“Same here, except I’d like in sooner.” Anamaria sighs and leans her head against my shoulder. “The waiting list is three digits long, and I’m on it, but probably never getting off because I don’t have enough need to rack up points.”
“You need points?” I ask, trying to reconcile the glee that had driven Anamaria to drag me out of the meeting—granted, I’d wanted to escape—with the building before me.
“It’s not for just anyone. They base priority on certain needs.” Anamaria ticks items off on her fingers. “Preference is given to single omegas; older omegas without a family or support network, regardless of whether they ever had a pack or not; and those in emergency circumstances, regardless of designation.They also prorate rent based on need and income. Ofcoursethey have a waiting list.”
“But demand doesn’t necessarily equal success.” A familiar voice sounds from the entryway, where the door had opened so quietly, I didn’t notice.
I blink. “Hester?”
“Hi, Johanna.” Prematurely white hair, pulled up in a messy bun with loose strands, frames a tawny, sharp-boned face I’ve often seen peering over the top of a book or laughing over a glass of wine at our monthly book club. We’re friends thanks to that, but not close. Our calendars never meshed for getting together outside the group, and eventually, we gave up trying.
A pumpkin-colored kaftan and a long, fringed shawl in black and gold hang loosely about her, hiding the lines of her body except when the wind presses them against her. Fitting choice of colors, for as she steps aside to let us in, the scent of pumpkin pie and omega musk follows her.
The entry features a half-circle desk staffed by a large man in a T-shirt and blue overalls, whom Hester introduces as Henry, a resident, sculptor, and maintenance man with whom both Anamaria and Bebe are evidently friends. He’s another omega, given the musk underlying his sharp, sweet smell, like the air just before it rains. The beads in his four thin cornrow braids chime as he moves.
He and Bebe go through a convoluted series of shakes, and he and Anamaria exchange a hug before he leads us into a big community room with sofas and chairs arranged in a half-dozen conversation areas.
As we pass through the entryway, harsh white light casts Hester’s features in sharp relief and highlighting lines I hadn’t noticed before. Once in the community room, she pulls me into a hug as strong and bracing as the one she’d given me at Max’s memorial service.
“I thought you were a therapist and lived up by the lake,” I say. Wherever we are, it’s not by the shore, though granted I can’t quite recall the last time we met at her place. She’s one of the members who prefers to host meetings at a local library branch.
“I was, and I am—I did and I do. It’s complicated.” She runs a shaky hand over her head, dislodging more strands. “Basically, we’ve decided that whoever has primary responsibility for running this place—which is me for now, though I’m hoping we can hire more administrative staff soon—is better off living elsewhere. We provide housing to on-site security and maintenance staff, such as Henry, so it’s not as though no one’s here to help outside of regular hours. When I first came on as the main administrator and lived here, I was a littletooavailable for anything and everything, and you can imagine the complaints and gossip people loved pouring in my ears.”
“But what is this place?” I shake my head as I sit, sofa cushions squeaking beneath my weight. Hester’s nutmeg-pumpkin smell sits at odds with Anamaria’s lilac even to my nose, the combination making my stomach uneasy. “And why am I here?”
“It’s a planned community, Aunty. Just the kind of thing Uncle Max would’ve liked.” Anamaria sits next to me, taking my hand in hers and leaning close. She seems needier, more eager for touch, than I’ve seen in a while. Apparently, Bebe notices, too, as she squeezes in on her sister’s other side.
Hester takes a seat opposite. “It started with a group of single omegas, ranging from late forties to early eighties. Some were single by choice, others because we just never found anyone we wanted to settle down with—and none of us had much in the way of family nearby.” She picks up a thick folder from a side table, clutching it tightly. “We looked at our futures and didn’t like what we saw.”
Anamaria takes up the thread. “Alpha and Omega Centers are good at what they do, but they mostly serve younger populations: alphas and omegas, right after they present and through their thirties. People like me and Caity.” She squeezes my fingers until I squeak, then continues.
“By their forties, alphas are expected to have packed up or, at least, shaped themselves into useful members of society. Omegas are given much less time. We’re pushed to bond to one or more alphas as young as possible so that we’re less in need of anything from Omega Centers—certainly not heat assistance, even though we keep having heats until we’re really old. Granted, heats become shorter and farther apart as we age, but an omega in their seventies deserves consideration and help avoiding pain even if their heat is only a couple of hours twice a year.” Anamaria snorts. “Some of the Omega Center staff are already hassling me over not having packed up!”
I stiffen and clench my teeth. She’s only twenty-three—though, as an adult, she likely wouldn’t want me or her father meddling on her behalf.
Hester nods. “We were very lucky. One of the omega founders was well-off, though the rest of us didn’t know it beforehand.” She gives me a sideways grin, the kind I’ve seen on other people preparing to ask for money—maybe not now, but sooner rather than later. “She left us enough to buy this place and start rehabbing it. Now, we offer housing and social and practical assistance options to our residents at the lowest rates we can afford. More than half of our residents are omegas, and the rest are betas, plus a very few alphas. Most of the betas and alphas are older, single, and lack support networks. We keep a couple apartments for emergency needs, as we can. Our endowment covers costs for now, but we can’t keep up with the need.”
I turn and level a glare at Anamaria. She’d set this up in advance, clearly hoping to prompt a donation of some kind. It seemed a worthy enough cause, but couldn’t she have given me a heads-up?
“I didn’t bring you here just to see the building and amenities, though I do think this is an option for Uncle Max’s trust,” Anamaria says, at least being discreet about the amount of money potentially available. “Dad loves you, Aunty, and he’d be happy to pack up with you formally—and he’s not the only one—but Bebe and I wanted you to know you have other options.”
“Though if you decide not to pack up with Dad, please let him down easy,” Bebe mutters. “For our sake, if not for his.”
“Just don’t pack up because you’re worried you’ll be alone otherwise. Only do it if you want to.” Anamaria gives me a quick, hard hug, enfolding me in a cloud of souring lilac before she pulls back. “We’ll always be there for you, whether you live with us or on your own, or in a place like this.”
“Are you concerned for me or for yourself down the line?” I glance between my two nieces, both still in their early twenties, and hope they’ll never be in dire need of help.
So sweet, so caring, and someddling. Not to mention their clear assumption that being in my fifties means I’ve got one foot in the grave, regardless of how healthy I am. Then again, Max and I were of an age, so maybe they’re worried about my long-term health.
In private, I wouldn’t let their casual references to me packing up go unchallenged by queries about how long they’ve suspected and what signs of their father’s they’ve picked up on.
But not here. Not in front of Hester. No matter that she’s one of my favorites from the book club, and when the club meets up, we spend almost as much time talking about personal matters as the books we read. We only meet once a month, and thereare nearly a dozen of us, including some I wouldn’t trust not to gossip. There’s a sharp limit to the kind of information I shared with even those I like the most among them, depending on who else is around.
“This doesn’t go any further.” I stare at each of them in order around the circle: Anamaria, who ducks her head as bright red blooms on her cheeks; Bebe, who merely lifts an eyebrow in echo of Max; and Hester, who nods.
“I promise I won’t share any secrets without permission, and I’m not asking you for money.” Hester shrugs. “At least not at this time. I haven’t mentioned this at our book club because I value having at least one space where I’m not spending all my time thinking about raising funds. That, and seeing this place tends to be an important motivator for donations.”
With that, the tour proper begins. It truly is a welcoming place; I don’t need Anamaria enthusing over the range of options for heat assistance, nor Bebe not-so discreetly pointing just how varied a clientele the building serves.
