by Gail Oust
Connie Sue looked doubtful. “If I’m going to splurge on calories, it’ll be another glass of wine. A girl’s gotta watch her figure, you know.”
“Suit yourselves.” I felt their disapproval and concern as I walked away.
“Wait up, Kate,” Polly called after me. “I’m not one to pass up a nice spread.”
It was, as Polly called it, a “nice spread.” Trays were mounded with an assortment of finger foods that included egg rolls, chicken wings, and shrimp rangoons. But the buffet table looked virtually untouched. Was everyone watching their figures? Or had paranoia stolen the “serenity” from Serenity Cove? Whatever the case, I took a plate and dug in.
Alongside me, Polly helped herself to the shrimp rangoons. “Umm, yum,” she said, sighing with pleasure. “I can never get enough of these shrimp things.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
“Nah. Like I told Gloria, no one lives forever.”
I might’ve guessed Polly wouldn’t let a little thing like food poisoning deter her from her favorite foods.
“You…!”
At Sheila’s loud shriek, I almost dropped a chicken wing. Fortunately, I retrieved it in the nick of time. Curious, I turned toward the commotion and saw Kel Watson, the county extension agent, with Sheila. His rumpled demeanor seemed harmless and nonthreatening enough. But Sheila didn’t look happy. This wasn’t the first time her reaction at seeing him had been over the top. In the hospital, she had fainted at the mere sight of him in her room. My fledging detective antenna went ping! Something was up—but what?
“How dare you show your face?” Sheila demanded angrily.
A dull flush seeped across Kel’s cheekbones. Embarrassment? Or guilt? “I just wanted to pay my respects. It was the least I could do.”
“Well, you’re not wanted here.” Sheila’s voice had taken on a strident tone. “Get out!”
“No need to get upset. I know you’ve been through a lot.”
I had to give the man credit; he stood his ground. Almost of its own volition, my hand crept into my jacket pocket and withdrew my cell phone. “Time to check messages,” I announced to no one in particular and punched the camera icon. In the blink of an eye, I’d captured Kel Watson’s image for posterity. Ain’t cell phones grand?
Without warning, Sheila tossed her drink in his face. “Out!” she shrieked.
The room went still. Everyone collectively held their breath waiting to see what would happen next. Instead of being angry, Kel kept his cool. Taking a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wiped ginger ale from his face. “Sorry for your loss,” he muttered, then turning, left the Cove Café.
“Now that’s what I meant by the ‘good part,’” Polly cackled.
Good part or bad part, I aimed to find out.
Chapter 13
I waited until the following day to return my daughter Jennifer’s call. If that makes me a bad mother, then so be it. Jen simply doesn’t understand me. She thinks I should behave in an “elderly” manner. I tried “elderly” on for size once, and it didn’t fit. Jen, bless her heart, heard the term “active retirement community” and assumed it would be a nice quiet place for her father and me in our ripe old age. Maybe she envisioned us in twin recliners, whiling away the hours tuned to the weather channel. I’d knit; her father would snore.
My daughter failed to note the adjective “active.” Maybe “hyperactive” would more aptly describe life in Serenity Cove Estates. Most residents keep busy morning to night pursuing things they had never had time for in their nine-to-five lives. Sports such as tennis, golf, boating, and fishing keep our joints limber. Activities such as aerobics, both water and land, tai chi, yoga, line dancing, and Zumba, the latest fitness craze, are inked into our schedules. For those who enjoy games, mahjongg, sequence, bridge, hand and foot, euchre, and pinochle keep us mentally agile. Others find fulfillment in volunteer work in the schools, community, or church. All this busy leaves little time for cookie baking and rocking chairs. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Retirement isn’t for sissies.
I felt a niggling of guilt as I punched in her number. I’d carefully taken the time difference between South Carolina and California into consideration, deliberately calling when I knew she’d be getting the girls off to various weekend activities. I’d also picked a time when I knew I couldn’t talk long. Bill would be picking me up soon for our outing to Augusta. I refused to refer to our outing as a date for fear of jinxing our simple excursion to the big city. Bill tended to be skittish in the relationship department.
“Mother,” Jen scolded upon hearing my voice. “Why did it take you so long to return my call? It might’ve been important.”
“If it had been important, dear, you would have tried again to reach me.” When had my daughter’s voice taken on the same edge as Monica’s? I wondered. “I was at a memorial service so your call went to voice mail. Besides, you know how slow I am at checking my voice mail.”
“A memorial service…? I suppose that’s something you have to expect amongst all those elderly people.”
I felt my blood pressure ratchet up several notches at hearing the hated E word. Drawing a calming breath, I called upon my inner chi—the internal energy—and started the conversation anew. “Actually, Dr. Bascomb wasn’t a resident of Serenity Cove Estates, but merely a visitor when he passed.” When had I started using “passed,” the euphemism commonly heard in the South? Why couldn’t I come right out and say he died, kicked the bucket, or vacated the planet? No, here it tended to sound more genteel. Something along the lines of “entered into eternal rest” or “departed this life.”
“Dr. Vaughn Bascomb?”
Jen’s question jerked me back to the present. “Yes. Have you heard of him?”
“Of course! I’m a fan of How Does Your Garden Grow? Dr. Bascomb’s a frequent guest on the show. I hadn’t heard that he died—and in Tranquillity Cave of all places.”
Up, up, and away on the blood pressure scale. “Serenity Cove, dear,” I corrected. “I don’t know why you have such a difficult time remembering the name of the place.”
“Sorry. What happened to Dr. Bascomb?”
I peeked out the kitchen window, but no sign of Bill. “Rumor has it that it was food poisoning, but…”
“Food poisoning!” Jen’s voice ping-ponged from cell tower to cell tower. “Mother, please, promise you’ll be careful. All that fried food…”
“Folks are convinced it was the deviled eggs or the potato salad rather than the catfish or chicken,” I said, cutting her off to forestall a diatribe on the evils of Southern cuisine. I swear the girl sounds more like Monica’s flesh and blood than mine.
“I wish you’d put your house on the market and move to California. Your granddaughters would love to see more of you. That place where you live, Serenity Cove, isn’t safe.”
“It’s perfectly safe,” I said on a sigh. “The only other person to get sick was Dr. Rappaport, and she fully recovered.”
“You know Dr. Rappaport? Isn’t she awesome?” Jen gushed. “I’ve learned so much from her show. For instance, did you know English ivy…”
I stared out the window, half-listening to her ramble on about benzene and toluene fumes. My yard needed a makeover almost as badly as Tammy Lynn Snow. It could use a little pizzazz, some personality. It was…bland. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice and neat with its holly bushes lined up like cadets on a parade ground along the front walk. The requisite azalea bushes planted next to the garage were almost ready to bloom, but my yard still needed something. Trouble is, I wasn’t sure exactly what that something should be. More color? Greater variety? I’m glad I decided to take Rita up on her offer to tag along with Flowers and Bowers on their next excursion.
“Mother? Mother…? Are you still there?”
“Yes, dear, I’m still here,” I answered, glancing at the kitchen clock. Bill should be here any minute, and I wanted to check my makeup once more before our date that wasn’t a date. �
�Jen dear, I’d love to talk longer, but Bill—”
“Him? Again…?”
I mentally counted to ten. I really needed to count to a thousand, but I was short on time. Bill Lewis was a sore subject between my daughter and me. Jen was convinced he was out to usurp her father’s place in my affections. She was also convinced he was about to usurp my pension and Social Security. In spite of my best efforts, nothing I said convinced her otherwise. “Bill has offered to build the bookshelves I’ve been wanting in the library. We’re going to Augusta to order the lumber he’ll need. He’s a friend, Jen,” I added, “and a very nice man.”
“Fine,” Jen said in the snippy tone she’d always used as a teenager. The one that made me grit my teeth—and was often punctuated by a slamming door.
Our conversation wound to a dissatisfactory conclusion. I promised myself I’d call soon and make amends.
Cherry, cherry, cherry.
We looked at oak; we examined maple; we studied pine, but in the end the final decision was easy. It all came down to cherry. After seeing the lovely library in Sheila’s rental, nothing else compared. With visions of bookshelves dancing in my head, Bill and I took a little side trip through the garden center at Lowe’s. Fueled by a desire to beautify the outside as well as the inside of my home, I wanted to view the plethora of plants and shrubs newly arrived for spring planting.
“There are so many to pick from that I get confused,” I confessed as we strolled the aisles, careful not to trip over hoses used to water plants. “Azalea and rhododendron, are they one and the same?”
“Beats me,” Bill said with a shrug. “You’re asking the wrong person. You need to talk to someone from the garden club.”
“I bet Rita could tell me. She’s a master gardener, you know.” I paused to admire a display of perky pink, white, and purple flowers with green centers. “Why do you suppose these are called Lenten roses?”
Perplexed, Bill scratched his head. “Another question for Rita.”
“Just look at these hydrangeas,” I cried, stopping before a display.
“Mmm, hmm,” Bill murmured in that noncommittal way men frequently adopt when they’re not sure of the right answer.
“My mother used to grow these in her garden.” I reached out and touched the splashy lavender flowers the size of mop heads. “This is just the thing my yard needs to give it some oomph.”
A half hour later we left the garden center pushing a cart loaded with perennials. Perennials? Or annuals? I tend to confuse the two. Perennials appear every year, don’t they? Or is it the other way around? You’d think annuals would appear annually. Isn’t that a logical assumption? Thankfully we had taken Bill’s trusty Ford pickup so we had plenty of room for my purchases, which consisted of two hydrangeas, a couple lantana, and several Lenten roses. By now, we’d missed the movie we had planned to catch. It was too late for the matinee and too early for the evening show.
“Still hungry?” Bill asked as he slammed the gate of his pickup shut.
“I’m starving, but what about my hydrangeas? My lantana?” I cast a worried eye at the leafy greens sprouting from the truck bed. “What if someone with a hankering for flowers happens to come along and is tempted to help themselves?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find a parking space up front where we can keep an eye on things. If anyone tries to run off with your hydrangeas, well, they’ll have me to reckon with.”
I couldn’t contain the smile that blossomed bigger than the splashy lavender mop head I’d just bought to jazz up my yard. I loved it when mild-mannered Bill morphed into a superhero. From sweetie to swashbuckler in a flash. Be still my heart.
Ten minutes later we found ourselves seated in a red vinyl booth at Bubba’s Buffet Barn with a clear view of the Ford pickup and its precious cargo. Bill glanced around the nearly empty restaurant. “Guess we didn’t have to worry about a front-row seat. This place is virtually deserted.”
The lone waitress stifled a yawn as she sauntered over with menus. “What can I get y’all to drink?”
“Iced tea—unsweet, with lemon,” I said.
Bill smiled. “Make that two.”
Aren’t we a pair? I thought to myself as the waitress went off with our drink order. We even take our iced tea the same way.
“Where do you suppose all the people are? Even at this time of day, the place is usually jammed.”
“Think it’s the economy? People eating out less to save money?” I mused aloud.
“Nope. It ain’t the economy.” The waitress, returning with tall glasses of iced tea, had apparently overheard my remark. “It’s that damn food poisonin’ scare at some old folks’ home up north a here. Business been off ever since. Don’t pick up soon, Bubba’s threatenin’ to file bankruptcy.”
Bill and I exchanged glances and wordlessly reached for the menus. Neither of us wanted to admit we were escapees from that “old folks home” on the lookout for a good meal.
Chapter 14
When Sheila called and wanted to meet for lunch, I suggested either the Cove Café or the Watering Hole. Instead, she insisted we dine at the Chinese restaurant Su Me, located on Brookdale’s town square.
“Has anyone actually done it, you know, sued them?” Sheila asked as she slid into a booth at the rear.
“Good question, but, no, not that I’m aware of,” I responded.
Sheila glanced around. “It’s a strange name for a restaurant.”
“While I wholeheartedly agree,” I said, “Su Me happens to be the name of the proprietor. The woman doesn’t seem to have a good grasp of the American tradition of litigation.”
Sheila looked much too elegant for this tiny restaurant with its leather booths, red flocked wallpaper, and effigies of gold dragons. She was dressed in coffee-brown slacks with a matching jacket and an ivory silk shell. Her dark glasses in designer frames might have been a bit over-the-top as was a floppy brimmed hat that partially concealed her face. Give her a trenchcoat, and she could audition for the role of Mata Hari. She had obviously gone to great lengths not to be recognized by her adoring public. But I ask you, doesn’t her get-up just scream: I’m incognito, please don’t recognize me? In an itty-bitty Southern town no bigger than a fly-speck, she needn’t have bothered. And not to belabor my point, it was two o’clock in the afternoon, and we were the only customers in the joint. My guess was that Su Me’s business had suffered from the same food poisoning blight that had befallen Bubba’s Buffet Barn.
Su Me, a plumpish Asian woman of short stature and indeterminate age, approached our table with plastic water glasses in each hand and menus tucked under one arm. “You ready, order?”
“I’m not hungry,” Sheila said. “Just tea.”
“Only tea?” Su Me looked indignant. “Su Me make good egg foo yong. Make good chicken fried rice.”
Sheila shook her head. “No, thank you, just tea.”
Su Me’s dark eyes held an angry gleam as she turned them on me. “You, lady, you no like Su Me’s food?”
I quickly scanned the menu. Call me a glutton if you will, but I wanted something more substantial for lunch than a pot of tea. “I’ll have General Tso’s chicken.”
The woman’s round face crinkled into a smile of approval. “Very good, lady. What kind soup you want? Wonton? Egg drop?”
“Wonton,” I replied promptly. “And I’d also like an egg roll.”
Sheila glanced around nervously as Su Me shuffled off with my order, then reassured she wasn’t about to be besieged by autograph hounds, took off her sunglasses. “This is nice, isn’t it? Just the two of us. Gives us a chance become better acquainted.”
Suddenly I was back in middle school, and the most popular girl in the class had singled me out to be her best friend. I was the chosen one. Special. The envy of all the other prepubescent schoolgirls. I felt flattered, yet uneasy. What if I failed to live up to Popular Girl’s expectations? My quandary was postponed by Su Me returning with a pot of tea and two tiny porcelain cups.
Sheila poured tea and handed me a cup. If she noted my sudden attack of nerves, she ignored it. Or maybe she had grown accustomed to people being uncomfortable in her august presence. “You probably know after talking to Rita that we were college roommates. I tried, I really tried, to become friends, but Rita never returned the effort.”
“Um…I didn’t know.” I took a gulp of tea and burned my tongue.
Sighing, Sheila tucked a wing of frosted-blond hair behind one ear. “I’m afraid Rita and I were never close. What’s the term used nowadays…bonding? We never bonded.”
I murmured sympathetically. At least I hoped the sound came out as sympathy not indigestion.
Sheila’s eyes were downcast as she toyed with the edge of a paper place mat illustrated with Chinese New Year symbols. “I don’t understand why, but I don’t have many women friends.”
This marked the second time I’d heard her sing this refrain. I get it, I wanted to say. No need to beat me over the head with it. Then I thought of the Babes and how much they meant to me, and instantly felt remorse for my lack of sensitivity. I was tempted to reach out and touch her, but remembered Sheila wasn’t into touchy-feely.
“I’m sure Rita’s very fond of you,” I said instead. “Not many people maintain a relationship as long as the two of you.”
“That’s sweet of you, Kate, but the truth is Rita’s always been…jealous. In college, she envied my boyfriends, my grades, my scholarship. Later, she envied my success. First as a botanist, then as a host of my own TV show.”
What’s not to envy? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. Sheila had it all—beauty, brains, success. Half the women in America would give their eyeteeth to trade places with her, I felt like telling her. Wisely I kept silent.
“When I called to learn more about Serenity Cove Estates, Rita did everything she could to discourage me from coming.” Sheila shook her head sadly. “It was almost as though she didn’t want me here.”