Gold Coast

Okay, but then what was she doing sitting home alone? Why did the few interesting, eligible men she had met since Frank’s death show up once or twice and then seem to vanish?

2

IN MAY, five months a widow-exactly a year from the time of the double-standard disagreement, the argument with Frank, the ultimatum-Karen was seated in Ed Grossi’s private office on the thirty-ninth floor of the Biscayne Tower.

The sign on the double-door entrance to the suite said DORADO MANAGEMENT CORPORATION.

Karen could ask Ed Grossi what Dorado Management managed and he would tell her, oh, apartment buildings, condominiums; that much would probably be true. She could ask him who all the men were, waiting in the lobby, and Grossi would say, oh, suppliers, job applicants, you know. His tone patient. Ask anything. What do you want to know?

But if she were to probe, keep asking questions, she knew from experience the explanation that began simply would become complicated, involved, the words never describing a clear picture.

They sat with glossy-black ceramic coffee mugs on his clean desk, and Karen listened as Grossi said, “Well, it looks like you’re worth approximately four million.”

Karen said, “Really?” Noncommittal. She had thought it might be much more.

“There was a tax lien that had to be straightened out, some business interests of Frank’s sold-I won’t go into all that unless you want me to.”

Four million.

She still had nearly two hundred thousand of her own in stocks and savings, plus the thirty-five thousand cash-in one hundred dollar bills-she had found in Frank’s file cabinet.

“Do I get it in a lump sum?”

Ed Grossi seemed alone and far away on the other side of the clean desk, the Miami Beach skyline behind him, through a wall of glass. Mild Ed Grossi sitting on top of it all. He wore black, heavy-framed glasses and was holding them in a way to see through the bifocal area clearly, looking down at a single sheet of paper on his desk.

“According to the way Frank set it up, the money’s held in trust.”

“Oh,” Karen said, and waited for the complicated explanation.

“In Miami General Revenue bonds, four million at six percent, two hundred and forty thousand a year. How’s that sound?”

“Do I pay tax on it?”

“No, they’re municipal bonds, the earnings are tax-free. Two-forty or, the way it’s set up, twenty thousand a month as long as you live.”

Karen waited. There was a catch, she felt sure, certain stipulations. “What if I want to take the entire two hundred and forty thousand, all at once?”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. I’m saying what if. Are the bonds in my name?”

“No, Dorado Management. You remember the lawyer explaining it? Frank appointed Dorado administrator of his estate.”

“I thought he appointed you,” Karen said.

“No, the corporation. Answer your question, yes, you can take the entire two hundred forty thousand for a given year in one payment but, for your own protection, it would have to be approved by Dorado Management.”

“By you,” she said again, insisting.

“Karen, I could cross Flagler Avenue and get hit by a car. The corporation is still the administrator of Frank’s estate. You follow me? Like as a service to you.”

“Then I can’t just cash in the bonds if I want and take the four million.”

“Why would you want to?” Quietly, with an almost weary sound. “Put it in what? Some hotshot comes along with a scheme-that’s why Frank set it up like this. Dorado administrates the capital, does your paperwork, you don’t have to worry about it.”

“What about when I die?”

“It stops. Your heirs are yours, not Frank’s. But, in the meantime you get this money working for you, you’ll have quite a sizable estate.”

“What if I marry again?”

Ed Grossi hesitated. She saw him, for part of a moment, unprepared.

“I think it stops.”

“You’re not sure?”

“I don’t recall. Maybe Dorado Management has to approve. I don’t mean it like that, like you have to get permission. I mean in that case we’d have to assign the bonds to you, if there’s no stipulation against it.”

“Why would there be?”

“I’m not saying there is. I just don’t recall all the details, how it’s set up. Why?”

“Why what?”

“I mean are you interested in somebody?”

“No. Not at the moment. I’ve barely seen anyone,” Karen said, with a little edge now in her tone. “I just want to know what my rights are, what I’m allowed to do and what I’m not.”

“It was Frank’s money, Karen.”

“And I earned a share”-still with the edge-“wife subject to the husband, faithfully living up to my end-if you want to make it sound like a legal contract.”

“Hey, Karen-come on.”

She didn’t say anything, but continued to look at him.

“He’s dead, Karen. You want him to come back and apologize? The man left you a house, couple of other places, quarter a million a year tax-free- What do you want?”

“I don’t know. I feel… tied down. Maybe I should get away for a few months.”

Ed Grossi hesitated again, forming the right words or a relaxed tone. He said, “You don’t have to run off, do you? Get involved in something here, some kind of club activity. Spend your money, enjoy it.”

“You sound like Frank.”

“That’s very possible,” Grossi said. “Frank and I were together a long time. He says something, this is his wish, then it’s my wish, too. You understand what I mean?”

Karen was watching him, not sure, hoping he would say more and reveal something of himself.

“I don’t have to agree with Frank entirely about something,” Grossi said. “But he let me know this is the way he wants it, okay, it’s the way it’s go

Karen waited.

“What’re you trying to say?”

“Nothing. I’m repeating myself.” Serious, then making an effort to smile as he pressed a button on his intercom. “What else can I do for you, Karen?”

Almost telling her something, how he felt. Then aware of it and backing off.

There had been no interruptions, no phone calls, until Grossi’s secretary came in and asked if they’d like more coffee. Karen said thanks, no, and picked up her handbag from the floor. The secretary said, “Roland is here.”

“Tell him to wait,” Grossi said. He took Karen by surprise then. He said, “Vivian, you know Mrs. DiCilia? Karen, this is Vivian Arzola.”

The secretary extended her hand to Karen and smiled. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. DiCilia. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Like what? Karen wondered, still surprised; and yet she knew the girl meant it.

A very attractive Cuban girl about thirty, neatly tailored, hair pulled back in a bun, large round glasses, a beige pants suit Karen decided was a Calvin Klein or a Dalby. Vivian seemed to linger. She said, “You are much more beautiful than your picture.”

Beautiful? Karen raised her brows to show a little surprise. She said, “Well, thank you. I think I’ll come back more often.”

Vivian left them, and Grossi said, “What do you need? Anything at all.”

Karen settled back. “Why don’t you want me to go away? Do I have to have permission?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m suggesting why don’t you take it easy. Anywhere you go now it’s hot. Stay here by the ocean. But keep in touch. Let me know what you’re doing and if I can help in any way.”

“I’ll tell you right now what I’m doing,” Karen said. “Nothing. I see someone two or three times-like Howard Shaw, do you know him? He’s an investment consultant, belongs to Palm Bay, recently divorced-”

Grossi was shaking his head. “Karen, you’ve only been a widow, what, a few months. What’s the rush?”