If the fridge, fits . . .

Pedro ("Call me Peter") called early Saturday on the road from Miami to tell me he was a half-hour away with my appliances.

I warned him about our narrow street, considering the size of his truck, and gave him an alternate cross-street, and he took the directions . . . .

90 minutes later, he was coming straight up the street, the hell with the cross. "I can get this almost anywhere in the Keys, even in Old Town," he said.

I think he had to grease a few cars to get by, but by heaven he and Esteban pulled up right in front of the house.

Off came the washer and dryer, the dishwasher, the microwave, the oven for the undercounter mount in the island -- and then the fridge.

He took a skeptical look at the opening, measured it (which we'd measured a dozen times ourselves, but not with the floor in place), shook a finger at me, grinned, and said, "You're a very smart man, or a very lucky one."

He and Enrique wrestled it up the front steps and into place. It was a matter of maybe an inch, wedged into the angle under the steps to the second floor.

"I bet you're going to have a big party once this place is finished," he said. "Don't forget your delivery guys."