Bianca was out of town the next three days on a trip to the West Coast for an interview. Though I’d felt like our relationship had truly started to push past the crap I’d pulled, something was still not sitting right with me. I’d racked my brain trying to figure out why Bianca’s mother looked so familiar, but I couldn’t seem to place where we’d met. And she certainly didn’t seem to recognize me either, albeit years had passed and I wasn’t a teenage boy anymore.
Throughout the day, I was swamped at the office. Even though I was able to immerse myself in my work, an unsettled feeling lurked in the background. By the end of the day it had grown and caused me to lose my concentration. Unable to focus, I picked up the phone and decided to call my father. On the second ring, my secretary walked in and placed a stack of papers she’d just finished photocopying on my desk. I hung up the phone, thinking better of calling him to fish around for details and instead spoke to Josephine. “Before you leave for the day, can you make some last minute travel arrangements? I need to fly first thing in the morning. I’ll also be needing a rental car once I land.”
“Of course. Where do you need to be?”
“West Palm Beach. I’m heading down to see my father.”
Palm Beach International Airport was the total opposite of JFK, that was for sure. Everything seemed to move at a slower pace. It was a weird thing to feel almost relaxed at an airport. The vibe was definitely different down here.
Since I wasn’t staying more than one night, I had no checked luggage. I dialed my father as soon as I exited the sliding glass doors. The heat and humidity outside nearly melted my face instantly.
“Dad, where are you right now? I flew down, just landed at PBI.”
“Am I dying and don’t know about it?” he joked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why else would you be visiting me? It’s been how long since I’ve gotten you down here?”
“Well, I have to talk to you about something important, and I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone, come see you personally. It’s been a while.”
“It certainly has.”
“Are you home?”
“No, actually. I’m at The Breakers.”
“I’ll meet you there. I’m just getting my rental car, and I’ll head straight over.”
“Okay, son. See you soon.”
After I picked up the Mercedes, I drove over the bridge that connected West Palm Beach to the exclusive island of Palm Beach. Driving past the famous Mar-a-Lago Club with its high hedges, I remembered my parents dragging me to a party there as a child and seeing Donald Trump. We’d spent many winters and holidays down in this posh, private community.
Driving down the road, to my right was a view of the aquamarine-colored ocean. To my left were the mansions—some Spanish-style, some with more modern glass-encased architecture. Tourists and residents leisurely strolled the sidewalks in beach attire, looking like they didn’t have a care in the world; I envied them.
I finally arrived at the The Breakers, a Renaissance-style resort where my father often met other retired CEOs for lunch. I knew he also spent a lot of time at a millionaire’s club down the road on Peruvian Avenue.
The breeze from the palm trees was a welcome contrast to city life. I couldn’t help but wish that Bianca were here to soak in some of this fresh air with me. That reminded me to book a vacation for us as soon as she was ready. I imagined how amazing it would have been to frolic on the beach with her here. I just knew her luscious ass would look amazing in a bikini.
Walking into the hotel reminded me why my father loved it down here. The whole island catered to the glitterati. He was totally in his element. It was a palatial explosion of pastels and money.
I’d texted him at the valet station, and he met me in the lobby.
My father offered a quick hug, patting me on the back. “Dex…so good to see you, son.”
“You, too.”
I wasn’t sure if it was the lighting or what, but my father looked a lot older than the last time I’d seen him. Despite that, he was in pretty good shape for his age because he made a point to stay active every day.
“We were just having lunch out on the balcony. Smoked salmon and capers prepared by Chef Jon. Why don’t you join us?”
“Who’s we?”
“Myra and some friends.”
Myra was my father’s most recent wife. She looked like many of the women down here: heavily blonde, Chanel-clad and tweaked by lots of plastic surgery. Let’s not forget the small fluffy dog by her side at all times. I was pretty sure Caroline would turn into a Myra someday.