They continued toward the gazebo in the middle of a small park that sat in the center of the roundabout drive.
“How are you adjusting to the weather?” Henry asked. He gestured for her to take a seat.
“Uff da. It sure is hot during the day. Nights aren’t too bad, so I’ve been told.”
“That’s true for a good part of the year, but summers can be brutal, even at night. I don’t want to alarm you, but next month will be a doozy. The first year I was here, they showed someone actually frying an egg on the sidewalk. You don’t see too many people walking around. Everyone wants to stay in their personal meat lockers,” Henry joked.
“Ha. That’s a funny one. I have to admit, being used to the cold, I do keep my thermostat around sixty-six.” She winced. “There aren’t rules about that, are there?”
“Not that I know of.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.
“So tell me, Henry Pushkin, we never got around to that danglingbut, and don’tcha tell me it was one of those moments.” She gave him a slight nudge with her elbow.
“At the risk of sounding irrational, let me just say this. While I think this setup is a good idea for some people, especially those without families, it sometimes gives me the heebie-jeebies knowing the next step is on the other side of those trees.” He gestured toward the long line of Italian cypress trees that served as a high hedge. “Although they do a magnificent job in keeping the different facilities separated, sometimes I feel as if it’s a dark cloud looming in the horizon.”
“Isn’t that just life?” Frida asked, wide-eyed.
“Good point,” Henry responded. He was about to continue when he noticed a flicker of light through the hedges. “Wait here.” He got up and walked quickly toward the cypress trees. He parted a few branches and peeked through. Then he stepped back slowly and returned to where Frida was sitting.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He let out a huff. “At least I don’tthinkit’s anything.”
“But …”
“Ah, that word again,” he said, grinning.
“Yes, and?”
“I probably should not be telling you this, or you may think I just escaped from an asylum.”
“That would make the story even more interesting.” Frida egged him on.
Henry looked at her for a beat and then said, “Okay. You asked for it. I often take walks at night. Wandering the premises. They don’t encourage us meandering about, but I sometimes have trouble sleeping, and a walk usually helps.”
“And?”
“And I’ve seen some very late-night traffic pulling into the side of the other buildings. Always around three.”
“I don’t understand,” Frida replied.
“Me either. That’s my point.” He shrugged. “Probably my imagination running wild.”
“How often does this happen? You, going for a walk? Seeing mysterious cars? Or your imagination getting the best of you?”
Henry snickered. “You probably think I’m a bit mad.”
“Not yet.” Frida liked the comfortable exchange.
Henry squinted. He was thinking really hard so as not to scare this lovely person away. “It started about five months ago.”
“Your meandering, or your madness?” she joshed.
“Touché,” he said, and grinned. “It was around three in the morning. I saw a car that looked like a hearse drive up to the long-term care building.”
“I wouldn’t think that was unusual.”
