Chapter OneIn the middle of June that year, Tristan Briggs and his Uncle Eldridge left Manhattan for good.They weren''t going to miss much about New York. Uncle Eldridge had been hanging onto his grand lifestyle from the late 1990s by a thin piece of thread. His Bentley lease had expired and his weekends in the Hamptons were over. At one point, it was so bad they weren''t sure there would be enough money for lunch in The Village.Things had been going downhill since Eldridge had lost his position as a vice president for a high-end designer clothing corporation due to downsizing. On top of that, he''d lost money in the stock market and he was months behind in the rent for his upscale interior design boutique in the east sixties. The wealthy clients weren''t spending money on crystal chandeliers and gilded tables the same way they''d been spending it five years earlier. As a result of all this, he''d come very close to losing his townhouse in Turtle Bay and his summer house on Fire Island.But Uncle Eldridge had been lucky to find buyers for both the townhouse and the summer house in such an unusual real estate market. And just in time to save him from bankruptcy.Tristan was looking forward to a new life in Florida, where there wouldn''t be phone calls from the creditors and embarrassing moments in trendy restaurants where credit cards had been declined.In fact, moving to South Beach might be beginning of a whole new era. It could be what Tristan needed to push his own life forward. He was ready to meet a man and fall in love. He wanted to get married and share everything in his life with one man, even if marriage between two men wasn''t legally recognized.But when the taxi dropped them off at their new home in South Beach, Tristan gave his uncle a look and shook his head. Tristan hadn''t seen the house yet. His uncle had gone down a month earlier for a short vacation and he''d bought it on an impulse. Though the huge, three-story house was located in a desirable neighborhood and was surrounded by multimillion-dollar homes that belonged to rich and famous people, this wasn''t at all what Tristan had expected. The stucco was chipped and falling from the corners, the terra cotta roof tiles were cracked and dilapidated, and the shrubberies in front were so overgrown they covered most of the front windows. One of the front windows was boarded up with plywood and the front door had a split down the middle. Beside the front walk, a large faded green commercial sign read: Slocum Real Estate.Tristan got out of the cab and crossed to the cracked front walk. He placed his hands on his hips and looked back and forth. A huge moving van sat in the driveway and the workers were already removing their things from the truck. The sign on the van read, "Wiley & Son Movers, Inc."When his uncle walked up behind him, Tristan touched the top of the real estate sign and said, "We''re going to be living in a real estate office?" His face remained pinched and his right eyebrow arched.His uncle laughed. He ran his hand through thick brown hair mixed with strands of silver, then patted Tristan on the back. "Of course not. The sign has to be removed. Originally the house was built by Stella Crystal, the old silent movie star. When she died, her niece took it over and lived here for about twenty-five years. After that, a small real estate firm bought it and used it as an office until a few years ago." Uncle Eldridge stared at the house with wide, glistening eyes. He smiled and rubbed his jaw. He seemed to love the fact it had once belonged to a silent film star. "The real estate firm didn''t do well, and they were on the verge of losing the property by the time I came along and made an offer.""I see," Tristan said. He should have known better. When his uncle had first mentioned the house and what he''d paid for it, Tristan should have expected it to be in shambles. Uncle Eldridge had done this before. He''d been buying up ruined properties in New York, renovating them while living there under the worst conditions, then re-selling them for huge profits. He''d done this with the townhouse in Turtle Bay and the summer house on Fire Island. Before that, he''d done it with a brownstone in Murray Hill. He was actually very good at what he did, and he''d always made money. The only problem was Uncle Eldridge''s spending habits. If he made a million dollars on Monday, he usually had two million dollars spent by Tuesday."It''s going to be different," said Uncle Eldridge. "This time we''re not moving again. I''m renovating this place with the money I made from the New York houses and we''re staying here for a long time. I shall never sell this house."Tristan smiled; he almost detected a slight British accent in Eldridge''s voice. Uncle Eldridge said this each time he bought a new property, and with the same dramatic tone. He''d loved his uncle like a father since he''d been three years old. Tristan''s mother had been Uncle Eldridge''s sister. When Tristan''s father and mother had been killed in an automobile accident, his uncle had taken him into his home and raised him as if he were his own son. Eldridge had even legally adopted Tristan and given him his own name. He''d never hesitated once and Tristan was grateful.But lately Tristan had been worrying. His uncle wasn''t getting any younger and if he kept making poor business decisions based on trendy impulses he''d wind up with nothing. As it was, they were living on the money Uncle Eldridge had just received from the sale of his properties. After the all the debts had been paid, there was just enough to survive for a year of two. And Tristan knew when his uncle started renovating this old mansion it wouldn''t take long for him to go through all that money. When Uncle Eldridge designed a kitchen, the counters couldn''t be any ordinary material. They had to be special uba tuba granite from some far off country.So Tristan took a deep breath and sighed. "At least we can always sell it for a profit. Once the real estate market turns around I''m sure this house will be worth at least five times more than what you paid."Uncle Eldridge shook his head. "No way. I want to stay here forever.""Homes like this require a lot of upkeep," Tristan said. "Without an income, it might not be realistic. We could renovate and sell, then buy a nice condo.""I will not be forced to live in a con-do-minium." The word condominium seemed awkward coming from his mouth, as if he''d become tongue-tied. "I will not live in something referred to as a unit.""We need an income. And you can''t open another high-end furniture boutique. It''s the last thing South Beach needs.""But we''ll have an income," Uncle Eldridge said. "When we open the new restaurant we''ll make a fortune." Then he patted Tristan on the back and paid the taxi driver.Tristan rolled his eyes and followed his uncle to the back of the cab where the driver had just unloaded their Gucci bags. He was only twenty-two, but he had a college degree in fine art and he''d just graduated from culinary school. After he''d graduated from college early and he''d discovered there weren''t many decent jobs out there for fine arts majors, he''d gone to culinary school as a back-up plan. He''d always loved food and cooking, he''d always wanted to own his own restaurant, and he''d never been afraid of hard work."I''m not so sure this is the best time to open a restaurant," Tristan said, picking up his suitcases. "People are cutting back. Banks are being bailed out. From what I learned in school, restaurants are the number-one businesses to close down after the first year in business. It might be better if I just get a job working for someone first."Uncle Eldridge lifted his eyebrows and lowered his chin. He adjusted the Gucci bag over his shoulder and blinked. "Nonsense," he said. "We''re opening a restaura