It was 1947, and I was fifteen—almost sixteen. The war was over, Joe, my stepfather, was home, and my mom had quit her job so she could take care of him and me. School was just a week away when Joe came in one evening and said we were going on vacation in Florida. It took us four days and three flat tires to get there, only to discover that no one goes to Palm Beach in the fall. There was only one hotel open—Le Mirage. We were so glad to feel the air conditioning that we didn’t notice that it looked run down. It had been closed during the war, and no one had fixed it up.

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