When I first went to college, I was determined to start over, to become what I called a “Brand New Ellie.” No more shy, retiring bookworm. I was going to be social, friendly, the life of the party like my sister always was. Girls would want to hang out with me, and boys would want to date me.
I was just seventeen my freshman year and still living at home. Back then, this wasn’t unusual, and the private liberal arts college near my home had organized a number of socials the first few weeks to give new students opportunities to get acclimated and get to know each other.
I tried. I stretched myself so much in those weeks that I fell into bed exhausted at the end of every day. I introduced myself to strangers. I chatted with classmates instead of finding a quiet corner to read. I acted like I was confident, outgoing, a social butterfly.
I’m not sure it ever really worked. I met people, but by the end of the first semester, I was back to where I’d always been—hanging out alone a lot, with just a few good friends.
I still remember the sort of pressure I felt back then, this need to be someone different in order to properly engage a new situation. And I feel it again as I get dressed on Saturday evening for a dance.
A dance. To be specific, a “Big Band Dance Shindig.” Yes, that’s actually what they’re calling it.
I know I told myself I wasn’t going to bother with silly activities like this, but I’ve been here less than a week and I’ve met about five people total. Marjorie says I should go to the dance. Charlotte says I should go to the dance. And I feel this ridiculous urge to prove myself to the rest of the residents—particularly Dave Andrews.
I should be well past this sort of implicit peer pressure, but it turns out I’m not. Maybe you never really are, when you’re put in the right (or wrong) situation. Anyway, here I am, putting on a dark blue flowing skirt and one of my favorite printed tops—one that makes me look curvy rather than plump. I look in the mirror as I comb out my hair, pulling back just the top half with a clip.
I figure I look nice enough, but then I put on my old red lipstick. “Ellie Red,” the students used to call it at the college. Maybe they were having a little fun at my expense—the quirky librarian who was a fixture at the school and always wore the same red lipstick—but it seemed good-natured, so I never minded.
It’s nice to be known for something, even if it’s just the shade of your lipstick.
I hesitate, wondering if I’m dressed enough for the evening. I know some of the women here will be dressed to the nines, using any opportunity available to pull out their expensive jewelry and sparkling apparel. But that’s not me. It’s never been me. I open the small chest where I keep all my necklaces and pull out a string of silver beads.
They fall down to just between my breasts, and they pull my outfit together nicely.
There. I’ve made an effort. In all likelihood, I’ll sit in a chair and pretend to be having fun for an hour before I can finally make an escape. But I told Marjorie I’d go down with her, and I have too strong a conscience to disappoint her over a silly case of cold feet.
I pick up my bag, smooth down my skirt, and make sure all of my clothes are in the right place before I walk down the hall to Marjorie’s room. She’s giggling as she opens the door, dressed in a pink silk dress that looks like it must have been bought in the seventies. I think she looks pretty and carefree, though, and I’m vaguely jealous of her ability to have fun and not overthink these kinds of occasions.
I knew a lot of girls like her in school. They always quickly had boyfriends and never took life too seriously. In other words, they were polar opposites of people like me.
“You look beautiful,” she says, eyeing me from top to bottom. “I’m so jealous of your lovely skin.”
When I was younger, people used to say that my skin was my best feature, clear and firm and rosy, but it’s definitely not what it once was.
I thank her for the compliment and give her a few of my own, and then we head down the hall and outside, walking next door to the community building.
I can hear the music even before we get inside, paired with the chattering of voices. It’s a big night, evidently. It looks like nearly everyone in the residence is here.
A tottering bald gentleman in a seersucker suit asks Marjorie to dance right away. She goes off with him, smiling and clearly ready to enjoy herself.
It’s such a familiar scene that I almost laugh—albeit ironically. Over seventy and still left on my own at a dance, feeling like an idiot.
There are plenty of people in chairs around the edges of the room, talking and watching the dancing. Not everyone is healthy enough to dance, and fortunately I have the excuse of the walker, making it obvious that I’m not dance material at the moment.
I’ll just find a seat and start up a conversation with someone nearby. If it’s too boring, I’ll leave after a while.
I’m far too old to feel awkward or self-conscious in a situation like this.
My pep talk helps to a certain extent, and I’m scanning the room for an empty chair when Charlotte appears beside me.
“There’s a seat over here,” she says with a smile, gently turning me toward the left. “I’m so glad you made it. Everyone is having a fantastic time.”
I wonder if that’s actually true. Certainly, most of the people in the room are smiling, talking, laughing, or dancing, but there’s a thing that goes on at social gatherings like this. Sometimes it feels to me like we’re all just desperately talking ourselves into having fun, convincing ourselves it’s real. I wonder how many men and women here are in pain or bored or incredibly lonely—even as they put on a cheerful facade.
This is what I mean about overthinking occasions like this. I’ve done it all my life. I can hardly be surprised that I never seem to enjoy them.
I follow Charlotte to the side of the room, and I’m grateful for the seat she offers me. It’s a leather-padded metal chair, and it’s straight and sturdy enough for me to sit in comfortably.
She introduces me to the woman on my right—Nancy with a steel-gray bun and a perpetually crabby expression. Then she goes off to get me a cup of tea, since I prefer that to the punch most of the others are drinking.
I say a few words to Nancy, but she’s clearly less of a conversationalist than I am.
I’m startled when a white-haired man with a thick mustache comes over, looks down at me, and quite seriously says, “Lovely. Lovely. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
I lift my eyebrows and reply with equal seriousness, “I really don’t think so, but thank you for the offer.”
He looks not the least bit perturbed as he wanders away with a slight limp on his left leg, muttering, “Lovely. Lovely.”
I turn to look at Nancy.
She shakes her head. “The fool is always proposing to someone.”
Well, that’s an ego boost, isn’t it? I’m just one in a long line of propose-ees. The episode tickles me, and I’m having a private laugh when Charlotte returns with my tea.
“Did I see Mr. Draycott proposing to you?”
“Oh, yes. I was starting to plan out the wedding when he just wandered off.”
Charlotte smiles, obviously understanding and appreciating my humor. “Isn’t that always the way with men? Start to plan out the wedding and then they’re just …” She trails off, as if a less happy thought has occurred to her.
I’m sure it has to do with Kevin, the lawyer, her would-be boyfriend. Interested in hearing more, I ask lightly, “So no wedding bells in your future?”
Charlotte looks down at her hands. “Oh. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
For a moment, I feel intensely sympathetic. I’ve been in that situation myself a few times—ages ago now.
“Well,” I murmur, “if the man you’ve got isn’t giving you what you need, maybe it’s time to move on to someone else.”
She shakes her head. “That’s good advice, but not so easy. They’re not exactly beating down my door, you know.”
Of course I did.
“They weren’t for me either,” I reply with a smile. “And look at me now, the life of the party.”
She understands the light irony and smiles in response. Then her expression changes. “I don’t know. I’ve noticed quite a few gentlemen here who seem to have taken an interest in you.”
She’s being kind. Obviously. No one is paying any sort of attention to me. But my eyes immediately shoot over to Dave Andrews, who is dancing with an overly made-up redhead in a sequined dress far too tight for her figure.
Yes, I noticed Dave immediately, as soon as I walked into the room, but I’m trying not to give him any more of my attention than he deserves.
He looks quite distinguished in a gray suit and very shiny shoes. It’s not hard to recognize, simply from watching the reactions of people around him, that he’s the rooster of this particular chicken house.
I don’t like him, and I don’t like the fact that he’s made any sort of impression on me. In the few seconds my eyes are on him, he looks in my direction and meets my gaze.
I have no idea what he’s thinking, and I look away almost immediately. I’ve made a point all my life of never being a silly woman. I’m not going to start now.
I turn back to Charlotte, who is nodding across the room. “Gordon Marcus, for instance, can’t keep his eyes off you.”
The name rings a bell. And then I recognize the face of the man who is seated in a chair directly across from me with a glass of punch in his hands.
Gordon Marcus. It must be the same man. I went out with him for a couple of months in my twenties. A solid, white-bread, polite young man who was working his way through medical school.
We got along fairly well, and I certainly would have continued dating him, but he stopped asking me out and that was that.
Most of my relationships ended that way. No huge blowup or dramatic angst—just a slow fizzling out.
Gordon obviously recognizes me, though, since he nods and smiles when our eyes meet. I give him an answering smile and a little wave, and I’m pleased when he stands up and starts to make his way over to me.
“You know him?” Charlotte asks.
“Yes, he’s an old boyfriend of mine. Nothing serious, but we went out a long time ago.”
“Well, it’s the perfect time for firing up old acquaintances.” Charlotte gives me a little wink and leaves just as Gordon comes over.
He takes the chair she vacated and says, “It’s Ellie Davenport, isn’t it?”
“It is. Good memory. I had no idea you were here too.”
“I’ve been here for just over two years. I saw you earlier in the week and have been waiting to say hello.”
My eyes widen. “Why didn’t you say hello earlier?”
He gives a little shrug. He looks just as solid and white-bread as he did as a young man. He’s pleasant enough to look at, and I like the friendliness in his brown eyes. “I thought about it, but there wasn’t a good opportunity.” He pauses, then adds sheepishly, “To tell you the truth, you looked like you didn’t want company, and I didn’t want to bother you.”
So that’s not exactly what I want to hear. Evidently, I’ve been giving off a keep-away vibe, even to an old friend like Gordon.
It’s not that I never want to talk to people. It’s that this is entirely new and I’m not comfortable yet, and I’ve always been more secure when I keep my own company.
“I guess I’m just trying to get used to it here,” I say, hoping a friendly smile will counter that standoffishness I’ve been exuding. “I’m very glad to see you here. So you stayed in the area after medical school?”
“Yes. I was a surgeon in Roanoke for over forty years. I came here after my wife died.” He looks around the room, nodding with what looks like satisfaction. “It’s a nice place. I’m glad you joined us.”
“Thank you.”
“So did you ever get married?”
I hate that question—not because it bothers me that I’ve been unmarried all my life but because so many people seem to think it’s a sign of failure that I never managed to snag a husband. But there’s no sense in lying about it, unless I’m prepared to concoct an elaborate backstory and manufacture evidence in support of it.
“Oh, no. I never did. I went to graduate school and became a university librarian.”
“Oh, excellent. A career woman. I should have known you had it in you.” He grins at me affably, and—as far as I can tell—his admiration is genuine.
“I had a very nice career,” I say. “And a good life. I hope the same is true of you.”
“Very good. Very good. Four children, you know.”
“Oh, excellent. And what are they all doing now?”
He tells me about his children and grandchildren for a while, and I’m surprised by how quickly the time passes.
As Gordon and I talk, Dave has four different dance partners.
Yes, I’ve counted them. It’s not like I set out to do so. I just notice every time a song ends and he goes around to find someone else to dance with.
He doesn’t even really ask the women. He just sticks out his hand and assumes the woman will stand up and walk out to the dance floor with him. He’s not a flashy dancer like a couple of the others in the room, but he’s certainly competent. And not a single woman turns him down.
I don’t know why it annoys me as much as it does. It’s that smug entitlement, I think—that assumption he can have anything he wants.
The bench.
Any of the women in the room.
Anything he wants.
I would have thought that, living as long as he has, some of that arrogance would have been burned off through the fires of life, but evidently it hasn’t been.
He’s still the same jackass who showed up in my office one day and told me my budget for periodicals would be cut in half starting immediately.
Needless to say, my response to this outrageous claim was neither gentle nor polite.
“Do you know Dave then?” Gordon asks, noticing my preoccupation.
I curse myself for being rude and turn my attention back to my companion. “He worked at my college for a few years. He was the money guy.”
“Was he? I guess he wasn’t very popular then.”
“No. Not really.”
“That must be why you were frowning at him.”
I hadn’t realized I was frowning before, although it’s not surprising given the turn of my thoughts. “That was a long time ago,” I say, shaping my expression to be light and pleasant. “I’m sure he’s a very nice man.”
Gordon shakes his head. “I don’t know about that.”
“He’s not a nice man?” I’m interested—for obvious reasons.
“I guess he’s okay. Just doesn’t make much of an effort. You know?”
I know exactly, no matter how vague his words are. It’s precisely my problem with Dave too. People who are able to take what they want without working too hard at it just rub me the wrong way. I like Gordon even better for recognizing it and for responding to the quality the same way I do.
We like to have our impressions validated by other people. And the less generous they are, the more we like to have them validated.
“He looks popular,” I murmur, as Dave finishes his dance with a plump bleached blonde with ridiculously high heels and eyes the room, obviously looking for his next partner.
His eyes land on me for a moment, and I quickly look away.
He’s not likely to ask me to dance, given our conversation that morning. But, if he does, I’m certainly going to say no.
“All the ladies like him,” Gordon says, shaking his head as if this is a source of ire for him. “As you can see.”
“I guess there’s a lot of competition here,” I begin, looking around and easily picking up undertones in looks and postures and interactions. “For partners, I mean. There are so many more women than men.”
“I suppose so. Everyone wants to be coupled up.”
I give Gordon a curious look. “You haven’t found someone then?”
A brief flicker of grief crosses his face. “I had someone for nearly a year. She passed away just over a month ago.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry. What was her name?”
“Wendy. She was wonderful.” He sighs. “But, onward, right?”
“Right.”
It strikes me as a sad thing to say. Onward. After you’ve lost someone you love. There’s not much else for one to do, however, since life goes on whether we want it to or not.
I notice Marjorie standing in a corner of the room, and I wave at her cheerfully.
She waves back, smiling endlessly, but I notice that she’s fidgety, as if she’s bored or restless or discontent. She’s only danced once, as far as I can tell. It would be nice if someone would dance with her again. She’s obviously waiting for it, since she hasn’t found a seat like many of the others.
As I watch, Dave walks over and offers his hand to Marjorie. She’s clearly thrilled, and she giggles as she goes out to the dance floor with him.
She’s probably several years older than him, and she’s not as attractive as the other women he’s been dancing with, so it feels like a gesture of kindness to me.
One I never would have expected from him.
“That’s nice,” Gordon murmurs, obviously recognizing it too. “Everyone loves Marjorie. I’m glad she’s getting to dance.”
“You should get out there,” I say, pushing aside the silly little flutter of appreciation. This isn’t an Austen novel, after all. One little gesture that costs Dave nothing isn’t any sort of sign of his nobility or a good heart hiding under his spoiled nature.
As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have a good heart at all.
“I have a bum knee,” Gordon says, “but I can give it a try if you want to join me.”
I shake my head, pleased with the words, as if I’m important enough to affect his choices.
You don’t grow out of that. You don’t get too old for it to mean something to you.
“I don’t think I’m up to it quite yet, after my hip surgery. And I’ve never been much of a dancer.”
“I’ll just keep you company here then.”
He does keep me company—for a good hour until the dancers were wearing out and some of the residents have started leaving.
I’m getting tired myself, as pleasant as Gordon’s conversation is. Social situations always drain me, and I need to get back on my own to recover.
So I say good night to Gordon, smile and wave at a few acquaintances, including Marjorie, and start to the door of the room.
As I’m leaving, Dave Andrews is coming back in. I don’t know where he went, although I was aware of his disappearing about five minutes ago.
He may have just gone to use the restroom.
I almost bump into him, and I have to stabilize myself on my walker.
“Oh,” I say, startled and off balance. “Try to watch where you’re going.”
“The same could be said of you.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not very gallant.”
“You’re expecting gallantry?”
“No.” I give him a cool glare, since his tone was dry and lofty, exactly the kind of tone that annoys me the most. “I don’t expect anything of the kind.”
“I see you’ve made a friend,” Dave says, glancing into the room, where Gordon is having a chat with a few other residents.
It’s none of his business whether I’ve made a friend or not, so I decide not to answer.
“Just be careful. He was in a relationship with a woman who died recently, so he’s not yet emotionally available.”
Maybe his advice is given out in a genuine attempt to help, but I don’t really think so. He sounds snide, as if he’s pleased that the man who has showed interest in me can’t really want me for real.
“Well, you’d know all about emotional unavailability, wouldn’t you?”
As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. It’s been a long time since I believed that kind of empty banter is constructive or worthwhile.
He doesn’t even react except to almost smile, as if something amuses him. “Maybe. So how are you enjoying Eagle’s Rest after your first week?”
It’s the first mostly civil thing he’s said to me since we met this morning. “I don’t really know,” I say, speaking the truth. “It’s kind of like being in school again, isn’t it?”
He gives a dry chuckle. “Yes. And the longer you’re here, the more it feels that way.”
I don’t know exactly how to respond to that—I’m not sure whether it’s encouraging to know that other people feel the way I do or depressing to know it’s never going to change. I end up nodding my farewell and continuing down the hall.
I feel like he might be watching me as I leave him, but I don’t turn my head to look back.