Page 108 of Sort of Seeing Someone

I read the letter three times and feel the power multiply in every single word. I’m both confused and clearheaded at the same time. I fold up the relic, put it in my purse, and resolve that coffee is—yet again—the answer.

I comb through each kitchen cabinet until I find precisely what I’m looking for: a French press next to a bag of coffee grounds with a little note from the Airbnb host saying, “Help yourself!” If ever there was a time for my favorite ritual, it’s now. The only thing missing is Gerda’s patio (and some banter with Walter the parrot). Pouring my fresh-made coffee into a to-go mug, I deem now is finally the time to go for a certain walk.

It’s the first time since being back in this neighborhood that I’ve been able to physically bring myself to visit the property. Of course I had a natural curiosity to see what the modern monstrosity was going to look like in the flesh, and I could have walked by it at least ten times by now, but I wasn’t ready. The memory of the only place I ever felt athome is still too fresh in my mind to accept that it just doesn’t exist anymore. That really no part of it does.

The house is the second from the corner once you make the turn onto Narragansett. In its former state, you couldn’t see it from the sidewalk, as it was set so far back from the street. The luscious green yard and the fig tree were all that would come into frame as you got closer. But now, a new sight greets me with each step I take. It’s tall, modular design sticks out among the row of semi-dilapidated beach shacks. The siding is a tan-colored stucco accented with dark wood paneling and blocks of cement throughout. Big, angled windows with bold, black framing between panes line each level. The maintenance-free landscaping is a mix of small gray pebbles, stepping stones, and succulents. A waist-high glass fence surrounds the property. It is undeniably nice.

As I stand in front of the property, two guys with clipboards are there surveying the grounds. They have tape measures out and are discussing adding a water feature.

“It’s a drought here, you know. It’s a bad look to install a fountain. I’m telling you, the locals will hate it and we do not want this stucco getting egged, Phil,” I hear one of the men say.

Phil…Santos, I wonder? I remember his name from the paperwork Betty sent me.

“Can we help you?” Phil says after noticing me standing there eavesdropping.

“Are you Phil Santos by chance?” I ask.

“Depends who’s asking,” he replies.

“Don’t tell meshe’sthe City Inspector,” I can hear his counterpart whisper to him.

“I’m Moonie Miller. Gerda Germain was my former landlord.”

Phil’s arm that’s holding the tape measuredrops to his side as he takes some slow steps toward me.

He looks me up and down before saying, “Well, welcome home, Moonie Miller.”

Phil steps aside and gestures toward the palace behind us. We go on to take a tour. The penthouse is of course a show stopper and I learn it is already sold to a Hollywood producer who wanted “a vacation home” in San Diego.

Unit 2, in the middle, has two offers on it, he tells me. One of them is Betty’s god-son who currently lives near the mountains, but grew up in OB and wants to come back. His offer isn’t the best, but Phil hints he’s leaning toward taking it for “good karma,” which is, in fact, a standard currency in this part of the world.

Eventually, we find ourselves at the final stop: Unit 1—the two-bedroom condo Gerda deeded to me. Phil reminds me of things like…there are no stairs, it’s naturally cooler on the first floor during the hot summer months, and that the taxes are prepaid for thirty years as if I’m looking at the ground-floor dwelling as some sort of shitty consolation prize. In honesty, it’s nicer than a five-star resort, more space than I’ve ever had, there’s proper central air conditioning installed throughout, and no one died in this particular unit…to my knowledge.There truly is nothing to complain about—no worries, in OB speak.

“You may get the occasional cockroach down here,” Phil warns me.

Okay, so maybeoneworry.

We find ourselves back outside amongthe sun and succulents and I tell him the whole place is stunning.

“I can see why you’ve made this your career. You’re very good at what you do, Mr. Santos.”

“The funny thing is,” Phil explains. “This isn’t even my full-time gig. I have an architecture degree but I’m actually an accountant at an advertising agency. I’m not like the turn-em-and-burn-em big developers. I just go for the projects that really speak to me. And this one really spoke to me. I just got this intense vision of what it could be. So I pulled some records, located the owner, and sat down withGerda a week later. I presented my plans, and for whatever reason, she said yes to me.”

I think I know the reason. Gerda hated developers. But the more I talk with Phil, the more I realize that’s not what he is. He’s actually kind of like me: someone who gets a vision every now and then, with a fierce determination to back it up.

“At the end of the day, I was the only one willing to do a few funky things she demanded in order to seal the deal.”

“Like what?” I can’t help but ask.

“Well, for starters, to save that goddam fig tree. We replanted it in the courtyard if you didn’t notice. She also wanted crossword-themed art installed in the common areas. Do you know how long it took to source an artist to takethaton? She made me sign our contract in pencil, which I said was not a great idea legally speaking, but then threatened to kill the deal if I didn’t. And that’s the story of how I purchased a pack of Ticonderoga-Dixon pencils for the first time since childhood.”

I can’t help but smile. To have known Gerda Germainis to have a story of buying pencils as an adult, I explain.

“And then obviously there was reserving this unit for you. Not a weird request in and of itself, but she did instruct menotto reach out to you, and told me that eventually you’d just show up one day. Crazy, because that’s exactly how it happened. My mind is kind of blown that you did in fact…just show up.”

“By chance, do you rememberwhenshe told you that I’d ‘just show up’?”

“Yes, I remember it exactly. It was when we were ‘closing the deal’ so to speak. We were shaking hands—the act of which she drew out much longer than normal. Quite a grip for an old lady, if I say so myself.”

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