Chapter Twenty-Nine
I shift the weight of the box in my arms to my hip so I can unlock the vacant unit I turned into a pristinely decorated model and let myself inside.
It’s a bit of an awkward juggle, what with the finger splint I’ve been rocking for almost a week, but I make my way inside and drop the box on the kitchen counter.
By the time I give up on finding a pair of scissors and use a mangled paperclip to slice the packaging tape, I’m cautiously optimistic, and doing my best not to freak out, about the culmination of everything I’ve worked so hard for coming to a head this evening.
The open house is a finish line of sorts, one I hope to cross with arms triumphantly raised. Our goal is to have seventy-five new interest forms by the end of the event—a lofty but necessary number—as I’ll have failed my mission if we don’t get sixty units contracted within the next two weeks.
I can’t fail, not again.
I won’t fail.
Not again.
Between a handful of positive articles, the segment on the news, and offering bonuses for residents who referred friends, we’ve managed to reach a 79 percent occupancy rate. So close, but not quite.
While I’ll happily give equal credit to Jan for closing contracts, the reality is, I did the majority of the work. I also made bigger and bigger decisions about the property without her, as she was rarely around. Nerve-racking at first, but, I was really freaking good at it.
Another 6 percent, and Jan would be able to meet the property’s expenses. Ten would give me more confidence that she could maintain the community after I left, but I wasn’t trying to get greedy or move finish lines.
Because if I pulled this off, I could add successfully rehabbed and managed a senior living community to my resume.
It’s about time to update that and start scattering it across Miami again.
An unexpected pang goes through me, about way more than being out of a job soon, but I bury it deep, as I have more than enough on my plate at the moment.
In addition to inviting interested applicants over the age of fifty-five to spend their forever summer at Lakeview, attendees will receive welcome bags I’ve already stuffed with everything besides what’s in the box.
Three days later than the printer promised, naturally.
When I mentioned on my way out the door that they were finally arriving today, Grandma Helen snarked, “I hope everyone’s ready for Assisted Sports Illustrated: Geriatric Edition.”
Don’t get me wrong, I totally laughed at the joke, but I’d worked hard to ensure the calendar wouldn’t turn out that way.
“Like a swimsuit calendar?” Jan had skeptically asked after I posed my idea.
It was an idea so far outside my usual range, even I’m surprised at how certain I was it’d gain the exact type of attention we’re seeking.
What won her over was when I rainbowed my hands and gave our new marketing mantra. “Lakeview Retirement Community, where summer vacation lasts forever!”
Eniola, the owner of Blushing Beauty Photography, fit our rush project into her busy schedule, and the two of us had a blast working on the layout together.
Heart in my throat, I lift out the glossy stapled pages of Lakeview’s very own calendar and flip open to January.
Dedicated to new beginnings, the photo atop the page shows several of our residents digging in the flower beds, fabulous gardening hats and gloves in bright colors creating a cheery pop.
February showcases couples who’ve been married for decades, a handful of years, and mere days. They hold giant red balloon hearts and gaze longingly into each other’s features in a way that makes me want a valentine of my own seven months too late.
Easy. I pick Noah.
What ifs circle through my head, about what it might be like if we had enough time to date and see where it leads. The guy enjoyed pushing my buttons and riling me up, yet it made me my wittiest, feistiest self. My truest, more-straightforward and secure-in-myself self.
Not to mention the comfortable contentment I didn’t typically experience until months and months in. But I have no idea where his head’s at, and I have too much to focus on for tonight’s open house to get stuck obsessing about Noah Drayton.
I pause on the month of April with its rhyme about showers that bring May flowers, happiness immediately warming my chest.
The glossy photos from the “Tough Mudder” obstacle course that left everyone caked in mud give me an extra kick of confidence because they proved my gut knew what it was doing.
Several mud-covered bodies and streaked faces fill the background, with the focus on the eighty-two-year-old retired marine at the finish line, victorious expression on her face.
It’s impossible not to smile while looking at her, until I’m contemplating running such a race myself, lack of coordination and hatred of being dirty notwithstanding.
The pool picture for July also turned out fabulous, so much splashing and joy I can’t imagine anyone seeing it without wanting to join the party.
Bob of the Silver Swingers shows off his golf form in the month of August, and I spot Arlene and her recent love-interest, Bruce, looking extra cute and snuggly in November.
A fight almost broke out between him and Wayne of Shady Tree Lane that afternoon, and between us filling her cup and her hopping dating life, her self-esteem has grown by leaps and bounds.
Right along with mine, so go us.
By the time I reach the final page with December’s dates, I’m relieved to see everything’s in order and I can start stuffing. This calendar is going to be a hit, I can feel it in my bones.
Only time will tell if it’ll be enough to reach 85 percent.
…
While acting as interim publicist for Lakeview Retirement Village, I’ve experienced some of the highest highs and lowest lows, though I appreciate it’s been mostly the former. Ever since handing control of my social life over to a bunch of contrary canaries, anyway.
In some ways, it’d gone as disastrously as predicted, yet in others…
I do another sweep of the crowd forming in the living room, my pulse skidding happily along.
Already we’ve drawn more people than predicted, and it feels good to be in the center of the action again, busy with a pinch of anxiety, enough excitement and pride coursing through me to combat my whirlwind of incessant doubts.
I’m not the same broken, shellshocked woman I was when I arrived at the village, and I refuse to go back to her.
Even if Claudia Caldwell just walked in, her pinched expression saying she means to ruin my day.
Except she can’t, because I get to decide that, not her.
I take control, snagging a welcome bag and meeting her head-on, cheery smile plastered to my face.
I give her a quick spiel and hand her a welcome bag.
“If you’ll open to August, you’ll see the events we have planned for next month, as well as new amenities we’ll be showing off this evening. ”
Eyes narrowed at the older attendees like they might contain her next salacious story, she hits me with a question about our STD rates and whether we have proof they’re dropping.
Sure, I’d done plenty of pearl-clutching of my own in the beginning, but she continued to reduce them to nothing more than stats, and they deserve so much better than that.
“These are people who’ve fought for our country, whether at war or breaking glass ceilings in the workforce or marching for human rights.
They have a plethora of wisdom to share with those who’ll listen, and they’ve shown me not giving a damn about what anyone else thinks is truly the happiest life of all. ”
I let it hang there for a moment, leaning into the no-fucks attitude my grandmothers coerced me into learning.
Look what I’ve done in spite of all your mean, shittily written articles.
We don’t need you. We’re so much stronger and better than that.
That’s as much time as I’m willing to spend on a person so intent on misunderstanding what the village is all about, so I give her a grin that borders on maniacal and step right on past her to greet a group of incoming guests.
Over the next hour, there’s a steady trickle of people.
Jan’s given three tours so far and is readying another group for a closer look at the grounds.
People fawn over the gift bags, and the calendars are a big hit.
Many potential residents visibly relax once they see neighbors they can relate to and a social calendar as busy as they want it, not loss and gloom and sitting around in solitude and sadness.
In addition to my last-minute project paying off, the assuredness I lost in myself rushes in to fill the gaps so packed with doubt, until there’s simply no room for it.
I’d pat myself on the back, but the puffed sleeves of my burgundy chiffon blouse won’t allow me to lift my arms higher than my shoulders.
That doesn’t matter, though, because I love the sheer sleeves with bows at the elbows.
I even let the Cronies pick out my jewelry from the Elegance and Grace boutique—a blingy pair of double cherry earrings for luck.
Speaking of good fortune, as if I summoned the man from the dreams I’ve had of him since our tryst in the garden, the prickle at my nape alerts me to his presence a fraction before I smell his cologne and hear his voice.
I turn in the direction I felt “the presence” and press my lips together to stifle a laugh.
Jan’s intercepted and pulled Noah into conversation. I quickly wrap up my chat with a doddling duo that reminds me of Wanda and my grandmother by passing them a brochure. “Two-bedroom floor plans are on page three. I’ll be around if you have any questions.”
I pick up my pace as I cross the room, the beats of my heart echoing the clickety-clack of my spiked golden pumps. With my four-inch heels that make me an expert at that particular distance, I come to Noah’s shoulder and utter a hello.