Page 63 of Sing it, Sam

“Yes, dear. Her writing is magnificent. I’ve read a dozen or so, but some of her titles are hard to find.”

I lean in close and place my hand on her shoulder. It’s bonier than I expect. “Not so hard when she’s your grandmother.”

“Oh, bless,” she says, and looks down at my name tag. “Rhynehart. I should’ve known.”

“Anyway, I’ll bring some in for you. While I’m here, are you busy this afternoon? I’m running the scrapbooking workshop if you’d like to join us?”

“Thank you, dear, but I need to finish this book so I’m ready for your grandmother’s books. I’m very excited.”

My heart overflows with pride. Whilst it’s been a few years since Nana passed, still, she is remembered, and her beautiful words will continue to be enjoyed.

I pick up Shirley’s reading glasses and hand them back to her. “You’d better not lose these then.”

***

After half an hour, the common room table is set up with sample packs and an assortment of markers, stickers, glitter, ribbon, stamps, and lettering. On advice from Kathleen, I save the scissors and trimmers with scalloped edges to bring out later. She said it’s best to supervise the use of those, especially given the number of arthritis sufferers here. I’m in full agreeance with her. We don’t need any bleeds, and I refuse to be the reason for potential hospital visits.

With ten minutes to spare before the workshop starts, I knock on Sam’s door. He’s sitting on his bed, looking at the walker a metre in front of him. He pushes up the sleeves of his long-sleeve black shirt and places his flattened hands on the tops of his thighs.

“Are you coming?” I blurt out, gaining his attention.

He slowly turns his head toward me and raises his eyebrows. “Where?”

I walk into the room and place my hands on my hips. For dramatic effect, I roll my eyes and swing my ponytail so the long hair rests on my shoulder. “The workshop, Sam. We talked about it.”

A coy grin curls at his lips before he shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Paige said an activity like this would be good for your fine-motor skills.”

His brows knit together. “You’ve been talking to Paige?”

“Of course I have. We work together. It’s to be expected.”

“I mean, you’ve been talking about me,” he says and grunts, as if he’s not entirely happy with the fact.

“Only with your best interests at heart,” I assure him. I do my best puppy-dog eyes and clasp my hands together in front of my chest. “I’m asking you to come.Please. Do it for me. For moral support.”

“Janie, that’d be theonlyreason I’d come.”

“Good, then. It’s settled.” I look to his wheelchair in the corner. “Want me to bring your chair over?”

“Nope. I’ll take the walker.”

I hope I don’t get into trouble for this. I bring the walking frame within reach and motion for him to take a hold of the black rubber handles.

“I don’t wantanyphotographic evidence of this,” he says, a hint of warning in his tone. “It’ll do nothing for my reputation.”

I move my head from side to side on my shoulders, all attitude. “Uh-huh. And what reputation is that exactly?”

“Bad boy on the retirement block.”

Laughter bursts from my mouth. “Well, this is the first time I’ve heard this. I know you’ve been called Mr Trouble, but bad boy on the block? You’re giving yourself too much credit.”

“Miss Jane?” a shaky voice calls from the hallway.

I turn to the door, expecting Mrs Cassidy to appear any moment.

Athwackstartles me, and pain registers on my butt cheek.

---