Ethel Landau, who detailed her longtime service on the city's arts commission, was not shy in pressing Grant to get involved with her group. As they spoke, Warren Bradley—ever watchful, particularly of newcomers—paid careful attention.
“If you do settle here, I want you to attend an arts commission meeting and find out what our group is all about,” Ethel said.
“I’d enjoy that,” Grant responded enthusiastically.
“Sausalito has an incredible history with the arts. I think you’ll be impressed.”
Grant nodded. “In fact, I’ve been reading up on it. Jean Varda, Shel Silverstein, Gordon Onslow—all renowned! It would have been fun to be part of the arts community back then.”
“Show off,” Warren muttered to himself, growing increasingly jealous of this handsome and apparently successful man. He knew that two of the five commission seats were up in less than a year. One of the commissioners had already made clear his intention to step down. Warren had his eye on that position. Now, it looked as if he’d have to compete for it with this newcomer.
Maybe he’ll let loose with some tidbit that I can use to disqualify him, Warren thought hopefully.
He waited an hour, then walked over to Grant and introduced himself. “I understand that you and your wife are thinking of moving to our fair city,” Warren began with a deceptively welcoming smile.
“That’s right,” Grant replied.
“You know, we’re a very tight-knit little community. Some people find it difficult to fit in.”
“Where I come from, people are more aggressive. In a place as big and as busy as Manhattan there's no sense waiting for an invitation. You make space for yourself at the table.”
“It’s very different here,” Warren insisted. “We look out for our neighbors. We stay close. Probably, some would say, too close.”
“I think every place takes some getting used to,” Grant countered, sensing an instinctive dislike for Warren.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine as long as you remember that people think you should be here ten years or more before you play an active role in the community. I guess we’re just old-fashioned that way. By the way, did you try some of my bruschetta with white beans, tomatoes, and olives?”
Grant held up a hand. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see my wife trying to wave me over.”
How dare he, Warren fumed silently. Not even an attempt to be gracious!
At that moment Warren vowed one day he would take Grant Randolph down a peg or two.
Later that night, when they were back in their hotel room, Grant said, “Barbara, thanks again for saving me from that creepy guy—you know, the one who thinks he’s a gourmet chef.”
Barbara shook her head. “You should have seen his face when you passed on his appetizer. Talk about taking it personally! You know, Grant, you could have told him you’re gluten sensitive. Oh, by the way, Warren writes for the local paper—The Sausalito Standard.”
Grant rolled his eyes. “Let me guess: restaurant reviews.”
“I hear it’s more like a gossip column.” Barbara laughed. “Based on the look on his face when you turned down his bruschetta, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve made your first enemy in town.”
“He did say he wanted to interview us for the paper after we settle into town, but that was before I made him cry over his bruschetta.” Grant shrugged. “I don’t know what we would tell him for his ridiculous column. Frankly, I got the feeling that he's little more than an old busybody.”
“He seemed harmless enough to me,” Barbara replied.
“I guess Ray and Debbie are right when they say that this place is just an overgrown village with a cast of different characters. I’m just wondering if it might get a little claustrophobic.”
“Anytime we want, there’s a big city called San Francisco just thirty minutes away by ferry, and even faster most times by car, that we can go visit."
“You’re right,” Grant said as his mouth relaxed into a smile. “Sausalito will certainly be a major change from Manhattan. I hope we won’t miss living in a place where hardly anyone knows your name.”
Chapter Six
Just four months after their first introduction to Sausalito, Barbara and Grant pulled into the driveway of their new home. It wasn’t the Siricas’ mini-mansion, but it was probably the best three-bedroom cottage under two million dollars in Sausalito. Between the sale of their Manhattan condominium and the money from their share of the gallery, they still had a significant amount of savings, allowing them to live in comfort whether choosing to work or not.
Grant and Barbara did not doubt that they would re-engage with the world of fine art at some point. But for now, they wanted to focus on establishing a new life in an entirely different place.
As Grant soon discovered, all of his unspent energy, once invested in the daily pressure of life in New York and the challenge of staying ahead in the highly competitive world of fine art sales, now required a new outlet. Picking out fabric swatches and comparing paint chips as they tinkered with every room of their new home was not going to hold his interest for very long.
One afternoon, while out for a walk with Ray, Grant shared with him that he loved his new home and his new surroundings. “But I’m itching to burn off some excess energy.”
“Been there, done that,” Ray said without hesitation. “Why don’t we join a gym? We could both benefit from a little honest sweat. All this good living is turning me into a pile of mush.”
“If I remember correctly, there’s a gym near the Sausalito houseboat docks,” Grant suggested.
Ray shook his head. “Nah. The place is 90% aerobics machines; it doesn’t feel like a real gym to me if I'm sitting on a stationary bike or jogging on a treadmill.”
“What do you mean by ‘a real gym’?”
“I was a starting defensive tackle on my high school’s varsity football team,” Ray explained.
