Promises to Keep, Nan Rossiter [feel good fiction books .txt] 📗

the plans for Willow Pond Senior Care, the town’s strict historic regulations had limited the changes that could be made to the old farmhouse, so the company had hired a highly respected local craftsman with extensive knowledge of Southern homes to restore it to its original charm and glory. Ben Samuelson and his crew had gone to great lengths to protect the floor-to-ceiling windows, wide hardwood flooring, and massive stone fireplace before gutting the interior, removing the cracked plaster walls, and turning the entire front of the house into a welcoming common room—complete with built-in shelves for a library and furnished with tables for games and puzzles, a large flat-screen HDTV for movie nights, and enough comfortable seating for all the residents. The back of the house was transformed into a bright, airy dining room with a screened-in breakfast porch on one side, and a beautiful state-of-the-art kitchen on the other. The upstairs—once bedrooms—had been turned into a bright, sunny office space and storage rooms.

While Ben and his crew worked on the restoration of the farmhouse, a different company was brought in to build the addition—a one-level square structure with a garden courtyard, the design of which had also been approved by the historic commission. It was accessible by a glass-enclosed crosswalk and had white clapboard siding and tall windows to match the farmhouse. Each cozy apartment had French doors that opened either into the garden courtyard or onto the expansive lawn.

Maeve hurried down the long corridor, which was often used by the residents for their daily constitutionals, and turned left. She continued to walk briskly, thinking about the residents on the porch—waiting for their snack—and finally stopped in front of the last door on the right and knocked.

“C’mon in,” a voice drawled.

Maeve pushed open the door. “Mr. Hawkins?” she called softly.

“Yes, ma’am,” the old man said, sitting up in his leather recliner.

Maeve looked around the room at the piles of boxes and frowned. “Do you need help unpacking?”

“Oh, no,” he replied, waving dismissively at the boxes and leaning back in his chair. “There’s no hurry. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Maeve nodded. “Okay. Well, I came down to remind you that we have happy hour tonight—it’s always on the last Friday of the . . .”

“Thank you for the reminder, but I’m not interested.”

Maeve frowned. “Are you sure? Everyone’s out there, and I think you’d enjoy . . .”

“I’m sure. Thank you.”

“Okay, well, don’t forget we have dinner at five.”

“I won’t forget.”

“And let me know if you need anything. I’m happy to help.”

The old man nodded and mustered a reassuring smile.

Maeve smiled back, but she still worried as she closed the door. She paused in the hallway to let Gage know she’d be working late again and then hurried back to the kitchen, still picturing the old man in his recliner, silently gazing out the window. She had witnessed similar scenes before: elderly folks who’d been moved—sometimes against their will—into senior living. Some came willingly, it was true—and even looked forward to the opportunity to socialize with folks their age—but others resented it. It made them feel as if it was the end of the line—as if they’d lost their home, their freedom, control of their lives, and their independence. Life no longer had purpose or meaning, and they often became withdrawn and depressed. Maeve had studied the psychological effects such changes had on the elderly, especially when the move wasn’t voluntary. And she knew, from experience, that a successful adjustment depended on a person’s attitude. If they didn’t have a positive outlook, it was difficult to lift their spirits or get them to engage. Mr. Hawkins was obviously not happy about his new arrangement, but if anyone could cheer him up, she could . . . and she loved a challenge!

She pushed open the door of the kitchen and Sal looked up from spreading cornmeal, flour, and spices on his work counter. “I wondered where you disappeared to,” he said. “Kate was looking for you. She already took the tray out.”

“Okay. I was reminding our newest resident about happy hour.”

“Mr. Hawkins? Is he coming?” Sal asked as he dipped a long translucent white filet into a bowl.

“No,” she replied with a frown. “I think he’s having a hard time. . . . I hope he comes to dinner.”

Sal nodded as he laid the filet, dripping in egg, onto the cornmeal and flipped it to coat both sides. “If he doesn’t, we can bring a plate down to him.”

Maeve nodded and then raised her eyebrows. “What is for dinner, Sal?”

He smiled. “What does it look like?”

“Catfish?”

He grinned mischievously. “Don’t tell Miss Gladys!”

Maeve laughed. “I won’t. We’ll see if she complains about having fish again.”

Sal laughed. “She better not!”

Maeve was about to go out and help Kate when her phone hummed. She looked at the screen and saw a photo of Gus lying in the sunshine with his head between his paws, looking forlorn. She shook her head and typed: Tell him not to look so sad—I’ll see him soon! Then she slid her phone back in her pocket and stepped out onto the porch where she was greeted by a chorus of “Here’s Maeve!” and “We knew you didn’t get lost!”

“I didn’t get lost,” Maeve said, smiling as she picked up empty paper plates and napkins.

“Would you like a little vino?” Gladys asked with a wink as she held up her glass and gestured to the bottle of Chardonnay she and Addie were sharing.

“No, no,” Maeve said, laughing. “Someone has to behave around here.”

“We never behave, do we?” Gladys said, eyeing Addie with a mischievous grin.

“I behave,” Addie replied, feigning indignation and eyeing her friend. “You’re the mischievous one. I heard you stopped by Mr. Hawkins’s apartment and tried to give him a kiss.”

“Pshaw,” Gladys said, her eyes sparkling. “He was happy to see me. Everyone enjoys a warm welcome when they’re the new kid.”

“Oh, dear,” said Maeve, looking alarmed. “Did you really?”

“Absolutely!” Gladys said. “He said, ‘Don’t ever do that again!’ but I know he was just foolin’. Playing hard