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Authors: Mark Winegardner
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his head. Florida.
Tom and Theresa’s seats were all the way in the back, which was fine, especially without the Sheas for Theresa to ogle. The Hagens had gotten their fill of political glitz during Tom’s brief, miserable stint filling out a term as a Nevada congressman.
As they were about to sit down, Tom, seized by a crazy impulse, put his mouth to her ear. “Let’s go,” he whispered.
Her eyes lit up. Impulse, yes, but not crazy. He was on the money. “Go where?”
“Anywhere but here,” he said. “Somewhere nice, just you and me.”
They kept walking, went out the side door, and took a taxi to Joe’s Stone Crabs.
On the way, they talked about when they’d last done this: a night on the town, no kids, no rings for Tom to kiss, no important painter or museum board member for Theresa to indulge. Maybe not since they lived in New York the first time, seven years ago.
The place was packed, but Tom duked a few people, and he and Theresa were ushered straight to a dark corner booth. The waiter took their drink order and produced a vase for the roses.
“So,” Theresa said, “want to hear about my day?”
“I was just about to ask,” Tom said.
She rolled her eyes, but affectionately.
She’d had breakfast with some people who were talking about setting up a museum of modern art in Miami, something she’d done in Las Vegas, and they were eager to pick her brain. Flattering, obviously. Then she went to see a collector up in Palm Beach, some crackpot cash-poor heiress who sold off several great pieces to help fund the monkey farm in question. She rescued them from bankrupt zoos and then trained them to be “helper monkeys,” whatever that was. Also, the government bought monkeys from her, including the ones NASA sent into space.
“Or claimed to have,” Tom said.
“Who cares?” Theresa laughed and clinked wineglasses with him. “Print the legend.”
“Exactly,” Tom said, though he wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that.
“Then, this afternoon…” She took a long swig of wine. “…I bought a house.”
“You did what ?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I bought a house. I got a great deal on it.”
She told him the price and called it a steal, but his head was swimming. It was too much to process. “You bought a house ? Without even talking to me about it? Jesus Christ, Theresa, I didn’t even know you were looking for a house. What the hell do we need a house for?”
“I was going to talk to you about it—I was just looking as kind of a lark—but this place…Oh, Tom, wait’ll you see it. A bungalow not far from here. Bigger inside than it looks from the street. Six blocks from the ocean, with a backyard facing a canal. It’s got a pool, grapefruit trees, tile roof, arches, cypress floors, even a widow’s walk. It’s adorable. A classic old Florida home. As the kids start moving away, a vacation house like this can keep us all together. It’ll be a place that we can all gather as a family.”
Frank, their oldest, was in his first year of law school at Yale; Andrew was a divinity major at Notre Dame. “None of our kids have moved away. They’re just away at school. The girls are just babies.”
“The boys are gone, Tom. Face it. And it pains me to admit this, but nine and four aren’t babies. It’ll go fast. Look how fast it went with Frank.”
That was all true, but not quite what Tom was trying to say. “How can you buy a house without me signing something?” Which wasn’t exactly the point, either. “Without me even looking at it?”
“I have my own money. There are pieces I could sell and pay cash for this thing.”
Also not the point. The point was, the more he—and Theresa—threw cash around, the more of a trail it left. The account she used to buy art was actually an offshore corporation. Bermuda. But this house? Who knows?
“Art is one thing,” he said, “but a house?”
“Sure, it’s another thing,” she conceded. “But it’s all
Tom and Theresa’s seats were all the way in the back, which was fine, especially without the Sheas for Theresa to ogle. The Hagens had gotten their fill of political glitz during Tom’s brief, miserable stint filling out a term as a Nevada congressman.
As they were about to sit down, Tom, seized by a crazy impulse, put his mouth to her ear. “Let’s go,” he whispered.
Her eyes lit up. Impulse, yes, but not crazy. He was on the money. “Go where?”
“Anywhere but here,” he said. “Somewhere nice, just you and me.”
They kept walking, went out the side door, and took a taxi to Joe’s Stone Crabs.
On the way, they talked about when they’d last done this: a night on the town, no kids, no rings for Tom to kiss, no important painter or museum board member for Theresa to indulge. Maybe not since they lived in New York the first time, seven years ago.
The place was packed, but Tom duked a few people, and he and Theresa were ushered straight to a dark corner booth. The waiter took their drink order and produced a vase for the roses.
“So,” Theresa said, “want to hear about my day?”
“I was just about to ask,” Tom said.
She rolled her eyes, but affectionately.
She’d had breakfast with some people who were talking about setting up a museum of modern art in Miami, something she’d done in Las Vegas, and they were eager to pick her brain. Flattering, obviously. Then she went to see a collector up in Palm Beach, some crackpot cash-poor heiress who sold off several great pieces to help fund the monkey farm in question. She rescued them from bankrupt zoos and then trained them to be “helper monkeys,” whatever that was. Also, the government bought monkeys from her, including the ones NASA sent into space.
“Or claimed to have,” Tom said.
“Who cares?” Theresa laughed and clinked wineglasses with him. “Print the legend.”
“Exactly,” Tom said, though he wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that.
“Then, this afternoon…” She took a long swig of wine. “…I bought a house.”
“You did what ?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I bought a house. I got a great deal on it.”
She told him the price and called it a steal, but his head was swimming. It was too much to process. “You bought a house ? Without even talking to me about it? Jesus Christ, Theresa, I didn’t even know you were looking for a house. What the hell do we need a house for?”
“I was going to talk to you about it—I was just looking as kind of a lark—but this place…Oh, Tom, wait’ll you see it. A bungalow not far from here. Bigger inside than it looks from the street. Six blocks from the ocean, with a backyard facing a canal. It’s got a pool, grapefruit trees, tile roof, arches, cypress floors, even a widow’s walk. It’s adorable. A classic old Florida home. As the kids start moving away, a vacation house like this can keep us all together. It’ll be a place that we can all gather as a family.”
Frank, their oldest, was in his first year of law school at Yale; Andrew was a divinity major at Notre Dame. “None of our kids have moved away. They’re just away at school. The girls are just babies.”
“The boys are gone, Tom. Face it. And it pains me to admit this, but nine and four aren’t babies. It’ll go fast. Look how fast it went with Frank.”
That was all true, but not quite what Tom was trying to say. “How can you buy a house without me signing something?” Which wasn’t exactly the point, either. “Without me even looking at it?”
“I have my own money. There are pieces I could sell and pay cash for this thing.”
Also not the point. The point was, the more he—and Theresa—threw cash around, the more of a trail it left. The account she used to buy art was actually an offshore corporation. Bermuda. But this house? Who knows?
“Art is one thing,” he said, “but a house?”
“Sure, it’s another thing,” she conceded. “But it’s all
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