, Avery left the house on foot, and with no clear destination in mind, she headed south. As she walked she drew in deep breaths of warm salt air along with the tropical foliage and the mix of residential and commercial structures that drew her eye. Within minutes she found herself at South Pointe Park, which lay beyond a towering condominium building and turned out to be a pedestrian-friendly mixture of green space and waterfront promenade that ran along Government Cut, a man-made channel designed to provide a direct routefrom the Atlantic to Miami’s seaport. Fisher Island lay stranded across it.
    She strolled past Smith & Wollensky’s with its outside bar and bayside tables. Keeping the Government Cut on her right, she followed the walkway to the very tip of a long narrow jetty. There she stood, wrapped in a current of warm air, gazing out over the turquoise expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. To her left lay the very beginning of Miami Beach, which seemed to stretch into infinity.
    Her cell phone rang and she answered it.
    “Avery?” Chase Hardin’s voice sounded warm and loud in her ear. “Are you there, Van?” Avery wondered how he managed to turn the very nickname that had so incensed her into an endearment.
    “Yes.” She turned her back to the wind to block the noise and stared out over the ocean and the beach that bounded it.
    “I kept thinking I might hear from you.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. But she was far too intent on proving herself to give even the appearance of asking for help. “It’s just been nonstop here.”
    There was a pause in which he waited for her to go into specifics. When she didn’t he said, “So, tell me about the house.”
    “The house is great,” she said. “It’s Art Deco Streamline—a perfect example of it. With incredible lines and insanely fantastic nautical accents. And it’s a frickin’ Henry Hohauser.” She let that sink in. “Built in 1939.”
    “Seriously?” Chase asked.
    “Completely,” Avery replied. “I mean I couldn’t have found a house I’d want to work on this much if I’d had the whole world to choose from.” She paused, thinking. “Whichkind of worries me. I mean why did they pick a house this perfect for me in particular?”
    Chase laughed. “Count on you to look for the tarnished part of that silver lining. Maybe they just happened to find a great house that they knew you could make better.”
    She wanted to believe it was as simple as that, but nothing about this project felt anywhere near that simple. “I don’t think that’s it,” she said, filling him in on the network camera crew and the whole reality-TV nature of the shoot.
    “So there’s not much that has to be done?” he asked.
    “I didn’t say that.” It felt good to talk to someone who understood. Maybe too good. She knew that Chase’s love of and appreciation for a well-designed home rivaled her own. She wanted to share the house with him. What she didn’t want was unsolicited advice.
    “The Millicent is a mess,” she said. “There was a kitchen fire that was never dealt with, the floors are a nightmare, the upstairs has been carved up into apartments—someone stuck a really awkward wall at the head of the stairs. And, of course, everything’s been horribly neglected.”
    Avery