I’m in Florida courtesy of my uncle’s generosity. He offered me the use of his Gulf-side villa, tendering it as an incentive for me to finish the novel I began a few years before.
I suppose he thought it pleasing to have a writer in the family and promised to hand off the manuscript to his publisher friend—if and when I ever completed it.
I did try. I started well and even wrote about thirty thousand words—but that was before I discovered Charolette, my neighbour, or rather she took an interest in me.
We met on the beach and have been seeing each other ever since. I know that sounds like a well-established relationship but actually it only amounts to about a week, but somehow seems longer.
Maybe it’s the endless Florida summers.
Whatever the reason, whenever I look at her I can see forever in her eyes and think we’ll be good together.
We hit it off quite well and things seem to be going great–well, up until this morning when she dropped a bomb on me.
“Did I tell you about Tom?” she asked nonchalantly while we were sitting on her patio.
“I shrugged. “Who the hell is Tom?”
“He’s my husband.”
I spilled my Corona down my tank top.
“You’re married? I croaked.
She nodded, still smiling. “Don’t worry—Tom and I have an open marriage. He’s coming home tonight and wants to meet you.”
“Do you think that wise?”
“Of course, Silly. He’s not going to get guns and duel to the death with you. He’s usually taken up with business—so, he understands.”
“What does your husband do?”
“He sells high-end condos mainly to wealthy northerners like you.”
I don’t know why but I felt instantly on the defensive.
“I’m hardly wealthy.”
“You will be when you sell your book. I read a few chapters when you were out sea shelling the other day—It’s quite good.”
“And you’re absolutely certain Tom won’t mind?”
“Once he’s beaten you in a fist fight, you’ll be best friends.”
The colour drained from my face.
She burst out laughing. “Just kidding. Tom doesn’t mind.” She adjusted the roses in her flower arrangement.
“He doesn’t care at all,” she added wistfully.
I met Tom that night over dinner at their cottage.
“Nice of you to come, Si—help yourself to a drink. Have you tried the absinthe?”
“I think I’ll stay with the Corona.”
“You ever think about buying property here, Si?”
“I’m just a struggling writer—that’s a bit ambitious for me at this stage of my life.”
“How old are you—about thirty—Charlotte’s age?”
“I am.”
“Ah youth,” he sighed. “I’m fifty and I’d trade this all to be in your shoes.” He stared at Charlotte, “Yup, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
There was an awkward silence. Suddenly, he got up. “You’ll have to excuse me—I’ve been up for twelve hours.”
“Oh Tom,” Charlotte protested, “Do you have to?”
“Fraid so, darling—but don’t let that stop the two of you—I’m sorry, Si—Maybe next time.”
“Don’t worry about it Tom—we’ll do it again.”
He stared at me as if taking a reading. “We will.”
He turned and ambled off down the hallway to the bedroom that Charlotte and I occupied the night before.