Bermuda Schwartz
Page 27
Barbara scoops up dip while I pop the champagne.
“Just the tiniest bit for me,” she says.
“But it’s a special occasion.”
“I know.”
I look at her.
“What do you mean you know? It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“It was.” She smiles. She raises her glass. “I’m pregnant.”
Five minutes later, we’ve calmed down. Hugs and kisses and tears …
And more champagne. For me anyway. After a tiny sip to toast, Barbara switches to bottled water. Men definitely get the better end of the whole pregnancy deal. Maybe that’s why women get to live longer.
“So how far along?”
“About a month,” she says.
“That would have made it …”
“I’m thinking the night we had dinner at Mid Ocean Club.”
“A nice night.”
“Yes,” she says. “It was.”
“So that would make it …”
“January,” she says. “A January baby.”
“Super Bowl Sunday.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“I’ll settle for the AFC championship,” I say. “And if by some miracle the Fish are in it, I’ll take it as a sign.”
“Speaking of signs …” Barbara shakes her head. “This is rather spooky.”
“What is?”
“Boggy,” she says. “I started thinking about it after I left the doctor’s office this afternoon. Remember when we flew into Bermuda, how he went into one of his trances there on the tarmac? You remember what he said?”
“Something about the palm trees, wasn’t it?”
“That’s what we thought at the time. I mean, it certainly seemed like it. He said: ‘That which is planted here will grow strong.’”
I look at her. She looks at me.
We sit back on the couch, lean on each other. I finish my champagne, pour a little more.
A few minutes later …
“Girls’ names,” says Barbara.
“Agnes, Chloe, and Gert.”
She looks at me.
“You will have no input on names,” she says.
“Boys’—Hansel, Ike, and Mort.”
“Nor will you come anywhere near the birth certificate.”
She scoops up more mullet dip.
“I’m hungry,” she says.
“That’s my line.”
She laughs, gives me a kiss.
“We have so much to talk about,” she says.
“You only know the half of it.”
I reach for my pocket. The ring arrived earlier in the day. Wrapped in bubble tape. Teddy Schwartz enclosed a note, apologizing for not having a proper tiny box.
I go down on a knee. I take Barbara’s hand. I put the ring on her finger.
“Marry me,” I say.
92
It’s a June wedding. Not a lot of planning needed, not a lot of family with which to contend. Just a few friends—Stephie Plank, Barbara’s right-hand woman at Tropics and maid of honor; Robbie Greig, my pal from Minorca Beach Marina; a couple of former Gator teammates—Mac Steen and Larry-Bud Meyer; and Boggy. He’s my best man.
We descend upon Bermuda for a long and festive weekend. Aunt Trula graciously puts us up. And Teddy Schwartz happily agrees to give the bride away.
The wedding takes place in the morning at the little chapel at Graydon Reserve. Sister Kate and Sister Eunice have been working on a special arrangement of Corinthians 1:13, just for the occasion. I tell them they oughta cut a CD. They could give Andrea Bocelli a run for his money.
One of the monks, a big, bearded fellow named Boyd, appears in the doorway with bagpipes and offers a tune while we await Barbara’s entrance.
The chapel is so small that, standing by the altar, I’m right next to the front pew where Aunt Trula sits. She tugs on my pant leg. I bend down.
“That song,” she says. “Do you by any chance know its name?”
“Yes, Barbara and I picked it out,” I say. “It’s The Cradle Song.’”
“How lovely,” Aunt Trula says.
Boyd is soon piping “The Irish Wedding Song” and Barbara enters the chapel on Teddy’s arm. She’s never looked more beautiful.
It’s an Anglican service. No mass, just the basics. We say the vows, we exchange the rings—Teddy made them, too—and then we kiss the kiss. Eleven minutes and we’re out the door as Boyd pipes “She Walks Through the Fair.”
We mill around outside, enjoying the breeze off the bay J.J. and another driver arrive with vans to take us to Mid Ocean Club for the reception.
As everyone starts to pile in, I notice that Teddy Schwartz has wandered off to the cemetery behind the chapel. I step over to join him.
He stands looking down at a granite headstone. It’s inlaid with pieces of gold and silver. A glass cutout encases a worn piece of wood, no bigger than a paperback book.
The name on the headstone: “Margaret Schwartz.”
Teddy looks at me. He smiles. He raises a hand—touches his forehead, his chest, left shoulder, right.
He makes the sign of the cross.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Under ideal circumstances, and with unlimited resources, I would have taken up residence in Bermuda while I wrote this book, enjoying a daily dosage of Gosling’s while gazing upon the gorgeous waters. Sadly, I was limited to a brief research trip and then had to rely on a number of Bermudians to do some of my legwork for me.
I am most grateful to Rosemary Jones, acting curator of the Bermuda Maritime Museum, for her cheerful willingness to answer my out-of-the-blue questions on topics that ran the gamut from the Hamilton bar scene to local lingo. It was Rosemary who first suggested that a mystery set in Bermuda absolutely had to involve shipwrecks, and I thank her for steering me in that direction. Dr. Edward C. Harris, executive director of the maritime museum, also answered numerous inquiries.
Keith A. Forbes, the proprietor of www.bermuda-online.org, proved an invaluable resource about all things Bermudian and went out of his way in responding to my queries on everything from burials at sea to the availability of dynamite in Bermuda. His Web site is a treasure trove of information and much recommended to anyone seeking more background about Bermuda.
Thanks, too, to Bryan Mewett, general manager of the Mid Ocean Club, who shared the history and lore of that illustrious institution.
Even though I took two years of Latin in high school, none of it stuck, and Matt Ramsby, of the Hammond School in Columbia, South Carolina, was a translator par excellence.
And, just as he did with Jamaica Me Dead, forensic accountant Bill Cuthill, of Maitland, Florida, was a most astute guide through the gnarly world of offshore banking and money laundering.
To all, my deepest thanks …