Millicent talked so easily about the outre world of the overrich. Helen felt like a stranger in a parallel universe. “Well, they’re gone,” she said. “I’m glad it’s over.”
“Over?” Millicent said. “It’s just begun.”
Chapter 2
The Coronado Tropic Apartments were the most romantic place Helen had ever lived. At nightfall, the sweeping white curve of the Art Deco building was softened by mauve shadows. Waterfalls of purple bougainvillea surrounded the pool. Palms whispered subtropical secrets. Little lizards with throbbing red throats scampered through the leaves.
Helen’s house in suburban St. Louis had been more impressive. Its six bay windows had overlooked a backyard forest. Her St. Louis home was bigger, too. Helen could have put her whole Coronado apartment in its great room.
She would have put her Coronado furniture out for a Goodwill pickup. In her old life, it would have been tacky. Here, it seemed witty. Helen loved the curvy 1950s boomerang table, the lamps like nuclear reactors, and the turquoise Barcalounger. She was a different person now. Living on the run had changed her.
Who was she trying to impress with her tract mansion in the burbs? Helen had worked long hours as director of pensions and benefits. While she was staying late at work, her husband, Rob, was stepping out with another woman.
Helen’s fingers twitched when she thought of Rob and Sandy naked on the back deck. Strange thoughts crossed her mind when she saw her husband in another woman. Sandy’s bare legs were waving in the air. Helen thought, Sandy has waxed her legs. I couldn’t do that without anesthesia.
Then Helen had picked up the crowbar and changed her life. She didn’t regret it. She was happier in Florida. Freer, too. If she wasn’t so worried about money, her life would be perfect. Helen went from making six figures a year to six-seventy an hour, plus a two-percent commission.
Helen could imagine what her old ambitious crowd would make of the Coronado residents. “Weird” would be their kindest term. But she tried to remember one St. Louis party where she’d laughed with her friends. She was always networking, making deals, advancing her career.
Here in South Florida, the Coronado residents sat out by the pool and toasted the end of each day. Helen loved her seventy-six-year-old landlady, Margery Flax, with her purple shorts, wild shoes, and red nail polish. The relentless Florida sun turned her face to brown corduroy, but Margery had slender legs and loved to show them off.
Her landlady made a mean screwdriver. After the day she’d had, Helen could use one. She was ready for the evening party by the pool. In the summer, they saluted the sunset. Now, in December, they warmed the winter nights with their laughter.
Helen hated coming out of work when it was dark. She felt like someone had stolen her day while she was trapped inside the store. It was pitch-black by the time she got to the Coronado. The lights were on by the pool. Helen was surprised to see a couple moving silently in the darkness at the edge of the light.
She went closer to the pool. A man and a woman were dancing gracefully to music only they could hear. Helen stood by the pool gate, watching them. The couple twirled, dipped, and danced to their ghost orchestra.
The man seemed in his mid-seventies. He had broad shoulders and a tall, straight figure. His suit did not hang on him, the way old men’s clothes often did. He had the most beautiful silver hair, like moonlight on water.
The woman wore a violet dress with a full skirt that flowed with their imaginary music. Her daring spike heels had silver tips. Her gray hair was done in an elegant French twist. Helen stared. It was Margery. But tonight, her raucous hard-drinking landlady was a romantic vision. Helen had never seen this side of Margery. The woman had style. Even her wrinkles were interesting.
Helen would have said they danced like a much younger couple, but she was thirty years younger than Margery and she couldn’t dance like that. Helen had learned to dance in the seventies, which meant she bounced up and down and shook various body parts. Next to these waltzing wonders, she’d look like she’d stepped in a fire-ant nest.
The man spun Margery in a final pirouette and they bowed.
“Bravo!” Helen applauded.
Margery and the man looked up, surprised. They’d been in a dancing trance, unaware of their audience.
Margery recovered first. “This is Warren Webley. He has a new dance studio off Las Olas. He’s renting apartment 2C until his River House condo is ready.”
Those condos started at six hundred thousand bucks, Helen thought. This guy must have money.
Warren dabbed at his forehead with a white pocket square, then bowed slightly. Helen noticed his tie had a hip geometric pattern. Old men’s ties were often out of style, too fat or too thin.
“A dance studio,” Helen said. “You’re obviously qualified, Mr. Webley. It should be a terrific success.”
“Call me Warren,” he said. “And thank you for the compliment. But I won’t spoil your evening with shop talk.”
Good, Helen thought. He’s not one of those sleazy operators who tries to sign you up for lifetime lessons.
“It was lovely to meet you,” he said to Helen. Then he turned to Margery. “I must unpack, my dear.” Warren kissed his landlady’s hand and left.
Was Margery blushing? It was too dark to tell. She definitely had a sparkle in her eyes.
“Do I see dance lessons in your future?” Helen asked.
“I already know how to dance,” Margery said. “But he is good-looking.”
“You may have beaten the curse of apartment 2C,” Helen said.
“I hope so.” Margery’s lighter flared in the darkness as she set fire to a Marlboro. “Seems like I rented that place to every shyster in South Florida. The last two tenants tried to steal me blind.”
“Don’t forget the one who became a nine-hundred-number psychic,” Helen said. “I see her ads on late-night TV. And I guess the con artist is still in jail.”
Margery nodded. “He’ll be there for a while. What a bum. They all looked so promising. It’s weird. My renters in the other apartments are wonderful. Somebody put a double whammy on 2C.”
“It looks like the jinx is dead now,” Helen said. “Let’s have a drink to celebrate.”
“Did someone say drink?” Peggy said.
“Awwk,” Pete said.
Pete was a Quaker parrot, bright green with sober gray trim, who spent most of his time on Peggy’s shoulder. Peggy looked rather like an exotic bird herself, with her crest of dark red hair and elegant beak of a nose.
The Coronado had a no-pets policy, which meant when Margery was around, everyone pretended Pete wasn’t there. Pete sat on Peggy’s shoulder, munching an asparagus spear. Margery sat in a deck chair, smoking her Marlboro. Both held their addictions at the same angle.
“Where’s Cal the Canadian?” Helen asked after another Coronado resident. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”
“He’s visiting his grandchild in Toronto,” Peggy said.
Margery snorted a dragon spurt of white smoke. “Ha. He’s up in that icebox because he’s afraid he’ll lose his Canadian health insurance. He needs to spend a certain number of weeks in his country to qualify.”
“I can’t blame him,” Helen said. “Who can afford American health insurance?”
“Why do you defend that cheapskate after he stiffed you?” Margery blew another furious stream of smoke. Helen hoped it was from her cigarette. “Canadians are cheap,” Margery said.
“Not all of them,” Helen said.
“Oh, yeah?” Margery said. “Did you see what’s spray painted on the supermarket wall? ‘Canadians—Give us your money or go home!’ ”
“That’s all? You should see what the gangs sprayed on the walls in—” Helen almost said St. Louis. “Miami,” she finished.
