Chapter 12
Another fantastic night’s sleep.
I wake up refreshed, and now I’m sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee and contemplating this whole retirement
community debacle when my phone buzzes and I see I’ve got a new alert from Connie with the subject line: Orientation Meeting.
“Oh, shoot. I guess I’m late for a meeting?” I glance up. “On a Saturday?”
“Let me guess... Connie?” Daisy is standing at the counter eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes. To her credit, she only asked
me a few questions when I returned from the theatre tour with Booker. I answered none of them, which she decided meant that
I’m now carrying a torch for him.
“She hasn’t quite got a handle on how to schedule meetings so everyone knows they’re happening. Just shoot her a text and
tell her you’re on the way. I’ll drive you over until they assign you your own golf cart.”
“I’ve never driven a golf cart.”
She laughs. “You can drive a car, right?”
“Well, yeah,” I say, though until I came home, I hadn’t in years. In New York you don’t need one.
I send the text to Connie and pour the rest of the coffee down the drain.
Despite the fact that I’m internally freaking out about the best job I’ve gotten in ages being in a retirement community, the whole place is so nice. Nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived outside of my parents’ house. The job isn’t at all what I thought I’d agreed to,
but it definitely has its perks.
Even though the pros to this job are starting to pile up, the one con is a very big one. I have a flash of a future casting
director looking over my résumé and pausing on Cinderella .
Still, none of this changes the fact that of all those résumés and auditions I submitted, this is the only offer I got.
“Okay, you ready?” Daisy grabs her bag from the hooks by the front door, interrupting my thought spiral. “I’ll drop you off
at the clubhouse. I’m sure Connie will let you follow her back. It can be a little confusing at first—it’s a pretty big place—but
once you drive it a few times, it’ll get easy.” She holds up two fingers and says, “Promise.”
Her accent makes everything she says sound slightly more delightful, and I contemplate asking if I can mimic her just for
practice.
I don’t, of course, because I’ve already got my North Carolina accent down. If she were Scottish, well, that would be another
story.
As we walk outside, Daisy closes the door behind her, and my phone dings with a text message. I glance down and see a photo
of my parents in a boat with a glacier behind them. Mom’s text reads:
We are having so much fun! And we want to get tickets to come see your show in Door County. It’ll be like two vacations in
one summer! Can’t wait! Send me the info! Make sure to send your friends the details too! You’re safe and sound, right? You
never let me know if you made it.
That’s Mom. Well-wishes with a side of guilt.
I text back a quick: I’m good! Will update soon. Then, after a pause, I add: And I’m taking your exclamation point privileges away! and tuck my phone away.
We slide into Daisy’s golf cart, and she backs away from the house, driving twice as fast as Booker did around the sidewalk
circle. I brace myself by jamming my foot against the floor and grabbing the overhead handle.
I reach down to buckle a seat belt, but there isn’t one. If we have to go around a curve, I’m going to fly out of here.
Daisy waves to every single person we see, yelling at them by name or shouting a general, “Hey, y’all!” Like Booker, she narrates
the drive, only Daisy doesn’t slow down to let me get a good look, and everything whizzes by in a blur.
We drive through the neighborhood adjacent to the staff’s pocket neighborhood, and as we round the corner to the main part
of the campus, I notice a girl sitting on a bench in a small grassy area off to one side. She glances up and makes eye contact
with me, holding it until we pass. Her expression is blank.
“Who’s that?” I ask, doing my best to convey who I’m talking about without letting go to point.
Daisy waves, but the girl doesn’t wave back. Daisy seems unfazed.
“That’s Dylan,” she says. “She moved in with her grandma a few months ago. She’s quiet and I think a little miserable. I’ve
tried to talk to her, but she hates it here. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”
Ooh. A story. I want to find out what it is.
Which makes no sense because at this meeting I’m about to have, I may have to tell Connie that I can’t stay. I may not have
any option but to move home and regroup.
I’m not qualified to do this job.
And that thought is twisting me up inside.
Daisy brings her cart to a screeching halt in front of the clubhouse. Still holding on for dear life, I look down to see that
she actually left skid marks on the road.
“I didn’t know golf carts could go that fast,” I say.
“Oh, sorry.” She half smiles, half winces in my direction. “Everyone’s so slow around here, and I never have anyone in my
cart, so sometimes I just forget!” She bounces out of the golf cart, and I meet her on the sidewalk. “So I work in here—not
too shabby—and it’s only one floor away from Booker.”
I make a face. “You have a thing for Booker?”
“Honey, everyone has a thing for Booker.” She laughs. “But, truth be told, I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you.”
I give her a whatever look, hoping it’s enough to convince her I haven’t been thinking of him nonstop since I got here.
She moves around in front of me and puts a hand on my shoulder, waiting for my full attention. “I can read people,” she says
matter-of-factly. “And I know Booker. That man is smitten.”
My ears perk up.
“He’s the nicest guy,” she says. “It’s not an act. He is genuinely so kind.”
Yeah. I had a feeling.
“If Booker asks you a question, it’s because he wants to know the answer. If he says he’ll be there to help you with something,
he will always show up.” She shifts. “And also—he actually likes it here. Came for his grandma out of some sense of duty or something. And I honestly don’t think he’ll ever leave.”
Noted. No plans to fall head-over-anything.
“Plus, everyone’s always setting him up with their daughter or granddaughter or niece or friend or whoever because he’s just
so good. He’s just a really good guy.” She pauses. “But it never works out.”
I shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be in love.”
“Or maybe he just hasn’t found the right woman.”
I balk at the word because if she’s referring to me, I’m not ready to be called a woman .
“Well, I wish him the best,” I say.
Daisy considers me and says, “Uh-huh.”
A heavyset man wearing a pink golf shirt walks out of the clubhouse and catches my eye.
“Hi, Mr. Samuels!” Daisy says. “We missed you at Thursday night’s cooking class. Don’t tell me you don’t want to learn how
to make homemade ravioli!”
“I got stuck at PT,” he grunts. “Booker wouldn’t let me go until I got in the pool. I hate the pool.”
“Well, that’s a bummer,” she says. “You tell him I said you can’t stay late on Thursdays because we have to learn to cook!”
“All right, Daisy!” He chuckles and strolls off.
“Does everyone know everyone here?” I ask as Daisy leads me into the clubhouse.
“Well, I do.” She beams. “That’s kind of my job.”
Connie is waiting in the lobby for us, and when she sees me, she rushes over. “Oh good! You’re here. Just a few bits of business
I forgot to give you, like your golf cart key and your uniform.” She giggles at herself and leans in. “Kind of important,
wouldn’t you say?”
I smile. Connie is kind, and despite the conflict stirring around inside me, this whole fiasco isn’t entirely her fault. Yes,
she could’ve been a little clearer in her email, which implied I was part of a team and not the whole team itself, but I’m
the one who didn’t read the job description.
Daisy turns toward me. “Okay, this is where I leave you.” She pulls me into an enormous hug. I’m sensing this is simply who
she is. “We’re going to have the best summer! Buh-bye!” She squeezes me—hard—and then she walks away.
I’m torn.
I really like her. And our little cottage. And the theatre space.
And Booker.
But I’m the wrong person for this job. So, so wrong.
“That Daisy has never met a stranger,” Connie says. “And she’s a kindred spirit. I mean, we are both from North Carolina,
so how’s that for a small world?” She smiles. “That’s why I put her with you, you know, to help you get used to things around
here. And maybe also because Booker’s place is close by. He’s one of the good ones.”
“So I hear,” I say absently, trying not to let myself be swayed.
“And he moved here for Bertie.” She motions for me to follow her. “Did he tell you that?”
“That’s his grandma, right?”
“Adoptive grandma.” She waves a hand. “It’s a long story.”
I want to ask questions, but she doesn’t give me the chance.
“She’s a funny one. Feisty. Doesn’t put up with any guff from anybody.” Connie walks into an office and moves around to the
opposite side of the desk, then motions for me to have a seat in the chair across from her.
“Okay, down to business. Sorry to bring you in on a Saturday—it’s just so last minute with everything. We had someone all
set up to direct the show this summer, but there was a little mutiny from the other residents, and we quickly had to regroup.”
I want to ask for additional details, but she doesn’t give me the chance.
“So,” she says, “you had your tour. Here is your golf cart key”—she pushes a small gold key across the desk—“Your mailbox
key”—an even smaller key this time—“And your key to the theatre. Cannot believe I forgot to give you these before.” She giggles to herself. “I’m feeling so scattered today. Now. This is your name badge,
and here”—she leans down and picks up a small stack of polo shirts—“Are a few uniforms. I know you have your own”—she gives
me a quick once-over—“Personal style, but when you’re on the premises and working, you should be properly dressed.”