Page 9 of Happy After All

He ducks under the water, and I watch, as do Wilma, Lydia, and Gladys, while he reaches into the filter. He surfaces a moment later with the necklace glittering in his hand.

“Oh, thank you, darlin’!” Wilma says. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost it.”

“Why did you wear it swimming?” As I ask the question, I realize just how little sense it makes that she would put on a precious piece of jewelry to swim.

“It makes me feel close to him.” Wilma is looking at me out of the corner of her eye like I’m not understanding something.

“And ... you value that closeness while in the pool?”

“We used to do calisthenics in the pool every morning. Until he died,” she says, deadpan.

“I . . . Okay.”

Wilma moves to Nathan and grips his arm. “Thank you, again. Darlin’, make sure you thank him!”

“Thank you,” I say.

He looks at me as he plants his hands on the side of the pool and hauls himself out. “No problem.”

I’m too stunned to speak as I watch his muscles shift and bunch while he stands himself up, as I watch the water sluice down his chest and ... well. Down.

He reaches out, and I realize I’m still holding his food, so I hand it to him and try very hard not to stare.

I fail.

“Enjoy ... enjoy dinner,” I say.

He nods and disappears back into his room.

“You’re welcome for the show,” Wilma says, laughing.

I turn toward her. “You’re not saying that you ...”

“I plead the Fifth,” she says, giving me a smile that suggests butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth—even in this heat.

“This is not a rom-com,” I say to her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can’t ... scheme your way into an entanglement.”

She laughs and laughs. “Oh, darlin’, when anentanglementis meant to be, you can’t fight your way out of it either.”

Chapter Three

As the summer shifts from June to July and from hot to hot as hell, there are fewer short-term guests and fewer planned activities.

As it climbs to near 118 during the heat of the day, there are no cribbage games outside. Not even after dark.

I’d love to say that here in my second California desert summer, I’m used to it.

The eighth time the wordsit’s so hotcome out of my mouth, Alice looks up from her romance novel—my romance novel, in that I wrote it—and says, “Why did you move to the desert, then?”

“A great question, Alice,” I say as I move past where she’s seated in the lobby with her feet propped up on a bright-pink ottoman. “Today, I don’t have an answer.”

But I don’t feel like I might run away.

I’m preparing a barbecue for later. It’s the only thing we do outdoors this time of year, because the alternative is cooking indoors, and no thank you. The long-term residents have rooms with kitchenettes, but no one wants to heat up their room when it’s like this. It makes the most sense for us all to grill together.

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