A False Dawn

TWENTY-EIGHT

I stood next to my Jeep for a moment to watch the money parade. Here were the millionaire migrants, the ones who followed the social seasons, an incestuous pollination crossbred by old money, venture capitol start-ups, bankers, lobbyists, politicians, and lawyers. The nip-tuck of Palm Beach mixed with cattle barons, horse breeders, and growers. They appointed golfing friends to environmental boards, water districts, zoning and public service commissions. Under their watch, Florida had turned into a land of tract houses, strip malls, a vanishing aquifer, a sickly Everglades, and condos lining the beaches like the Great Wall of China.

Maybe I could get a beer at the Brennens.

A wait staff stood smiling on either side of the entrance hall with trays of Champaign and wines. The guests lifted the bubbly, chards and cabs and followed white-gloved attendants towards the rear of the house. To get there, we passed a fifteen-foot-high waterfall cascading down a fieldstone wall. The water gently splashed down the stones in a dozen turrets, all spilling into an indoor koi pond.

We followed the hired catering staff and a cowboy, probably on the payroll, dressed in a denim sports coat, black silk European-cut T-shirt and black pants. The boots were a dark ostrich skin. He looked at me, trying to place my face.

Along with the real guests, I walked down a long corridor of powder blue Italian marble, descending three steps to emerge into what would be called a family room in an average house. The Brennens could have used it to hold conventions. Crown molding. Inlaid cherry wood floors. Expensive artwork with a Western flair.

Music came from the outdoor pool area. Dozens of guests sat or stood around the lushly landscaped gardens, bubbling spa, and resort-sized pool. In a corner, a three-piece band played a mix of modern country and oldies. A platoon of cooks turned thick-cut steaks and ribs on a river-stone grille big enough for a resort.

“I noticed you didn’t partake in wine or champaign when you arrived.” The voice came behind me. The woman sipped from a glass of chardonnay, leaving a lipstick kiss on the edge of the glass. She was blond, shapely, had a Jennifer Anniston smile and a diamond ring that didn’t need a “point-something” to increase the carat count. She extended her hand. “I’m Renee Roberts.”

“Sean O’Brien.”

“Nice to meet you, Sean.” Her fingers slid over the wet glass. “I haven’t seen you at a Brennen function before.”

“Is that what this is, a function?”

“A barbecue, but it’s a fundraiser, sort of in disguise. Junior will say a few words. We’ll all cheer and write checks. Not that the Brennens really need them. But the more contributions, the better it looks on the books, right?”

“Depends on who’s looking.”

She smiled and sipped. “What are you drinking?”

“Think they have beer?”

“This is a barbecue, after all.” She lifted a perfectly manicured hand with a quick Saudi princess-like beckon. She caught the eye of a young male waiter.

“Yes, ma'm,” he said

“Bring my friend a beer, and I’ll take a vodka tonic.”

“My pleasure. What kind of beer, sir?

“Corona, if you have it.”

He nodded and left. Renee Roberts turned to me, her lips wet with wine, her eyes playful. “Sean O’Brien sounds Irish. It doesn’t look like you have a freckle or a red hair on your body. You look more like that actor, the James Bond guy.”

“Sean Connery?”

“No…Pierce Bronsnan, but taller…wider shoulders. I think he’s English.”

The waiter brought the drinks and left. I took a full swallow from the bottle. “My, aren’t we thirsty,” she said, with a smile that had less lipstick.

“Been a long day.”

She sucked a piece of ice from her vodka. “How do you know the Brennens?”

“By reputation.”

“So, you don’t do business with them?”

“Not yet. Maybe you can introduce me to the Brennens.”

“Grace Brennen’s in a wheelchair, you can’t miss her, although I haven’t seen her yet. Stroke. Poor thing. She was always the life of any party, Josh Brennen’s rock. He’s talking with Ron from the Arts Council. Never thought of ol Josh as artsy fartsy.”

Brennen was a large man, late sixties handmade cowboy boots and top-of-the-line Western attire. He drank a dark whisky from a crystal glass with one hand, resting the other on the shoulder of a smaller man about the same age.

I smiled. “You said Josh isn’t the artsy type. How about his son, Richard. Dirt or oil paint under his fingernails?”

She looked around the party and lowered her voice. “Neither. He’s about as non-farmer as his Yale education could make him.”

“How?”

“Pick a category.”

“Let me guess, he can’t drive a tractor, right?”

“Tractor! My dear new friend, Richard Brennen doesn’t know an orange from a grapefruit. He’s some kind of fruit. Handsome in a way that won’t turn a real woman’s head. Never married. Lives here on the estate. Can I be honest with you?”

“Why don’t you lie to me?” I said, smiling

Her laugh was a cackle. She signaled for the waiter, who took her empty glass. “Same thing, please.” He nodded and left. “Where was I?”

“You were offering a psychological profile of our hosts.”

“I like you, Sean O’Brien. What do you do, by the way? And for godsakes, don’t tell me you’re a farmer or a plastic surgeon.”

“I’m a sex therapist,” I said, as straight-faced as I could.

Her laugh was now much louder. “You must come to the Brennen’s barbecues more often. You’re much cuter than Dr. Phil.”

The waiter returned with her drink. She thanked him, waved him away, and again stirred the ice with a manicured fingernail. “Speak of the devil, Junior is making his first appearance.”

As the band ended a song, Richard Brennen stepped from the dark into the light.