During those moments in the middle of the night, I’d reach out across the darkness and there you were, next to me. In your arms, I found safety, comfort and more. I found my way back. I know you didn’t fully understand my grief, but you were there, as steady and reliable as the change of seasons. And that meant everything.
But what about Cecilia? Her divorce from Bert has been finalized. The papers are signed. Sometimes I hear her crying in the night. Who can she reach out to for comfort as Erin pulls away?
A year has passed since you left. Can you believe it? Sometimes it seems so much longer, other times, as if you left only last week. Months ago, I stopped being angry with you for leaving me all alone. Now I’m only sad and lonely. Missing you.
Yesterday, we drove to Cleburne and by our house. Your roses are gone. The neighbors, those nice young newlyweds the Langleys who moved in three years ago, said that the new owners plan to build a room onto the house soon and most of the bushes had to go. They only left one at the side of the house, and it was barren, almost dead from neglect.
CiCi, Erin and I stood at the curb and cried, holding each other. We didn’t care if the Langleys saw. The truth is, they cried, too.
You’re not coming back. I know that now. Somehow over the past twelve months, I tricked myself into believing you’d show up some evening, suitcase in hand, and tell me you were home for good. Or that I’d wake up one morning and discover this has all been a terrible dream. But none of that’s true.
Your roses are gone, and so are you.
Regardless, letting go is hard, so I’ll continue to reach out to you through these letters. They keep you near to me somehow, and I don’t know what else to do.
As usual, I’ve gone on too long. I love you, Harry.
As always, your yellow rose,
Belle
CHAPTER 9
Cecilia Dupree
Day Planner
Wednesday, 11/19
1.
Check paper for Max’s ad.
2.
1:00—Mom’s Parkview reading group.
3.
Decline blind date with Mrs. Stein’s second cousin’s great-nephew.
4.
Buy new bedspread to match purple walls.
5.
Unground Erin.
The second week the Parkview group meets to read Penelope’s Passion, there’s an expectant energy in the room, a charged silence similar to the moment the curtain parts on opening night at a sold-out play. I glance up. Not an empty chair. Books are open and right side up. I turn the page….
“How dare you lock me in here!” Penelope refused to let him see her tremble, though her wet dress clung to her, molding every curve and raising goose bumps on her skin. She met his dark gaze, saw amused sympathy glittering within it.
“Dear Lady.” The captain chuckled, a deep sound she felt more than heard. “I’m not locking you in, I’m locking the men out. For your protection. Besides, you should thank me that you have quarters at all. And the finest quarters on this ship, at that. Mine. You’ll find the bed to be quite comfortable.” He strode past her, slow and sure as a tiger. Then he sat on the bed and patted the mattress. “It’s large enough for two.”
Penelope raised a hand to slap him.
The captain caught her wrist midswing and laughed….
A tiny gasp brings my head up. Doris Quinn, who listens rather than reads, sits at the edge of her chair with her eyes closed. Perfectly manicured fingers press against her lips. Beside her, Jane Binkley, the Parkview Manor Mae West according to Mother, fans her cleavage with a bookmark. Two new male recruits, one a silver-haired Paul Newman type, the other a wiry, sunken-cheeked Don Knotts look-alike, nudge one another and grin.
I return my attention to the page….
“Such poor manners, Lady Waterford. Have you so little appreciation for your host?” The captain drew her to him.
Penelope held her breath. His eyes no longer contained sympathy, amused or otherwise. Anger simmered within their depths. Anger…and something else. Something that had her softening against him until she was nothing more than clay in his hands, pliant, helplessly available for him to mold to his will.
Captain Stonewall pulled her closer still, and she felt the hard length of his manhood press against her midsection….
A snort is answered with a snicker. I don’t look up. I know The Frans when I hear them….
“Since you’ve taken it upon yourself to stow away on my ship,” the captain murmured, “I intend to make your voyage as enjoyable as possible.” He traced the shell of her ear with a fingertip, skimmed the line of her jaw, paused at the pulsing hollow beneath her throat. “Nothing but pure pleasure until the day we dock.”
A sigh sifts through the room, a giggle follows, a whisper then a chuckle or two.
I close Penelope’s Passion and look up. “Okay, that’s it for today. Next week we’ll continue with chapters ten through twelve. The floor’s open for discussion.”
As the back-and-forth banter begins, I look at Mother. She looks back at me, shaking her head. A smile twitches her lips as she slips off her glasses to polish the lenses with the hem of her blouse. Her cream-colored silk. When I picked her up at lunchtime, I didn’t notice she’d worn it. Strange. The blouse is a bit dressy for reading group. Oh, well. I have to give her credit. She’s doing okay on her own at home during the day. Really, why should we pay someone to stay with Mother when we have Mrs. Stein next door, who checks on her daily, whether I ask her to or not?
“Captain Stonewall is such a strong, dashing hero.” Doris’s voice flutters with dreamy admiration. “He’s a man who knows what he wants.”
“And knows how to get it,” Jane adds with a sultry laugh.
Doris nods her agreement. “If he lived in our world today, I wonder what he’d do?”
“Time.” Mary Fran’s voice is as bemused as it is cynical. “For rape, most likely.”
A heated discussion ensues as to whether or not the captain’s behavior is forceful or merely seductive.
I shift my focus to jolly Oliver who sits in his usual place beside Mother. Today his arm stretches across the back of her chair as if it belongs there. I stare a minute, but he doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even squirm. Instead, he looks directly at me, winks, then smiles.
So. What’s that all about? Now I’m the one squirming.
“Excuse me, Miz Dupree?”
“Hi, Mr. O’Dell. What’s up?” I ask the paunchy, red-faced man who is suddenly standing beside me.
He cuts a glance over his shoulder at the group, then blinks puppy dog eyes at me. They’re always as sad as Maxwell’s, even when he smiles. “While they debate, I wondered if I might ask you a personal question?”
“Of course you can.”
“If you’d rather I make an appointment, I understand.”
“No, that’s all right. If we need more time later, we can schedule it.”
He coughs. “I’ve been wondering how soon is too soon for a person to start dating after losing a spouse?”
“That depends on the person. How long has it been since Mrs. O’Dell passed away?”
“Six years.”
I want to hug him. “Is there someone you’re interested in seeing socially?”
His face flushes scarlet. “Iris Shelby.” Turning, he gives a discreet nod in the direction of a heavyset woman I’ve come to know well.
Iris has steel-gray scouring pad hair, a double chin, lumpy knees and elbows. And she’s the epitome of all that’s missing in Herbert’s life. Happiness bubbles out of her like fizz from a shaken soda can. Her eyes are as lively as a young girl’s, and when she laughs, which is often, she throws back her head and gives it her all.
“I can’t find my nerve to ask her out,” Herbert whispers. “I’m eighty-two years old. It’s been sixty years since I dated a gal. I don’t remember how. And even if I did there’s the problem of me not driving anymore. Doesn’t seem proper to ask a woman on a date,
then make her do the driving.”
Screw professional propriety. This man needs a hug, and I’m going to give it.
Before I can, a knock sounds at the door, and Bill Burdette, the Parkview Manor Retirement Village manager, pokes his head into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, everybody. CiCi, could I have a word with you in my office if you have a minute?”
“Sure, Bill.” I tell Herbert I’ll call him tonight, then stand and look out at the small crowd. “Keep on keeping on. If I don’t make it back before time’s up, I’ll see you all next week.” I meet Bill at the door and we start down the hallway. “What’s up?”
He fingers his jacket lapel. “We have a bit of a problem, I’m afraid. Mrs. Quinn’s son and Mr. Rayburn’s daughter are here with a complaint about your current book selection.”
“What?” I make a face. “I’m reading to adults, not a class of ten-year-olds.”
Pausing at his closed office door, Bill says, “Grown children of elderly parents often treat them like they’re in elementary school.” He shakes his head. “Just listen to their concerns, CiCi. I’m sure when they meet you and hear what you have to say, they’ll calm down.”
“They aren’t calm?”
Bill’s eyebrows lift.
My stomach falls. “Refresh my memory. Which one is Mr. Rayburn?”
“Good-looking guy. Silver fox. Sharp blue eyes.”
I nod. “Paul Newman.”
“Right.” He puts on his happy face and opens the door. “Mr. Quinn, Mrs. Kiley…I’d like you to meet Cecilia Dupree.”
I smile. They don’t. We shake hands.
“Cecilia’s been kind enough to take time away from her busy counseling practice this past year to volunteer as hostess for Parkview’s weekly reading group.”
“It was my mother’s idea.” I sit in a chair next to Doris Quinn’s scowling son, then explain how the group started and why we’ve continued it even after Mother moved out. I try another smile, without effect. “I read aloud because several of the members have problems with their eyesight. It’s seemed to work well for everyone so far.”
Mr. Rayburn’s daughter crosses one crisp khaki-covered leg over the other. “Who chooses the books?”
“When we started, the members planned to choose, but no one could agree, so they decided to let me. Of course, I’m always open to their suggestions.”
Mr. Quinn lifts a copy of Penelope’s Passion from his lap and waves it in the air. “And this is the sort of trash you deem fit for a group of seniors?”
Oh, shit. I sit up straighter. “Actually Penelope’s Passion is the first romance novel we’ve read, Mr. Quinn. Normally, I select a title from the Literary Pen’s bestseller list, but the members were bored with such angsty reads. A lot of them dropped out. I thought they could use a change of pace, and they agreed.”
Mrs. Kiley taps her foot against the floor and turns to Bill Burdette. “And do you approve of pornography being read to your residents on facility property?”
Bill clears his throat. “I only approved their use of one of our meeting rooms. I’m not involved in any other capacity with the group or their selection of reading material.”
That a’boy, Bill. Dump this all on me. I scoot forward to the edge of my chair. “I assure you, the book we’re reading is not pornography. It’s a romance novel. There’s nothing remotely degrading about it.”
“Label it what you will, Ms. Dupree. Romance, soft porn, erotica. A spade is still a spade.” With a jerk of his wrist, Mr. Quinn opens the novel to a book-marked page and reads in a dramatic voice, “Penelope laced her fingers through his hair and pulled his head toward hers. Her lips parted, welcomed the warm velvet touch of his clever tongue, the feverish heat his kisses spread across her flesh. ‘So soft,’ he murmured.”
He pauses, looks across at me, narrows his eyes, then continues, “The captain touched Penelope’s throat, causing a shiver to ripple through her. His fingers fanned over one pale breast, circled her nipple in maddening strokes that made her breath catch, trailed down her bare stomach. And then he dipped—”
Mrs. Kiley coughs. Loudly.
“Enough said.” Quinn closes the book. “I believe that passage vividly portrays my point. It only becomes more explicit farther into the scene.” He looks at Bill, whose face flames.
“Yes. Well.” Bill glances at me, a plea for help in his eyes.
“Mr. Quinn…” I huff a laugh. “Tongue, breast, nipple and stomach are not dirty words. Besides, you read the scene out of context without knowing a thing about the story that led up to it.”
His jaw muscle jumps. He crosses his arms.
“Haven’t you ever watched any of the old swashbuckling movies of the forties and fifties? Errol Flynn?” I open my hands, palms up. “That’s exactly what this is. A larger than life story. Melodrama. Adventure. Romance.”
“Sex,” he spits.
Okay. I’ve had enough of this prudish, pompous jerk and his uptight sidekick. Nobody here is paying me to act like a professional, so why should I? These people need to hear what I really think. Such as, maybe they should follow their parents’ lead, since I’ve never met a couple in more obvious need of some spice in their lives.
I open my mouth to tell them, then come to my senses, square my shoulders, take a breath to calm my temper. “So the book has a sex scene or two. Studies support the importance of sexuality in people’s later years. This novel might act as a substitute for the lack of intimacy in their lives or improve what they already have. Or it might just be good, fun entertainment.” Leaning back, I smile.
Mr. Quinn continues to twitch and glare.
Mrs. Kiley appears horrified at the mention of elderly people and intimacy in the same sentence.
Bill’s chair squeaks. “Maybe if the two of you explained the situation that brought the book to your attention. Mrs. Kiley?”
“It’s Sue.” She uncrosses her legs, crosses them again, blinks in rapid succession. “Yesterday afternoon I came by to visit Dad at the usual time. I always come on Tuesdays. But he wasn’t in his apartment. I couldn’t find him anywhere and he didn’t answer his cell phone.” She glances at the man next to her. “That’s when I ran into Mr. Quinn in the hallway.”
He gives her a halfhearted smile of support. “It’s Donald.”
She nods and smiles back at him. “Donald had just left his mother’s apartment. She—” Sue studies her lap and starts blinking again.
“Mother didn’t answer the doorbell,” Donald continues, coming to her rescue. “I had a package for her, so I let myself in with my key. Music was playing in her bedroom and…” He squirms in the chair. “I heard laughter. Mother’s and a man’s. As you can imagine, I was stunned. I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do. And then…”
“And then Mrs. Quinn and my father walked out of her bedroom and into the living room where Donald was,” Sue finishes for him.
“Danced out. They were dancing. And wearing robes,” he adds, his voice low and appalled. “In the middle of the day. Their feet were bare.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. Bare feet and dancing! Oh, the scandal of it.
Sue glares at me as if she hears my thoughts. “Dad said they met at your reading group last week. The day you started that book. His friend Oliver had invited him to attend and he didn’t have anything on his agenda so…”
Donald stares down at his knees. “They met last week and already they’re…” He scrubs a palm over his face. “Jesus.”
I cover my mouth to hide a smile. Way to go, Doris. Paul Newman. What a catch. When I regain some composure, I say, “I’m sorry. I don’t see what any of this has to do with the reading group.”
“It’s this book,” Donald snaps, tossing Penelope’s Passion onto Bill’s desk.
“They’re lonely and vulnerable.” Sue appears on the verge of tears. “And the book…well…it’s titillating, to say the least. It might’ve put ideas in their heads.”
“Good grief.” I stand. Fo
r the third time today, I throw professionalism out the window. “They’re human beings. Intelligent adults! Just because they’re in their seventies doesn’t mean they’re brain-dead. They don’t need a book in order to get ideas.”
Sue folds her hands in her lap. “They’re in their eighties, not their seventies.”
“Good for them. I hope they’re having the time of their lives. And if I had anything to do with them getting together, good for me, too.”
Donald Quinn bolts from his chair, turning his anger on Bill. “I don’t care if this woman’s a licensed therapist or not. You either ban this reading group from Parkview Manor, or form a committee to approve the books she chooses before they’re read. If you don’t, Mrs. Kiley and I are going over your head to file a formal complaint against this facility. I’m sure some of your other residents’ family members would be happy to join us.”
Donald Quinn and Sue Kiley leave the room together.
Sighing, I fold back into the chair and meet Bill’s stare. His slackened face is pale. “Well…I guess he told you.”
“CiCi…” He puffs out his cheeks.
“I know. I’ll choose another book.”
“And—”
“I’ll bring it by so you and whatever committee you form can give it your blessing before we read it.”
Bill drums his fingertips on the desktop. “I’ll have to check into that. Forming that type of committee might raise liability issues for the Village.”
“Are you saying you want us to disband?”
He nods. “For the time being, anyway.”
“Fine.” I stand up again. “I’ll go tell the kids they’re being censored by their children.”
At six-fifteen, I step back to admire the new bedspread I bought after work. Plum and pale yellow. Bert would hate it, just like he’d hate the color I painted the walls. Nothing but neutrals for that man. Except when it comes to women, I guess. The flashier the floozy the better. Next week I might paint his beloved den sea-foam green or fire-engine red.
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