“But in a good way, right? Not like a sad way?” I ask.
“No, not like a sad way,” he says. “We’ve definitely got our work cut out for us if we’re going to get that done.”
“Good thing I have plenty of time on my hands,” I say.
“I do too, now. Lorna says she doesn’t need me at the store until after the gala. I can devote my time and energy to the project. Speaking of, we’ve got a band to secure,” he says, rattling his keys around.
I follow him out the door without hesitation.
***
“I’m only twenty-one. I’m not old enough to be dumped in one of these places already,” I jokingly protest.
We pull into a parking spot outside of Whispering Willows Nursing Home. It’s all crisp lines and beige windows looking out on the park where the Lights of Wonder Spectacular is housed, the architectural walk-through Rosalie had told me about at the inn. The one Noelle is coercing me into.
The one I want to invite Hector to…
“You’re never too young for a swing dance and dine soiree,” he says. I can’t believe all those words mashed up into one sentence came out of his mouth.
The inside is all dingy wallpaper matched with scratchy-looking carpets. The receptionist is a man with pointy black hair. He wears a light-up wreath pin yet doesn’t smile when he sees us.
“Welcome to Whispering Willows. What can I assist you with?” he asks drily, not living up to the playfulness of his pin.
“We’re here to meet with Bruce Harlan. He’s the leader of Swingin’ Six, the band playing at your event today,” Hector says. “He’s expecting us.”
Wreath Pin gets out a guest sheet and makes us both sign and date it. He begins filling out name tags.
“Oh, no, thank you,” I say in a chipper tone to save him the trouble.
“Every visitor must wear a name tag,” he says.
“But you can’t stick adhesive on cashmere.” I motion to my AMIRI intarsia-knit cardigan.
He raises his eyebrows as if to sayThat’s my problem?Hector shifts from foot to foot.
After a moment of internal struggle, I say, “I’ll happily take the sticker.” I own enough cashmere cardigans to outfit an entire professional football team. I can stand to sully one for a good reason.
He leads us toward the ballroom. We pass women sitting in armchairs flipping through magazines and men with walkers flapping their gums at one another. It’s like a hotel lobby exclusively for AARP members. They seem happier when they see us, so I wave and smile like I just won a pageant.
The ballroom is decked out for the day. The volunteers and workers strung the place up with a few odd streamers and a bunch of balloon bouquets.
It’s a solid attempt at making the space festive, but none of the residents seem to be into it. They pick at plates of soggy food, not even tapping their toes to the beat of the music.
Our guy Bruce is in the corner, crooning his way through a Christmas tune. He’s not half-bad, but he hasn’t inspired anyone to hit the dance floor yet. A major disappointment.
A kind woman in blue scrubs comes over to greet us and offers us some punch.
“Is this how you thought you’d be spending your time when your parents told you they were sending you here?” Hector asks me. There’s a hint of yesterday on his tongue. Is he asking about what transpired in our bunk beds, or genuinely curious about this? I choose to answer the latter.
“I do love being the youngest, prettiest person in the room, but this might be taking it a little too far,” I joke. “At least I’m here with you.”
Oh no.I’m a magician who’s pulled the rabbit out of his hat too early in the act. For a long moment, he looks at me funny. As if at any moment he might drag me close and kiss me again.
But instead of harping on that, I get a fresh idea to change the subject. “Dance with me,” I say, setting down our punch and holding out an open hand to him.
“What? Are you serious?”
“Looks like these people could use a little nudge,” I tell him. Nobody even gets up as Bruce switches to a slower standard they could shuffle about to. “Let’s face it, they’re not getting any younger.”
