He’d absolutely not forgotten.
It had only slipped his mind for a minute. To make room for images, thoughts, memories of Ivy Morehouse.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, Ivy jumped off the bus at the stop closest to her other job. She walked the block and a half to the front door, and she was sweating. She reached the door and checked her reflection, tugging at the V-neck of her pink scrubs and adjusting the bag over her shoulder. She caught herself smiling, and she wondered what Bentley from the shop would have thought of this other look. She’d been surprised and pleased how he seemed to like Undergrounds Ivy; maybe he’d like this Ivy, too. She stepped inside the door of the Centennial Glen Care Center and forced away the reverie grin, her game face ready for the welcome-desk secretary.
“Morning, Roxie,” Ivy said, surely looking professional and not at all swoony.
“Hi.” Roxie didn’t look up from the monitor in front of her, and her fingers clicked on her keyboard. From this side of the desk, it made her look efficient and busy. But after a couple of years of experience, Ivy knew better. Roxie was a champion online-game player.
Roxie had been the front desk secretary here for as long as Ivy had been coming, more than four years now. At first it was to visit Grammy, then to visit Grammy and her friend Lucille, and then, after the awful second December, to visit only Lucille.
When Ivy’s mom had to make the decision to arrange a new living situation for Grammy, Ivy had been in school in Tempe. Grammy wanted to stay in the city instead of moving up to Flagstaff where Ivy’s family lived. It was a perfect solution: Grammy stayed close to the neighborhood she’d lived in all her life, and Ivy visited a few times a week.
When school became too expensive and Ivy took a semester off, one of the girls who worked at Centennial Glen suggested that Ivy should do the Certified Nurse Assistant course. She practically promised her a job. Ivy did a little research and found that the certification was far less expensive than a semester of school, and she could train at Centennial Glen as an intern. A nearly perfect situation; she saw Grammy almost every day, and she eventually finished the CNA course and got hired, making money doing something she loved.
She found she genuinely enjoyed the residents’ company. On days she wasn’t working, she’d stop by and have lunch with Grammy, or join in on an afternoon craft, or listen to Grammy’s friend Lucille play the piano and sing.
Ivy worked for a year before that terrible day that Grammy died.
Ivy had sailed in the front door two minutes late for her shift that day. The look Roxie had given her then was different than any she’d given before. This was not an annoyed glance at her tardiness. This was heartbreak. When Roxie whispered, “I’m sorry,” and tears had filled her eyes, Ivy hadn’t even needed to ask. She knew. And her own heart shattered.
The three days between Grammy’s death and the funeral were as dark as any days Ivy could remember. Bereft, that was the word. She felt bereft of meaning and purpose in her world. Centennial Glen was Grammy’s home. Without Grammy, it was only a job.
She was sure she didn’t want it anymore.
Her parents stayed with her for several days so she wouldn’t be alone. Normally Ivy would have grown tired of their company much more quickly, but this time, she needed them. With two weeks’ leave from Centennial Glen, she needed something to do. Her parents went on hikes with her, explored old town Scottsdale, attended a culture festival, and ate a great deal of food.
She told her parents she was quitting the Centennial Glen job. Her mom clamped her mouth closed to keep from saying what each of them was thinking—Ivy quit too many things.
Keep going there, her father told her. You’ll find it does you good, he said. Ivy wondered if this bossy business would ever wear off, but she was grateful to them both for not mentioning her tendency to run away from things she didn’t like. She decided she might as well go back to the care center as not.
Ivy was surprised along the way to discover that she fell into some kind of love. Not only with Lucille’s companionship, but with the whole Centennial Glen community. It didn’t hurt that she was, in the words of her parents, seriously in need of some life direction. Centennial Glen gave her that direction.
Today, Ivy looked around the “lobby,” an overstatement for the narrow hallway leading from the front door to the welcome desk. A few plastic plants needed dusting, and there was a fluorescent lightbulb out. She could hear the sounds of television from the sitting room to the right. She stepped behind the front desk and swiped her ID into the reader. It beeped to let her know she was clocked in. She looked over Roxie’s shoulder. “How’s the game?” It was the same question she always asked.
“Fabulous,” Roxie said, in the same way she always did—with raised eyebrows and a toothy grin. At first, Ivy had pretended not to notice Roxie’s pastime. But after a while, she decided if Roxie wasn’t hiding it, why should Ivy? So, every day she asked. And Roxie seemed glad she mentioned it.
Ivy glanced into the mirror on the wall, carefully placed to reflect some of the light coming in the north-facing windows. It made the cramped entry space look larger and more welcoming. Seeing her reflection, she slid her hand up and pulled the ear cuffs off, stashing them in her pocket. Roxie, who didn’t look up from her game, nodded and smiled, still staring at the screen, as though she could see what Ivy had done. Of course she could see. Ivy would not put it past her to be able to see what was happening behind her back when her eyes were closed. “Everything good?” Ivy asked, implying a host of possible things she should check, understand, question, or solve.
“It’s going to be a great day,” Roxie said, and Ivy took that as permission to get to work.
Norma Needles paged her before Ivy had walked through the doors leading to the resident rooms. She put her head into the room. “Hi, Norma. What can I do for you?”
“It’s too bright in here,” Norma said. “Would you mind adjusting my blinds?”
“I’d be glad to,” Ivy said, slipping around behind Norma’s bed and twisting the blinds closed. “Anything else?” Ivy knew there would be something else. Many somethings else, if today was like every other day. Norma had recently lost some of her mobility, and she required more attention than she used to. Mostly it was a matter of keeping her spirits up. Ivy discovered she was good at that.
Norma shook her head and squeezed Ivy’s hand in thanks. “See you later. Page if you need anything,” Ivy said.
Less than an hour into her shift, Ivy heard Roxie’s voice over the intercom, sounding staticky and tinny. “Staff meeting in the employee lounge in five minutes,” she said. Ivy wondered why there was a staff meeting today. It hadn’t been on the calendar. She finished her visit with Neil Breslin, the gentleman who, at his tallest, had been five feet and four inches, and had once played the violin with the Phoenix symphony.
Ivy said goodbye to him and made her way to the “employee lounge,” code for the tiny room behind Roxie’s desk that was barely large enough to fit a table surrounded by a dozen chairs and a secondhand refrigerator. The fluorescent light in the ceiling flickered. Ivy pulled out her phone and sent an email to Hal Baker, the facilities guy, asking him to check all the bulbs.
When her message sent, Ivy slipped around the table and took a chair. She saw Geoffrey Vandenberg in his polyester tie and sad combover, working to suggest an air of authority. As the managing director of the care center, he acted in behalf of the owners and tended to talk like he was more in charge than he actually was. He overshot authority by a mile and just came off as pompous.
“Listen,” Geoffrey Vandenberg said, with every ounce of pretentiousness he brought to all the staff meetings where he presided. “You may have noticed that this is an unscheduled meeting.” Ivy looked around and saw three nurses, a cleaning staffer, and two kitchen employees. If the meeting had been scheduled, there would have been better attendance. Geoffrey Vandenburg loved the sound of his own voice. If there was something to say in
four words, you could count on him using thirty. Or a thousand.
He inhaled deeply, filling the tank. “Associates, colleagues, may I say friends,” he said. Ivy willed her eyes not to roll. “You have surely noticed changes to this part of Phoenix. If there’s one constant in our lives, that constant is… change.”
Oh, gross, Ivy thought. Aphorisms.
Another deep breath, this time accompanied by nodding. “Cities like ours often experience life cycles. Times of prosperity, times of hardship.” He actually steepled his hands together, as if contemplating the best and worst of times. “And many times, that prosperity and hardship centers in certain neighborhoods.”
Ivy let her mind wander. She gave something less than half her attention to the droning voice of Geoffrey Vandenburg while she remembered Bentley, looking at her with trust, with respect, and possibly with something more. She wouldn’t let her imagination run away with her. And she wouldn’t put too much stock in the glances they’d shared. The last guy she’d dated, Delancey, had made it very clear that wealthy men dated where it pleased them, but they married women who were also wealthy. Nobody wanted to be Cinderella’s prince charming. Charming? Delancey was not that.
She didn’t want to think about Delancey. She wouldn’t mind thinking about Bentley a little more, though. She covered her mouth to hide her smile when she though how cute he’d looked in her beanie. She wondered if he’d ever worn such a thing before.
A throat-clearing from the other side of the room reminded her why she was sitting here. Right. Meeting. She tuned back in to Vandenburg.
“This neighborhood’s last epoch of economic affluence was many decades ago, and now, according to the wealth cycles of American cities, it is our turn again.” He did a grand gesture with his hands, as if to encompass the whole neighborhood.
Was he going to stand there and explain gentrification? Because Ivy was pretty sure everyone in this room had noticed old buildings coming down and magnificent new ones growing in their foundations. It was hard to miss, when the cheap flats and rentals disappeared and were replaced with gorgeous high-rise apartment buildings with huge windows and shaded balconies. Ivy knew she was lucky to find a tiny apartment she could afford.
Geoffrey Vandenburg was still talking. Ivy checked her watch. She’d fake a page in three minutes if he wasn’t done.
“There’s no easy way to say this, so here it is: Centennial Glen sits on a very important plot of real estate. And we all know this property is an eyesore to the community.” He smiled that kind of toothy grin that dentists put in their advertising. Ivy resisted the urge to punch him. Instead she picked at her fingernails under the table.
“No one will be surprised,” he said, following his words with a pause, “about this announcement.” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “It’s time to move forward and make the sale that has been pending for so long.”
Wait. What?
Ivy looked at the other nurses and assistants sitting in the small break room. Everyone looked as shocked as she felt.
No one will be surprised? Was he kidding? Everyone was clearly plenty surprised.
Ivy waited for someone to ask. Clarify. Object. No one moved or spoke.
“So, wait.” Ivy felt proud that someone was speaking up, until she realized that she was the one who was speaking. Well, too late for her to sit quietly now. “You’re selling Centennial Glen?”
Geoffrey Vandenberg looked a combination of annoyed and confused. “Yes?” He said it like a question. When he noticed the shocked faces around the table, he clarified. “Not me personally. You know that I’m not the decision maker. I’m one of you,” he said, in a voice that begged to be trusted.
Ivy wanted to spit.
Vandenburg put both his hands to his chest as if to witness his heartache. “I’m not selling. The owners are.” His patronizing smile did nothing to soften his words.
“Who’s buying?”
He grinned that grin again and Ivy sat on her hands to prevent violence. “Our buyer is an up and coming franchise.” As if they’d all be so proud.
Dierdre, one of the best nurses, waved her hand and asked, “A care center franchise?” Geoffrey Vandenberg surprised Ivy by not answering. Dierdre’s voice became more steely. “Which one?”
Dierdre’s naturally friendly face fell in confusion when they all heard his response.
“Of course not a care center franchise. A coffee house.”
Now he chose brevity.
Ivy knew she was being slow. She recognized the clunking of thoughts and ideas rubbing up against each other in her brain, but she couldn’t reconcile the straggly, crooked corridors of Centennial Glen with a Starbucks. Almost as if he could hear her thoughts, Geoffrey Vandenberg explained that the building wouldn’t be renovated. “Sometimes, older buildings like this one can be nudged into compliance with existing codes. We’ve been nudging Centennial Glen for many, many years. It’s no longer possible to spend that kind of money on repairs. Especially with such an excellent offer on the table.” Geoffrey Vandenburg knew everyone in the room was giving him their full attention, and he was clearly reveling in this opportunity to speak and be listened to. “The new owners will not modernize this building. They’ll send a wrecking ball within the quarter.”
The gasp that went through the gathered employees was strong enough to change the air pressure in the room.
Here was the dentist’s-ad smile again. “Since you all, each of you,” he said, looking at the nurses, the kitchen staff, and Ivy, “specifically and particularly have such great relationships with the patients here, you’re going to tell them and their families.” Geoffrey Vandenberg attempted another serious and concerned expression. “This is obviously very sad, and we’re all very, very,” he looked around the room, “very sad.”
Dierdre snorted. “Convincing performance,” she said, not bothering to keep her voice under her breath. She got up out of her chair. “You will discover, when you bother to follow the laws about these things, that the owners can’t sell without a year’s notice to the residents.” She excused herself and left.
Ivy didn’t know what else to do, so she got up and followed Dierdre out of the room. For karma’s sake, she huffed in Geoffrey Vandenberg’s general direction, too.
When she caught up with Dierdre in the hall, Ivy pulled at her sleeve and asked, “So, we’re fine?”
“I’m fine. Are you?” The words sounded spiky. Dierdre got snotty when she was upset. Ivy knew better than to take it personally.
“The Glen is fine? Safe? Not going to become a Starbucks?” It hurt Ivy even to say it.
Dierdre shook her head. “Don’t count on it. This place is about to be a memory. Every one of these people is going to need a new home before their next rental payment is due.”
“But what about that, back there? About the year’s notice?” Ivy thumbed in the general direction of ‘before’ and waited for Dierdre’s superior nursing skills and exceptional background in care center legal requirements to make it all better.
Dierdre shook her head. “I was bluffing. They can do whatever they want. I’m sure it’s written into every contract in this place, including yours and mine, that the owners can pull out at any time.” Dierdre tried to smile. “Sorry, Ivy. I didn’t mean to lose it in front of you.” Dierdre was only ten years older than Ivy, but she had worked here since she got her nursing degree, and she felt maternal toward the CNAs. She was loyal to the residents, too, and that explained her being so frustrated by the owners’ sellout.
“Let’s get back to work while we still can. Don’t say anything to the residents today, okay? Let’s figure out a way to package this so it sounds the least amount of awful.” Dierdre leaned in and Ivy put her arm around her.
“Sure,” Ivy said. “No problem.”
People are stupid, Ivy thought. Mostly rich people. She thought again about meeting Bentley. Okay, so not all the rich people. But certainly the rich people who didn’t care about the other kin
ds of people. She tucked her top into her waistband and tossed a stethoscope into her pocket. Lucille’s room was half way down the hall, but she headed straight there. Today was one of those days where she could use a little Lucille fix sprinkled through the beginning, middle, and end of the shift.
Ivy tapped her knuckles against Lucille’s door and opened it.
Lucille sat at the small table in her room, shuffling a deck of cards between her arthritic hands. Her perfectly set wig made her head look larger than it was; Ivy imagined that Lucille had once been taller, imposing and regal, even. Now, in her late eighties, she caved in and hunched over. Like Grammy had. Before.
“Hey, Lucille,” Ivy said, forcing a smile much different than the one she pushed on coffee consumers.
Without turning her head, Lucille shot her eyes over to Ivy. “What’s wrong?”
How did she do that?
“Not a thing in the whole world. All is as it should be,” Ivy said. She wasn’t going to win any awards for acting today. She slipped inside and patted Lucille’s shoulder.
“Hmm.”
Ivy pulled out a chair across the table. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel brilliant and charming and more than typically sunny of disposition,” Lucille deadpanned.
“I’m not sure the world can handle more than the typical sunniness. It’s already so warm.” Ivy let herself down into the chair opposite Lucille.
Lucille put the cards on the table and rubbed her hands, one inside the other; this near-constant massage was her only visible sign of discomfort. “I am not in the habit of changing myself to please the world. Let it be pleased or not as it wishes.” She leaned in toward the center of the table and Ivy took her cue to meet her in the middle and place a kiss on her cheek, inhaling peppermint gum and Oil of Olay.
“Are you going to tell me?” Lucille asked. “Or do I wait until whatever you’re hiding comes to light?”
B is for Barista (The ABCs of Love Book 2) Page 3
