by Gail Oust
Bud narrowed his eyes, trying to get a clearer image of her with vision severely compromised. “Tried to tell ’em I don’t want one. See, I’m too sick to get a shot.” He faked a cough. “Go give your flu shot to someone else.”
I had to admire Janine, who appeared unruffled by his amateurish attempt.
“Valley View Manor requires all of their residents to be vaccinated,” she informed him calmly. “If you refuse, Mr. Sanders, the administrator will insist you move elsewhere.”
Bud’s face scrunched up as he mulled this over. “Fine,” he muttered at long last. “The woman knows darn well I have nowhere else to go. All the other places have already kicked me out.” He shoved up the sleeve of his loose-fitting gray sweatshirt. “Make it quick.”
With well-practiced efficiency, Janine opened her case and removed the vial of vaccine and a syringe. After swabbing his thin arm with an alcohol wipe, she inserted the needle and pressed the plunger of the syringe. The whole procedure was over in a matter of seconds.
“What are you trying to do? Kill me?” he shouted. “That hurt like hell.”
“All done, Mr. Sanders.” Janine stepped back and disposed of the used needle in the designated container for sharp objects. “I’ll leave a note in your chart that you were compliant. Coming, Kate?”
I felt an unexpected stab of pity for Bud Sanders. He was a cantankerous old man, maybe even a dangerous one, and he was his own worst enemy. He had a God-given talent for alienating everyone he came in contact with until people stayed away in droves. All of us craved human contact. He had to be lonely.
“I noticed you didn’t eat much of your lunch. Since you didn’t like the spaghetti, why don’t you try a little chocolate pudding?” Trying to be helpful, I moved closer and nudged the pudding to within his reach.
“You like spaghetti? Here, have mine.” To my horror, he shoved his lunch tray with both hands. The tray shot forward, sending its contents flying. I leaped back in time to avoid most of the mess, but his plate landed at my feet. Red spaghetti sauce spewed upward like a severed artery, splattering my pale beige slacks like droplets of blood.
My last shred of sympathy for a lonely old man vanished.
Chapter 20
“I hope you have a good excuse for missing our meeting this afternoon.”
If I’d realized it was Monica and not the UPS man, I’d never have answered the door. “I can explain . . .”
“It’s a little late for explanations.” She pushed past me and into my living room. I observed that she’d even dressed for the “meeting” in business attire—tailored slacks, crisp blouse, and blazer. To look at her, one could mistake her for the CEO of a Fortune 500 company.
“Janine needed my help with a noncompliant patient at the nursing home who had been refusing the flu vaccine.” I wisely chose to omit the part that I’d been little or no help at all. The only thing I managed to do was incite his temper. “The cranky old guy actually threw spaghetti at me. Unless I wanted to arrive late to the meeting and smelling like an Italian restaurant, I needed to change clothes.”
“Hmph! Don’t think this lets you off the hook.” She flung herself down on the sofa. “Connie Sue and I agreed that with the home tour only ten days away, the most efficient approach would be to divide up the tasks.”
“That sounds fair,” I said cautiously, and sat down too. Sitting down would probably be the best position to be in when she gave me my assignment.
Monica snapped open an oversized leather tote and dragged out a three-ring binder. “I divided and subdivided subjects. Each room has a section, and each committee member a separate section complete with a checklist and date of completion. Naturally, everything is cross-referenced.”
“Naturally,” I sighed. I was right. It was better to be sitting. I’d originally assumed decorating Eula’s home for the holidays would be fun—silly me—but Monica approached the task like a field marshal marching into battle. I thought of Bud Sanders and his faked cough and briefly wondered if I could manufacture an illness guaranteed to run its course in ten days.
“Unfortunately the lion’s share of the work falls on the six of us,” Monica continued.
“Certainly Claudia can help.”
“Claudia said she’ll pitch in whenever she can, but, as she explained, her time is limited. She’s in a tizzy preparing for the cruise she and BJ are taking over the holidays. After losing fifteen pounds on the Mayo Clinic Diet, she complains nothing fits, and she has to shop for an entire new wardrobe. In addition to that, she changed hair color—this time a coppery shade—and is obsessing that everything she’s bought so far will clash.”
“The poor dear.” I tried to scrounge up an ounce of sympathy for my friend and failed miserably. It was hard to commiserate with either her weight loss or her new wardrobe. Harder yet not to envy Claudia’s two-week stint in the sand and surf.
Monica flipped through the various sections in her binder until she found the tab with my name. She snapped the binder open, took out a typed sheet of paper, and handed it over. “Here,” she said, “take this. I made you a copy. It has everything on it you need to do. There might be one or two items I missed, but I’ll text you should something in your category come up.”
I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach as I skimmed the page. My assigned tasks ran the gamut from cleaning and polishing the interior of Eula’s house to spiffing up the exterior. One item in particular captured my attention. “Pinecones? You want me to gather two or three five-gallon pails of pinecones?” I asked, appalled at the amount.
“Two buckets will probably suffice but three would be better.”
I made a face. “I don’t like roaming around the woods. There are snakes, chiggers, ticks. You never know what you might find.”
“Don’t make this into a big deal,” Monica scolded. “Simply go into the woods behind Eula’s—it’s a target-rich environment. You’ll reach your quota in no time.”
“What do you expect me to do with three buckets of pinecones?”
“They’ll get used in no time.” Monica closed the binder and stuffed it back into her tote. “Think outside the box, Kate! Wreaths, ornaments, and baskets all call for pinecones.”
“Fine,” I said, resigned to my fate. “I’ll do whatever the committee wants.”
“Great, I knew you’d be a team player.” Monica brushed at the sleeve of her blazer. “By the way, Connie Sue proposed we have a craft night on Thursday. Can we count on you?”
I looked up from studying my to-do list. “I’ve never been very good at crafts. Pam once banned me from using a glue gun when we tried to make Easter wreaths.”
“Nonsense.” Monica waved away my objection. “We’ll assign you something simple. How hard can it be to turn ribbon into bows?”
I laughed. “You’ll find out when my bows turn out looking like a preschool project gone awry.”
“We’d like you to start as soon as possible with the first item of business.”
I stared down at the sheet of paper I’d let fall to my lap. “De-clutter . . . ?” De-cluttering has never been a favorite hobby of mine. I fervently hoped the chore would be easier if it was someone else’s clutter.
“Eula’s house is filled with tchotchkes. Your task is to pack them into storage bins and store the bins in the attic out of sight. I bought a few containers at Dollar General and dropped them off at Eula’s. We don’t want a bunch of knickknacks to be a distraction. Family photos have to go as well. This way the committee will have a clean slate when we begin work.”
Was this punishment for missing Monica’s meeting? “Sure, I’ll get right on it.”
“Great!” Monica beamed, oblivious of my sarcasm. “Once that’s done, the whole house needs to be cleaned top to bottom—spic and span. Gloria and Polly are assigned cleaning, too.”
More and more, I was beginning to feel like the hired help. “While we’re scrubbing and polishing, what will you, Connie Sue, and Pam be doing?”
“Good luck with that, considering we’re in South Carolina, not the North Pole.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist,” she chided, checking her wristwatch for the time. “You never know unless you try. People might have brought these items along thinking they might have use for them before realizing snow is a rarity. Well, I’m off . . .”
Monica was halfway to the door when she stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. The committee is expected to supply the hors d’oeuvres for the preview night.”
• • •
Bill, thankfully, was feeling better and his appetite was starting to improve. With this in mind, I assembled an oven stew, a favorite recipe of mine given to me years ago by an old friend. Beef stew meat, onions, carrots, and potatoes all went into a casserole dish along with a few other ingredients, then slid into a slow oven set at 275 degrees. It was still early enough that I could make some headway with Eula’s tchotchkes and have a hearty home-cooked meal ready to take to Bill when I returned.
So I did what I’ve seen emblazoned on T-shirts, I put on my big-girl panties and prepared to deal with the clutter. There was no sign of Cora’s Toyota Camry in front of Eula’s. I parked at the curb and, for the second time in as many days, waltzed up the brick walk and knocked on the door.
“Kate!” Eula exclaimed, rubbing her eyes. “I’m afraid you caught me napping. Don’t know why I’m always so tired.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can come back another time.”
“No, no, it’s quite all right.” Eula opened the door wider. “If I sleep too much during the day I’m up half the night.”
The first thing I noticed in Eula’s living room was a large stack of blue storage bins. Monica’s concept of a “few” differed vastly from my definition of the word. There had to be at least a dozen of them, maybe more, along with a barrel-size roll of bubble wrap. Apparently I had my work cut out for me. “Monica wanted me to get started packing up all your lovely little knickknacks.”
“Oh, dear, promise me you’ll be careful. Some belonged to my mother.”
“Cross my heart,” I assured her. “The Babes and I don’t want to take a chance they might get broken when people come to view your decorations on the home tour.”
Eula turned and started searching around the room. “I don’t remember where I put my glasses. I’m blind as a bat without them.”
I walked over to the coffee table, picked them up, and handed them to her. “Here you go.”
“There, that’s better.” Eula fumbled putting them on, smudging the lenses. “I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached.”
“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I get started?”
“I don’t feel right sitting idle while you’re working. At least let me brew you a nice cup of tea. The cookies that Cora bought at the grocery store will be mighty tasty with the tea.”
I stood in the center of the room, hands on my hips, and surveyed the project ahead of me. Maybe Monica’s estimate of the number of bins I’d need had been too conservative. Eula did indeed love her tchotchkes. They were everywhere I looked: end tables, shelves, and mantel. Slipping off my jacket, I rolled up my sleeves and set to work.
I lost track of time; I forgot about the tea and cookies that never materialized. At last, all the knickknacks and doodads in the living room had been carefully swathed in bubble wrap and packed in bins appropriately labeled.
I was on my knees, fastening the lid on the last box for the day when I felt something cold and wet pressed against my neck. My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t know if I should scream or flee.
The cold wet pressure slid from the side of my neck down to the base of my skull. I felt a tingle slither down my spine, causing goose bumps to poke up along my arms. And then I sniffed a strong odor, an odor like . . . dog?”
“Ralph!” Eula scolded from behind me. “Bad boy! Leave Kate alone, you’re scaring her.”
I straightened and slowly turned my head. I was eye level with a huge dog with chocolate brown fur, long droopy ears, and startling amber eyes.
“Look who I found on my back porch.” Eula smiled happily. “I’m naming him Ralph.”
Chapter 21
I’d tried my darnedest to dissuade Eula from adopting a stray puppy but was unsuccessful. At least I assumed the overfriendly beast was a puppy. Except for a certain orange cat that had once wandered in then stayed for an extended period of time, I was woefully ignorant when it came to dogs and cats. Eula, however, welcomed the mutt into her home like long-lost kin. I argued that she was ill prepared to take on the responsibility. I pointed out that she had no pet supplies. And animals, as everyone knows, need supplies. Pet supplies have become an entire industry. I know this for a fact because an entire aisle of Walmart is devoted to animals both big and small—cats, dogs, fish, birds, even reptiles. When I left, Eula was preparing Ralph a nutritious ground beef dinner.
My own dinner of beef stew was merrily bubbling away when I returned home, making the whole house smell wonderful. Bill would be pleasantly surprised when I showed up on his doorstep with a hot meal. I found a can of refrigerated buttermilk biscuits lurking in the recesses of my fridge. After checking the expiration date, I added them to the menu. I was placing the casserole dish with the oven stew into an insulated carrier when I heard my son Steven’s distinctive ringtone on my cell phone.
Seeing my son’s face light up the screen made my heart smile. He didn’t call often enough to suit me but his busy career didn’t leave him much spare time. Steven worked as a buyer for a big-name company and traveled all over the world looking for gadgets and gizmos guaranteed to ease the life of your average homemaker. “Hey, Steven,” I said, smiling even though he couldn’t see me. “I’m glad you called. When did you get home? How was . . . Bangladesh?”
“Bangladesh was September, Mom. This time it was Sri Lanka.”
Bangladesh and Sri Lanka were both oceans away, interchangeable in my geography-challenged mind. “Right, right, sorry. Things have been crazy busy around here lately.”
“Mom, please don’t tell me you found another body?” he teased.
My children knew of my recent adventures and worried needlessly about my safety in a place no bigger than a speck on a map. “Um,” I hedged. “Not exactly a body, dear.”
A lengthy pause stretched from New York City to South Carolina like a wad of Dubble Bubble. “I’ve had a long day, Mom. Please explain what you meant by ‘not exactly a body’?”
Putting the call on speakerphone, I zipped the insulated carrier shut. “Only a skeleton this time around. The sheriff is investigating. Never fear, he has the situation well under control.” More or less, I added silently.
“Do I need to remind you that you should move somewhere safe? Did you keep the brochures I sent about senior living communities that are gated and have security guards twenty-four-seven?”
I heard the faint tinkle of ice in a glass. I could use a drink myself whenever my son got on this topic.
“I’ve seen places on the internet that offer restaurant-quality dining, cultural events, and a variety of recreational activities,” Steven continued, “all in a safe, structured environment. If you’re worried about the cost . . .”
“Cost isn’t the issue, Steven,” I said, cutting off his spiel. “I know your intentions are admirable, but I’m perfectly capable of deciding where and how I want to live. Period. End of discussion.”
Even as I protested, I thought of Eula Snow and her impending transition into a nursing home. In spite of my brave words, I realized that at some point I might be forced to allow my children to decide what was best for me, but I wasn’t there yet. Not by a long shot.
&nbs
p; “Let’s consider the subject closed, shall we?” I glanced at the clock on the microwave and knew I’d better get a move on if I wanted to surprise Bill with dinner. “I wondered if you’d made any plans yet for the Christmas holidays? If not, I hope you’ll think about coming to Serenity Cove and spend them with me. This would give you ample opportunity to see for yourself the safe community where I live.”
“That’s the reason why I called.” Again the rattle of ice. “I just booked a last-minute deal to London for Sam and myself. Sam has always wanted to go there, and I thought what better place to propose to her than London.”
“Propose?” I was flabbergasted. “As in propose marriage?” For years I feared my only son would never settle down. I’d only met Sam once when they flew down for a visit, but I’d liked her immensely. Sam, short for Samantha, was every mother’s dream for a daughter-in-law—smart, pretty, and open to well-meaning advice from an older, wiser woman such as myself. “Oh, Steven, I’m so happy for you.”
Steven chuckled. “Well, don’t congratulate me too soon. I haven’t asked yet, and she hasn’t said yes.”
“How could she refuse? You’re perfect!”
His chuckle turned into laughter, a bittersweet sound that reminded me so much of his father. We talked for a short while longer, then concluded our call with his promise to inform me when his proposal was officially accepted.
• • •
I hummed to myself all the way over to Bill’s. Mother of the groom was music to my ears. The look on Bill’s face when he saw me was the cherry on top.
“Surprise!” I sang out from the doorstep. “I would have used my key but, as you can see, my hands are full.”
He took the carrier with the stew. “What’s all this?”
“I brought you dinner. I hope you haven’t already eaten.”
“I was debating between peanut butter and jelly or grilled cheese sandwiches.” He grinned, then led me into the kitchen.
