Next Door

Chapter Two

In the weeks that followed, Paul and I got our new home in order, learned where the nearest grocery store was and how far away Paul had to go to put his boat in the water.

I also became friends with Evvie DeTolve. Tall, blond and tan from spending afternoons in the swimming pool in her lanai she had the look of a longtime Floridian. But she didn’t act like the other retirees that lived in Canary Landing. This lady had a busy life – doing whatever it is that she did.

I met Evvie one Thursday morning while I was painting the mailbox and she stopped by during her daily bicycle ride through the neighborhood.

“Good morning! Jimmy told me you guys just moved in.”

I was just forming my own greeting when Evvie continued.

“Good thing, too. This house was empty for three years. Former owners died or went bankrupt or something.”

I was about to try again when...

“I’m Evvie, by the way. You’re Frannie, yes?”

“I am. We – my husband Paul and I - just got here Saturday when we met Jimmy. He told us about you.”

“I hope he said something good.” She sounded like a woman who had many years of marriage under her belt and though she was accustomed to trading barbs with her husband but would pounce on anyone who slandered him.

“Well, he didn’t say much, really. Just that he’d tell you to drop by.”

“And I’m happy I did. Hey by the way, do you like to go to yard sales? I love ‘em! I love to see all the different people in all the different neighborhoods and all their stuff. I mostly look for furniture and dog stuff, but there’s always lots of expensive clothes and jewelry, too.

Wanna go this Saturday?”

While Evvie caught her breath, I did a quick mental scan of our calendar. Saturday was clear and truthfully, I was happy for an excuse to take a break from unpacking boxes.

“Sure, I’d love to.”

“Great! I’ll pick you up at 7:30 Saturday morning. We’ll have a great time.”

I was showered and dressed by 7 the next Saturday morning awaiting Evie’s arrival.

I tucked 20 crisp $1 bills into a small purse that I was able to sling across my body so that I would have my hands free to inspect the treasures Evvie had promised that we would come across. My blue jeans, white tee shirt and sneakers were all chosen for comfort. In my hand was an insulated cup containing iced coffee. I wore a pair of dark glasses to protect my eyes from the sun.

Evvie’s white pick-up pulled into my driveway at 7:30 a.m. on the dot.

“I’m here,” she texted my phone.

Evvie was sitting behind the wheel of the white truck wearing a navy blue tee-shirt. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a pair of silver bracelets one on each wrist.

I had barely settled into the passenger seat when Evvie laid out the day’s game plan.

“Ok – this is how this works,” she said, peering over the top of her aviator sunglasses. “I’ve got the list of yard sales within a 5-mile radius. I’ll drive by slowly and you – there in the shotgun seat – take a look at what’s in the house’s driveway and we’ll decide to stop or keep going.

“It’s pretty simple: too much kid stuff we move on. If you see anything – furniture, clothing - that we would even remotely be interested in, we stop.

“Alright?”

“Works for me,” I answered. Let’s go.”

As we drove to the first sale, Evvie gave me a detailed picture of life in Canary Landing. It was nothing like I envisioned it.

According to Evvie, Canary Landing was developed in the 1980s to attract people who wanted to be left alone, but who still wanted to be in a neighborhood. Houses were situated on spacious lots ranging from one to five acres to give the impression of country living while being close enough to get to Interstate 75 with ease.

“That’s why the lots are so big here,” she told me. “People wanted to think they were in the middle of nowhere without actually being in the middle of nowhere.”

Street names were corny but easy to remember – things like Cardinal Crossing, Mockingbird Thoroughfare and Grackle Causeway.

“Personally, I think Stoolpigeon Parkway is hilarious,” I told her.

Evvie went on to say that from the beginning the people who moved into the neighborhood developed a reputation for being unfriendly to the point of rudeness.

“It’s as though they don’t want anyone to know that they live here,” she began. “In fact, people can live across the street from each other for years and never talk to each other or never even know their neighbor’s names.”

“So that’s why none of the neighbors have knocked on our door to meet us,” I said. “You’d think they’d be curious.”

Evvie also pointed out that there weren’t a lot of families with children in the neighborhood.

“Probably not a lot for kids to do around here,” she speculated. “We are pretty far out in the county,” she speculated.

I figured that most of Evvie’s information came from what she learned by meeting people as she bicycled around the neighborhood every day, and from attending monthly meetings of the Homeowners’ Association.

The HOA made largely innocuous rules dictating how many days a Canary Landing resident could park an RV in the driveway, what kind of fence could be erected on residential property or how many fruit trees could be planted on a lot.

As most of the rules were tough to enforce, they rendered the organization little more than an excuse for board members and other residents to socialize on a monthly basis. But Evvie attended the meeting religiously just to find out who was doing what to whom.

As a result, she learned plenty about some of the people who lived in the community. So when we passed the yellow house on Screeching Owl Turnpike, Evvie had plenty to say about the owner.

“That’s Sherm Oglivie’s house,” she said, pointing out the sprawling Florida traditional on two acres. It was the architecture that made the place “traditional,” she explained thanks to the cupula in the vaulted roof at the center of the house that long before air conditioning, old-time Floridians would open up to the night air in order to cool their houses.

Sherm was puttering around the front of the house fiddling with the shrubbery when Evvie called to him.

“HiYa, Sherm. What are you up to this morning?”

“Not much that would interest you,” he replied. “Who is this?”

“Your newest neighbor,” Evvie replied.

I stuck my arm out the car window to shake Sherm’s hand.

“I’m Frannie Riccetti.”

“If you say so,” he snubbed my handshake.

“That’s Sherm,” Evvie said.