Oliver keeps driving, and the driveway becomes circular, curving gently right in front of the house. The landscape is beautifully maintained but doesn’t feel overly stuffy, like it’s meant to impress without overwhelming. The green lawn contrasts sharply with the wild dunes and rolling ocean waves visible just beyond the house.
“There aretwohouses?” Georgia is shrieking, gesturing out the window to our left.
“That’s the garage slash guest house.” Oliver technically answers the question, but it still somehow fails to answer the question.
To the left, a smaller house, garage slash guesthouse, I guess, is nestled in a group of trees. It looks like a three-car garage (what?!) with an apartment over the top. The windows and matching gray façade echo the design of the main house, making it feel like a natural extension, a part of a cohesive, carefully plannedestate. The concept ofestatehas always been an intangible, shadowy, vague idea in my thirty-five years of life, only read about in books or the news, or something. But this… this isestateif you looked it up in the dictionary.
We pull up to the house, and the sound of waves rolls through the open windows of the car, mixing with the rustle of long grass swaying in the breeze.
Retreatis another word that pops into my head, adding itself alongsideestate.Sanctuary.
“Fuck Brooklyn,” I manage. “We live here now. What are the schools like?”
Georgia’s speech is still as mangled as mine is. “We must all find jobs at the local school,” she says, nodding.
Oliver turns off the car right in front of the main house. “Let’s go inside and say hi to my parents.”
We all get out, and it evensmellslikeestateandretreatandsanctuary. It smells nothing like the Rockaways. This here smells likerichbeach. This beach has probably never met a Dominican woman in its life.You’re welcome, I tell it.
We walk through the door.
“Hello?” Oliver calls. It’s so expansive in here that I think I hear an echo.
We stand in the foyer, and Georgia and I remain frozen as if we are scared. I am, a little, of shattering a precious heirloom or spilling a dark, sticky liquid, even if there’s nothing wobbly around and I have nothing in my hands.
The first thing I notice is the warmth. The rich, deep, honeyed hue of the wood panelling and accents. The matching hardwood floors are gleaming and polished, almost blindingly so, reflecting the natural light that filters in from the room ahead. My eyes move down the hallway, past the intricate staircase to my right, towards what looks like a living room that is made entirely of window.
“Go,” I whisper behind Georgia, shoving her forward a little bit.
“No, you,” she says, trying to wrench my body around hers.
Oliver rolls his eyes. “This isn’t the Louvre. Shoes off,” he instructs, pointing to a mat by the door. “Come on.”
We toe our flip-flops off and walk down the hallway, and I want to die. It’s a view that takes my damn breath away—a perfect frame of the shoreline and endless blue water stretching out toward the horizon. There’s a… porch? Deck? Patio? that holds lounge chairs, the expensive-looking cushioned ones that are decidedly not from Ikea, along with a long-ass dining table with chairs.
We walk further in and the space opens up, and the full height of the ceilings becomes apparent. Light floods in through the large windows, illuminating the textures of the furniture and draped curtains and shit, but really, it’s the view of the beach just beyond the glass that commands all the attention.
“Are you… crying?” I hear Oliver asking Georgia.
“Hoy! Anaks!” Gloria bumbles barefoot into the living room. Gloria entering the room only adds to the warmth, and this makes me take a closer look at the details. Everything is expensive, clearly, but it’s well-worn, well-loved. I realize the furniture and the wood and the fabrics scream good quality and sturdy and usable, instead of cold and modern and glass and fragile. It makes me a feel a lot better, and Georgia seems to relax, too.
I bend in half to give Gloria a huge hug and a kiss. “Hi, Mama Flores,” I grin down at her.
“What a surprise, Lina! I’m so happy to see you! I didn’t know you were coming! Good thing I bought extra food,hah?” She sidesteps me to squeeze her son and his girlfriend.
“You didn’t tell Mama Flores I was coming?” I rage at Oliver.
He shrugs after kissing his mom on the head. She moves over to Georgia to give her a hug that lifts her off her feet. “I forgot,” he says. “But there are more than enough bedrooms.”
Gloria looks up diagonally, and I see a flash of Dominic in her face, and I remember they’re real relatives, not fake ones. I wonder what sexy Filipino gang-related business Dominic’s been up to lately, whether he got that five hundred grand his ‘client’ owed him. I don’t think about how he could say “unacceptable” to me in that same tone from the phone call… if he found out I was wearing panties under my skirt, or if I couldn’t fit him down my throat, or something. I definitely did not imagine any of this while grinding on my rabbit.
Gloria starts silently counting, pointing towards different areas of the ceiling. A wry smile takes over her face.
“Upstairs there’s a big den,” Oliver continues (while I adddento my list of newly tangible words), “a big office, a playroom, two big bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms, and then a kids’ bedroom with bunk beds. I assume Mom and Dad are taking one room, so you and I could take the other,” he says to Georgia, who still looks a bit shell-shocked. He turns to me. “You could sleep in one of the bunk beds, but I figure you could just take one of the rooms in the guesthouse. There are two bedrooms with attached bathrooms and an office in there, along with a full kitchen and living room. It’s really its own house. Just kind of small. At least relative to this one.”
I’m not proud of the moan that leaves my mouth. “I get… my own house… on this estate… on the beach?!” I really am never leaving here. They’re going to have to pry my cold, dead body—I suddenly remember my manners. “Honestly, whatever works best for all of you,” I tell the Flores family. “Wherever is easiest. I’m happy to sleep on the floor of the playroom, even. I’m sure the carpeting in there is softer than my bed at home.”
Gloria laughs. “The guesthouse makes the most sense. Especially because?—”
