by Heather Hunt
“Now, Mr. Watson, I presume?” There was really no mistaking his identity. He could be none other than the resident director.
He nodded.
“If you will direct me to my companion’s room, I will deliver him safely. Then, I hope we will have an opportunity to chat about my plans for the center.”
“Certainly, Miss Woodhouse,” he said as he tucked his wrinkled white oxford into the seam-splitting waistband of his khakis. “If you’ll just follow me.”
•∞•∞•
“I apologize for Theodore,” the director told Grace a few minutes later.
She had delivered the man to his suite without any problems and had left him kicked back in his recliner watching an episode of “Matlock”.
Grace watched from her seat as Richard Watson hefted himself into a large leather chair behind an equally large desk. Her eyes darted around the office. It was a taxidermist’s dream. Grace calculated that he had to have spent a fortune getting all of the animals stuffed. She glanced over her shoulder and cringed at the head of a snarling black bear that hovered merely a hairbreadth away.
“It was no problem,” she assured him, and indeed, it had not been. The entire episode had been an eye-opener, but it had been one that, in her naivety, she had desperately needed.
“In a few weeks, residents like him won’t pose a problem for the center.” His smug grin suggested that he thought the statement would offer her some sort of assurance.
“What do you mean?” Grace asked as she cut her eyes to make sure a raccoon’s beady little gaze hadn’t followed her to her seat. To her relief, they were still fixed in glassy oblivion.
“The Alzheimer’s cases,” he mumbled as if she should know what he was talking about.
“What about them?”
“I’ve arranged for those residents requiring around-the-clock care to be transferred to the nursing home over in Scarsdale,” he told her.
“And what do their families say about this?”
“They don’t have any choice,” he smiled. “That’s the beauty of our little home here. We can do whatever we like.”
Grace was dangerously close to wielding her cane again...right across the man’s poor excuse for a comb-over. She struggled to get a grip on her emotions.
“Mr. Watson,” she began, “I will admit that I’m relatively new to this industry, but I’m pretty sure that you’re not allowed to evict a resident based on an illness.”
“I beg to differ, Miss Woodhouse,” he said. “The rules are very clear. If a person is not ambulatory…you know, if they can’t walk…our center reserves the right to ask them to find other accommodations.”
“I’m aware of the definition of ‘ambulatory’, Mr. Watson, and Theodore is most certainly ambulatory,” she reminded him. “There’s no question of that. I walked with him down the hallway.”
“However, there is the question of his ability to care for himself,” Mr. Watson added.
“Isn’t that why he’s here?” she asked. “If he were able to care for himself, he’d be at his own home? Right?”
“For the most part, yes,” he explained. “But many of our residents have moved here to simply free themselves from the demands of caring for their own homes. We have everything here that they would ever need. Housekeepers, a chef, medication oversight, and all the activities an elderly person might enjoy.”
“I suppose I’m confused,” Grace frowned. “If this place is so great, then why does it look like a dump?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Grace took a deep breath and prepared herself for battle.
“Mr. Watson, during the past few days, I have made a list of several problems I detected within just a few minutes of my arrival at Mansfield Park.” She pulled the list, along with another set of papers, from the confines of her bag. “The past half-hour in your presence has offered only further evidence that my decision is a sound one.”
“And what decision is that, Miss Woodhouse,” he spat out her name as if he thought her incapable of stringing a few words into a sentence, much less making a corporate decision.
“You’re fired, Mr. Watson.” Grace handed him the termination papers. “I will expect this office to be cleared out by the end of the day.” She rose from her chair with as much dignity as her condition would allow and hobbled toward the door.
“You can’t do this!” he called after her. “I’ll take you and that rich daddy of yours to court.”
“Bring it on, Mr. Watson. We live in a “Right to Work” state,” she told him. “I don’t have to justify firing you. Furthermore, from where I’m standing, you’re just lucky I haven’t called the police.”
She flashed him the “Boss” smile she had learned from her father and headed down the long, foul-smelling hallway with a mile-long list already flying through her head.
•∞•∞•
Over the next two days, Grace consumed every bit of information she could find on Mansfield Park. She poured over state regulations for assisted living homes, reviewed the staff, and studied the patient files like a gung-ho freshman cramming for her first mid-terms.
She became utterly fascinated with the place. When her father had thrust his little pet project into her hands, she had balked at the idea. It had seemed more distasteful than a slice of stale wedding cake, and she had vowed that she would find a way out of the one-red-light-town that, at first, had seemed like an embarrassment to its big-city namesake.
Grace smiled. It was funny how the love of a man turned a woman’s world upside-down. And that was exactly what Theodore Harrison Brown has done for Grace!
With a gentle grip on her hand and a softly spoken word, the seventy-five-year-old had captured her heart. Now, she was bound and determined to take care of him...and not just Theodore, but the rest of the motley crew that was fast becoming her extended family. It wasn’t quite the thing to do in a business sense, but Grace was more than convinced that it was what her heart felt was right.
She looked around the room at the newly familiar faces and smiled. She had gathered them all together for an impromptu meeting just minutes before.
“So you see, Ladies and Gentleman,” she paused. Even though she was attempting to project her voice to a level that would reach even those sitting at the back of the dining room, she noticed that the group at the front table seemed to be having a hard time hearing. She tried again with a louder voice. “So you see--”
“What are you yelling for, girl?” a portly man in a pair of crisply-ironed blue jean overalls called from his place near the door. “That voice of yours is sure to give us the indigestion if you don’t lower it a notch or two!”
Shocked at his lack of decorum, Grace looked around to find quite a few of the residents nodding their heads in agreement. Nervously, she twisted her hands and searched for the words she had so painstakingly memorized earlier in the afternoon.
“I apologize,” she began again in a normal speaking voice and saw a wave of appreciation pass over the crowd. “I wanted to formally introduce myself. I am Grace Woodhouse, and my father’s company has recently purchased Magnolia Manor. Not only will we be changing the name to Mansfield Park, but we will be undertaking a major renovation in order to make your home a nicer place.”
“How much is it gonna’ cost us?” an old man with shockingly red hair piped in.
“There will be no additional cost,” she assured him. “The renovations will fall under operating expenses. Unfortunately, the previous management has not maintained the residence at the level of excellence required by our company. We expected that major renovations would be needed when we negotiated the purchase price and allotted funds for such.”
Grace watched as a few more residents began to nod their heads. The rest seemed completely enamored with their roast beef and mashed potatoes. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized that she had not eaten since breakfast. As good as Mrs. Elderman’s strawberry scones had tasted, they had not added much to her nutritional
stores.
“Before I go, I wanted to let you know that I have placed a suggestion box in the foyer. Please feel free to let me know your thoughts on any improvements that you would like to see here at Mansfield Park. Also, I feel that I must inform you that Mr. Watson will no longer be the manager here.”
Before she was able to close her folder, the room erupted in applause. She wanted to think that her inspiring speech had done the trick, but she suspected that Mr. Watson’s termination was the kicker. Of course, the lot of them could have been simply been showing their relief that she was leaving them to enjoy their lunch in peace. Regardless of the reason, she could always hope that she had done a good thing for the residents by firing Mr. Watson. In her heart, she believed that she had.
Unfortunately, the look of disgust coming from the perpetually sour Nurse North who stood at the back of the room did little to raise her hopes.
“Oh, well,” she sighed. “Let the games begin!”
•∞•∞•
A short while later, Grace slipped her arm out of the sling and propped it up on the pillow that Sally, the sweetest nursing assistant the world had ever seen, had provided for her new employer. For the past two days, Grace had made the table her temporary work station. She just hadn’t been able to stomach the decor, not to mention the smell, in Mr. Watson’s old office.
“You just make sure you keep that arm above the level of your heart, honey,” the woman had given Grace the curt command before hurrying off toward the middle of the room to settle a dispute that had broken out between two of the residents.
Grace repositioned her arm and lifted her injured ankle onto the worn seat of a chair. It was really a shame that the place had been neglected for so long, she thought as she looked around the room. The bones of the place, like most well-built southern homes, were impressive. They weren’t just bits of plastic and plaster. They were sturdy materials, brick and wood, that had withstood both time and wear. The furniture fell into basically the same category. Hardy old pieces that basically needed a week’s worth of elbow grease and a fabric facelift in order to restore them to their original glory.
The rest of the place was a designer’s dilemma, however, and questions abounded in Grace’s mind. Tile, wood, or carpeting for the floors? What about wall colors? And the question that seemed to cause the most anxiety: How will the updates meet handicap and fire codes...and still be aesthetically pleasing? It was a monumental task to tackle, but Grace felt that she was game. She simply needed some help...and at present, it seemed that the help was nowhere to be found.
She glanced at her simple platinum watch. Jack Ellis was officially three minutes late for their appointment. Minutes that Grace, with practically a million things to do, could not spare. She had just learned from the building inspector that they had exactly two weeks to meet fire codes. She looked toward her tote as if it might hold an answer to his whereabouts, or, at the very least, a game-winning business plan.
Unfortunately, she had begun to understand that general contractors fell into a league of their own. As the game stood, Grace’s team was close to circling the drain, and her special teams coach was rapidly heading for a “delay of game” penalty. He had exactly one and a half minutes to get his tight little tush there, or she was prepared to send him packing just like she had that sweaty menace, Mr. Watson.
Wait a minute, Grace thought. Fire him?
She considered the option for a moment before another thought crossed her mind.
Can I actually fire him?
She flipped open her laptop and accessed the files containing her job description and the contract with Jackson Ellis Construction. She scanned the wording and found her answer.
Sweet!
The theme song for her old middle school basketball team came to mind, and she began to hum. Her feet itched to do a victory dance, but unfortunately, even if she were suddenly and miraculously gifted with an innate ability to dance, she was still seriously hindered by her present injuries.
She glanced around and realized that, though she was by far the youngest person in the room, she was very nearly the most incapacitated. She knew for a fact that most of the residents could take her in a foot race. Emma Walters, a sweet little eighty-year-old woman who had taken to following her around the facility, was certainly proof of that. Grace had even attempted to lose the woman on the back hallway earlier that day, but Emma had dogged her tracks like a hound on a raccoon.
Goodness gracious! I’m already picking up the regional lingo. Is there no escape from this backwoods place?
Just as she decided that she could take no more of Mansfield Park...at least for the day...her handsome prince arrived.
Despite her annoyance at his tardiness, she couldn’t help but absorb the sight of him. One would think that Grace would tire of looking at Jack Ellis, but she was a glutton for visual punishment where he was concerned. She had already decided that the person who marketed those hip-hugging, low-riding jeans of his had to be making a mint. For crying out loud! She was almost prepared to chip in half her trust fund just to see them a couple of times each day.
Grace’s pulse hummed. Before she reached her twentieth calming breath, he was at her side.
“Gracie!” Jack’s smile was so infectious that she didn’t even correct him for using the pet name he’d given her...although she had royally protested the first time he’d used it.
“Jack,” she managed, her previous ire dissipating with each second in his presence. “Busy morning?”
“So far,” he nodded his head and pulled out the only remaining chair at the table. Between her foot, her suitcase-sized briefcase, and her own backside, Grace had the other three covered. As he dragged his right hand through his hair, Grace noticed that it was peppered with sawdust.
“What’s going on today?” She had been reviewing the time-line for the renovation, and she was interested to see how close they were to achieving the projected goal.
“We’ve gutted the recreation room and started on the plumbing for the whirlpool area. It’s a mess in there.”
“I can imagine.” She got a momentary grip on her schoolgirl crush and proceeded to the reason for her meeting. “I received a call from the building inspector this morning.”
“Yeah, me too.” He clenched his jaw and let out a heavy sigh. “Already breathing down our necks.”
“He said that an anonymous complaint was phoned in regarding our lack of safety features.”
“Watson?”
“You think so, too?” Grace was shocked to find that she was not as paranoid as she had believed.
“Either him or that sneaky head nurse he’s involved with.”
“Miss North?”
“Yeah, that’s her,” he nodded. “That one’s definitely trouble. You can’t treat old folks the way she does and have a heart. I’d keep my eye on her.”
“I will,” she assured him. “I’m actually planning to release her from her duties as soon as possible, but I’ve been unable to find a replacement. She’s the only registered nurse on staff, and the state requires a licensed person when medications are involved. That’s a big part of our job here.”
“Medications?”
“Storing them and seeing that the residents take their medicine as prescribed.”
“I see.” He smiled then, and Grace barely caught herself before her chin hit the table.
“How’s the patient doing?” He pointed to her arm then leaned down to get a look at her ankle.
Grace froze for a moment then sighed in relief. Because of her injuries, she hadn’t shaved in over a week. If only she’d listened to her cousin, Sophia, and endured the pain of laser hair removal. Oh well, hindsight, and all that. At least she was safe for today with her ensemble of ankle brace and pleated trousers
“My ankle is coming along nicely, but the arm is giving me fits,” she admitted. For the past two days, she had attempted the range of motion exercises the doctor had prescribed, but they were painful.
Since Grace did not handle pain very well and had sworn off pain killers after her embarrassing behavior with Jack, her efforts hadn’t been all that effective.
“Hurt a lot?” He touched her left hand, the one on the pillow. She considered jerking it away, but she’d been down the sudden movement road already, and her arm was having none of the pain she’d experienced with that. She’d finally figured out that her arm would cooperate only with the gentlest pampering.
“Excruciating.” Grace played up her misery for a moment then smiled. “Not really as bad as that, but still a nuisance.”
Jack traced the veins in her hand, following them up her arm until he reached the bend. He moved his hand around to cup her elbow, and she felt his warmth flow through her skin.
“That pretty boy doctor said that it will take you weeks, maybe months, to regain the complete use of your arm. Don’t try to rush it, okay?” He clasped his hands in front of him on the table as if he felt a need to keep them otherwise occupied.
“I’m trying.” She flexed her fingers. Jack’s touch had sent tingling sensations streaking from her elbow to her fingertips. “There’s just so much to do around here, and I want everything to go smoothly.”
“Princess, this place is already a world apart from what it was a week ago.” He glanced around the dining room.
The dining space was next on his...or rather, Grace’s…agenda. Jack had wanted to start working on some of the resident rooms, but Grace had insisted that the dining room come next. Her reasoning was sound, but Jack hated admitting it. Working for her, a woman he’d always assumed was a spoiled Daddy’s girl, was harder than he’d expected it to be. In fact, he had only taken the job because he’d assumed Paul Woodhouse would be handling the major decisions. Dealing with the debutante was certainly more of a challenge.
