Page 6 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

“I—not the whole thing,” I say, feeling defensive. “Not yet. I’ve been working through each item step by step.”

At this, Josephine’s face practically lights up with glee, and it confirms my suspicion: she is definitely enjoying this. “Read it,” she says, gesturing to my computer. Then she settles her stooped, creaky body into the chair across the desk from me and waits.

I shoot her a disconcerted look before pulling up the email and attached document Mackey sent before I started, detailing his ongoing projects and concerns. It’s several pages, but I’m a quick reader. My eyes scan his words, and at first it’s all pretty standard stuff—debate about whether to add another stop to the shuttle route, issues with people smoking on our smoke-free properties, that kind of thing. I move past a few notes on the need to expand the maintenance staff, expecting more of the same, but his next set of notes grabs me completely. My jaw drops as I read, my brows furrowing, and by the time I’m done, I look to Josephine, completely flabbergasted, because—

“Viagra?” I say, my eyes wide. “Someone is selling unauthorized Viagra to our residents?” That’s…just…what?“Explain,” I say, feeling suddenly tired.

Josephine leans forward in her chair, still looking like there’s nowhere she’d rather be than here and now, dropping this bomb on me. “A little over a month ago, Bowie Buford keeled over,” she says. “Keeled right over and almost died on the spot. All he would say is that someone sold him somelittle blue pills”—she gives me a meaningful look—“so he could spend some happy time with his lady friend, only it interfered with his blood pressure medication, and he nearly died. Right there, in the middle of—”

“No, no,” I say quickly, wincing and holding up one hand to stop her before I get hit with a mental image I can’t undo. “I don’t need to know those details.” Rubbing my temples, I reread the relevant section of Mackey’s email and then look back to Josephine. “So someoneheresold him the pills? They weren’t prescribed?”

“Nope,” Josephine says, shaking her head vigorously. “Not prescribed. All he would say is that someone sold them to him here”—she jabs one finger on the top of my desk—“in this very community center, for a very reasonable price.”

“You’re acting very callous about this,” I point out with a frown. “It’s not something to be happy about. Show some respect, please.”

For the first time, something like regret flashes over Josephine’s droopy, age-laden features. “I’m not happy about Bowie,” she grunts. “Not at all. Worried about him.” She hesitates, then says, “Don’t mind watching you get all in a tizzy about it, though.”

I sigh. “Okay,” I say slowly. “Just…give me a second to process this.”

Josephine positively cackles.

So someone is usingthis building—this community center—as a place to sell unauthorized vasodilators to old men? Many of whom could have adverse reactions? Good grief. What am I supposed to do about that? How do I stop it?

Because I have to stop it, right? I can’t have residents dying because of medication they aren’t supposed to take. Normally I’d say it’s not my place to interfere, but if it’s happening on Sunset Horizons property…that’s just asking for a lawsuit.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

In all honesty, I’ve been excited about this job. I’m not looking forward to untangling all the knots—like unqualified tenants—but the rest of it? Managing the complex, ensuring tenant safety and welfare, making this place a home for these people? This is what I went to school for. I studied business management and some hospitality management, and even though my mother told me it was the dullest thing she could imagine, I loved it. It’s not the sexiest job in the world, maybe, but it’s not my endgame, either. At some point in the future I plan on opening my own retirement community. Not here in Florida, probably—there’s not a lot of undeveloped land left, and what land there is is expensive—but I’m open to other places. I want to give people a more comfortable life, and this is sort of a necessary stepping stone to get there. I’ll enjoy it while I’m here.

Or I’ll try, at least. But the old people version of a black market, dealing only in erectile dysfunction medication? What am I supposed to do with that?

I sigh again, trying to focus on the positive. My office is nice, for one. Not huge by any means, but clean and well-lit. There’s one large window next to the desk, and two file cabinets sit in the corner. A storage closet is located right next to the office door; I’ve made myself memorize that I exit through the door on the left. Other than that potentially confusing detail, it’s a good room to work in.

I minimize the tenant portal and Mackey’s email, then lean back in my new computer chair, one of the changes I made to my office. I don’t insist on having the nicest or the best, but if I’m going to be sitting here from nine to five every day, you bet I’ll shell out the money to make sure I’m not miserable the whole time.

I look back to the old woman across the desk from me, my mind returning to our blue pill problem. That one is going to require some brainstorming and some investigative work—neither of which are going to happen right this very second.

So I force myself to compartmentalize, tucking the issue off to the side of my mind. “Thank you, Josephine,” I say with a sigh, dismissing her. She just nods before shuffling slowly out of the room and back to the front desk. Once she’s left and closed the door behind her, I immediately open my window to clear the scent of her lingering perfume. After wafting the fresh spring air in, I close the window again and pull out my lunch, grabbing my cell phone as well to check voicemails. There’s one from my mother—as I predicted—and I delete it after listening. I’ll call her back…well, at some point. Eventually. Just…not yet.

Because Nancy Anthony is not the kind of person you call during your lunch break. She’s the kind of person you have to prepare yourself to talk to, and you’ll always need to plan on at least an hour. The phone conversation probably won’t last that long, but you’ll need the time afterward to take some deep breaths.

I don’t currently have that time.

Since I am a creature of habit, I eat the same thing for lunch today that I ate yesterday: a grilled chicken salad. I’ll probably eat the same thing tomorrow too, although I do occasionally rotate out my lunch menu. Regardless, my meal is almost always healthy—because I don’t have time for things like heart disease. I can’t control everything, a fact that I’m loath to admit, but I take care where I can.

I give myself exactly fifteen minutes to finish my salad. Once I’m done eating, I put my lunch things away and stand up, stretching a bit. I walk around my office a few times, even though I know it probably looks dumb; it’s good to keep the blood flowing and whatnot.

I’m about to head back to my seat when I hear the sound of loud laughter out in the front, and I frown.

Is that Josephine? It doesn’t sound like her.

I stride across the room and open the door slowly—I guess so I don’t startle whoever is out in the front?—and peek out to see what’s going on.

The first thing that registers is the smell of perfume—like Josephine’s, but stronger. It’s an olfactory assault, and it makes my eyes water. A quick glance around shows me that there are now two other women in the room with Josephine, both of them roughly her age; the three of them together must collectively be doused in enough perfume to be positively flammable. There are three men here as well—all with shiny, bald heads—and the six of them are lounging comfortably around the waiting room in a way that makes me think this isn’t their first lunch meeting. There’s a multipurpose room down the hall with tables set up for precisely this kind of thing, so I’m not sure why they’ve all congregated in this office, but oh well.

“Hello,” I say, feeling suddenly uncertain.

No one answers. No one even notices.

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