Chapter 25 Finn
Finn
Retirement homes make me uncomfortable. They smell like a blend of industrial cleaning products, cafeteria food, and the lingering scent of cheap air fresheners.
Every surface is sanitized to a shine, there’s soft generic jazz music playing, and every decoration seems just a shade too bright, as if the place is trying to convince its residents not only that it’s Christmas, but that everything is fine, and nobody is ever going to… You know, die.
I keep that observation to myself as I follow Melody and Everett’s mom through the halls.
After Everett’s mom met Melody this morning, she couldn’t stop fussing over our omega and gushing about how happy she was for all of us. She insisted that Melody join her this afternoon to meet Granny May.
“You’ll love her,” Mrs. Pine tells Melody, her hands clutching a tin of homemade cookies. “She’s the heart of our family. She was feeling a little down during my last visit; she absolutely hates this place.”
I’m not sure how I got roped into this visit while Gabe and Everett hung back to play lumberjack detectives; perhaps it’s my charming personality or, more likely, Charlie’s insistence that I’d provide “comic relief” for the elderly.
Speaking of Charlie, she trails behind us now, thumbs flying across her phone screen as she texts updates to Everett about her recon mission.
She’d spent the morning investigating the mysterious new tree suppliers in neighboring towns, and from her periodic muttering, I gather she’s found something suspicious.
We find Granny May in the common room, but she’s not knitting or playing checkers as the retirement home brochure promised. She’s not even sulking as Mrs. Pine claimed she would be.
She’s giggling.
Actually giggling, head thrown back, as an older gentleman with an impressive white mustache whispers something in her ear.
“Mom!” Mrs. Pine exclaims, equal parts scandalized and amused.
Granny May looks up, her cheeks flushed. The wrinkles around her eyes deepen with her smile, but there’s something youthful about her expression that makes her seem decades younger than her late seventies.
“Honey! You’re early!” She pats the gentleman’s hand apologetically. “Harold, these are my people.”
Harold stands with surprising agility for a man who must be pushing eighty. He’s tall, with a straight back, which seems like a major plus among the elderly.
“The famous family,” he says, extending a hand to each of us in turn. “May talks about you constantly.”
“And she’s said nothing about you,” Charlie says bluntly.
“Charlie!” Mrs. Pine hisses.
“What? It’s true.” Charlie shrugs, dropping into a chair. “Though I can see why she’s kept you a secret. You’re a silver fox.”
Harold laughs, “This must be Charlie,” he tells Granny May.
“She’s impertinent,” Granny replies fondly.
Melody moves forward, introducing herself with that natural warmth that makes everyone instantly comfortable around her. “I’m Melody. I’m staying at the Grand Cabin for the holidays.”
“The omega who’s tamed my Oxford,” Granny May says. “Everett told me all about you.”
Melody blushes. “I wouldn’t say ‘tamed’…”
“She gave him a dog bed, and he follows her like a puppy,” I interject. “If that’s not taming, I don’t know what is.”
Granny May turns her attention to me. “And you must be Finn, Gabe’s partner.”
“I am,” I say, “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Charlie pulls up a chair, leaning in conspiratorially. “So, I checked out all the new tree suppliers in the neighboring towns.”
Mrs. Pine looks uncomfortable. “Maybe we should discuss this later?”
“No, I want to hear,” Granny May insists. “Those were my husband’s trees, too.”
Charlie continues, “Their story seems solid. They claim they’ve been operating a small tree farm two counties over for years, but have never sold in our area before. When they heard about the shortage from the mayor, they expanded their distribution network.” She makes air quotes with her fingers.
“But?” I prompt, sensing there’s more.
“But it’s too perfect. It’s like they rehearsed everything.
” Charlie pulls out her phone to show photos of the local paper.
“‘Mayor Reynolds Saves Christmas,’” she reads, pointing to the bold headline.
“The article goes on to say how Reynolds personally coordinated with suppliers to ensure no family went without a Christmas tree.”
“Taking credit,” I mutter.
“Oh, he made sure everyone knew.” Charlie’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Every time they sold a tree, they made a point of saying it was ‘Courtesy of Mayor Reynolds.’ They were practically campaigning while handing over trees. What a load of crap.”
“Charlie,” Mrs. Pine scolds.
“And their trees?” Charlie shakes her head. “Some look suspiciously like the premium Blue spruce variety that Perfect Pines is known for.”
“They stole our trees,” Granny May says flatly.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Mrs. Pine cautions.
“I know,” Granny replies. “Just like I know when it’s going to snow by the ache in my left hip.”
Harold pats her hand. “Your hip is very reliable.”
The way Harold is looking at Granny May is so loaded that I half expect the sprinklers to activate from the heat between them.
A woman in a cardigan that screams “activities coordinator” interrupts our tree theft conspiracy theories. “Mrs. Pine! You’re just in time for caroling!”
Granny May’s face lights up. “Oh, wonderful! Harold and I have been practicing.”
“Practicing what?” Mrs. Pine asks suspiciously.
“Our duet, dear,” Granny says innocently.
The next half hour is a blur of holiday songs performed with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and in some cases, horror. Harold and Granny May’s rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” is both charming and mildly scandalous.
I lean toward Melody during a particularly off-key version of “Jingle Bells.”
“Are all retirement homes this horny, or is it just this one?”
She stifles a laugh. “I think it’s sweet.”
Watching Melody during the caroling session is fascinating. She helps a woman with trembling hands hold her songbook. She compliments an old man’s baritone. She remembers everyone’s name after hearing it once.
“She’s something special, isn’t she?” Charlie says, catching my observation.
“The kind of something special that makes three grown men act like lovesick teenagers? Yes.”
Charlie grins. “Four if you count Oxford.”
“The llama doesn’t count. He’s clearly the most emotionally mature of all of us.”
After caroling, we’re herded into the crafts room where tables are set up with supplies for making ornaments.
I find myself seated between a woman named Edith, who keeps calling me “young man” in a tone that suggests it’s not a compliment, and a gentleman named Walter who has strong opinions about modern literature.
“It’s all sex and swearing now,” Walter informs me as he carefully glues sequins to a foam ball. “Whatever happened to storytelling?”
“Sex and swearing are integral parts of the human experience,” I reply, struggling with the glue. “Even Chaucer knew that.”
Walter’s bushy eyebrows rise. “You’ve read Chaucer?”
“I have a PhD in literature,” I admit. “Though I try not to bring it up in casual conversation because it makes me sound pretentious,” I stage whisper.
“Too late,” Charlie calls from across the table.
Walter looks delighted. “Finally, someone to talk to about books! Everyone here just wants to discuss their grandchildren or their bowel movements.”
For the next hour, Walter and I debate the merits of various literary movements while I create what might be the world’s ugliest Christmas ornament.
Walter and I are still deep in literary debate when I notice Melody across the room, her blonde head bent close to an elderly woman’s as they work on ornaments together.
“So you’re saying Hemingway was overrated?” Walter demands.
“Not overrated, just unnecessarily glorified for his machismo,” I argue, fumbling with a tiny bell that refuses to attach to my disaster of an ornament. “The man never met an adjective he didn’t want to murder.”
Walter laughs, a deep rumble that ends in a concerning wheeze. “Refreshing perspective, young man. Everyone here just nods along absentmindedly with whatever I say about the classics.”
“That’s because they’re not listening,” Charlie interjects, sliding into the chair beside us. She’s created an ornament shaped suspiciously like a penis, though I doubt the activity coordinator has noticed yet. “They’re just waiting for their turn to talk about their grandkids or their arthritis.”
“Charlie!” Mrs. Pine scolds.
Melody approaches our table, holding a perfectly crafted miniature wreath ornament. Probably a secret omega crafting gene that missed the entire beta population.
“Mrs. Lemmings has invited me to her grandson’s wedding,” she announces, sounding pleased about this theoretical future event.
“You’ve been here two hours,” I point out. “I’ve been snubbed by three different octogenarians and accused of looking like someone named Timothy who apparently stole a woman’s husband in 1972.”
“That was Edith,” Walter stage-whispers. “Timothy ran off with her Harry, forty years ago. You do look remarkably like him.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter. “I have the face of a geriatric home-wrecker.”
The bell rings; apparently, it’s nap time, saving me from further comparisons to the infamous Timothy. We say our goodbyes and promise to return soon… or not, although Walter was kinda growing on me.