I followed, pausing about halfway to look down, appreciating the broad sweep of the magnificent staircase. ‘I keep expecting to meet Scarlet O’Hara. Or Rhett Butler.’
Naddie chuckled. ‘It is grand in every sense of the word, isn’t it? And check out the view.’
While the windows did not face the bay – the front porch had captured that honor – the landscape architect had more than made up for it. Framed in the Palladian window was a classic rose garden, dominated by a Venetian-style fountain topped by a cherub. Water tumbled cheerfully out of the cherub’s tilted urn, cascading over a wedding cake of increasingly larger basins. Just beyond the fountain an opening in a hedge led to another garden, this one more Japanese in style. If I squinted, I could just make out the circular outline of a meditation maze in the far distance. I made a mental note to check it out the next time I felt stressed.
‘Getting back to Colonel Greene for a moment,’ Naddie commented as we reached the top of the stairs. ‘Women at Calvert Colony outnumber the men three to one. While Adele was alive, she kept him on a short leash, but now…’ She put the thought out there, then let it lie. ‘Fortunately, all the ladies seem to love him. He probably thinks he’s died and gone to heaven.’
‘He’s attractive for an older guy. Tall, slim, cleancut.’ Colonel Nathan Greene reminded me a little of my father, actually, who had retired from the navy, but not from a lifetime habit of keeping himself perpetually prepared to pass any navy physical fitness assessment. Captain George Alexander, USN, retired, was so fit he put the rest of our family to shame.
‘Nate works out every day in the Paradiso fitness center with Norman Salterelli,’ Naddie added.
‘Ah, Norman!’ I mused. ‘That trainer with abs from here to eternity. Dangerous.’
Naddie leaned closer and whispered, ‘I hear Nate buys Viagra in bulk from a mail-order house in Canada, so I like to keep my distance.’
‘Mr Easy Rider’s not exactly my type,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Fabulous etchings or not, and the Viagra information is a little scary.’
We’d reached the balcony. With both hands on the railing, I leaned over and peered down into the aquamarine depths of the aquarium. ‘Reminds me of the coral reef off that place we rented in the Bahamas while Paul was on sabbatical,’ I said. ‘Gorgeous. I could so dive in right now.’
‘Do it while you can,’ Naddie teased. ‘The aquarium’s another work in progress, I’m afraid. Eventually there’ll be a cone-shaped cap over the top. Fancy ornamental ironwork, like the base, with a hinged panel so the divers can get in and out. It’s being manufactured by some company out in Las Vegas. The first one they sent out didn’t fit.’
‘Alas, I forgot my mask and snorkel,’ I said, leaning closer. ‘Who on earth maintains the tank? It’s not like you can just toss in a bucket of water and make a few sweeps around the inside of the glass with an algae pad now and again.’
‘We have an arrangement with the National Aquarium in Baltimore,’ Naddie explained.
We passed through another comfortably furnished seating area and strolled down a corridor where original oils and watercolors hung on both sides. When I stopped to admire one, Naddie said, ‘We encourage residents to bring their art work with them when they move in. If there isn’t room in their apartment, the decorator hangs the work up in one of the lounges or in the hallway.’ She tugged on the frame of a still life with fruit and dead, drooping ducks. It didn’t budge. ‘Although security is pretty tight, it’s best to be safe.’
As we moved along the hallway, I thought I recognized a Dürer etching, a Dali print – melting pocket watches, who else could it be? – and what I was certain was a Miro lithograph, although it could have been a copy.
Naddie paused in front of a door with a doorknocker shaped like the Naval Academy mascot – a goat – and a brass plate engraved with 204. ‘This is a one-bedroom model,’ she told me as she turned the key and pushed open the door. She moved aside to let me pass by.
Although the floor plan was pretty much as I expected – a pocket kitchen with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances, a living room/dining room combination leading into a bedroom with ensuite bathroom – what I didn’t expect was the décor. Move over Better Homes and Gardens! This was Luxe magazine meets Architectural Digest. It was what a small apartment would look like if George Clooney lived there, or maybe George’s mother. Both the living and bedroom windows framed the Chesapeake Bay; Mrs Clooney would like that, I was sure. So did I.
Standing at the foot of the beautifully duveted and accessorized bed, Naddie said, ‘The two-bedroom unit has a room similar to this on the kitchen side, complete with a second bath.’
‘Nice,’ I said, fingering the fine brocade fabric of the drapes.
‘You could use it for a guest room, Hannah, or even an office.’
‘Not quite ready for that yet.’ I smiled, thinking about the home Paul and I shared on Prince George Street in the historic district of Annapolis. ‘We’ve got four bedrooms. No way could I downsize to this extent.’
‘I think you’ll like the town homes, though. I’ll show you mine in a couple of days, as soon as the decorator’s finished. We’re hanging wallpaper.’
‘Not ready for a town home, either, Naddie.’ I opened the closet and poked my head in. Built-in shoe cubbies, for heaven’s sake. ‘We still need space for the grandkids to run around.’
Naddie frowned. ‘Children aren’t allowed at Calvert Colony.’
My head snapped around. ‘Seriously?’
‘Fifty-five and older. The covenant is strict about that.’ Her face softened. ‘The grands and great-grands can visit, of course, for up to thirty days each year. That’s enough time for most old folks! But nobody with children can actually live here year round.’
‘What if the parents died and the grandparents had to take the kids in?’
She shrugged. ‘They’d have to move out, of course.’
I stared hard at my friend, who I knew had grandchildren of her own. ‘That’s harsh,’ I said cooly.
Naddie smiled. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Hannah. I’m as besotted as the next granny with my grandbabies, but there’s a reason Mother Nature cuts us off while we’re still in our forties. Women of a certain age aren’t designed to pack lunches, run carpools and change two poopy diapers before six a.m.’
I laughed out loud.
‘Seriously,’ she continued as she led me into the hallway and pulled the apartment door firmly shut behind us, ‘they come, they visit, then their parents take them home again. Works for me.’ She touched my arm. ‘Want to see the two-bedroom suite?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sure it’s lovely.’ I paused, then took a breath. ‘Are you trying to twist my arm by any chance?’
She blushed, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘Who, me?’
As we swept down the staircase like teenage girls on prom night, Naddie explained that the wing we had just visited was for independent living. ‘The residents in the opposite wing require various levels of physical and mental assistance, although it’s colony policy to integrate the differently abled populations, even those residents suffering from mild dementia. Everyone generally dines together,’ she added, ‘at least until they start spilling soup down their shirts or shouting obscenities. Come, let me show you.’
On our way to the dining hall we passed a library, a room filled with computers and a lounge dominated by a giant, flat-screen television. Two women were gyrating in front of the screen, giving their hand controls a workout. ‘Wii,’ Naddie prompted when I paused in front of the open door.
‘Bowling?’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Baseball and tennis, too. Good for hand-eye coordination.’