Chapter 2

David tossed his blazer into the back seat and drove like a wild man, grateful for the fact that he could actually move the car. Half the time he spent driving in New York was in traffic, but his flight had arrived after Jacksonville morning rush hour had cleared. As he passed the city, he smiled at the familiar skyline, remembering that in high school he had been an extra in a movie that was shot there.

Once over the bridge, and now on the South Bank, he exited the highway for familiar streets, determined to take the scenic route home. As David drove through San Marco, he smiled, admiring the little coffee shops, restaurants, and theatres that he had often explored as a teenager. Light poles were decorated with garlands. Red ribbons connected a line of poles. Stores hung wreaths. David thought that he was in the mood for a North Florida Christmas—so different from New York, but with all the same sentiment.

A few minutes later, he passed the Bolles School, the San Jose Country Club, and a unique block or two near them where the houses served as exemplars of Spanish-style architecture, with white stucco walls and deep red tile roofs. David had always loved those houses and was more than a little excited to see them, but it was the image of another house, only ten minutes or so away, that kept his foot just a little heavy.

As he continued down San Jose Boulevard, David made quick assessments, noticing the small changes that had come to the area since the last time he’d been home—a house now painted another color, a small business under new management. There was the yard with the manger scene he loved so much. In no time, David was in a part of Jacksonville named Mandarin after the orange trees that had once grown there. He made a left on Old St. Augustine Road, and drove until he reached the neighborhood he had been dreaming of since take-off in New York.

David practically gasped as his eyes caught sight of the beautiful little home he had fallen in love with so many years ago. Not a mansion, or an architectural wonder, by any means, it was a wooden, eighties, Florida twist on a Cape Cod. The outside was painted a color somewhere between dark cream and light tan, and a colonial blue front door added a peaceful quality to the home that he appreciated even from the road.

Situated on a big corner lot that you had to pass if you were driving through the neighborhood, the house seemed to catch the eyes of passersby and smile back at them. David pulled into the driveway, and practically bolted to the house. He yanked the storm door open and hurriedly unlocked the front door. Over six feet long and about four feet wide, the atrium dominated the foyer, and waited for him like an old friend. David scanned it for his favorites—the cactus someone had brought back from Arizona, which was now overtaking the corner, the Peace Lily a high school friend had given them when his father died. But where was the rubber tree his mother had planted smack dab in the middle? It must have died, he thought. It didn’t matter, things died. Sometimes, we just have to be grateful for what we have, his mother used to say. David looked at the other plants. Yeah, there was still a lot to be thankful for. Mrs. Madera, his mother’s friend of so many years, did a wonderful job, and thanks to her most of the plants his mother had planted there continued to grow.

David gave the house a once over from where he stood. The white tile in the foyer below him was spotless, as was the rest of the great room from what he could see. He looked back at the atrium in front of him, remembering how much time his mother had spent planting things in it and persuading them to grow. He recalled how surprised he’d been the first time they saw the house. He was twelve, and they had driven down from Atlanta to look for houses for their upcoming move.

“There’s a big batch of dirt in the floor,” David had announced, being the first one in the house once the realtor had opened the door.

“It’s where the people who own it put dead bodies,” David’s father said to him with a smile.

David laughed.

“It’s for plants. Isn’t it?” David’s mother asked the realtor.

“Yes,” Janet Whitmore replied. “We call it an atrium. The concrete floor is structured around it. The skylights above provide wonderful light. The current owners just built this place and were transferred. They haven’t had a chance to plant a thing.”

David and his parents spent the next half-hour walking about the house, admiring the vaulted ceilings and enormous stone fireplace in the great room, the loft that let onto two bedrooms, and the beautiful sunny first floor master bedroom. It was a lot less formal than the other houses they had lived in, and neither David, nor his parents, could quit smiling.