He pressed the doorbell, initiating a faint chime, followed by the rattling of a chain. A moment later, Matilda stood before him dressed in a pink housecoat, her gray-streaked hair set in rollers.
“Chris, what a surprise. Is everything all right?” She moved aside, touching her curlers.
He peeled off his jacket and gloves and deposited them on a nearby couch.
Matilda shuffled into the kitchen, separated from the tiny living room by a long laminate counter. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” She pulled two mugs from the cupboard.
“Yes, thank you.” He sat in a floral recliner.
She placed a steaming cup in front of him then moved to the couch, watching him, her face void of emotion. “You’ve come to discuss Mom’s care, correct?”
“Yeah.” He lifted his mug, breathed deep of its rich steam, then set it down. “I went to see her last night. Found her wandering the streets in her nightgown, confused and near frozen.” Matilda gasped. She pressed her hands on her thighs and stared at them. “Did you talk to the director?”
He shook his head, his jaw tightening as the callous looks on the staff’s faces came rushing back. “She’d already left for the night. I spoke with the night nurses, but they acted like Mom’s little evening jaunt was an unavoidable annoyance.”
Matilda’s lips pressed together, the lines around her mouth deepening. Her eyes grew moist. “I’m sure to some extent that is true. You and I both know how hard it is to manage patients with Alzheimer’s, which is why we decided to place her in a care facility in the first place, remember?”
“So it’s OK for Mom to wander the streets, then?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Chris, what would you have them do, restrain her?”
He rubbed his face. “Of course not, but there has to be some way to keep her safe, without locking her up.”
“That’s what the security alarms are for. You remember what they told us during the tour? She must have followed a visitor out or something. Did you ask the staff what happened?”
“They didn’t realize she’d left, remember?”
Matilda shook her head slowly. “I’m not sure we’ll find better.”
He pulled the brochure for Lily of the Valley from his back pocket and slapped it on the table. “I already have. I know it’s pricey, but they have a much lower patient-to-staff ratio. Plus, the personnel seems much kinder than those shift-cyclers where she’s at. You should have seen the look on Heather’s face when I brought Mom in. Not a hint of concern, no, ‘Are you OK, Mrs. Langley?’ She acted annoyed! Like Mom had inconvenienced her.”
“No one is going to care for Mom quite the way we’d like. Alzheimer’s is a very trying disease. You know that. You can’t expect the staff at Shady Lane to demonstrate patience all the time. They’re human, and they’re going to get frustrated.”
“Listen to yourself.” Chris spoke louder than he’d intended, and Matilda flinched. He lowered his voice. “What if I hadn’t showed up? It was thirty-eight degrees out, with a wind chill factor of twenty-five.”
“And you think taking her to this . . . this . . . home—” she lifted the brochure then let it drop, “is going to fix all that?”
“Any place has to be better than where she’s at.”
“We went over all this last fall, after Dad died. Shady lane was the best we could find.”
“But that’s only because we didn’t know about Lily of the Valley. Just look at the brochure. It’s like a home. The owners live on the property, and I met with the staff. To them, this is more than a job. It’s a calling.”
“So they say.”
“I believe them. Come with me and see for yourself. The home is peaceful, and the residents are neatly dressed, clean-shaven, with their hair brushed; no dried food clumps on their faces.”
Her shoulders sagged and her eyes moistened. “We can’t afford it. You know that.”
“I’ll cover the charges.”
She snorted. “With what, the money you bring in from your café? Because correct me if I’m wrong, but I saw quite a few empty tables.”
“It’s in transition, that’s all.”
“And if your business goes under, what then? We can’t move Mom from place to place. That would only frighten her more.” She stood. “Is there anything else? Because if not, I have to be at work in forty-five minutes.”
Chris rose and grabbed his jacket and gloves. “No, there’s nothing else.” He stomped to the door. “Have a good day.”
Chapter 31
ichard leaned against the kitchen doorframe, phone to his ear. He gazed through the sliding glass door overlooking his patio to the Plaza skyline beyond. “No, Eric, that is not the wisest decision. I have no doubt Ainsley and I will have worked everything out long before then.” He couldn’t believe they hadn’t already. In fact, he was beginning to worry about it. She appeared to be following in the footsteps of her irresponsible, relationship-burning mother.
“And if not?”
“I’ll simply tell them she caught a cold, or perhaps encountered a family emergency.” He looked at the clock. She would be out of church soon and likely in an amiable state of mind. Unless that close-minded pastor of hers further swayed her thinking. Originally, he found her religious fervor endearing. But now, clearly it had become a problem. Of course, helping her to see that was another matter. But once they married . . .
If they married. Every muscle in his body tensed as he reviewed their previous conversation and the obvious contempt—anger even—in her eyes.
“Richard, are you listening?”
“What?”
“I said, that will go over real well. Remember, you invited the press. ‘Richard Hollis throws an engagement dinner, without the bride.’ Is that really the headline you want?”
He stalked out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom. “I don’t know what you expect me to do.” He sifted through his neatly arranged closet and pulled out a light-blue shirt with a buttoned-down collar. Too formal. He returned it to the rack. “Certainly the alternative isn’t any better, especially since she’s bound to change her mind before the wedding date. You of all people know how indecisive women can be.” Not that Eric’s long list of failed marriages helped Richard’s case any, but at least it illustrated the need for patience and confidentiality.
Eric chuckled. “Women. Does she play these games often? Because if so, I suggest you find another bride.”
“Are you intentionally irritating me? You should know, you’re already treading a very thin rope.” After selecting a cream sweater and tan corduroy pants muted enough to soften what others coined his “pit bull” eyes, he closed the closet door and exited the room.
He paused in the kitchen to pour a glass of orange juice, grabbed the newspaper lying on the table, and meandered into the living room. “Your track record isn’t adding to my confidence here, Eric.” With a flick of the switch, he turned on his gas fireplace and settled into a leather recliner.
“Listen, the KCGW thing wasn’t my fault.”
“Really? Then whose, pray tell, was it? Perhaps if you’d taken the time to listen to a few broadcasts before booking my appearance, you would have realized the circus that station encourages.”
“Again, I’m sorry, but could we please return to the issue at hand. I strongly suggest you cancel the engagement dinner.”
“Many of Kansas City’s most respected mental health professionals have already RSVP’d. Do you realize how irresponsible I would appear?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Anything would be better than showing up alone.”
“Clearly you are not listening, Eric. I told you, everything will be back to normal by then. Now, why don’t we spend the rest of our conversation discussing positive action, instead of worrying over potential crises? You spoke with my editor about the second book I proposed?”
“Unfortunately, their contingency remains. They want to see how well this book does before con
tracting another.”
“The problem with signing with a small press, I am sure.”
“The larger presses felt—”
“I’m not interested in rehashing that conversation again. Is there anything else?”
They discussed other interview options, none of them promising, and concluded the conversation with an agreement to speak again, once Richard secured a few more academic endorsements.
With a growl, he tossed his phone onto the coffee table. Everything hinged on his finding a way into his colleagues’ inner circle. They claimed they provided endorsements based on merit, but an evening of drinks and well-worded conversations could be quite influential. Success rested on the strength of your connections. Forming the right ones required a delicate balance of knowledge and likeability. He needed Ainsley, with her soft curls and large, green eyes, to balance him out. As much as her timid, wildflower heart needed his determined strength. They complemented one another perfectly.
Somehow he needed to help her see that.
Ainsley collapsed on the couch, her lungs screaming for air while Gina fell into an adjacent recliner. Her cheeks blazed red and her chest heaved.
“What a waste of sweat.” Gina took a large gulp from her water bottle.
“You have a reservoir to maintain, do you?”
“Very funny.” She grimaced and stretched her legs. “Next time, maybe we should—”
“Oh no.” Ainsley shook her head. “My quads can’t handle a next time.” Extending a leg, she reached for her toes. “You’re my best friend and all, but even our friendship doesn’t run that deep, pun intended.” She laughed. “You remember what I told you in high school when you asked me to join the track team?”
“Not buying the running allergy, Ainsley.”
She stood and moved to the mirror hanging on the wall. “Yeah, then what are all these red blotches on my face? Looks like hives to me.” She turned around and planted her hands on her hips. “I’m thinking I deserve a piece of cake or something, after that self-induced torture you finagled me into. You did bring treats, right?”
“But of course. I’ll be back in a few.” Gina dashed out to her car, returning with a package of chocolate chip cookies—the chewy kind.
Ainsley followed her into the kitchen and pulled two saucers from the cupboard. “So, what’s up with you and Chris? Any phone calls? Email messages? Romantic candlelit dates?”
“Nah.”
Ainsley’s pulse quickened, a smile tugging at her mouth. “So you’ve given up completely, huh?”
“Pretty much. He’s nice and all. But I get the feeling he’s not really interested in romance.”
“Now that would be a first. A man not obsessed with women.”
“I know. Weird, huh? Because there’s certainly nothing wrong with me.” She grinned, framing her face with her hands. “Not that I’m all cut up about it.”
Ainsley raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a date?”
Gina nodded.
“With who?”
“A very handsome and intelligent librarian with lumberjack shoulders.” She shoved the remainder of a cookie in her mouth and grabbed her hand towel and water bottle. “Anyway, thanks for the run, but I gotta hose off this dried sweat before my nostrils rebel. I’ll call you later?”
“OK.” Ainsley walked her to the door then returned to the couch, her muscles uncoiling into strands of limp rubber.
Crazy Ginger. That girl had more vigor than the Energizer Bunny on espresso.
But at least one of them had a social life.
The coffee-stained magazine she’d purchased at the convenience store a while back sat on a nearby end table, opened to the article highlighting the log cabin. She picked it up and studied the tall maples and flowering dogwoods encasing the quaint little cottage. A stone pathway surrounded by blossoming rose bushes led to a white gazebo nestled beneath a flowering vine. Her heart pricked, not in mourning for Richard, but for the fairy-tale happily-ever-after ripped from her dreams.
The doorbell rang. Her legs burned, wobbling like over-stretched taffy, as she rose and trudged across the room. Parting the blinds, she peeked out the window. Her mother stood on her doormat in an orange jacket and matching shoes, a heavily sequined purse draped over her shoulder. A glittery scarf surrounded her neck, accentuating her salon-tanned skin.
Ainsley opened the door and forced a smile. “Mother, how good to see you.”
Her mom rushed into the room like a midwestern blizzard. She carried a paper grocery sack. After peeling off her jacket and gloves, she waltzed down the hall and into the kitchen.
Ainsley followed. “What’s all this?”
“Did you forget about our ornament making?”
“That was supposed to be last week, Mom.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry!” She rubbed her forehead. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Great!” Grinning, she fished through the bag and began unloading items onto the counter. Flour, a tub of salt, a box of plastic cookie cutters, thread, and straws. Diving into her bag once again, she pulled out a container of cocoa mix and a board game. “Thought we could make a night of it, just us girls. Do you have a boom box?”
“What?”
“A boom box, to play Christmas music.” She held an old—like ancient—cassette in the air.
Ainsley shook her head sarcastically. “I’ve got Pandora.”
Her mother scrunched her nose then flicked a hand. “Never mind. We’ll sing.”
Ten minutes later, flour covered their clothing, clung to their hair, and dusted their faces, the initial tension abated by the occasional giggle.
Her mother grabbed a mound of dough and plopped it onto the island. Flour poofed in her face. “So, how are you feeling, with the breakup and all?”
Ainsley chewed her bottom lip. How often had she longed to have a deeper relationship with her mother—the type that allowed them to share their hearts? But was her mother really asking or merely “Conversing”? Her mother was great at talking without really talking.
She came over and wrapped her arm around Ainsley’s waist. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s OK.”
She studied her mother. She seemed genuinely concerned. And she was here, salt dough ingredients and all. “It’s been weird not to have him around, but I know I did the right thing. He wasn’t the guy for me.”
“Not your soul mate. Right. I get it.”
“Really? I didn’t think you believed in that stuff.”
“Oh, honey, the universe knows!”
“How can the universe . . .? You know what, never mind. So, how are things with you and Stephen?”
“Oh, great! We’re starting a catering business together. Hope to launch it by the end of the year, as soon as we get financing.”
Ainsley’s jaw dropped. “A what? Do you cook? And no, boxed macaroni doesn’t count.”
“I’m learning. Everything’s on the Internet, you know.”
Love, joy, peace. Now wasn’t the time to draw battle lines. “Gina and I went running today.”
“Oh, good for you. I need to join the gym. Maybe yoga.”
After a few more random tidbits of information, the tension dissipated again and their giggling resumed. Perhaps Ainsley and her mother could maintain a relationship after all, so long as they remained within non-teeth-grating parameters.
She gave her mother a sideways hug. “This was a great idea, Mom.”
Using her forearm, her mother pushed her hair out of her face, leaving a streak of flower across her forehead. “I agree. Just like old times, huh?”
“Almost.” Ainsley smiled. Maybe she’d been too hard on her mom. “You know, next Friday there’s a—”
Her mother’s cell phone chimed and she raised her hand.
“Hello? Oh, Stephen. . . . Right now?” She looked at Ainsley with a frown.
Ainsley sighed and focused her attention on a mound of salt dough, pounding it w
ith more force than necessary. Their little get-together had lasted all of, what? Twenty minutes? Thanks, Mom.
“What a lovely idea. Give me a bit to clean up. OK. See you then.” She snapped her phone shut then surveyed the mess of dough and partially made ornaments. “Looks like we made a pretty good dent here. Let’s get your kitchen back in order and set another date to finish, maybe next week?”
“Sure.” Like she’d save salt dough. “Have fun.”
Her mother smiled and kissed Ainsley’s cheek. “Oh, I will, dear. I’ll call you.”
Yeah, like five hundred times, yet you can’t stay for half an hour.
Chris opened his ice-covered mailbox and pulled out a stack of envelopes. He sifted through the abundance of junk mail, tucked the bills and green, red, and gold envelopes under his arm, and headed up his walk. A small UPS package lay on his stoop, addressed to Ainsley Meadows. After tucking his mail between his door and the glass pane, he grabbed the box and headed to his neighbor’s.
His sneakers crunched on ice crystals. A thick blanket of clouds covered the sky, threatening snow or sleet. He surveyed the rest of the driveways surrounding the small, tree-lined cul-de-sac. How many of his neighbors would need a steady dose of help come blizzard season? Many who used to help his parents out.
Reaching Ainsley’s porch, he climbed her stairs and rang her bell, then stood, shivering in the brisk morning wind.
When the door opened, a woman with burgundy hair and bright-red lipstick stood before him. A thick layer of makeup settled in the deep creases around her eyes, nose, and mouth.
“Hello. Can I help you?” She looked Chris up and down, her smile widening.
He nodded and raised the package. “Hi. I live next door. UPS left this package on my doorstep.”
Ainsley appeared, her green eyes sparkling beneath delicately arched eyebrows. The pink sweater she wore accentuated the olive glow of her skin.
The older woman held the door wider and moved aside. “Come in, come in. I’ve been wanting to meet Ainsley’s new neighbor. Where I’m from, we take great pride in our open door hospitality. I’m Mrs. Meadows.” She held out her hand, stressing the word Mrs. Glancing at his box, she dropped her arm.
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