CHAPTER SEVEN FALLON
C HAPTER S EVEN
FALLON
“Two deep breaths, and then flow into cobra,” Jaz says in her calming yoga voice.
Every Friday, before the weekend crowd shuffles in, Jaz holds a yoga class at Beggar’s Hole, out on the deck.
She spends the morning pushing the chairs and tables to the side, cleaning the floor—the only clean floor in the joint—and then laying out yoga mats.
It’s first come, first served. Attendees have to sign up on the corkboard next to the bar, and only ten spots are available because that’s all she can fit on the deck.
It’s peaceful, and the best way to de-stress after a long week. I have a permanent spot.
“Back into downward dog, and then walk your hands to your feet. On your next breath, lift and bring your hands up and over your head, and then down to heart center.” She lets out a long breath. “Now go fuck up shit this weekend.”
Everyone claps, and we all slip our shoes back on as we wipe down the yoga mats and roll them up while Jaz rolls a cart around the deck, collecting the supplies.
“Great class, Jaz,” Dolly, the owner of Barber Streisand—the local salon—says as she walks by. “And Fallon, maybe next time, you can bring that hunk of a doctor around to join us.”
“If he can get up here early enough, I’ll for sure bring him,” I say.
“Is it just me, or does he seem to get beefier every time he drives up here to visit you?”
“He’s been working out a lot,” I answer. And I’ve noticed. He’s starting to get definition in his abs, and his arms look like absolute boulders, especially with his shorter stature. Hunky doctor is correct.
“It shows.” Dolly winks. “See you around, ladies.” I’m waving to her just as Faye, Dolly’s archnemesis, comes up to us.
“That is so inappropriate of her,” Faye hisses, disgusted.
“To ogle your boyfriend like that, positively despicable. That woman has no notion of keeping it in her pants.” I nearly snort.
“Have you seen her lurking around Village Hardware? She has an eye for Tank. Harlene was telling me that she overheard Dolly telling Tank how she wants to comb his mustache for him.” Faye clutches her pearls—yes, actual pearls.
She drapes them over the turtleneck she wears to yoga every Friday.
“The audacity. Could you ever imagine asking a man if you could comb his mustache?”
“I asked a man the other night if I could sit on his face, so combing a mustache feels G rated in comparison,” Jaz says. Faye clutches her pearls harder and lets out a humph before stomping off, clearly horrified.
“Jaz, why did you have to say that to her? Now she’s going to be in a tizzy for the rest of the day.”
“She’s too much for me.” Jaz brushes her off with a wave of her hand. “Someone needs to take the stick out. Maybe Tank can do the honors, since she has such a crush on him.”
“I don’t know if she does. I think she just really, really dislikes Dolly.”
“No, Faye’s been pining after Tank for years. That buttoned-up widow wants the bad boy, but she’s just too scared to admit it.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Hey, do you have a second to talk something over with me?”
“Only if you help me with chairs and tables after.”
“Don’t I always?”
“Yes, but I’m worried that one day my brash attitude is going to scare you away, and you’re not going to want to help me anymore.”
I chuckle. “If I’ve stuck around for, what... twenty years? I’m pretty sure I’m not going anywhere. You might scare me at times, but I know that deep down, you mean well. You’re stuck with me.”
“Just the way I like it—a clinger.” She smirks, and together we move one table, only to sit down at it.
I pull my notebook out of my bag and steady my nerves. “My dads called me the other night.”
“How are my two favorite gay men? Still living their best sixties-era life in Palm Springs?”
My dads own several properties in Palm Springs, all with a classic sixties Cali theme.
Specializing in midcentury modern decor, they’ve added clean lines and bold colors to all their properties.
We’re talking terrazzo flooring, split-rock fireplaces, gilded hanging lamps, and raspberry-colored swan chairs.
They’ve preserved the golden era and are starting to finally see success with renting out the properties to anyone searching out the nostalgic feel of Palm Springs in its heyday.
It’s a bittersweet success, though. They’ve been able to capitalize on the Airbnb boom, the same trend that’s taking Sully out of business.
“They are,” I say. “But they didn’t call with good news.”
Jaz’s face falls. “Is everything okay with Izaak?”
I know exactly what Jaz is thinking. My dad Izaak is paralyzed from the waist down and has suffered from health complications as a result.
“Yes, nothing like that,” I say. “But they did call to tell me that the Cove is running out of money, and if I don’t turn things around quickly, they’re going to have to sell.”
“What?” Jaz shouts. “No way, they can’t sell. Sully would be devastated—hell, the whole town would be devastated.”
“I know, but they don’t have much of an option. They’ve been paying me out of their own account.”
Jaz winces. “That’s not good. What did you say?”
“I told them to give me a few weeks to turn things around. If I can just fix at least the front lobby and a few cabins, I can get the new website up and running and book some more reservations. You know? We have all the materials—I just need to find the time and help to do it.”
“Yeah, I see where you’re going with that.” She levels with me. “But have you forgotten you’re the one who has to renovate?”
“I know,” I say, shifting uncomfortably.
“Which is why I thought I’d break it down to the musts, to things I know how to do, to at least make the place.
.. look prettier until I can afford the help.
Small projects here and there. Little touches that can build up to bigger things.
I know how to paint. The floors can’t be too hard, right?
I don’t want to even think about electrical, that can wait, but new paint and floors and assembling furniture—those are things I can do. ”
“Yeah, those tasks seem simple enough. Do you think it will make the kind of impact you need?”
“It has to. I literally have no other plans. This has to work.”
“Okay. What can I do to help?”
I smile. “And that’s why you’re my best friend.”
She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “That’s what friends are for—to help you with renovations and slash people’s tires when they wrong you. Which, I’ll have you know, it’s taken a lot out of me not to slash Julia’s tires. Tempting, very tempting.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve been able to control yourself. There’s no need to slash them. I told you, I’m fine with everything. It’s not like we had a deep connection. Honestly, I feel nothing toward him.”
“Well, just say the word. If he pisses you off, I can be there in seconds, ready to bust through some thick rubber.”
I snort, enjoying the image despite myself.
“How about you help me paint this weekend? I need to paint the dark wood in the lobby white. Once that’s done, we can replace the floors and then just decorate.
I already have tons of ideas for how to make the space more modern but still keep the mountain feel. ”
“You know how much I hate painting—I prefer demolishing things. Do you need me to take a sledgehammer to anything?”
“Not at the moment,” I answer. “But I’ll be sure to keep that in the back of my mind.”
“That’s all I ask.”
“Sully, dinner is ready,” I call out.
When I don’t hear anything, I walk downstairs to find him. “Sully... dinner.”
I look around the lobby and the office, but there’s no sign of him.
Panic sets in. He’s always around here when it’s close to dinner. I frantically search the main lobby area one more time.
“Sully... where are you?” I call out as I exit the building and turn down the winding path to the cabins. I push past a few overgrown trees and jog down to where the lake opens up on the property. I glance around, my heart pounding.
That’s when I see him.
Sitting on a bench.
But not just any bench, his bench.
The bench that was broken just a few days ago, that’s been broken for years now.
Confused, I hurry to the edge of the lake. “Hey, Sully, I was looking for you.”
He doesn’t look at me but instead pats the bench next to him. “Sit, dear granddaughter.”
Unsure where his head is, I take a seat, and he wraps his arm around me, pulling me into his familiar scent of mint and Irish Spring soap, a smell I always find comforting.
“What a beautiful lake, don’t you think?” he asks, his voice lacking its usual harshness.
“Yes.” I lean into him, uneasy but also soaking up the moment. “It’s always been the prettiest lake, in my opinion.”
He doesn’t answer right away, letting the light breeze pass while watching the water lap at the shoreline.
The imagery in my head of this moment feels so real, but in my place beside him, Grandma Joan is cuddling into his chest, one hand resting on his checkered shirt, the other curled around his back.
Sully would lean his cheek against her head and quietly hum his favorite Glen Miller tune.
“If you listen carefully enough, you can almost hear the light breeze trying to push through the water,” he says, his voice so sweet, so consoling.
We sit there, listening. And he’s right: if you let nature take over and truly listen, you can hear the most extraordinary sounds. Like the ruffle of leaves from a bird landing on a branch. The distant buzz of a bee searching for pollen, and, of course, the breeze caressing the waves on the lake.
“The bench—did you fix it?” I say, after a few peaceful moments.
I’m too curious not to ask. Also, I need to know if he somehow stumbled across the tools he should no longer be using without heavy supervision.
A few months ago, I found Sully downstairs, attempting to cut some wood.
In the middle of sawing, he had a lapse in judgment and ended up cutting the back of his hand.
I rushed him to the emergency room, beside myself with worry.
Seven stitches later, I spoke with his doctor, and we both agreed that hiding the tools would be in his best interest.
“Did I fix the bench? No, your contractor did.”
“Contractor?” I ask. What the hell is he talking about?
“You know, Grandma Joan won’t be happy with the angle of this seat back. I told him it wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t listen and stained it anyway.”
Color me utterly confused. I didn’t hire a contractor.
I want to ask him what on earth he’s talking about, but it’s getting late, and Sully has a strict bedtime schedule.
Sleep is one of the most important things when it comes to Alzheimer’s, and if we stay on routine, he can usually have a decent night’s sleep, which leads to a healthy day.
So instead of getting into it, I direct him back to why I came out here in the first place. “Dinner’s ready, Sully.”
He rubs his stomach. “Good, I’m starving.” He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I love you, granddaughter.”
And just like that, tears well up in my eyes, and I squeeze my grandpa back. I can’t remember the last time I heard him say that, not to mention offer me this type of affection. “I love you too.”
“Thank you for taking care of me.”
It’s rare, getting moments like this with him.
His lack of lucidity drives him to forget who I am sometimes, and although it’s painful, I understand.
But this bench... this bench has always been where he’s felt comfortable, so I shouldn’t be too shocked he can open up here.
He can remember who he is, right here, where some of his best memories were created with his girl, Joan.
“It’s my pleasure,” I reply, soaking in this moment with him, committing it to memory, because I’m not sure how many more we’ll get.