Eleven
Christmas at the Uptown
Owning a place in Vieques made winter—our least favorite season—much easier to face. The mere thought of our sun-drenched tropical retreat helped chase away our winter blues.
And yet, in an odd way, owning the house made winter harder. There it sat, empty, warm and inviting, while we were stuck in bleak, shivery Washington, fifteen hundred miles north.
Still, it gave us time to get organized.
And there was plenty to organize that first year. Michael, an inveterate list-maker, began compiling a master list of all the things that needed to be done to the house in the next couple of years.
It was daunting.
Upper floor
•Gut and replace the kitchen
•Rip out the jerrybuilt linen closet in the bathroom
•Install ceiling fans throughout
•Replace all the electrical outlets
•Paint and furnish
Middle floor
•Rip out the kitchen and bathroom as well as the plywood closets in both bedrooms
•Reconfigure the existing rooms—in other words, tear down various walls and build new ones—to create an additional bedroom at the back, a dining area with French doors at the front, and a new kitchenette
•Install a new bathroom and new floors throughout
Bottom floor
•Clean and paint the “guest” rooms to serve as lock-ups for our personal items
•Rip out the bathroom, paint the walls and floors, and install a washer and dryer to create a laundry room
‘Later’
•Install a staircase to connect the upper and middle floors
•Plaster and paint the unfinished side of the house
‘Someday, when our ship comes in’
•Terrace the side yard and install a pool
•Quit our jobs and retire
Michael showed me the list.
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” I wailed.
Then I made myself a drink.
He gave me his best “please calm down” look. Then he poured himself a double.
Fortified by tequila, we sat down to create a separate list of stuff we’d need just to make the house habitable within the next few months (we doubted it would be ready for our upcoming trip in February, but maybe we could knock it into shape by late spring or early summer).
As far as renting out the house was concerned, we couldn’t even bring ourselves to think about the things our potential guests might need once we put the house on the market.
That list would take shape in its own good time.
☼ ☼ ☼
Setting up housekeeping from scratch is something you do once (maybe twice) in your lifetime, usually when you’re young and a tiny bit stupid and find that sort of thing exciting.
When you’re middle-aged and stressed and have to figure out how every last item you buy is going to get transported to an island in the middle of the Caribbean, it’s a smidge less thrilling.
Still, we soldiered on.
Michael became obsessed with the website of the now-defunct Linens ’n Things. As one of the only U.S. purveyors of household items willing to ship to Puerto Rico, LNT became our favorite cyberstore. We ordered forty-two items the first week.
Poor Daniel.
Speaking of Daniel, he called in early January and asked if he could get a few projects going—shoring up the terrace columns on the bottom level, gutting the downstairs bathroom, building two sets of concrete steps to replace crumbling stoops in the side yard.
He seemed almost human.
Yes, of course, Michael told him, surprised by the rare note of enthusiasm in his voice.
Clearly the boxes from Sears hadn’t arrived yet.
☼ ☼ ☼
Winter descended.
We thought about Vieques a lot. I propped a framed photo of the house next to my office computer and stared at it with more ardor than I’ve ever stared at a picture of a loved one.
I was definitely a goner.
Our lives thrummed along at their usual pace, but with a slight upbeat. We went to work every day, made dinner, got together with friends. But thoughts of Vieques crept into everything we did, adding an unexpected zing to our little world.
Sometimes we wondered what we had dreamed about before the island came along. We wondered how we had imagined ourselves in old age–because now we had a very clear image of ourselves in our twilight years.
Michael: puttering around in the garden, mumbling to himself, weed-whacking everything in sight.
Me: sitting on the balcony clutching a martini in my gnarled hand, gazing wistfully out to sea.
And although I have no illusions about old age, I can’t wait to spend more time in Vieques.
☼ ☼ ☼
For Christmas that year we made a solemn pledge to give each other thoroughly practical presents—in other words, things we needed for the house in Vieques—and nothing more. Needless to say, we both caved in at the last minute and exchanged spectacularly pointless stocking-stuffers.
Once we had exclaimed politely over our respective stashes on Christmas morning, and eaten a delicious lunch at our favorite Chinese restaurant in Cleveland Park, we migrated over to the Uptown Theater on Connecticut Avenue for a mid-afternoon matinee.
It was a bleak, frigid day, but the ladies in front of us were in rare form. We couldn’t help wondering if perhaps they’d fortified themselves against the elements with a pitcher or two of Bloody Marys.
It seemed they were about to embark on a New Year’s break in Anguilla, where their oldest, dearest friend owned a house.
“I can’t believe that cow didn’t offer us a discount!” one wailed.
“And we’ve known her since grade school,” said another.
“Typical,” a third grumbled.
I couldn’t help adding my two cents.
“She’s probably just trying to cover her expenses.”
Three aghast faces turned to me in unison.
“Excuse me?” the ring leader barked.
“Um,” I gulped, as Michael edged slowly away from me, “we just bought a house in Puerto Rico, and we’re thinking of renting it out someday.”
They continued to stare.
“There are a lot of hidden costs when you own a second home,” I yammered on. “Maybe your friend has a rule about saving money by not offering discounts to anyone except relatives.”
They burst into merry laughter.
“Honey, you’ve got her all wrong. She’s rich as cream,” one of them said. “Just cheap.”
About that time an equally well-coiffed lady walked past sporting a Birkin bag. (Yes, allow me to apologize in advance, but I happen to know what a Birkin bag looks like.)
“Angela!” one of our ladies screamed. “Sweetheart!”
She embraced Angela in the fashion of ladies who lunch, projecting loud air kisses left and right.
“Hello, Ellen,” said Angela with the warmth of a fruit bat.
The other two ladies each took her turn wrangling an awkward hug from Angela, whose expression remained faultlessly neutral, if not downright catatonic.
An uncomfortable silence ensued. It occurred to me that Angela was the owner of the house in Anguilla and that her erstwhile chums were terrified she had overheard them dissing her.
After an excruciatingly awkward pause Ellen gestured to us.
“We were just telling these gentlemen about your vacation home,” she said.
“Oh?” Angela replied, arching a ruthlessly plucked eyebrow.
“Yes, darling,” Ellen gushed. “We were telling them what a fabulous deal you gave us.”
More silence.
“They own a Caribbean home too,” Ellen rushed on.
Angela turned to us, ignoring her friend with the majesty of a mastiff ignoring a gnat.
“Where is your house?”
I felt unaccountably nervous, as if the Queen had single
d me out for a chat at a Buckingham Palace garden party.
“Vieques.”
More silence still.
“Bombs,” she said at last.
It took a few moments for this to sink in.
“They left,” I said.
“The bombs?”
“The Navy.”
“So it’s quiet now?”
“Except for the roosters.”
Her Birkin bag wiggled slightly. I suspected a small dog. Or maybe a transplant organ.
“Do you have a card?’
“I’m afraid not.”
“Are you online?’
“Not yet.”
“Good luck.”
And with that she was gone.
Twelve
Orange You Sorry?
It’s important to enjoy those happy little surprises life throws your way—you know, things like finding a twenty dollar bill in a pair of jeans you haven’t worn for months or meeting the love of your life when you’ve completely given up hope. But it’s also important to savor those delicious moments you know are coming your way.
At the very top of my list of all-time anticipated pleasures is flying from D.C. to San Juan on a dreary February day, walking out of the airport into the hot, moist air, and tilting my Vitamin D-deprived face upwards to the relentless equatorial sun.
Sheer, unadulterated bliss.
When we touched down in San Juan, that first February, we almost sprinted to the door of the terminal. We were addicts chasing a long-awaited fix—the fix being sun and heat. It was so satisfying I almost bummed a cigarette from one of the gossiping taxi drivers loitering on the sidewalk out front.
We were back. (Or almost. There was always the tiny irritant of the puddle jumper and the ensuing sweaty palms, but I didn’t care.) Daniel met us at the airport in Vieques.
“How are things at the house?” I asked as we tossed our luggage into the back of his monster truck.
“Fine, as far as I know.”
This wasn’t exactly the comforting answer I’d hoped for.
“Meaning…you haven’t been there lately…or what?”
He shot me a look.
“Oh, I’ve been there,” he drawled. “And everything’s okay. No drama.”
☼ ☼ ☼
The great room of the upper floor was piled high with half-opened boxes from Sears and Linens ‘N Things. It was pandemonium.
Pandemonium
I opened my mouth to ask if there had been an off-season hurricane but knew instinctively to keep quiet. Maybe Daniel had begun the unpacking process and had simply collapsed in shame from exposure to non-designer products.
After allowing us exactly five minutes upstairs (yes, I saw him look at his watch), he corralled us downstairs to inspect the projects he’d actually managed to complete.
Admittedly, everything he had done looked well-executed.
“Nice job,” Michael said.
“Yes, well,” Daniel began, glancing at his watch again, “I’m happy to do what I can.”
He glanced towards the driveway like a dog straining on its leash.
“I guess we’ll finish opening the boxes when you’re gone,” I threw out.
“Good luck,” he said, all but rolling his eyes. “By the way, I hope you’re not staying here at the house,” he added, looking around with undisguised horror.
“Nope,” I said. “It’s just not practical this time.”
“Obviously,” he agreed with a shiver. “I assume you’re staying at Martineau Bay?”
This was the island’s only resort (later to become the W Hotel)—expensive and definitely not our thing.
“Actually,” I began, milking the moment for all it was worth, “we’re staying at the Puerto Real Inn.”
This was a lovely mid-island hostelry—with a truly excellent restaurant attached—that we’d discovered during our second visit to the island.
“Oh my gosh!” he replied, giggling nervously as though I’d told him we were staying in a yurt.
“Anyway,” I said, “thanks for picking us up. Let’s meet later this week to go over next steps.”
He seemed taken aback.
“Hmm, I’m not sure that’s going to work. Frankly I’ve got a lot going on right now,” he replied, stalling as if I’d asked him to the prom.
But I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.
“We’re free anytime—morning, noon, or night. I’m sure you can fit us in.”
He stared at his Blackberry for what seemed like an eternity before answering.
“I’ll do my best!” he announced through clenched teeth, fronted by a stunningly insincere smile.
With that, he waddled out to his truck, climbed in and sped away.
☼ ☼ ☼
I left a couple of messages for Daniel that week. Eventually he called back, sounding thoroughly peeved.
I reeled off a list of things we wanted done before our return in April, including having the upstairs interior painted.
“I’m going to paint a swatch on the wall and leave the can right below it so there won’t be any confusion. Also, I’ll register the color at Nales.”
This was the biggest hardware store on the island, which—I had learned to my delight—kept a registry of paint colors categorized by customer name.
I wasn’t about to leave anything to chance with this lightweight.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll get it done.”
I could almost picture him stamping his cloven hoof.
“Also, we’re stopping in San Juan on our way home to buy more furniture. We’ll send you a list of what we’ve bought so you’ll know what to expect.”
I could almost feel his disdain rolling towards me in giant waves.
“Fabulous. Enjoy your stay.”
☼ ☼ ☼
Actually, we did.
Every morning after breakfast at the hotel, we drove over to the house and puttered around for a few hours. We took lots of photos, made copious notes and generally started getting the feel of our new space.
Then we headed to the beach. Every day.
By the end of the week we’d made a few crucial decisions. If we were going to get the upstairs level of the house on the rental market in time for the coming season we’d need to return to the island as often as possible in the coming months. This meant, essentially, that we had no more than nine months (or, to put it even more alarmingly, no more than two or three visits to the island) to get the upstairs ready for prime time.
Once we stopped hyperventilating, we told ourselves that this was do-able.
Maybe.
I chose a buttery yellow for the upstairs interior and not only painted a section of wall with the color I’d selected but duly registered it (as promised) in the hardware store’s color book.
Oddly, once we were back in D.C. Daniel suddenly became more communicative. He emailed us every couple of weeks with updates detailing what he was accomplishing, and he even attached the occasional photo. In late March he emailed us shots of the great room, after it had been painted and with the subject line, Fabulous color.
I was lying on the sofa watching TV when Michael opened the photos.
“Looks nice,” he said, pausing ominously, “but that’s not the color we chose.”
I sat up and peered at the screen.
“It looks yellow to me.”
He stared at the image.
“Not really.”
This got me to my feet. He was right. It didn’t look yellow.
“Maybe it’s just the light,” I said hopefully, refusing to believe that my absolutely foolproof system for making sure the right color ended up on the walls had failed.
“Maybe,” Michael said, squinting at the screen.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I concluded, willing myself to believe everything was okay.
But I wasn’t sure.
At all.
☼ ☼ ☼
We returned to Vieques in late April, just in time
for my birthday. I couldn’t imagine a nicer way to commemorate not only my fifty-second year but also the second anniversary of our introduction to our newly-adopted land.
This time Rod met us at the airport.
He was quieter than Daniel and seemingly much more pleasant. When I thanked him for picking us up he smiled.
“All part of the service,” he said.
But the conversation went downhill from there.
In response to my idle question, “How’s everything?” he launched into a tirade about some guests he’d quarreled with earlier that day.
“The woman actually complained about insects!” he moaned. “I told her if she doesn’t like bugs she’s in the wrong place.”
Hmm. If there was one thing I’d learned from my days as a hotel concierge, it was that you should always treat guests as if they were, uh, guests.
“Maybe no one warned her,” Michael suggested. “The mosquitoes can get pretty fierce down here.”
But Rod wasn’t having it.
“I dropped off a can of bug spray, but she said she didn’t like covering herself with chemicals. I felt like spraying it in her face.”
It was beginning to dawn on me that Rod wasn’t a kinder, gentler version of Daniel after all.
We arrived at the house. After watching us wrangle our suitcases up the back steps (and pointedly not offering to help), Rod unlocked the door and stood aside for us to enter.
Everything was more or less the way we’d left it in February. The only change was that the walls had been painted the wrong color.
I walked through all three upstairs rooms before commenting, determined to make sure I had my facts straight. Not that the facts were particularly difficult to comprehend—the walls had been painted light orange instead of yellow.
Back in the great room, Rod was standing at the glass doors gazing down towards the ocean.
“This isn’t the color we chose,” I blurted out.
“Yes, it is,” he said without turning around.
Michael spoke up.
“Actually the color we chose was yellow. This isn’t.”
Rod turned towards us now, his face flushed.
“This is the color the hardware store said you chose. That’s all I know.”
The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House Page 7