“You say she’s a family friend.”
“Mrs. Krause owns the duplex,” he said. “I guess you call them villas in Florida. The daughter’s married name is Ross. I have a number you could call.”
“Nah, go on.”
“Can you tell me how to get there?”
The guard stepped inside. He came back and handed Schmidt a small map. He tapped at Paisley Court and motioned for Schmidt to turn right.
“Thank you.”
“Just tell Miss Contay about calling first.”
The barrier rose, and Schmidt drove inside. Calling was something he should have done himself. As he approached a boulevard, on the far side two women were practicing on a putting green. Behind them, the sprawling clubhouse had thick pillars and a gently sloping green tile roof. Beds of impatiens surrounded palms of various kinds. Schmidt came to a stop and turned right.
Last night, without a cell phone or land-line service until spring, he had driven the half mile to the Nielsons’. Surprised to see his neighbor in February, John Nielson had asked questions. It’s business-related, Schmidt said. He had made plane reservations, driven back to his cabin, and packed some summer clothes in a spare suitcase. At five the next morning, he woke with a sense of urgency. The commuter flight from International Falls would arrive in Milwaukee with just enough time for him to make a morning Northwest flight to Southwest International Airport.
On the flight, Schmidt had not been able to read or watch the movie. He stared down at a jigsaw puzzle of winter fields as it slipped beneath wispy clouds. He had tried calling from International Falls. But once more hearing her recorded voice, he all at once hated the thought of leaving messages. Especially hated to think she was listening and not picking up, and he broke the connection. If it was over, it was over, but not with phone calls.
Passing between rows of palms and flowers he couldn’t name, Schmidt wondered whether his wife could identify them. Lillie had known so much, cared about so many things. They had come down to Fort Myers twice, after the kids left home. Before that, they’d all gone each spring to Myrtle Beach or Daytona.
On the left, a mixed-doubles tennis game was in progress. Behind the courts, a fairway stretched and broadened. The lawns and roads looked well maintained, everything green. Small variations figured in the houses and landscaping but not the overall style. Schmidt had restrictions in his own apartment buildings, simple ones to protect himself and his tenants. No DayGlo paint jobs or aluminum-foil wallpaper. Except for internet commerce, no using your apartment for business or waking up your neighbors with loud parties. Here, the no-list would be much longer. He had read that rules at some Florida communities even limited visits made by grandchildren or visitors. Others controlled the size and number of pets, what plants you could use. No boats or trailers except in the garage. No pickup trucks.
Schmidt believed that if it worked for you, fine. You would know how it was going in. You bought a place here for the sun, to swim and play golf during the winter, eat seafood. You couldn’t paint your house fuchsia, but you could wear loud clothes and throw away some money in an Indian casino. Then you went home to real life in Michigan or Massachusetts.
The opposite applied to himself and Brenda: going in, they had known nothing about each other. Nine months later, they still didn’t.
He was looking for Paisley Court and kept track of the street signs. Across the fairway, large houses occupied the center of the golf course. Angular slabs of glass and stone rose aggressively above trees or crouched in deep foliage. The high rollers, Schmidt thought. The one percenters who were locking in second or third homes for the Golden Years. They were the ones Brenda had come to write about, and maybe that was another reason he hadn’t wanted to come here with her. The whole retirement idea was too close to home.
He saw the street sign, slowed and turned. At the address, Schmidt swung up the drive. He got out and immediately felt sun on his head. Surprise, surprise, he thought, walking toward the entry. He tugged down his short-sleeved camp shirt, found in the closet at the lake and still smelling faintly of cedar. He felt nervous, like someone who couldn’t make up his mind. Here I am, Schmidt thought again. Fresh from the frozen north. He pushed the bell and heard chimes.
He would keep it simple. Just say they needed to talk. As the chimes echoed inside and stopped, Schmidt remembered a random detail about stone crabs, a gulf coast delicacy. Crabbers didn’t take the whole crab. They broke off one claw, threw the crab back, and it grew a new one. The animal survived, and the idea cheered him.
He touched the button again and waited. She wasn’t here. Brenda opened doors and answered phones very fast. One ring and she was there, or standing in the entry, ready for him. It was something he loved about her. Yes, Schmidt thought. Loved.
He heard something and turned to see a woman crossing the lawn.
“Can I help you?” She stopped on the grass, shading her eyes.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Krause’s villa,” he said.
“She’s not here. There’s a guest. If you have something for Mrs. Krause, I’ll see she gets it.”
“It’s the guest I’m looking for,” Schmidt said. “I’m a friend.”
“You’re not from the club or police?”
“I’m from Wisconsin.”
She lowered her hand and stepped into the shade of the house. She wore white shorts and a yellow shirt tied to show off her breasts. “Charlie something?” she asked.
“Schmidt.”
“I’m sorry. I’d remember, but it’s real confusing here right now.” She put out her hand. “I’m Rayette Peticore,” she said. “I’m next door.” They shook.
“Is Brenda
