Don't Wait Too Long Page 2

  Inside my classroom, I’m more at home than in my house.

  The bell rings, finally, and the miniature stampede ensues. Laughter and small voices echo along the halls as the students approach. My kids burst into the room one by one. By this time in the school year, they know the drill. By rote, they hang their backpacks and jackets, and along the flitting path of a hyperactive butterfly, make their way to their seats.

  “Good morning,” I call to them, and can’t help that I’m beaming. Watching them blossom from September through June, I couldn’t be prouder than if they were my own. My sweet kiddos fill my days.

  “Did everyone decide on a fairy tale character? Our parade is coming up fast.” One of my favorite activities of the entire school year. I love seeing what they come up with.

  Kirabella says, “I’m going to be a princess.”

  Oo, I can’t pass up any opportunity to pique their imaginations. “Which one?”

  She purses her lips. “Whichever one I want.”

  Carson looks down his nose at her. “You’re supposed to pick one from a story.”

  “You’re right, Carson. That’s the whole point of the parade, right?”

  Suddenly shy, he lowers his gaze as he nods. Getting him to come out of his shell has been a challenge, but he’s made wonderful progress.

  “Which character did you choose, Carson?”

  “Peter Pan,” he murmurs.

  “I love that story! Wouldn’t it be fun if we could really visit Neverland?”

  He looks up at me with a grin that melts my heart. “Are you dressing up, too, Mrs. Sims?”

  “Of course! I do every year.”

  His dimples deepen. “As the wicked witch?”

  His cherub face contradicts the words, and I’m taken aback. “What? Why would you think that?”

  He shrugs. “Because you’re old.”

  He says it so matter-of-fact, I’m surprised I’m not crumbling to dust where I stand. My head is filled with air, and little else. My heart seems to have vacated my chest cavity. Better than having it break in two, I suppose.

  “Well, no. No….” I reach for my notepad to salvage the moment. “Let’s practice our writing. Please get out your workbooks.”

  There’s no salvaging my ego. My bathroom mirror’s apparently my magic Mirror, Mirror on the Wall. I’ve been fooling myself. Cradling the notepad to my chest, I walk to my chair and perch atop it, suddenly afraid of falling.

  My messenger bag’s open at my feet. The yellow flyer tilts at an angle from between other papers, and taunts me: Sunny Valley’s waiting for you.

  Sunny Valley. I made a promise to Trish. There was no avoiding that grim fairy tale, but I bet I’d find no happy ending there.

  Chapter Two

  I think I jinxed myself. Never equate a retirement home with a fairy tale, or magic, or anything that might exert some power over you.

  Because standing in the open doorway of the General Activities Room at Sunny Valley, I can’t bring myself to cross the threshold. Like there’s an invisible barrier, or some force holding me back. Adding to the surreal atmosphere, sparkly bits flutter around me every time the air circulator kicks on. Maybe if I click my heels three times, I’ll find myself at home again.

  Except despite my misgivings, a slight tingle of anticipation hit me earlier, when I was getting ready. I swept my thick, wavy hair up in a ponytail, mostly to keep it out of my face, and wore a silky blouse dotted with red flowers paired with my favorite jeans. If I’m the old witch Carson thinks I am, I’m disguised as a healthy middle-aged woman. One who’d hoped to have at least a little bit of fun tonight.

  Where’s the bustling crowd Trish promised? Inside, a sparse group has gathered, a tired-looking bunch of less than twenty people. More women than men, I note with irony. I mentally tick a point in my favor, and file the tidbit in my head to share with Trish later. Prepare to lose, old friend.

  The piped-in music is better suited to elevator rides. No one in this crowd appears ready to kick up their heels anyway. Now that I have no reluctant partner to worry about, I’m ready to dance.

  Trish is right about one thing. Sunny Valley’s activities draw plenty of people to the facility. Outside the wide windows, the scene looks like something a modern-day Grandma Moses might paint. Golf carts dot the course along the winding lane to the main building, beyond which the pool and tennis courts appear manicured like the rest of the lush grounds. Vehicles crowd the parking spaces near the one-story cottages, modern and beautifully landscaped.

  But if Sunny Valley boasts a near-full occupancy, the tenants are too busy with other events to attend the singles meetings. Or they’re not single.

  A loud whir approaches from behind me. I step aside, though I don’t need to—the entryway’s large enough to accommodate three wheelchairs at a time. A man in an electric chair zooms past, his white hair flapping as he gives me the eye.

  Another shower of glitter rains around me. I brush stray sparkles from my shoulder and venture the few steps inside. Above the doorway, a handmade banner proclaims, Sunny Valley Senior Singles! With each wave of the flimsy cardboard from the forced air circulator, the gaudy letters deteriorate further. Soon they’ll be as decrepit as the room’s occupants.

  An uncharitable description, but I can’t help it. Tonight, I’m taking a stand against more than just Trish. Too often, people speak to me as if my life has ended, all the best parts in the past. I refuse to believe it. I refuse to allow anyone to group me with the elderly. I’m not one of them, and won’t be for a long time.

  Single describes me, yes, but senior? I turned fifty just two months ago, and most people mistake me for forty. Well, forty-ish.

  As I take in the bespectacled, white-haired attendees, despair edges in on my half-decent mood. God, this can’t be all my future holds in store. Not after waiting for so long for my freedom.

  My heart sinks, drowning in the vision of some future self in a wheelchair, gazing longingly out at the Sunny Valley residents outside on the manicured lawn, zipping around in golf carts, laughing and waving.

  No. No! I won’t give in to such a fate. I will not go gentle into that boring night.

  And this night promises to be a long one. The oversized wall clock shows it’s only five thirty. My saving grace is that I never agreed to stay till closing time.

  Buck up, lady. You’re here. Deal with it. I keep my promises. A few minutes will be enough to fulfill the deal with Trish. Then I’ll break out of this old folks’ prison.

  Throwing back my shoulders, I stroll to the refreshment table. The white-haired gent steers the wheelchair close and reaches a shaking hand toward the stack of cups.

  “Here, let me help.” Flashing him a smile, I lift a plastic cup from the stack. “Do you like the fruit punch or ginger ale?”

  “Fruit punch.” Breathing heavily, he ogles me more fully this time. “I could have done it myself, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” I pour and hand him the cup.

  He accepts the drink, and one narrowed eye blinks fast. “Ah, so you wanted an excuse to talk to me, eh?”

  How cute. “I confess.” I raise my glass in cheers.

  A knowing nod. “I get that a lot at these events.”

  The resident Don Juan, apparently. “Oh, so you come here often?” Heat creeps over my cheeks. I hope he won’t mistake it for the cliché pickup line.

  A rattling laugh becomes a cough. “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

  I use a conspiratorial tone to ask, “Pretty obvious, huh?” Thank goodness.

  His scrutiny turns shrewd. “Divorced or widowed?” he rasps.

  I try not to appear startled. “Widowed, why?”

  “It tells a lot about a person.” With unsteady hands, he lifts the drink to his mouth and slurps. “I’m divorced.”

  A laugh threatens to burst out, so I cover my mouth and pretend to cough. He has to be at least seventy. “How long were you married?”

  He smacks his gri
nning lips. “Three years.”

  He married in his late sixties? “What happened? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “She caught me cheating with a nurse.” He cackles and his false teeth slip.

  I swallow back a mouthful of ginger ale, but the effort causes me to choke.

  “Are you all right?” He pats my back, too low to be helpful.

  “Yes.” Hoarse, I clear my throat.

  His pats move even lower. I yelp in alarm, and shift away from his reach. Lecherous old man. “I’m fine.”

  Another scan and he smiles. “You certainly are. Tell you what. I don’t normally move this fast, but I’d love to take you to dinner.”

  “Dinner? Here?” I can just imagine the sunset stroll afterward. Me pushing his wheelchair, him probably falling asleep.

  He winces as if I’m just the silliest thing. “No, out on the town.”

  For a split second, I wonder whether it might count for the bet with Trish. “I…”

  “We’ll go to the country club. I keep my membership active so I can use it for special occasions.” He winks.

  “Well…” The red exit sign beckons from below the hand-lettered one, its glitter now mostly gone.

  He waves a shaky hand. “Tomorrow night. I’ll send a car for you. What’s your address?”

  “Mister…” How embarrassing. I haven’t even learned his name. I’ll at least make the rejection personal. “Sorry, what do I call you?”

  His gaze turns shrewd. “Ernest Hemingway.”

  “Really?” The writer might almost have been his contemporary so the coincidence seems unlikely.

  He squawks and his drink sloshes over the cup rim. “No, not really. Ernest Baker.” He leans on the wheelchair arm. “But I’m a big fan of Hemingway’s.”

  “He’s a classic.” Though not one I prefer.

  He rolls a finger in the air. “Get out your pen and paper. You women keep everything in those purses.”

  I square my shoulders and pointedly widen my eyes. “Pardon?”

  He turns his head dismissively. “Write down your address. My driver will fetch you at five o’clock sharp.”

  “Mr. Baker.” An insistence rises up within me. A growing buzz blocks out my thoughts except one: leaving. Everyone seems to be pushing me toward marrying the first man who asks, though it’s the last thing I want. Does anyone care what I want?

  I care, dammit. I will not let anyone else control my life. Not ever again.

  My temple throbs with a dull ache. I rub my eyes and for a moment, my vision blurs. The surroundings seem to stretch away from me in an arc. Within the center of the doorway, a figure appears and hesitates there.

  Squinting, I strain to clear my vision and get a better look at the newcomer. Somehow, I lock gazes with the man. He crosses the dance floor as if aiming for me. Every detail about him pops out at me. His dark hair. Black-framed glasses. Six feet of lean muscle. Deep brown eyes that hold mine with a conspiratorial sparkle, as if he knows all my secrets and desires.

  I nearly snort. Now that’s a fairy tale. Yet I can’t look away. It’s like a bad commercial for cologne, the handsome man approaching the beautiful woman in slow-mo. Except I’m middle-aged, not some barely-twenty model. And to think he could be interested in me is ridiculous.

  Beside me, Ernest still talks, louder with each word. Like a bad dream that will not go away. “Miss. I asked your name.”

  The handsome man has come within a few feet, and slows. This is the point in the commercial where he sweeps the girl onto his horse, or motorcycle, or into his Maserati, and they ride off into the sunset.

  Then I see myself as from a distance: standing awkwardly near the refreshment table. Of course, he only wants a drink.

  “I’m Claire Sims,” I answer Ernest with resigned disappointment.

  “Claire.” The tall stranger’s sonorous baritone startles me as much as his use of my name.

  I turn, and my alarm grows. He’s smiling. At me. “How did you—”

  “Get here?” He glances at Ernest. “The repair shop finished my truck in time. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “You have?” Had I accidentally clicked my heels three times and been transported over the singles rainbow? Or fallen asleep and into a wonderful dream? No, because then he’d have said he’s been looking for me all his life. And he wouldn’t be wearing the silver band on his wedding finger.

  A sigh deflates me. Like I tell Trish, all the good ones are already taken.

  “Yes, sorry I’m late.” He extends a hand to the older man. “How are you doing, Ernest. Remember me? Kip Baldwin.”

  “I’m not senile,” Ernest says gruffly. “I met you last time. And I was doing fine until you showed up.”

  In the nick of time. Did Kip notice my distress and step in to save me from myself? “Mr. Baker was keeping me company.”

  Kip nods at the older gent. “I appreciate it. I’m always afraid someone else will try to pick up my girl if I leave her alone too long.”

  His girl? Wait, this has to be a joke. “Did Trish send you?”

  “Trish? No.” He sends me a faltering smile. “Have you been here long?”

  Still grumbling, Ernest backs up his wheelchair and steers away from the table. “Could have told me before so I didn’t waste my night.”

  Now I feel terrible, so call after him, “It was lovely to meet you, Ernest.”

  The wheelchair veers to one side when he waves. “Save it, doll face.” He slams his hand down and drives on.

  “Oh dear.” I make an apologetic face at Kip.

  My heart turns a somersault when he eases close.

  But he’s only reaching for a cup. He fills it with ginger ale. “Ernest hits on all the pretty newcomers.”

  Of course. Kip must work here. Surely he isn’t among those who moved to a retirement community for the activities. Definitely too young to willingly attend any senior gathering. “Ernie’s pretty smooth. I almost gave in and said yes.”

  Kip interrupts his sip to say, “You need more practice saying no to people.”

  “Sad but true.” Even sadder that he can read me so easily, so soon. When had I become so transparent?

  Though he doesn’t smile outright, his eyes crinkle in a pleasant expression. “This is your first time at Sunny Valley.”

  Of course, he already knows the answer. He carries no paper roster, but probably takes a mental tally at each event. “Yes. I was coerced into coming by a well-meaning friend.” I suppress a wince. Can I make myself sound like any bigger of a loser?

  “I know some people like that.” He sets his cup on the table. “There’s a trick to dealing with them.”

  “Please, share it.” If only so he’ll talk to me a little longer. No harm in just speaking to him, is there?

  “The best tricks,” Kip says, “are also the simplest. Like I said, all you have to do is practice saying no.”

  “Really? Something so easy works?”

  “Like a charm. Here, I’ll show you.”

  What a delight to fall into such an easy conversation with a man. But then, his job must put him in contact with a myriad of people, so he probably talks to everyone, to put them at ease. Brownie points for Sunny Valley—he’s definitely a draw for the place.

  “How?” I ask. It’s been decades since I flirted with anyone, so need to ease back into it.

  He leans against the table, the image of casualness. And sexiness. I can’t help but wonder how he keeps in shape. Running? Beneath his blue sweater, his muscles appear lean, not bulky. I’ve been considering taking up running for some time. I might have to move it to the top of the To Do list.

  “We’ll practice right now,” he says. “Pretend we haven’t met.”

  I shrug. Not exactly a huge leap. “All right.”

  “I walk up, give you a big smile”—he demonstrates with a grin that makes him look even younger than before—“and say hello.”

  I guess I’m supposed to play along. “Hi.”
<
br />   He runs his gaze from my shoes to my hair, then back to my eyes, a quick scan that makes me conscious of everything about myself, from the flats I wear to the sparse makeup I applied. I never expected to meet anyone, not really.

  He leans closer. “You’re very pretty. I’d like to get to know you better.”

  A heated shiver runs up my spine, blooming into heat on my face. Too bad we’re only playing a game. “How nice of you to say.”

  He edges closer yet, his arm brushing mine. “Let’s go to my place.”

  Soft-spoken yet sultry. The undercurrent of desire catches me off guard.

  I gulp. Okay.

  “It’s your cue. Where you say…” He rolls his hand in the air to prompt me.

  Even if I don’t want to turn him down? But he’s married. That makes the refusal very easy. “No.” Disappointment’s a wet blanket over my voice.

  He mock-grimaces. “Mm. Not very convincing.”

  “You’re right.” Because my heart isn’t in it. At the moment, my heart becomes fragile, the thinnest glass ready to shatter.

  “How about this. I meander over, pretend to get a drink and say what a fun party this is.”

  With no enthusiasm, I chuckle. “Um, no. It isn’t.” Way too much of a stretch.

  He gives an encouraging nod. “Good. Now I say something about how you’re too young to be at an old folks’ gathering. Let’s go grab a bite to eat.”

  Since he only means to help me practice, the only response possible is, sadly, “No.”

  “I bet you’re a fantastic dancer. Want to go dancing?”

  God, it’s been years since I’ve gone dancing. I’d love to hold him close in the dark, let the music carry us away. Unfortunately, this is only a game. And he is still married. Another reluctant, “No.”

  “A movie, then. The Midtown Cinema’s playing an oldie but goodie.”

  Oo, tempting. I love the old-fashioned theater feel of The Midtown, its wide, plush seats nothing like modern movie complexes.