I could be wrong, but I also think that Agnes, as sweet as she seems, is a little annoyed at Doug for not allowing her the whitewater rafting trip. That’s on her bucket list, too.
Technically, he didn’t decline her. He declined me. I’d no sooner had the words “whitewater rafting” out of my mouth before he said no.
I think it made Agnes mad.
If she doesn’t get to go whitewater rafting soon, she’ll never get to go.
Like she says, she’s not getting any younger.
“Well, one of the items on my bucket list is to dig a hole to China. Obviously, I know that it can’t be done, but I’ve wanted to do it ever since I was a little girl, and I thought that maybe if I could dig a cave instead, that would be almost the same thing.”
“Could you have found a better spot to dig a cave other than the front yard of our facility?” Doug asks, and he almost sounds reasonable. I know, however intelligent he sounds, he’s no match for Agnes.
“We could have. The ground is actually softer right over there in the middle. But we wanted to be considerate and not upset you. So we thought digging over here, out of the way, would be the best thing to do.”
“You were being considerate by digging it over here?” Doug says, and he doesn’t sound like he believes her. Not even a little.
“Of course. We do try to be considerate. It’s our generation, you know. We were raised with manners.”
I bite back a snort. That was definitely an insult to the generation that Doug and I are from. Who, Agnes would probably say, were not raised with manners.
“That’s real nice of you, Miss Agnes, but I know who the actual perpetrator is, and I’m here to give her her pink slip. In a theoretical sense since I don’t actually have a pink slip, but she’s fired.”
I hear the relief in his tone; it’s on his face too.
“That should take care of all the trouble that we’ve been having, and my life can get back to normal.”
“Normal life isn’t much fun, Mr. Ripley,” Agnes says with pity. “And you’re wrong about Leah. She just comes along to make sure none of us overdo it or get hurt.”
“Again, that’s real nice of you to cover for her, but like I said, I know she’s behind it all.”
“That’s right. I am,” I say, just because I know that while Doug can fire me, he can also kick Agnes, Gertrude, and Harriet out of Cherry Tree. I don’t want that under any circumstances. They’ve lived in Good Grief all of their lives. Where would they go?
“I knew it.” The angles on his face are harsh under the glare of floodlights. It still doesn’t cover the fact that he’s a handsome man. Distinguished looking and most definitely responsible.
He’s not my type at all.
My ex belonged to a motorcycle gang, and he was whatever the complete opposite of responsible is. At the time, I found that wildly attractive, along with his broad shoulders and slim hips and his come-hither smile.
Surface attractions only. Definitely not something a woman in her right mind wants to be shackled to for the rest of her life. Especially when he uses his come-hither smile on anything female.
And those anything females were the exact same as I was and were deeply attracted to those broad shoulders and slim hips, and since those broad shoulders and slim hips didn’t seem to care which female they were with, it ended up making a difference to me, since I did.
Still, for some reason, I was attracted to irresponsibility and to dudes who were definitely going to cheat.
Never to men who would actually be nice to me, would be faithful, and could hold a job down for more than three months.
Goodness, I wouldn’t even care about the job as long as they were faithful.
Doug definitely fits in that last category, and even though there’s always butterflies in my stomach when I talk to him, I know it’s not attraction.
I’m just worried about my job.
Which I’ve just basically thrown to the wolves with my last statement.
“Mr. Ripley? Excuse me,” Harriet says, coming around me and standing shoulder to shoulder with Agnes. “I’m thinking I understood what you’re saying about pink slips, and I have to say that if you fire Ms. Harding, I’m moving out.”
I gasp but manage to keep it inaudible. She can’t move out. She has nowhere to go. I know it. She knows it. Agnes and Gertrude both know it, too.
“Same for me,” Gertrude announces as she comes around. She’s the only one of the ladies who’s actually gotten seriously dirty. Besides me, of course. I can’t do anything without getting filthy. I can’t even bird-watch without getting pooped on.
But Agnes and Harriet both look like they’ve come from an afternoon tea. While Gertrude and I look like we spent the day wrestling alligators.
At least Gertrude’s hair is short. I’m guessing that mine is frizzed out, with my natural curls springing around and flying everywhere.
I probably have dirt on my face, too. Even if I hadn’t been digging in the dirt, I still would manage to get smudges on my face.
I’m not as bad as my sister Kori, but I’m definitely nowhere near the genteel sophistication of my eldest sister Tammy.
Doug stops with his mouth open.
I finally realize maybe the ladies are using a bargaining chip I hadn’t thought about.
The assisted care facility was built to house fifty people. There have been ten people living in it for the last year.
It is up to Doug and I to increase the residency, or it is going to have to close. That is the message from corporate anyway.
Unfortunately, Doug feels that we will increase residency by making things as boring as possible. Bingo seven nights a week and afternoon movies or, if he’s really feeling dangerous, a nature walk around the parking lot after our afternoon naps.
I’ve already mentioned how I feel about all that.
Anyway, if three of the ten residents move out, the facility is almost certain to close.
I’m sure Doug can find a job somewhere. He came from California, and surely he can find something to do.
I can too, although that would probably mean I would have to move away from Good Grief, which I don’t want to do.
I spent time away, and I hated it.
I’m happy to be back, and I’m really happy to be working here. Assisted living wasn’t my first choice, but I fell in love with the residents, and I don’t want to leave them.
The way they’re standing there, reminding me of the Three Musketeers, shoulder to shoulder and arm in arm, makes me feel like they feel the same way about me.
After all, everything that happened is because they wanted to make the cave big enough for four people.
They wanted to include me. Which makes me feel good. Of course.
“You don’t have anywhere else to go. You can’t leave.”
“Ms. Harding has offered her home to all of us to live there. That’s where we’ll go if you fire her.”
I try not to blink, and I try hard not to look shocked, either.
Surely there are state mandates about housing seniors in your home. Although, with only three, I could probably do it. It would be fun, for sure. I wouldn’t have a boss who is constantly trying to get me to play bingo.
Okay, between you and me, he has no idea that we actually play strip bingo. If he finds out, I’ll know who told him.
That’s a secret.
I’m kind of warming up to the idea of having the ladies in my home, but there’s a spot inside of me, somewhere, rather nebulous, but...I don’t really want to walk away from Doug.
The thought kinda scares me. Maybe I like him more than I think I do. Actually, I would not say I like him at all. I would say he’s annoying, a pain in the butt, a wet blanket, and a man who has absolutely no imagination.
But the idea of not having him standing over top of me, breathing down my neck, constantly putting me on reprimand because I did something that he considers stupid, while it should make me happy, it kind of makes me f
eel deflated.
Like I actually look forward to seeing his reaction to our latest stunts? Surely not.
I’ve never been one of those ladies who need a man to make me feel fulfilled or one of those ladies who perk up when men are around, working to impress them.
That’s definitely not me.
At least, I didn’t think so.
Thankfully, I don’t have to examine that too far, because Doug knows he’s outnumbered.
After all, there’s three ladies in front of him, and I’m standing behind them.
I feel justified when he says, “On second thought, I think I’ll just extend her reprimand.”
He lifts his head up, looking over the shoulders of the ladies, and meets my eyes. His are blue, deep and dark and beautiful.
But eyes are just the same as shoulders and hips and six-pack abs. They don’t mean anything if the man behind them isn’t honest and doesn’t have character.
Unfortunately, these eyes are gorgeous, and I know the man behind them has everything a woman should want. They strike in my heart, give me a weird sensation, weird but not unpleasant. Actually, I like it and am tempted to move forward.
“Ms. Harding, I’m adding two weeks onto your current reprimand. In that amount of time, I do not want you to schedule or participate in any activities outside of the assisted care facility.”
“What about our Walmart run?” Harriet asks, and I’m sure she’s thinking about how she’s going to get her box of orange hair dye.
“I’ll do it,” Doug says, and he sounds almost ominous.
I bite back a smile.
Chapter 4
Doug
Three days after hazmat was on our front lawn, Ms. Harding is once again standing in front of my desk.
My stomach twist and gnarls, but irritation isn’t the only thing I feel.
I don’t know why.
She’s very nondescript. I don’t mean that in a mean way. I just mean no one’s gonna look at her and mistake her for a supermodel.
She’s not beautiful in any classical sense.
I’ve seen plenty of women in California who come out to try to make it big as an actress and end up staying, moving upstate where I was from, with the perfect suntan and bleached blonde hair and the slender, hourglass figure.
I dated some of those. Married one. Regret it.
At this point in my life, I feel like I’m a little smarter.
Anyway, I’m not a great judge on women and their characteristics, but I do know that Ms. Harding is not going to be playing the lead role in any blockbuster movie.
Which probably says something about my maturity level, because I don’t care. I’m not feeling this weird push against my irritation that almost feels...not really like attraction but more like a grudging admiration, because of the way she looks.
It’s because of her indomitable spirit.
No matter how many times I have her in front of me, she’s always grinning, smiling, or at least looking happy, and without fail, her comments are always in defense of the ladies here.
Her actions, she claims, and what I’ve come to believe, are because she truly wants the best for them.
So yeah, it’s not like I’m going to propose marriage. It is doubly not like I want to kiss her or anything, but there’s definitely more than run-of-the-mill irritation backing up my throat.
I also know better than to let her know that. With my ex, any little advantage she had, she milked it for all it was worth.
I learned not to give her any. Or at least to not let her know about any.
“So I suppose you have some kind of excuse to explain why I walked into the lunch area, and there was a food fight going on?” I ask, and I know I sound weary.
I just want to make this work. I thought, when I was given the job and told I needed to make the facility look appealing to folks and encourage them to retire here, it wouldn’t be very difficult.
I mean, who wants to retire in Idaho? But other than that, not difficult. And even the location, I’ve kind of gotten over. I suppose I had some prejudice against Idaho coming from California, but Idaho is every bit as beautiful as my home state.
In a lot of ways, it’s even more beautiful. It feels less restricted and much more free, like I can let my spirit soar, which sounds cheesy, I know, but it’s true.
“No. I don’t have any excuses,” she says, and I respect that. She never gives me a bunch of BS. It’s always the unvarnished truth. “I divided everyone up into teams, and I’m the one who put the tables down on their sides so that each team had cover to hide behind.”
I’ve already mentioned the war in my chest—something that feels suspiciously like admiration or attraction and irritation. I think irritation is winning out, because Ms. Harding doesn’t look the slightest bit sorry.
I feel like having her here, standing in my office, has become so commonplace that she doesn’t even care anymore.
She knows I can’t fire her, or I’ll lose almost thirty percent of my residents. If we were at full capacity, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. Or if we had a waiting list, which is my dream, it would be totally okay.
Not that I want to see anyone leave. I’m actually quite fond of Miss Agnes and Miss Gertrude and Miss Harriet. They’ve gotten me into enough trouble, given me enough gray hair, but they’re great ladies, and if I weren’t the director here, I would really be enjoying them.
“So you actually suggested the food fight?” I ask, hoping that I’m wrong.
What am I going to do about this?
“I did.” She lifts a shoulder, and I grind my teeth together. She could at least look sorry. “I mean, what’s the problem with it? If we clean up our mess, and we just throw the food that we were going to eat, we aren’t wasting anything, and we’re not causing any problems. And it’s fun.”
“Do you really think these elderly ladies want to have a food fight?”
Ms. Harding looks at me like I’m mentally slow. Sometimes, when I’m around her, I feel like I am.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Kind of twists it a little, then opens it again. “Yeah. I mean, they were actually having a food fight. Do you think I held them at gunpoint and forced them to do it?”
Ms. Harding looks like the kind of woman who probably packs a gun in her purse. I don’t even know what the gun laws are in Idaho. Far less restrictive than California, I would imagine. Maybe I should get myself one. Ms. Harding shouldn’t have anything up on me. Although our relationship hasn’t degenerated to the Wild-West-gunfight-at-noon point, it requires more optimism than I possess to think that it won’t.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Harding, but with my experience with you, I wouldn’t put it past you at all.”
She should look offended, but she kinda grins, and for the life of me, I can’t figure it out, but I’m tempted to grin back.
This will not do. This will not do at all.
I rub my forehead, just as frustrated with myself for having to bite back a grin as I am with her for having the food fight.
“Can we come to some kind of understanding? Something so that you will not be constantly testing my patience, and the bounds of propriety, by engaging in things that are off-limits or wrong?”
“Maybe you could more closely define things that are off-limits and/or wrong.” While I don’t think she’s mocking me, I can’t be entirely certain. “Because I don’t really feel like we’ve done anything that is off-limits or wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Harding, but when hazmat is here, you’ve done something wrong.”
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “That was all a big misunderstanding. And while I welcome people from all over the United States to settle in Idaho because I believe that it’s the most beautiful state in the union, I also think that we need to give leeway to those people because sometimes they come in here and they really don’t know heads from tails.”
I can tell she wants to add something about cow patties and human waste, an
d probably something that’s rather irreverent, and I’m glad that she doesn’t.
I never thought of myself as the blushing kind, but my cheeks do heat at times around her. Most notably, when she was half dressed in plastic wrap, although it wasn’t the half-dressed part that bothered me. It was the half that wasn’t dressed that made my cheeks feel very hot.
The covering she wore to Walmart also had my cheeks getting hot. “Covering” being used in a very loose sense, because there wasn’t much that was covered.
The uncovered part is what figures prominently in my dreams.
Still, that strengthens my resolve, because I actually did get in a little bit of trouble with the town council on that. They have modesty standards in Idaho, apparently. That makes them different from California as well.
Then I realize maybe she’s talking about me. After all, I’m not from New York City, but I’m from California, which is just as bad in an Idahoan’s eyes.
I mean that kind of tongue-in-cheek. Just as bad being that some of California probably doesn’t know heads from tails in Iowa any better than someone from New York City, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn.
Which makes me feel for the first time that...maybe I’m being too strict?
“I was hoping we could compromise,” I say, although I really have no idea what kind of compromise I’m looking for.
“Compromise?” Her eyebrows go up, and she looks interested. I like that interested look. I kind of wish it were directed at me, although part of me is glad it’s not. I don’t need a complication like Ms. Harding in my life.
Plus, once I get Cherry Tree turned around and have that credit to my resume, I think I might go east. Chicago could be fun. Or I could give New York City a spin. Or maybe I’ll go back to California. It’s a big state, and I can avoid my ex while still spending time with my kids.
“Yes. A compromise.”
“This is some kind of trick?” she asks, and she tightens her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes.
“It’s not. I admit that maybe sometimes I am a little bit too tight on the reins, but at the same time, you have to admit that sometimes you get a little out of balance. I’m hoping we can come to a point where both of us are content with the way things are going. After all, I think we both want to keep our jobs, and the way to do that is to entice more people to want to come here. We can’t do that with a bad reputation.”
Me and the Helpful Hurricane (Good Grief, Idaho) Page 3