When I worked in the college library, I used to have lunch in the main dining hall nearly every day. Sometimes I would sit with other members of the staff, but often I would eat alone.
I enjoyed those lunches the best.
I’d watch the students as they came and went, eating their meals and talking to each other. Some of the students I knew by name from time they’d spent in the library, but most I only knew by sight. I’d watch relationships formed, rivalries solidified, hearts broken—all over sandwiches, salads, pizza, cereal, and a variety of bland main dishes. I’d witness the entire arc of romances, from first meeting to intense passion to awkward distance after a breakup.
I never got tired of observing the students’ lives as they were played out while eating lunch.
I’m starting to get the same feeling here at Eagle’s Rest.
There are fifty-eight residents who live in the main building. By my second week, I recognize most of them and know about half of them by name, although I’ve only spoken to twenty or so. I’m certainly familiar enough with them now to know which of them love each other, which hate each other, which have some sort of personal history, and which hang out together because there’s no one else.
There are two rivals for Dave’s attention, although several other women would jump if he called. But the two residents who appear most competitive over him—who believe they have the most hope—are Gladys and Kathy.
Gladys is the bleached blonde he was dancing with on Saturday. She’s a little larger than me and always wears the most ridiculous high heels. I’ve never been a fan—even back when I was younger and they might have been appropriate—but I’d never dream of wearing heels that high now. Gladys does every day, and she wobbles around in an almost laughable way. I’m surprised she doesn’t break an ankle, since she doesn’t seem steady on her feet even without the heels. She manages, although it takes her longer to get from place to place than it takes me—even with my walker.
Kathy is a redhead who is always dressed to the nines. She was dancing with Dave on Saturday night too. Her shoes are always more reasonable than Gladys’s, but she must spend an hour doing her makeup every morning. Sometimes I stare at her cheekbones and eyelids, as if they are works of art. I don’t find the overall effect particularly flattering, but the male residents seem to appreciate it.
There’s a kind of competition between Gladys and Kathy at mealtimes. I noticed it early on. They both plant themselves at tables on opposite sides of the dining room—I’m sure they consider them “their” tables—and wait to see which one Dave will sit at.
He usually sits with one or the other of them, but there’s no clear pattern or method to which he’ll choose. Occasionally, he sits at an entirely different table in the room.
He never sits at mine.
At lunch on Thursday, the following week, I’m eating my vegetable soup and crusty bread when I see him arrive. He looks a little windblown, like he’s spent most of the morning outside. I have no idea what he does between breakfast and lunch, since I always go back to my apartment.
His dark eyes scan the room, as they always do. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to decide to join me. Early this morning, we spent more than a half hour together on the bench, talking about the schools we attended as children. It was the most extended and convivial conversation we’ve ever had, and I enjoyed it far more than I would have expected.
In a normal situation, Dave might come to join me for lunch, but I’m neither surprised nor disappointed when he doesn’t.
Our time on the bench doesn’t feel like it’s part of the real world. It feels isolated, cut off, distanced from what we do and who we are at the residence.
After all, we’re not friends. We’re just two people who share a bench every morning, since it’s the place both of us want to be.
I would never dream of going over there to chat with him, and I’m sure he feels the same way about me.
Dave eats his meals with Gladys or Kathy—and whoever else happens to be at their tables. He doesn’t eat his meals with me.
I’m sitting with Marjorie and Gordon, who have become my regular mealtime companions. We talked about the soup and about plans for the afternoon—tea on the veranda as usual, except Marjorie’s daughter is coming by to take her out to the salon to get her hair done. At the moment, we’re just sitting quietly.
I’m watching as Dave’s eyes scan my side of the room and come to rest briefly on me. Our eyes meet for a moment, but then his gaze passes on, and he heads over to Gladys’s table.
It doesn’t feel like a rejection, even though it could have been. It feels more like an acknowledgment that I exist.
I feel an unfamiliar stirring of excitement—somewhere in the vicinity of my breastbone. He’s never acknowledged I exist in the dining room before.
Gordon obviously noticed our brief gaze. He nods over toward Dave as he sits down next to Gladys, who is brimming with excitement as she always does on days he chooses her. “I heard his shyster stepson is trying to get him to change the will.”
I put down my spoon and straighten up. “Kevin, you mean? The young man Charlotte is seeing?”
“Is she dating him? I wouldn’t have thought she was his type.”
I don’t actually think she is his type, but that’s not an appropriate topic for today. “I heard that Kevin was trying to protect Dave from the clutches of his brother and sisters.”
Gordon frowns. “Maybe. That’s not what I heard, though.”
“Who did you hear it from?”
“I don’t remember. Someone was talking about it.”
That’s not particularly helpful information for me. I’d really like to know whether Kevin is out to help or hurt Dave, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone from whom I can get a straight answer.
I’d have to talk to Kevin myself and try to get a good read on him, but there’s not likely to be an opportunity for me to do so.
“I’m sure Dave can take care of himself,” I murmur, watching him as he listens to whatever Gladys is chattering about. “He’s not a pushover.”
“It’s not always that easy,” Gordon says, and I know he’s right.
Things that seem obvious and easy when you’re younger—like managing your finances and making your own decisions—aren’t always as easy or even possible at our age.
Sometimes it’s because of our own limitations, and sometimes it’s because others think we’re helpless.
There’s something that bothers me unduly about the idea of Dave being taken advantage of, and it’s not only for the obvious reason—that I don’t think he should be hurt. It’s also because I remember him as so strong and willful and powerful. He could get anyone to do what he wanted, and he never caved to anyone else’s will.
The possibility that he’s changed—that he’s not as strong as he used to be—unsettles me, makes my belly roll in an uncomfortable way.
Kind of like seeing a beautiful medieval text faded and crumbling or watching a gorgeous, historic church get torn down.
The good things in this world should last a little longer, and it’s wrong when they don’t.
I wonder if Dave will ever choose between Gladys and Kathy. Maybe he should, so he doesn’t keep stringing both of them along.
They seem to enjoy the drama, though. Kathy is over on the far side of the room, sending pouting glances to the other table and flirting with Laird Draycott, who is likely proposing to her at this very moment.
Dave was right. This place feels more like school every day. I suppose people are the same, no matter what their age. Put them all in the same place, and every flavor of human drama will be played out, no matter how small the space.
I look back toward Dave and see his eyes are resting on me.
I wonder if I should smile, but I don’t. I don’t want anyone to notice me smiling at him.
When I was a girl, I was terrified of anyone ever finding out about the men I was interested in. It felt like weakness, like vulnerability—admitting I wanted a romantic attachment.
I guess I haven’t really changed.
The next morning I walk out the back door of the building and through the gardens on my way to the path around the woods.
I stop in surprise when I see Dave, standing just where the lawn ends and the woods begin.
He’s facing in my direction, and he appears to be waiting for me.
I continue walking as soon as I process his appearance, but my heart is beating unusually fast. It’s silly, of course. He probably just happened to see me leave the building and paused out of general politeness.
It’s not like he would have made a point of waiting around so he could walk to the bench with me.
That’s not likely at all.
“I saw you come out,” he says as I approach him, confirming my suspicion that it’s just civility and happenstance.
“It’s warm this morning,” I say, as he falls in step with me. “Humid.” The feeling of fall from last week is gone. It’s like summer again.
“Yes.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You’ll be complaining about the cold soon enough,” he says, a dry humor in his tone.
This is true of most people, but it’s not true of me, and I tell him so. “I never complain about the cold. I’d much rather it be cold than warm.”
“Most people change their mind about that when they get older.”
I shake my head. “Not me. I do get colder than I used to get, but I’ve never liked the summer, and I still don’t.”
“So you don’t like to vacation in tropical places, then?”
“I’ve been to Hawaii once and the Caribbean a couple of times, and I enjoyed them just fine. But that’s because the whole trip is centered around the beach and pools. I certainly wouldn’t want to live somewhere like that.”
“What was your favorite vacation in your life?”
It’s strange how quickly you can grow comfortable with someone. Two weeks ago, I didn’t know or like Dave Andrews. Now, however, it’s normal for him to ask me these kinds of questions, and I actually enjoy answering them, since it feels like he’s really listening to me.
“My friends and I went to England in our twenties,” I say, smiling at the memory. “Oh, we had a grand time.”
“Have you never been back, then?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been back several times. I always enjoyed it, but it never quite equals the first time, does it?”
His thick eyebrows draw together, as if he’s considering this idea. “Maybe not.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
I frown up at him, since he seems to do this a lot, hem and haw when the conversation turns back to him. “What was your favorite vacation?”
“I don’t really know.”
We’ve reached the bench now, so I move my walker to the side and sit down, wincing slightly as my knee gives a throb of pain.
There’s nothing particularly wrong with my knee, other than old age and arthritis, so it’s just one of those pains you get used to.
“You must remember at least one vacation you really enjoyed,” I prompt, not wanting him to back out of answering the question.
“There were a lot of them.” He’s staring off at the distance now, the way he does when he’s searching his mind, searching his memory. “When Clara was nine, her mother and I took her to Florida to go to Disney World and Sea World and that whole lot. She had so much fun.”
“I bet she did. And that’s the one you remember the most?” I kind of like that about him—that the vacation that resonates most with him is the one his daughter most enjoyed. It says something about him I wouldn’t have realized a week ago.
“It was just before she was diagnosed.”
My heart does a painful twist, and I let out a long breath. “Can you look back on the good memories now and … and be happy?”
He turns his head to meet my eyes, and there’s something in his face that is open, genuine—something that makes my heartbeat speed up just a little bit. “Yeah. Usually, I can.”
“That’s good.”
We sit in silence for several minutes, but it doesn’t feel awkward or lonely. Both of us seem content with our thoughts, and I’m actually glad to have him there. As if there can be companionship in presence alone.
“Did you enjoy Niagara Falls?” I ask, finally breaking the silence as the question pops into my head.
I don’t usually speak the first thing that enters my thoughts, so I’m not sure why I did just then.
He blinks a couple of times and turns to look at me. “It was okay.”
“Just okay? Had you been there before?”
“No.”
“We went once when I was a girl. I remember enjoying going out in that boat.”
“Yes. We did the boat. It was … fine.”
He seems stiffer than he did before, but I don’t think it’s because he’s annoyed or impatient with me. I think it has to do with something else. I want to know for sure, so I say lightly, “It was nice of your stepkids to take you.”
He clears his throat and arches his eyebrows. “I suppose.”
This is getting closer to what I want to know, but I have to be careful or he’ll close down the conversation. “What was the trip for? Someone’s birthday or a celebration of some kind?”
“I don’t know.” He sounds almost tired now. “Kevin, one of the boys, just came up with the idea of us going on vacation, and then they all piled on. Both girls have husbands and one of them has a couple of kids, so it ended up being a big crew.”
“Whose idea was it to go to Niagara Falls?”
“Who knows?”
“Did you not want to go there?” I ask, responding to the slight bitterness in his tone.
“Not really. I’d have chosen somewhere else.”
“Then why didn’t you tell them that?”
He gives a slight shrug and half smiles at me. “Why bother?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s not worth the effort. If they want to go to Niagara, why argue?”
I’m starting to understand something—a conclusion that pieces together the various bits I’ve been noticing over the last two weeks. It’s not that Dave has really gotten weak-willed in his old age. It’s that he just doesn’t want to make the effort anymore.
As if it’s just not worth it to put up a fight.
Things always came easy for him when he was younger. He was the center of attention without even trying. People scurried to do his will with very little work on his part. Maybe that makes it harder, now that he’s older, now that it doesn’t happen so easily.
“If you wanted something else, it might be worth it.”
He keeps watching me, and his expression becomes almost curious. I much prefer this expression, even though he’s obviously searching my face, trying to discover my thoughts. “Do you think so?”
“Of course I think so. Why wouldn’t it be worth it?”
“It’s a lot of work, fighting a losing battle.”
I frown. “Why is the battle losing?”
“When you’re our age? How can the battle not be losing?”
I know exactly what he means, and I can’t even really argue with the point. It takes energy and will and effort to hold out against resistance, and most of that energy for us is spent going through the basic routine of living.
“It’s just a vacation,” he adds, more softly now. “What does it matter?”
“Do you like your stepchildren?” I ask, knowing very well that the question is a risk.
He gives another shrug. “They’re the only family I have anymore.”
That might be true, but it doesn’t answer my question.
Every day for the next week, when I walk outside in the mornings, Dave is waiting for me on the path at the end of the garden.
The first couple of times, it could have been chance, but by the third morning there was no way to deny it was intentional. He was waiting for me so he could walk to the bench with me.
We walk back together too.
Every morning as I got dressed, I felt a rising of jittery excitement, wondering if he would be there waiting, wondering what we would say to each other, wondering if he was looking forward to it like I was.
I spent the rest of the day looking forward to the following morning.
When I was thirty, I was in graduate school, and I fell desperately in love with a fellow student. He was a few years younger than me, but he was deliciously handsome, with thick blond hair and the artistically sculpted features of a Romantic poet—maybe Byron or Shelley.
His name was Mat—with only one t.
We met in a couple of classes we took together, and we started grabbing a cup of coffee after class. Every morning, I spent ridiculous amounts of time dressing attractively and planning out things to say that would impress or amuse him. He never called me or asked me out on a date, but I was sure he was falling for me as much as I was falling for him.
Oh, the daydreams I had of our future—courtship, wedding, honeymoon, an adorable cottage in the woods where we would grow old together, complete with rose garden and arbor. I had the whole span of our lives planned out in my mind, based on nothing but coffee and casual conversation.
I was thirty then, but I could still be silly. Particularly over men.
He liked me well enough, and he enjoyed hanging out with me. He wasn’t romantically interested in me at all, though.
I sighed after him for an entire semester, until I had to admit there was nothing there. I think I must have gotten too forward with him, because he gradually became more distant, more elusive, until the semester ended and that was it.
He wasn’t in any of my classes the following semester, and I only saw him once or twice in passing. He barely even acknowledged me.
I’m convinced he wasn’t an asshole. Not really. He was just hanging out with me because it was easy and enjoyable and he didn’t realize or didn’t care that it was generating unrealistic hopes in me.
I wonder, on Friday morning, after two weeks of spending time with Dave on the bench, if I’m doing the same thing now.
Maybe, at age seventy-one, I’m not any wiser about men.
I’m not daydreaming about Dave, though. I’m looking forward to our mornings at the bench, and that’s all. I don’t really have expectations of anything else happening between us.
He has Gladys and Kathy, after all, and he still doesn’t do more than nod at me at other times of the day.
He’s enjoying our mornings together as much as I am. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t be waiting for me on the path every day. It isn’t foolish to enjoy it, and to enjoy the fact that he wants to spend time with me.
I’m not expecting anything else.
Honestly, I’m not sure what else there could be.
I feel the same acceleration of my heart, however, as I walk out the door on that Friday morning. I’m a couple of minutes later than usual because I spilled my leftover tea as I was putting it in the sink and didn’t want to leave before I cleaned it up.
Dave should be waiting for me.
I hope he is.
I let out a breath of relief as I see him standing in his normal place. He’s looking down at the paved path, frowning.
I wave as he looks up, and I see his face change.
“You’re late,” he says, as I reach him.
Now, it’s my turn to frown. “Just a couple of minutes.”
“Five minutes.”
“I’m sorry. I had a slight accident with my tea and had to do some cleanup. You could have gone on without me, if you were getting impatient.”
“I thought maybe you weren’t going to come today.”
There’s no way for me to deny the flicker of pleasure I feel at the realization that this idea bothers him—the possibility that I wasn’t going to turn up for our morning walk. He was worried about it. That’s why he was frowning when I first saw him.
“I always come,” I say, making sure to sound as composed as I always do. “I never miss my walk.”
“Good.”
We walk up to the bench, making an occasional comment about the weather or the state of our knees this morning. Then, when we reach the bench, we fall into that companionable silence I most enjoy as we both watch a couple of squirrels scampering around in the grass and the few leaves that are starting to fall.
“Oh, look,” I say, after several minutes. “He’s found something.”
Dave has leaned over to peer at the squirrel in question. “What is it? A piece of bread?”
“I think it’s a piece of donut,” I say, after my own examination. “Someone must have dropped it yesterday. Look how proud he is of it.”
Dave and I chuckle as we watch the squirrel lord his find over the other one.
“My dogs used to chase squirrels,” I say, smiling at so many memories. “The squirrels would always run up trees, and then they’d hang out in the branches, teasing the poor dogs. I’m sure they would do it on purpose.”
“Which of your dogs?” he asks. I’ve mentioned my dogs a couple of times before, so he knows I’ve had several in my life.
“All of them. They were all Spaniels, and they all saw squirrels as enemies that needed to be vanquished. Alcott, my last dog, used to try to jump up after them in the trees. She was able to balance on her hind legs for several seconds as she tried to reach them.” My smile fades a little as I think about my dear brown cocker spaniel, who died only a few months ago.
The memory hits me hard for some reason, and my eyes start to burn.
I glance away, strangely embarrassed.
Dave doesn’t say anything, although I know he must notice my reaction.
After a minute, he reaches over and picks up my hand, which has been resting on the bench beside me. He holds my hand in his in a comforting gesture that can’t possibly be mistaken.
I’m surprised—very surprised—but I don’t pull my hand away. I don’t want to pull it away. His hand is wrinkled, like mine, and he has more age spots on his skin than I do. But his hand is warm and dry, and it feels solid. Secure.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve touched another person like this, in more than a casual gesture. It warms something inside me—the knowledge that Dave is here, he understands how I feel about Alcott, he wants me to feel better.
We sit on the bench together in silence for a long time, holding hands. He occasionally strokes the back of my hand with his thumb, but just lightly and not in a way that feels intrusive or annoying.
It feels nice. Really nice.
I’m almost embarrassed by how much I enjoy it, how I feel a little breathless as I sit beside him.
It seems like this sort of thing should feel different as you get older, but it doesn’t.
It really doesn’t.