Two Family Home (6 page)

L
indsey was half-looking over Hope's notes from the night before, but she kept being distracted by the photos on the desk the three nurses shared. Hope had twins, a boy and a girl, who were just starting high school this year, and last year's school pictures stared back at Lindsey.

Before coming to this job, Lindsey had been concerned that her age would be a problem for Hope and Evan. She was younger than both of them, and even though she had valuable experience working in larger nursing homes, they still had more years on her. Plus, she had the cushy shift. Seven
AM
to three
PM
—as close to a normal workday as any nurse could ask for.

But Hope liked working the night shift because it paid better and she got home in time to have breakfast with her family and get the kids to school. Evan hated mornings, and going home at eleven gave him plenty of time to get ready for gigs with his horror-punk band. He'd showed her a picture of them online. She still had a hard time reconciling the image of the soft-spoken, chubby Evan with the bloody-eyed zombie drummer. She wondered if she could talk Mary Beth into going to one of the shows with her.

Since the schedule worked out for everyone, Lindsey decided to quit feeling guilty. Besides, she was the boss now. She could only hope that all of her hard decisions would work out so smoothly.

But the photos were distracting her. Not that Lindsey would consider putting a moratorium on personal effects on their shared desk. (Although she, like her predecessor, put the kibosh on Evan's B-Movie Gore calendar. They had enough boobs and blood in their real lives.) The kids were cute. Danielle wore pigtails, glasses and a sullen look—Hope said she was channeling Wednesday Addams. David sported his braces proudly, if his maniacal grin were any indication. He was now apparently also sporting an earring, courtesy of his sister.

They were a handful, Hope was fond of saying. Depending on the day, that was either followed by “and they're worth it” or “I'm going to join the circus because it will be less chaotic.”

Lindsey wanted that.

She wanted happy chaos and frustrated time-outs that she could laugh about later. She wanted a partner she could laugh about them with. It was damn distracting, this biological clock. It was at odds with her Declaration of Independence. She wanted to prove herself separate from her parents, but what was the point if she was just going to attach herself to some guy?

Besides, she had tried attachment, and it hadn't made her happy.

Brad was the son of her dad's golf buddy. He was funny and smart and responsible, and took great care of himself. They had a nice time together. He gave excellent foot rubs when she'd started her rotations. He worked hard, but not too hard that he couldn't make time for her. He liked going out to eat. He didn't mind if she bowed out of tailgating with him and his football friends, even though The Other Girlfriends always went. He was close to his family, he was great with his niece and nephews, he owned a house not too far from where her parents lived.

So when they started talking about officially moving in together, he said he wanted to get married first. Which was so nice and romantic, and made Lindsey break out in hives.

Her doctor, also an old family friend, helped her get to the bottom of her medical distress: she wanted out. She'd lived in the same town her whole life. If she married Brad, she would never leave. Admitting that made the hives go away, but it started the anxiety. What was wrong with her? Brad was perfect. Brad was wonderful. Brad would take excellent care of her.

But she wanted to take care of herself. And she wanted to see what else was out there in the world. Not romantically—she would have stayed with Brad if he'd have let her. But just—what are other people like? What makes them tick?

The job in Willow Springs was a great opportunity. It was a step up in her career, the salary was good, the town was adorable, and Kentucky was probably about as different from Arizona as she was going to get. Plus, her certifications were reciprocal. It was as if some divine hand had cleared a path for her and said, “Here, Lindsey, take this road.”

There was plenty of time for her to find a guy and make Terror Twins of her own. Even though she was practically thirty—that was the clock talking, not her. Besides, she was barely here long enough to make friends, let alone jump into a potential love match.

And then there was Walker.

Nope. No. Today was the day she promised herself she wouldn't think about Walker Smith and his hot body and his jerky attitude that made her want to taunt him even more.

Although.

If she were putting off finding the Future Mr. Lindsey to focus on taking care of herself... wouldn't Walker be an excellent option? She was definitely attracted to him, and she thought he might be attracted to her. Plus, he was aggressively unpleasant, and he obviously couldn't stand her, so the chances of their developing deeper feelings for each other were, gosh, practically none.

There was no way she would fall for a guy like Walker Smith.

She looked at the clock. Seven thirty-two on a mild Tuesday morning in small-town Kentucky. She should write that down. That was the moment she finally lost her damn mind.

Also, past time to get the day started. She picked up the chart Hope had left behind, happy to see that all of the early risers had already been fed and watered, as Evan liked to say. She would have to check with Janice, the morning care aide, to make sure she actually saw Mrs. Harper swallow her pills. And then Lindsey would say a prayer of thanks that she'd inherited such a competent staff.

She would have to corral some of the kitchen guys to help her set up the sunroom after breakfast. The Bookmobile was coming. Well, a cargo van full of crates of library books was coming. Doug, the librarian, was just a little less new to town than she was, and he'd been coming to read to the residents for a few months now. At first some of them had chafed at the idea of “storytime,” but now it was one of the most popular activities.

Anyway, the Bookmobile was much less stress than the “therapy dogs” that Billie Monroe from the vet's office brought in two weeks ago. Sure, the dogs were cute, and the residents loved them, but she was pretty sure the entire staff was going to walk out after the dogs got into the toilet paper and the pantry and . . . well, it wasn't worth rehashing. Billie stayed to clean up and said she would bring fewer puppies next time. Lindsey did not want to deter an enthusiastic volunteer, but she was pretty sure there was not going to be a next time. Maybe therapy cats instead.

Anyway, she could handle the Bookmobile. It would be nice to see Doug again. He was pretty quiet, but she hoped he would come out of his shell enough to hang out. She needed some friends.

Since her neighbor was definitely not one of them.

And there was Walker again, pushing his way into her consciousness. It wasn't fair. He didn't spend all of his time pining over her friendship; why should she?

Enough Walker, she told herself for the sixty thousandth time, and grabbed up her chart to start morning rounds.

 

Myron was not a morning person, which was one thing he and Walker had in common. And unlike Walker's current neighbor, Myron wouldn't have dreamed of an early morning booty shake.

And no amount of coffee would have prepared Walker for that image. He had a feeling no amount of whiskey would erase it.

Even though it was early for lunch, Walker knew it was just the right time to see Myron. He would have had enough breakfast to take his mind off the fact that he was no longer allowed to drink caffeine, but he would have spent enough time in the breakfast room to get into an argument with someone, so he'd be ready to go.

Walker had it all figured out. He'd take Myron to that little family restaurant in Hollow Bend, they'd do a lap around the Duck Puddle, then they'd hit the theater in the student building at Pembroke. Myron used to teach the woman who managed it now, and she always let them in for film class screenings, even though, clearly, they were not students.

But apparently the day had decided it was not done messing with him. Walker squeezed his truck in to the last remaining spot beside the library van, which annoyed him. Did it have to take up so many spaces? It also reminded him that he had an overdue book in his living room, which also annoyed him. He tried to shake off the feeling as he entered the carefully regulated temperature of the nursing home, but he needn't have bothered schooling his features for his friend's benefit. Myron wasn't paying attention to him. Instead, Myron stood in the center of a circle of chairs, about to come to blows with Eugene May.

Walker stood back, assessing the situation. Myron's face was definitely red, which Walker didn't like. Eugene was so worked up, he seemed to be spitting more than shouting. A bearded guy in a green dress shirt was trying to get between them. As Walker moved closer, he heard the guy saying something about there being plenty of time for
two
stories and he would be glad to leave the books here.

Walker knew that the only thing Myron liked less than being wrong was Eugene May, who had apparently stolen Myron's senior prom date and married her. Even after Myron married the love of his life, he still would not forgive Eugene. Walker knew this because he had heard the story of this particular indignity every day since Myron moved into the home and found his archrival living down the hall.

Eugene seemed all right to Walker. He wore his pants a little high, but he loved his grandkids and talked to Walker about fishing. He didn't want to be disloyal to Myron, though. But when Myron lifted a heavy bestseller over his head, Walker had to side with Eugene. And Eugene's head.

He reached Myron and grabbed his wrist just as a voice shouted behind him, “Mr. Harris!”

Myron, Eugene, Walker, and the guy all turned at once toward the shouter.

The woman of his nightmares stood before him, wearing bright pink scrubs and spotless white shoes.

Of course. Mother Teresa.

Walker had just about forgotten that she worked at Shady Grove, which was much better than admitting that he came to see Myron in the hopes of accidentally running into Lindsey. That was crazy.

Walker saw the moment Lindsey recognized him, but to her credit, she quickly shook off the confusion and headed into the fray. Not that the fracas was much of one anymore, what with her school marm-ing them into submission.

“What's going on here?” she demanded, pulling the book from Myron's hand. Walker dropped his wrist and took a step back.

“Jesse Stuart is an American treasure!” Eugene shouted.

“You made Doug read Jesse Stuart last week,” Myron shouted back. “And the week before that!”

“Jesse Stuart is a Kentucky treasure!” Eugene shouted, emphasis on the Kentucky. “All you want to read are those Yankee writers! Or worse, a writer who's not even American!”

“Jesus, Eugene, the Civil War ended a hundred and fifty years ago. Get over it.” Myron turned to Lindsey. “Wouldn't you rather hear something different?” Myron turned to Doug. “Wouldn't you rather read something new?” Myron turned to the rows of chairs and stretched his arms out. “Isn't it time for a change?”

The assembled seniors clapped politely. Walker rolled his eyes.

“Mr. Harris, I understand your frustration, but this is not the way we handle conflict.” Lindsey handed the book back to Doug, who wisely tucked it into a nearby crate.

“How about Flannery O'Connor?” Doug suggested, holding up a tattered yellow paperback. “We haven't read her yet,” he said to Myron, “and she's Southern,” he said to Eugene.

“Southern ain't the same as Appalachian,” muttered Eugene.

“Oh, sit down and let the man read,” a woman called out from the front row.

“Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell,” said Lindsey. “Mr. Harris, Mr. May, do you have anything you want to say before we all take our seats?”

The two men mumbled under their breath. Walker didn't think either sounded very sorry.

“Oh, they don't have to apologize on our account,” said Mrs. Mitchell. “It's nice to see the old boys still have some spark left in 'em.” The other women laughed.

“That's one word for it,” muttered Lindsey as everyone settled into a chair. “Doug? They're all yours.”

He thanked her, looking a little dubious, and started to read.

Forgetting all about the reason he'd come in—to spring Myron for lunch—Walker tried to back out of the room before anyone really noticed him. He was just about through the doorway, when suddenly Mother Teresa was in front of him.

“Can I help you with something?” she said in a voice that sounded like a candy bar with razor blade filling.

“No, uh—” He gestured lamely to Myron, then the door, then shook his head at his own genius.

She waited, not quite patiently, for him to pull his head out of his ass.

“Myron,” he finally spat out. “I came to take Myron to lunch.”

Lindsey peered around him at Doug's rapt audience. “He doesn't look available. Myron never misses the Bookmobile.”

“I know that.”

“Next time maybe you should call ahead to see if he's available.”

“I was going to surprise him.”

“Well, I could have told you he would be otherwise occupied.”

“Well, I didn't know you worked here,” he lied. Because it was definitely mature to up the snottiness by matching her increasingly snotty tone.

She took a deep breath, and Walker was seventy-six percent sure he saw her roll her eyes. “How do you know Mr. Harris? Is he family?”