North Bay Road, page 17
She bounded downstairs into the kitchen and nodded hello to Zosia, somewhat pleased to see the plodding familiar housekeeper. She had come to consider the old Polish retainer a comforting and familiar sight on Saturday mornings, like the faded wallpaper in the maid’s room or the linoleum tile in the back pantry. Zosia had put some cut fruit and hard-boiled eggs in the fridge and a pot of black coffee was brewing on the counter in the Mr. Coffee machine Sheila had given her as part of a housewarming gift basket. In the first few months, Liz had tried to engage Zosia in conversation but now realized she was part of the house the way the limestone fireplace or the fresco above the library dental was part of the villa. She didn’t know whether she was shy, slightly off or just plain reserved, but Zosia was as impenetrable as steel and as deep as a curb. They had come to accept each other, though, and what was best; Zosia knew her place, working a few hours week and lived over the garage on the weekends. It was actually somewhat calming that she had to make little or no effort with her, though Zosia was the type of person that didn’t embrace or like change, hence her more recent facial grumbling at the cleaning crew.
Liz sipped some pulpy orange juice and walked outside through the French doors into the bright sunshine. It was clear and hot early, and she walked back through the enfilade of rooms to the entry courtyard past the Pompeian mosaic, plugged in her EarPods choosing to listen to old Stevie Nicks as she walked out the imposing gate thrilled to be back and eager for a solitary run.
She started briskly down North Bay Road past a few lemon stucco mansions and modern masterpieces hidden behind gates and groomed hedgerow. After seven minutes she came to the end of the street and made a right and a sharp left, crossing the small bridge on traffic heavy Alton Road which connected the adjoining side of North Bay Road. She stopped to look at a seemingly lethargic manta ray hovering in the shallow water and then made a sharp left into the 5000 block once again. The homes were stunning, and she never tired of the varied architecture; a tower here, a rotunda there, pastel colored rose gardens edged with manicured boxwoods in bloom.
She started a light jog and passed the burgeoning construction teams and cars shoehorned in to benefit possible empty space. A few workers whistled at her back side. Suddenly she felt the presence of a body quickly approaching behind her as she turned and saw the lean muscles and biceps and a potent smell of sweat, tobacco, and old school Paco Rabanne. Eliad Shiraz quickly advanced on her like a pouncing jaguar and then slowed down his jog as he looked over and smirked.
“Glad to see you’re back in town,” he said in his cocky fashion.
“You are the last person I want to see and I find it creepy you are keeping track of my comings and goings.” She slowed.
“Well, not all your cummings.” He licked his lips.
“Gross. Pig!” She slowed down more and rolled her eyes.
“Don’t you want someone to run with…to push you?” He looked at her intently.
“I’m fine on my own,” she stated blankly and purposefully.
“You know, I like your spunk.” He smiled.
“I hate yours.”
“Maybe it’s a love-hate thing?” He quickly fell into rhythm beside her.
“Eli…?”
“Eliad.”
“Whatever your name is. I understand you have a job to do. So just do it, and leave me alone. I have no interest in you,” Liz said defiantly.
“You don’t? I see the way you look at me.” He smiled in what he thought was his own version of sexy.
“You’re an egomaniac.” She couldn’t believe what he was saying.
“No, I see it.” He smirked again.
“And how’s that?”
“Let’s just say it’s the way you and your friend look at me.” He rested with his hands on his hips, the tight Lycra of his shorts highlighting his impressive bulge. There was no way he didn’t put himself on display on purpose with those shorts.
“He can look at you anyway he pleases, I am sure he does, but when I look at you, I have only one word for you.” She squared off with him.
“And what’s that?”
“Contempt.” She laughed a little.
“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” He wiped the sweat from his brow.
“I really enjoyed being…alone.” And then she added, “You’re everything I hate in a man.”
“Sometimes that works for me.” Eliad gave her his best smoldering look.
“Clearly.” Liz stopped in her tracks and motioned for him to run ahead of her.
“Fine, suit yourself. Your loss,” he said gruffly, his accent becoming more prominent in his anger. He put in his EarPods, grimaced and started to run. He wasn’t used to women turning him down, but Liz only saw one word when she looked at him: trouble.
She did look up and after him as he strode away and as much as she hated to admit he was sexy in a mean, “I’m going to abuse you sort of way.” Roy was right and she felt a tingling between her legs at the thought.
No! Absolutely not. She stopped herself. That might be fine for Roy, but it would be the worst idea of my life.
Chapter 21
Liz found Roy having taken a page from G, wearing only his EarPods, sunbathing nude while listening to the Bee Gees and undulating to his Miami playlist. Liz rolled an eye and threw a towel over him over his privates as he raised his midsection. He looked up and smiled and sang.
“Really?” She raised a sweaty eyebrow from her run and stripped off her tank and leggings in the blazing sun and plunged into the deep end of the pool in her sports bra and panties.
“Well, you’re not much better in that getup.” Roy sniffed.
“You’ll never believe who I just saw!” Liz rolled her eyes, lying back and putting her elbows on the ledge of the pool behind her with her face in the golden light.
“Who? Barry Gibb? I keep walking by his house waiting to see him. Nobody had better hair!” he sang and blasted the music.
“I wish. Darth Vader tried to pick me up.” Liz tossed her tawny mane as she unleashed it from her ponytail and soaking the back of her head. “Gross!”
“And?” Roy peered at her.
“And nothing. I told him to leave me alone.” She made a face like she tasted something spoiled.
“I vant to be alone!!!!” Roy put his hand on his forehead imitating Garbo. “I cannot believe my timing was off. If I was with you, I would have told him I needed a little…Israeli invasion.”
“You’re depraved.”
“And you’ll never meet a man with that attitude.” Roy pointed at her.
“Who says I need a man; I have a boyfriend,” Liz offered.
“That’s right, boy not man!” He rolled his eyes.
“Don’t remind me.” She sighed and tacitly agreed and waded back in the shallow end of the pool and then got out, dried herself with a terry towel and then lay down on the lounge next to Roy. She smiled at the strong sun and the warmth enveloping her as she checked her phone for the time and then for texts. After she answered Linda, she plucked Elsa’s diary from her beach bag as Roy sat up.
“It’s diary time!” she said in a sing-song voice.
“No, let me do the honors!” He reached over and grabbed the diary and proceeded to read the words in his version of an upper-class accent.
Elsa’s Diary
Miami 1934
I enter or shall I say, sashay into the breakfast pavilion, which in my opinion has a whimsical edge due to the life-sized ceramic leopards and the tromp l’oeil tented ceiling. My husband prefers things all paneled and gloomy with cranberry velvets and dimly lit blackamoors which is why I am surprised to see him there. The peaked, striped tent design was an element August, the architect included and must never have been run by Leland as I cannot imagine he would ever have approved anything so light-hearted. In fact, it is my favorite room in the villa yet there he is, a veritable apparition come to life. I wrap myself tightly in my lovely Japanese silken wrap I had purchased in Paris on our honeymoon which I secure around my morning dress. It gives me a sense of false comfort, yet I adore the elevated and artful stitching so much that when I first saw it in the shop on the Left Bank, I bought two.
Roy stopped reading in his tracks as the words sank in, and he and Liz locked eyes.
“Liz, she bought two!” He stared at her.
“I know. Wow,” Liz repeated as they both looked at each other and raised their eyebrows together in unison.
“Roy, mine has to be the companion piece!” Liz said totally startled.
“But how?” he asked.
“Keep reading…” she commanded.
I thought I would never see such fine handiwork again. I first spotted the robe on a mannequin in the window of a small French Vietnamese seamstress shop on the Rue Jacob and Leland looked at his pocket watch and harrumphed as I insisted I go inside, and he waited outside the shop as he usually did but didn’t question that I had bought two. It was the only lovely memory of the honeymoon, I must say.
I rub my red eyes for effect as I am shocked to see him sitting upright, erect and posture ready at the breakfast table reading the Miami Herald and I instinctively wrap the robe tighter. I survey the table strewn with plates and silver. He had seemingly downed a sumptuous breakfast of sausage and eggs and barely looks up at me as I enter.
“Leland. How nice to see you.” I regain my composure quickly channeling mother’s Southern Charm. “When did you return?” I ask sweetly.
“Last evening.” He continues reading without looking up.
“And how was your trip?” I feign avid interest.
“The same as always; the natives are lazy, good-for-nothings…. The rum is the only thing worth anything there.”
“Now you know I don’t countenance that kind of talk in my home. If Beaulah should hear it would be very upsetting,” I say softly.
“It is my home,” he sneers. “And Beaulah is lucky to have a roof over her head and bread in her mouth,” he snarls at me, and I instinctively jump back a bit.
“Yes, your home, still no need for that kind of talk.” I pause. “It’s nice to have you home.” I try to be polite and enthusiastic, I really do, as Beulah walks in with a hot tea and lemon on a silver serving tray. I am embarrassed she had only walked in moments after his slur.
“No it’s not,” he harrumphs.
We sit in stony silence. I try with him with all my heart, I truly do; however he is unrelenting in his frosty temperament and it sets the tone for his arrival. We barely speak.
Sunday, Leland decides to join us for dinner when my parents arrive this evening. Father and Mother virtually fall over themselves in ecstasy at the sight of him despite my report on his icy behavior. Needless to say, I am not pleased. It is somewhat encouraging but nevertheless disconcerting when he makes his proclamation before he and father retire to the library for their whisky and to discuss the shipping updates.
“I am glad you are all here,” he says aloud and adds, “and on time.” He looks at his own father’s gold pocket watch. Leland is terribly punctual and holds everyone to account if they do not show up on time or adhere to his rigid schedule.
“I have consulted with Dr. LeFevre, who was Fisher’s physician after his son died. Of course, he was as beside himself as I am.”
“Yes, just terrible, Leland.” Father nods in sympathy.
“That’s Mister Barrett to you, until she,” he rails and points with accusatory aplomb, “procures an heir,” he bellows. “And then we can get back to pleasantries again.”
“Leland, you mustn’t speak to Father that way. There’s no reason for unpleasantness,” I admonish him softly. “We will give it a college try, not that I was allowed to attend college, but I shall.”
“And if that doesn’t work, you will all be in Sarasota.” He sips his wine. “I have already purchased a lovely Victorian in town where the Sloans can all retire should our efforts be unsuccessful. You won’t go homeless or starve,” he says with supposed beneficence.
“So be it,” I say calmly. “Perhaps Sarasota is my destiny. I was going there anyway.”
“Perhaps it is.” Leland stares me down with steely reserve, waving his large hand in a dismissive way as he has a habit of doing with the cowering staff. Only this time it is with me, his wife or am I now relegated to staff since I did not perform? Father and Mother look down into their soup bowls, and I actually go from feeling badly to feeling betrayed.
“You can see for yourself your daughter’s arbitrary and distempered personality,” he states with a steel countenance as he threatens with his red rimmed eyes.
“I have consulted with the doctor, and he wants you on a strict diet and no exercise—no riding or tennis—and each morning, you shall have your portion of cod liver oil. In the afternoon after bedrest, I have hired a Swedish masseuse, Missus Inga Eriksson to massage your abdomen. I am willing to go through this one more time before I buy myself another filly.”
“Lovely,” I state, looking at Mothers’ downcast eyes in dismay and mentally packing for the other coast. Father is intent on his wineglass, and Mother makes meaningless conversation.
“Cod liver oil is known to have a wonderful result.” She nods in agreement.
“Thank you, Mother,” I whisper sarcastically.
This evening before Mother and Father leave, we climb the stairs in silence. I go into my boudoir and secretly take my wedding gift from own jewel box: a geometric deco diamond bracelet and necklace set in platinum and put it into a small, scarlet, silken pouch and silently hand it to Mother for safekeeping. The small drawstring is the color of blood exactly. Blood money.
“For Sarasota,” is all I say as I hand it to her, with no emotional attachment as it is all a business deal, and these are the proceeds. She frowns in a downcast way.
However, despite her look of surprise, she doesn’t tell me to keep it.
Chapter 22
The only thing Cary seemingly liked about Florida was Eric Clapton’s 1974 classic 461 Ocean Boulevard. The faded sleeve of the old-school album cover he had in high school showcased a classic white sun washed Florida home which Clapton had rented during that period as it was close to his recording studio when he was recuperating from a bout of heroin addiction. The album title, house and iconic palm tree on the cover art is often mistaken for Ocean Boulevard in South Beach but the property was actually farther north in Golden Beach. It is notable that Clapton rented the house before many other popular artists considered Miami as a creative recording alternative and the album remains one of his most popular and enduring featuring the now classic “I Shot the Sheriff.” Soon other artists arrived for the sunny shores and weather and the cultural fusion, from the English-born Australian Bee Gees to Cuban American Gloria and Emil Estefan who have since made Star Island their home. Miami has since been an international cultural melting pot influencing the sights and sounds of the barrier reef island and then globally. Since the success of the eponymous Miami Sound Machine, Miami is now associated with an influx of Latin rhythm, and the Estefans are often credited with mainstreaming Latin music paving the way for other artists ranging from Selina to Ricky Martin to G Alvarez. As many like to note, the Cubans and South Americans brought the drums and the beat, and the Afro Caribbeans brought reggae, calypso all to create a truly uniquely memorable “Miami sound.”
Cary had jumped through hoops with his hospital schedule to organize a trip to Florida and once settled in on the plane, tried to relax inserting his EarPods listening to his playlist. He was not a fan of reggae or Latin music and his taste leaned only towards classic rock. Liz could only tolerate a quarter of his playlist and joked that the Clapton, the Grateful Dead, and Boston were too “frat boy” for her. He countered that if she were a “Dead” fan she would be the perfect woman but had concluded it was hard enough to find someone with enough things in common and didn’t expect her to share his musical passions. He had managed to get the weekend off at the hospital with a white lie saying he had a family wedding and while he told her he was excited to see her he mentioned he only wished her villa were in New England or the Berkshires, which set her teeth on edge. The iPhone photos and the videos she had sent seemed incredible and he was thrilled for her, just less thrilled for himself.
“Florida!” He shook his well cropped head with distaste. He looked around at the other passengers in coach and saw a glint and array of gold chains and gold rimmed sunglasses, tracksuits, and man bags. Why did everyone look like Vanilla Ice and Miami Vice together? Vanilla Vice! He laughed to himself and thought to tell that to Liz, but then thought again. He knew she would take it as a criticism or slight as she always did when he poked fun at Florida or her new home. As a doctor he was also baffled by the state's lenient Covid policy, yet it seemed Miami, Boca Raton, and Palm Beach were also overflowing with vaccines while the rest of the country was struggling to get it. Perhaps, it had something to do with the Trumps moving there, but maybe that was another conspiracy theory!
