Jane Austen in Boca (11 page)

“Be patient. I don’t tell you how to do your work,” responded May with a certain defiance. “Here.” She handed a recipe card to Flo. It was, she declared proudly, the simplest and most dependable borscht recipe to be found anywhere; Amy couldn’t go wrong with it.

Flo took the card, squeezed her friend’s hand, and sighed. She had gotten the recipe for her niece, but she had not been as successful with the other part of her errand. She had not managed to prepare May for possible disappointment from Norman Grafstein. May was simply too nice to take a hint.

A
FEW DAYS AFTER THEIR
Y
OUTING,
F
LO WAS AWAKENED BY A
very early phone call.

“What are you doing today?” It was Mel Shirmer.

“Let’s see,” responded Flo. “I was going to work a bit on my novel, perfect my cure for cancer, and then, possibly, whip up a gourmet meal for fifty.”

“Good. Then you’ll have time to come with me to the cas bah.”

“Well,” ruminated Flo, “I do like Charles Boyer”

“Then you
will
come with me to the casbah?”

“It depends where the casbah is,” said Flo warily. “There are places I definitely won’t go. If the casbah is Disney World, for example, count me out. I don’t do cute with anyone over six.”

“I assure you, my
liebchen,
that the casbah is not Disney World,” said Mel. “More than that, I will not say.”

“Should I take a bathing suit, oh mysterious guide?”

“Of course, and a little overnight case as well, in the event we should want to linger. The casbah, you see, has many attractions.”

Flo was a bit nonplussed by the prospect of an overnight stay, but she put a toothbrush and an extra pair of underwear into the bag with her bathirig suit and towel—just in case, as she put it smirkingly to herself. She was old enough to find her own tricks of self-deception amusing.

It was a beautiful day when Mel pulled up in his Corvette convertible. Flo considered the Corvette a ridiculous car, and she believed a convertible of any sort was dangerous and should be kept out of the hands of people over sixty. But with Mel, somehow, she made an exception. He had the romance of the maverick about him, and the car did not seem like an affectation so much as a natural extension of his personality. Had he shown up on a motorcycle, no doubt she would have accepted this, too, and climbed on behind him without giving it a thought.

“I feel like I’m seventeen, being whisked away to play hooky by the high-school quarterback,” said Flo, looking at Mel’s handsome profile as they sped off

“Not football, I’m afraid, swimming—the Jewish contact sport. I wanted to play football, only my mother wouldn’t let me. I was too precious, she said. She held my price very high, you see, which spoiled me for hard labor.”

“The standard recipe for the Jewish prince,” observed Flo. “But you seem to have accomplished a great deal, all things considered, and turned out better than most.”

“I don’t know about that,” laughed Mel. “I’ve certainly done what I liked, though whether I’ve done well is another story. And if I’ve turned out better than most, it depends on ‘the most’ you’re talking about.”

“Well, Stan Jacobs, for one. He seems to me your antithesis. Perhaps his mother didn’t dote on him enough.”

“It’s possible. But his wife did,” said Mel, frowning. “She worshiped the ground he walked on, and expected others to do the same. It was a trial being around them: self-love bolstered by hero worship.”

“It sounds intolerable. Why did his friends stand for it?”

“The power of self-promotion, what can I say? And the appeal of fraternizing with a professor—a role he played to the hilt, let me tell you. You’re right about one thing. You couldn’t find
two more different people than Stan Jacobs and me. Have you seen him since our unfortunate encounter?”

“No,” said Flo, “though I expect I will. I drive May when she meets Norman at Broken Arrow, and Stan tends to show up.”

“He’ll probably try to bad-mouth me. Promise you won’t be swayed.”

“I won’t,” said Flo. “I have a mind of my own.”

Mel turned his head and smiled admiringly at her, then changed the subject: “I’ve been looking seriously at a place in Boca Festa, as you know. I like the club and your friends, but I would have thought someone like you might seek more—how shall I say?—’elevated’ company.”

“They’re not highbrow, if that’s what you mean,” laughed Flo. “I find I can get enough highbrow from reading good books.”

“I’m not talking education, so much,” said Mel, “but—well—style, class, if you will. The folks at Boca Festa are burghers, simple shopkeepers; plain people.”

“As opposed to, what, fancy people?”

“Not fancy, sophisticated. People with some worldliness, some experience and savoir faire.”

“Rich people?” asked Flo. “Boca Festa isn’t the Polo Club, if that’s what you mean, though I thought you found those people snobby. Some Boca Festa residents are very comfortable; you’d be surprised.”

“I’m sure I would. And I’m not pushing the Polo Club. I know the place, as I said. It’s really no different, though there’s more posturing. It’s that I imagine you in a more refined environment. When I see you with Hy Marcus, I want to laugh.”

“Hy’s a fool, I grant you, but a sweet fool.”

“That’s the question: At our stage in life, do we want to mix with fools, sweet or otherwise?”

“You think we should be more discriminating at ‘our stage in life’?”

“I do. You know what the poet says: ‘And at my back I always hear time’s winged chariot hurrying near.’ I hear it, all right, and it’s starting to make quite a racket. Times’s running out for us, my darling. We need to use what we have left with—yes, to be blunt about it—discrimination; not waste our time with fools.” Mel’s voice had taken on resonance as though he had tapped into a deep well of private conviction. “I want my last years to be like a well-edited story or a fine, short poem,” he continued. “No fat, no excess; just pure, undiluted quality. That, my
liebchen,
is why I like you.”

Though his tone had grown lighter again, Flo felt the force of his words and was silent.

They were heading west on Alligator Alley, and Flo deduced they were on their way to the exclusive towns on Florida’s west coast. Once off-limits to Jews, these enclaves had recently been stormed by those looking to reduplicate the habits of earlier inhabitants and escape undue proximity to their peers. The west coast was also the site of some breathtaking scenery. Flo had visited several times, the last with Amy, who at twenty-one was finally too old for Disney World. Amy was partial to nice landscape and to the spectacle of what she called “a good stretch house”—that oversized habitation that was the house equivalent of a stretch limousine.

“Mom and Dad are thinking of taking a place out here,” Amy explained when they drove past the mansions in Naples during an outing last spring. “Daddy wants to lord it over his old Newark buddies, and this is the way to do it: It’s the latest wall to be scaled. You know how he likes marauding into the old Wasp bastions and staking his claim or spilling his seed—ergo,
moi,
product of his union with my Mayflower mom. I’m encouraging him to buy something, preferably beachfront with lots of bed rooms so I can bring my friends for long, debauched parties
when Mom and Dad are in Europe. But you have to promise me you won’t move out of Boca. I wouldn’t trade the shopping and the prime rib with baked potato at the club for all the cathedral ceilings and unspoiled landscape in the world.”

Flo assured Amy that she shouldn’t worry; she had no intention of leaving Boca Festa.

Now that the traffic had thinned and the Everglades had begun, Mel drove with one hand on the wheel, whistling. “I love it out here,” he said. “It’s unspoiled, it’s open, it makes me think
possibility.
You know I’m itching to get myself settled down so that I can do some serious writing. It’s been my dream to put on paper some of the experiences I’ve had.”

“Your memoirs?” asked Flo, remembering Lila’s having mentioned this.

“Well, possibly, but lately I’m thinking more fiction than fact. I’d draw on my own experiences, of course, but I like the freedom of being able to invent and embroider. I have an outline in a drawer and even a draft of some of the chapters. People I know in publishing have expressed interest. But it’s a matter of getting the time and the space to sit down and write. I’ve been hoping that soon I will. But writing’s a lonely business, and I like company.” He glanced meaningfully over at Flo.

“I’m sure you could find company enough,” laughed Flo nervously.

“Oh, but I mean the right company,” said Mel. And when Flo didn’t answer: “I’m thinking an intellectual soul mate as well as a companion. Someone who can act as my editor—and my muse.” Flo still said nothing, but she felt the compliment, and turned to look out the window so as not to show that she was blushing.

The drive was a long one—almost four hours—and at one point, Mel pulled over and took a bottle of wine, a baguette, and a
slab of cheese from a bag in the backseat. They took turns taking swigs from the bottle of wine, which made Flo feel as though they were teenagers, stealing off with their parents’ car for the day.

“Simple fare, I’m afraid. But it’s not easy getting to the cas bah,” said Mel.

Flo said she liked simple fare. “You’re an adventurer,” she said, then rephrased: “You like adventure.”

“I do. I’ve never been satisfied with the humdrum and the ordinary. Life has so many pleasures, and we only go through once. It’s a matter of taking some risks, making some far-flung calculations. There are things I’d do differently, but overall, I accept who I am. You can’t teach an old dog.”

“Not such an old dog,” said Flo. It was hot, and Mel had taken off his jacket and unbuttoned the top bottons of his shirt as they sat by the side of the road. She was struck once again by what a good-looking man he was.

He gave her a deep look. “You don’t think so? That pleases me.” He leaned closer, so Flo could smell his aftershave as it mixed with the sweat that came with being outdoors in the Florida Everglades in the middle of the day. She stayed still for a moment, their faces close to each other, then she drew back.

“It’s hot,” she said, “and if we’re going to the west coast, which I’ve deduced is the location of the casbah, we better get moving.” She put out of her mind the difficulty of covering so much distance for the return that night.

When they approached Naples, Mel slowed, took a sheet of directions out of his pocket, then drove on for a few miles, finally pulling into a long driveway. It led to a sprawling postmodern castle with a wraparound porch on the second floor. He gave two short honks on his horn, and a portly man with a pompadour bounded out to greet them.

“Mel Shirmer, as I live and breathe, what a surprise. I was hoping you’d be coming this way one of these days to take a look at our fair digs. And you’ve brought a lovely lady, I see. Scouting for the honeymoon, perhaps?”

Flo shrank at the man’s crudeness, but Mel seemed amused. “No, no, Sid, just a joyride. I told her that I knew some of the prettiest scenery in Florida, and thought she might want to take a look at the homes you’re showing. She’s nicely settled in Boca Festa, so there’s no prospect of a sale. And no, Sid, we are two mature adults enjoying each other’s company, nothing more.” He winked at Flo.

“Well, let me show you two around, just for the hell of it,” said Sid cheerfully, putting his arm on Flo’s to steer her in the right direction. Flo instinctively moved away, and Mel, sensing her discomfort, stepped forward and took her hand. “You never know what you ladies might fall in love with,” gushed Sid, “ladies being unpredictable that way. One thing I can tell you, I love house-sitting this place; it’ll be hard to get me out, eh, Mel? We both have a taste for luxury, though we can’t always afford it.”

Mel laughed, and looked over at Flo, as if to say, Let’s indulge the man and take a look around.

“This place is a dream,” continued Sid, “though it’s on a smaller scale than most around here. Just sold one up the road to a surgeon—the one who put back the hand on that girl pushed under the subway a few years ago; it was all over the
Post.
Big practice, very high-toned. Wanted something out of the way, private. They’ve got a home on the Riviera, and the one on Park Avenue, but this is their favorite. They love the seclusion. The sunsets. If you’re poetic—and I can see, Mel, that this is one poetic lady—the sunsets will really do it for you.”

Flo said that, actually, she could take or leave sunsets.

“But it’s the structure that’s the thing here,” Sid continued, unfazed. “Best materials, latest design; the Flettermans did it—
they’re the big developers for West Florida. Top of the line. This one here’s a tad smaller, but the idea’s the same, nothing spared in the way of amenities. They’ll tear out the bathrooms for you, if you like, and do them to your specification.”

Flo, who had begun to take a certain pleasure in thwarting the man’s assumptions about her taste, murmured that bathrooms were not very important to her.

“You don’t say? Well, you’re an exception. But Mel was always one for exceptional ladies. Most of them, though, like a good bathroom. And I can understand it. Living room is important; kitchen, yes. But bathroom. That’s where you’re going to spend the most time, when you get right down to it, and from my experience, ladies like bathrooms. But you’re exceptional.”

Flo agreed that she must be. Mel laughed and squeezed her hand.

“We have four bedrooms in this model,” Sid continued. “Can’t go with less than four around here. They say you need less space when you’re older, but that’s all wrong. The opposite is true. You need more—that is, if you can afford it. One for each of you—at our age, forget the romance, we need our own rooms. Then, there’s one for the children; one for the grand children—when you have a house like this, believe me, they visit—and, bam, you’re full up. Now, in Mel’s case, you might consider a larger model since you’d probably need to turn one of the bedrooms into a study. You don’t want to stop those creative juices. One thing I always said about Mel, he’s got plenty of creative juice.” Sid slapped Mel on the back, who laughed indulgently.