Page 81 of The Summer Guests

After a four-hour drive through the sheeting rain, Maggie and Declan found themselves in the parking lot of the Fair Winds complex. Like so many upscale senior developments, this one was designed to look more like a country club than an institution where guests checked in and seldom checked out—alive, anyway. They sat in Declan’s Volvo, contemplating the building and picturing what their future might be like, residing in a place like this. Such a future would not be far off for them, something painful to accept, although Maggie was not oblivious to the inevitable.

“Do you think they have martini nights here?” Declan asked.

“We could always start them.”

“If it’s allowed.”

“If martinis are not allowed, I’d rather be dead.”

He smiled at her. “Ah. We agree on the important things in life.”

“On the upside, I wouldn’t have to mow my fields anymore. Or shovel snow.”

“There’s that.”

“And the next time you break your leg, there’d be some sweet young nurse to pamper you.”

“Why would I want a sweet young thing?” He leaned toward her and pressed a kiss to her lips. “You are all I can handle.”

They watched a Fair Winds van pull up under the porte cochere. Half a dozen silver-haired residents slowly emerged and shuffled into the building. “Seriously, Declan. Is that our future?”

“No, Mags. We’re both going to go down fighting. And they’ll have to pry my martini glass out of my cold, dead hands.” He opened his door, letting in a gust of rain. “Let’s get on with the mission.”

His leg might have been in a cast, but even on crutches, Declan moved quickly and gracefully across the rainswept parking lot, his long, lean body swinging like a human metronome. Maggie had to hurry to keep up with him.

Inside, the receptionist greeted them with a smile when they introduced themselves. “Yes, I heard Cathy was expecting visitors today. She’s in Apartment 319.” She looked them up and down, and Maggie knew what the woman was thinking:Older couple, prime candidates.“Would you like a brochure about Fair Winds? You’re very welcome to stay for a meal and sample our chef’s wonderful cooking. I think duckling in orange sauce is the special tonight.”

“Do you serve martinis?” Declan asked.

“Maybe another time, thank you,” Maggie cut in, and nudged Declan toward the elevator.

“It was a perfectly reasonable question,” he said as they rode up to the third floor.

“For a committed alcoholic.”

“Should I ever move into a facility like this, I’d insist on a well-stocked bar and convivial fellow inmates.”

“I don’t think they’re called ‘inmates,’ Declan.”

They stepped out of the elevator, into a hallway that was decorated with pale-rose walls and a beige carpet. Pretty pastels to keep the mood serene. It was quiet here, so quiet, and the only sound was thethumpof Declan’s crutches on the carpet. They reached #319 and rang the doorbell. They already knew that Cathy Wedge, née Stillwater, was seventy-nine years old, which Maggie once would have considered elderly. Now she thought of it as the prime of life—health permitting, of course. One could be a young seventy-nine or an old seventy-nine, and she wondered which version would answer the bell.

The door opened, and she saw neither version of Cathy Wedge, but a smiling young man dressed in blue nurse’s scrubs. “Hey, you’re here to see Cathy?” he asked.

“Maggie and Declan. We called yesterday,” she said.

“Come in, come in! Cathy’s been talking about it all morning. She’s been so bored, stuck inside after her little accident.”

“Accident?”

“She tripped on the curb and broke a toe last week, so she’ll be laid up for a while.” He glanced at the cast on Declan’s leg. “And what happened to you?”

“I fell out of a tree.”

The man laughed. “Ooh, that’s a much better story.”

Declan didn’t bother to tell the young man that it was true, that he really did fall out of a tree, because it was just another item in a long list of things that people would not believe about them. They followed the man into the living room, where Cathy Wedge sat with her bandaged foot propped up on a stool. She was a handsome woman, her thick silver hair swept back and fastened with tortoiseshell clips. She might have been temporarily disabled, but judging by her alert gaze, there was a lively mind behind those dark eyes. Outside the rain had intensified,the drops noisily pelting the window, and the light cast a watery halo around her head.

“So you’re here about Vivian,” she said. “I wondered when someone would finally ask me about her.”

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