Florence Adler Swims Forever(73)

Stuart raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head, as if he were taking it all in.

“I’m actually thinking about buying some property myself. West of West Palm Beach. A big citrus farm near Lake Okeechobee. It was bought by a developer who went under. My friend’s got me a deal, paying thirty dollars an acre. You can get a lot of acreage at that price.”

“Would you move down there? Build on it?”

Isaac shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get Fannie out of Atlantic City. Not after—”

Florence. Definitely not the best topic to bring up right now. Stuart looked at Isaac, then out at the horizon. “Right.”

“The beauty is, you don’t need to move down there to make money. The prices are going to go up.”

Stuart reminded Isaac to adjust his oars. The sea was getting rough.

“I’ve actually got a few friends going in on it with me. It’s a big enough parcel of land—a hundred acres—that it makes sense to buy in together.” Isaac swallowed and then went for it. “It might even be something you’d be interested in.”

The Covington was coming into clearer focus, and Isaac watched Stuart look for it among the other grande dames that lined the beach.

“If you’re anything like me,” said Isaac, “you want something that’s yours. This might be—”

Before Isaac could get the rest of the sentence out, a big wave crashed over the side of the boat and sent him flying into the ocean. The water swirled around him and he panicked, unable to tell up from down. He flapped his arms and kicked his legs, desperately trying to appropriate a swim stroke but he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t orient himself. Is this what Florence had felt like, frightened and alone in a dark cocoon of briny water?

Isaac felt something bump against his back. Was it the boat? A piece of driftwood? He tried to grasp it, couldn’t. But then he felt someone grab him from behind and realized Stuart had found him—miraculously—in the nubilous water. Stuart pulled Isaac to the surface, where he grabbed a large mouthful of air before being pushed under the water again and rolled onto Stuart’s rescue can. The can buoyed him back up to the surface and he held it tight while Stuart pulled him over to the boat, which had drifted a dozen or more yards away.

“Hold on,” Stuart yelled as he hauled himself into the boat, then quickly reached down into the water and grabbed Isaac under the armpits. “I’m lifting on three. One, two, three.” Isaac felt his weight shift, his belt catch on the lip of the boat, but he was too exhausted to help Stuart in any way.

The boat had taken in at least six inches of water, which lapped against Isaac’s leather loafers—now ruined. Stuart didn’t say a word as he rowed the rest of the way back to the Kentucky Avenue stand. Isaac’s oars remained still—perched in the oarlocks—while Isaac stared at the sky and tried to collect himself. He would have liked to break the silence, once he recovered himself, but he wasn’t sure where to begin. After Stuart drove the boat onto the beach, Isaac stood, carefully, and tried a simple “thank you.”

“Sure,” said Stuart as he popped the cork plug on the bottom of the boat to let the water drain.

Isaac began to panic. He couldn’t let one badly timed wave kill his chances with Stuart. He reached for his wallet, forgetting that his cards would be useless, also soaked through.

“You can find me at the plant,” he said, after he’d shoved the wet wallet deep down into his pocket, “if you’d like to learn more about that opportunity in Florida. I’d love to—”

“You’re something,” Stuart said, interrupting him. “You nearly drowned out there.” He positioned the rollers in front of the boat and instructed Isaac to lift.

“I know. And I appreciate what you did, saving me.”

“Here’s what I’d appreciate,” Stuart said, when the boat was up and they’d begun pushing it back to the stand. “I’d appreciate you remembering that, while I may be a nice guy, I’m not a complete idiot.”

Isaac stopped pushing. “I never said you were.”

“We’ve known each other for almost a decade, and you’ve never spoken more than two words to me. On the day you decide to take up rowing, you also have a cockamamie real estate deal you want me to—what—invest in? Pitch to my father? You know I don’t actually have access to any cash?”

Isaac didn’t know what to say to that. If Stuart didn’t have access to his father’s checkbook, he was as unlikely an investor as Gussie was. And Isaac’s plan to raise the rest of the money was as worthless as any he’d ever concocted. Isaac shuddered at the idea of admitting to Fannie that he’d squandered more of their savings but what he really couldn’t stomach was the thought of going back to his father empty-handed, of admitting that the old man’s hard-earned money was gone.

“I was just making conversation, Stuart. No need to get upset.”

“Well, next time you want to make conversation, why don’t you do it on dry land?”

Stuart’s words stung. Who was he to order Isaac around? Isaac felt the urge to hit him or, at the very least, to shove him—hard—onto the packed sand. He clenched his fists, then unclenched them and wrung the water out of his shirttails instead. There had to be a better way to get what he wanted. There almost always was.