The house at Red Mountain Ranch felt like a dream—nestled in a quiet cul-de-sac, with a shimmering pool in the backyard and the majestic outline of the Pete Dye golf course just beyond. It was the kind of place you imagined waking up to with coffee on the patio, the scent of desert blooms in the air, and the promise of a tee time just a short walk away.

Buying it on Cinco de Mayo, 05/05/05, added a lucky note to the milestone. We toasted the moment with hope and excitement, believing we had found not just a property, but a future.

Anita’s contribution from her money market account made the down payment possible, and I committed to covering future expenses until our investments balanced out. It was a handshake agreement built on trust and shared vision.

But reality crept in slowly.

Renting the house seemed like a smart interim plan—until it wasn’t. Months passed before we found a tenant, and the rent we settled for fell short of the mortgage. City utilities added another layer of expense, and suddenly, the numbers didn’t add up the way we’d hoped.

Still, I held onto the dream. The house was beautiful, the location ideal, and the vision of retiring in Mesa—golfing, dining, dancing—remained vivid. I believed we could weather the bumps and make it work. But dreams sometimes shift. And what came next would test not just our finances, but the very foundation of our partnership.

When the lease ended, there was some good news. Anita’s son and his wife decided to rent our house while their new home in Fountain Hills was being built. Bill and Hannah moved in December, and Hannah’s mother came to visit from Czechoslovakia. Anita and I flew to Phoenix to celebrate the holidays with family.

That Christmas in Arizona felt like a turning point—a joyful glimpse into the life I had imagined. The sun was warm, the golf courses inviting, and the house at Red Mountain Ranch began to feel less like an investment and more like a future. We toasted the New Year with family, laughter, and the quiet thrill of possibility.

But just as we began to settle into the rhythm of this new chapter, the music changed.

In April, without warning, Bill and Hannah announced they were leaving. Their plans to build in Fountain Hills were abandoned, replaced by a sudden purchase of a million-dollar home in Las Sendas. Anita was thrilled for them—proud, even. But I was stunned. Their departure wasn’t just a change of address; it was a rupture in the foundation of our plans.

We had tailored the house for them—upgraded appliances, made it comfortable, welcoming. Now, with them gone, renting it out again felt impractical. Tenants wouldn’t appreciate the high-end touches. And the costs—pool maintenance, landscaping, club fees—were mine to carry. I had even paid $8,700 for a golf membership, assuming they’d use it. They didn’t. I was left paying $450 a month for a club no one wanted.

When I voiced my concern, Anita shrugged. “They’re your problem,” she said.

She was right. So I made a decision. I would move to Arizona with Brandy and enjoy the house and the golf I was paying for. Surprisingly, Anita chose to move too, and I assumed it was to be near her family. But her focus quickly shifted—not to family, not to partnership, but to remodeling. She wanted our $367,000 house to resemble her son’s million-dollar home.

I employed a tile mason, and the remodeling started. Travertine took the place of ceramic tiles, a mosaic medallion enhanced the foyer, and new carpet covered the living room. I proposed tiling the bedroom hallway and installing a stone façade on the fireplace. These were bold modifications, but the outcome was impressive.

Anita sold her house in Doylestown. I found a tenant for my apartment, left behind much of my furniture, and in July, we drove to Mesa—her Jeep packed with Schnapps her Dachshund, and the movers trailing behind.

After unpacking, I returned to Philadelphia to settle my affairs, pick up Brandy, and drive my Cadillac to Arizona. While I was gone, Anita arranged her bedroom set in the master suite and placed mine in the guest room. She filled the house with new furnishings—elegant, expensive, hers.

When I returned, we installed the $6,300 Nicolae Vishu chandelier I had purchased for the dining room. I replaced the sliding doors with French doors. The backyard bloomed with flowers, and my glass-top kitchen set served as patio furniture.

We upgraded the kitchen counters with Brazilian Verde granite, a farmhouse sink, drop-down lighting, and new bar stools. The backsplash was tiled, the walls freshly painted. But as the house transformed into a showpiece—gleaming granite, elegant furnishings, and a backyard blooming with color—something else was quietly unraveling.

Anita, once my partner in planning, began to drift into her own orbit. She made it clear she had no interest in golf, no desire to join the club, and no intention of sharing expenses beyond her initial investment. “I’ll buy what I need,” she said. “You’re on your own.” It was a jarring shift from the shared vision we had once toasted.

I tried to keep things balanced. I was used to managing rental properties, keeping detailed records for tax purposes. I tallied my contributions—mortgage, utilities, furnishings, golf fees, travel—and realized I had invested over $100,000. When I mentioned this to Anita, hoping for acknowledgment, she snapped, “Did you keep track of every piece of gum I chewed?” Her response wasn’t just dismissive—it was hurtful.

The emotional distance grew. I had lived alone for thirty years, and I prided myself on being a tidy, self-sufficient man. But in this new arrangement, I felt like a guest in my own home. I wasn’t welcome to eat anything Anita prepared unless company was present. She criticized my habits—dust on a lampshade, a rinsed glass in the sink, napping on the sofa. Worst of all, Brandy, my beloved cat, was confined to a closet in the office.

To keep the peace, I snuck Brandy out at night for quiet companionship while I read or worked. We slept in the guest room, door closed. At dawn, I returned her to the closet. It was heartbreaking. If I voiced concern, I was accused of “dreaming it” or being “passive-aggressive.” I began taking long bike rides each morning, sipping my coffee in the community park, and watching others live the life I had imagined for us.

By October, I knew I had to leave. I rented a storage unit and, during Anita’s business trips, quietly packed my belongings. I avoided the neighbors, haunted by memories of my divorce and the gossip that followed.

Thanksgiving sealed it. I woke to Anita yelling, “What’s this $hit in my oven?”—dust from the tile work had settled inside. I cleaned the oven. She cooked a traditional dinner, but I felt like a stranger at the table.

We made it through the holidays, but the warmth was gone.

In March 2008, I rented a condo on Recker Road. While Anita was away, I emptied the storage unit, packed my clothes, gathered my personal items, and took Brandy with me. When she returned that Sunday, I was waiting—not with anger, but with quiet resolve.

“I’ve moved out,” I said. “I’m only here to say goodbye.”

And with that, I closed the door on a chapter that had begun with promise and ended with clarity. What came next was a rediscovery—not just of independence, but of joy. Of friendship. Of love. But that’s a story I’ll tell in the next episode.

  That moment—standing in the kitchen, telling Anita I had moved out—was quiet, but final. There was no argument, no dramatic scene. Just the truth: I had reached the end of what I could endure, and I was choosing peace.

The journey to that decision had been long and layered. What began as a hopeful relocation to Arizona—a dream of sunshine, golf, and shared retirement—had slowly unraveled into a life of tension, isolation, and disappointment. The house we had poured ourselves into, with its hand-forged chandelier and Brazilian granite, had become less a home and more a battleground of mismatched expectations.

I had tried to make it work. I had invested not just money, but time, energy, and heart. I had compromised, adapted, and kept quiet. But the joy I had imagined—of golfing with Anita, of hosting family dinners, of watching Brandy nap in the sun—never materialized. Instead, I found myself sneaking my cat out of a closet at night, tiptoeing around complaints, and sipping coffee alone in the park just to feel normal.

The final straw came on Thanksgiving. Her anger over dust in the oven—left from the tile work—wasn’t just about cleanliness. It was a symbol of how far we had drifted. I had become a stranger in my own home, and no amount of granite or French doors could fix that.

So I planned my exit with quiet resolve. I rented a storage unit, packed my belongings in secret, and waited for the right moment. When it came, I didn’t hesitate. I moved into my condo on Recker Road, bringing Brandy, my clothes, and the pieces of myself I had managed to preserve.

After I moved out, giving Anita the house, I felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. The silence in my new condo on Recker Road was comforting, but it also echoed with memories—some sweet, some sharp. Brandy, my loyal cat, settled in quickly. She no longer had to hide in closets or tiptoe around a barking dog. We reclaimed our space together, one quiet morning, one cup of coffee at a time.

I began to rebuild my routines. I furnished the condo with care, choosing pieces that reflected my taste, not someone else’s. I cooked for myself again, and played music I loved. The community was friendly, and I found myself chatting with neighbors, sharing stories, even joining a few for coffee or grilling hotdogs.

But the emotional weight lingered. I had invested not just money, but hope into that house in Red Mountain Ranch. Into the idea of partnership. Into the belief that two people could build something lasting. And while Anita and I had shared good times, the ending had been painful. Her sharp words, her refusal to compromise, her dismissal of my efforts—they left bruises that didn’t fade overnight.

Still, I didn’t let bitterness take root. I focused on healing. On rediscovering the joy of living alone—not in isolation, but in freedom. I played golf with friends who laughed at bad shots and celebrated the good ones. I spent time with Brandy, who curled beside me each evening like a quiet reminder that loyalty still existed.

And then, in April 2008, I met Joan.

She was everything Anita wasn’t—warm, gracious, curious, and kind. Our first date was effortless, filled with laughter and connection. We danced, we dined, we talked about theater and travel and the little things that make life beautiful. I didn’t know it then, but I was stepping into a new chapter. One not built on compromise, but on companionship. Not on control, but on care.

Joan and I would go on to share cruises, golf games, quiet evenings, and unforgettable adventures. But it all began with a decision to walk away from what wasn’t working—and to believe that something better might be waiting.

That chapter with Anita taught me how to leave. The chapter with Joan taught me how to stay.

  Our love story began with a simple online connection and, on April 5, 2008, a hopeful first date. Joan lived in Anthem, Arizona, and I was in Mesa. We chose to meet halfway, at Morton’s Steak House in Scottsdale—a place I knew and trusted. Over cocktails at the bar, conversation flowed easily. We laughed, lingered, and decided to stay for dinner. Later, Joan discovered her daughter and son-in-law had been dining there too, as if fate had placed us all under the same roof.

It was a perfect April evening. After dinner, Joan suggested dessert cocktails at Tommy Bahama’s, just a short stroll through Kierland Commons. That night became our tradition—we’ve celebrated our first-date anniversary at Morton’s every year since.

Our second date was nearly a comedy. Joan picked a restaurant known for music and dancing, but I got lost, leaving her to charm the bartender. By the time I arrived, dinner was still on—but they had discontinued dance music. Joan, ever resourceful, suggested Chances Are, a lively nightclub she knew well. It turned out to be a perfect choice, and soon became one of our favorite places to dance.

Our third date was golf. Joan had given up her membership in Anthem, so I invited her to play at Red Mountain Ranch. When we began dating tegularly, it was on a Thursday when Joan worked in Scottsdale at her daughters' law firm. Scottsdale was conveniently located between our homes, and eventually Thursday began our weekend—dinners, dancing, theater, and golf.

We shared a love for the arts. Joan had season tickets to ASU Gammage, and soon we were attending shows together—Phantom of the Opera, Les Misérables, The Lion King, West Side Story. Thursday nights became our ritual: theater followed by late-night dinner, wrapped in elegance and joy.

Joan was also a seasoned cruiser—over thirty voyages on luxurious small ships like Seabourn and Silver Seas. I had only been on a few, and wasn’t fond of the large crowds. But when Joan discovered a Trans-Atlantic Dance Cruise with Crystal Cruises, she knew it was meant for us. We sailed from Lisbon to the Azores, across the Atlantic to Grand Turk, and finally to Miami. It was magical—dancing at sea, moonlight on the waves, and memories that shimmered like champagne.

After the cruise, we visited Joan’s dear friends in Boynton Beach, Florida. I saw the warmth of her past and the depth of her friendships. By March 2010, we had grown tired of the long drive between Mesa and Anthem and decided to live together. Anthem was the natural choice—close to Joan’s family, full of friends, and home to two magnificent golf courses.

Joan wasn’t fond of pets, but she accepted my cat Brandy. Her daughters joked, “Mom must be in love—she’s living with a litter box!” When Brandy passed, Joan agreed to adopt Lucky, a charming Norwegian Forest cat with a gray goatee and a bushy tail. She doted on him like a helicopter mom and would miss him dearly when he was gone.

At home, joy lived in the little things. We’d linger over breakfast, trading smiles and stories, while our cat Lucky curled up beside us like a contented witness to our quiet happiness. Nights were spent with sitcoms on TV, the kind that made us laugh out loud and lean a little closer. It was a rhythm of comfort—simple, steady, and deeply felt.

We blended our homes, our furniture, and our styles. We redecorated together, choosing new pieces and repurposing old ones. Our patio became a sanctuary—with oversized chairs, a fire pit, a misting system, and an awning for year-round comfort.

We joined Anthem Country Club with a non-equity membership, allowing Joan to rejoin her beloved Party-Niners golf group. I joined the men’s league, though I often felt outmatched. Eventually, I stepped away from league play and chose to golf with Joan and friends who shared my pace and spirit.

In 2015, we gave up our Anthem membership and found new courses and new companions. Joan played with her friend Carol at Coyote Lakes. I played in Sun City and Wickenburg Ranch with my own crew. Our annual Crystal Cruises continued, with the 2019 holiday voyage to Hawaii standing out—celebrating Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year’s in style, golfing in Oahu and Maui.

We’ve cruised to Barcelona, Lisbon, Iceland, Greenland, Gibraltar, the Bahamas, the Caribbean, the Panama Canal, and New Zealand. In Cartagena, Colombia, we had our own Romancing the Stone moment—falling in love with an emerald ring we couldn’t buy at the time, only to track it down later and have it mailed to us through a Florida jeweler.

Mexico became another chapter of our love story. Joan’s brother and sister-in-law welcomed us to their villa in Conchas Chinas. Together, we explored Guadalajara, Sayulita, Mascota, Talpa, and San Sebastian. We sipped golden margaritas on the beach, played in the surf, and golfed among alligators at Marina Vallarta.

In 2009, I bought a red Cadillac DTS. Not to be outdone, Joan returned from a dealership with a red Lexus IS—the car she’d always wanted. Two red cars, side by side, like a matched pair.

Joan collects perfume bottles and travel memorabilia, and she’s a gifted needlepoint artist. Together, we’ve gathered treasures—dancing Katrinas from Mexico, dancing peppers from Key West, kiln glass cats, and a Phillip Anthony oil painting.

The pandemic of 2020 paused our travels, canceling our cruise from Barcelona to Quebec City. My Friday golf group disbanded, but I continued to play on Thursdays. Life slowed, but love endured.

Today, Joan and I still dance, still travel, still share quiet rounds of golf and joyful evenings with friends. On April 5, 2022, we celebrated 14 years together—a journey filled with laughter, adventure, and unwavering affection.

It’s a love story written across continents and calendars, stitched together with theater tickets, cruise itineraries, and the rhythm of two hearts that found their perfect match.

  Joan and I had built a life together—layered with laughter, travel, dancing, golf, and quiet companionship. In February of 2023, Acoya Troon became our new shared home, a place of comfort and community, nestled between two beautiful mountains. Our apartment, with its twin balconies and sweeping views, felt like a sanctuary. But even sanctuaries cannot shield us from the passage of time.

Our first few months at Acoya were marked by loss. In March, Joan lost her brother. In April, I lost mine. And in May, we said goodbye to our beloved cat, Lucky. The grief was layered—family, memory, and the quiet absence of a furry friend who had been part of our daily rhythm.

But within two days, life offered a small comfort. We welcomed a gentle soul into our home—a feral cat named Yeti Bear, who had been trapped but deemed too sweet to return to the wild. He was shy and soft with captivating sea-green eyes, and carried a quiet dignity. Yeti Bear filled a void we hadn’t known how to name. His presence was calming, his trust hard-won but deeply rewarding.

By January of the following year, we faced another goodbye—a dear friend and neighbor passed away. In her absence, her precious cat Louie needed a home. Louie and Yeti Bear had already formed a bond, and their friendship made the decision easy. We adopted Louie, and the two cats became inseparable—curled together in sunbeams, sharing quiet moments that reminded us of the comfort found in connection.

In a time of sorrow, these two companions brought warmth, routine, and a gentle kind of healing. They didn’t replace what was lost—but they softened the edges of grief and reminded us that love, in all its forms, finds a way to return.

Joan’s stroke in December changed everything. The woman who once twirled across cruise ship ballrooms and led the Party-Niners on the golf course now needed help with the simplest tasks. I became her caregiver, her advocate, her constant companion. I crushed pills into pudding, fetched our meals, and held her hand through long, quiet afternoons. We still shared smiles, still found joy in small victories—but the rhythm of our life had slowed.

The strain wasn’t just physical. Her daughters, once distant figures in our story, stepped in with decisions that felt more like control than care. Bank accounts were altered, passwords changed, and the financial partnership we had honored for years began to unravel. I tried to hold the line—to protect our shared dignity and the life we had built—but the weight grew heavier.

Still, I stayed. Because love, real love, doesn’t walk away when things get hard. It leans in. It adapts. It remembers the dances, the golf, the cruises, the laughter over late-night dinners. It remembers the woman who once said yes to a second date, who welcomed my cat despite her reservations, who stood beside me through seventeen years of joy and challenge.

And then, in April 2025, a gift. We drove to San Juan Capistrano for her grandson’s wedding—all expenses paid. It was a beautiful gesture—perhaps a quiet thank-you for all I had done. Joan, radiant in her resilience, found the strength to dance once more. Just one dance. But it was enough. Enough to remind me of who we were, and who we still are.

Our story isn’t over. It’s simply changing shape. The love remains, even as the heartbreak settles in. And as I write these words, I know that the next chapter will be written with the same devotion, the same grace, and the same quiet courage that has carried us this far.

To be continued…