Bran New Death(83)

During our many conversations, I had learned that McGill had lost his wife around the same time I had lost Miguel. He seemed to be open to new romance though, while I was mired in the past, swallowed alive by my sense of loss, still, after seven years. How was McGill managing, even with a girl as extraordinary as Shilo? Most widows and widowers that I knew of moved on more quickly than I was able to, though. All around me, folks were getting together and going on with their lives, while I still mourned the only man I had ever loved. Miguel was going to be a hard act to beat, and maybe that was my problem. I still measured every man I met and had a passing interest in against his perfection.

I checked in with the vet’s office after lunch, but though Becket was doing better, he wasn’t quite ready to leave. I could practically hear dollar bills winging their way out of my wallet. I decided I may as well take the muffins to Golden Acres, so I drove there and parked on the sloping road, then circled the building to the back, where I delivered the baked goods to the kitchen.

Then I went through to the old section of the retirement residence. There was some kind of event going on in the community room; I could tell by the laughter. I followed the sound, and entered through the pocket doors. Hannah was sitting in the middle of the room surrounded by old folks. Books were piled around, and she was clapping at something someone had just said.

“Merry!” she cried. “You’re just in time! It’s Random Quote Day.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a game,” she said, her huge eyes sparkling.

Lizzie was sitting in the corner talking to Mr. Dread, and ignoring everyone else. I let her be for the moment, and joined the turmoil that swirled around Hannah, a virtual senior tornado of oldsters grabbing books, showing them to others, tottering around the tiny librarian with wheelchairs and walkers.

“It’s your turn,” she said, and tossed me a book. She named a page and line number swiftly. “Read it now!”

I didn’t have time to protest, nor did I notice the book title, so, with everyone eyeing me, I opened to the page and scanned down to line seven. “‘It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others,’” I read out loud. How apropos of our fast friendship! And I recognized the quotation. I closed the book: Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen. Of course. I eyed Hannah suspiciously and she beamed a bright smile in my direction. That was no random quote; the minx had planned it in case I showed up, knowing my love for classic English literature, and zeroing in on the appropriate quotation.

“Who’s next?” she said.

I wanted to find Gogi, but I murmured to Hannah, as I passed, “Can we talk before you leave?” and she nodded.

In the reception area the same girl I had met before—and whose name I had forgotten—was ably filling her post as combination watchdog and phone answerer. “Is Gogi Grace available?” I asked her.

She turned her brown-eyed gaze on me, and tears welled. “I’m sorry,” she said, her light Irish accent soft and vibrant. “She isn’t able to see anyone at this moment.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked, a little alarmed by her evident sadness.

She glanced around and leaned forward. “Everything is just fine, but . . . she’s . . . she’s having a vigil for a terminally ill patient right now, someone who has no family. She’s asked not to be disturbed.”

“That’s so sad! Who is it?”

She shook her head. “It’s no one you would know. The lady has been confined to her bed for years; she’s 103. No one left even remembers her. But Mrs. Grace won’t let her leave alone.”

“Thank you. I . . . I wish her well.” I turned away and spotted Lizzie, standing partly shrouded by the potted fern by the door. She stared at me, her eyes dark and red-rimmed. The girl had been crying, and I wanted to know why. “Do you want to talk?” I asked. She nodded. “Let’s go outside.”





Chapter Twenty-two





WE WALKED OUT to the benches out front; that was as good a place as any, since I hoped to catch both Hannah and Gogi, should she become free. The clouds had gathered and concealed the sun, with an ominous darkness in the distance. I wished I had a sweater. A cool breeze swept up the sloped road. But Lizzie—wearing a sweatshirt that was emblazoned with a slanted, homemade logo in fabric paint asserting that “AVHS Sucks!,” probably a reference to her high school—seemed comfortable. We sat down on one of the empty benches and she thrust her legs out in front of her, slouching back with her arms folded over her chest.