As Liz raised her hand to knock on the suite door, it flew open.
Aunt Amelia filled the doorway, wearing one of her flowing green-and-mauve peignoir sets, like something from a Doris Day–Rock Hudson movie. Her bright red hair was piled on top of her head, coiffed into large-sectioned banana curls. There was something strange about her face, and Liz realized what it was. One eye had her signature pearlescent baby-blue eyeshadow that went straight up to her pointy arched brow, along with black eyeliner, and false eyelashes. The other eye was wiped clean. Liz smelled Pond’s cold cream from where she stood. David Worth’s arrival must have caught Aunt Amelia at the beginning of her nighttime beauty regime.
Liz would never let on to Aunt Amelia that in her later years she reminded Liz of Endora from the sitcom Bewitched. When her great-aunt looked in the mirror, she probably saw the same young ingénue from her first television appearance. It was a commercial that had Aunt Amelia standing on a tree swing in a petticoated, floral dress with a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth as a young man pushed her from behind. In the background a song played, “Fresh as the breeze. Inhale the great outdoors with every puff...”
Aunt Amelia said, “Thank you, Liz. Just place the luggage on the stand next to the bed.”
A man, whom Liz assumed was David Worth, hurried toward her. “Let me help you.” He grabbed one of the suitcases, then reached in his pocket, took out a twenty-dollar bill, and stuffed it into Liz’s now-empty hand. He had sharp features on a weatherworn face and eyes the color of Kalamata olives. His thinning, dark hair had patches of shiny scalp showing through. He wore casual but elegant clothing, and a gold- and diamond-encrusted Rolex watch.
“Not necessary,” Liz said.
Aunt Amelia gave her the zip-it glare, the one she usually reserved for Barnacle Bob.
“‘Not necessary’ is right, David. We’ve been waiting for over an hour!” a nails-on-chalkboard voice said from the other room. Regina entered the sitting room, still dressed in what she’d worn at dinner, a low-cut jersey dress in a medallion print that hit well above her knees. Her hair was dark brunette, with a slight curl, and way too long for her age. Liz suspected she used hair extensions. She had the same dog-sticking-its-head-out-the-window expression she had at dinner on her lineless face.
“If that’s all, Auntie, I’m going to turn in.” Liz gave Aunt Amelia a kiss on her cheek and started toward the door.
“Wait!” Regina barked, snapping the fingers on her right hand, which was laden with a huge emerald and gold ring that must have come from one of her father’s treasure hunts.
Liz turned, her expression hard as she searched her brain for a nice thought about the abrasive woman. What was Aunt Amelia thinking? “Yes?”
“Egads, what happened to your face?”
After months of living with the scar, Liz and her therapist had christened it her badge of courage. Liz walked up, nose to nose with the woman, and said, “It’s really none of your business.”
Regina looked at her husband and shrugged her shoulders. “I was only going to offer the name of a good concealer I special-order from Milan. It would camouflage that shiny raw skin beautifully, but that crevice might need a good plastic surgeon or collagen injections.”
Liz’s attorney had suggested that she leave off the bandage during the trial to play on the sympathy of the judge. Liz had refused. Besides, the Daily Post reissued a close-up photo of Liz’s face on the night it happened, before the paramedics had arrived, followed by a blurb about golden boy Travis Osterman’s defamation-of-character lawsuit. And, of course, the media wasn’t allowed in the courtroom to hear her truthful side of the story.
Liz said, “Gosh. ‘Concealer.’ I never thought of that. Thanks for the beauty tip.”
Regina snarled, “Well, I never!” She looked to Aunt Amelia. “Is that the way you have your staff talk to your guests?” She walked over to a tiger-maple credenza and tugged on a table runner from under a handblown aqua bottle filled with flowers from Aunt Amelia’s cutting garden. The bottle teetered and water splashed onto the glossy wood. “Look at this ratty thing,” Regina said, as she used her long nails to separate the runner’s delicate silk threads. “David, in the morning, call around for another hotel. This one has seen better times.”
Liz begged to differ. In the late 1940s Fred Astaire had stayed in the very same Oceana Suite while on hiatus from one of his films. A baccarat chandelier hung over a rattan love seat and mahogany coffee table. The table was topped with blue-and-white Chinese pots sprouting snowy white orchids. Granted, the carpets and some of the other furnishings were starting to show their age, but her great-aunt had a hard time parting with anything that came from the Indialantic’s original glory days. Liz’s favorite part of the suite was the balcony beyond the French doors that had a stunning view of the ocean, where guests could lounge on a pair of cushioned chaises, or have their morning coffee at a marble bistro table. In her opinion, the Oceana Suite was perfect, and she didn’t want Regina Harrington-Worth to tell Aunt Amelia otherwise.
Before Liz could defend the beauty of the room, David Worth said, “I’ve tried to find a place that will take Venus, but every hotel on the island that takes pets is booked. April is apparently their busiest month.” He took a half-dozen tissues from the box on the credenza and mopped at his perspiring brow. He was about six feet tall, but he seemed smaller than his wife, who was probably five-foot-two without her skyscraper footwear.
Regina turned toward him, eyes blazing, “Well, try to look a little harder. I don’t know how you came up with this old dinosaur of a flophouse. I remember it from my childhood, and there’s not one modern improvement
