by Martin Brown
Barbara leaned her head comfortably into Grant’s shoulder as he pulled her in close. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“You have to keep reminding yourself that it’s real! It looks so much like a painting,” Grant said.
“It’s incredible that we’re the only ones sitting up here. If there was a public space in Manhattan with views like these, it would be packed with people. I guess the uphill climb scares off most of the tourists.”
“You’re right, Barb,” Grant said, as he lifted his head to look all around. “I’ll need time adjusting to this much quiet.”
After years of living and working in lower Manhattan, noise—particularly car horns—was so relentless, one only noticed when it all vanished as it did in the days after 9/11.
“You’re right. I don’t hear anything right now,” Barbara admitted. “No people rushing, no street vendors, no fire engines, or police sirens. This much quiet is a little unsettling, don’t you think?”
Grant gave a short laugh, and after a long pause said, “Certainly nothing we’re accustomed to. But I think I could grow to love this kind of peace and quiet.”
Barbara snuggled in and reached up to her husband's lips to share a kiss.
“Does it make you happy, darling?” he asked.
Barbara thought for a moment, and said, “It does. I’m ready for a little solitude and sanity in our lives.”
"I think we both are!"
At dinner that night, Debbie and Ray shared with the Randolphs how they came to settle in Sausalito.
“I took over my father’s business. He made high-end nightwear—pajamas, nightgowns, and so on,” Ray explained. “A couple of years ago, we were approached by a big manufacturer in the business. They made us an offer to buy the entire operation that, as my dad was fond of saying, knocked our socks off. So, we took the money, and started to ask ourselves, ‘What now? We can live wherever we want, so where would that be?’ In a lot of ways, Chicago is a great town. But to be honest with you, the weather is less than ideal, way too hot in the summer and way too cold in the winter.”
“Florida and Arizona don't have the feel of Northern California. In places like Phoenix and Orlando, you see a lot more of concrete, cars, and buildings, then you see of nature," Debbie added. “We always stayed a few extra days when a trade show brought us out to San Francisco. On days off, we would often take the ferry over to Sausalito, which is less than a thirty-minute ride. We just fell in love with this little town! So, when we had the chance to reinvent our lives, we started looking into home prices in the area. We bought after the tech bubble burst. It wasn’t cheap, but prices have gone up a lot since.”
“It’s a good investment,” Ray insisted. “Property values around here do one of two things. They stay flat for a year or two, or they go up.”
The following day, Barbara and Grant rented bicycles across the street from their hotel and rode north along the waterfront into the charming town of Mill Valley, where the bike trail ended at a plaza called the Mill Valley Depot. It was once the endpoint of the Northwestern Pacific Railroad’s Marin County Interurban electric train service, which came to an end shortly after the opening of the Golden Gate Bridge in 1937. Today the depot served as a coffee and bookshop surrounded by high-end boutiques.
After chaining their bikes to a rack at the edge of the plaza, they purchased sandwiches and drinks and walked the few city blocks up to Old Mill Park, where they sat at a picnic table in the middle of a grove of massive redwood trees.
Later, while biking the same path back to Sausalito, they discussed their day and agreed that in the picture book town of Mill Valley, they had found one more reason to believe that Southern Marin County was the perfect choice for them.
That night, they took the short drive from their hotel to the Sirica home on Sausalito Boulevard. It was their first time driving through the town’s winding hills. Steep, narrow lanes with blind curves can be a little intimidating to someone driving along them for the first time, but finding beautiful bay vistas around every bend more than made up for the discomforting feeling of learning to navigate their way through this unfamiliar terrain.
For a couple accustomed to the opulent homes of their multi-millionaire art collector clients, the Randolphs were still impressed by the Siricas' home.
“Looks like the cover of Architectural Digest,” Barbara said quietly to Grant, as they walked up the steps to the front door.
“Why are you whispering?” Grant asked.
“I’ve heard people in small towns have big ears.”
“You're silly,” Grant said teasingly, yet also in a soft voice.
Grant and Barbara were greeted warmly by Ray and Debbie. None of the other guests had arrived yet, prompting Grant to ask if they had come too early.
Ray laughed. “No problem, happy to see you guys. Let’s get you both a drink.”
Their early arrival gave the Siricas time to walk the Randolphs around the property.
As they stepped out onto the veranda and into a soft early evening breeze, they admired postcard-worthy views of the bay and the surrounding tree-covered hills. The Randolphs were once again impressed by the beauty of what they already thought of as their new corner of the world.
“You can see why we fell in love with this property,” Debbie said.
“It’s just stunning, both the house and the view,” Barbara replied.
Once the thirty or so other guests arrived, everyone seemed interested in Barbara and Grant’s story: how they met, their experience owning and operating a Manhattan art gallery, the tragic events of 9/11, and Grant’s good fortune in missing that breakfast engagement atop the World Trade Center.
Ethel Landau, who detailed her longtime service on the city's arts commission, was not shy in pressing Grant to get involved with her group. As they spoke, Warren Bradley—ever watchful, particularly of newcomers—paid careful attention.
“If you do settle here, I want you to attend an arts commission meeting and find out what our group is all about,” Ethel said.
“I’d enjoy that,” Grant responded enthusiastically.
“Sausalito has an incredible history with the arts. I think you’ll be impressed.”
Grant nodded. “In fact, I’ve been reading up on it. Jean Varda, Shel Silverstein, Gordon Onslow—all renowned! It would have been fun to be part of the arts community back then.”
“Show off,” Warren muttered to himself, growing increasingly jealous of this handsome and apparently successful man. He knew that two of the five commission seats were up in less than a year. One of the commissioners had already made clear his intention to step down. Warren had his eye on that position. Now, it looked as if he’d have to compete for it with this newcomer.
Maybe he’ll let loose with some tidbit that I can use to disqualify him, Warren thought hopefully.
He waited an hour, then walked over to Grant and introduced himself. “I understand that you and your wife are thinking of moving to our fair city,” Warren began with a deceptively welcoming smile.
“That’s right,” Grant replied.
“You know, we’re a very tight-knit little community. Some people find it difficult to fit in.”
“Where I come from, people are more aggressive. In a place as big and as busy as Manhattan there's no sense waiting for an invitation. You make space for yourself at the table.”
“It’s very different here,” Warren insisted. “We look out for our neighbors. We stay close. Probably, some would say, too close.”
“I think every place takes some getting used to,” Grant countered, sensing an instinctive dislike for Warren.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine as long as you remember that people think you should be here ten years or more before you play an active role in the community. I guess we’re just old-fashioned that way. By the way, did you try some of my bruschetta with white beans, tomatoes, and olives?”
Grant held up a hand. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Now if you’ll excuse
me, I see my wife trying to wave me over.”
How dare he, Warren fumed silently. Not even an attempt to be gracious!
At that moment Warren vowed one day he would take Grant Randolph down a peg or two.
Later that night, when they were back in their hotel room, Grant said, “Barbara, thanks again for saving me from that creepy guy—you know, the one who thinks he’s a gourmet chef.”
Barbara shook her head. “You should have seen his face when you passed on his appetizer. Talk about taking it personally! You know, Grant, you could have told him you’re gluten sensitive. Oh, by the way, Warren writes for the local paper—The Sausalito Standard.”
Grant rolled his eyes. “Let me guess: restaurant reviews.”
“I hear it’s more like a gossip column.” Barbara laughed. “Based on the look on his face when you turned down his bruschetta, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve made your first enemy in town.”
“He did say he wanted to interview us for the paper after we settle into town, but that was before I made him cry over his bruschetta.” Grant shrugged. “I don’t know what we would tell him for his ridiculous column. Frankly, I got the feeling that he's little more than an old busybody.”
“He seemed harmless enough to me,” Barbara replied.
“I guess Ray and Debbie are right when they say that this place is just an overgrown village with a cast of different characters. I’m just wondering if it might get a little claustrophobic.”
“Anytime we want, there’s a big city called San Francisco just thirty minutes away by ferry, and even faster most times by car, that we can go visit."
“You’re right,” Grant said as his mouth relaxed into a smile. “Sausalito will certainly be a major change from Manhattan. I hope we won’t miss living in a place where hardly anyone knows your name.”
Chapter Six
Just four months after their first introduction to Sausalito, Barbara and Grant pulled into the driveway of their new home. It wasn’t the Siricas’ mini-mansion, but it was probably the best three-bedroom cottage under two million dollars in Sausalito. Between the sale of their Manhattan condominium and the money from their share of the gallery, they still had a significant amount of savings, allowing them to live in comfort whether choosing to work or not.
Grant and Barbara did not doubt that they would re-engage with the world of fine art at some point. But for now, they wanted to focus on establishing a new life in an entirely different place.
As Grant soon discovered, all of his unspent energy, once invested in the daily pressure of life in New York and the challenge of staying ahead in the highly competitive world of fine art sales, now required a new outlet. Picking out fabric swatches and comparing paint chips as they tinkered with every room of their new home was not going to hold his interest for very long.
One afternoon, while out for a walk with Ray, Grant shared with him that he loved his new home and his new surroundings. “But I’m itching to burn off some excess energy.”
“Been there, done that,” Ray said without hesitation. “Why don’t we join a gym? We could both benefit from a little honest sweat. All this good living is turning me into a pile of mush.”
“If I remember correctly, there’s a gym near the Sausalito houseboat docks,” Grant suggested.
Ray shook his head. “Nah. The place is 90% aerobics machines; it doesn’t feel like a real gym to me if I'm sitting on a stationary bike or jogging on a treadmill.”
“What do you mean by ‘a real gym’?”
“I was a starting defensive tackle on my high school’s varsity football team,” Ray explained. “Except for the last few years, I’ve worked out regularly since I was fifteen. I’ll know the right gym when I see it.”
When they stepped inside of Gold’s Gym, near the town of Corte Madera about 10 miles north of Sausalito, Ray knew they had found the right place.
To begin with, it smelled like a gym. As they strolled through the cavernous space that had once served as a distribution warehouse, Ray was impressed at the three different areas dedicated to strength resistance training. From racks of free weights to dozens of pulley-operated weight machines, they both liked what they saw.
And when one of the gym’s fitness associates told them that the monthly membership was thirty-five dollars with no initial membership fee other than an upfront charge for the first month, they looked at each other, smiled, and signed on the dotted line.
On the short drive south to Sausalito, Ray talked excitedly about their new gym. In fact, it was all he could talk about, starting with, “Thirty-five bucks! Debbie spends more than that getting her nails done every week.”
“I’ve never been much of a gym guy, but I’ve got to admit I’m excited.”
“Buddy, you’ll see what a big difference this is going to make! Look, Grant, we’re both getting to the age where we begin that long slide toward falling apart. If we don’t do something now to slow that process, we'll be beyond hope in another ten years. In your twenties, you can coast, you should start paying attention in your thirties, and if you’re not doing something to improve your body in your forties, it all starts to show.”
“Ray, you’re right. I enjoy the good life. But cocktails, appetizers, steaks, and dessert while sitting out on your deck admiring the view are not going to get me back into the shape I was once in.”
“We’ll be a little sore the first couple of weeks, but believe me, you’re going to see some real changes over the next few months, and you’re going to like what you see.”
Grant did indeed like the results he saw within a few weeks. He particularly noticed the way Barbara ran her nails across his chest after he showered and walked into the bedroom with only a towel wrapped around his tightening waistline. While he didn’t tell her, he was proud that she was noticing his progress.
Two months into what Ray referred to as his “Sirica boot camp program,” the changes were becoming even more noticeable. Grant’s body frequently balked at the demands he was putting upon it, but the increased passion of his and Barbara’s lovemaking more than compensated for a strain here and a little soreness there.
It had been a long time since Grant had caught Barbara looking at him longingly. This subtle but noticeable change in her increased his commitment to Ray’s rigorous workout program.
Ray admitted that he, too, had seen a change in Debbie. “She hasn’t shown this much interest in me, physically I mean, since we were both twenty-somethings. It’s nice getting some of that back.”
The Randolph’s cottage was in excellent condition, but it needed a lot of attention before Barbara and Grant would be genuinely pleased with its appearance. For starters, there was the hideous wallpaper in both the dining room and living room that had to go. The bedrooms, painted in soft shades of beige, probably a wise choice for a seller seeking to provide muted tones so as not to distract prospective buyers, was not to the Randolphs’ liking. Both of them believed that color gave a room life and personality.
“And,” as Barbara noted, going from room to room with Grant, “there are so many small changes that could make a big difference, like crown molding throughout, new windows, and new window treatments.”
It wasn’t their initial intention to sink more money into what was already an expensive home, but it was hard to resist.
“A home with world-class views, in an unquestionably beautiful setting, should present itself to the world with the tasteful touches it deserves,” Barbara reasoned.
In the evenings they sat on the high terrace holding cocktails and continued their enjoyment of sweeping bay panoramas. Ray had cautioned, “For the first six months, the views make it hard to turn away. Thank goodness it becomes less hypnotic after you’ve lived in your place for awhile.”
After much loving attention, Grant and Barbara created the look they had envisioned the first day they walked through the property.
It was time for both of them to look for other interests.
Barbara an
d Grant continued to enjoy Ray and Debbie’s company. And yet, after one more evening of hearing Ray talk about how you decide when to drop one nightwear designer and go with another, both of them decided it was time to widen their circle of friends.
To that end, Barbara happily accepted an invitation to a meet and greet luncheon at the Sausalito Women’s League. That same day, Grant committed to attending a meeting of the Sausalito Fine Arts Commission.
The Women’s League gathering was held in a century-old building that was an estate gift from the league’s founder, Dorothy Landau. Her granddaughter, Ethel Landau, spoke of her predecessor in reverential terms. She also gave Barbara a comprehensive history of the league.
A light luncheon was served with a mixed fruit cobbler for dessert prepared by, as Alma Samuels proudly announced, “Sausalito’s master chef, Warren Bradley.”
During this friendly but rather staid event, as Barbara later detailed for Grant, most of the conversation centered around an annual program called the Winter Follies, a holiday season satirical musical review of life in Sausalito.
Ethel shared a photo album of previous follies with Barbara and three other potential new members. Pointing to a chorus line of women with red cheeks and red noses, she explained that first year members are expected to join the “reindeer chorus.” Barbara smiled but was horrified by pictures of giggling women in ridiculous outfits.
Warren made a point of sitting next to Barbara for a brief time and told her how impressed he was with both she and her husband. But after those few moments, she thought that Grant was quite right in suggesting that something was off-putting about Sausalito’s gregarious gourmet.