Chapter 13

 

I waited until the following day to return my daughter Jennifer’s call. If that makes me a terrible mother, then so be it. Jen simply doesn’t understand me. She thinks I should behave in an “elderly” manner. I tried “elderly” on for size once, and it didn’t suit me. Jen, bless her heart, heard the term “active retirement community” and assumed it would be a nice quiet place for her father and me in our ripe old age. Maybe she envisioned us in twin recliners, whiling away the hours tuned to the weather channel. I’d knit; her father would snore.

My daughter failed to note the adjective “active.” Maybe “hyperactive” would more aptly describe life in Serenity Cove Estates. Most residents keep busy morning to night pursuing things they never had time for in their nine-to-five lives. Sports such as tennis, golf, boating, and fishing keep our joints limber. Activities such as aerobics, both water and land, Tai Chi, yoga, line dancing, and Zumba, the latest fitness craze, are inked into our schedules. For those who enjoy games, mahjongg, sequence, bridge, hand and foot, euchre, and pinochle keep us mentally agile. Others find fulfillment in volunteer work in the schools, community, or church. All this busy leaves little time for cookie baking and rocking chairs. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Retirement isn’t for sissies.

I felt a niggling of guilt as I punched in her number. I’d carefully taken the time difference between South Carolina and California into consideration, deliberately calling when I knew she’d be getting the girls off to various weekend activities. I’d also picked a time when I knew I couldn’t talk long. Bill would be picking me up soon for our outing to Augusta. I refused to refer to our outing as a date for fear of jinxing our simple excursion to the big city.

“Mother,” Jen scolded upon hearing my voice. “Why did it take you so long to return my call? It might’ve been important.”

“If it had been important, dear, you would have tried again to reach me.” When had my daughter’s voice taken on the same edge as Monica’s? I wondered. “I was at a memorial service so your call went to voice mail. Besides, you know how slow I am checking voice mail.”

“A memorial service . . . ? I suppose that’s something you have to expect among all those elderly people.”

I felt my blood pressure ratchet up several notches at hearing the hated E word. Drawing a calming breath, I called upon my inner chi—the internal energy—and started the conversation anew. “Actually, Dr. Bascomb wasn’t a resident of Serenity Cove Estates, but merely a visitor when he passed.” When had I started using “passed,” the euphemism commonly heard in the South? Why couldn’t I come right out and say he died, kicked the bucket, or vacated the planet? No, here death tended to sound more genteel. Something along the lines of “entered into eternal rest” or “departed this life.”

“Dr. Vaughn Bascomb?”

Jen’s question jerked me back to the present. “Yes. Have you heard of him?”

“Of course! I’m a fan of How Does Your Garden Grow? Dr. Bascomb’s a frequent guest on the show. I hadn’t heard that he died—and in Tranquility Cave of all places.”

Up, up, and away on the blood pressure scale. “Serenity Cove, dear,” I corrected. “I don’t know why you have such a difficult time remembering the name of the place.”

“Sorry. What happened to Dr. Bascomb?”

I peeked out the kitchen window, but no sign of Bill. “Rumor has it that it was food poisoning, but . . .”

“Food poisoning!” Jen’s voice ping-ponged from cell tower to cell tower. “Mother, please, promise you’ll be careful. All that fried food . . .”

“Folks are convinced it was the deviled eggs or the potato salad rather than the catfish or chicken,” I said, cutting her off to forestall a diatribe on the evils of Southern cuisine. I swear the girl sounds more like Monica’s flesh and blood than mine.

“I wish you’d put your house on the market and move to California. Your granddaughters would love to see more of you. That place where you live, Serenity Cove, isn’t safe.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” I said on a sigh. “The only other person to get sick was Dr. Rappaport, and she fully recovered.”

“You know Dr. Rappaport? Isn’t she awesome?” Jen gushed. “I’ve learned so much from her show. For instance, did you know English ivy . . .”

I stared out the window, half listening to her ramble on about benzene and toluene fumes. My yard needed a makeover almost as badly as Tammy Lynn Snow. It could use a little pizzazz, some personality. It was . . . bland. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice and neat with its holly bushes lined up like cadets on a parade ground along the front walk. The requisite azalea bushes planted next to the garage were almost ready to bloom, but my yard still needed something. Trouble is, I wasn’t sure exactly what that something should be. More color? Greater variety? I’m glad I decided to take Rita up on her offer and tag along with Flowers and Bowers on their next excursion.

“Mother? Mother . . . ? Are you still there?”

“Yes, dear, I’m still here,” I answered, glancing at the kitchen clock. Bill should be here any minute, and I wanted to check my makeup once more before our date that wasn’t a date. “Jen, dear, I’d love to talk longer, but Bill—”

“Him? Again . . . ?”

I mentally counted to ten. I really needed to count to a thousand, but I was short on time. Bill Lewis was a sore subject between my daughter and me. Jen was convinced he was out to usurp her father’s place in my affections. She was also convinced he was about to usurp my pension and Social Security. In spite of my best efforts, nothing I said convinced her otherwise. “Bill has offered to build the bookshelves I’ve been wanting in the library. We’re going to Augusta to order the lumber he’ll need. He’s a friend, Jen,” I added, “and a very nice man.”

“Fine,” Jen said in the snippy tone she’d always used as a teenager. The one that made me grit my teeth—and was often punctuated by a slamming door.

Our conversation wound to a dissatisfactory conclusion. I promised myself I’d call soon and make amends.

 

• • •

 

Cherry, cherry, cherry.

We looked at oak; we examined maple; we studied pine, but in the end the final decision was easy. It all came down to cherry. After seeing the lovely library in Sheila’s rental, nothing else compared. With visions of bookshelves dancing in my head, Bill and I took a little side trip through the garden center at Lowe’s. Fueled by a desire to beautify the outside as well as the inside of my home, I wanted to view the plethora of plants and shrubs newly arrived for spring planting.

“There are so many to pick from that I get confused,” I confessed as we strolled the aisles, careful not to trip over hoses used to water plants. “Azalea and rhododendron, are they one and the same?”

“Beats me,” Bill said with a shrug. “You’re asking the wrong person. You need to talk to someone from the garden club.”

“I bet Rita could tell me. She’s a master gardener, you know.” I paused to admire a display of perky pink, white, and purple flowers with green centers. “Why do you suppose these are called Lenten roses?”

Perplexed, Bill scratched his head. “Another question for Rita.”

“Just look at these hydrangeas,” I cried, stopping before a display.

“Mmm, hmm,” Bill murmured in that noncommittal way men frequently adopt when they’re not sure of the right answer.

“My mother used to grow these in her garden.” I reached out and touched the splashy lavender flowers the size of mop heads. “This is just the thing my yard needs to give it some oomph.”

A half hour later we left the garden center pushing a cart loaded with perennials. Perennials? Or annuals? I tend to confuse the two. Perennials appear every year, don’t they? Or is it the other way around? You’d think annuals would appear annually. Isn’t that a logical assumption? Thankfully we had taken Bill’s trusty Ford pickup so we had plenty of room for my purchases, which consisted of two hydrangeas, a couple lantanas, and several Lenten roses. By now we’d missed the movie we had planned to catch. It was too late for the matinee and too early for the evening showing.

“Still hungry?” Bill asked as he slammed the gate of his pickup shut.

“I’m starving, but what about my hydrangeas? My lantana?” I cast a worried eye at the leafy greens sprouting from the truck bed. “What if someone with a hankering for flowers happens to come along and is tempted to help themselves?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find a parking space up front where we can keep an eye on things. If anyone tries to run off with your hydrangeas, well, they’ll have me to reckon with.”

I couldn’t contain the smile that blossomed bigger than the splashy lavender mop head I’d just bought to jazz up my yard. I loved it when mild-mannered Bill morphed into a superhero. From sweetie to swashbuckler in a flash. Be still my heart.

Ten minutes later we found ourselves seated in a red vinyl booth at Bubba’s Buffet Barn with a clear view of the Ford pickup and its precious cargo. Bill glanced around the nearly empty restaurant. “Guess we didn’t have to worry about a front-row seat. This place is virtually deserted.”

The lone waitress stifled a yawn as she sauntered over with menus. “What can I get y’all to drink?”

“Iced tea—unsweet, with lemon,” I said.

Bill smiled. “Make that two.”

Aren’t we a pair? I thought as the waitress went off with our drink order. We even take our iced tea the same way.

“Where do you suppose all the people are? Even at this time of day the place is usually jammed.”

“Think it’s the economy? People eating out less to save money?” I mused aloud.

“Nope. It ain’t the economy.” The waitress, returning with tall glasses of iced tea, had apparently overheard my remark. “It’s that damn food poisonin’ scare at some old folks’ home up north a here. Business been off ever since. Don’t pick up soon, Bubba’s threatenin’ to file bankruptcy.”

Bill and I exchanged glances and wordlessly reached for the menus. Neither of us wanted to admit we were escapees from that “old folks’ home” on the lookout for a good meal.