Sweeney, facing out, nodded. “A decent drive,” he said. “A hundred and fifty or sixty yards. And you didn’t look up, I’m impressed.”
“Oh, right.”
But she felt elated, proud of herself. She saw her father off to her right, smiling with approval as Sweeney teed up another ball. As she looked down and took her stance, Sweeney tapped her left foot with another club. “Line up the ball with your instep. Try a couple more, I’ll be right back.”
Fully assembled, the Haileys’ Christmas tree stood fifteen feet high. It was a Douglas fir and very real-looking, even more so because it had not been professionally decorated like most of the trees in the Hotel de Ville.
It was located in the center of a large circular reflecting pool on the Haileys’ enclosed lanai. Tree and stand rested on the fluted base of a Greek column. Throughout the holidays, the tree had served as a conversation piece, its lights and decorations mirrored in the pool and reflected on the ceiling. All this had been described with photos in the annual “Best Christmas Parties” article in the Naples Daily News.
The tree’s decorations were family treasures, gathered over fifty years of travel. Rivera had changed into shorts and was on a ladder, removing the ornaments by himself. Tonight, neither building security nor the night custodian was free to help, which was perfect. Coming here would serve to rule out any question about Dale Burlson.
“That one came from Austria,” Mrs. Hailey said. She looked up as he took off a painted glass harp. “All the instruments are from Austria. There should be eighteen.” She pointed with her cane. “How about the bears? Where do you think they’re from?”
Russia, he thought. The Russian bear. But maybe not. Naples had a museum devoted to teddy bears, thousands of them. Rivera had been there once with German clients, winter residents from Frankfurt. They had asked him to take their picture standing next to a glass case filled with polar bears.
“Germany,” he said, and lifted off the last instrument. He looked down.
Mrs. Hailey’s back was severely deformed by osteoporosis, but she now made the effort to raise her head. She hooked her cane over her arm and clapped vigorously. The chain on her glasses shook. “Very good,” she said. “Everyone thinks Russia.”
He came down the ladder, waded to the pool’s edge and handed her the full box of instruments. She handed him another empty carton. “You’re doing very well,” she said. “This time, you’re looking for Indian dancing girls. On that trip, we lived on a houseboat. On the Ganges River. Have you heard of the Taj Mahal?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s a palace,” she said. “A prince built it for his wife. I loved the pool there. Huge—” She gestured with her arms. “The whole thing reflected the sky, night or day. This tree made me think of it all Christmas. We had some wonderful times.”
Mrs. Hailey was eighty-six. In addition to osteoporosis, she had heart trouble. She wasn’t smart like Mrs. Frieslander, but they were both independent. Every other Sunday, he drove her to church, then to brunch. He waded back and climbed up the ladder.
“Tell me the story.” Rivera unhooked one of the dancing figures before looking down. With the box of instruments in her lap, Mrs. Hailey was looking up from the sectional sofa in front of the pool. The toes of her shoes didn’t quite reach the floor.
“Not tonight, Mrs. Hailey.”
“Oh, please, James, it’s such a good story,” she said. “I’m tired, it’ll keep me awake. Tell me about the ship.”
He never spoke about his past. When someone asked, he gave vague answers, then turned the conversation to the other person. It was another of Arnold Kleinman’s valuable lessons: people didn’t care about others, just themselves. But perhaps because of all the travel she’d done, Mrs. Hailey was different. Both forgetful and childlike, she wanted the same bedtime story over and over again. So, Rivera had indulged her.
“We lived in close quarters,” he said. “Six in a cabin. I cleaned out cooking pots. The kitchen was as big as your building’s ballroom and lobby together. They ran it like a sports team. Or an army. Everything had to happen at a certain time. I did that for two years, then they made me a busboy. That was better. You got a share of the tips. That’s when I saw what I needed to do.”
“About what?”
“To learn English.”
Mrs. Hailey beamed. “I remember now,” she said. “Fascinating.”
“I knew if I was really going to learn the language, I had to get out of the kitchen. So, I got a job doing brightwork. Polishing brass in the staircases and elevators. Anything brass, that was my job. Now I was able to talk to passengers.”
“Isn’t that great?” Mrs. Hailey always said this when he came to the part about polishing brass. “And then your cousin got you a job in landscaping,” she said. “I remember. On the east coast.”
“Right.”
“But you say people treated you differently.”
“Because of the uniform,” he said. “Brown shirt and pants. You were just part of the landscape.”
That’s how Kleinman had put it. He’d seen Rivera at his nursing home in Fort Lauderdale, talking to two residents in wheelchairs as he planted annuals. Kleinman had stopped his car and buzzed down the window. You like this? Planting flowers, being part of the landscape? When I see potential, I don’t care about a green card. You’re going to stop this and come work with me in Boca—
“I have
