I guess it doesn’t matter. I suppose the ladies at Cherry Tree will laugh, but I’m going to have some explaining to do as to why I was impersonating a romance novelist.
Someone with a notepad is leaning over jotting down the name on the homemade, handwritten sign on her desk.
The man who pulled me over murmurs thank you, holds out a book, and asks Emma if she can sign it quickly.
She smiles graciously and complies.
I’m a little offended that he didn’t want me to sign one of my books, but then I remember they’re not my books. Right. It’s kinda dumb for me to be upset. Still.
Another fifteen seconds and the hubbub has stopped, the reporters are gone, the door is easing shut behind them, and Emma is back over signing books. Jenny what’s-her-name is still sitting on the floor, cackling loudly and completely oblivious to everything that’s happening.
“When were you going to tell me that you are a romance novelist?” Doug says, sounding, honestly, offended that he didn’t know.
I admit, even though I’ve just done something really terrible, I’m still tempted, just a little, to tease him.
But I don’t.
“I’m not a romance novelist. I was just messing with you.”
“Now you’re messing with me. You are sitting in the chair.” He taps the desk. “Apparently, you have a pen name.” His forehead wrinkles as his eyes sweep the crowd in front of Emma. “Apparently, you’re not any good.”
I remind myself that this does not hurt my feelings because I’m not really a romance novelist.
“I was sitting in the chair because I had a rock in my shoe that I had to get out.”
“You just stood for a picture.”
“I didn’t mean to. I was trying to tell you that it wasn’t me.”
“Fine. I suppose you’re using a pen name because you don’t want anyone to know. Still, I think this is probably something that your boss should know.”
“What I do in my private life really isn’t your business,” I can’t help but say, but then I shake my head. “But I’m not a romance novelist!”
“Then they just set this table up and put a name tag on it, and there’s nobody sitting there?”
“She’s back there,” I say, pointing to the lady who is still sprawled out on the floor, a third of the way through Emma’s novel. It must be really good for her to be so engrossed. I want to buy that one.
Doug looks around behind me, his eyes narrowed like he’s suspicious and doesn’t believe me.
I pick up one of Jenna what’s-her-name’s books, scanning the back to see if there is a picture.
There is, although it’s not very good.
I squint at the picture, then look at the lady on the floor.
Actually, the picture is probably a little better than real life. I point to it, then to her, and then I say, “Look at this. Does that look like me?”
Doug looks at the picture, looks at me, looks back at the picture, and then looks at the lady belly laughing on the floor.
“You impersonated a romance novelist,” he accuses, his voice holding incredulity. “I can’t even believe it. That has to be illegal,” he huffs. “I knew that you were the instigator in all of these episodes you and the ladies have been having. They try to defend you by saying it’s their idea, but I knew better.”
He’s angry, and goodness, is he ever handsome when he’s angry.
If only he weren’t angry at me. I didn’t do anything. I tried to tell him the truth.
“Do you not remember tugging on my arm and me telling you that it wasn’t me?”
His lips press together. I’m sure he remembers. His eyes drop, and he says, “I thought you were just being falsely modest.”
“I wasn’t. I was being serious.” But then I realize I wanted him to believe me then, because I had been in the middle of telling him—
“You had just told me that you were a romance novelist. What was I supposed to believe?” he asks reasonably, but he’s still angry.
“I’m sorry.”
I can’t hardly get mad at him when I’m the one that’s to blame. Of course he didn’t listen to me, because I had been lying—teasing—up to that point.
“I wasn’t even going to check up on you today, but I knew I needed to,” he says, sounding disappointed in me.
I hate that he does, and it makes me feel bad.
Before I can say any more, he shakes his head and walks out.
Chapter 6
Leah
The next morning, I drag myself into work.
I made things right from the day before. I couldn’t find a number for the TV station, but I was able to email them and let them know that a mistake had been made, and one of Emma’s fans was able to take a picture of her along with Jackie what’s-her-name and email it to the TV station.
The anchor wasn’t in it, but at least they had a pic.
I feel terrible about it. Worse than I should, I suppose.
Most of the fun things that the ladies and I do are just fun things. Yeah, we avoided major disaster by not breaking the sewer line, but otherwise, we are just having fun, knocking things off Agnes’s bucket list, and doing things that make us feel good to be alive.
I hadn’t actually done anything that would have offended anyone or hurt anyone.
Until yesterday.
I feel like maybe Doug is right and things are getting out of hand.
I am going to have to have a talk with the ladies.
We are also going to have to give up thinking about a rafting trip. There is no way Doug is going to let me do it now.
And I’m not going to fight for it. Not after yesterday. Obviously, I let my personal feelings for my boss get in the way of me doing a good job. I was goofy and irresponsible and didn’t act professionally.
That is one thing about Doug. He always acts professionally. Beyond the one comment about me not telling him about my secret life as a romance writer.
Obviously, I can do whatever I want to, including having a secret life as romance writer that I don’t tell my boss about, but I don’t. Just to be clear: I don’t have a secret life as a romance writer. I can only imagine what my mom would have to say about that.
Good. Now that that’s settled.
I feel like if he slaps me with a reprimand for this, I deserve it. I’m not even sure why. Maybe it’s just because I lied, even though I meant it as teasing, and I feel guilty about it. Feel guilty that people have been inconvenienced because I was goofing off when I shouldn’t have been.
I go to my office, which is just a small room, not much bigger than a bathroom, with a desk and a chair and a small window.
I don’t spend much time in here anyway.
I feel like my job is to do things that improve the quality of life for the residents.
Things like encouraging them to have a bucket list and then to live it out.
Maybe I have my duties messed up.
Maybe we should all just be happy to be here, watch TV, play bingo, and go to Walmart.
For the first time in a really long time, when I get to work, I go to my desk and sit down rather than looking up Agnes or Harriet or Gertrude. Or any of the other folks here.
Because of the small number of residents, corporate has not replaced other positions when people have left, and Doug has taken on some of the enrollment duties. I have taken on what was left.
When the personnel director quit, getting a job in Boise, they didn’t hire anyone to replace her and just had us take over.
The next thing you know, Doug and I will be cooking the meals. That’s about the only thing that hasn’t been downsized out of existence.
Regardless, I check my messages to see if anyone has left a message expressing interest in moving here or having their parents or their grandparents move in.
Nothing. At least there are not any messages that warn us that anyone is removing their relatives from our care.
I watched the news, and they didn’
t say anything about me or the fact that I was “impersonating” a romance novelist. I think that had more to do with the fact that the romance novelist that I was “impersonating” wasn’t well-known, and nobody would care.
At least, if I’m going to pick someone to impersonate, I picked the right person.
I sit at my desk with an elbow on it and my chin sitting in my hand, staring out at the dirt pile behind the building, the big one, and then the little one where the ladies and I dumped our dirt.
I suppose Doug has someone lined up to move all the dirt back to where we got it.
I’m lost in thought, and when someone says, “Knock knock,” it startles me.
My brain has registered that it’s Doug before my eyes land on him, and my heart has responded by taking up belly dancing.
Thankfully, I don’t have a coffee or anything to knock off my desk as my hand comes down and I jerk my body around, embarrassed to be caught staring out the window, morose.
“Door’s open,” I say in an almost normal tone of voice.
“I don’t usually see you behind your desk,” Doug says, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossing his arms over his chest.
Of course he wouldn’t come in. That might be a little improper, for the two of us to be closed in a room together.
I feel like normal people wouldn’t think twice about that, and I’m not quite sure what I think about Doug caring about it.
I suppose it’s a little insulting, although I suppose if I were his wife, I would appreciate it.
I don’t know. I’m not really in the mind frame to think about stuff like that. Particularly about being Doug’s wife. What in the world would make such a thought pop into my head?
Maybe I should start looking for a different job. The thought of leaving the folks that I have come to love here hurts my heart. I don’t want to leave. Not here, not Good Grief.
Of course if my phone doesn’t start ringing, and if we don’t start enrolling residents, I won’t have a choice.
“Yeah. I guess I’m just feeling really bad about yesterday. I’m sorry about that.”
His brows lift. I’ve surprised him. “It didn’t hurt anything. After I thought about it, it was actually kind of funny. The idea of you being a romance novelist.”
My eyes open in surprise at him saying it didn’t hurt anything, but by the time he’s gotten done speaking, I am pretty sure I should be insulted.
“Why?” I ask, thinking that there is something wrong with me.
“You’re just not the kind of person to sit behind a desk and type all day long. You’re too busy living life to write about it.”
His words are said casually, but they feel deeper than his tone seems to indicate.
Maybe I’m reading too much into them, because now I think it’s a compliment, and a big one at that.
Still, I don’t want to assume incorrectly, so I don’t say anything, although I do fidget with the pen sitting on the desk in front of me, grateful for something to do with my fingers. I feel like I should stand so we’re on equal footing, but this doesn’t feel like a confrontation, for maybe the first time in a really long time.
“I’ve been thinking some about that,” he says, and he doesn’t sound quite as confident as he normally does.
“About what?”
“About living life.” He meets my eyes, and then his go to the window, looking out at the dirt pile.
I cringe a little; that’s just what he needs, a reminder of one of my recent schemes.
“I think sometimes I’m so busy making sure that I’m coloring in the lines that I don’t stop to think that maybe the picture would be a little better if I allowed myself the freedom to go outside of them once in a while.”
This comes as a shock to me. I’m not sure how I feel about it. I know, I’m supposed to be ecstatic that he’s finally seeing things my way. But...I kind of like the way his personality balances mine.
Maybe that was what got me into trouble yesterday. I felt free to be a little crazier than I normally might be, or to be a little more deceptive than I normally might be, because I knew that Doug wouldn’t let me get too far out of line.
“I’ve taken advantage of that part of your personality,” I say softly, and I’m not sure he understands what I’m talking about. His eyes move from the window and connect with mine, and I don’t see comprehension there.
I guess I owe him an explanation.
“I just know that if I do something, you’re there to keep me from going too far...out of line, so to speak,” I say with a little smile, not really meaning to take up his example and go with it but doing it anyway.
A little slip of a smile flashes across his face, too. I guess it’s always fun to share humor with someone. Maybe it bonds you together, because I definitely feel a connection that I like at our shared smiles.
“I guess I have to admit it’s good to hear that,” he says. “But I suppose the opposite is true for me. I feel like I can squash your ideas and shut you out, and you’ll just pop back up with more and better ones. Maybe we’re both making assumptions about the other that we shouldn’t. Particularly me.”
I’m not about to let him take all the blame. “Not just you. Both of us.”
He nods slowly.
We stare at nothing in silence. I’m pretty sure he’s not looking at me, and I can’t look at him. We might be talking about things we’ve never talked about before, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t still have things I’m hiding and don’t want to tell him.
Like the way I listen for him to come down the hall, and the little attraction that sizzles in my chest, and the way I admire him and respect the way he takes his job so seriously.
The things I wonder about him that have nothing to do with his job.
I looked down at my desk, not wanting even a glimmer of that thought to show on my face.
Maybe I was little concerned when he walked in that he would be firing me. I claim not to care, and while I do want this job, it’s not like I have a house and kids to support. The very worst that could happen is I would have to move away from my hometown.
With him in my office, I realize it goes deeper than that. Deeper than loving the people I work with. Deeper than wanting to stay in my hometown. And deeper than wanting to stick around my family.
Somewhere inside of me, I think that even though Doug is annoyed with the things that I’ve done, he could still like, or at least respect, me.
Yesterday, when I was joking but got caught in the lie, that thought disappeared.
“I wanted to talk to you about your idea of taking a whitewater rafting trip.”
My head jerks up. I know that is completely off the table. I am not even going to bring it up again.
“I know,” I say. “It was crazy to think that we can take people from Cherry Tree on a trip like that. I mean, they’d be staying overnight outside, sleeping on the ground. Of course they don’t want to do that. Or I guess I should say Miss Agnes wants to, but it probably wouldn’t be good for her.” I sigh. “Sometimes, the things we want to do just aren’t things we should do.”
“While I can’t argue with that sentiment, I was actually going to say that I spent the evening looking up tours and came up with three that I emailed to your work account. Maybe when you get some time, you can take a look at them and see if one of them will suit what she has on her bucket list.”
My eyes open and close and open and close as I stare blindly at my desk, and I get that movement under control before I look up.
I can’t believe that not only is he going to let us go, he was actually looking for trips.
Part of me believes there’s a catch.
I measure my words. “I’ll definitely look at them. Miss Agnes in particular really wants to go. And I know that there are trips that would be gentle enough for her to participate in, and it wouldn’t tax her or have her overdo anything.”
He nods, and while he doesn’t look skeptical, I feel like I need to
make my argument while I have a chance.
“Just because the people here are old doesn’t mean that they’re not still people.” I know that sounds terrible, but I didn’t have time to plan what I was going to say. “They just want to feel like they’re still a part of life. Still a part of the things going on around them. And they want to feel worthwhile too. Needed, like there’s a place for them. They still want to keep creating and keep contributing, and by moving and doing things and doing life, it keeps their outlook positive and upbeat.” I pull my fingers away from the pen and fold them on the desk in front of me. “I’m sorry, I haven’t gone about that in the best way. I’ve been annoying, and unprofessional, and immature. But honestly, I truly, truly have the best interests of our residents at heart.”
“I do too,” he says, almost offensively. “I also have the interest of keeping this place open at heart too. If it closes, every one of them, and maybe there aren’t that many, but they’re all going to have to move somewhere other than where they’ve lived all their lives. Rather than having outsiders come in and be enticed into our community, we’ll lose the eldest and wisest.”
Okay. I admit. He impresses me with that statement. Because I love that he’s giving the residents here the respect their age demands.
“I guess we’ve been looking at this from different perspectives. I’m looking at the residents and keeping them alive and happy and engaged, and...”
“I’m looking at keeping the place open and even attracting new patrons.”
I was thinking that too. Attracting new patrons. But I don’t say that. Instead, I say, “I think that we basically want the same goals. The things that we do should accomplish the same goals.”
“That’s the conclusion I came to last night. That maybe we are working against each other, and maybe each of us has to give a little.”
Now, I’ve been an employee long enough to know that this is not something that we “have” to do.
He’s the boss. I’m the employee. He doesn’t “have” to give a little. I should be the one doing all the giving, so this is a serious compromise on his part.
I’m not sure what to say to express my appreciation that he’s willing to do this.
Me and the Helpful Hurricane (Good Grief, Idaho) Page 5