Chapter 21 #2
Bertie pats my hand, smiling. It seems that the older people get, the simpler things become. All of the worry and stress and
things that seem so demanding are filtered out, leaving behind only the most important parts.
“Did Booker tell you we’re not really related?” She pulls her hands back and picks up her fork.
I’m still hung up on her casual wisdom drop, but I manage to say, “Uh, no, Connie did.”
“Ha. Connie never met butter she didn’t like to spread.”
I laugh as she glances across the dining hall to where Booker is holding his refilled drink, chatting with one of the residents.
“He sometimes says that I saved him, but the truth is, it’s the other way around.”
I sit up a little in my chair, curious about Booker, of course, but also curious for more of Bertie’s story.
She talks like we’re casual friends. “I couldn’t have kids of my own, and when my best friend’s grandson needed somewhere
to live, it felt like the miracle we’d been praying for.” She watches Booker from across the room, and a wistfulness comes
over her. “It’s funny how things always seem to work out, isn’t it?” Then to me, she says, “It always works out in the end.”
Does it?
I push aside all the real questions I want to ask. About Booker’s parents. About his grandmother. About his heart.
Those are Friday questions. Ones that he should answer.
“I know he moved here because he’s protective of me.
Or maybe because he feels like he owes me or some other nonsense.
” She scoops a bite of egg onto her fork, then adds wryly, “But I’ve told him a million times he should go live his life.
” She holds the bite up but pauses before eating it.
“This is no place for a young man in his prime.”
“You don’t think he’s happy?”
“Oh, I’m sure he could be happy anywhere—that’s just how he is.” She picks up her water and takes a drink. “But there’s a
big wide world out there. Doesn’t make sense to waste it playing everything safe, does it?” Her eyes widen. “Take you, for
example—”
“Oh, Bertie, I’m not a good visual aid.” My mind snagged on the words playing everything safe , and I desperately want to steer this conversation back to Booker.
“You are!” She sets her cup down and studies me. “You have a dream, and you’re out there working at it. Chipping away to make
it happen.”
I glance over at Booker, wondering if she’s drawing a comparison or simply making conversation.
“But I’m not exactly succeeding,” I admit.
She waves me off. “That is not what matters.”
“It kind of does,” I tell her. “I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels. At some point, they’ll probably spin right off the
car. I probably need to find something more, I don’t know, stable.”
“You could pivot,” she says, her tone sounding like that’s a perfectly acceptable choice, “if that’s what suits you. There’s something
awfully exciting about a fresh start. Or you could adjust and try a new approach to the old dream. Every life experience teaches
us something.” She studies me. “Maybe you just need a little shift.”
A little shift. Feels like it would be seismic.
“Does it make you happy?”
“What, the acting?”
She nods.
“I mean, it’s work,” I say. “Most people don’t have the luxury of having a fun job.”
She shakes her head and waves at me. “I totally disagree.”
I stop moving and look at her, remembering Booker’s question on the first day I met him: “Can’t your career be fun?” I guess I know where he got that idea.
“You can find fun anywhere,” Bertie says. “It’s when you stop looking for it that it disappears.”
A regular fortune cookie, this one.
“And life is a wonderful adventure, isn’t it?” She smiles.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that no, life’s not some wonderful adventure. Or fun, for that matter.
I’m still trying to figure out how to reconcile “It’s just life” and “wonderful adventure” and “Does it make you happy?” when Bertie changes the subject.
“What about romance?”
Her out-of-left-field question makes me choke on my drink for the second time in ten minutes.
She laughs. “I don’t have a lot of young people to talk to around here, so I may as well get to the good stuff while I can.”
I set down my drink and let out a big sigh. “I don’t really have time for romance.”
“Romance is part of the adventure, Rosie.” She points her fork at me. “That’s why I think it’s time for that one”—she now
points her fork across the room at Booker, who appears to be deep in conversation with a pink-faced man who keeps rubbing
his shoulder—“To move on. He’s never going to meet someone and fall in love and give me grandbabies if he doesn’t leave this
place.” She takes another bite of her pancakes. “Not a lot of options here.”
I chuckle. “No, there certainly aren’t.”
“At least that’s what I used to think until you came along.”
But I don’t get a chance to correct her because Booker is back.
And he’s not alone.
“Bertie, this is Arthur. Arthur, Bertie,” he says, sitting down next to his grandma.
“Arthur Silverman,” Bertie says, and it sounds like, “Finally, we meet . ”
He nods shyly and sets his tray down next to mine. My stomach tenses as he sits.
“So you two are working together,” Bertie says brightly. “That’s nice.”
I can’t be sure, but I think I hear Arthur grunt.
I cough-laugh and avoid looking at him. “I don’t think working with me is Arthur’s idea of ‘nice.’”
“Oh?” Bertie’s eyebrows shoot up, looking at Arthur. “Is that true?”
He shifts in his seat and protests a little, but Bertie isn’t having it.
“Whyever not? Rosie is a perfectly delightful girl.” And then, pointedly, she asks, “What is it you don’t love about our Rosie?”
Our Rosie .
I look at Booker, and he just shrugs, as if to imply that this is just kind of what she does. Just go with it.
Bertie turns to Arthur and doesn’t miss a beat: “What is it that’s got your face all puckered? Did you eat a lemon?”
Most people seem to handle Arthur with a healthy bit of caution.
But not Bertie.
He doesn’t scare her one bit. In fact, I’m starting to think nothing scares her.
She’s suddenly the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. Because how does one become fearless, and where can I get some of
that?
Before Arthur can start to mount some kind of defense against Bertie’s questions, she makes a kind of announcement.
“I know what the two of you need.” She leans back, hands spread, waiting for our attention. “Actually, what all of us need.”
Booker starts shaking his head, as if he’s seen this before.
“We need a night on the town.”
I frown. “Wait. Can you leave?” I turn to Booker. “Can she leave?”
He makes a face and says, “She’s not a prisoner. Everyone can come and go, depending on their circumstances.”
“That’s right, Booker,” she says. “I need to get out of this place and eat real food, like chicken fingers and french fries,
and be around young people. I can still party.” She shakes her shoulders as she says this, and I can’t help but laugh.
Booker smirks, almost like he’s set this woman loose and makes no apologies.
“Tonight,” she says, like she’s unfolding the plans to a heist, “we’re going to Buster’s.”
“Buster’s,” I repeat—both a statement and a question.
“It’s a bar. One town over,” Booker says. “Daisy’s a regular.”
“I don’t go out after dark,” Arthur says, placing a napkin on the table.
“Well, that’s ridiculous.” Bertie scoffs, matching his delivery almost perfectly. “All the best things that have ever happened
to me happened after dark.”
“I’m going to need to hear all those stories,” I say, my eyes wide.
“Oh, I’ve got ’em,” she says, pushing her chair away from the table. “Let’s meet in front of the clubhouse, and Booker will
drive us there.” She looks at Booker. “We’ll take my car.”
We all stare.
She looks at us one at a time. “Good? Good? Good? Great. See you all at eight!”
And with that, she’s gone.
I slow turn to Booker. “What the heck was that?”
His amused expression holds. “There’s no sense arguing with her. When she decides to do something, she just goes right ahead
and does it.” Then, to Arthur, he says, “And I hate to break it to you, but if you think you can just not show up, rest assured
that she will steal the keys, take her car, find you, and put you in the car herself.”
“This is your fault,” Arthur says. “If you had just left me at my table in peace.”
Booker stands. “Come on, you two, it’ll be good for us to get out. See the world.”
“We’re not seeing the world—it’s Wisconsin.” Arthur glares at Booker.
“And I hope you’ve got your cowboy boots, because tonight...” Booker pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “Is line dancing
night.”
He flashes that gorgeous smile, picks up the dirty dishes, and strolls off, leaving me and a miserable Arthur sitting awkwardly
at the same side of the table.
We share a glance, and for a brief moment, we connect, both hoodwinked and desperate for a way to escape this plan.