The Price Of Scandal(34)

“Who’s driving?” I asked.

“We’ll take my cart,” Cam offered. “I made some modifications to it that I think you’ll like.”

You could take the woman out of the aerospace engineering office, but you couldn’t take the aerospace engineer out of her golf cart design.

Cam’s modifications on her four-person vehicle included aerodynamic spoilers, ventilated seats to combat Miami swamp ass, and a fringe of neon-lighted tassels that danced in the breeze where they hung from the roof.

“It’s like being on a flying carpet,” Luna sighed happily as Cam tooled off in the direction of the clubhouse. We cruised over the bridge and down the palm-lined street, past luxury homes into the little downtown area.

I felt the same driving through Bluewater as I did walking the halls of Flawless. Pride.

Both places were a reminder that I was doing something in the world. I was leaving a mark. Or, in Flawless’s case, I was removing them.

Cam punched the horn, and it played a jaunty verse from Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.” I made a mental note to see about upping my golf cart game by installing a margarita blender in mine.





We weren’t early enough. The vegan strawberry shakes at the bar were gone. The only evidence of their existence was pink solidifying stains left behind on the white linens. The catered desserts, displayed on a beach-themed tablescape, had probably been magnificent. There were no survivors there either. Only sad, lonely crumbs.

Daisy, our resident real estate mogul and developer of Bluewater, had decorated the clubhouse in upscale South Florida style. Lots of rattan and wooden shutters, white coral stone, stucco. The personality came from generous pops of color, unexpected artwork, and our eclectic neighbors themselves.

It was a full house tonight.

We had bohemian artists with their southern exposure studios. The owners of a national organic grocery chain that had bought the $2 million lot next to their nine-bedroom farmhouse just to plant a garden. We had the secretive Mr. Joneses, both exceedingly vague about everything. I was positive that wasn’t their real name, and none of us were buying their “retired business executives” cover story.

Then there was the former crown prince of Eswatini. His highness had politely declined his royal birthright after meeting a feisty fashion magazine editor. They spent the winters here in Bluewater, summers in Paris and Milan, and spring and fall in Eswatini.

The WWs, or Wealthy Widows, had commandeered an entire wing of Bluewater’s luxury condo building and kept everyone on their toes organizing enclave-wide events including progressive dinners, pole dancing workshops, and, of course, the April Fool’s Day two years ago when they’d secretly hired a troop of mimes and unleashed them on the enclave.

Next came our techy geniuses. Some retired, some still working seventy-hour weeks to bring the world the next advancements in technology. Those in attendance were clustered together around the patio doors on the far side of the room discussing something that had them geeking out.

I wished I could join them. But in a Bluewater Town Hall, it was essential to stay on task.

“Okay, ladies,” Luna said. “Let’s do this. Forty minutes in and out.”

In a fit of lunacy, the four of us had made ourselves property managers of Bluewater. We could have hired an outside company. We should have hired an outside company. But that would be giving up control.

We’ll have a say over everything, we thought.

It’ll be great, we thought.

Turns out, we were stupid.

Sure, we were able to screen property buyers to make sure each neighbor was a good fit for Bluewater. We had no party animal socialites. No reality TV stars petitioning to film in the community. No gossip mongers selling pics of our more famous residents to the tabloids.

But it was a lot of work. So. Much. Work. Running a company and a community was the equivalent of three full-time jobs. And that was without adding a scandal into the mix.

I took my seat behind the long table at the front of the room. Cam, Daisy, and Luna lined up next to me. I shot a look at the smaller empty table in the corner and suppressed a shudder. The Negotiation Table. I hoped we wouldn’t need it tonight.

With a few hundred entrepreneurs, sports executives, and extremely well-paid attorneys as residents, there were no yeses or nos in Bluewater. Only deals.

Daisy pointed a manicured finger at the bongo player in the corner of the room—a previous negotiation when residents decided they didn’t like Daisy’s gavel. He riffed out an attention-getting beat, and the residents took their seats. There were no tacky folding chairs here. No, town hall attendees settled into swiveling cushioned clamshell-style chairs in a range of teals and turquoises. We’d discovered people were less likely to jump to their feet and argue when they were comfortably seated.

“Okay, Bluewaters, first up on the agenda is feeding Steve. The Joneses are heading to Greece for a week and need someone to cover for them,” Daisy began.





17





Derek





“Want some popcorn?” Jane shoved the greasy bag in my direction. I helped myself to a handful and watched the entertainment unfold. She’d invited me to Bluewater’s Town Hall so I could get a peek at outside-the-boardroom Emily Stanton. Or so she could continue the time-lapse interrogation she’d begun upon my coming on board.