Jane Austen in Boca

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  “I’m sure I would. And I’m not pushing the Polo Club. I know the place, as I said. It’s really no different, though there’s more posturing. It’s that I imagine you in a more refined environment. When I see you with Hy Marcus, I want to laugh.”

  “Hy’s a fool, I grant you, but a sweet fool.”

  “That’s the question: At our stage in life, do we want to mix with fools, sweet or otherwise?”

  “You think we should be more discriminating at ‘our stage in life’?”

  “I do. You know what the poet says: ‘And at my back I always hear time’s winged chariot hurrying near.’ I hear it, all right, and it’s starting to make quite a racket. Times’s running out for us, my darling. We need to use what we have left with—yes, to be blunt about it—discrimination; not waste our time with fools.” Mel’s voice had taken on resonance as though he had tapped into a deep well of private conviction. “I want my last years to be like a well-edited story or a fine, short poem,” he continued. “No fat, no excess; just pure, undiluted quality. That, my liebchen, is why I like you.”

  Though his tone had grown lighter again, Flo felt the force of his words and was silent.

  They were heading west on Alligator Alley, and Flo deduced they were on their way to the exclusive towns on Florida’s west coast. Once off-limits to Jews, these enclaves had recently been stormed by those looking to reduplicate the habits of earlier inhabitants and escape undue proximity to their peers. The west coast was also the site of some breathtaking scenery. Flo had visited several times, the last with Amy, who at twenty-one was finally too old for Disney World. Amy was partial to nice landscape and to the spectacle of what she called “a good stretch house”—that oversized habitation that was the house equivalent of a stretch limousine.

  “Mom and Dad are thinking of taking a place out here,” Amy explained when they drove past the mansions in Naples during an outing last spring. “Daddy wants to lord it over his old Newark buddies, and this is the way to do it: It’s the latest wall to be scaled. You know how he likes marauding into the old Wasp bastions and staking his claim or spilling his seed—ergo, moi, product of his union with my Mayflower mom. I’m encouraging him to buy something, preferably beachfront with lots of bed rooms so I can bring my friends for long, debauched parties when Mom and Dad are in Europe. But you have to promise me you won’t move out of Boca. I wouldn’t trade the shopping and the prime rib with baked potato at the club for all the cathedral ceilings and unspoiled landscape in the world.”

  Flo assured Amy that she shouldn’t worry; she had no intention of leaving Boca Festa.

  Now that the traffic had thinned and the Everglades had begun, Mel drove with one hand on the wheel, whistling. “I love it out here,” he said. “It’s unspoiled, it’s open, it makes me think possibility. You know I’m itching to get myself settled down so that I can do some serious writing. It’s been my dream to put on paper some of the experiences I’ve had.”

  “Your memoirs?” asked Flo, remembering Lila’s having mentioned this.

  “Well, possibly, but lately I’m thinking more fiction than fact. I’d draw on my own experiences, of course, but I like the freedom of being able to invent and embroider. I have an outline in a drawer and even a draft of some of the chapters. People I know in publishing have expressed interest. But it’s a matter of getting the time and the space to sit down and write. I’ve been hoping that soon I will. But writing’s a lonely business, and I like company.” He glanced meaningfully over at Flo.

  “I’m sure you could find company enough,” laughed Flo nervously.

  “Oh, but I mean the right company,” said Mel. And when Flo didn’t answer: “I’m thinking an intellectual soul mate as well as a companion. Someone who can act as my editor—and my muse.” Flo still said nothing, but she felt the compliment, and turned to look out the window so as not to show that she was blushing.

  The drive was a long one—almost four hours—and at one point, Mel pulled over and took a bottle of wine, a baguette, and a slab of cheese from a bag in the backseat. They took turns taking swigs from the bottle of wine, which made Flo feel as though they were teenagers, stealing off with their parents’ car for the day.

  “Simple fare, I’m afraid. But it’s not easy getting to the cas bah,” said Mel.

  Flo said she liked simple fare. “You’re an adventurer,” she said, then rephrased: “You like adventure.”

  “I do. I’ve never been satisfied with the humdrum and the ordinary. Life has so many pleasures, and we only go through once. It’s a matter of taking some risks, making some far-flung calculations. There are things I’d do differently, but overall, I accept who I am. You can’t teach an old dog.”

  “Not such an old dog,” said Flo. It was hot, and Mel had taken off his jacket and unbuttoned the top bottons of his shirt as they sat by the side of the road. She was struck once again by what a good-looking man he was.

  He gave her a deep look. “You don’t think so? That pleases me.” He leaned closer, so Flo could smell his aftershave as it mixed with the sweat that came with being outdoors in the Florida Everglades in the middle of the day. She stayed still for a moment, their faces close to each other, then she drew back.

  “It’s hot,” she said, “and if we’re going to the west coast, which I’ve deduced is the location of the casbah, we better get moving.” She put out of her mind the difficulty of covering so much distance for the return that night.

  When they approached Naples, Mel slowed, took a sheet of directions out of his pocket, then drove on for a few miles, finally pulling into a long driveway. It led to a sprawling postmodern castle with a wraparound porch on the second floor. He gave two short honks on his horn, and a portly man with a pompadour bounded out to greet them.

  “Mel Shirmer, as I live and breathe, what a surprise. I was hoping you’d be coming this way one of these days to take a look at our fair digs. And you’ve brought a lovely lady, I see. Scouting for the honeymoon, perhaps?”

  Flo shrank at the man’s crudeness, but Mel seemed amused. “No, no, Sid, just a joyride. I told her that I knew some of the prettiest scenery in Florida, and thought she might want to take a look at the homes you’re showing. She’s nicely settled in Boca Festa, so there’s no prospect of a sale. And no, Sid, we are two mature adults enjoying each other’s company, nothing more.” He winked at Flo.

  “Well, let me show you two around, just for the hell of it,” said Sid cheerfully, putting his arm on Flo’s to steer her in the right direction. Flo instinctively moved away, and Mel, sensing her discomfort, stepped forward and took her hand. “You never know what you ladies might fall in love with,” gushed Sid, “ladies being unpredictable that way. One thing I can tell you, I love house-sitting this place; it’ll be hard to get me out, eh, Mel? We both have a taste for luxury, though we can’t always afford it.”

  Mel laughed, and looked over at Flo, as if to say, Let’s indulge the man and take a look around.

  “This place is a dream,” continued Sid, “though it’s on a smaller scale than most around here. Just sold one up the road to a surgeon—the one who put back the hand on that girl pushed under the subway a few years ago; it was all over the Post. Big practice, very high-toned. Wanted something out of the way, private. They’ve got a home on the Riviera, and the one on Park Avenue, but this is their favorite. They love the seclusion. The sunsets. If you’re poetic—and I can see, Mel, that this is one poetic lady—the sunsets will really do it for you.”

  Flo said that, actually, she could take or leave sunsets.

  “But it’s the structure that’s the thing here,” Sid continued, unfazed. “Best materials, latest design; the Flettermans did it— they’re the big developers for West Florida. Top of the line. This one here’s a tad smaller, but the idea’s the same, nothing spared in the way of amenities. They’ll tear out the bathrooms for you, if you like, and do them to your specification.”

  Flo, who had begun to take a certain pleasure in thwarti
ng the man’s assumptions about her taste, murmured that bathrooms were not very important to her.

  “You don’t say? Well, you’re an exception. But Mel was always one for exceptional ladies. Most of them, though, like a good bathroom. And I can understand it. Living room is important; kitchen, yes. But bathroom. That’s where you’re going to spend the most time, when you get right down to it, and from my experience, ladies like bathrooms. But you’re exceptional.”

  Flo agreed that she must be. Mel laughed and squeezed her hand.

  “We have four bedrooms in this model,” Sid continued. “Can’t go with less than four around here. They say you need less space when you’re older, but that’s all wrong. The opposite is true. You need more—that is, if you can afford it. One for each of you—at our age, forget the romance, we need our own rooms. Then, there’s one for the children; one for the grand children—when you have a house like this, believe me, they visit—and, bam, you’re full up. Now, in Mel’s case, you might consider a larger model since you’d probably need to turn one of the bedrooms into a study. You don’t want to stop those creative juices. One thing I always said about Mel, he’s got plenty of creative juice.” Sid slapped Mel on the back, who laughed indulgently.

  “Sid, I already told you,” said Mel with mock exasperation, “we’re not looking for ourselves. Just taking a ride.”

  “Mel and I go way back, so I know his tastes,” interrupted Sid, speaking directly to Flo. “Mel’s modest. He doesn’t like to say things so direct. I’m Jerry Lewis; he’s Dean Martin, the cool one. It’s always been that way. I accept it.”

  As they drove away, Mel was apologetic. “I’ve known Sid forever, so you’ll have to excuse his style. We both grew up in the Bronx, and he, I’m afraid, never got very far beyond his roots. Couldn’t buckle down in school, never did very well in business. This real-estate gig is a big step up for him, and though he’s crude, I admit, I have affection for him. I’m loyal to my friends, you see, and I try not to judge them.”

  Flo said that she admired the trait.

  Mel had pulled into a stretch of beach and told her that he’d been here before on his own to admire the scenery. “I like this spot. I visit when I feel the need to put things in perspective. It helped during that Stan Jacobs thing. Grounded me; calmed me down.” He paused and then took Flo’s hand, looking at her as he recited, “ ‘Ah love, let us be true to one another, for in this world that seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, there is really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain—’ “

  “ ‘Dover Beach,’ “ said Flo. “It’s one of my favorite poems.”

  “I read it in college, and it stayed with me. It seemed to speak the truth.”

  “I don’t know about that,” objected Flo. “I used to think so when I was younger and liked to indulge the tragic perspective. But now, with life mostly behind me, I’m less pessimistic.”

  “You’re lucky My experience has reinforced what the poem says.” Mel spoke softly, but his voice had grown gruff with emotion. “I don’t have a very elevated view of human nature, you see. Comes with the territory, I guess. I’ve encountered some ugly things in my line of work”—-he paused and looked out to sea—”and I’ve been lonely.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Flo.

  “But I don’t feel lonely now.” He turned and looked deeply into her eyes. “I’d like never to be lonely again.” Then he leaned forward and kissed her. It was a strange feeling. She knew that at some point he was probably going to kiss her, but, even so, she wasn’t prepared. She felt his lips on hers and wanted to respond, but drew back. Part of her was resistant.

  “I like you,” said Mel. “I don’t want to spoil things.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  They drove to a small seafood restaurant nearby, where the owner seemed to know Mel and gave them a table toward the back.

  “There’s a hotel down the road,” said Mel. “I was hoping we could stay over and drive back tomorrow. Take our time.”

  Flo felt tempted, as she had guessed she might be, but again she resisted. “No, I’d like to get back, if you don’t mind,” she said. “It’s far, I know, and I’ll share the driving, but I have an appointment with the club pro in the morning, and I promised May I’d go with her to look for a dress for the Valentine’s Day dance. She’s been hocking me about it for a week.”

  “No problem,” said Mel. He was trying not to look disappointed.

  “I hope you’ll come to the dance. It’s Boca Festa’s gala event. From a strictly anthropological point of view, it’s worth seeing.”

  “Of course I’ll come,” said Mel, his voice deep with emotion. “If you ask me, I’ll go anywhere.” Then, regaining his more ebullient tone: “It’ll be something of an expedition in itself digging into my closet and dusting off the tux. It used to be an old friend: wore it almost every week, what with the diplomatic parties, the press club affairs, and so forth. But it’s been a while. It may be a little snug under the arms. Are you good enough with a needle to let it out?”

  “I’m afraid the needle and I have never hit it off,” said Flo, “but May’s a wonder when it comes to sewing. I know she won’t mind. She really loves to do things like that.”

  “Such a sweet woman,” Mel mused.

  “Norman Grafstein also, I’m convinced, is a genuinely good person,” added Flo. “Maybe a bit under the spell of his friend, but with the judgment and sense to make decisions on his own in a pinch.”

  “I hope so,” said Mel. “But I’d keep an eye out if I were you. Norman may seem nice, but he’s got a powerful influence in Stan Jacobs. And you never know what people’s motives really are.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  VALENTINE’S DAY WAS THE BIG ANNUAL EVENT AT BOCA FESTA. Other clubs went all out for New Year’s or for the spring gala that marked the end of the season for the “snow birds,” those who lived only half a year in Boca and flew north to children and grandchildren during the late spring and summer months. But Boca Festa had developed a unique affinity with Valentine’s Day ever since the wedding ten years ago of Phyllis Dickstein and Morris Kornfeld.

  The Dickstein-Kornfeld romance was legendary at Boca Festa. Phyllis and Morris had each been married to beloved spouses for almost fifty years, and had been widowed for several more before meeting each other. They shared the same mix of reverence for the past and joy in the present, which made their companionship seem a pleasing coda to two wonderful lives. In the ceremony marking their union, staged in the Boca Festa dining room, children and grandchildren on both sides had been present to give testimonials. Morris and Phyllis had spoken at length about their departed spouses, explaining to the assembled company that though they loved and admired each other, no one would ever hope to replace the lost loved one at the center of their affections. The entire ceremony was deemed “classy beyond words,” and when it was topped by an extravagant bequest for a yearly Valentine’s Day celebration, the couple entered the pantheon of Boca Festa Greats that included the millionaire developer who had endowed the poolside cabanas and the best selling author of Keeping Slim Over Sixty, who had given money to keep the Boca Festa salad bar stocked with tofu (“the secret,” she said, “of feeling full without blowing up like a balloon”).

  Morris Kornfeld had worked on Madison Avenue and, ad man that he was, had not been content to bankroll the Valentine’s Day event; he had also stipulated certain rituals. These were simple: He wanted the club, as he put it, “to bond” during the festivities, and mandated that a period after the main course and before the dessert be set aside for interested guests to stand and pay tribute to important relationships in their lives, past or present. He conceived of the testimonials as proceeding in the manner of a Quaker meeting, until someone pointed out that Quakers were supposedly anti-Semitic at some point in their history, and the analogy was dropped. In any case, it became a source of delight and pride on the part of many Boca Festa residents to take part in the Val
entine’s Day event, using it to wax nostalgic about dead spouses, to celebrate friendships, to boast about the engagements of children and grandchildren, and, most popular, if rarer, to announce the engagements of residents themselves.

  The Valentine’s Day dinner-dance was, owing to its generous budget, the most lavish of the many lavish affairs at Boca Festa. Decor, food, and clothes were important features of any Boca Raton event. The gold standard was the Long Island bar mitzvah and, given that the inhabitants of Boca Festa had been to many of these, every effort was made to imitate such affairs to mark the seasonal passage of time and the principal secular holidays throughout the year. Religious holidays were never formally celebrated at the club. Most of the inhabitants were Jewish, but there was a tacit understanding that the festivities be maintained on a purely secular level. There were several reasons for this. For one, religious holidays were conventionally spent up north with the children and grandchildren, who, it was believed, were likely to lapse into total nonobservance were their elders not present to make them feel guilty about it. And what would the holidays be, after all, without at least one substantial fight that both sides could stew over for months afterward and make the subject of lengthy long-distance phone calls?

  Another reason why the club steered away from religious observance was because there was considerable disparity in the piety of the residents. Some had not attended synagogue for years; others remained dutifully attached to the major rites and rituals; there was even a small contingent that observed kosher dietary practices—perhaps five percent, for whom special meals were provided—though they were impossible to differentiate on the golf course from their more secular peers. Overall, it was the unspoken view that the club was a social community rather than a religious one: The members were bound together less by faith and ceremony than by similar life experiences in the New York boroughs and suburbs, by a shared sense of humor and taste in food, and by resemblances in the education and accomplishments of their children, whose lifestyles they could all boast about and disapprove of in the same basic proportion.