CHAPTER 8
A Sunset in Naples
Her name was Julie.
She lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, and I lived in Napa, California, just a little north of Charlotte and another twenty-seven hundred miles to the west. Dating, if that was in the stars, with this kind of distance between us was going to be a challenge, especially because I wasn’t a big believer in long-distance dating. When I lived in New York, many years before that, anyone living more than ten blocks away was geographically undesirable because there were a million singles within ten blocks. But since neither of us lived in New York, maybe this would work.
I liked her right away. Most of all, I liked her eyes. They sparkled when I looked into them, past the blue. And she was smart—really smart—which made her really interesting. She had her own business, and it was a big one—a big furniture business, with lots of outlets in the Southeast. It didn’t hurt that she was really cute—a pixie blonde who looked as good as anyone could look in a tennis dress. She was good at that too. Julie was good at everything.
Our first two dates were relatively short ones, both dinner dates. The first dinner was with ten other people at a private party on a late summer night in an Atlanta home with mutual friends. That wasn’t an official date. However, because it was a subtle fix up, I’d say it could count as one. We were the only single people there, and it was the intention of our hosts for us to meet, and in a way, that’s a date. That’s where we met, and after we did some serious, but discreet, kissing later in the house, tucked behind a door in the seclusion of a distant den, it became a date, incontestably.
Kissing in our friends’ den was fun. It was the culmination of having been very flirty with each other from the beginning of the evening, or as our host said, “from the gitgo.” Sometimes it’s easier to be flirty when the likelihood of seeing that person again is slim. It makes you less inhibited. We both knew we were geographically undesirable for each other, which in a funny way, translated into making the most of the moment. And yes, sometimes flirting with someone from elsewhere allows one to be a little more out there, a little more reckless, a little more liberal with words that go nicely with flirting. We were having fun spinning in the immediate sphere of a dozen people in the house, who were beginning to pick up on our chemistry. The fact that we were the only ones there who weren’t married might have put a spotlight on us. Married people often live vicariously through singles, in my humble opinion.
Ducking away from the group without having our absence noticed wasn’t possible, and as a twosome under each other’s spell, our cover story of “taking a quick tour” of the house to get a few minutes by ourselves begged for speculation and all kinds of cat calls as we left the group. Of course, we maintained a sense of civility while in proximity to each other in front of our friends. However, once in the seclusion of a distant den, civility was overrun by a skyrocketing mutual attraction and that wonderfully intoxicating sensation of lust. We kissed slowly at first and then moved it up a notch, then another notch, and then another. We got swept away as much as two people standing in a friends’ den at a fancy dinner party could, which is to say we kissed intensely. We couldn’t help ourselves. We were lost to each other momentarily and frantically, swept away, kissing for about five breathtaking minutes before decorum demanded that we reengage with our hosts and the other guests. No one knew precisely what we’d been up to for the five minutes we’d been gone, but everyone had a pretty good idea! When we rejoined the group, Julie’s face was crimson, and I looked like the cat that had just ate the canary.
An hour later, the party ended, and Julie drove away with the couple she had come with, discreetly blowing a kiss to me through the window as she faded from my sight. She and I expressed interest in seeing each other again, but neither of us knew when that would be, so we parted without specific plans. Minutes later, I thanked my guests for the fun evening and the fabulous introduction, and then drove back to my hotel in Buckhead, which is Atlanta’s chic neighborhood and the home of too many great restaurants, clubs, and bars. I was energized and sorely tempted to party on, but the need to be fresh for an early business meeting the next morning forced me to my room, which was a shame because Buckhead is loaded with temptations, and they’re almost all blonde.
Our second date, which was our first real date, happened four weeks later without a whole lot of planning. This time I was in Charlotte on short notice for business and was able stay over an extra night. One night there was a must for my meetings with clients. The other night was optional, and with Julie as an option, I booked it. I called her and was happy to learn that she could go out with me that second night. It was a Wednesday, and she was busy early in the evening, so we simply arranged to meet each other for a late dinner at The Palm at Phillips Place, where patrons jokingly say, “It’s where the elite meet,” but you know they’re not really joking. The Palm has just the right amount of everything, which was why it’s had this reputation for so many years. It was exceptional in every way.
Our dinner together was a lot of fun, and the evening went by way too quickly, which is the hallmark of a great date. I was cognizant that it was a school night and that Julie had three little children at home: a five, a seven, and an eight year-old, already sound asleep under the watchful eye of the sitter. Julie told me how sweet and adorable they were over dinner. Thankfully, she didn’t talk too much about them. Most people say that talking too much about children when the other doesn’t have them isn’t advisable, especially on the first or second date, and I would have to agree with that. We got past the first date, and we would get through this one, but I wasn’t sure about the future because sometimes kids are a deal-breaker in the long run, though not always, of course. It depends on what the kids are like and how mom integrates them into the relationship. All this was something to think about, but not that evening.
We flirted with each other through every course, talking about the things we would do on our next date—maybe a weekend adventure without her children (I wondered if she thought taking them along was an option.) We started naming our favorite places. Aspen? (No, it was too early in the season for snow.) Bermuda? (No, it was too far away for me.) San Francisco? (No, it was too far away for her.) Her home or mine? (No, it was too early in the relationship for home visits.) Naples in Florida, where her parents had a house? (Yes, for all kinds of reasons and no hotel bill!) We didn’t decide on anything, but it didn’t matter; we were having fun just thinking about having fun.
I paid the bill and walked her to her car with my arm lightly draped over her petite shoulders. At six foot three, I towered over her, so the arm-in-arm thing didn’t work, but we didn’t need that to feel the chemistry. It was still there; we just couldn’t do anything about it that night. She had to go home because it was already late for a school night, which meant no ducking into someone’s den tonight or making out in the car. That wasn’t in the stars for either of us. We did kiss at her car door, however. And it was a really nice one, both of us imparting a moist, luscious long drawn-out message that we should see each other again. It’s amazing what one can say with a kiss.
She got in her car and drove away. I got in my car and did the same, while wondering if I could do this long-distance thing and whether or not I could date the four of them: Julie and her three children, an all or none proposition, like it is with every mom. I didn’t have to answer that question just then, but I knew I’d have to answer it at some point. Or maybe not. Maybe I could just let it fade away with the passage of time, making no answer the answer, and date someone else, making Julie just a memory.
Two months later, at home, Napa was damp and squishy from winter rain. The vines were bare and dark, almost black from being so wet. The vineyard floor was muddy. Too many gray days were starting to have an effect on me that wasn’t pleasant. This was the Napa Valley that people don’t see in postcards. It was still beautiful in its own way, just very gray—and very brown. And a little dull because it was the time of year that the
vines just sit there and do nothing, and I felt I was doing the same. It had been six weeks since my trip to Charlotte and my dinner at The Palm with Julie. I hadn’t been in touch with her at all: no emails, no phone calls, no nothing. Frankly, I had other things on my mind, like local girls and a lot of business, but not a lot of excitement.
Then one afternoon, a UPS truck pulled into my driveway and delivered a box big enough for some ice skates (a childhood point of reference from growing up in Wisconsin), but of course, it wasn’t a box of ice skates. North Carolina was printed on the return address. It was from Julie. I opened it immediately and discovered a carefully wrapped bottle of champagne and two champagne flutes, accompanied by a handwritten note on girly, pink stationery, which said:
Let’s party in Naples! Call me. xox, Julie
Timing is everything when it comes to relationships. I called her right away. We picked a weekend two weeks out. I hung up and then booked a flight to Naples, where she’d pick me up at the airport in the late afternoon to begin our long weekend at her parents’ beach house. I was jazzed just thinking about a sunny weekend in a beach house. Being with Julie made it even nicer, of course.
Two weeks later, I landed in Naples. Julie met me outside of the baggage claim, in a black Mercedes sedan, one with a big number on the trunk lid. I guessed she liked to rent big. Or maybe it came with the beach house. Either way, like Julie, it was first class.
Twenty minutes later, we were driving up the gulf shore, and three miles later she turned into the entrance of a secluded driveway and pulled right up to a massive iron gate, which was opening with hydraulics that could lift a draw bridge. I think she paused longer than necessary so that I was sure to get the full effect. The gate must have been ten feet high with more scrolls than The Dead Sea. Then she zipped through it and came to a sudden stop, right at the front door, one hundred feet later. I thought this all might be a joke she was playing on me, pulling into some kind of museum. It looked a lot like The Frick Mansion in New York—I’m not kidding—but maybe bigger. She looked at me and hopped out of the car before I could say anything, ran around to my door, yanked it open, grabbed my arm, pulled me out to a standing position, and facing the mansion’s front door with her arms straight out in front of her, palms up, announced, “Here we are.” Then she sung out softly, “Ta-Daaaaa! My parents’ place!” and laughingly exclaimed, “and they never use it!” as if they were fools. I instantly changed my mind about what constitutes a beach house.
Julie swiftly skipped up the front stairs with a key in one hand, unlocked the right side of the massive front door, and with a push, it swung open. I hopped up the stairs in pursuit, spellbound. My luggage could wait.
As the right side of the twelve-foot high Rococo door opened wide on its own momentum, I lost mine and stood mouth-open, slack-faced, and totally stunned on the threshold of the foyer of her parents’ truly palatial home. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t have if I wanted to; I was overwhelmed by the opulence before me. For the first twenty seconds, I just stared. Julie was surely enjoying my non-reaction and just let me be me. I was truly speechless, as I took in her parents’ second home, or was it their third home, or maybe it was their FOURTH home? Whatever number it was, I now knew what Julie meant when she told me her father was a force. It had to be the biggest and possibly most beautiful home in Naples, Florida or anywhere in Florida. Palm Beach didn’t have anything like this, though Trump’s Mar-A-Lago, the old Merriweather Post mansion, was in the same league in size.
I could see past the foyer into a ballroom-sized living room done up in white on white on white across at least fifty feet of white marble, which floated an oasis of white carpet. My eyes moved beyond a continuous row of very tall sliding glass doors right out to an Olympic-size San Simeon-like pool surrounded by—by what? a dozen Greek statues? ancient philosophers? Athenian guards? Plato and his pals? And beyond their posturing was the Gulf of Mexico, forever sparkling, as if blanketed with a million floating diamonds.
Enough time passed for me to pull out of my state of suspended animation and finally say something, so I turned “Wow!” into five syllables, like a muffled coronet. I figured she had already heard anything else I could say a hundred times before from others. My drawn out “Wow!” said it all.
I took a deep breath, looked across the vast expanse of a fabulous decor, and mustered up a few more words, as I looked directly at her and calmly stated, “Nice pad. Looks like we’ll have a fun weekend here.” That was my attempt at being cool and understating the prospect of our first weekend together.
She let out some kind of Southern whoop, danced into the center of the living room, twirled a couple of times and yelped, “It’s all ours for the weekend!”
With my back to the door, I did another one-eighty scan of the living room, still flat footed in the foyer, still in shock, but recovery was imminent, and I was suddenly thirsty. I smiled broadly and asked, “Got wine?”
“Yeah, let’s open some now! Daddy loves wine, so I’m sure anything we open will be really good.” Another whoop flew out of her: “Let the party begin!”
Julie was fun that way, and no doubt, the wine would be good.
She popped two bottles of a vintage French cabernet: one for spilling into our glasses for instant gratification and the other left open on the bar to breathe, while it stood on call following the inevitable draining of the first bottle. A bottle only held four glasses, after all, so there was no doubt we’d get to it at some point.
The sunset was in its final stages, very close to the point where people in Key West would be flooding into Mallory Square, on the wharf, and jockeying for a vantage point in a hubbub of hope to see the green flash that only occurred at the exact moment the sun’s top edge dipped below the horizon. We said nothing as we stared intensely at the sun’s impending disappearance, side by side with freshly poured glasses in hand, at the edge of the bar in front of a big picture window. The sun dipped out of sight, and its denouement showed us nothing other than the spellbinding beauty of that earthly moment when the day slips into dusk. Moments later, Julie disappeared down a long hallway, calling out to me that she had to make a phone call and to make myself comfortable. Easy enough! Glass and bottle in hand, and with the greatest of care not to spill a drop, I navigated the maze of white on white on white of the living room to get to the patio between the house and the pool.
The western horizon was becoming kaleidoscopic with the final vestiges of the sunken sun. The view from the patio into the Gulf was magnificent. The house was magnificent. And, yes, Julie was magnificent. We were going to have a lot of fun, and what a great place to get to know her better. I smiled to myself, convinced that I was, indeed, going to get to know her a lot better, in many ways. I inhaled the moist salty air that was blowing in with the surf and sipped my wine, as the bowl of my glass captured the golden glow coming off the horizon. I sunk into my very cushy patio chair, which was white, of course, feeling on top of the world, to wait for Julie’s return.
I missed the green flash. I always do, and I’m not sure there really is such a thing. And now I was missing Julie. Maybe twenty minutes had passed since her disappearance. I was well into my second glass of cab, but willing to be patient. It must have been an important call, and I didn’t see any need to interrupt. She would show up when she was done, and that was good enough for me.
I continued to wait without complaint while watching a sky full of blues, indigos, and purples wash over golden-orange wisps of clouds, disappearing in the fading light of errant rays. And then all of it faded with the passage of the hour, into the infinite depths of the darkening sky overhead. Slowly, the first evening star made an appearance, its light growing by the minute, high over the Gulf of Mexico. Then one star after another…and another…until the sky was full of them.
It had been two hours since Julie’s departure down the hall. My patience, driven so long by an overbearing commitment to politeness, had run out. The bottle of wine that sat o
n the side table next to me was long gone. It was now completely dark outside, and without any lights on in the living room, darkness had the run of the house too. It was time to find her.
I entered the house through the door that I’d used earlier, and with my first step, I slid my hand along the wall just off the door frame, hopeful of connecting with a light switch panel. There was none there. I cautiously moved forward and to the right, taking small steps and opening my eyes as much as possible for a sighting of the silhouette of a lamp, any lamp. I couldn’t believe how dark it was, and I had a funny flash of an idea that I was moving like a burglar, so out of place in this museum of a house. Within fifteen feet of the door, I located a table and the vague presence of a lamp on it, but groped for it cautiously, not knowing what else was on the table. Surely the only things on any of the tables in this house were really expensive lamps and really expensive fragile things. Fragile things from Venice. And Steuben. Maybe the Ming Dynasty.
With the quick twist of my thumb and forefinger on a switch, a lamp lit up the room, much to my relief. I suddenly no longer felt like a burglar and continued my mission to find Julie. I turned in the direction of the hallway, snapping wall switches along the way, lighting my path into a wing of the house. I was seeking an open door, and listening for a voice talking on the phone. I passed one closed door after another, all the way to the end, and none of them betrayed a voice in the rooms behind them.
“Julie?” I called out her name gently at first, then upped the volume a bit as I stood still listening for a reply. Still nothing, as I stood perplexed at the end of the hallway. I tried one more call out, almost a yell, “Julie!” Again, nothing. How strange! Now I was feeling weird and thinking I was going to slip back into that creepy burglar feeling. Here I was in a strange house, seemingly by myself, but I couldn’t have been by myself, right?
I began opening doors leading into dark bedrooms and dens and sitting rooms, illuminating each one with the flip of a switch. “Why?” I asked myself, “if they are dark, did I think I would find Julie in one of them?” There were a lot of doors, and after about six or seven fruitless attempts, I stopped opening them and collected my thoughts. There must have been another seven or eight that I hadn’t tried, but by then, it occurred to me that I should go to the front door to see if her car was still there. This made me feel really weird because I couldn’t imagine it wouldn’t be there. What did that mean? Did I think she just got in the car and drove away without saying anything to me? My imagination was becoming fertile, and the line of possible scenarios quickly got pretty long.
I picked up my pace as I approached the foyer, anxious to get some enlightenment. A quick flick of some wall switches in the foyer caused the front entrance to light up and, along with it, the carriage lamps flanking the outside of the front door. The car was there, parked exactly where we had left it, but there was no sign of Julie. I was moving beyond a weird feeling and actually started getting that silly Twilight Zone feeling. Here I am, alone in some mansion of mansions, invited into this never-seen-before space by a woman that I didn’t really know, not really, really know. And she disappears and, in fact, hasn’t been around for a couple of hours, ever since she walked off to make a phone call and fell down a rabbit hole.
Maybe something awful happened to her. Maybe she fainted, tripped and hit her head, had a heart attack, fell down some stairs, got amnesia and walked away, went into an epileptic coma, wandered off the property with dementia, is playing hide and seek, slipped into a catatonic state, ditched me, is waiting in a dark room for me with a butcher knife to drive into my heart. Oh yeah, my imagination was suddenly running wild! I mentally chastised myself for all these crazy thoughts and muttered, “Get a grip, Tom.” My name softly echoed in the room.
I returned to the hallway where I had last seen her and tried the remaining untested doors, again flicking on a light in each one and ignoring the logical question, Why would I find her in a dark room?
With the flick of the light switch in the second to last room, I found her! She was immobile on a king bed, on her back, arms akimbo, and—what? dead? unconscious? asleep? Forever too polite, I approached her and whispered her name, “Julie?” I paused for a couple of heartbeats and upped the volume a bit, “Julie?” She was breathing, so dead was out.
She moaned, which was good because it meant she wasn’t unconscious—another bad possibility eliminated. But, I asked myself, “Was she dying? Was she in jeopardy? Was she ill? Was she in a life-threatening condition?” All these thoughts raced through my head, spurred by the growing possibilities in my imagination and, of course, genuine concern. Over two hours had passed since she had walked off to make that call. What was the cause of this alarming state?
I sat on the bed alongside her. It shifted under my weight, and Julie moaned again, apparently aware, though barely, of my presence—or someone’s. I leaned forward to whisper her name, when I felt the wash of her breath on my face and the overwhelming blowback of that sweet scent of a cabernet. That’s when I noticed an empty glass on the bedside table, the one she had filled in the kitchen when we arrived nearly three hours ago. And alongside the empty glass was an empty bottle of cabernet—probably that second bottle she had opened in the kitchen. She was drunk and, apparently, had passed out. That was a lot of wine to consume by someone so petite—or large. Or anyone on a weekend date for the first time. What was she thinking!
“Now what?” is the question I silently asked myself, totally perplexed. This event certainly cleared the evening’s agenda of everything, including conversation. The room wasn’t cold, and there were no drafts that I could detect, so I didn’t worry about covering her up. I certainly wasn’t going to get her out of her clothes and tuck her in. I was sure she would be out for the night, or a good part of it anyway. I stood up, walked to the door, turned the lights out, and left, softly closing the door behind me and ending whatever thoughts I’d had for a fun evening. All this proved to me that whatever one envisions for an evening on a date is the one thing that definitely won’t happen. So much for romance—and welcome to the Twilight Zone! It was all too weird.
I went out to her car, careful not to lock myself out of the house, and grabbed my suitcase, after having left it behind in the excitement of our arrival. The night was over for us, and even though I was on west coast time, the traveling had done me in or, more likely, the suspense and discovery of the last hour had exhausted me enough that I had to find a bed for myself. I was feeling the wine I’d had earlier. I ducked into one of the previously discovered bedrooms, brushed my teeth, stripped, and climbed into bed, wondering what the conversation would be like with Julie in the morning. I wondered about that for quite a bit, maybe for an hour, maybe two, until I fell asleep—in the museum.
I awoke with the light of a Florida morning coming through my window. It was gray with a yellow tint, enough yellow in it to carry the promise of a hot, steamy day ahead. I felt like crap on the heels of a lot of traveling and a short night of not very good sleep. The Julie Problem was running roughshod over me. It slapped me in the face before I had both eyes open, as if it had been hovering over me all night, just waiting for me to stir. I rolled out of bed, ambled into and out of the bathroom, after skipping a shower, and slid into my tired clothes. But they weren’t as tired as I was. I went into the hallway toward Julie’s room. Her door was closed. A gentle knock didn’t do any good, so I poked my nose through a couple of inches of open door. She wasn’t on the bed, but I could hear the shower running, so I backed out, silently closed the door, and decided to wait in the living room, not far from where she had left me twelve hours ago.
Thirty minutes later, Julie floated into the room on a silent current of air, and upon seeing me sitting motionless on a couch in the middle of the room, froze in her bare feet twenty feet in front of me, as if wanting to be invisible. If I hadn’t been looking up, I wouldn’t have noticed her. Now I was looking right into an angel’s face, who didn’t know what to do. She must ha
ve been surprised by suddenly discovering my presence, but her face didn’t show it. I think she was expecting to find me in the kitchen or maybe the patio or maybe not in the house at all, but not motionless in the middle of the museum in a suspended state of angst, obviously waiting for her. For a very long five seconds, her face was expressionless, before it was overcome by a sheepish please-forgive-me grin. I’m sure that’s what it was, but I was equally sure I wasn’t feeling much like forgiving her. With the morning sun coming full bore through the eastern windows, my anger and disappointment rose with it. And then I rose to my feet but didn’t approach her.
“This isn’t going to work,” I stated loud and clear. She stood across the room, taking it, without a response. I continued, “I’d like you to take me to the airport. I’ll fly home today.” Her forgive-me expression dropped off and was quickly replaced by a curl of her lower lip and the flooding of her eyes with tears. They began to run down her face. She didn’t move. I went to her slowly and put my arms around her, with her face moving into my sternum. All I could see was a pile of blonde hair well below my chin, sitting on some gently heaving shoulders.
“I don’t know what last night was all about,” I said softly, “but whatever it was, it can’t be good.” I waited a few seconds before continuing: “Look, we hardly know each other, but that bottle thing…” I groped for the right words, and then continued, “The fact that you passed out on the bed is not something I can deal with. I can’t help you with that.” I held on to her, but no response was forthcoming, just the muted sound of her whimpering, maybe in despair. Finally, Julie pushed back just enough to keep my arms around her and make enough room for her to look up. Her eyes were red and saturated with tears yet to fall. My heart pinged with her pain.
“I had to call my sister,” she croaked. “She’s having problems and she needed me.”
This was a response I hadn’t expected, mostly because it didn’t do anything to explain Julie’s behavior.
“And?” I asked, willing her to continue, while thinking that something more like an explanation for her behavior needed to follow. But other than a few snuffles, no further words followed. Her face disappeared again into my chest, and she whimpered some more. I could feel my shirt getting wet where her face was pressed into me.
I repeated my opening line, as if treading on thin ice in unknown territory, “This isn’t going to work, Julie. I’m sorry.” My arms fell to my side, but she continued to clutch me, her arms around my waist, clinging tightly. At this point, I was shifting out of a state of consolation to impending awkwardness. For the first time, I noticed the coffered ceiling of the museum. It was an intense latticework of three-foot square panels, each painted in ivory with accents of olive and sage greens. My mind started estimating the total number of panels. It looked as if there were about fifteen across the room and maybe thirty in length and…
“Julie?” I whispered, in a sing song voice that I thought would get her attention without being too intrusive. I gently pushed back on her shoulders, seeking a little separation so we could talk eye to eye. “Julie,” I repeated, “let’s sit down and talk about this.” Thankfully, she was compliant. We would be more comfortable sitting down. I was sure of it and, besides, I was done counting. There were four hundred and seventy-two coffers in the museum’s ceiling.
Julie and I talked on the couch for an hour. I bought into her tearful regret—what she called “slippage,” as a consequence of a difficult relationship with her sister, which was beyond my understanding. At any rate, Julie assured me that her episode with excessive consumption the previous night was a one-time folly on her part. Whatever it was, it certainly was a red flag if we were to continue dating. Some little voice in me was saying something about that.
I don’t know how it happened, but inside of two hours I got over it, and we committed to having a fun weekend together, as we had planned, despite the horrible start. All of the qualities that had drawn me to her prevailed, and that was the beginning of our relationship, which lasted fifteen months. Distance finally did us in, although our breakup wasn’t really as simple as that. Distance is the reason I give for its demise, which doesn’t really mean much because, as everyone knows, there’s his story and there’s her story—and then there’s the truth, somewhere in between.
∞