Chapter Five
Rue
Vital Greens was closed one day per week. Tuesdays, which my grandmother had learned after years of operation, were the slowest day of the week.
Maybe it was crazy, but I didn’t love days off.
I found that when I had too much free time on my hands, my anxiety tended to spike. Would my old therapist think that simply avoiding free time was the healthiest way to cope? No. Of course not. But we all had to work with whatever coping mechanisms made our lives easier.
For me, that meant that Tuesdays were full of everything I could pack into them. All my cleaning chores, grocery shopping, lunch-prepping for the week, lawn care, laundry, and socializing were done on this one day a week.
It kept my mind and body busy and also allowed my evenings after work to be free so I could watch shows, relax, and occasionally doom-scroll social media.
So by the time I drove out to the fringes of Golden Glades, I already had a fridge full of ingredients for easy breakfasts and lunches, two loads of laundry washed, dried, and folded with a third tumbling with my bedding for when I got home, a weeded front flower bed, and sparkling floors.
I was feeling a little sweaty and grubby but very accomplished as I grabbed the two cups of mocha iced lattes and climbed out of my car at the nursing home my grandmother had doggedly researched, visited, and planned for before setting her plans in motion.
Honestly, as much as she claimed she’d been having memory issues that made her want to retire, I had some trouble believing that.
Because, apparently, she had it all worked out so that she not only didn’t have to use Medicaid to pay for her current or future care, she also didn’t have to liquidate her house or business to do so.
See, my grandfather didn’t give her much in life. In death, though, the money he so painstakingly invested in stocks his whole life did pay off. And since she didn’t need the money while she was in business herself, she just kept rolling it back in.
She covered her assisted living fees and her borderline obnoxious shopping habits all on her own.
In turn, her careful planning left me pretty comfortable as well, since the house I lived in was paid off and she owned the shop outright.
I would never say it aloud, but I kind of suspected that my sharp-as-a-tack grandmother simply wanted to retire from the business, find new friends, and enjoy some crazy antics that, if confronted, she could blame on her old age or memory loss.
I looked out toward the long, sprawling fifty-plus community at the front of the property before turning back to the assisted living building.
It was a sleek, modern structure with four floors of gray stucco and black windows. Out front was a large parking lot. Out back was an enormous patio, a winding path, and lush gardens that I knew must have cost a small fortune to maintain (and that my grandmother had constant criticisms of).
I moved in through the front doors to the concierge (a fancy way of saying reception) desk. A petite woman sat there, as she always did, with flawless makeup and a head full of long silver hair.
“Hey, Rue! How are you doing today?” Lydia greeted me.
“I’m good. Love your necklace,” I said, eyeing the large, strung, mismatched beads. “Your granddaughter?”
Lydia pressed a hand to the beads. “Yes, she spent the whole weekend with me.”
“Did your daughter have her baby?” I asked, delighted despite never having met the woman.
“She did!” Lydia was quick to pull out her phone to show me a picture of her first grandson.
By the time I signed the digital screen to move past the reception desk, I knew the baby’s full name, weight, length, and what time he was born.
I swerved away from the common areas and toward the elevator, taking the cart up to the third floor of apartments.
My grandmother had the lowest level of care, which was why she was furthest from the staff.
The halls were wider than average to accommodate several wheelchairs or motorized scooters at a time, with warm wood-look vinyl flooring, creamy walls, and paintings that were surprisingly warm and unique—not just mass-market junk.
I made it to my grandmother’s door, finding she’d once again changed out the flowers on the wreath hanging there.
I knocked with my knuckles.
“It’s open,” my grandmother called from somewhere deep inside.
“That’s not safe,” I reminded her as I moved in.
My grandmother’s apartment dripped with her personality from every inch.
The walls were painted an absolutely insane flamingo pink, which somehow managed to go with her green velvet sofa.
She had floral throw pillows and blankets and a carpet printed with giant monstera leaves.
Suncatchers draped down the windows, casting little rainbows all across the room.
It was absurd.
Yet… it worked.
The apartments were all between five and seven hundred square feet.
My grandmother had the larger of the units with a small kitchenette, a bedroom, a hall bathroom, and a living room that was big enough for her couch, end and coffee tables, and another table with two chairs that she used as a craft or puzzle station, depending on who she was having over for company.
“Right,” my grandma called as she came out of the hallway in a rich, gemstone-colored kaftan, “because I’m in danger of, what, exactly?”
“Grammy,” I said, shaking my head at her.
My grandmother was about my height and on the thin side, with impressively unlined skin that she credited to staying single for a good chunk of her life, big eyes almost the same color as my own, and a long bob of silver hair.
“I know, I know. It’s your job to worry,” she said, pushing her giant green glasses up before reaching for her latte. “I keep trying to convince them to get one of those fancy espresso machines in the lobby. But they go on and on about blood pressure and blood sugar and all that nonsense.”
“I guess they have to look out for everyone.”
“We’re all grown adults here. We can make our own decisions.”
“Is this one of those decisions?” I asked, grabbing a paperback off the dining table. It featured a half-naked man with bulging muscles and a wicked look in his eye.
“That’s for our new book club.”
“Book club. A smutty book club?” I asked.
“Is there any other kind, my dear?” she asked, wiggling her brows. “Well, to be fair, I’m also in a cozy mystery book club. And a thriller book club.”
“How do you have so much reading time?” I asked. “Did you quit one of your clubs?”
“And miss out on my bridge, canasta, knitting, aqua aerobics, tai chi, walking, gardening, and coffee klatches? Absolutely not.”
All of that was on top of the events the assisted living place held for all the residents.
“Do we have a different amount of hours a day?” I asked, thinking about how I was always meaning to pick up a new hobby, but never feeling like I had the time.
“It’s amazing how much you can fit into a day when you don’t have work. Or watch TV. Or, what is it the kids say? Doom scrolling.”
Okay, fair enough. I did tend to fall into a TV or movie hole while also simultaneously scrolling my phone when I was home.
Also, clubs would mean, you know, leaving my house, reaching out, making new friends. That had never been in my wheelhouse. I’d been far from a social butterfly as a kid. I’d been too studious, too worried about my grades, too stuck in my own head.
That, unfortunately, followed me all through high school and college and, well, to the present day. I was really thankful that Traeger started working for me, or I would literally only know my grandma in the area.
“You could join us,” my grandma said, as if sensing the direction of my thoughts.
“I don’t think romance stories are something I’d be into,” I said. Also, it felt a bit like a pity invitation. That was pretty pathetic, if I do say so myself.
“Because of your lack of a love life?”
“Gee, thanks, Grammy,” I grumbled, stirring my straw around in my latte.
“Am I wrong?” she asked, brows raised. “Do you have a gentleman in your life?”
“Nope. Just Traeger at work.”
Though my mind flashed back to a tall, dark, handsome man with ‘bad news’ practically tattooed across his forehead.
“Well, that is certainly not going to help you in the romance department.”
“Grammy, come on. Let’s be real here. Romance never did either of us any good.”
“Speak for yourself,” she said with a devilish little smile.
“I thought you didn’t date after Grandpa.”
“No, my dear, you assumed I didn’t date after your grandfather.”
“You did? Seriously?”
“Goodness, no. Just physical fun.”
I just barely managed to keep my face from scrunching up as an unwanted mental image flashed through my mind.
“Grammy!”
“What? I was a very traditional woman in my youth. I kept myself chaste and pure for my husband. And between us girls, well, that was never a part of my marriage I enjoyed.”
Again, the thought of my grandmother’s sex life made me wildly uncomfortable. But she was right; we were adults, and it was important to me to know my grandmother’s story after all she’d done for me.
“But then I was single… and the mailman started showing interest, and, well, turns out I could enjoy that sort of thing.” Her blue eyes warmed at the memory.
As sad as it was that it took her so long to discover that part of her life, I was glad it did eventually happen.
“After that, well, the gloves were off.”
“Are you telling me you… got around a lot?” I asked, shooting her a faux-scandalized smile as I sat at the table.
“I’m saying I still do,” she said.
“Here?”
“Believe it or not, old people still like having sex, my dear. In fact, it seems like we are doing it more than your generation is.”
“Is that a dig?” I asked.
“Maybe a small one. Just because your last boyfriend wasn’t a keeper doesn’t mean you can’t entertain other men. Can you honestly tell me you haven’t seen a single man you’d like to take to bed since you moved here?”
Again, it was Kylo who flashed across my mind.
“If not, there’s this house across the street,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “And it is jam-packed full of delicious young men. The girls and I, we set up folding chairs and sit and watch them when they wash their motorcycles.”
“Grammy! That’s so creepy.”
“It would be creepy if we were watching from Loretta’s window with binoculars,” she said in a way that suggested they may have done that first. “We are just a bunch of women casually having some lemonade on the lawn.”
“You are too much.”
“I am having the time of my life, my dear.”
“You really are.”
“Which brings me to my next order of business,” she said, dropping down across from me at the table.
“Okay. What’s that?”
“You.”
“Me? You mean the business? It’s going… well.” Inwardly, I winced at that pause. I had to carefully avoid letting her know there was anything about Vital Greens that I wasn’t telling her. And I couldn’t tell her. No matter how much it was eating me alive to keep it quiet.
I simply couldn’t tell her. It was too dangerous.
While the assisted living facility was relatively safe, it wasn’t the kind of safe where men with guns would be deterred if they wanted to find her and use her against me.
“The business is the only thing I’m not worried about.”
If only she knew.
“I’m okay, Grammy,” I said, thinking that she was worried my mental health was in the toilet again.
“Are you, though? Today is your day off. And you’re here with me. And judging by those bleach spots on your shorts and tee, you spent the morning doing what? Cleaning and laundry?”
“And shopping,” I grumbled.
“None of that represents a social life, Rue.”
“I know. It’s just… hard. I don’t know anyone. And even if I did, what, am I just supposed to ask someone to hang out?”
“Yes, my dear. That is how people make friends.”
“It feels awkward.”
“Because you’re out of practice. Try it with someone low-pressure. Maybe someone you see all the time at the coffee shop or something like that. Each time you do it, it will get easier. I’m not just being nosy here. I’m concerned about you. It’s not human nature to be alone all the time.”
“I hang out with Traeger at work.”
“And he’s the only reason I haven’t come to you about this sooner. But it doesn’t sound like you go out with him much, and I think you need to really try to make a friend or join a club. It’s important. For the community, the connection, and even just for something to look forward to.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I could feel it creeping up on me for the past six months or so—a sadly familiar sensation of hopelessness, of bleakness. It wasn’t anything bad, not yet. But I knew the signs. I knew that I had to keep my eye on it. Then I had to act if things took a nosedive.
Clearly, maybe it wasn’t something only I was seeing.
“I will look into clubs or classes or something,” I promised her. It felt easier than trying to put myself out there for possible rejection.
“Good. Now that that is over,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let’s go meet Mitsy’s new kitten—Sabrina.”
By the time I climbed back in my car, I was covered in white kitten hair, and I had a plan to spend my evening with some takeout while researching a new social activity to add to my calendar.
As I was waiting for traffic to pass so I could pull out, I saw several of those ‘delicious’ men my grandmother mentioned.
As I turned, I could have sworn I saw a familiar tall, dark, tattooed, and handsome man.
My heart leapt as my head whipped over, but he was already gone.
If he’d been there at all.
Clearly, my imagination was running away with me, thinking I was seeing Kylo at the damn house across the street from my grandmother’s facility.
Maybe I really was losing it from all the stress.