Absolutely Un-Fabulous - The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House - page 55

“The paperwork will be a mess,” “the owners won't show up,” “they'll discover there's
a lien on the property.”
Even the bank officer Michael had been chatting with almost daily seemed a little iffy
about our prospects. I was just waiting for someone to predict an earthquake.
Understandably we were feeling a bit uneasy when we pulled into the parking lot of the
strip mall in Fajardo where our settlement bank was located. As usual we were more than
an hour early. After strolling around for ten minutes and completely exhausting the window
shopping potential of the downscale mall, Michael spotted the Metropol, a chain restaurant
at the opposite end of the lot, and suggested grabbing a snack. I couldn't have been less
hungry but at least it would kill some time.
We had barely taken a seat in the spacious dining room when I glanced into the bar and
spotted a familiar face. Armando. Sipping a glass of wine at eleven-fifteen in the morning.
He quickly joined us, a guilty smile flitting across his handsome features.
“To steady my nerves,” he said, gesturing to his glass.
I gulped.
“ Your nerves? What are you nervous about?”
He took a quick sip of his drink.
“Didn't I tell you? This is my first closing.”
☼ ☼ ☼
Despite everyone's dire predictions, the bank building did not implode during our settle-
ment, swarms of locusts did not descend, and the paperwork was in perfect order. Everyone
showed up on time, including Señor and Señora Tio, who had come over on the early ferry
that morning.
Armando had recovered his self-confidence in spades and even blustered vaguely over
a small inconsistency in the wording of the deed. The attorney, impeccably professional,
offered assurances in Spanish, and then again in English for our benefit.
When it came time to sign her house away, señora sniffled a bit and fumbled with the
pen. She and her husband had, after all, lived in the house for thirty years and were selling
because of her poor health. She died barely six months later.
She was gracious as always, which made us feel even more like repo men driving her
out into the street. But after she had traced her name on a bewildering assortment of docu-
ments she looked across at us.
“ Buena suerte ,” she said with a kind, brave smile.
Good luck.
It felt like a blessing.
When the last document had been signed, and everyone in the room had shaken every-
one else's hand at least twice, the assistant (Michael's erstwhile telephone friend) disap-