If I didn’t know it was New Year’s Eve, the tourists on Fleming directing noisemakers at one another and the residual thump-thump-thump of Duval Street would have told me.
We’d spent every countdown in Key West since buying Pinkie. Our first had been 2001. Ridiculous Y2K panic governed Andy’s corporate office, yet he ignored the no-vacation embargo and assured the other dyspeptic VPs he’d stay in constant touch, which he did. That New Year’s Eve day, bolstered by a passion fruit martini lunch at Louie’s Backyard, we set our speed limit at fifty-five. Once we reached that age, we’d retire—no excuses, no more goal setting. We had already achieved more than we set out to. Every New Year’s Eve, we reiterated it. Last year, we even recited together, “Just ten more years.” It never occurred to
