Ocean Beach by Wendy Wax Page A

looked under a rock and moved a loose brick. When she still came up empty-handed, she asked Kyra to go up on tiptoe to feel around above the door, but all she dislodged was dirt and bits of spiderweb.
    Glad she’d come prepared, Avery pulled out a nail file she’d pinched from Deirdre’s makeup bag and bent down to try to fit it in the lock.
    “Hey,” Deirdre said, “is that mine?”
    “We can’t break into the house!” Maddie said, shocked.
    “Shhh.” Avery tried to quiet them. “We’re not breaking in. We live here and Max is expecting us.”
    “In an hour,” Maddie pointed out. “What if he’s walking around naked or something?”
    There was a group wince at the thought.
    “Maybe you should try the doorknob,” Deirdre said quietly, her gaze still on her nail file.
    “Or what if he hears us and the fright gives him a heart attack?” Maddie asked, offering yet another worst-case scenario.
    “He’s ninety,” Deirdre pointed out. “I doubt his hearing is that good.”
    Avery sighed as she tried to insert the tip of the file at the right angle. “We’re going to see and probably touch every inch of this house, I don’t think a walk-through is going to violate anything. We don’t have time to debate this.”
    “Avery, I really think you should try the knob,” Deirdre said again.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Avery said, jiggling the file in an effort to jimmy the lock. “That’s…” Her voice trailed off as the file snapped in half.
    With a sigh, Deirdre reached around Avery, grasped the bottom curve of the anchor, and gave it a gentle twist. The door creaked open.
    Great
. Avery handed Deirdre both halves of her nail file.
    “I’m still not sure we should do this,” Maddie said, following them in.
    No shushing was required. They fell silent as they stood together in the circular entry, their gazes drawn upward.
    The high domed ceiling was ringed in triple bands of concrete. An umbrella-shaped chandelier with shimmering panels of sculpted glass hung from its center and a Moroccan tile floor radiated outward. Straight ahead an oakrisered staircase angled gently upward, its rounded stepped wall open to a high-ceilinged rectangular living room that stretched to their right.
    They moved left into the dining room, another long rectangle with a high ceiling banded in concrete. Avery felt a burst of adrenaline as she took in the expanse of glass block cut into the front wall and the matched set of casement windows that would flood the room with natural light once they were repaired and cleaned.
    “That porthole mirror is great,” Deirdre said, following Avery’s gaze before moving toward a bird’s-eye-maple and mahogany dining room suite. “I’m pretty sure this is Ruhlmann.” Deirdre’s hand practically caressed a stair-stepped chair back; her voice pulsed with pleasure as she uttered the well-known Deco-era designer’s name.
    Deirdre’s flushed face and tone of excitement drew Avery back to the hours they’d spent together in antique shops.Despite years of trying, she’d never been able to completely block the fact that her love of the clean-lined Deco style had been discovered at the side of the mother who’d abandoned her.
    Deirdre led the way into the kitchen, which was large and roomy, with a corner banquette that overlooked the driveway and a curvy run of cabinets that would have looked right at home in a private railcar or the hold of a ship.
    “I don’t think this kitchen has been touched since the day it was installed,” Deirdre said.
    “It all looks original all right,” Avery said, taking in the plain white cabinets and the chipped tile countertops. The built-in oven, cooktop, and vent hood were turquoise. The refrigerator was wide, boxy, and white.
    Avery ran a hand over a lightly singed cabinet above the stove. “There’s been some sort of fire here. And the tile work is pretty beat up.”
    “I can’t wait to get my hands on this kitchen,” Deirdre said happily.