The house. The one I’m building here. It will be the biggest — by far — in the county, directly on the sand of North Clearwater Beach. Nine thousand square feet, ten bedrooms, eight and half bathrooms, a thirty-three-foot-high entry foyer, five balconies. A gym, a meditation space, a formal dining room that has more square footage than the house where I grew up just miles away. A gleaming state-of-the-art conference room. The master suite will overlook the infinity pool, which will appear to flow seamlessly into the ocean waters beyond. A restaurant-grade kitchen with gleaming Sub-Zero/Wolf appliances, another smaller “family” kitchen, the impractical but oh-so-gorgeous marble from Italy for all the countertops. Sauna, steam room.
It’s obscene really, absolutely bloated. It will be nestled here in this tiny gated section of the beach where gigantic homes sit, oblivious to the state of the planet, on a tiny slip of land between the Gulf of Mexico and the Intracoastal Waterway.
“I thought you were a minimalist,” mused my father, in his late seventies now. He’s long retired, living comfortably nearby. He loaned me $200,000 to start my business and let’s just say it was a good investment for him. My mother didn’t live to see what I’ve made of myself; she passed, as you know. That’s the last time I saw you, at her funeral. I saw you in the back of the crowded church, dabbing at your eyes. You loved her, and she you. You offered your condolences, stiff and distant.
“I am a minimalist,” I told him. “It’s the only house I’ll need.”
“Other than that apartment in Manhattan?”
“Well.”
I tried to get him to move in. But he wouldn’t.
“I don’t want to live in a museum, son.”
The old man is so practical, so down-to-earth. I think the house actually embarrasses him.
“It’s so much, Scottie. Why do you want it so big?”
Because, honestly, that’s all some people ever understand.
Tonight, the bar and dining room fill, volume swelling. Exuberant, loose. One booming voice in the corner draws eyes filled with respect. That shock of snow-white hair, those crystalline-blue eyes, presidential jaw, a good three inches taller than everyone else. His slim wife in attendance, smiling, sculpted blond bob, face pulled taut in that way of older wealthy women who’ve had too much work done. Your parents. I’ve yet to say hello.
“And I told him...” I don’t hear the rest, just the boisterous, conspiratorial laughter that follows.
“I remember you.”
She shifts into the seat beside me, where I hold the corner over by the wall, watching, my martini waning. Raven hair, a smattering of freckles, full cheeks, and a pouty mouth. Veronica. She is poured into that blush-pink dress. The diamond on her hand is the size of a Volkswagen.
“Good to see you, Ronnie,” I say. It is. She always made me laugh.
“Scott.” A nod. “Home visiting your dad?”
“Actually, I’ll be around for a while. I’m building a house.”
The bartender, crisp in white and black, wild jet curls pulled back, smart goatee, brings a glass of something sparkling in a flute that she didn’t order.
“Mrs. Roth,” he says easily. “The usual.”
“Thank you, Sean.” She smiles at him, friendly, familiar. “You’re good to me. Since when do you call me Mrs. Roth?”
There’s none of the distance between staff and members that there used to be here. Now it’s all hugs and handshakes. The walls have come down, haven’t they? The lines blurred.
“Since you got married,” he says.
“Oh, so — I’m suddenly worthy of your respect?”
“You’re an old married lady now.”
“That’s right.” She sips from her glass and winks.
“Scottie here is building a house,” he says. “He tell you?”
“He was about to say. When we were interrupted by the help.”
“Ouch.” He winces but then grins.
She tugs at his cuff.
The three of us used to get high together down on the beach. After the members left, the tent erected on the beach for events maybe still up, lit underneath by glittering strands of tiny bulbs. We’d light up and talk about — nothing. Which member was the biggest asshole, how hot it was, how heavy the chairs were that we had to carry down to the water’s edge, what we were going to do with our lives. Then we’d strip down to our underwear and swim in the black warm water. North Beach flows up into Caladesi Island, a nature preserve. No ambient light at all, so the sky was — is — alive with stars. The world would sway and sing. Sean always had weed back then, the good stuff. From the peaceful glaze in his eyes, I’d say he is still up to his old ways.
“Why would you come back here?” she asks. Blunt. Always says exactly what she means. You never realize what a lovely quality that is in a human being until you discover how exceedingly rare it is. “Aren’t you like crazy rich now? You could be anywhere.”
She glances about the room and sees you. Her eyes linger, maybe on the line of your neck, the sweep of your black skirt. There’s a dance on her face, a wiggle of her eyebrows, a flash of something in her eyes. Then she presses her mouth into a tight line. What is it between the two of you? Always a subtle antipathy.
“Oh.” She rises, lifts her glass to mine. “Some things never change.”
When she walks away, Sean stands drying a glass with a bright white cloth, shaking his head.
“Wanna get high later?” he asks, not looking at me.
“Sure.”
You. Dancing. Having a good time, or so you’ll have them all think.
I could be anywhere. Except I’m always here, waiting for you to see me.
It’s only my second visit to this old club since I came home, but Sean already knows how I like my martini. Which is to say ice-cold Grey Goose vodka, one olive, a whisper of vermouth. I love this place — it smells of Old Florida, wood and salt, a hint of musk, candle wax, something else — sun-bleached memory. It’s all towering ceilings and crown molding, wainscoting, walls and walls of windows that look out onto the serene mangrove bay. Nearly a century of commodore photos line the walls, all men, all white. Thick-carpeted stairs, solid-wood banister, gold finishes. It’s run-down, a little, in a way that only makes it more beautiful.
Sean puts another martini in front of me, number two. I catch my reflection in the mirror, pale white skin, black suit, hair slicked back. Long fingers on the stem of my glass. Nothing about me communicates my extraordinary wealth, except perhaps an aura of indifference. The energy of needing nothing.
Enigma, the game I developed. A small robed figure, hooded, faceless, with a red heart on his chest, tries to find his way through a web of city streets, underground tunnels, forest-scapes, twisting canyons, mountain paths. The color palette is gray scale with jewel accents — bloodred, jade, sapphire. Enigma is searching for his heart’s true home, the hearth fire burning, the embrace of loved ones, the place where he is understood. There are demons — dragons, ghouls, life-draining wraiths — with which he must contend. When he dies, it’s a bloody affair.
“I still haven’t figured it out.”
There’s a young man next to me now. A stranger. He has the look of someone yoked by expectations. It resides in the dark circles under his eyes, his cuticles raw and bitten.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The game,” he says. “I’ve been playing for years. And I still haven’t figured it out. I give up, go back to it. Give up again.”
When they do figure it out, they can’t believe it.
“You will,” I say. This may or may not be true. “Just keep trying.”
“Any hints?”
“The answer is closer than you think.”