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I look around and view my new home from her perspective—the groves with the fruit trees, the fields of grains, all the fluffy livestock, and most importantly, the ocean surf in the distance.
Yep. Sometimes I pinch myself to make sure this is my life. Until Evan set this whole thing up, I didn’t even think beachfront farms were a thing, but it turns out they are. You just have to make sure the soil is fertile, but that’s something you need to do on any farm. There are challenges, for sure, like the equipment corroding faster because of the ocean air, but there are benefits as well, like fewer pests, which makes it easier to keep our food organic.
“What I can’t believe is that she agreed to become a Floridian,” Dorothy says. “There’s no good pizza anywhere in sight, and no landmarks.”
Evan makes a killer pizza, and St. Augustine has plenty of landmarks, but I don’t want to argue. “Couldn’t help it,” I say instead. “After the wedding, Reagan teamed up with Evan until they chipped away at every argument I could come up with against moving.”
Not that I minded the move at all, but my friends are such ardent New Yorkers that I have to at least pretend that I put up a fight.
“Well, you shouldn’t have had the wedding in Florida,” Jolene says sagely. “Or sent Reagan to that camp again.”
She’s right. Between the wedding and all that time at the camp, Reagan fell madly in love with the Sunshine State. “In my defense, I really wanted my wedding at the Cathedral Basilica.” I gesture in the general direction of St. Augustine.
“And the reception at the Lightner Museum,” Dorothy says in a droll tone.
“And your honeymoon at the Casa Monica Hotel,” Jolene echoes, in an eerily similar tone.
I sigh contentedly. “It was the wedding of my dreams.”
Jolene gently elbows Dorothy. “She’s so sweet it’s going to give us diabetes.”
“That’s not how you get it,” Dorothy says and launches into a lecture about all the greens she’s been unable to convince Jolene to consume.
“Where is the birthday boy?” Jolene demands, cutting short Dorothy’s diatribe about kale.
I point toward the ocean. “He and Evan went surfing.”
The two have become thick as thieves, and sometimes I catch myself wondering if Reagan prefers Evan to me—and I don’t resent it. Not at all. Not even when they reject my offer to play Scrabble in favor of a violent video game. Nor when they have a nerf gun fight without me—all because I once said, “If you keep at this, someone might lose an eye.”
“Is the party a surprise?” Jolene asks.
I nod. “Everyone’s waiting. We should hurry and join them.”
We head for the mansion—and yes, that is the most accurate word to describe our house.
“It’s so big.” Dorothy gapes at our not-so-humble abode.
“That’s what she said,” Jolene loudly whispers. “The first time she saw Toto, that is.”
“You promised not to talk about dildos today,” Dorothy hisses, flushing.
“Can I talk about real dicks?” Jolene gestures at the mansion. “More specifically, is Evan compensating for something?”
It’s my turn to blush. “Our house is actually quite proportional to what you are insinuating.”
“Oh.” Jolene tips an invisible hat. “Is that why it’s so big?”
“It was actually Reagan’s idea.” I narrow my eyes at Jolene so she knows any jokes about my son are off limits.
“It was?” Dorothy asks.
“He read about Florida’s Homestead Exemption somewhere,” I say with a grin. “And then convinced Evan that a primary residence in this state might well be worth a ton of money since no creditor can ever take it from you, not even the IRS.”
“We’re talking about the same Reagan who’s turning ten today?” Dorothy asks.
I attempt to nod nonchalantly—a fail because I’m beaming with enough pride to start a parade.
When we reach the ornate doors, they detect the Glorp on my wrist and open automatically—an Octothorpe technology synergy that is as creepy as it is useful.
