I’ve worn an apple-green T-shirt with long black shorts and paired the outfit with simple flip-flops, a plain belt, and braided my hair down the back. I’m trying for a conservative look. The henna on my calves is fading and if this place pans out, I might be able to squeeze in some time to do some more artwork before my next shift. I’ve gotten pretty good at creating various patterns and enjoy doing my stomach and legs the most.
The front door opens before I can ring the bell and what looks to be the sweetest older lady stands before me. We’re dressed almost the same except her T-shirt is white and black polka dots. Her hair is teased out and sprayed stiff, as if she’s just come from having it done and set.
“Hello, dear. Are you Josie? I’m Eleanor Cramer.” She extends an evenly tanned, manicured hand.
“Yes, ma’am.” We shake hands and her grip is firmer than I imagined. She makes me think of those southern-born ladies who belong to the Daughters of the American Revolution, and I imagine somewhere in her house a map of her lineage hangs.
“Well, it’s like I said in the email, I’m very open to a longer stay than a few days or a week.” She places a warm hand on my arm. “I have to admit. I was not keen on this idea. It was my son’s. He kept saying it’s a wasted opportunity, but I’m the one, not him, that lives here and will have to deal with the revolving door. So your inquiry suits us both. Please come in.” She steps back to give me room.
“I’m glad you’re open to the possibilities. You have a lovely home,” I say, looking around. I expected it to be decorated Florida retirement-home style with a beach theme and white wicker furniture. I don’t know why. But it’s not; it’s French country with creamy leather couches and toile and checkered pillows and curtains in vibrant reds and yellows. My eyes settle on a painting hanging over an antique oak table in the foyer. I step closer and gasp.
“Is that an original Frederick Remington painting?” I stare at the work. “It’s extraordinary.”
“Yes, my husband loved all things Remington.” She stands next to me as we look up at the painting of The Soldier.
“My father does as well. He has several original bronze statues. He’s made it his life’s hobby to try to collect everything he can. If he knew a private owner had this, he’d never give you a moment’s rest. It’s a nice piece.”
She shrugs. “I like landscapes myself. Not paintings of cocky men.”
We laugh together.
“Let me show you the apartment. Like I said, it’s over the garage, but you’ll have a separate entrance and one of the garage spaces is for you. I certainly don’t need three spots.” She leads me through the house, where I see several landscape paintings. Through the French doors off the living room, I catch a glimpse of a pool. The backyard is fenced, offering privacy, but a gate in the back opens to the dock on the river. I cross my toes and hope the pool’s included.
“What brings you to Daytona, Josie?”
“I thought I’d come and try to spend some time with my brother.”
“Does your brother live close?” Following a quick smile, she leads me through the kitchen, stopping to pull a set of keys off a holder by the backdoor before going outside. Across a breezeway is a side door that opens into a well-lit garage. Stairs are tucked along the side wall.
I don’t want to lie, but I’m not sure how to explain the situation with my brother without sounding crazy.
“Are there two entrances?” There’s an additional set of stairs outside her backyard fence with access from the driveway.
“Yes. One to the front of the apartment and this one is private. If you decide you want it, I’ll include the pool. Since it’s just you. It is just you, correct?”
I can’t contain my smile. “Yes, it’s just me.”
“The rent also includes all utilities, cable, and I’ve a dock to the river if you have a boat.” She leads me upstairs.
“I love the idea of a pool. I’m originally from New England so weather for pool opportunities is limited.”
“The pool will be happy to know it. My grandkids come on holidays only, they’re at the age where hanging out with their grandma isn’t cool, so aside from their visits and my morning swim, it rarely gets used. New England, you say?” She pauses a few steps up to ask.
“Yes, ma’am. Stamford, Connecticut.”
“Oh, I’ve been there. It’s lovely. Lots of big houses. McMansions, I think they’re called.”
I stifle a laugh because the first time someone called our house a McMansion my mother nearly lost her mind. “That they are.”
At the top of the stairs, she fits a key and swings open the door to present a small but functional laundry room. Painted a soft blue with two small white cabinets and crown molding, the space is large enough for a full-size washer and dryer and holds an abundance of character. I clutch my hands together in delight and to contain the rush of hope and fear. I can’t afford to fall in love with a place I’ll be leaving. That’s why renting a room was always the smartest option.
“The apartment comes furnished and that includes the washer and dryer. Some of my children lived here while they were in college though my mother was last to live here before she passed.” She turns and places her hand on my arm. “But I don’t want you to worry. She didn’t pass here.”
“I hadn’t given it a thought,” I say, which is true. I’m completely captivated by the place and if need be would share it with a ghost. Sold by the simplicity of a laundry room. When I entertained the idea of an extended vacation rental, I never imagined I’d get so lucky.
A pool? My own laundry room? In the last two years I rarely had both if either at all.
“We’re coming in at the center of the apartment so I’ll take you to the front and we will work our way back.” She turns right out of the laundry room and walks down a bright hallway into the living room.
It’s small but larger than any place I’ve stayed since I started my journey. The ceilings are high and large solid planks of wood, stained a dark espresso, make up the floor. The apartment is tastefully furnished like her house. It runs the length of the garage and is longer than it is wide with the front door centered on the end wall and large windows on both sides of the living room. One set of windows allows for views of the river.
“Is that the ocean?” I ask as I point toward the blue horizon out the opposite window.
“Yes, it’s only three blocks from here.”
A delightful sigh escapes. I can easily live here while I wait.
I head into the kitchen and look out the window over the sink. It’s a view of the pool and the river. I run my hands over the full-sized fridge. I can buy a whole gallon of ice cream and store it without worry. The kitchen is painted a buttery yellow and reminds me of my mother’s. I can almost smell the cranberry scones my mother’s chef bakes every fall.
“It’s just the one bedroom but it’s large. The apartment includes all the essentials. Such as a TV, internet, a five-piece kitchen, and full bath.” She leads me down the hallway. The bedroom has French doors that open out onto a small balcony and a simple but elegantly made queen-sized sleigh bed. I imagine staying in bed all day reading a book. I imagine making dinner for Will and catching up as we sit on the balcony or even the dock. Once I have that vision, I can’t imagine anything else.