Chapter Twenty-Two
This gymnasium of the community center is beginning to feel like a second office, but tonight’s bustling crowd turns it into a whole new experience.
I bounce in my seat onstage, a sense of accomplishment boosting me higher. Between all the bargaining and liaising, I decided to take the optimistic road not usually traveled by me and added two extra rows of chairs to the Boozy Bingo configuration.
Not only did it make all the difference, once Bob and his Silver Swingers got there, we ended up with more butts than seats. But by the time I reached the group to apologize and amend the shortage, he’d already put his men to work setting up another couple rows, no strings attached.
And when he told me, “Darlin’, don’t you worry none,” it actually eased my concerns, double-negative notwithstanding.
Even better, I’m not the one giving this seminar.
As a local favorite already, Dr. Carlos Vasquez was a no-brainer. He’s also brought along Zuri, the popular office manager and receptionist, to cover the warning signs for heart attack, stroke, and dehydration, plus CPR certification for those interested.
I’m thrilled so many are interested, even if it took a little coercion.
Early last week, a woman in a turquoise velour tracksuit had approached me on my afternoon coffee break. She yanked me behind a palm tree in the middle of my coffee break, lowered her giant sunglasses and whispered, “For the best turnout, you want the Holy Rollers.”
Then she vanished, coy and conspiratorial, and I had so, so many questions.
Turns out, the Holy Rollers were a group of predominately women, very passionate about spreading their gospel via golf carts or mobility scooters. They held bible study a couple of times a week, plus two hours of worship every Sunday, followed by an extremely well-attended luncheon.
I asked Sophia, our resident socialite, for an intro. She’d scoffed and referred to them as the Pious Patrol, then connected me with the women who did all the planning and organizing. And cooking and baking.
Once the Sunday luncheon was cancelled, wouldn’t you know it, those hungry men were more amiable to helping.
But my favorite by far—and the one that had the phones ringing nonstop all week—was pulled off by the Seam Queens, our resident quilting club, who signed up for every single tee time and golfed as slowly as they could, refusing to let the men play through until they were more cooperative.
I’d also heard whispers of an abstinence pact, but most importantly, the women in this village had started a movement.
With so many in attendance, I dare to give in to that tingly, fluttery thought—we did it! We actually did it.
As Dr. Vasquez starts up the stairway to the stage, I pop to my feet, then wish I would’ve waited so I wasn’t just standing there drawing attention before I wanted it on me.
“Thanks again for doing this,” I say when he’s still a few feet away, unable to hold the words in my mouth any longer. “I know how busy you are and how much work it is, preparing and presenting.”
Carlos swipes a hand through the air. “No big deal. Digging deep and pushing through is what separates people like us from the rest. We say yes, and then we figure out how to do it.”
I want to bob my head and agree, only the idea still squeezes the air from my lungs, reminding me I’m not that woman anymore. That’s who I used to be, a people pleaser who burned the candle at both ends and used the leftover wax to create tealights for others.
Part of me longed to be her again, regardless of how overworked, stressed out, and exhausted I was. Everybody was so impressed with that version of me.
A tap on my shoulder saves me from coming up with something clever.
Zuri points a finger at the clock on the back wall, long nails clicking lightly together.
I have no idea how she functions with those on, only that she constantly changes up the design and wields them with power.
This week they’re blinged out with sequined hearts that wink as she brandishes a peace sign. “Two minutes.”
Okay, so not a peace sign, but forewarning.
Carlos’s lackadaisical smile claims we have all day, but he places a hand on the small of my back and nudges me along after her. “This is what I appreciate about Zuri, and why I couldn’t do my job without her. Not only does she keep me on time, she holds the rest of the world to her same standard.”
I crack a smile of my own. “Are you saying she can outstubborn the inhabitants of Lakeview Retirement Village?”
Carlos extends a flat palm and wavers it. “Depends on the mob out in gen pop, but when it comes to the clinic, Zuri reigns supreme, not me.”
He gets points for that, too, even if it takes all my self-control not to crack up over he and Zuri referring to everyone outside the clinic but within the property gates as gen pop.
Then he tacks on the reason I keep circling back to him.
“She’s able to sense which patients need quiet kindness, which require a firm hand, and who needs to be…
” His dimple pops, his style and delivery impeccable.
“I was going to say womanhandled, but she typically gets the job done with an arch of her eyebrow or a point of one of those wicked fingernails.”
It’s a little intoxicating, Carlos’s charisma and gravitational pull. Not only does he radiate confidence, he backs it up with a successful career in geriatric medicine, with the ambitious goal of becoming chief of medicine.
He’s driven and successful, and anytime he aims his attention at me, he does it wholly.
A voice in my head whispers he could be so good for me, even if we were destined to be as temporary as my residency.
So why am I hesitating?
It’s 100 percent not about Noah Drayton, that’s all I know. But seriously, what was the guy playing at, hurling out that bold statement about us going on a date to then not contact me for six days?
I haven’t seen him around the property this week, either.
Not that I do a quick scan of the grounds every forty-seven minutes.
Same way I didn’t spend my lunch hour googling articles about his company, clicking through the pictures on his landscaping website, and scouring the internet for information on him in general.
At six o’clock on the dot, I roll out my shoulders, lean into the microphone, and introduce our topic and guests.
Things go suspiciously smoothly as Carlos and Zuri cover the signs of dehydration and then heart attacks, and the audience mostly listens.
Of course that’s what I want them to do, it just seems kind of rude they don’t interrupt or heckle them but have no such qualms while I’m at the microphone.
Except that’s not exactly true, because good behavior is part of our bargain.
“Mia?”
Carlos has his neck craned in my direction, so he must’ve called my name more than once. He waves me over, requesting my help demonstrating the Heimlich Maneuver.
After passing around mannequins for attendees to practice on, he reviews the acronym detailing signs of a stroke, and I work to commit the BE FAST acronym to memory—it’s more pertinent than ever, considering I’m surrounded by the demographic with the highest stroke risk.
By the end of the seminar, around two hundred fifty residents are better equipped to handle their health and assist those around them. I also noticed the late arrival of Claudia Caldwell from the Herald Sun, who I invited last minute on a whim.
No matter what she writes, I feel good about what we did here tonight. I thank Zuri on her way past me, and am bent gathering up my belongings, guard completely down, when the Cronies approach and offer to clean up so Carlos and I can go to dinner.
I open my mouth to refuse, partially because I’m a control freak and don’t want to leave without ensuring the job’s done, with a shoutout to the flush of embarrassment heating my cheeks—a gal can receive only so many offers coerced by her grandmothers before she develops a complex.
“You’ve done so much to help us.” Wanda’s smile is suspiciously wide, the bulge in her eyes cartoonish. “Let us treat you to a fancy dinner.”
“We’ve already booked you a reservation at the Golden Orchid,” Rita says, ushering us toward the steps of the stage. “Management’s been instructed to put it on our tab.”
Vonetta and Gertie are nodding, and the bubbies’ wide grins could light up an entire shuffleboard court.
“It’s the least we can do,” Grandma Helen adds, and I withhold my retort about us all knowing they’re doing the most I’ll allow.
Over the tops of several gray and bottle-dyed heads of hair, Carlos and I hold a silent conversation with eyebrows and quirked lips. It’s been a long week, we enjoy each other’s company, and free dinner’s free dinner.
We put on a show of our own, dramatically waving a white flag over having a romantic dinner for two at the nicest restaurant in the village. On our way out of the gymnasium, I even call out an overtly reluctant, “Are you sure you don’t need me to stay and help?”
We’re so forcefully shooed off we barely make it into the hallway before snickering like teenagers ditching class. Carlos leads me to a vehicle in the parking lot with four solid doors and an engine quiet enough I can hear him speak the entire drive, short as it may be.
As we walk into the restaurant and he gives the hostess our names, my gaze skims over the cherrywood and deep burgundy walls dotted with mirrors in gilded frames.
Candlelight flickers on every table, casting a warm hue and intensifying the intimate setting.
As we’re led to a table near the window that overlooks the lake, my stomach rumbles over the scents of butter, garlic, and freshly baked bread—like the upscale version of Grandma’s kitchen, I think with a grin.
After we place our orders, I ask about his next steps for his goal to become chief of medicine, finding his enthusiasm for his career infectious, even if it comes along with a pang.
“There’s a position opening up this winter, and my mentors think I have a shot,” he says, his entire face lighting up.
“What about you?” he asks as our drink orders arrive, thanking the waiter before returning his full attention to me. “Now that you’ve tamed the Silver Swingers and convinced an entire community to use protection, what’s next?”
“We still need to reach our occupancy goals during this last month of summer, but I’m happy with our progress. After this job wraps up…” I shrug a shoulder, hating that I don’t have a set plan. “I guess I’ll figure it out a step at a time, which is new for me.”
I expect a follow-up, maybe a personal admission of his own, but instead he tells me more about his mentor, a senior physician who specializes in internal medicine.
The passion with which he speaks about his job has me nostalgic for the challenge of a behind-the-scenes relay race.
The adrenaline of fixing a problem before anyone knew there was one.
The lack of sleep and constant jitteriness from the stress, and feeling like I always fell short, no matter how many pieces of myself I gave…
Okay, so there were pitfalls like in any job. The point is, we have similar philosophies about demanding careers, and our conversations flow, which is rare, and see? Carlos is good for me.
By the time our food arrives, I figure we’ve talked about work and ambition plenty and am ready to dive deeper. Thanks to years of online dating and awkward first dates, I also have a wide array of get-to-know-you questions to fall back on.
All the promo materials with our “vacation forever” slogan have been on my mind, so I throw out the question I’ve been asking myself lately. “If you could travel anywhere in the world—money, no object—where would you go?”
He doesn’t even pause, his answer as fast as the unfurling of his white linen napkin. “Switzerland.”
“Ooh, scenic,” I say. “Alps? Fondue? Skiing—we certainly don’t get that here in Florida.”
Carlos shakes his head, his smile spreading wider. “Geneva has one of the most advanced trauma centers in the world. They’ve pioneered a hybrid emergency surgery model that blends vascular and neuro teams. I’d love to spend time observing their process.”
I blink. “Of course. Using your vacation as a surgical shadowing opportunity, how relaxing.”
“What can I say?” He gives a good-hearted laugh as he dives into his food. “I really love what I do.”
I believe him. Especially since, every time I try to steer the conversation toward something else—his childhood, favorite books, how he unwinds after a long shift—he finds his way back to the hospital.
Like a compass with one setting.
I used to be the same way about work. Part of me finds his single-mindedness admirable, even though it prickles my productivity identity and makes me feel like a total slacker, while part of me thinks it’s excessive and sounds exhausting.
Pinpricks of disappointment sting my chest, though I don’t fully understand why.
He’s everything I respect and aspire to be—driven, reliable, and accustomed to long hours at the office, although I’m not sure I’ve healed enough to put myself in that environment again.
But on paper we’re perfect, and the hot doctor doesn’t show reluctance or tell me I’m a bad idea.
He doesn’t ask me out and then disappear.
No, instead, he just waits for my grandmas to do it.