by Brynne Asher
“We’ll see.” I smile as I lie. Everyone here is so nice, but I need to keep a healthy distance. Friends tend to want to know things about you. I need to be friendly, but I do not need friends. So far, I’ve managed to toe this line carefully, although the longer I work at both the Ranch and here, it’s proving difficult.
Damn, people are nice out here in the middle of nowhere. Who knew?
“I’m not taking no for an answer again. After Mary cut your hair, she all but gave me the girlfriend warning that if I didn’t get you to poker, I’d pay the price. If for no other reason, you need to do me this favor so I can score points with my new girlfriend.”
After going months without a trim, I mentioned in passing to Addy that I needed a haircut. She made me an appointment with her girl, Mary. Little did I know they were best friends or that Mary and Evan just started dating. I swear, this group is woven so tight, I’ve never seen anything like it. Bev is so sweet it actually hurts to turn her down when she invites me to dinner, poker, or for a glass of wine at sunset when she knows I’m getting off work.
But no, I need distance. I need it like my life depends on it, because it does. It’s already hard enough to keep my story straight. Even Addy, who in the beginning gave me my space, has started working her way into my heart by talking about how she lost her mom to cancer, how she came to live here in the middle of nowhere, and how her employees became her new family. There are days where I just can’t take it, not because she’s trying to find things out about me, but because I’m jealous. Inside, I’m green with envy because I’ve never had what she has, even though I lived under my parents’ roof until the day I left.
These people even rallied around Addy like a family should after some man from her father’s past came after her, holding her at gunpoint in her own vineyard. She’s been through so much. I can’t say I’ve ever had that kind of support.
Evan shoots me his boyish grin that I’m sure won Mary over in a heartbeat. “You’re not going to disappoint my new girlfriend, are you? I mean, you wouldn’t let me down like that, right?”
“I don’t know—” I start, hoping to put him off yet again, wondering how creative I’ll have to get, when my attention is drawn to the door. My breath catches.
It’s him.
He’s been coming in every day for a while now. When the lunch hour hits or when we’re near on closing at six, he gets a sandwich, soup, or sometimes both. And he always orders more than one dessert—usually two or three, which I find strange. But I take his order—one that never includes a single fruit or vegetable—and submit it to Maggie. I make every excuse I can think of to clean up the storage room or kitchen so I don’t have to deliver his to-go order.
This is because he’s probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Rich, dark-brown hair with hints of deep gold, it looks as if he spends his days lounging on the beach, even though I doubt this is true. He doesn’t look like the lounging kind of guy. He’s big, really big, and his presence commands attention, even though I can tell he wants none of it. Every time I’ve seen him enter the tasting room, his eyes never wander and he never smiles, trying not to draw attention to himself, even though his efforts are a lost cause.
His expression always remains stoic and apathetic, but underneath his features are strong, rigid, and masculine. His medium complexion is in stark contrast to his eyes—so bright blue, the first time I looked into them, they were blinding.
Blinding, but also wounded.
I don’t question the fact there’s pain hidden there, because I recognize it. I’ve seen it in the mirror for a while. Only recently have I noticed it fading in my own eyes—but still, it’s there.
Even if I didn’t notice his inner pain, it’s plain to see he’s been wounded physically. As big as he is, he moves gingerly, as his arm is casted and in a sling that’s wrapped tight to his body with a wedge under his arm. His face looks better, but the first time I saw him, he was bruised and battered in a way that matched his eyes.
All of this, his beauty mixed with his injuries, only fuels my fascination.
There’s obviously something wrong with me.
Whenever he comes in, he strides straight to the bar, never makes small talk or asks for the daily specials. He orders and waits, then he pays and leaves. If I’m here long enough, I see it happen twice a day.
Right after I take his order, I resume spying on him from the backroom. And I’ve spied enough that, even to myself, I’m reaching creeper status.
Ugh. Creepers are weird and I’m becoming one.
Since he’s already made it halfway across the tasting room, I do what I’ve done for weeks, and prepare to spy on him.
Before I can hide, Evan’s phone rings. He looks at the screen and beats me to the punch, leaving for the back room as he mutters, “It’s Mary. Do me a favor and hold down the fort.”
Shit. I’ve never been alone with him.
When I turn around, there he is, looking at me with his perfectly-beautiful, anguished blue eyes.
I swallow and do the one thing my mother instilled in me more than anything else—be composed. I take a breath and go to him, the bar being the only thing separating me from the target of my inner creeper. “May I help you?”
His brows pull together and my eyes go directly to the scar on his temple. Red, angry, and still inflamed, it’s clear to see he’s recently had stitches. This, too, fascinates me.
His voice comes at me strong and deep, even if a bit harshly. “The Monte Cristo with chips, potato soup, and whatever desserts she has, one of each.”
The Monte Cristo and potato soup? Never mind the dessert order, there’s so much there that bothers me. I’ve spied on him ordering almost every day I’ve worked for the past few weeks, and in his condition, his body needs healthier foods to heal.
For the first time ever, I muster up the courage to do more than simply take his order. “Would you like to hear today’s specials?”
His answer comes quick and clear. “No.”
Doing everything I can to collect my courage, I push, “Are you sure? Maggie’s worked really hard on them. Her new sandwich is great.”
He couldn’t be any clearer when he answers firmly, “I’m sure.”
What the hell. I’m on a roll, so I keep on as if he invited me to. “It’s a Mediterranean wrap. Lean cut turkey, stacked with romaine, English cucumbers, heirloom tomatoes, red onion, and for a bit of salt, Kalamata olives. She even added a spread of roasted red pepper hummus. It’s delicious. I had it yesterday.”
This time he tips his head and frowns in a way I know he finds me ludicrous. “No. I want the Monte Cristo.”
Well then.
I put another smile on my face and try again to add some color to his diet and continue with the specials. “Our soup of the day is colorful minestrone.”
“Pay attention.” His face hardens, and if he didn’t sound serious before, he sure does now. “The Monte Cristo. The colorless potato soup, and it better be a bowl, not a cup. Desserts, one of everything she’s got. That’s it.”
Only because it’s my job, I feel safe in offering, “Would you like a side salad with that?”
He loses his frown when his brows fly up, his beautiful blue eyes going big. “Are you kidding?”
He’s close to losing his patience, but I know for a fact his body will heal faster if it has the proper vitamins and nutrients. “The organic seasonal fruit medley?”
And if he didn’t mean it before, there’s no question now when he growls at me, “No!”
Even though I’m disappointed and a bit freaked at his rumbling voice, I can’t deny, having a conversation with him has been exc
iting. I scribble down his order and give myself one more opportunity to appreciate his now-frustrated blue eyes. That’s when I ask, even though I know, but I really like to hear him say it, “A name for the order?”
“Grady.”
I love his name. Grady is casual, comfortable, and friendly, even though its owner is anything but. Still, I love it because every name in my family is snooty, stick-up-the-ass formal, just like my family, so very unlike the mysterious-but-wounded, blue-eyed Grady.
“I’ll give this to Maggie. You can have a seat while you wait.”
He lets out a sigh and shakes his head before turning. I’m not quite sure, but I think he lets out a string of curse words as he moves gingerly to the tables. Like every day, this makes me wonder what type of accident he was in and what his physician has him doing for rehabilitation.
I go to the kitchen and hand Maggie his order. As usual, she quizzes me, making sure I got the order right. “A Monte with chips, bowl of potato, and one of every dessert. That right?”
I sigh, wishing I could’ve talked him into some vegetables that offer anti-inflammatory benefits to help with his injuries, and reply, “Yep. That’s it.”
I decide to revert back to my creeper status, pronto, and let someone else deliver his order. As exciting as it was talking to Grady, I don’t want to push it.
Ugh. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I’m not just a creeper, but a scaredy-cat creeper.
Chapter 2 – One Step at a Time
Maya –
“Bingo!”
“You could not have gotten Bingo already, Erma. She’s barely called any numbers.”
“I did so, Betty. She’ll check the numbers, just you wait. The Bingo gods love me ‘cause I’m not a crabby old hag like you.”
“I might be crabby, but I’m not a cheater.”
“How can you cheat at Bingo? Maya checks. If you can cheat at Bingo, lemme know how, ‘cause I’m all for cheatin’.”
“No one’s cheating.” I sigh. Sometimes I wonder if I work with the elderly or preschoolers. “Tell me your numbers, Erma.”
Erma calls out her numbers and she was right, the Bingo gods definitely love her. She wins a lot.
“Bingo,” I confirm. I reach for the old boom box we use and cue up the song on the CD. “We all know what that means. Everybody up. It’s good for your circulation. Let’s hokey pokey.”
“I hate ‘The Hokey Pokey’,” Betty complains. Betty always complains about something. “Can we do the ‘The Twist’?”
“We’ll twist next Bingo,” I offer.
“I want to do that slide dance,” Foxy yells from the back. Foxy is spry and surprisingly limber for his age. When I first started working here, I asked how he got the name Foxy and he said he didn’t know. He’s been called Foxy his whole life and, since his given name is Cornelius, he was good with Foxy. Who could blame him? I’d be good with Foxy, too.
“Most of us can’t hop, Foxy!” Emma Lou shouts even though she’s sitting right next to him. She must not be wearing her hearing aid. She’s right, though. Foxy is the only one who can hop. He’s also the only man who plays Bingo and I’m pretty sure he does it only for the dances. We do a little dance every time someone gets a Bingo. It’s a good way to get them up and moving.
I push play on the CD player and yell over the music so they can all hear me, “Two more Bingos, it’s almost lunchtime. We’ll twist and cha-cha next. Come on, sing with me!”
I lead them in “The Hokey Pokey.” My group of about fifteen seniors sing and dance, some having fun, others only pokey grudgingly. I do my best to dance around the room to get them in the mood—I’m over feeling like a fool when doing things like this. It’s my job to keep them excited, and really, I think they like me for it.
We put our arms in and out, our legs in and out, and we turned ourselves around. By the time we’re done, they’re breathing hard and I can tell they’ve had enough. We play two more rounds of Bingo, with breaks for “The Twist” and finally the “Cha Cha,” which makes Foxy a very happy man.
There aren’t many men here at Rolling Hills Ranch. I’d say the ratio is hardly five to one. It’s also hard to get them involved in games like this—Foxy is one of the only joiners. I do my best to coax them out of their rooms.
They do like to be outside, though. This fall we played horseshoes. I had to fetch the horseshoes for them, but I did it because it made them happy. We even tried croquet, but they don’t like to bend over, so that wasn’t a good idea.
I quickly clean up the Bingo sheets and markers as the residents move to the cafeteria. I spot the sneaky seniors who I’ve secretly named the Clickety-Clique walk by. “Miss Lillian Rose, you better not sneak a regular plate again. You’re BP was up—you need to stick with the low-sodium meal.” Lillian Rose is from the deep south in Alabama, and her family moved her here so she could be closer to them. She loves her southern food, but her blood pressure does not. She’s thicker than thieves with some of these women and they’ve started smuggling her food on the side. “Yeah, I’m looking at you, Dot. You’re not doing her any favors by pilfering food that’s not good for her.”
Just to show me they don’t give a damn, the entire group rolls their eyes.
“That’s what my medication’s for,” Miss Lillian Rose says as she struts out of the commons to the cafeteria.
Sighing, I gather my things to return to the storeroom. I’ve been here since seven this morning to plan and get ready for the day. We usually start after breakfast around nine. So far today, we’ve gone for a morning walk, sung karaoke, played trivia, and just now, Bingo Dance Party. Not everyone does everything—that would be too much for anyone in this group. I try to vary the activities so there’s something for everyone. The Ranch isn’t the poshest assisted living facility on the planet, but it isn’t a dump, either. Their monthly payment includes activities to entertain and keep them healthy, both physically and mentally. They have other activities here in the afternoons, but they’re group-led, or volunteers come in to organize a book club or a Bible study. The residents are most energetic in the mornings, so that’s when I’m scheduled, which works well with the winery. I usually stick around through their early lunch, then by noon I’m back at Whitetail, where I work the regular lunch hour through closing in the tasting room.
As I put everything away so I can work on my schedule for next week, the director stops me in the hall. “Hey, have you started the process to get licensed in Virginia? Cheryl gave me her notice yesterday. She’ll be gone at the end of February. Everyone really loves you, and as much as I’ll hate losing you in activities, I need a good PT on staff.”
I bite my lip because I’m going to have to talk my way through this, and I’m so tired of bullshitting those around me. What I hate even more is I’m becoming really good at it, and coming from a long line of really good bullshitters, it’s not a family trait I was hoping to inherit.
I’m a bullshitter and a creeper. I’m beginning to hate the new me.
“I’ve gathered the paperwork and have started digging through it. Virginia is a bit different than New York. I think I have to take some additional classes, they won’t allow me to test out. I’m working on it,” I lie. Lying sucks and it seems the longer I’m here, the more I’m lying. Maybe it’s time to sever my ties and move on. I’m not quite sure what the normal protocol is for staying in the same place when you’re hiding from your ex and his family.
“Perfect. How long do you think it will take?” he asks.
It shouldn’t even take a month. I’ve looked into it and, other than some paperwork, it’s only a few exams which shouldn’t be hard. Besides getting all my New York credentials transferred, it should be a simple proc
ess. What’s not easy is doing all this while hoping it won’t create a paper trail. I’m almost positive as soon as I start, someone’s pockets will be lined green, and I’ll be found instantly. “I’m not sure—it’s a lot of red tape.”
“Be sure and get it done. I really want to slide you into that position. It took me forever to find Cheryl, I went through three therapists before I found someone who wasn’t scared off by the sweet dispositions of our clientele.” His eyes widen with sarcasm.
“I’m on it.” I smile and try to appease him with another lie. Even though the paperwork is all sitting back at my bungalow, finished and ready to file, I’m totally not on it. I’m so scared, I’m not even close to being on it.
Later, on my way out, I hear my name called as I walk past the cafeteria. “Maya.”
Stephanie, the office manager, is waving to me from down the hall, so I stop and turn back. She’s standing with a younger man, and when I say younger, I mean probably in his mid-forties. Not a potential resident, that’s for sure.
“Mr. Acogi, this is our activities director, Maya Augustine.” Stephanie turns to me and continues. “Jeff Acogi is touring our facility for his uncle who lives in the area.”
I offer my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Acogi. I haven’t been here long, but all the residents really seem to enjoy it.”
“Miss Augustine.” He takes my hand and tips his head. “It’s a pleasure. I like what I see so far.”
Stephanie turns back to him. “Maya is the best activities director we’ve had in a long while. Our residents really take to her, she works hard to get everyone involved. You can know that if you choose Rolling Hills Ranch for your uncle, there will be plenty of events to engage and keep him moving.”