This Is Not How It Ends(42)
“Jimmy.” He hesitated. “You’re going to have to stay here with me tonight. Carla has an emergency.”
Jimmy scowled, but he didn’t argue. I reminded Ben of my offer to sit. He stepped away from Jimmy and closer to me. “Nighttime is hard for him. He’s comfortable with me, with Carla. He gets anxious . . .”
The beach quieted, and the water slapped the shore. Ben was dressed in his chef’s jacket with baggy black pants. He plopped himself in a nearby chair, seafoam green, and Jimmy sauntered over, a pout on his face. “Dad, I don’t want to stay here tonight.”
My eyes dug into Ben, forcing him to think about the date. He was stroking Jimmy’s arm and glanced in my direction. “What if Charlotte watches you?”
Jimmy thought about this.
“I won’t be late, buddy. I’ll do my best to get out of here early.”
Jimmy hesitated. “You promise?”
“I promise.”
Ben handed me a piece of paper with their address and Jimmy’s allergy instructions. This was on top of the restrictions from Liberty, which expired in a couple of hours. I read the familiar list, feeling terribly sorry for Jimmy, but worse for Ben. “I won’t let anything happen to him. You know that.”
“There’s a pizza place nearby where you can order gluten-free pizza. Tell them it’s for Jimmy. They know what he likes.” He stopped before adding, “I really appreciate you doing this for us, Charlotte.” There was no mistaking the sincerity in his voice.
The Keys were an eclectic mix of cozy cottages, trailers, and multimillion-dollar homes. Whether they were in plain sight or hidden behind towering hedges or modest gates, you could imagine what they looked like by their names: Hip Nautic. Reel Paradise. Beach Daze.
Jimmy stopped in front of an aluminum entryway and punched in a code. Soon we were walking down a gravelly road toward a modern structure high above the ground. I didn’t see a visible name, so I asked Jimmy.
“We’ve never been able to decide,” he said. “Daddy likes Thyme Out, you know, like the seasoning. I like The Boys’ Clubhouse.” Approaching the home with no name, Jimmy quickened his pace and bounced up the steps. Sunny and I followed, and when we reached the top, I stopped, mesmerized by what stood before me. The home was made of glass. You could literally see through the transparent walls to the ocean. No blinds, no curtains, a seamless shift from indoors to out.
This “boys’ clubhouse” was anything but. A spacious airiness greeted us—contemporary luxe, almost un-lived in. Clean lines, minimalistic furniture, and lots of light and glass made up the design. The stark contrast between Morada Bay and Ben’s home was astounding, and I was surprised to see the many sides to his personality. The restaurant emanated a cozy warmth; we had just entered a stunning structure where I was afraid to touch anything. Jimmy’s cheeks seemed to lighten as we walked through the ultramodern house. You could tell he was content here—used to people’s reactions—and Sunny began an immediate inspection. New territory was his buffet, and he was sniffing for morsels of food, though his prospects were slim. The place was spotless.
“Want to see my room?” he asked.
“Of course!”
He scampered off, and Sunny and I followed. Without walls, the palms and the banyans became the natural tapestries. Through the branches and leaves, the pale blue of the Gulf came into view. “Jimmy, this is beautiful. I already have a few names in mind.”
He smiled, and I saw him slowly relax. Up ahead, the door to his room held a hand-painted sign: “Boys Only. Girls Keep Out.” Jimmy stopped me before entering. “You’re not really a girl.” His compliment, or insult, amused me.
If Ben’s home was the pinnacle of sophisticated simplicity, then Jimmy’s room was its contradiction. Stepping through the doorway, we were immediately greeted by warmth and chaos. A platform bed rested against the far wall, overlooking the water. Navy and white pillows flanked the thick comforter. Literally piles of them. The walls were covered in layers of artwork. I entered the room and began at one side, where the paintings were simplistic and rudimentary. Moving through the room, the trajectory changed, and the technique became intricate and detailed. Steely skyscrapers, bold cityscapes, Central Park’s leafy trees. The far side of the room was a collection of oil paintings. Close-ups of faces, a few I could make out as Ben’s. A large, blistery sun. A little boy standing between his parents, holding both of their hands.
“Jimmy, are these yours?”
Crimson covered his cheeks.
I was admiring the walls, but I was speechless. The vast number of drawings had to span years. There was barely an inch of remaining wall space. By the window, an easel stood overflowing with supplies: brushes and paints mixed with crayons and fine pencils. Rolls of paper covered the floor. The room was a mess, but an enchanting mess.
“Jimmy,” I gasped. “These are amazing. Do you have someone who helps you? Like in school?” I touched some of the textures. “They must know how talented you are.”
He shrugged.
“Jimmy, your teachers know about the art, don’t they?”
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go outside.” Letting it go for now, I followed him through bright-orange curtains that opened at the touch of a button, revealing glass doors and an enclosed balcony with stairs. Jimmy raced down the steps while I took my time admiring the view. Sunny ran past me, chasing after Jimmy.