vintage that was an even bigger deal and guaranteed to be a huge hit with anyone who was searching for the first. I’d quickly snapped up both bottles—at a cost I hoped my wife did not discover before I’d had a chance to capitalize on the expense—and had been intending to get serious with Thompson only on production of the second. I actually had very little to offer him at this point. I’d taken a degree of license when describing the level of owner dissatisfaction, too, and was aware that Tony was a golf-and-drinking buddy of Peter Grant, founder-owner of Shore Realty. The two went back to the boom years, had been to school together, and socialized all the time. I was a Shore employee. Implicitly offering to set that to one side in order to run interference for The Breakers’ management was a very high-risk strategy.
And yet . . . it had felt like the thing to do.
Or I’d gone ahead and done it, at least, and it hadn’t yet exploded in my face. If Thompson had gotten straight on the phone to his friend, there’d be a message on my phone telling me to clear my desk and go fuck myself from here to Key West. No such missive had arrived—which hopefully meant I’d taken a massive step in the right direction.
I wasn’t even having a cigarette to celebrate, either. Behold the man, see how he grows.
There was a blarping sound from my pocket. It made me jump. I yanked out the phone and was relieved to see it was just a calendar reminder.
But then I swore—loud enough to startle nearby children and have their wrangler glaring at me—and ran up the pier toward the resort.
CHAPTER THREE
By nine thirty I was pretty drunk. This is something all the blogs and self-improvement gurus advise against, but I felt I deserved it. Not only had the day seen strides toward me becoming a bigger blip on Tony Thompson’s radar, but I had reason to be relieved to be where I was—at a great table in a great restaurant, enjoying another big glass of Merlot and hiding the effects very well, I believed.
“You’re pretty drunk,” Steph said.
“No. I’m just high. On the vision of outstanding natural beauty across the table from me.”
She laughed. “Corny. Even by your standards. Still, twelve years together. Eight, postknot. Can’t say we didn’t give it a try, right?”
“You’re still the one, babe.”
“You too.”
She raised her glass. We chinked, leaned across the table, and kissed for long enough to make nearby diners uncomfortable. She was happy, and so was I. I’d bought her something nice from her favorite jewelry store and also gotten huge props for fulfilling her primary request, securing a table on the upstairs balcony at Jonny Bo’s. This is the premium spot in the place, with the (alleged) exception of a fabled private upper dining room, which no one I knew had even seen, and which I was ninety percent sure was a suburban legend. Our table booking still had me a little mystified. I’d broken into foul language at the end of the pier because I realized I’d failed to make the reservation. I’d tried, a number of times, but the number had always been busy—I recalled muttering about this in the office a week or so ago (mainly, of course, as a way of bragging about the venue I was trying to book). And yet, when I’d called that afternoon on the slim chance of a cancellation, I discovered I
Our waitress appeared. She was a little older than most, late twenties, but otherwise standard issue: black pants, starched white shirt, black apron, capable-looking ponytail in blond or brown. This one’s was midbrown.
“Can I interest you fine people in the dessert menu?”
“Hell yes,” Steph said. “Thought you’d never ask.”
I declined, picked up my glass, and looked down over the Circle. Dessert selection is a serious business with Steph. It can take a while.
It was the other side of twilight, and the streetlights looked pretty. The storm—smaller than I’d hoped, but effective—had burned itself out, and the air was comfortable. The Circle lies in the middle of St. Armands Key, providing the entry point to Lido and Longboat. It is, as the name suggests, a circle, holding a small park with palms and firebushes and orange blossom in the center and exits at the cardinal points. It’s lined with chichi stores plus a Starbucks and Ben & Jerry’s, and eateries including an outpost of the stalwart Columbia chain—and now also the bracingly expensive Jonny Bo’s, high days and holidays favorite for well-heeled locals over the last two years. There are still a few T-shirt and tourist stores to leaven the mix, but they’re in decline, and the Circle represents some of the highest-priced retail space on the gulf. With all the redevelopment happening over on Lido Key—which can only be accessed via the Circle—that situation was only going to improve.
But fifty or a hundred years ago?
Where I was sitting had been nothing but a dusty crossroads on a chunk of sand and scrub back then, holding orange groves, a shack or two, and little else except wading birds. Back in the 1920s Sarasota itself had boasted a population of only three thousand, with nothing to say for itself beyond agriculture and fishing. What I saw beneath me had been just another piece of speculation, in other words—like The Breakers, the huge Sandpiper Bay development on Turtle Key, or the new condos going up to replace the old family motels along Lido Key’s southwest shore.
Making money out of land is all about time. Understanding it, using it, knowing what to do when. Some guy spied a location and thought—Hmm . . . what if?
I could be that guy.
Steph had made her selection and was watching other diners at the candlelit tables inside. “Isn’t that the sheriff?” she said.
I looked and, sure enough, saw Sheriff Barclay making his way across the restaurant from the direction of the restrooms. He’s a big guy, both in height and front to back, and not hard to spot. He saw me, too, raised his chin about an inch. We’ve run into each other at business functions, charity events. I saw a couple of other people clock the connection between us, and smiled inside. They weren’t to know we’d barely exchanged a hundred words in total; they just saw a guy with good contacts.
“I just realized,” I said, “I’m about the same age Tony was when he started to build The Breakers.”
“It’s ‘Tony’ now, is it?”
“At his specific request.”
“Call-me-Tony did start with a preexisting construction business and a few million dollars cash, though, right?”
I sighed theatrically. Healthy skepticism on your wife’s part is appropriate, however. As focus groups go, they don’t come much more focused than the woman who stands to lose whatever you lose.
“True,” I said. “Plus, he had a wife with drive and determination and a good honest faith in her man. But, you know, what I lack just makes me stronger.”
She grinned and flipped me the bird, just in time to be witnessed by the waitress as she returned.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl said. “I do hate it when I interrupt a special private moment.”
“Nah, business as usual,” I said. “You know any
We all laughed, Steph made a concerted start on the complex confection on the big square plate she’d been brought—Steph doesn’t screw around when it comes to dessert consumption: she’s all about shock and awe—and as the waitress walked away, she glanced back and looked right at me. Which was nice. It always is.
But being in love with your wife is nicer.
Steph drove us home over the bridge across the bay and out the south side of Sarasota to Longacres. Longacres is a gated community of thirty artfully mismatched minivillas around a small private marina to which our house does not have direct access—as we don’t care enough about boats to have made the dockage price hike worthwhile. The houses are dotted along a meandering drive, and though you never feel hemmed in, you have the comfort of neighbors, of seeming like you’re living somewhere in particular. Those neighbors are all people like us. Most had a child or two already, however. We do not. This had started to become a topic of discussion, a recurring item cropping up, low down on the agenda, but no longer just Any Other Business.
