Since I can kick it into high gear, I rush ahead to answer, glad I’ll get a chance to do a quick vibe check on Wayne of Shady Tree Lane before allowing him to take out Arlene. Introductions are quick, as the guy with the white moustache is clearly overwhelmed by us all. But we’re not looking to ease his concerns, so he’d better treat her right is all I’m saying.
“Don’t worry, we’ll save you some meatloaf,” Gertie hollers after the duo in her raspy voice, and I’d laugh, but my stomach is getting rather serious about dinner.
It’s barely after six o’clock.
Early bird special range, for sure.
I watch out the window as Wayne helps Arlene into the passenger seat of a blissfully loofah-free golf cart, then head after the group to the dining room table.
A grunt escapes as I sit hard on the seat and unfurl my napkin. “Okay, ladies, I’ve jumped through your hoops for a month now, but if you want to maintain control of my social life, I’m going to need more.”
“Oh boy, here she goes,” Grandma Helen says, a thorn in the path already, as now anything I do or don’t do will be “an overreaction.”
Nothing for it but to charge on, I suppose. “In order to get this property back in the black, I need the men to attend the next seminar and start dealing with this giant problem of their own making.”
The other women at the table share a glance nowhere in the ballpark of confident, and my heart does unpleasant somersaults in my chest.
“It’s not as easy as that,” Wanda says, mangling the napkin in her hands while skirting my gaze.
“This is the entire reason I agreed to living out everybody’s regret—you help me get the residents to listen, including the men.” I narrow my eyes and flick them from Grandma Helen to Wanda to the married couple at my left, sure the dudes didn’t show up most places entirely of their own volition. “How did you convince them to protest?”
“We have our secrets,” Wanda says, peering at me through the fringe of her bangs. “And several ideas.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and groan. “That’s not even remotely comforting. If I don’t have help with my job, there will be no weekends or evenings off, I can tell you that much.”
“Don’t worry,” Grandma Helen says, giving my thigh a pat that’s far from consoling, even though I know she means it to be. “We’ll handle it.”
Wanda gives an enthusiastic nod I don’t believe. “You just focus on tomorrow night. Bette’s been talking about it all week.”
Whatever I’m supposed to be living out on Bubbie Bette’s behalf, they’ve decided to spring the task on me when we get there, insisting that telling me in advance would ruin the surprise.
I hate surprises.
“It’s better if you don’t overthink it,” Grandma Helen says, reaching for the bowl of mashed potatoes in front of her.
“Life isn’t scheduled, sweet pea,” Vonetta says. “You don’t want to be so busy that you miss it when the universe reveals the incredible path it has in store for you.”
“Just be ready tomorrow at seven o’clock, and everything will be fine,” Gertie adds as she passes me the meatloaf. “And definitely don’t panic.”
Nope. That’s not panic-inducing atall.
Chapter Nineteen
“I’ve got the goods,” Wanda announces as she lets herself and a puff of muggy air in through the sliding glass door to the patio on Saturday evening. I hadn’t known she wasn’t home until she strolled through the back entrance, overly pleased with whatever errand she ran.
“The goods?” I lean backward while keeping my glass against the water dispenser on the fridge so it’ll continue filling, right in time to see Wanda yank the contraband behind her back. “Do I even ask?”
“You can, but I’ll never tell.” Mimicking the zipping of her lips, Wanda seals off any information regarding our mysterious fate. Grandma Helen strolls in from the living room through the open archway to round the counter and lower her plate and silverware into the dishwasher.
She groans at the effort, prompting me to ask if she’s okay, which seems to irritate her as much as not having an itinerary is irritating me.
As she brushes past me, she gives my cheek a pat, “Stop worrying, Mama Mia. Tonight’s supposed to be about fun, not torture.”
“Not knowing the plan or our destinationistorture,” I argue.
They don’t even bother responding, so I head to my bedroom to get as ready as I can for an undisclosed evening of whatevering.
I’m applying mascara when everything within me sinks, the barbed thought that robs me of breath coming out of nowhere.You’re never going to make it to 85 percent.
