Peter held up a hand as they approached. “Morning, Rose.”
Rose nodded. “Peter. Ida.”
The Golds were the healthiest residents at the village. As bronzed as pennies twelve months out of the year, they walked three fifteen-minute miles every morning and snacked on sunflower seeds and rice cakes. Peter was still a proud six feet tall with thick hair and a Magnum, P.I. mustache, though his was silvery white.
A former set designer, Ida was obsessed with Old Hollywood and had even been cast as an extra in several Rat Pack movies. These days, as dementia began to take root, she often thought she was on a movie set, even going so far as to talk to “the director” about where she should stand when she entered a room.
In deference to Peter’s commanding presence and his unflagging love and devotion to Ida, everyone in the village obeyed his instructions not to question or correct her but just to go along with whatever she said.
This morning Ida seemed clearheaded. She walked over and stood next to Rose, hands on her hips, dainty sweat beading on her top lip. Estée Lauder perfume rolled off her in waves, and Rose turned her head for a quick moment to take a breath.
“They’re lovely, Rose. You really have the touch.”
“Well.” Rose swallowed the compliment as if it were vinegar. “I don’t know how far that touch will get me later in the summer when these leaves are coated in black spot.”
“But you won’t let that happen. You work your roses like Ginger Rogers danced.” When Ida leaned down to smell a Sweet Juliet, Rose lifted her eyes to Peter, who smiled and shrugged. He checked his watch.
“You’re usually already gone by the time we pass your house,” he said. “Are the Bubbas not meeting this morning?” The Bubba Club was the group of men who met weekly in the main clubhouse to discuss everything from politics to prostates over coffee and Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
“Fred had an early doctor’s appointment in Mobile. I’m heading up there soon to open the door for the rest of them.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you just gave them a key?”
“I can’t hand out keys like candy. Someone has to make sure no one tries to pull any funny stuff.”
Peter’s laughter was booming and jovial. “Some funny stuff is good for the soul every now and then. You should give it a try.”
Rose snorted.
He touched Ida’s shoulder. “We need to get moving if we want to be back in time for Kelly and whichever young man is sitting in the chair next to her these days.”
Ida straightened up. “Oh, it’s that Ryan Seacrest. I could listen to him talk all day.”
“Well, let’s get you on home then. He’s on in twenty minutes.” Peter put his hand on the small of his wife’s back as she turned and blew a kiss back to Rose.
Rose watched them as they walked away, and something in her heart clenched. So many residents had found community within the gates of Safe Harbor Village. Enjoying life together with other people had never come naturally to Rose. More often than not, she found herself on the outside of everyone else, wishing she could be a part of things, never willing to admit it bothered her that she wasn’t.
Maybe it was time she moved on. Hang up her visor, hand over her keys, and watch as a well-oiled company came in, rewrote her handbook, and took control. No one would miss her one bit.
Five
After a quick bite to eat, Rose changed clothes, then hopped on her bicycle—a navy blue Schwinn she’d had for decades—and headed for the clubhouse situated near the entrance to the village. As a common area for residents, the clubhouse served as the backdrop to daily game show viewings, intense chess matches lasting for hours, and all manner of book clubs, card games, recipe swaps, and general gossip sessions.
With the village office attached to the clubhouse, separated by only a thin wall and a glass door, Rose was literally in the middle of the hubbub whether she wanted to be or not. “Not” was her standard preference.
She opened the door and winced as the bell clanged, announcing her presence to absolutely no one. On a whim, she untied the ribbon attaching the bell to the door and dropped the whole thing in the trash can. The clang was satisfying, but it felt even better to see the bell sitting there at the bottom of the plastic bag, the gong silenced by a ball of tissue.
Rose flipped on the lights and twisted the plastic rods on the blinds. There. The place looked a little less barren with some sunlight streaming in. Rose preferred to work with minimal distraction, and therefore the small office held only two desks, a computer and printer, a telephone, and a file cabinet. The white walls were bare except for a framed print from a 1950 Farmers’ Almanac showing the phases of the moon from the month of her birth.
If the office was stark, the clubhouse just on the other side of the glass door was its polar opposite. Over the years, residents had filled the space with countless kitschy beach baubles and decorations. A wooden replica of a shrimp boat and multiple dolphin statues and coral reef snow globes dotted side tables, and several old printers’ boxes hung on the walls holding a beach-worth of seashells. A huge, chemically shined sailfish adorned the wall over the TV, and the tabletop lamps were in the shape of seahorses.
Facing away from the riot of color, Rose settled into her ergonomic desk chair behind the larger of the two desks and flipped on the computer. When she opened her email, she was dismayed by the number of new messages that had come in overnight. A small group of residents—mostly new, and therefore unaccustomed to the way things worked at the village—were in the middle of a spat over whether they had the right to drape beach towels over the lounge chairs by the pool to save them for later use. Now everyone was up in arms about one neighbor’s use of the word entitled.
Occasionally she wondered if the work was too much for one woman. She wasn’t above admitting her mind wasn’t quite as sharp as it used to be when she and her husband—ex-husband—Terry, had first started out, but she hadn’t had the best luck with office help. Their first receptionist, Joan, turned out to have questionable morals and fled the village with Terry without a care in the world, her hair blowing in the breeze.
A few years ago she hired another assistant who, thankfully, was fifty years old and built like a Ford F-150. Aside from being an ace on a riding lawn mower, Marge helped with office duties—mostly fielding questions, complaints, and suggestions from the residents in the village and scheduling appointments with electricians and plumbers.
The job also involved the more delicate work of keeping up with the village calendar, but Rose always reserved this particular duty for herself. It was one thing to answer phones. It was another thing to work the schedule in just the right way to make sure groups like the Jesus and Jewelry crafters didn’t meet at the same time as the Rowdy Romance Readers. The atmosphere in the clubhouse could deteriorate rather quickly if the schedule was not handled properly.
After Marge moved away, Rose took on the bulk of the responsibilities herself. She could have hired someone else, but there were very few people in the world whom she trusted—especially when it came to fine-tuning the inner workings of her business—and none of them resided in Safe Harbor Village.
She’d been working through the emails for an hour when the phone rang. The voice on the other end was young, which was unusual. When the woman asked about the hairstylist position, Rose propped an elbow on the desk and rubbed her eyes. As if the village needed a hairstylist. An on-site hair salon had never been in the plans, but back when the village was pristine and new, a group of residents—mostly female, though there were some vocal men in the group too—had lobbied for one, saying when they decided to buy homes here, it was under the agreement that the village would provide many of their daily needs.