The next morning, I wake up a little later than usual, so I don’t have as long to drink tea and sit on my patio, watching the sun slowly rise behind the mountains.
There are rarely true sunrises around here. Usually, the sky just gradually lightens, since the sun itself is hidden behind a mountain until it’s too far up in the sky for there to be stunning shades of pink and orange on display.
Sometimes, you get lucky if you’re in exactly the right position. But, from my patio, all I see is that slow lightening of the sky.
It’s Sunday, and it’s common practice for people to sleep in today—I assume that’s true of the residents of Eagle’s Rest as much as it is the rest of the world. I don’t sleep in, however. I don’t think I’m capable of it anymore.
As it is, getting up just after five, I feel like I’m late, like I’m unsettled and out of sorts. I’m more tired than usual, and I know it’s from the socializing last night. I stayed up later than I anticipated, and I exerted far more energy in interacting with others than I have in a very long time. I might not have danced, but it was exertion just the same.
I’d been considering going to church this morning, but I decide against it as I sip my first cup of tea. I’ve gone to church on and off all my life—some periods more off than on—and it still feels to me like an appropriate thing to do on a Sunday morning.
But not this morning. Today, I’ll take my walk and then take it easy for the rest of the day. Roger sent me a new book of crosswords yesterday, so I’ll start on one of those. Maybe doze and watch a British mystery this afternoon.
There are some folks my age who get bored without orchestrated activities, but I certainly am not one of them.
I’m looking forward to my day as I dress and leave the building for my walk. I still take the walker, but I’m pleased that this morning I don’t have to lean on it very much. I just keep it in front of me to stabilize my balance.
I’ve been active all my life, and perhaps the worst part of getting old is not being able to make my body do what it used to do all the time.
The morning is so cool it’s almost brisk. I’m glad I put on a sweater as I feel the breeze blowing my clothes against my skin. It feels like a real fall day—with even more of that earthy autumn scent in the air than I smelled yesterday.
I love it.
My dogs always used to get energized when the weather turned cooler, after being lazy and lethargic all summer. I remember watching them bound across the grass and into the woods on the first genuinely cool day of the fall, and I feel a bit like them this morning.
Not that I’m inclined to go bounding anywhere at the moment—or ever again, for that matter—but still … it’s a nice thought. It’s a nice feeling.
I make it to the bench a few minutes quicker than I’ve been managing for the last week, and I’m excited about that too. Despite the normal aches in my joints, I’m feeling good this morning. Maybe I’m recovering from the hip surgery at last.
I sit on the bench and breathe the cool air and think encouraging thoughts for about ten minutes. Then I hear a sound down the path coming from the direction of the residence.
I have a faint suspicion about who it might be, and the suspicion is realized when Dave Andrews comes into view.
I’m tempted to turn away and pretend I don’t notice him, but this feels a bit too childish to follow through with. They say that old people sometimes turn childish. I don’t want that to be true of me.
So I’m watching calmly as he approaches. Like yesterday, he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a golf shirt that looks expensive. Like yesterday, he’s frowning as he draws near.
“So you’re here again.”
I’m not sure whether this is a question or statement. Either way, the answer should be self-evident. I just lift my eyebrows and watch as he takes the seat beside me.
“Are you always going to be here?” he asks rather gruffly, giving me an impatient look.
“Not every hour of the day, obviously. But I walk every morning, and this is the view that I particularly like. So, yes, you can expect to find me here in the mornings at about this time.”
He doesn’t reply. Just gives me a cool look and stares out into the landscape.
It’s still summer enough for the leaves on the trees to be green. They’re not turning yellow or brown or red yet, so the valley is cast with a uniform green color, broken only by the slashing lines of the roads, the scattering of buildings, and the glinting of the lake.
“I’m sure there are other walks you can take.” I make sure to keep my voice composed, as if the conversation is of no interest to me. “If you’d rather not run into me.”
“I always walk here.”
“Then we’ll likely see each other. Please don’t feel obliged to talk to me if you’d rather not. I’m used to my own company.”
“I know that.”
I’m not sure what he means by that last comment. It could be an insinuation, but the tone isn’t particularly snide or bitter.
He’s a strange man. Not as easy to read as he was when he was younger.
We both stare out at the valley for a few minutes. Then he asks without transition, “Why did you never get married?”
I blink and turn to look at him. “Why do you assume I never did?” The question is a way of stalling, of course, since I have no idea how to answer him.
“I asked about you. They said you didn’t. Did you?”
I wonder who “they” is. Then I wonder why Dave has been asking about me at all. I could be flattered, but I’m not. “No. I never got married.”
“Why not?”
I give a little shrug, since asking why I never got married is like asking why I became a librarian or why I love dogs or why I wear my hair long.
It’s just who I am and how my life turned out. It’s not something that can be explained in a few words.
Dave is studying me now, as if he’s trying to figure me out, trying to see something on my face. “A few people said, back at the college, that you were gay.”
I shake my head. I’m not surprised, nor am I offended. It’s not an unreasonable speculation, given my long-unmarried status.
Women of my generation got married. If they didn’t, there was something different about them.
I suppose there’s something different about me.
Of course, let’s be honest and admit there’s something different about everyone.
“I’m not gay,” I say calmly, giving Dave a little smile so he’ll know the question doesn’t concern me.
“I didn’t think you were. You were living with a man when we worked together, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I was.” That was Jeff. He was the only man I lived with.
“He didn’t want to marry you?”
Now, I’m a little annoyed. “He wanted to marry me. I didn’t want to marry him.”
“Why not? Holding out for Prince Charming?”
“If that were the case, I would be sadly out of luck, wouldn’t I?”
Dave gives a little laugh, the crease in his chin more pronounced than usual. “I guess so.”
He seems to accept my refusal to open up on private matters with him, because he doesn’t press me any further about my unmarried condition.
After a few minutes, I pick up my book and start to read, and he stares off into the distance without speaking.
I wonder what he’s thinking about, but I’m not about to ask him.
I do like that he’s able to amuse himself with his own thoughts. It’s not something that is true about everyone.
The next day, Dave is sitting on the bench when I approach.
I’m expecting him to show up, since he has the last two days, but seeing him there before me rattles me a bit.
Naturally, I don’t show it. I just murmur good morning as I sit down on the bench beside him.
“I was thinking maybe you wouldn’t make it this morning,” he says. He doesn’t smile at me. He has a very charming smile—I know this quite well—but he doesn’t seem inclined to aim it at me very often. But he’s not as rude and resentful as he was the first day, so I have to assume he doesn’t mind my presence as much as he initially indicated.
I don’t mind his either, as long as he doesn’t start babbling to me all the time.
“Why would you assume I wouldn’t make it?” I ask, arranging my skirt around my legs. I wear a long, flowing, casual skirt—the kind I used to wear all the time. It feels like me, so I’m glad I put it on this morning.
“You weren’t here when I got here.”
“I’m here at my normal time. You’re here earlier than usual.”
He looks at his watch, as if surprised. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“I lose track of time sometimes.”
I wonder if this is true—and, if so, how much it affects him. It’s a common thing to happen once a person hits seventy. Dave seems to be in quite good shape physically. He can walk and dance and play tennis a lot better than I possibly could. But there must be a reason he moved from the independent-living cottages to the assisted-living residence last year.
Maybe it’s his memory.
If so, it’s certainly not debilitating, since this is the first time I’ve noticed any sign of it.
“Well, it’s just after six thirty in the morning right now,” I say. “This is the time I always get here.”
“You always leave at the same time?”
“Yes. Give or take a few minutes. Why?”
“I was just wondering if you still live by a schedule.”
Of course I live by a schedule. I go to bed around the same time every night. I wake up around the same time too. I eat breakfast at seven and lunch at eleven thirty, tea around three and dinner by five thirty. I leave for my walk at about a quarter after six.
Even after a week at Eagle’s Rest, my schedule has been finalized. When I was younger—when I was working—my schedule each day would often look different, since I could never predict what might come up throughout the day.
But now, nothing ever comes up. Days fall into a familiar rhythm. There is security in that. Comfort.
I know I’m not the only person my age who has found the same thing to be true.
I imagine Dave is not much different.
“Don’t you?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows in the way I always do when I want to convey mild irony.
“Yes,” he admits. “Most of the time. Sometimes it’s damned boring.”
Maybe it is, but it doesn’t bother me. I never get bored.
“What?” he asks, after a moment, as if he can see I have something in mind, something I might say.
I’m not usually inclined to share what I’m thinking with people—certainly not with a man who is a virtual stranger. But I hear myself saying anyway, “I was just thinking that I don’t get bored. Even with the same schedule every day, I can always find something to entertain myself.”
He’s peering at me again, turning his head so he can see my expression. “What do you do to entertain yourself?”
I’m surprised by the question, since the answer should be obvious. “I think. I read. I do word games. I watch movies. I walk. I look out onto Valentine Valley.”
He turns his head toward the valley, and he asks in a different tone, “What do you see there?”
I give a little shrug, feeling strangely jittery, although there’s absolutely no reason for it. “Home.”
The answer seems to affect him, since he’s still and silent for nearly a full minute. Then he finally murmurs, “Yes. That’s something, isn’t it?”
We don’t talk again until we leave to walk back. I get up first, and he follows.
The following day, I go to a yoga class with Marjorie.
When she first invited me to go, I laughed, telling her that simply walking is hard enough for me. Standing on my hands will be impossible.
“Oh, but it’s chair yoga,” she says. “None of us can do the fancy moves, but I’m sure you’ll like it. All the ladies from the knitting circle go.”
I’ve never heard of chair yoga, but Marjorie is much frailer than I am. If she can do it, then surely I can too. I like Marjorie—more every time we talk—and I prefer to say yes to her if I can.
So I change into a long T-shirt and stretchy pants that Beth has always called “yoga pants.” Surely that’s an appropriate outfit for chair yoga. I pull my hair back in a ponytail so it won’t get in the way.
I don’t have nearly the energy I used to. Every time I try to do something active now, it takes a concerted effort to start. But I’m usually pleased with myself after it’s done—proud that I accomplished something—so I hope I’ll feel the same way after this class.
Evidently, chair yoga is done while sitting in a straight-backed chair. There are fifteen of them lined up in a room in the community center with a wall of mirrors. The teacher is the peppy staff member who is in charge of health activities for the residents. She’s a little too peppy for my taste. There’s only so long a person can smile before I start to believe that it’s fake.
But Marjorie is thrilled that I’m here, so I’m glad I made myself come. I sit in the chair next to her, and she tells me the names of all the women in her knitting circle.
Some of them I’ve met already, and the others I recognize from around the residence. Marjorie tells me little details about them—“Stella has had four husbands, you know”—“Mary can’t drink milk or anything dairy. It makes her gassy”—“Clarisse keeps a thousand dollars in cash under her mattress”—and she speaks so loudly that all of the women must be able to hear her.
They either smile in fond amusement or give her annoyed glances over their shoulders. This gives me a clue about whether they’re the kind of women I will like.
The class begins, and we all have to stretch our arms in various positions, breathe deeply, and keep our posture very straight. It’s really not so bad. The stretching actually feels good. And it might even be relaxing were not all the women having conversations with each other while they performed the moves.
It seems like yoga should be a quieter activity, but the peppy class leader doesn’t even try to shush anyone. She’s probably used to it.
Marjorie tells me about the dance lessons she had as a child. Evidently, she was really good at ballroom dancing and got to perform at some fancy hotels. She lived in a number of big cities after she got married, and for a while she still tried to keep up her dancing. It’s interesting to listen to her. She’s had such a different life than I have. I wonder if she regrets giving up dancing, but she never says anything that makes me think so.
The chair yoga class goes quickly, and I’ve actually enjoyed myself. As we leave the room, I thank Marjorie for inviting me.
“Oh, did I invite you, dear?” she asks.
She’s definitely a little spacey, but it’s very clear to me now that it has nothing to do with her intelligence or her heart. I’m glad to have met her. I would even call her a friend.
“You did.” I feel a wave of affection and do something that’s not something I often do. I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. “It was a lovely thing to do.”
She smiles, clearly pleased by the gesture.
As I straighten up, I see a couple of men walking down the hall, dressed like they’ve been playing tennis.
One of them is Dave. I recognize him well before I’m able to make out his features. His body, his stride, is unmistakable.
At least to me.
He’s watching me as he approaches, and I see something like curiosity in his eyes.
For a moment, I wonder how I look, in the baggy T-shirt and ponytail. Then I remind myself that it really doesn’t matter.
He nods politely, and the man with him tells both Marjorie and me hello. Then they’ve walked past us and the encounter is over.
I feel vaguely disappointed, but I’m not sure what else I expected. Dave and I aren’t friends.
We just aren’t.
“He has eyes for you,” Marjorie says.
I turn toward her quickly. “What do you mean?”
“Dave Andrews. He has eyes for you.”
“He does not. He barely acknowledged us.”
She gives a tittering laugh and doesn’t say any more, but I wonder if she’s seen more in him than I did.
It’s Thursday before I decide to ask Dave the question I’ve wanted to ask each morning.
We’ve seen each other every day, sitting on the bench together. We always have a brief conversation, but it never lasts very long.
We’re not friends. We’re not close. We’re still mostly strangers—strangers who share a few minutes together, cut off from the rest of the world, here on the edge of the mountain.
On Thursday, he’s complaining about his arm, which he evidently pulled the other day playing tennis. I tell him he should be more careful, since he’s not a young man anymore.
He doesn’t appreciate this comment. He sits in silence for a few minutes with a frown on his face.
At first, I’m amused, since I knew what his reaction would be to my words and said them anyway. But then I feel more confident, as if Dave isn’t quite so distant and foreign as he felt a few days ago. So I consider the possibility for a few minutes before I ask, “Who is Clara?”
Dave gives a little jerk, startled either by my voice or by the question itself. “What’s that?”
“Who is Clara?” I repeat. I’m quite sure he heard the question the first time, but this is something that I do too when I’m taken off guard—use a clarifying question to give myself a little time to find more secure footing.
“Oh.” He looks away.
Well, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about her, but I want to know, and I’m not going to back down now that I’ve asked. It would make me look weak and spineless. “Was she your wife?”
“No.” He meets my eyes again, and there’s a challenge in his expression that I’m not expecting. “She was my daughter.”
“Oh.” I swallow, feeling a little wave of guilt at bringing up a subject that must be painful to him. “She died?” There would be no reason for a memorial bench to the girl if she were still living.
“Yes.”
“When was that?” He didn’t have kids when I knew him back at the college, so he must have had the girl when he was in his late forties or fifties. Not unusual, for men.
“She was only thirteen. It’s been a long time.”
“That’s so sad. What happened to her?”
He’d looked reluctant to talk about it at first, but now he answers easily, as if he’s released a breath or let something go—something that allows him to open up. “Leukemia. She fought it for four years.”
“Wow. That’s …” Heartbreaking.
“There are no words. I know.” He’s not looking at me, but it doesn’t feel like he’s closing me out. I don’t know why I’m surprised that he’s faced a tragedy like this in his life—everyone has their share of heartaches if they reach the age we are—but I am surprised. His life has always seemed charmed to me. Easy.
But I should know better by now.
I should know better.
“Was your wife still around when it happened?” I don’t actually know the full story with his wife, so I try to be careful with the words.
He nods. “We divorced after she died. It was like we couldn’t stand to even look at each other anymore. I guess that’s normal.” He leans back against the bench, stretching out his legs.
“I heard your wife died.”
He looks surprised for just a moment. “Oh, you must mean my second wife. She died, yes. About nine years ago, before I moved here.”
“Do you have any other children?”
“No.”
I remember what Charlotte told me. “Stepchildren, then?”
“Yes, I have a whole passel of stepkids.” He shakes his head. “Not the same.”
“No,” I say. “I guess not.” The stepkids would have been older when he married his second wife. Even if his wife was a lot younger than him, they would probably have at least been teenagers. It might have been hard to bond in a situation like that.
“You never had kids?” he asks, his expression changing, as if he’s putting the sad stuff behind him.
I know the feeling. I experience it more and more as I get older. There’s simply too much that hurts, too much to dwell on. You have to think of other things if you’re to make yourself keep going.
Onward, as Gordon said on Saturday night.
“No, I never had kids.”
“Did you want them?” It’s a presumptuous question, but I’ve been asking him presumptuous questions too, so I can hardly resent it.
I shake my head. “No. I never really did. There was a time, when I was younger, when I wouldn’t have minded having kids. But when I finally had the chance, it just didn’t feel right.”
“Hmm.”
I figure that’s response enough, so I stare out to the valley once more. The sun is bright today, and it’s flashing against the water of the lake in the distance.
“I have a very good nephew,” I say after a moment of silence. “He and his youngest daughter are very good to me.”
Dave’s forehead wrinkles, and for a moment he looks almost bleak. “That’s good. You aren’t alone.”
I don’t like that flicker of emotion I catch on his face, so I say something in an attempt to be positive. “And you have your stepkids. Someone said you went on vacation with them, so I guess they take good care of you.”
Dave gives a slightly bitter laugh. “Oh, yes.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but it worries me.
That afternoon, I have tea with Charlotte.
I don’t see Charlotte every day, since sometimes she’s busy and sometimes she’s off duty. But I like her the best of all the staff at Eagle’s Rest I’ve met so far, and I’m pleased when she comes over to sit with me on the veranda where I’m drinking my tea.
We’re chatting lightly about books we’ve read and places we’ve traveled when I see her eyes drift away from me.
Long experience has taught me what that means, so I turn my head automatically to see what has distracted her.
I see Gayle Langston, who is the managing director of this community. I’ve only met her once in person, but I see her around quite a bit. She’s a middle-aged professional woman who comes across as efficient and no-nonsense.
With her is a man I’ve never seen before. He wears good trousers and a white dress shirt, and he’s probably in his forties—with a high forehead and a sharp chin. I recognize that a lot of women would find him attractive, but I’ve never liked his kind of looks.
I turn back to Charlotte and see that her eyes are fixed on the man. He glances over at us and gives a wave and a smile in our direction.
Charlotte waves back, her cheeks flushing as she giggles.
This must be Kevin, the lawyer.
“Is that someone important?” I ask.
“It’s Kevin,” she says, giving me a look I well recognize, that secretly excited look that girls get when they want to confess something juicy. “Dave Andrews is his stepfather, so he comes out occasionally to look in on him. He’s good about that kind of thing.”
“Is he? He should come over and talk with you then.”
Charlotte shakes her head and watches as Kevin parts with Gayle and walks away, not giving us even a second glance. “He’s very professional. He doesn’t do that kind of thing.”
“Oh. I see.” Although I don’t see at all. After a moment, I watch a very expensive red sports car drive down the road that leads out of the property. “Is that him?”
“Yes. Isn’t it a beautiful car?”
“I guess. He must have a lucrative practice.”
“He does very well, I think. And with Dave as his stepfather, there’s family money.”
“I see.” I want to say more. I want to tell her not to be silly, not to put her hopes in a man who will never fulfill her dreams. I can see it so clearly. Kevin might be spending some time with Charlotte, but it’s not because he’s serious about her. A man who is even halfway interested would have stopped by our table to say hello, at least.
I’ve always hated when I see women doing this—placing their faith in men who will never live up to that faith. I did so myself a few times, and I well remember the emotional limbo, the will-he-won’t-he angst that always led to deep disappointment.
I don’t want that for Charlotte, but there’s nothing for me to do. If I give her advice at this point she’ll only reject it and probably cool off toward me.
Unfortunately, what I want to tell her can only be learned through experience.
Charlotte must be forty or close to it, but not every woman has a lot of romantic experiences early.
And some women want a man so much they forget what their experiences have taught them.
“It’s really too bad,” Charlotte says, leaning closer to me, as if she has a different sort of secret to share.
“What is?”
“I guess that Kevin’s brother and sisters are being rather greedy about Dave’s money.”
My eyes widen, genuinely surprised. “Are they? What are they doing?”
“I’m not quite sure. It’s just a few things that Kevin has said. Dave made a lot of money in his life. I suppose you might know that, if you knew him before.”
“Yes, I’m not surprised by that.”
“And, since he has no children, I guess some of his stepkids take advantage of him.”
“Do they expect to inherit when he dies?”
“I guess they do. I don’t know any details, but I think Kevin is worried by it. He’s a good guy.”
I’m not sure about that, but I’m not prepared to completely dismiss it, either. Kevin might be a good guy. Good guys certainly have been known to lead women on. They do it all the time, often completely obliviously.
I’ve decided I don’t like Kevin, but that doesn’t mean he’s a grasping stepson.
I certainly hope not. I’d like to think that at least one of Dave’s stepsons cares enough about him to prefer him alive rather than dead.