As soon as the doctors put down their contract deposit, Erica flew down to join Ethan for a whirlwind tour of Florida houses. Once again, she left the kids with Lisa. She owed Lisa a debt she could scarcely repay; she figured she’d buy her the Louis Vuitton bag she’d been lusting after.
Grant Fishel had changed its ways since the ebullient and expansive spring, housing Ethan and Erica in an anonymous Doubletree Inn by I-90 with no fluffy bathrobes and no orange-scented soap. They wandered through subdivisions with an agent provided by Grant Fishel’s corporate relocations department, a woman named Rosalyn with streaked blond hair frozen into a flip and huge blue glass earrings shaped like dolphins. Rosalyn’s nasal Jersey accent was softened and slowed by twenty years in South Florida.
She gabbed constantly, like Erica’s mother used to, and Erica let the burble stream comfortingly through her ears. Yet as she ogled each tiled foyer, each Jenn-Air range or steam shower or ballroom-size closet, her disenchantment grew. These houses no longer exuded the luxurious magic of last spring, as if the twins were to return to Disney World and suddenly realize that Mickey Mouse was only an underpaid worker in a hot, smelly costume. Nor, she realized, was Florida far enough away from New York. Her great-aunts and great-uncles and assorted other elderly relatives lived there. Her parents would get over their huff soon enough and visit them; indeed, only a week after Thanksgiving, her mother had already invited them all over for latkes and menorah lighting. The Schrabner family vacationed every year in Fort Lauderdale. It was only a matter of time before she would she’d walk into her new supermarket and encounter someone who recognized her, who would call her Rikki. Her mind drifted back to the Smoky Mountains, beyond the reach of the highway, beyond the reach of the television and the telephone, where the one-lane roads dropped off steeply into darkness.
Ethan kept shaking his head, complaining that all the houses looked interchangeable, one stucco faux Mediterranean villa after another, with thick spiky grass in front and a kidney-shaped pool in the back. “Don’t you have something, I don’t know, more unique, more classy, than these suburban developments?” he asked. It was already early afternoon on Sunday, with Erica’s flight back to New York scheduled for Monday morning. Time was running out.
“I don’t know what else to show you, honey,” said Rosalyn, shaking her head so that the glass dolphins rattled against the folds of her neck. She’d definitely had work done, Erica concluded. All the skin above her neck was stretched taut, her lips flat and thin under their cracked ruby lipstick.
“How about a house closer to the beach?” Ethan suggested. “With a larger yard and mature palm trees instead of these little skinny things.” He waved dismissively at the scrawny specimens supported by wire, smelling of bark dust. Understandable disdain, Erica thought, considering he grew up among redwoods. “A view of the water would be nice.”
Rosalyn rolled her eyes, even as her smile stayed put. Erica knew what was in Ethan’s mind’s eye: one of those houses along Route 1, the ones hidden far behind their gated entrances, the long driveways shaded by palms. Maybe he believed all the risk he’d taken for the benefit of Grant Fishel had earned him one of those. He was still an MIT geek at heart. He still didn’t recognize his stumbling, half-innocent role in the scheme of things. Even Erica had figured out that those mansions belonged to the likes of Stephan Langston, or maybe Nick Stromboli’s suppliers, once they all got out of prison.
As the sun set, Erica and Ethan settled on a compromise, a bungalow on the Intercoastal with a couple of waving pineapple palms and a boat dock, in a neighborhood south of Boca. It cost twice as much as their home in West Meadow, but with multiple bonuses sitting in savings, Ethan figured they could pull it off. He especially liked the idea of a boat, and Erica supposed the boys would also. Unlike the ’30s-era homes down the block, this house was as brand-new as the ones in the subdivisions, constructed on the unwanted fringe of someone else’s fabulously large lot. Erica did not want an old house, however elegant. This bungalow was as untouched as the tract homes with their Jenn-Airs and Jacuzzis. It still smelled of paint, and in the warmth of the early evening, the smell of fresh asphalt rose up from the driveway. She didn’t want the worn stucco of the rambling mansion next door, streaked with moss. She didn’t want any of the history those walls might contain.
“I’m sure this will be a lovely place to raise your beautiful family,” Rosalyn said. They followed her back to the office to sign the papers.