Page 46 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be in love.”

“Or maybe he just hasn’t found the right woman.”

I balk at the word because if she’s referring to me, I’m not ready to be called awoman.

“Well, I wish him the best,” I say.

Daisy considers me and says, “Uh-huh.”

A heavyset man wearing a pink golf shirt walks out of the clubhouse and catches my eye.

“Hi, Mr. Samuels!” Daisy says. “We missed you at Thursday night’s cooking class. Don’t tell me you don’t want to learn how to make homemade ravioli!”

“I got stuck at PT,” he grunts. “Booker wouldn’t let me go until I got in the pool. Ihatethe pool.”

“Well, that’s a bummer,” she says. “You tell him I said you can’t stay late on Thursdays because we have to learn to cook!”

“All right, Daisy!” He chuckles and strolls off.

“Does everyone know everyone here?” I ask as Daisy leads me into the clubhouse.

“Well, I do.” She beams. “That’s kind of my job.”

Connie is waiting in the lobby for us, and when she sees me, she rushes over. “Oh good! You’re here. Just a few bits of business I forgot to give you, like your golf cart key and your uniform.” She giggles at herself and leans in. “Kind of important, wouldn’t you say?”

I smile. Connie is kind, and despite the conflict stirring around inside me, this whole fiasco isn’t entirely her fault. Yes, she could’ve been a little clearer in her email, which implied I was part of a team and not the whole team itself, but I’m the one who didn’t read the job description.

Daisy turns toward me. “Okay, this is where I leave you.” She pulls me into an enormous hug. I’m sensing this is simply who she is. “We’re going to have the best summer! Buh-bye!” She squeezes me—hard—and then she walks away.

I’m torn.

I really like her. And our little cottage. And the theatre space.

And Booker.

But I’m the wrong person for this job. So, so wrong.

“That Daisy has never met a stranger,” Connie says. “And she’s a kindred spirit. I mean, we are both from North Carolina, so how’s that for a small world?” She smiles. “That’s why I put her with you, you know, to help you get used to things around here. And maybe also because Booker’s place is close by. He’s one of the good ones.”

“So I hear,” I say absently, trying not to let myself be swayed.

“And he moved here for Bertie.” She motions for me to follow her. “Did he tell you that?”

“That’s his grandma, right?”

“Adoptive grandma.” She waves a hand. “It’s a long story.”

I want to ask questions, but she doesn’t give me the chance.

“She’s a funny one. Feisty. Doesn’t put up with any guff from anybody.” Connie walks into an office and moves around to the opposite side of the desk, then motions for me to have a seat in the chair across from her.

“Okay, down to business. Sorry to bring you in on a Saturday—it’s just so last minute with everything. We had someone all set up to direct the show this summer, but there was a little mutiny from the other residents, and we quickly had to regroup.”

I want to ask for additional details, but she doesn’t give me the chance.

“So,” she says, “you had your tour. Here is your golf cart key”—she pushes a small gold key across the desk—“Your mailbox key”—an even smaller key this time—“And your key to the theatre. CannotbelieveI forgot to give you these before.” She giggles to herself. “I’m feeling so scattered today. Now. This is your name badge, and here”—she leans down and picks up a small stack of polo shirts—“Are a few uniforms. I know you have your own”—she gives me a quick once-over—“Personal style, but when you’re on the premises and working, you should be properly dressed.”

I muster a thank-you and slip the lanyard over my neck, but the subtext of this whole scene is me trying to find a way to say:“I don’t know if I can stay.”

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