by GP Gardner
At first I didn’t know what I was seeing, then I realized that what I’d thought was a knot on the tree was actually a camera, encased in a plastic cover. A webcam. I looked where it was aimed, at the rose garden in the park down below. The camera emitted faint clicks as it panned right to left, slowly and erratically.
I walked back to my bench and got there in time to hear my phone ringing.
Nita was calling. “I’m just letting you know my friend Vickie is making a list of homes and condos for you to see. You can stop at her office this afternoon and pick it up, or she can drop it off here and you can get it tonight. I hope you’ll come play dominoes with us. We have a little group that gets together every week and one of us can’t be here tonight. And we always send out for sandwiches.”
I said I’d love to come, and got directions. And then I switched the phone to voice mail and spent the next ninety minutes sitting on a too-low, too-hard wooden bench, brushing off an occasional ant and completing a retirement planning form the HR office had given me.
When I finished, I was happy but hungry. The webcam was moving around again as I walked past it, heading back to the car. It made me think of a lizard’s eye, and I wondered if it followed me as I walked.
As I approached the car, I noticed a sign for a restaurant, a block down the street. I dropped my folder in the car, clicked the doors locked again and kept walking.
The restaurant was in an old house, with a street-side wooden deck that held eight or ten tables, separated by arrangements of potted shrubs and herbs. Inside, there were more tables, all occupied, and a line of people waiting at a takeout counter. I was about to get in line when a woman, sitting alone at a table for four, waved in my direction and motioned me over.
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked when I was close enough to hear her. “If not, you can join me.”
“Cleo Mack.” I pulled out the chair across from her and stuck out my hand. “You’re so kind. I’m beginning to think this is the nicest town in the world.”
“Jamie Barnes.” She had a killer grip and an impersonal smile. She was thirty-something, I guessed, sporty looking, with shockingly white teeth and straight, shoulder-length hair streaked in shades of gold. Her sleeveless white shirt exposed well-muscled, suntanned arms. “I take it you’re a visitor.”
“My second day in town. Do you live here?”
The server, in a rush, dropped off a basket of breadsticks and chanted the day’s specials. Jamie was eating a salad with a piece of fish and drinking red wine. I decided on the quinoa salad the server recommended, with iced tea.
“I moved here from New Orleans, and before that, Pensacola, and before that, Tampa. I’ve moved around some, but I seem to be stuck on the Gulf Coast.” Jamie tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and took a sip of wine. “I’m an RN, but I work in administration mostly. What about you?”
“Social work. I teach and chair my university department, in Atlanta.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me more. You have friends here?”
“No. I drove down to do some thinking. Seems I’ve unexpectedly become eligible to retire, and it’s thrown me for a loop.”
“Why does nothing like that ever happen to me? Are you going to do it?”
Moment of truth. I hesitated and then nodded, answering my own question, as much as hers. “Yes, I think I will.”
As soon as I said it, a smile ignited in my chest and blossomed all the way to my cheeks; I was going to retire! I laughed and felt almost giddy. “I may need a part-time job, but I should be able to dig something up. Teach a course or two, maybe, or consult.”
The server brought my lunch and refilled my glass. The salad had a tangy, citrusy dressing that was quite tasty, or maybe I was just hungry; after all, it was three hours past my usual lunchtime. I ate quickly, listening to Jamie or answering the questions she posed.
“And you’ll move to Fairhope?”
“I think so. I like what I’ve seen, and I need a bit of an adventure.”
“You’re not looking for a husband, I hope. It’s a buyer’s market here. You want a husband, you buy one.”
I shook my head. “I’m out of the marriage market. I had a bad one and a good one and quit while I was winning.”
“Same here. Now I’m in a relationship that’s outlasted the marriages.”
Um-hum, my urban self said, want to bet that partner’s female?
Jamie was smiling, looking toward the water. “That’s Mobile across the bay. I guess you know that.”
I looked, but the far horizon was a featureless, lavender haze, not unlike my future.
Jamie had shifted to telling me about her work. “Ever hear of Harbor Health Service? Based in Houston. We own nursing homes and independent or assisted living facilities all over the South. The facility here is Harbor Village. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”
I didn’t think so.
“You should stop by. We’re out on the four-lane. We have apartments and condos for independent living, and we just expanded our Assisted Living unit. No nursing home, but you’d be surprised how many people get by with assisted living if the services are enhanced and personalized. And every little enhancement increases revenue.” She arched her eyebrows and laughed, apparently sharing an insider joke with me.
I needed to pay closer attention. “And how do you decide to transfer a resident to a skilled nursing facility?” It was a question such places wrestled with, I knew.
She shrugged. “Our policy is pretty flexible. Officially, it’s when the activities of daily living require more than one aide. I see you know the issues. Is your specialization with seniors?”
“I have to stay up to date. I supervise interns at some facilities like yours.”
“Really? How long are you going to be in town?”
“Just one more day. I’m going to look at housing tomorrow and drive to Birmingham Saturday.”
A few minutes later we paid our checks and left. Jamie got into a BMW two-seat convertible parked beside the deck, and I walked back to my car on the bluff. I wasn’t sure I liked Jamie Barnes much, but it didn’t seem important, since I never expected to see her again.
With the financial planning done, I was feeling more like a tourist. Or a prospective resident. I picked up a box of chocolates made at one of the little candy shops and then drove slowly through some residential neighborhoods. Houses on the north bluff were large and imposing. South of the pier, the elevation dropped, the streets were shadier and the houses more modest and charming, surrounded by live oaks, palm trees, big-leafed fatsia and elephant ears and chaste trees in shades of white and blue and purple. Near the water, streamers of gray Spanish moss swung from the trees.
There were only a few houses with “For Sale” signs, but when I saw one, I pulled over and checked the size and interior photos and price, using the real estate app on my phone. Nothing was cheap, certainly not the little blue cottage with a picket fence and screened front porch, and not even the plain-Jane red brick ranch house with jalousie windows, straight out of the sixties. I began to wonder where ordinary people lived in this town.
I crisscrossed the area, angling gradually back toward my motel. When I got there, I showered and dressed for dominoes with Nita and friends. I put on a peach-colored linen shirt with black pants and ballet flats, checked my reflection in the mirror, picked up the box of chocolates and went to the lobby.
The same gangly clerk was on duty again, and I noticed his nametag said Hunter. He was chatting with a family with three little kids. When they moved away from the desk, he greeted me. “Hi there. Enjoying your visit?”
I nodded. “I wonder about people who grow up here. Wasn’t the rest of the world a letdown for you?”
He laughed. “I didn’t grow up here. And I don’t live here now. Robertsdale is twelve miles away and a different world. And the other side of t
he bay—I go to the University of South Alabama now—is a different universe.”
I showed him the directions Nita had given me and he pointed north. “Go past the shopping center and it’ll be on your left. There’s a big display at the entrance, wooden pilings and ropes and carved pelicans. Harbor Village, the sign says. It’s for old people.”
“Oh. I’ve heard of Harbor Village, but I didn’t realize my friend lived there.”
He was blushing and stammering, waving his hands like he was under attack by bees. “I didn’t mean to say old people. I meant seniors. Retirees! It’s a nice place, really. Lots of their family members stay here. Don’t tell anybody I said old people. I’ll be fired.”
I grinned at him and went out to the car.
I had no trouble finding Harbor Village. There was a carved wood sign, with pelicans and posts, and a banner beneath saying It Takes a Village. The place made a good first impression, with a wide street, a grassy median with flowers and palm trees, and an abundance of parking. Residential buildings were painted pastel beach colors—yellow and green and pink—while the large, central building looked like something from a fairy tale, three stories tall with a thatch-like black roof, dormers, red shutters, hanging ferns and a wrap-around porch. I spotted a beauty shop, a restaurant and a swimming pool. No sign of Mickey and Minnie, and no children, but there was definitely an air of fantasy about the place.
Nita’s building was at the corner, beside a row of garages. I parked under a five-globe lamppost and picked up my handbag and the box of candy.
“Hello there! I’m Jim,” a man boomed, sweeping the apartment door open. “You must be Cleo. Come in, come in.” Jim was a confident, erect, take-charge kind of guy, well over six feet, with thick, wavy, snow-white hair. He shook my hand vigorously. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Nita came out of the kitchen, drying her hands and looking even tinier beside her husband. She gave me a hug and began to introduce two people watching us from the couch.
Jim interrupted. “Do you know Dolly Webb, Cleo? And this is Riley Meddors. Now, they’re not a couple. They’re both single and on the make. Right, Dolly?”
Nita looked embarrassed. “Jim, are you serving the wine?” She gave me a slight eye roll and I handed her the box of chocolates. “Oh, my dear, you didn’t need to—”
“Red or white?” Jim noticed the candy and took the box from Nita’s hands. “Cleo, you have discovered my weakness! Look, Nita. Dark chocolate. I’ll just put it here beside my chair.”
Nita and Jim were opposites, physically, and the same was true for Dolly and Riley, but Dolly was the taller, more athletic of that pair. A turquoise shirt and silver necklace set off her short white hair.
Riley was cheerful and low-key, with an easy smile and hair still more reddish-brown than gray. “Nice to meet you.” He shook my hand and then returned to the couch.
“We don’t know any social workers or college professors,” Nita said, “but we invited the smartest people we know. Dolly is a mathematician and Riley is a banker.”
“Was a banker.” Riley gave me a boyish grin. “Now I’m a lazy bum.”
“My husband was a mathematician,” I said to Dolly. “Did you teach?”
She waved the question away. “No. I worked forty years in a basement with no windows. Who was your husband?”
I told her Robert’s name and she gave a little start and looked at me more closely. “Oh, yes, of course, Robert Mack. A great guy, everybody knew him. I forget, did he die about a year ago?”
“Hard to believe it’s been almost four years.” I felt a special little bond with Dolly.
I knew the moment I saw the Bergens’ apartment that a decorator had been in charge. Furnishings weren’t lined up with the walls but clustered to create functional areas. A thick carpet, in muted shades of red and gold and acid green, was angled under the couches. At the back of the room, a fig tree reached for the skylight, tiny white lights winding through its leafy branches.
“What a beautiful apartment, Nita.” I turned in a circle, taking in artwork, track lights and luxurious fabrics. “It looks like the cover of Architectural Digest.”
Dolly agreed. “That’s exactly what I tell her.”
“Thank you, dears. I can’t take credit for the décor. We had someone do it. Otherwise we’d still be in the house, quibbling over what we should keep.”
“My mother taught me the rules of decorating,” Jim said. “Something dark and something light, something dull and something bright. That’s just what we got. Plus, I wanted nice firm arms to push up with, not those low, squishy things. Would you like a tour, Cleo?” He handed me a glass of wine. “Just be careful with that drink and come this way. I’ll let Nita show you the kitchen later.”
“I want to come, too.” Dolly struggled to her feet.
“You’ve seen it lots of times,” Jim said.
“Yes, I know. But I want to see it again. With all this decorating going on, I may decide to do something to my place.”
I caught Riley’s glance and we traded smiles.
The private side of the apartment was just two bedrooms and two baths, with a utility room separating them. Jim had taken the larger bedroom for an office, furnishing it with an executive-sized desk plus a worktable, a wall of bookcases, a recliner, a TV and a daybed. “If one of us isn’t feeling well, I sleep back here.”
He had also taken the master closet and filled it with neatly arranged clothing, color-coded containers in a variety of sizes and an army of shoes on slanted shelves. The adjoining bathroom had a large, tiled shower. “If I’m ever in a wheelchair, I can roll right in and hose down. And here’s the panic cord. Pull it and security will be here in a couple of minutes, day or night. There’s one in every room.”
Dolly was examining the various shaving, dental, and skin care products and devices arrayed on shelves between the twin sinks. “You’d have to get up awfully early to use all this stuff. And don’t be too sure about security. My neighbor pulled the cord at midnight and nobody came.”
Jim herded us toward the second bedroom. “This is where we sleep, and Nita gets the bathroom in here.” He pushed the door open. Nita’s bathroom was half the size of his. “There’s a tub in here. She likes that.”
“Very nice,” I said.
Whatever toiletries Nita used must be confined to the vanity drawers; the glistening countertop held a box of tissues and a blooming peace lily.
It was a luxurious apartment, with a garage in the building next door, round-the-clock security and certainly a maintenance crew at the ready. It was located next to a shopping center and only a mile or so from the bay, and it was exactly what I wanted. The question was, could I afford it?
Jim led us back to the main room, where Nita and Riley had prepared the table for dominoes. “Want me to call in the sandwich order?”
“I’ve already done it.” Nita took the chair Riley held for her. “They’ll be here at six thirty.”
“Well, I’ve got work to do. Call me when they get here.” Jim headed for his office.
We played a game called Mexican Trains. Riley and Dolly were quick and competitive players, but I had to ask a lot of questions about the rules, and the first hour slipped by quickly.
When the doorbell rang, Jim popped out of his office to answer it and returned to the table with bags of sandwiches and potato chips. “It was forty-five dollars, including the tip. Which comes to what, Riley?”
“Nine dollars each.” He was pushing the game tiles to the center of the table, making room around the perimeter for dining.
“Like a human calculator,” Jim told me.
Dolly and I prepared and served drinks, while Nita cut the sandwiches into smaller pieces and arranged them on a pair of apple-patterned platters. Jim passed around plates and then filled his with several big sections of Philly cheesesteak. I took tur
key with greens and cheese and another filled with a still warm, aromatic mixture of sautéed zucchini, red peppers and onions.
“That’s my favorite.” Nita took a similar piece.
“Listen, Cleo,” Jim said. “The clock is chiming. That’s the Westminster melody, you know.”
It was a familiar campus sound. I asked Dolly and Riley, “Do you live here, too?”
“Yes,” they answered and set about explaining Harbor Village to me.
“There’re six apartment buildings. This is one of two doughnuts,” Dolly said. “I have a one-bedroom around back, but it’s nothing like this.”
I didn’t understand. “Two doughnuts?”
She nodded. “A square doughnut, of course.”
Riley elaborated. “We call it that because of the shape of the building. You’ll see it in an aerial photo Harbor Village uses in promotional materials. There’s an open courtyard in the middle.”
“Oh.” An interior courtyard was a nice touch and had the additional advantage of reducing the number of close neighbors.
“And across the street is another building just like this one,” Dolly said. “Both of them green.”
Jim was eating, apparently ignoring the conversation.
“And next door…” Nita prompted.
“The next building is L-shaped, one on either side of the Boulevard,” Dolly said. “Riley lives there.”
“The pink buildings,” Riley said. “And next to them are yellow, U-shaped buildings. The two-story buildings have elevators, of course.”
“Don’t forget the condos,” Nita said.
Jim suddenly tuned into the conversation but must have misunderstood. “No, honey, the condos don’t have elevators. They’re all one level.”