To offset the push in real estate prices, Kettleman had to up the housing stipend for his employees. Small price to pay, though, for the fun he was having.
A whirlwind romance began, one that lasted only a few weeks before Carolyn started dropping hints about which cut—a marquise—of diamond she prefers. The two were engaged a few weeks later, then married in Aspen shortly thereafter.
The first time Kettleman put his foot down was when he refused to pay more than two million for a home. Carolyn begged and pleaded, but he held his ground. If she insisted on living in Old Ortega, then it couldn’t be on the water. She pouted, stamped her feet, withheld affection, pulled out all the stops. It was a stormy two weeks, but Kettleman rode it out.
Eventually Carolyn settled for Ortega Forest. Poor-tega, as she called it because it was not in Ortega proper.
“But the island is nice,” she’d said. “And we’ll be on the water.”
For Kettleman, crossing the little cobblestone bridge onto the island and seeing the house for the first time was very similar to meeting Carolyn that first day. Without ever looking inside, he knew right away he had to have it.
Kettleman eyed his coffee suspiciously. “If you’re not joining me, why you up so early?”
“I’m meeting Meg and Joani at the Metro in a few minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch.
Joe’s brow furrowed. Despite the dark tan, Carolyn was practically a vampire. Her girlfriends were too, especially those two. Does the Metro Diner even open this early?
He decided to let it go. Anything was better than what he’d thought initially, that she was going to give fishing another try.
The Ortega is a lazy, tidal river. Tidal because it’s attached to the St. Johns which flows north through the city of Jacksonville and empties into the Atlantic at Mayport. Twice a day the Atlantic pushes back, causing the St. Johns to stymie and it’s murky waters to rise.
The tide was rising as Kettleman set the tension on the line and settled in after his first cast of the morning. Good thing Carolyn wasn’t here, he’d already spotted three gators. There was one lazing in the reeds, not twenty feet from the boat.
Carolyn was Jacksonville, born and raised. Made no sense to him that she’d get so stirred up about the wildlife, but she did. She really seemed to hate the river. She had pushed for a speedboat, but never skied. She’d insisted he buy not one but two jet skis—in case they had guests—though she refused to ride either. She’d pushed for the Sea Ray cruiser, but insisted on flying down both times they went to the Keys.