by GP Gardner
“Jamie, I’m not entirely clear about the organization here. I thought you were an RN.”
“I am, but I fill in for the administrator, too, since she’s only here a day or two a month. If you want my opinion, that’s not working too well.”
“And your job title is…”
“Director of Assisted Living. My office is in the Assisted Living building.” She pointed toward the back of the complex. “Did you see our new pool? It’ll be open tomorrow or the next day. By the Fourth, for sure.”
I nodded. “And what are the duties of Resident Services?”
She glanced at her watch. “Oh, the usual. I think a social worker would be ideal.” She rattled off references to hospitals and home health care, broken eyeglasses and laundered hearing aids, “…and coordination with maintenance. Lots of computer problems, but we usually can’t help with those—do you know anything about computers? And families are always wanting something—is dad getting confused, why isn’t mom answering her phone, why does she cry every time we talk.”
“This is beginning to sound like a big job.”
Jamie shook her head. “Half-time, four hours a day. I’m not saying you can’t put in more hours occasionally, but you take off comp time to make up for it. What I’m saying is, you don’t get paid for more than twenty hours. Which reminds me. What kind of salary do you expect?”
I wanted enough to pay my insurance and help with the rent on a luxurious apartment like Nita’s, but I wasn’t eager to give her a figure. “What did you pay the last person?”
“Hmm, I’ll have to check.” She looked at her watch again and stood. “Look, I’m trying to get away a little early today. Why don’t I show you around while we talk?”
We did a fast lap around the central core of Harbor Village. I didn’t mention what I’d heard last night about the buildings being donuts and L-shapes and U-shapes, but I found those descriptions quite helpful to my orientation.
Jamie ticked off the organizational chart. “The rental desk, housekeeping, assisted living, maintenance—what am I forgetting? Oh, yes, the dining room. Five departments.”
“Who answers the emergency calls? Is there an RN on duty all the time?”
She was surprised. “Oh, no. Definitely not. Too much liability. We never do that.”
She pointed out the maintenance building, garage-size with a wide roll-up door closed up tight. “I’m never sure if they’re out on a job or just sneaking away early. Want to see an apartment?”
She opened an unlocked door into a living room painted a dark, depressing terra cotta color. “It hasn’t been cleaned yet. We let people buy their own paint if they want a special color like this. Sometimes I think that’s a bad idea.”
We walked quickly through the rooms, which were nothing like Nita’s. I guessed from the smell that a dog had lived there.
“Pets are allowed?”
Jamie wrinkled her nose. “That’s another bad idea, but yeah, inside only, nothing over thirty pounds.”
I loved dogs but I knew they’d make problems for residential services. And be a rich source of complaints from other residents.
“You asked about emergencies,” she said, as we turned the corner beside the big house. “They’re not always medical, you know. People lose their phone or step on their glasses and expect you to do something about it in the middle of the night. The Assisted Living office takes calls at night—sometimes they go and sometimes they send the security guard. And if it’s medical, we call an ambulance, notify family and make sure the apartment gets locked up.” She waved dismissively. “Let’s look in here.”
Assisted living was a sprawling, yellow building with white gingerbread trim, located behind the swimming pool. Jamie introduced a few residents sitting on the shady porch then led the way through the automatic door. “This dining room is just for this building, and our residents get three meals a day.”
“And the other residents don’t?”
She shook her head. “Just lunch for independent living, and there’s an extra charge for that.”
She led the way to a scruffy little office on a back hallway, where a buxom woman, wearing bright blue scrubs and a frown, sat at a scarred and battered old desk. She stacked some papers together and slid them into a folder when we appeared in the doorway.
“This is Michelle, my assistant. Cleo’s going to be handling Resident Services.” Jamie grinned at me. “Right? Have I persuaded you yet?”
“I thought you were leaving early,” Michelle said.
“Oh, dang!” Jamie looked at her watch and spun around, heading for the door. “I’ll walk you back to the main building.”
We passed a pink building with sliding glass doors on three sides. I could see straight through it.
“The indoor pool,” Jamie said. “Heated in winter. We get lots of rec club memberships because of that pool.”
The adjacent outdoor pool, enclosed in a six-foot high, wrought iron fence, still had piles of sand and construction debris strewn around it. I was walking faster to keep up with Jamie and barely had time to look.
“Physical therapy rents space in this end of the building. The Goldenrod Grille and the hair salon are rentals, too.” She pointed them out as we rushed past the main dining room.
“Not much to see here. We have a cook and a helper, and the housekeepers have a little office down this hall.”
I got a quick glimpse of a dark dining room with a few tables and booths.
“It’s just one meal a day, at noon, and most people don’t want it. To be honest, it’s not very good. Corporate thinks we should work on that, but we haven’t gotten to it. Maybe you will.” She gave me a quick glance over her shoulder. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”
We reached the lobby and she stopped. “I won’t bother showing you the offices. You’ll have your own, because of privacy issues, but right now I don’t know which one it will be.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I’ve got to run. I hope you’ll take the job. If you think of any questions, call me next week. And send a copy of your resume. I’ll be out Monday.”
“What about an apartment? I’d like to live here. Any chance of getting one soon, so I don’t have to move twice?”
She squinted. “You’d be right on the premises. Might help with night calls occasionally. I think that could be worked out. You’d have to pay for it, of course.”
“Of course. And I’d want a garage.”
Jamie grimaced but nodded. “We’ll talk next week. I’ll see what I can do.”
* * * *
I went to the pier that night and found Nita sitting on a different bench, out beyond the restaurant. The sun was low in the sky, the breeze just perceptible and there were twice as many people.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day.” She patted the bench beside her. “Did you find a house?”
I sat and told her my news.
“A job and an apartment! Oh, my dear!”
I agreed; it was more than I could’ve hoped for, and there was still more. I was getting excited about the work to be done. I was feeling engaged in a way that had eluded me since Robert died.
A red-haired young woman smiled and waved at Nita, and Nita motioned her back and took her hand. “This is Emily, Cleo—one of your soon-to-be colleagues. Emily, I’m not sure what your job title is.”
“Oh, are you Cleo?” Emily gave a little squeal of excitement. “Patti told me all about you, and I’m so glad to meet you. Patti will be so jealous! When do you start? Monday, I hope.”
It was another case of trying to apply the brakes. “We’re still in the negotiating stage. I don’t even have a firm offer yet.”
“Shoot for the stars.” Emily waved a skinny, freckled arm then bent closer. “I’m the bookkeeper and I know there are some big salaries available. Unfortunately, I don’t get one of them.�
�� She threw her head back and laughed.
The sunset was pretty, but no cathedral sky.
* * * *
My visit to Birmingham was pleasant, except for a little dread about telling Stephanie I wasn’t moving there. I loved seeing the hills after the flatlands of the coast, and Barry was at that adorable stage where he walked and talked and was easily entertained.
I told Stephanie my plans and she insisted on showing me a couple of apartment complexes anyway, both of them located on high-traffic roadways.
“Why isn’t there something for seniors,” I asked, “in walking distance of restaurants and shops?”
“It’s a zoning thing, Mom. Nobody wants apartments in their neighborhood. It lowers property values.” She changed the subject. “Dad’s wedding is next weekend. He wants us to come, but I hate to miss three days of work.”
“Make it a vacation. Visit Fairhope on the way.”
“Why? You won’t be there.”
“No, but you could see the quilt exhibit at the art center.” That idea scored some major points with her.
* * * *
The campus, when I got home, felt like a visit to the distant past. I went to the dean’s office and told him I was accepting the retirement offer, and he came around the desk to give me a hug. “Oh, I never doubted it, Cleo. Not with Robert gone and Fairhope in the picture. We’re going to miss you.”
Later in the day, he called my office, where I was sorting through my accumulation of professional books.
“Forgive me if this is presumptuous, Cleo, but I’ve got a new history guy coming in, a young man with kids who need to be in this school district. He’s looked but hasn’t found anything they can afford. So I’m wondering, what are you going to do about your house?”
And that was how my house came to be sold in a few days, without ever officially being on the market. I got a good price, but not the bonanza I had fantasized about, and there was now some pressure about when I would move.
I talked with Nita in Fairhope every few days, and she suggested I look for an estate sale specialist to help with the downsizing. “We have several good ones here, so I’m sure you’ll find one in Atlanta.”
And I did find a nice woman with a whole crew of helpers, who worked me into her tight schedule, took some bigger items to consignment shops and held a three-day sale at the house then donated everything that was left and presented me with a nice check. She was a lifesaver.
I talked with Jamie Barnes in Fairhope a couple of times. When I first called to tell her the salary I wanted, she was in a bit of a huff. “Corporate wants to handle it.” She gave me a name and phone number.
“What about the apartment?”
“Don’t say a word to corporate about an apartment! I’m taking care of that. What color do you want it painted?”
Kimberly, at corporate, said she’d been with the company for thirteen years and knew I’d love it. Then she offered me a salary and benefits to love.
A few days before my move, Jamie called to say everything was ready for me, the apartment painted, the office selected and keys waiting at the reception desk. “Lee’s going to be here your first day.”
“And who is Lee?”
“Our Executive Director. Just between us, she’s a real PITA.”
“A what?”
“A pain in the ass. She’s not here often, and we never know when she’s coming. She likes to surprise us. She also manages a couple of Villages in South Carolina and a Harbor House in Myrtle Beach—Harbor House is the name for our skilled nursing facilities. But Lee spends most of her time in Houston.”
“What’s her last name?” I was jotting notes as we talked.
“Lee Ferrell.”
“Sounds familiar. Is she a social worker?”
Jamie laughed. “No. I told you what she is. But you’ve probably seen her name if you watch public TV. She’s a big donor, along with her late husband, and I won’t even say what he was.”
* * * *
Stephanie and Boyd and little Barry did go to Travis’ wedding in New Orleans. And then they visited Fairhope. They sent me photographs of Barry on the pier, terror and delight mixing on his face as he threw pieces of bread to a flock of gulls circling overhead and diving down to snatch the bread. He also dug holes in a sandy beach I hadn’t seen and ran through a splash pad I had missed.
Looking good, Mom, Stephanie texted. We approve.
She also sent a photograph of her father and the wedding party. Stephanie and the other attendants wore emerald green sheaths with one shoulder bared, and Stephanie’s cryptic caption—Dresses off the rack! Even the bride!—suggested that the happy new family hadn’t quite happened yet.
At first glance, the new bride looked too young for Travis, but there were certain things makeup and lighting couldn’t conceal. The expression in her eyes hinted at something else, too—like maybe he’d met his match this time. But I wished them all well. Travis was still a handsome devil, and a little gray hair added distinction. Why didn’t it work that way for women?
* * * *
Six weeks after my first visit to Fairhope, I left Atlanta a day ahead of the moving van and spent the night at the Fairhope motel. My favorite desk clerk wasn’t on duty, but there was a pleasant woman in his place. Thursday morning I dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and had breakfast in town. The moving van was due mid-afternoon.
“See, everything did work out,” Patti Wagon told me, rushing around the desk to give me a hug. She handed over my keys, strung together on a pink paperclip. “And we’re so glad to have you here. You can’t even imagine.” She fluttered her eyes and looked heavenward.
“Oh, I need to write you a rent check. Is there paperwork for the apartment? A lease, or any resident procedures?”
“Jamie said hands off. She’s handling it. Give me a check and I’ll see that she gets it, but I don’t have anything for you to sign.”
“How do I make out my check? To Harbor Village?”
She pursed her lips and held up a finger. The nail polish was blue this time, with white stars. “Wait a minute. I’m remembering some stink about that. I’d better ask.” She grabbed her phone and repeated my question then signaled to me. “Jamie wants to talk to you.”
“Are you getting settled?” Jamie asked, brightly.
“I’m just picking up the key and waiting for the moving van.”
“Make out two checks to Ferrell & Associates, one for rent and one for the deposit. Tell Patti to put them in my mailbox and I’ll get them next time I’m there.”
My apartment wasn’t in Nita’s building but at the rear of the donut building on the opposite side of the boulevard. The most direct access was via a wide sidewalk running along a waist-high patchwork of wood and wrought-iron fencing that enclosed the rear yards of garden homes on the next street. My unit was number eight and had a screened porch at the corner of the building.
I did a walk-through of the empty space, freshly painted in a grayish white. The air-conditioning was set on subarctic, but the movers would be here soon. I left it as it was. There was new carpeting—light gray and low-pile—in the main room, where the ceiling was high and sloping, with recessed lighting. The all-white kitchen was small, but a full-length window looked out to the interior courtyard. I ignored old appliances and imagined glass shelves with pots of orchids.
There were two bedrooms and two baths, one with an oversized tile shower. Thinking ahead, Jim would say. The small laundry room had a washer and dryer already in place and what looked like a pet flap grafted into the door. And in the dining area, a single garden door opened to the walkway that circled the courtyard. It felt clean and spacious, and I liked it.
I took the remote control from the kitchen counter and went to check the garage, which was more than large enough for my car, with shelves and a walkout door at the back. I tested my apar
tment key on the door then moved my car into the stall and began unpacking things I’d brought with me.
Apparently there was a Harbor Village tradition that all residents visited new arrivals as soon as possible, so people stopped by all morning. I met everyone who lived in my building, including Ann from next door, who brought a plate of cookies.
Nita and Jim drove over on their way to an early lunch.
“Come with us,” Nita said from the passenger seat.
“I’d love to.” It was early, but I was accustomed to Eastern Time. “Do you want to see the apartment first?”
She smiled sheepishly. “I already saw it. I hope you don’t mind. Dolly and I came to see which one it was, and the painter let us look around. Are you pleased with it?”
I nodded. “I love it.”
“You ladies can talk while we eat,” Jim said. “We’re going to Ruby Tuesday and we want to get there early.”
I went inside for my purse and shopping list and met them at the restaurant. We sat in the sunroom and I ordered baked pasta.
Jim and Nita were disagreeing about something when I arrived. “This place is dependable,” Jim said. “Generous servings.”
“But I should have prepared something at our apartment,” Nita insisted.
She asked about the estate sale and I gave them a quick rundown.
“She did all the organizing and pricing and advertising, brought a big staff, sold almost everything and donated what was left. I wound up with an empty house and a check for three thousand dollars. Plus a nice tax deduction for the donations.”
Jim perked up. “A check, you said? She didn’t deal in all cash?”
“She took checks and credit cards at the sale, but she wrote one check to me.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Now she has to deal with the bad checks and bogus cards. That’s good thinking, Cleo. And how much did she charge you?”
“Jim!”
“Forty percent. And I gave her a discount on a couple of items she wanted for a rental house. That seemed fair after she worked me into her schedule on short notice.”