by Maria Geraci
12
The Margaret Handy Senior Center was a rambling one-story brick building located directly on the beach. It was originally built as a family home by Earl Handy in the early fifties. Twenty years ago, after Earl’s wife died, he graciously leased the building to the city of Whispering Bay for the sum of one dollar a year. To show their gratitude, the city turned it into a center for its retired citizens, naming the building after Earl’s deceased mother. The roof leaked, and the kitchen needed new appliances, but the view from the main room was to die for. The city council had tried for years to get Earl to renovate. Earl’s stance was that if the city wanted improvements, then they could pay for them. After all, what did they want for a buck a year?
Kitty didn’t blame Earl one bit. She had signed the Gray Flamingos petition last year demanding the city council put some money into the building, but the referendum had been defeated. The council claimed there wasn’t enough money in the budget. Viola and her coalition had vowed to keep fighting.
Besides being a place for Whispering Bay’s senior citizens to socialize, the center offered arts and crafts classes, as well as yoga and music appreciation. When Gram was alive, Kitty would drop her off at the center and occasionally join her for a game of cards. But she hadn’t stepped foot in the place since last year. It felt a little strange coming back.
A small group of seniors was huddled around Viola in the middle of the main room. By the looks on their faces, something serious was up.
Viola’s hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. “You came! Are you here to take the yoga class?” she asked Kitty.
“Yep,” Kitty said, dropping her exercise mat onto the floor. Yesterday, she’d made a fool of herself in front of Steve Pappas only to find out later that afternoon that her new air conditioner was going to cost eight thousand dollars. As if things weren’t bad enough, she must have slept with her head twisted, because she’d woken up with a crick in her neck. She needed to de-stress, and an hour of yoga seemed like a good way to do just that. She greeted the rest of the group, all of whom she knew pretty well since most of them had been friends with her Gram.
Eleanor Stenhope wagged her finger at the clock on the wall. “The instructor is supposed to be here fifteen minutes before class starts.”
“I hope she shows up this time,” said Mr. Milhouse, whose first name Kitty could never remember. Two long white hairs poked straight up from his left eyebrow. Kitty fought the urge to reach over and pluck them out. “Don’t know why people can’t keep their appointments. This wouldn’t be happening if we lived in one of those retirement centers, like that Sun City place they have over in Arizona.”
“Arizona is too hot,” Eleanor Stenhope said.
“It’s just as hot here,” said Mr. Milhouse. “ ’Cept it’s more humid. I don’t remember it ever being this humid before.”
“It’s global warming,” Viola said.
Mr. Milhouse’s white brows came together to form a shaggy line. “Global what?”
The front door opened and the conversation stopped. But instead of the yoga instructor, it was Gus.
Great.
Not that she didn’t adore Gus. But now, seeing him would always make her think of Steve, which of course, would make her think of the Thong Incident (which is what she’d named it last night in her head). Next time—not that she was planning on a next time, but if there ever were to be a next time—she would only have one-night stands with men she wouldn’t be reminded of every five seconds.
“I must need glasses,” Viola teased. “Is that Gus Pappas I see in front of me?”
“You win, Vi. I’m gonna try out this mumbo-jumbo yoga thing. Doc Lambert says I could use some de-stressing in my life.” Gus wore a spotless white T-shirt and navy running shorts. Kitty had to admit, his legs were in awesome shape. Compared to the other men in the room, he was practically a stud.
“All my favorite people have come to class,” Viola said, smiling at the two of them.
“You got roped into this as well, eh?” he asked Kitty, his brown eyes twinkling, his expression warm and friendly.
Kitty nodded, relieved that Gus seemed his usual self around her. What had she expected, though? That Steve would brag to his uncle about their sex romp? Or worse, tell him how she had turned into a raging maniac the next day? “Maybe I should go to the office and see if the instructor has called to say she’s running late,” she volunteered.
“Good idea,” Viola said. “Meanwhile, we’ll start to stretch.” She guided Gus to a spot next to her. The rest of the seniors followed her lead, spreading their mats out across the room.
Kitty wandered down the long hallway until she reached the office. A man sat at the desk, his sneakered feet propped up on the window ledge. He was talking on the phone with the receiver cradled around his neck while frantically punching buttons on a handheld video game.
Kitty knocked on the open door.
The man turned around, and he wasn’t a man at all. It was Josh Bailey, who couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Josh’s dad, Bruce Bailey, was vice president of the local bank. Bruce also served on the city council and consistently voiced the most vocal opposition to whatever petition the Gray Flamingos were touting. Kitty found it ironic that his son was working at the senior center of all places.
“Oh, hey, Ms. Burke. What can I do for you?”
“I didn’t know you worked here, Josh.”
“My dad got me this job.” Josh didn’t excuse himself from the call, but instead, continued to look at her expectantly.
“The yoga instructor hasn’t shown up for the noon class yet. You know anything about that?”
He sighed heavily. “I gotta go,” he said into the receiver. “The geezers have their Depends in a wad again.” He laughed. “Cool. I’ll be there.” He hung up and rummaged through a mess of papers on the desk until he found a small yellow Post-it note stuck behind a folder. “She’s got a cold so she won’t be here today.”
“When were you going to let the class know?”
“No worries, Ms. B. I was just about to do that.”
“Josh, are you getting paid to work here or is this a volunteer position?”
“Volunteer?” he croaked.
“So, you’re getting paid. Isn’t it in your job description to keep up with what’s going on?”
His brown eyes looked wary. “I guess so.”
Kitty bit her tongue. It wasn’t Josh’s fault the instructor was sick, but something had to be done about his attitude.
“You’re not going to make a big deal out of this, are you? My dad is making me pay for my own car insurance. He’ll ground me if I get fired. And if I don’t have a car, I might as well be dead. There’s nothing to do in this town.”
“Maybe you should talk to your dad about that,” Kitty said. “It’s the city council that voted against the new community pool and basketball courts.”
“He’s always bitch—uh, complaining there’s not enough money for that kind of stuff.”
Kitty nodded. That sounded just like Bruce. “Look, I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble, but you need to stay on top of things.”
“Will do,” Josh promised, plunking his feet back on the ledge. He picked up his video game and resumed playing.
Kitty was trying to think of a way to tell the class the instructor was a no-show when she heard Viola’s soothing voice drift through the hall. The group was settled around the floor on their exercise mats. Viola’s arms were above her head, urging the class to expand their lungs and take a deep breath. It wasn’t a bona fide yoga class, but over the next forty-five minutes, Viola led them through a series of gentle stretches and deep breathing exercises that left Kitty feeling rejuvenated.
“You should be teaching this class,” Kitty told Viola as she rolled up her exercise mat. “You taught high school PE for years and you’re in great shape.”
“Maybe I’ll think about it. But I’d have t
o get certified first,” Viola said, looking pleased by the compliment.
“Kitty’s right. You’re a natural,” Gus said.
Viola smiled.
“Hey,” said Gus, “I have an idea. There’s a refrigerator full of fish at my house just waiting to hit the grill. Why don’t you ladies join me and my nephew for dinner tonight?”
Join them for dinner tonight?
Kitty tripped over a loose tile on the floor. She caught herself seconds before landing flat on her face.
Gus scowled. “Someone needs to fix that.”
Viola eyed him with interest. “That’s exactly the sort of thing the Gray Flamingos are trying to accomplish. We need you on our committee, Gus.”
“I’m not retired yet, Vi. And I don’t plan to quit working for a long time either.”
“You don’t have to be retired to join the Flamingos,” Viola said, looping her arm through his. “What do you think, Kitty? Should we join them for dinner?”
She’d love to see the expression on Steve’s face for that one. “Sorry, I’ve got other plans,” Kitty lied.
“Can’t you break them?” Gus asked. “I know my nephew would love it if you’d come.”
I wouldn’t bet on that.
“Is your nephew that dark-haired hunk I saw driving your truck the other day?” Viola asked.
“I’m the only one who drives my truck, Vi. Steve drives a fancy red pickup. The kind with all those slick gizmos on it.”
Shit. Kitty hoped Viola didn’t make the connection to the pickup truck parked in her driveway the other morning. If she did, she didn’t let on. “Then it must have been you I saw,” Viola said sweetly.
Gus actually blushed, which was adorable. Kitty couldn’t help smiling at the two of them. “I have to go,” she said. “But invite me again.” Like when your nephew leaves town, she thought.
Kitty left the senior center and made a right on Ocean Avenue to Corbits Supermarket where she bought a sack of groceries—mainly salad stuff and low-fat ice cream. Even nuk ing something in this heat was out the question until she got her new air conditioner. Monday was the Fourth of July, and since she didn’t want to pay overtime, she had to wait till Tuesday to get the unit installed.
Instead of taking her usual route home, she slipped over a couple of blocks to Dolphin Isles to check out the real estate competition. Dolphin Isles was a new subdivision catering to first-time buyers and retirees looking to downsize. It was owned by TNT Properties, an out-of-town corporation Kitty had never heard of before it appeared on the scene in Whispering Bay. The subdivision consisted of three-bedroom, two-bath tract homes with tiny manicured lawns and fenced-in back-yards. There were five floor plans, each only a slight variation of the others. The show homes were decorated in different motifs and part of the sales pitch was a free three-hour session with an interior decorator, whom Shea had proclaimed incompetent. Shea had a degree in interior design but she hadn’t worked since Casey was born. Of course, that didn’t stop her from giving her unsolicited opinion whenever the opportunity arose.
Not that Kitty didn’t agree 100 percent with Shea’s views on Dolphin Isles. Ever since the subdivision opened two years ago it had put a big kink in Kitty’s business. Dolphin Isles’s rock-bottom prices made it hard to convince buyers that a slightly more expensive older home with character and more land might be a better deal for them.
The main street to the subdivision was crowded. Saturdays were a big day at Dolphin Isles. Kitty slowed her car as she drove by one of the model homes. Through the open door she could see the head salesman, Walt Walters, shaking hands with a young couple.
Walt liked to sell hard and never took no for an answer. He was in his early forties and divorced, and last year after the Jeff debacle, Kitty had made the mistake of going out with him. Walt was medium height, medium weight, medium good looks. But it wasn’t Walt’s blandness that had turned Kitty off. Apparently, Walt didn’t take no for an answer in his personal life either. Their one and only date had ended in a wrestling match on her living room sofa. But even if Walt hadn’t turned out to be a schmuck, Kitty didn’t think she’d ever be able to get past the name thing.
Who gave their kid the same first name as their last? Kitty wondered if Walt hadn’t changed his name on purpose. The tagline on his business card read: There’s only one name you need to remember in real estate, Walt Walters. Bleh. It made her Help me help you spiel sound almost poetic.
She turned right on Flipper Court to head back to the main street, when she slammed her foot on the brakes. Shea’s white Lincoln Navigator sat parked in front of one of the model homes. Kitty put her car in reverse and went back a few feet to get a look at the plates. It was Shea’s car, all right. The custom FSU license tag was unique.
What was Shea doing here? She and Moose couldn’t be looking for a new home. Not in Dolphin Isles. They already owned a custom-built, three-thousand-square-foot home a block from the beach. And if they were interested in a real estate investment, they would have come to her first.
A horn blasted, jolting Kitty from her thoughts. A man in a green sedan waved his hand impatiently, urging her on. Kitty put on her “oops sorry” face and placed her car in drive.
Maybe Moose had a client here. Or maybe they were checking out the market. It would be just like Moose to keep on top of local real estate prices.
She turned back onto the main road.
There were probably a dozen reasons for Shea and Moose to stop by Dolphin Isles. Kitty would ask Shea about it the next time she saw her.
13
Kitty went home and showered, then drove into the office and picked up her mail. She tried to fiddle with her Quicken account but she couldn’t keep her mind on the figures. Normally, Becky manned the office on Saturdays while Kitty dealt with clients, but it had been weeks since she’d shown a house. Just a few years ago, she’d been so busy that even Pilar had complained they never saw her on the weekends. But all that had changed when Dolphin Isles came to town. Now, those same potential clients were being shown homes with names like the Calypso and the Blue Lagoon while Walt Walters smiled on. Kitty tried not to seethe whenever she thought of it.
Maybe some sustenance would help her concentrate.
She went next door to Hank’s Bakery (it was purely coincidental that her real estate office was in the same strip mall as a doughnut shop), picked up a couple of Danish, made a pot of coffee, and tried to work on the accounts, but it was no use. She couldn’t think.
What she needed was something to take her mind off her dismal business and her pending eight-thousand-dollar air conditioner bill, not to mention the unforgettable Thong Incident. But there was only one thing that would help her do that. She needed to go shopping.
She pulled out her checkbook, looked at the balance, then tossed it back in her purse in disgust. Thank God for credit cards. She would hit the outlet mall in Destin, buy a new outfit—something that made her feel skinny—then treat herself to a nice dinner in an air-conditioned restaurant.
With business so slow there was no sense in keeping the office open. And besides, what was the use of having an answering machine if you didn’t use it? She grabbed her purse and was about to shut off the lights when Moose came strolling in. He wore tan slacks with a light blue shirt and a red tie with little yellow polka dots. Moose still weighed the same as when he played college football, 250 pounds of rock-hard muscle. Plus maybe an extra five pounds of belly fat. He’d never been a slob, but lately, he was dressing like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ. Kitty would bet that Shea had recently gotten him a subscription.
“You look great. What’s up?” she asked, giving him a hug.
“I was driving by on my way to visit a client and saw your car. Got a minute?” he asked in his Moose the Financial Advisor voice. It was different from his Moose the Friend voice. Kitty had learned a long time ago to distinguish between the two. Since she wasn’t in the mood to talk money, the situation called for diversionary tactics.
“Hungry?” she asked, offering him a Danish. “I have two of them.”
He gazed longingly at the sugar fest dangling under his nose. “No, thanks. I’m supposed to be on a diet.”
Moose with willpower was not a good sign.
“Me too.” She laid the uneaten Danish next to her computer and steeled herself for the lecture to come.
“I guess you know what I’m here to talk about.”
“That bad, huh?” Kitty kicked off her shoes and hopped onto the edge of her desk. Her feet dangled a few inches from the ground. She stared down at her bare toes. Before she went to the mall she’d get a pedicure. It just so happened her office was next door to a nail salon (also a lucky coincidence). Maybe she’d get her toes painted fire-engine red.
“I know I sound like a broken record, Kit, but it’s only because I care about you. Your credit cards are almost maxed out and now you’re about to wipe out your emergency savings on this new air conditioner.”
“Not having an air conditioner is an emergency.”
“The house belongs to your mother. Why isn’t she paying for it?”
“You know how scatterbrained my mom is. I don’t want to bother her with those little details.”
“Eight thousand bucks isn’t a little detail.”
“I can’t live without an air conditioner, Moose. Besides, you’d be proud of the way I’ve been economizing. I’ve decided to fire my personal trainer and I’ve even given up on pedicures.” She lifted her foot in the air and wiggled her unpolished toes to prove the point. Of course, she still planned to get her feet done. But she was serious about firing her trainer.
“You make me feel like an ogre.”
Kitty picked up the discarded Danish. “Go on,” she urged. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Moose snatched the Danish from her hand and plunked it back down on her desk. “I’m serious. First you move into your grandmother’s old house and start sinking money into it. Money that you don’t have, by the way. All the while, I’ve yet to see a For Sale sign in the front yard of that old house.”
