Chapter Six
Six
My mother is still absorbing Grand’s fait accompli when my grandmother drains the last of her wine and announces that she’s also already arranged for her car to be driven down. Then she asks if we’re ready to go see her new place.
My mother’s jaw is tightly clenched, which I assume is how she manages not to say anything. I, on the other hand, can’t wait to see Grand’s new home.
We drive west and turn onto Park Street, a lovely redbrick road lined with huge gated homes on the water and peacocks that strut back and forth across the road, and despite the yard signs that declare this part of Park Street a “Peacock Crossing,” it appears that they cross pretty much at will and without warning.
At Central Avenue, we head west going over the bridge that leads us onto the Treasure Island Causeway. After a turn onto Paradise Island, we pass several condo buildings, some nicely done green spaces, and residential streets with names like Dolphin Drive and Marina Terrace.
Ultimately, we turn into a town house community named Casas de Flores, and we follow a cobblestone street lined with trees, grass, multiple swimming pools, and pastel buildings of town houses. I catch a glimpse of boats bobbing in their slips as well as a fishing dock.
“That’s Myra’s town house.” Grand points to a corner unit in a peach-colored building of three units.
“And this,” she says dramatically as she pulls in front of a garage on the corner of the next building. “This is my place.”
“Oh, Grand! It’s so cool,” I say as we get out of the car and stare up at the facade of her unit. “You’re practically next door to Myra. And…” I lose my train of thought completely when we enter the foyer, climb the first flight of stairs, and enter the main living area, where my gaze is immediately drawn to the bright sparkle of water that lies just behind the wall of glass sliders.
“Wow,” my mother says almost reluctantly.
Seconds later we’re out on the balcony, leaning over the railing, and staring over a lawn bulging with bright flowers and a trio of palm trees to the Intracoastal Waterway, where boats of all sizes and types glide past. Some go as silently as the wind in their sails while others rev motors and blare music. It’s like a parade provided for our amusement.
Across the bay another island neighborhood shimmers in the sun, with finger-shaped spits of land that jut out into the water. Most have docks and boat lifts from which boats dangle. Pretty much all of them have pools.
“Oh my gosh! Look!” I point at three black fins—two large and one small—that glide next to one another then disappear beneath the surface only to rise again a couple yards away. “Dolphins!”
“It looks like two parents and their baby, doesn’t it?” Grand smiles, clearly enjoying the same rush of pleasure I am.
“My goodness, it does, doesn’t it?” my mother says quietly, not even trying to hide her own smile.
When the dolphins disappear from view, I tear my gaze from the water and turn to take in the main floor of Grand’s new home. Light wood floors stretch from the sliders, through the open living and dining rooms, and into the massive kitchen, where windows overlook the cobblestone street. It can’t compete with the water view, but it’s charming in its own right. With glass on both ends of the open floor plan, the space feels expansive. Everything is light and bright.
“The former owners did all this,” Grand says, motioning around the space. “And I love every bit of it. I won’t have to change a thing. Plus, all the furniture you see was included in the sale so I can live here relatively comfortably while I wait for my things to be delivered.”
Up the next set of stairs is the bedroom floor with a large master bedroom, where painted wooden beams give definition to the vaulted ceiling. Sliders open from the master bedroom onto another balcony overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. I feel as if I can see for miles. And when I spot the three dolphins feeding farther down the Intracoastal, my lips stretch back into a smile of their own accord.
Two bedrooms with a Jack and Jill bath sit at the other end of the hall just beyond linen and laundry closets, providing another view of the cobblestones and pastel buildings. One has a queen bed and a dresser while the other has bunk beds—a queen on the bottom and a single on top.
“Well, I have to admit it’s attractive and functional.” This is high praise from my mother.
Although it’s clear she’d like to, Grand doesn’t gloat. “I’m so glad you like it. The first time I stepped out onto that seawall, I knew I wanted to live here. My unit wasn’t listed, but Myra knew the owners were planning to sell. I made an offer that day.”
“And how much did you pay for this place?” my mother asks.
“Does it matter?” Grand replies. “I’m not looking to sell it anytime soon and I doubt I’m going to get hurt financially on waterfront property.”
“You realize sales info is readily available online?” my mother, the Realtor, replies.
Grand shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t stop you from looking it up, but I can’t see why it would matter. Your father left me comfortably off, and once the Atlanta house sells, I’ll be in an even better position.
“Come.” Grand smiles. “Let me show you the pièce de résistance.”
We take the stairs down to the foyer then exit into the two-car garage, where she grasps a doorknob and pushes open a door into the ground-floor “bonus” room.
The room is wide and open with whitewashed concrete walls, and an AC unit of its own. Sliders open onto a covered brick patio, a swath of grass dotted with flowering bushes and palm trees that stretch out to the seawall.
“This,” Grand says with relish, “will be my studio. And that”—she nods toward the water—“will be my inspiration.” She smiles. “And with the Gulf just a little over a mile away, I can walk to the beach. Or drive and set up an easel anytime I like.” Her smile deepens. “Surely you can see why I couldn’t pass it up.”
“Oh, Grand.” I squeeze her hand. “It’s awesome. I don’t think I could have resisted it, either.”
My mother doesn’t argue, which is a relief.
“And Myra’s already introduced me to people,” Grand continues. “There are a good number of retirees, but there are younger couples and families, too. And while there are snowbirds and people with second homes, there are also full-timers. I like that it’s not all one thing or another. And there’s lots to do here without even leaving the complex.
“There’s a water aerobics class in the west pool once a week and a mah-jongg game most Wednesdays and Thursdays. And monthly potlucks around the east pool. People are friendly, and from what I hear, they look out for one another.”
“It is lovely,” my mother concedes. “But since you need to stop driving, you’ll be stuck here. There’s no real transit system.”
“Nonsense,” Grand sniffs.
“Not nonsense,” my mother sniffs back.
So much for détente.
“First of all, my car is already being driven down with a few things I’ve requested, so unless you’re planning to stay here and police my every move, whether I drive or not will not be up to you,” Grand says. “Second, there’s Uber and Lyft if I ever need them. And Instacart and DoorDash. And I understand there’s a stop for the SunRunner Bus just up on Central Avenue that can take you to the beach or to the downtown waterfront shops and restaurants and lots of places in between.”
Grand speaks firmly but I feel her tremble beside me. Something’s upsetting her, and though I don’t know what it is, it’s something more than the normal friction between her and Mom.
“But this doesn’t make sense. You can’t just—” Mom begins.
“But I have ‘just’!” Grand insists even as she sways slightly.
“I could stay with Grand for a while,” I say, putting my arm surreptitiously around Grand’s shoulders to steady her.
I don’t add that if things continue the way they have for me, I could stay here forever. “And I could, um, be her chauffeur and companion while she gets settled.”
“That’s a wonderful idea!” Grand jumps on this immediately. Her trembling ceases but she doesn’t shrug off my arm on her shoulder. “Not that I need a driver or help, but I’d love to have you here, Sydney. What fun we’ll have.”
My mother doesn’t look completely convinced, but Grand doesn’t stop talking long enough to give her a chance to object. “Kyle Donovan—Gracie Donovan’s grandson—and a friend of his are bringing certain furniture, art, and accessories down in a U-Haul that will also tow my car. And I thought perhaps you could use what’s left to stage the Atlanta house so that it can go on the market as quickly as possible.”
My mother sighs. “Maybe we shouldn’t list the house quite yet. In case this doesn’t work out. Or you decide to split your time. Or—”
“No!” Grand cuts her off sharply. “I appreciate your input,” she says more gently. “I know you’re pushing for what you believe is right for me. But I’m ready for a fresh start…I need this change…and I’d like things taken care of sooner rather than later.” She pauses, swallows. “I believe your father would be glad I’ve found the perfect place. I hope you will be, too.”
Mom sighs. And just like that, Grand has stormed my mother’s defenses without technically firing a shot.
· · ·
I’m in bed and about to nod off when Mom walks into our hotel room after gassing up the car for her trip home tomorrow. When she drops her bag on the dresser and kicks off her shoes without putting either away, I know I’m not going to be able to feign sleep.
“I simply cannot believe this has happened. She’s eighty-three and acting like a child,” my mother huffs.
“I wouldn’t call choosing to move to a smaller home next to a good friend in Florida childlike. She’s a grown woman, Mom, and still entitled to make her own decisions.”
“But everyone including her knows she shouldn’t be driving. She could kill someone—or herself!”
“Mom, she’s slowed down a bit for sure, but she’ll have a good friend next door and I’ll keep an eye on the driving thing while I’m here.”
“But something’s off. Something more than her usual ‘bull in a china shop, let’s play life by ear’ attitude. I just can’t tell if it’s physical or mental, or what. Did you see how she reacted to the news story about that artist? And she’s, I don’t know, but something’s going on.”
I sometimes forget how observant my mother is and have always regretted it.
“And you know she shouldn’t be driving.”
It’s my turn to sigh. “You’re just beating a dead horse here. You need to let her live her life; one that she chooses.”
“That just shows what you know. You’ve never been a parent or dealt with an eighty-three-year-old who’s as headstrong as a five-year-old. You couldn’t even hold on to the role you created.”
There’s a brief silence as I absorb the blow.
“Wow,” I finally say. “That was low. And for your information, I didn’t lose that role, it was intentionally taken from me.”
She huffs. I sniff. Then I turn my back to her and pull the covers over my head. As any five-year-old might.
· · ·
In the morning, we act as if we never argued then pack up our cars. Mom checks out of the hotel while I go pick up Grand so that the three of us can have a farewell breakfast during which I hope we can avoid an argument or rehashing who’s right and why.
We meet at a place called Foxy’s, and I’m relieved that we all seem to be on our best behavior. I settle into my meal, and after a couple of bites of my French Toast Combo, I can see why this restaurant has been around since 1981. And as Ahhhhnold Schwarzenegger used to say, I’ll be back…!
When we’re duly stuffed, we kiss my mother goodbye and I see what it takes for her to drive off without issuing admonitions or comments. When her taillights disappear into the distance, I turn to my grandmother. “Shall we stop off for some groceries? I think I saw a Publix supermarket a few streets over.”
“Absolutely.” She smiles and gives me a wink. “Because we definitely need some staples. And I need to find something for us to bring to the Friday evening potluck mixer tonight. And maybe something new to wear to it.”
I look at my grandmother and blink. “ Mixer? ”
“Oh yes. I understand they’re a lot of fun, and it’s a good way to meet other residents.”
I study my grandmother’s face but am unable to read it. There is, however, no doubt that she has something up her sleeve…