The silver lining to Hurricane Irma flooding your house is free license to redecorate.  No pushback from a husband or sons.  Nope, instead they want a functional downstairs as quickly as possible. The only request from all three: no more turquoise, please.

Well, that color wasn’t even called turquoise, she had wanted to say.  It was cyan.  But Fairfax bit her tongue.  It has been stressful enough with all of them living on the second floor, eating far too much takeout and junk food while the kitchen got rehabbed.  The best thing to do was limit snippiness.  Take this opportunity to update the house and run with it.  What a gift in a way!  They had made it through the storm last year and would end up with even better living quarters as a result.

The fruit of their suffering, Fairfax likes to call it.  Every time she looks at a swatch of fabric, dynamic neutrals this time around, or wood finish (let’s go lighter!), she feels that pop of energy, of living gratitude.  “Almost happiness” that Irma happened.

Then she feels guilty, because she is in a position to benefit from loss.  To recreate, improve on beauty when it’s been scrubbed out.  Fairfax still has a home, she has a husband who makes a good salary.  They have insurance, lives which can sustain loss and bounce back.  Many do not.

But what good would it do anyone to tamp down her joy?  What good is guilt right now?  It’s not like she and Mike are selfish—they give back to the Jacksonville community, donate to charities frequently, especially those doing post-Irma reconstruction.  Fairfax honors her annual pledge to Habitat for Humanity and deposits canned goods once a week at the local food bank.

So why shouldn’t she love this experience of re-nesting? After all, it could be the last time.

So, for not the first time Fairfax vows to re-do her life with joy.  Irma has reinforced this lesson that cancer first taught her.  It took her breasts and left her with gratitude.

Extreme gratitude.

She grabs her mug of coffee from the nightstand and takes a sip.  Cold.  The tiny microwave oven on the dresser would take care of that, but Fairfax has had enough caffeine today.  It helps galvanize her in the mornings, but she needs to limit her consumption.  It’s been ticking upwards over the past year as she tackled the house projects, prepared Will to head off to University of Florida, initiated Jack’s college searches and applications.

Fairfax’s oncologist, Dr. Simpson, told her post-mastectomy tissue can act like its old self.  And if you’ve a tendency towards dense breasts (which she did, she’d always been that way), maybe it was best to lighten up on caffeine.  He’d advised this at the last appointment, when she’d pointed out a troubling place on her right side which turned out to be nothing.

So, yes, stop the coffee, and tea too.  Fairfax had drifted into a half-cup habit in the afternoons, while she pored over kitchen and flooring websites.  Tea upped the coziness factor of re-nesting, comparing beautiful designs, selecting a favorite.  Even negotiating prices with the contractor to obtain that beauty at a fraction of the cost.

Come to think of it, she’d probably been drinking more Earl Grey these days than she realized.  The electric teapot and caddy on top of the small desk Fairfax had been using (good Queen Anne, not tacky Queen Anne!) were so handy.  An easy automatic re-fuel while dreaming of the perfect living room/kitchen cohesion.

Fairfax sighs.  And caffeine may be anemia’s buddy too.  She’d learned that over the past year from Dr. Redmond.  Peter.

Thank you, Lord, for Peter. She smiles.

He’d shown up at Nancy’s condo at the tail end of Irma, when their family was just beginning to emerge from her safe haven off Mallory Street. He took one look at Fairfax, sitting on the couch, and settled in beside her with a diagnosis.

Dr. Redmond ended up saving her, easing her mind with his spot-on pronouncement of anemia.  Just by talking to her, there in Nancy’s living room!  Fairfax sees now that she had not been eating well back then, certainly not enough iron-rich foods.  As they sat there, Nancy and the boys playing with Peter’s dog, Lana, on the floor, he had suggested she start with lean red meat and fish and spinach. Which, she pointed out to him, weren’t exactly available at that moment, Irma having saturated Publix. So, Peter had gestured to a box of cereal her sons Jack and Will had torn open, and said, “Start there, Fairfax. Start with fortified cereal.”

And she started feeling better from that day forward.  Fairfax added hematology appointments with Dr. R. into her regular routine.  She loved seeing Peter, it was more like having coffee with a friend (caffeine again!) than a medical evaluation.  He was concerned at first because her anemia had presented so long after chemo had ceased, so he made sure to test her for other things. Like the cancer “Good Morning America” host Robin Roberts developed years after treatment.  Thankfully, the tests didn’t point to that, and Fairfax had started feeling better.  Her energy picked up, she had more color in her cheeks.  Her nails grew strong, her gums healed.  She didn’t realize it was possible for teeth to look so good at age 47.

And she had Peter to thank for this new health.  Fairfax swore to him that she would pay attention to what she ate–she didn’t know how her nutrition had deteriorated so much.  It had crept up on her.  He called her an “accidental vegetarian,” a term he wanted to trademark.  Except that Fairfax had googled the term, and everybody was using it.

“They’re not using the term the way I am,” Peter had responded during that visit, shaking his head.  “Those cookbooks and lifestyle blogs are all about the benefits of blundering into a plant-based diet.”  He had grinned then.  Oh, he was so cute!  The red hair and freckles kept him boyish.  “But, in your case, plant-based foods aren’t cutting it, Fairfax. If you are not ethically opposed to eating red meat,” he’d commented during one visit, “then why not have a steak once a week with your husband?”

So she did.  And not only with Mike, but with Peter and Nancy too.

For they were now dating, and Fairfax could not be happier for them.  This is the way the world works, she muses.  We’re meant to pair off.  Even Nancy.

Padding into the bathroom, she dumps the cold coffee down the sink then turns on the faucet to rinse away the dregs.  A swipe of the sink with a Clorox wipe gives her a charge.  Even though they say Americans are too concerned with germs—let your immune system see some dirt, magazines advise—Fairfax still feels better scrubbing down surfaces after use.

Besides there was so much debris floating around during this remodel that their surroundings would be grayed out if not for her vigilance.  She just knew this whole house would be furred in dust, or worse.

Fairfax grabs another wipe and works her way across the counter and onto the faucets of both sinks.  Before she knows it, she’s cleaned her way down the cabinets (a louvered style—maybe replace next?) to the tile floor (could they possibly change to a wood-grain porcelain?). As she’s swiping up dust and hair from a corner, she notices a small deposit of glitter.  Where on earth did that come from?

Hmm. Oh yes! Nancy!

Peter and Nancy had come to dinner Sunday night, sort of an impromptu thing, Fairfax’s favorite kind.  The two had been walking their dogs (same kind, Cavalier King Charles Spaniels—so cute!), and started chatting with Mike who was blowing leaves off the driveway.  He offered everyone, dogs included, a drink of water which turned into beers and burgers on the grill.  Fairfax was so happy that her husband had issued this invitation; she had always taken the reins of their social life, since Mike tended to be the introvert.

In any case, Nancy had asked to use the bathroom, so Fairfax had ushered her upstairs to the Master suite.  (The downstairs powder room was currently down to the studs.)

“So…” Fairfax could hear that sly edge to her voice that her sons so hated.  Well, so what? She had to know about Nancy and Peter, the latest.  “How was Friday night?”

Friday night, Peter had taken Nancy to the Ice Plant, a restaurant in St. Augustine, located in a renovated storage space.  On the way, they were supposed to stop by Vilano Beach, so Peter could meet her father who lived there in a retirement community.

Nancy’s eyes caught hers in the beveled sink mirror.  “I already told you, remember? We couldn’t get into the restaurant, so we went to Creekside instead.”

“You didn’t say that.” Fairfax wracked her brain.  Or maybe Nancy had told her that; they hadn’t walked Saturday morning, had only exchanged brief texts as a check-in.  She possibly could have typed that, and it passed Fairfax’s eyes (and memory) by.  “Oh well, Creekside is always good.  Did Peter meet your dad?”

Nancy shut off the faucet and reached for a hand towel.  The fluffy white clean ones, fresh from the laundry, thank goodness!  You never know who was going to need to use your bathroom, did you?

Nancy leaned close to the mirror, squinting at her reflection. “No, dinner went too long.  It was late by the time we finished.” She looked pale this evening, her eyes lacked their normal depth.  Some eye makeup could help that.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Fairfax opened the center drawer of the bathroom vanity.  Somewhere in here was an unused Too Faced shadow that would be perfect for Nancy’s brown eyes, accent the amber while camouflaging her lids.  For some reason, Nancy’s skin looked sallow tonight, not its usual ivory cream. The shadow had been a freebie from Ulta. Aha! Found it!

“What’s that?” Nancy asked, looking at the small compact in Fairfax’s hand.  She had a funny look on her face as if the thing might bite her.

Why must Nancy always be so cautious?  Surely, she can see it’s only makeup.  “Open it. It’s pineapple shadow, and some liner. I haven’t used it,” Fairfax urged.

“Pineapple?” Nancy’s lips twisted to one side. She scratched a spot on her arm. “That sounds scary.”

“So…you need something around the eyes.  To make them pop, you know.” Fairfax reached for her friend’s hand, gently dropping the makeup into her palm.

Nancy sighed.  “Oh my gosh, Fairfax. Why?”

“You are so gorgeous, you know…”

“But not now, huh?” Nancy closed her eyes.  Yep, sallow, Fairfax confirmed.  The contrasting gold glitter would turn that right around, baby!

“No, always!  It’s just that you might want to fix yourself up for…well, you know…”

“For Peter?” Nancy inhaled, then paused a second before letting the air out in a puff so big, it ruffled her bangs.  Fairfax hoped she hadn’t upset her.  Sometimes, Nancy started doing yoga breaths when she got freaked out.  “Look, Fair, I don’t need to ‘fix myself up’ for Peter.  It’s one of the reasons I like him.”

Fairfax smiled.  And there it was.  It was official now.  Nancy did like Peter!  Sometimes it was shoulder-bumping a jammed door to get her friend to admit to any feelings, she kept her romantic expectations locked up so deep inside.   “So you do like him, you admit it!”

“Of course, you know that, Fairfax.  You’ve known that for a while.” With a sigh of surrender, Nancy opened up the eye kit, removed the foam-tipped applicator.

“You never really say, you know, what’s going on.” Fairfax reached for the applicator. “Here, let me try.” She lightly touched the tip to the square of golden shadow and began to brush it onto Nancy’s right eyelid. “He’s such a good guy, Plumb!” She moved to the left eyelid, repeating the strokes.

“I think you’re in love with him.” Nancy grinned, lips stretched wide, tiny lines an accordion print at the edges.

Maybe a good moisturizing lip gloss would help with those. Fairfax had a three-pack somewhere around here that she hadn’t even opened.  Hmm. “What?” she asked, quickly scanning the wicker shelf nearby.

Nancy’s eyes popped open. “I said you’re the one in love with Dr. Redmond.” She winked, and fragments of the pineapple shadow fell across her cheek.  Wow, it really was glittery.

Fairfax brushed the tip of her finger across Nancy’s face, leaving only a trace of sparkle behind.  Actually, it looked quite good there, like highlighter. She peered at her friend’s skin. Yes, it worked.  “Well, he’s my doctor, what can I say?” Fairfax stepped back and looked Nancy full in the face. “Now, a little liner, should have done that first. I admit it, I love Peter.  He saved me.”

Nancy pursed her gloss-less lips.  “Okay, I get that.  He did change your diet, among other things.” She rested her hand on Fairfax’s shoulder.  “And you look good, I mean really good.”

Fairfax glanced in the mirror.  Her hair had grown well onto her shoulders and regained some of its old fullness.  Going gray, well, snow white, suited her, if she did say so herself.  And the weekly facial masks she’d started using (so ghoulish, sons screaming every time they saw her) gave her skin a glow it’d been missing. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to consider reconstructive surgery?  She’d put it off, thinking implants would hinder her “breast patrol,” as she’d come to call it.  Her monthly (sometimes daily) checks for new lumps and bumps.  Fairfax was sure she was driving old Dr. Simpson crazy with her concerns, but he told her to call whenever she worried.  Not to worry about bothering him.  He was a good one.

Just like Dr. Redmond. In fact, Peter was the type of man, never mind doctor, you wanted to hang onto, never let go.  A catch! Smart, oh so smart.  Attractive, if you liked redheads, which Fairfax was fairly certain Nancy did.  He was a kind soul—he cared deeply about his patients, Fairfax witnessed that at every visit.  Peter was not an a-hole, of which there were plenty in the world, both she and Nancy knew that. He kept his promises, he followed through.  He wasn’t afraid to risk things, to throw himself into a relationship.  To go after someone whole-heartedly, no games.

And Peter was going after Nancy.  He’d told this to Fairfax when he walked her to her car after an appointment.  Escorted her to her vehicle and opened the door for her! What kind of doctor does that? Well, it showed he was a friend, really.  Peter Redmond was a friend who just happened to be her physician.  And she owed it to him to help him in his quest for her other friend’s affection.

“So…” Fairfax paused. Hmm. How to ask this? Should she even ask it?

“What?” Nancy reached for the eye shadow, and Fairfax passed it back to her.  “Man, it’s really glittery, isn’t it?  Beauty pageant grade glitter.”

“Um.” This was awkward.  Maybe Fairfax shouldn’t ask.  But she needed to know.  Something Peter had said, hinted at, really, spurred her on.  “Don’t hate me for asking this question, Nancy, but…”

Nancy stared at her, the plastic container poised on her fingertips.  “What, Fairfax? Spit it out, for goodness’ sake.”

Fairfax steeled herself.  Okay, well, why the heck not? They were good friends, she could ask this sort of thing.  She took a deep breath.  “Have you slept with him?”

There was silence first. Then a tiny crash of shadow/liner to the floor.

Fairfax kneels down now, swiping the last of the pineapple glitter from the corner of the bathroom.  Oh, yes, she’d ambushed Nancy, surprised her with that question.  Yet, the answer she received brought them closer, deeper into kinship.  Soul friends.

Anam caras.  The Celtic word for friends who share a deep understanding of life and love.

She throws the dust-covered cleaning cloth into the trash and pads back out to the bedroom.  The St. Johns River outside the large window glitters white on gray.  Gleaming, beautiful and benign.  But not always.  Irma had whipped that body of water into an ugly outbreak which swamped Duval County. Something to fear, to shelter from.

Maybe like the one that’s out there now in the Gulf of Mexico.  Jack, her future meteorologist, was following its progress (Michael, was it?) Her youngest son tended to obsess over storms, a quality she, at first, found endearing but was now wearing on her.

Why must they worry about a storm off Florida’s west coast? Frankly, it was always a relief when the tropics spit one out in that direction.  East coast folks could breathe easier with storms like Michael, though, of course, they empathized.  Yes, they felt terrible for the Panhandle on down.

In fact, Fairfax realizes, she should say a prayer for those in the path of Michael right now.  Well, in just a moment.  When she can really settle down and focus on the words, the feeling, of just the right way to ask God for safety for those poor people.

Right now, she’s got to finish that email to their contractor.  Fairfax had called multiple times but he was never available, so she decided to put her concerns in writing.  With bullet points.  Maybe some bolded words, one or two all caps, if necessary.  The guy needed to fix the items on the first punch list.  It seemed like he’d forgotten about the Figueroa house. It was unconscionable how long it was taking his company to repair the drywall in the downstairs pantry.

Unconscionable.  Ha!  That had been one of her mother Genevieve’s favorite words.  Fairfax remembers her mother using it almost daily, heavy emphasis on the “kah” sound in the second syllable.

Funny how childhood memories take her by surprise.  Recognition of a word, a place.  An aroma.  The smell of sunscreen, for instance, always brought Genevieve Fitch to mind.  She rubbed down Fairfax and her older brothers every summer of the 1970s, neglecting her own skin most of the time, probably.

She must have neglected her own skin, never bothered with SPF, to have died of skin cancer so young.  Of course, they didn’t make good sunscreen back then. Science and medicine have advanced so much since.

Fairfax sighs, plants her bottom in her desk chair.  First, finish email.  Second, pray.  Third, research breast reconstruction.

She pauses, opens up a new tab in Chrome.  Maybe just a quick search now regarding that third item.

Don’t neglect your own skin.