artistic soul somehow needed to squeeze more out of life. If I left my marriage, I would suddenly be free to learn to sing my new songs, possibly even fall in love with the fantasy Latin man I would surely meet — and why not in the city that attracted me more each day as I followed CNN en Español’s programs, often filmed in the magical city of hot tropical nights and Latin pasión … Miami!
My three closest girlfriends supported my idea and told me that I, the free spirited artist, was living the life of a caged songbird in a gilded cage. As much as I had loved the California experience, and as much as I still adored my husband for his kind nature, good looks, and refined international persona, I convinced myself that I had never completely fit into the role as the wife of a Beverly Hills businessman. I had always enjoyed that Jack was older than I; our age difference had never been a problem — I had always been attracted to our “Greatest Generation” of men and women — but unfortunately, I seemed to be too bohemian and artistic at heart to have ever felt like an authentic Beverly Hills wife.
I tried to persuade Jack that this solution to split would eventually be better for both of us. He strongly resisted and booked us several sessions with a marriage counsellor, hoping she could enlighten me as to the madness of my ways. But my birth sign, the Cancerian Ox, personifies determination, and my mind was set.
I started to consult lawyers, firing two who wanted to take Jack for half of his net worth, an approach that I could never accept. I chose in the end a smart and ethical female lawyer, who helped us untangle some of our mutual investments.
To this day, because Jack had always been generous to me and I had not been overly greedy, I remain good friends with the wonderful Simon family.
It was hardly a pleasant experience for either of us, and it was one I promised myself never to repeat. I have no idea how some people survive multiple divorces, as breaking up any long-term love affair inevitably causes grief and heartache for both parties. My pen pal friend and confidant, Prince Philip, wrote to tell me he was sorry to hear that Jack and I were divorcing, but knowing how determined I was to keep my music flowing, he kindly added, “I quite understand the circumstances.”
Riddled with guilt, I penned a three-page letter to Jack’s four sons and their wives, whom I expected would never want to talk to me again. I told them how deeply appreciative I had always been for the loving manner in which they had welcomed me into their family. I knew that in many cases the offspring of even the most wonderful husbands tend to resent the second wives their fathers choose. In Jack’s family this had never happened. How sad for me, and for them, I thought, that we would lose each other after fourteen years of being so close. Tears were rolling down my cheeks as I wrote the words of thanks and farewell. But to my genuine surprise a few days later I received calls from all his sons telling me not to be so crazy, that I would always be a special part of their family, and wishing me only the best. Now my tears were those of relief and gratitude for the way Jack had raised his family — to offer me love even though I was abandoning them. It is a tribute to what a great husband and father he had been. Human beings like Jack Simon are indeed rare.
4
My Beautiful Miami
I made my reservation for my flight to Miami for September 4, 2004, already dreaming of palm trees and those sensuous, comforting ocean breezes I had come to associate with Miami. But as bad luck would have it, Hurricane Ivan blew in the same week, and South Florida was being assaulted by eighty-mile-an-hour winds that shredded the palms and flooded the city streets. My gold Lexus, which I had shipped out on a flatbed truck, found itself caught in the centre of the action in Tampa but eventually made it unscathed to Miami.
I rebooked my flight for a week later. Jack and I continued to cohabit, brought closer together by the devastating news that our beloved cat, Muffin, with whom Jack had fallen hopelessly in love, had an enlarged heart and was not expected to survive much longer. We were both completely distraught, but taurine supplements miraculously saved him, and Muffin lived an additional nine years, with Jack waiting on him as befitted the precious feline that Dervin, our live-in help, used to tell me was “a reincarnated prince” and certainly no ordinary cat!
As I bid adieu to the three males who for so long had been central to my life and my luxurious Beverly Hills existence, I experienced a heady mix of euphoria, at the thought of the freedom and the tropical paradise awaiting me, and a lump in my throat to think that the secure, familiar life I had once considered a fairy tale had suddenly come to an end. I was flying far away from those who loved me, and whom I had loved in return, and was now heading off alone into the unknown.
• • •
The Ocean Club, situated near the tip of Key Biscayne, a sixteen-mile drive from downtown Miami, was indeed the tropical paradise I had envisioned, and once my huge cardboard boxes filled with clothes, books, and art had been unpacked, I set out to explore the city. After breathing the often-smoggy air of Los Angeles for fourteen years, the air here smelled delightfully clean and fresh. I knew no one there other than my Cuban realtor, Maria, but was confident that I would soon make new friends. Perhaps all my family moves during my childhood had equipped me for this.
The condo, which I had rented sight unseen, had spectacular views from every angle, and I revelled in the splendid sunrises and sunsets over expansive ocean views that never failed to inspire me. I resolved that I would never live in a place where I could not enjoy this treat of nature, the best artist ever. It all contributed to my delight at having chosen a new home on the edge of the ocean. In 2004 I was in love with Miami and had no inkling of all the problems that were in store for me.
If I arose early in the morning, I could swim alone in the warm pools and watch iguanas and lizards emerging from their shrubbery hideouts on the central island. I floated on my back, gazing up through the palm fronds to the tropical skies. How had I been so lucky to be airlifted into this paradise? If I desired a change of scene, after only a two-minute walk I was on a sun-warmed, sandy beach that led to the lighthouse and park at the tip of the island, where sailboats and motor boats pulled up, and where they served café con leche, rice and black beans, and Cuban-style fried plantains.
In no time I had befriended some of the other residents of the Ocean Club, whom I met while in the outdoor restaurant, the state-of-the-art gymnasium, or the local town. A Haitian girl and I became friends while dancing Argentinian tango at one of the milongas, and a few classical guitarists welcomed me once they discovered I was living in their midst. Still, over and over again I encountered people who asked me with a look of disbelief, “You moved from Beverly Hills to Miami?” Could there be something about this city that I did not yet understand? I paid no real attention to these questions, though, continuing to enjoy my exciting new life.
In Key Biscayne I was delighted by the flamingos and egrets that strutted nonchalantly along the pathways, and soon I was riding my bike along Crandon Boulevard and happily prattling away in Spanish with bank tellers and garage attendants, thrilled by the adventure of discovering this new city that I had seen so much of on Univision, the popular Spanish network that, along with CNN en Español, I had become addicted to in Los Angeles.
My obsession had begun while perfecting my skills with a language that I had loved ever since living in Mexico as a teenager. In the Latin world, everyone talks at the same time, constantly interrupting each other. Such behaviour is not considered disrespectful, just the acceptable way of communicating. I remembered Jack’s frequent criticism of me for my “bad habit” of not letting him finish his sentences, and my mother’s reprimands if she saw me jumping in too soon on television interviews. Here, however, this practice was not considered a fault, but the norm, and somehow this style of fast-paced communication suited my naturally impatient nature just fine! If one observes the English language morning news shows on NBC and then switches to Univision or Telemundo’s Latin broadcasts, one sees the two styles are night-and-day different. The Spanish-speaking hosts and guests exude passion and excitement, and nobody feels offended. If someone is making an important point, I would consider it poor manners to interrupt, but in casual conversation, almost all the Latin-based languages seem to function this way — one only has to listen to a group of animated Francophones or Italians!
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Key