“Let’s stop by the visitors’ center and get some brochures on our way out.” Sister was forced to turn around in a pale lavender house’s driveway since the road was blocked by a bulldozer, and we headed back the way we had come. As we passed the guard shack, she let the window down and called “Thank you.” The man inside actually waved.

“Act like we’re interested in buying some property,” she said. “They’ll jump on us like chickens on a June bug. You can find out all kinds of stuff that way.”

“What kind of stuff is it we want to find out?”

“Well, personally, I want to know how much that pink house cost. Those folks got taken to the cleaners, I’ll bet you.” Sister pulled into the parking lot and we got out of the car. “I think this log cabin is cute, don’t you? Those rocking chairs across the front?”

“I don’t understand it.”

“What’s to understand? You sit on the porch and rock.”

“I mean I don’t understand this whole ranch bit. Did you ever hear of a ranch where the Intra-coastal Waterway runs right by the bunkhouse?” But I was speaking to Mary Alice’s back as she disappeared into the log cabin.

We didn’t have to act as if we were interested in property in order to have the sales staff jump on us like chickens on a June bug. They had spotted the Jaguar as it pulled into the parking lot. The first woman to get to Sister was skinny, in her forties, and had greenish-blond hair, something that happens sometimes in Florida given the amount of sun and chlorine people are exposed to. Her name tag read Lolita.

“Hello, hello,” she smiled. “I’m Lolita Brown. Welcome to Blue Bay Ranch where your own personal rainbow ends.”

Mary Alice looked at her. “My personal rainbow ends here?”

“She means the places cost a pot of gold,” I said.

“Hush, Patricia Anne. That’s not what she means at all, is it, Lolita?”

“Of course not.” And then Lolita did something that made me decide that if I ever won the lottery and bought a place at Blue Bay, it would be from her. She grinned and said, “Well, maybe a little pot.”

We introduced ourselves and declined the guided tour she offered. At her insistence, we admired the huge map on the wall that showed the configuration of all the building sites, denoting the ones that were sold with a pale pink, magic markered x. The prices were also marked on each lot, increasing in price as they neared the water.

I pushed my bifocals up and looked at the numbers. “Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars for a lot?” I gasped.

“Close to the bay with a view of the bridge,” Lolita explained. “As you can see, there aren’t many of them left.”