“It’s hard to make friends, Frances,” Marjorie informed her when Frances reported in. “That’s why people our age move into senior living. Come and visit. Just don’t, you know, challenge anyone to a duel or anything.”
Frances considered herself far too young to need senior living, but then again, maybe she could use some of that community. “Honestly, Marge. I’m not going to challenge anyone, especially not to something as old school as a duel,” Frances sniffed. “But okay, I’ll come visit.”
The first thing she’d noticed upon entering the luxury retirement resort was the blast of square dance music into the foyer. She turned right, as Marjorie had instructed, and passed a large gymlike room. Inside, residents were dressed in square dance clothing, the women with colorful skirts and petticoats that could only be described as hideous, the men in jeans and bolo ties. On stage, a man held on to his walker with one hand and the mic with his other, calling out the squares.
“Well, hello there!” chirped a voice behind her.
Frances turned to see a young woman with bouncy blond hair dressed in a sparkly pink dance skirt. Her name tag announced she was GLORIA. “Visiting someone?”
One might have thought that was the point of the visitor tag affixed to Frances’s shirt. “My friend.”
“Wonderful! We highly encourage social interactions for our residents. Studies show it’s vital to senior mental health and may help ward off dementia. Is your friend dancing today?”
Frances almost gasped with alarm. If Marjorie had set her up, she would strangle her. The last time she’d do-si-doed was in the fifth grade. Her partner, Bobby Brick, refused to touch her hand. It was amazingly difficult to square-dance without touching hands. “I’m sure not. She would have mentioned it.”
“I’m surprised she’s not! It’s one of our most popular activities.”
Well, that was sobering. Frances looked around for the elevator.
“Who is your friend?”
“Marjorie Cohen.”
“Oh, Marge! She’s one of our favorites around here. You can get a five percent rental discount for the first year with a referral from a current resident. You look like you’d fit right in! If you’d like to stop by and see what else we have to offer, my office isright there, next to the koi pond. We have one of the best catalogs of activities for a facility of this size.”
Forget the activities, Frances looked like she “fit right in” exactly how? she would like to know. And then again, she would not like to know.
“It’s just there,” Gloria said, pointing to her office.
“Yes, I see,” Frances said. “Could you point me to the elevator, please?”
Gloria swung around so fast that her square dance skirt helicoptered into Frances’s leg. “Right past the barber shop. We have a full range of spa services, too. I can show you.”
“Thanks,” Frances said, and headed for the elevator before Gloria could shove a rental agreement at her.
Marjorie’s apartment was easy enough to find, as the resident names were printed in big block letters on the wall outside their door. She had a pleasant little single-bedroom apartment with a view of a parking garage. She’d decorated her rooms in suburban kitsch—lots ofLIVE LAUGH LOVE–type signs around. She said the living here was great and offered Frances a martini.
“It’s only two o’clock,” Frances pointed out.
“And? Happy hour is at three-thirty, dinner at five. We’re pregaming, that’s all. You would love it here, Fran. There are so many things to do! Bingo and a bridge club and a singles dance every Friday night. But you won’t be single here for long, Franny girl,” she said, wagging her eyebrows.
Frances inwardly shuddered. She was not a bingo person, and she most definitely was not into the singles scene. Until this moment, she didn’t know that a singles scene existed in her age range.
“I’m so glad you’ve come to visit,” Marjorie said as she cut a slice of the coffee cake she’d made fresh this morning to go with the two olive martinis she’d whipped up. “I have news. Look at this.” She waved her fingers in Frances’s face.
Frances reached into her bag for her glasses, put them on, and leaned forward. “It’s a ring.” A plain, thin gold band.
“Not just any ring. Aforeverring.”
“What’s that?”
Marjorie stopped waving her fingers in Frances’s face. “Essentially, a promise ring.”
“A promise ring? Like when we were kids?”
“Yep. Dan Stefano lives across the hall, and we’ve been dating.”
Frances didn’t know why she should be so surprised, but she’d built her life around Nick Deluca and their son, and the thought of casually dating after his death had never entered her mind. No one could top Nick. And Paul had only been dead a year. “You’re … How?”
