layaway.”
“If you ever hit a really big bet, M.A., several thousand, for example,” Paul asked her, “what would you do with it?”
“I’d buy the girls the best art supplies I could find and sign them up for the special classes at Allentown Art Museum,” Mary Ann answered, without blinking. “Then I’d put some money down on a new car. All of my life I’ve never owned a new car. And then, if there was any money left over, maybe I’d treat myself to a washer and dryer. But if I did that, then I wouldn’t be able to drive my new car over to the laundromat.
On his next bet, Paul won $500 on Greystoke, a long shot he would have overlooked if Mary Ann had not pointed it out. After picking up his winnings, Paul turned to Mary Ann, handing her the money, and said, “I want you to have this money, Mary Ann, and buy the girls those art supplies and art lessons. I’d like to think I was the first patron of a budding, American, female Picasso.”
On the following morning, a certain inevitability occurred, as it does with all vacations—the going home.
Melissa’s plane was due to depart Miami later that evening. In the interim, she and Joe would share one last day with each other in the Florida sun.
The plan for the morning of departure was to leave Islamorada right after breakfast, motor to Miami, and spend the last few fleeting hours in Florida’s largest city.
“You’ll like Miami,” Joe touted. “It has its own special kind of charm. For lack of a better description, it’s sort of like an air-conditioned Atlantic City. Big hotels, big money, and a sprinkling of ethnic neighborhoods.”
“I’m really going to miss Islamorada,” Melissa told him, almost with a tear in her eye. “The whipping of the wind through the palm fronds and the quiet comfort that comes over me every time I walk on the beach will be difficult to forget. I’ll also miss waking up every morning and seeing the egrets, the pelicans, and the roseate spoonbills fishing for their breakfasts in the shallow waters.
“Ever since yesterday I’ve been psyching myself up to leave. And perhaps I really am getting a little homesick for Philadelphia. The suitcase full of dirty laundry tells me it’s time to go home.
“But there is one thing I can’t do when I’m in my house,” Melissa noted, pointing to Joe and smiling a bit wistfully.
“While I’m lying in bed at home, trying to fall asleep, I can’t listen to the ocean.”
“Someday soon, my lady,” Joe commiserated, with his arm around her shoulder, “there’ll be another time, another dance.”
Joe led the two-car convoy, driving his personal automobile, not the police cruiser. And Melissa kept her rental a constant six lengths behind him as they traveled along two-lane Route 1.
The traffic was minimal until they reached Key Largo, where the road split briefly into a four-lane configuration.
Once they passed over the drawbridge at Grouper Creek, there was still about a half-hour stretch to go of narrow, deserted macadam—with highly visible water on both sides. Melissa hoped that the sea level was already at its highest tide, because, during several brief moments, the glistening waters to the right and to the left seemed to be higher than her shoulders.
At one point during the drive, Melissa noticed the remnants of an old Burma Shave advertising sign perched in the hard coral just off the highway.
“All of Islamorada was like one big step back in time,” she told herself. “The charm of the entire Florida Keys is in being able to get a taste of rural America as it was in the 1950s, or maybe even the 1940s, without having to travel somewhere far inland in the Midwest, hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean.”
Joe had planned a brief respite on the way to the Miami airport—a visit to the sprawling grounds of the Everglades National Park.
For about twenty minutes of travel time to the west of Route 1, through vast fields of sprouting tomato plants, they
“If you ever hit a really big bet, M.A., several thousand, for example,” Paul asked her, “what would you do with it?”
“I’d buy the girls the best art supplies I could find and sign them up for the special classes at Allentown Art Museum,” Mary Ann answered, without blinking. “Then I’d put some money down on a new car. All of my life I’ve never owned a new car. And then, if there was any money left over, maybe I’d treat myself to a washer and dryer. But if I did that, then I wouldn’t be able to drive my new car over to the laundromat.
On his next bet, Paul won $500 on Greystoke, a long shot he would have overlooked if Mary Ann had not pointed it out. After picking up his winnings, Paul turned to Mary Ann, handing her the money, and said, “I want you to have this money, Mary Ann, and buy the girls those art supplies and art lessons. I’d like to think I was the first patron of a budding, American, female Picasso.”
On the following morning, a certain inevitability occurred, as it does with all vacations—the going home.
Melissa’s plane was due to depart Miami later that evening. In the interim, she and Joe would share one last day with each other in the Florida sun.
The plan for the morning of departure was to leave Islamorada right after breakfast, motor to Miami, and spend the last few fleeting hours in Florida’s largest city.
“You’ll like Miami,” Joe touted. “It has its own special kind of charm. For lack of a better description, it’s sort of like an air-conditioned Atlantic City. Big hotels, big money, and a sprinkling of ethnic neighborhoods.”
“I’m really going to miss Islamorada,” Melissa told him, almost with a tear in her eye. “The whipping of the wind through the palm fronds and the quiet comfort that comes over me every time I walk on the beach will be difficult to forget. I’ll also miss waking up every morning and seeing the egrets, the pelicans, and the roseate spoonbills fishing for their breakfasts in the shallow waters.
“Ever since yesterday I’ve been psyching myself up to leave. And perhaps I really am getting a little homesick for Philadelphia. The suitcase full of dirty laundry tells me it’s time to go home.
“But there is one thing I can’t do when I’m in my house,” Melissa noted, pointing to Joe and smiling a bit wistfully.
“While I’m lying in bed at home, trying to fall asleep, I can’t listen to the ocean.”
“Someday soon, my lady,” Joe commiserated, with his arm around her shoulder, “there’ll be another time, another dance.”
Joe led the two-car convoy, driving his personal automobile, not the police cruiser. And Melissa kept her rental a constant six lengths behind him as they traveled along two-lane Route 1.
The traffic was minimal until they reached Key Largo, where the road split briefly into a four-lane configuration.
Once they passed over the drawbridge at Grouper Creek, there was still about a half-hour stretch to go of narrow, deserted macadam—with highly visible water on both sides. Melissa hoped that the sea level was already at its highest tide, because, during several brief moments, the glistening waters to the right and to the left seemed to be higher than her shoulders.
At one point during the drive, Melissa noticed the remnants of an old Burma Shave advertising sign perched in the hard coral just off the highway.
“All of Islamorada was like one big step back in time,” she told herself. “The charm of the entire Florida Keys is in being able to get a taste of rural America as it was in the 1950s, or maybe even the 1940s, without having to travel somewhere far inland in the Midwest, hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean.”
Joe had planned a brief respite on the way to the Miami airport—a visit to the sprawling grounds of the Everglades National Park.
For about twenty minutes of travel time to the west of Route 1, through vast fields of sprouting tomato plants, they
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