Late Fall Read online

  Now I’m getting really annoyed. “Your bench?”

  “Yes, my bench.”

  “I don’t see your name on it.”

  There is a sudden little gleam in his dark eyes, a look I remember from when he believed he’d scored a victory in one of our old debates about the budget. “Look on the back.”

  With a very slight eye roll, I lean back slightly and look down. There, to my great exasperation, I see words engraved on the stone. In memory of Clara Andrews.

  His wife, maybe. I can’t remember her name, and I never met her, since Dave and I only interacted at work.

  “I assume that’s to acknowledge who donated money for the bench. If that was you, then I’m sure it was a very generous gesture. But that doesn’t mean no one else is allowed to sit on the bench. I understood it belonged to Eagle’s Rest.”

  He’s still frowning, clearly displeased by my stubbornness and cool tone. “I always sit here in the mornings.”

  I clear my throat and nod toward the empty half of the bench. “There is plenty of room. Please feel free to sit down if you’d like.”

  He stands for another minute, looming over me. I assume he’s trying to intimidate me or pressure me into leaving. A lot of people probably would cave, not wanting to cause conflict or not caring enough to hold out against resistance.

  I do care, though. I’ve been walking here every morning, and I intend to continue just as long as I can.

  Plus, his attitude is obnoxious. He might be grayer now, his body less lean and hard than it used to be, but he’s still the same Dave Andrews. Acting as though the world belongs to him, like he knows better than anyone, assuming people will dash out of his way simply because he’s coming through.

  He doesn’t even remember me. I clearly made no lasting impression on him back then.

  That’s annoying too.

  I’ve felt this way over and over again in my life—a kind of disappointment when I realize that I haven’t had the impact on someone that I wanted. I remember being crushed in school when I wasn’t invited to a certain party, one thrown by a girl I believed was my friend. Or there were library symposiums and workshops organized and implemented, and no one thought to invite me, even though I had more experience and knowledge of certain fields than the speakers who were invited.

  There’s always been a kind of invisibility to me, and I’ve never understood why.

  It’s not something that has troubled me in the last couple of decades, but I feel that old disappointment again, sitting here on the bench, with a breeze bringing with it a taste of the fall, like it did when I was a girl and heading for my first day of school.

  I remember Dave—quite well, in fact, although he certainly hasn’t been someone I thought much about in the intervening years. I’d like to think he would remember me too.

  He obviously doesn’t. There’s no hint of recognition on his face. Just general bad temper, as if I’m some pesky stranger he doesn’t want to see.

  So I don’t get up, and I don’t scoot over to give him more room, although I could if I wanted to be polite. I stay exactly as I’m situated when he sits down beside me, stretching his legs out and releasing a throaty huff.

  Old men are often spoiled, sulking when they don’t get their way. Dave was the kind of arrogant, entitled man who is probably more spoiled now than others.

  My enjoyment of the morning is entirely gone, but I’m not going to cave. I keep a calm expression as I gaze out on the valley for a few minutes and then pick up my book and pretend to read.

  I’m not reading. I can’t possibly concentrate—not with Dave Andrews sitting next to me, bristling with displeasure. But I’d like him to think he doesn’t faze me at all.

  I can sense him looking over at me occasionally. I have no idea what he’s thinking. I wonder if he likes to come out here to look at the view, like I do, or if he just walks for exercise and only stopped because he saw someone on the bench he claims as his.

  After about twenty minutes, my hip is getting stiff, and it’s past time for me to go back to the residence. It’s nearly seven. Time for breakfast.

  But I don’t want to leave before Dave does. That would feel like a defeat.

  The whole time, he’s been sitting stiffly, staring out at the valley for the most part. So I’m surprised when he asks gruffly, “So you’re here now, are you?”

  I turn toward him and realize that he’s recognized me after all. Maybe he recognized me from the beginning, or maybe my identity finally clicked in his mind. “Yes, I’m here.”

  He makes a sound that’s something like “hmph” and stands up.

  He mutters before he walks away, “You go away for a week and everything changes.”

  I have no idea what he means by that, unless he thinks some random woman sitting on a bench is a disruption to his entire life.

  Surely he’s not so melodramatic. Or maybe he is. I really can’t remember.

  And I don’t care.

  I watch him walk away, feeling irrationally victorious, like I’ve accomplished something worthwhile, something that really needed to be done.

  It’s not a bad day’s work, after all—taking Dave Andrews down a peg or two. And it isn’t even seven o’clock in the morning.

  four

  When I first went to college, I was determined to start over, to become what I called a “Brand New Ellie.” No more shy, retiring bookworm. I was going to be social, friendly, the life of the party like my sister always was. Girls would want to hang out with me, and boys would want to date me.

  I was just seventeen my freshman year and still living at home. Back then, this wasn’t unusual, and the private liberal arts college near my home had organized a number of socials the first few weeks to give new students opportunities to get acclimated and get to know each other.

  I tried. I stretched myself so much in those weeks that I fell into bed exhausted at the end of every day. I introduced myself to strangers. I chatted with classmates instead of finding a quiet corner to read. I acted like I was confident, outgoing, a social butterfly.

  I’m not sure it ever really worked. I met people, but by the end of the first semester, I was back to where I’d always been—hanging out alone a lot, with just a few good friends.

  I still remember the sort of pressure I felt back then, this need to be someone different in order to properly engage a new situation. And I feel it again as I get dressed on Saturday evening for a dance.

  A dance. To be specific, a “Big Band Dance Shindig.” Yes, that’s actually what they’re calling it.

  I know I told myself I wasn’t going to bother with silly activities like this, but I’ve been here less than a week and I’ve met about five people total. Marjorie says I should go to the dance. Charlotte says I should go to the dance. And I feel this ridiculous urge to prove myself to the rest of the residents—particularly Dave Andrews.

  I should be well past this sort of implicit peer pressure, but it turns out I’m not. Maybe you never really are, when you’re put in the right (or wrong) situation. Anyway, here I am, putting on a dark blue flowing skirt and one of my favorite printed tops—one that makes me look curvy rather than plump. I look in the mirror as I comb out my hair, pulling back just the top half with a clip.

  I figure I look nice enough, but then I put on my old red lipstick. “Ellie Red,” the students used to call it at the college. Maybe they were having a little fun at my expense—the quirky librarian who was a fixture at the school and always wore the same red lipstick—but it seemed good-natured, so I never minded.

  It’s nice to be known for something, even if it’s just the shade of your lipstick.

  I hesitate, wondering if I’m dressed enough for the evening. I know some of the women here will be dressed to the nines, using any opportunity available to pull out their expensive jewelry and sparkling apparel. But that’s not me. It’s never been me. I open the small chest where I keep all my necklaces and pull out a string of silver beads.

&n
bsp; They fall down to just between my breasts, and they pull my outfit together nicely.

  There. I’ve made an effort. In all likelihood, I’ll sit in a chair and pretend to be having fun for an hour before I can finally make an escape. But I told Marjorie I’d go down with her, and I have too strong a conscience to disappoint her over a silly case of cold feet.

  I pick up my bag, smooth down my skirt, and make sure all of my clothes are in the right place before I walk down the hall to Marjorie’s room. She’s giggling as she opens the door, dressed in a pink silk dress that looks like it must have been bought in the seventies. I think she looks pretty and carefree, though, and I’m vaguely jealous of her ability to have fun and not overthink these kinds of occasions.

  I knew a lot of girls like her in school. They always quickly had boyfriends and never took life too seriously. In other words, they were polar opposites of people like me.

  “You look beautiful,” she says, eyeing me from top to bottom. “I’m so jealous of your lovely skin.”

  When I was younger, people used to say that my skin was my best feature, clear and firm and rosy, but it’s definitely not what it once was.

  I thank her for the compliment and give her a few of my own, and then we head down the hall and outside, walking next door to the community building.

  I can hear the music even before we get inside, paired with the chattering of voices. It’s a big night, evidently. It looks like nearly everyone in the residence is here.

  A tottering bald gentleman in a seersucker suit asks Marjorie to dance right away. She goes off with him, smiling and clearly ready to enjoy herself.

  It’s such a familiar scene that I almost laugh—albeit ironically. Over seventy and still left on my own at a dance, feeling like an idiot.

  There are plenty of people in chairs around the edges of the room, talking and watching the dancing. Not everyone is healthy enough to dance, and fortunately I have the excuse of the walker, making it obvious that I’m not dance material at the moment.

  I’ll just find a seat and start up a conversation with someone nearby. If it’s too boring, I’ll leave after a while.

  I’m far too old to feel awkward or self-conscious in a situation like this.

  My pep talk helps to a certain extent, and I’m scanning the room for an empty chair when Charlotte appears beside me.

  “There’s a seat over here,” she says with a smile, gently turning me toward the left. “I’m so glad you made it. Everyone is having a fantastic time.”

  I wonder if that’s actually true. Certainly, most of the people in the room are smiling, talking, laughing, or dancing, but there’s a thing that goes on at social gatherings like this. Sometimes it feels to me like we’re all just desperately talking ourselves into having fun, convincing ourselves it’s real. I wonder how many men and women here are in pain or bored or incredibly lonely—even as they put on a cheerful facade.

  This is what I mean about overthinking occasions like this. I’ve done it all my life. I can hardly be surprised that I never seem to enjoy them.

  I follow Charlotte to the side of the room, and I’m grateful for the seat she offers me. It’s a leather-padded metal chair, and it’s straight and sturdy enough for me to sit in comfortably.

  She introduces me to the woman on my right—Nancy with a steel-gray bun and a perpetually crabby expression. Then she goes off to get me a cup of tea, since I prefer that to the punch most of the others are drinking.

  I say a few words to Nancy, but she’s clearly less of a conversationalist than I am.

  I’m startled when a white-haired man with a thick mustache comes over, looks down at me, and quite seriously says, “Lovely. Lovely. Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  I lift my eyebrows and reply with equal seriousness, “I really don’t think so, but thank you for the offer.”

  He looks not the least bit perturbed as he wanders away with a slight limp on his left leg, muttering, “Lovely. Lovely.”

  I turn to look at Nancy.

  She shakes her head. “The fool is always proposing to someone.”

  Well, that’s an ego boost, isn’t it? I’m just one in a long line of propose-ees. The episode tickles me, and I’m having a private laugh when Charlotte returns with my tea.

  “Did I see Mr. Draycott proposing to you?”

  “Oh, yes. I was starting to plan out the wedding when he just wandered off.”

  Charlotte smiles, obviously understanding and appreciating my humor. “Isn’t that always the way with men? Start to plan out the wedding and then they’re just …” She trails off, as if a less happy thought has occurred to her.

  I’m sure it has to do with Kevin, the lawyer, her would-be boyfriend. Interested in hearing more, I ask lightly, “So no wedding bells in your future?”

  Charlotte looks down at her hands. “Oh. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  For a moment, I feel intensely sympathetic. I’ve been in that situation myself a few times—ages ago now.

  “Well,” I murmur, “if the man you’ve got isn’t giving you what you need, maybe it’s time to move on to someone else.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s good advice, but not so easy. They’re not exactly beating down my door, you know.”

  Of course I did.

  “They weren’t for me either,” I reply with a smile. “And look at me now, the life of the party.”

  She understands the light irony and smiles in response. Then her expression changes. “I don’t know. I’ve noticed quite a few gentlemen here who seem to have taken an interest in you.”

  She’s being kind. Obviously. No one is paying any sort of attention to me. But my eyes immediately shoot over to Dave Andrews, who is dancing with an overly made-up redhead in a sequined dress far too tight for her figure.

  Yes, I noticed Dave immediately, as soon as I walked into the room, but I’m trying not to give him any more of my attention than he deserves.

  He looks quite distinguished in a gray suit and very shiny shoes. It’s not hard to recognize, simply from watching the reactions of people around him, that he’s the rooster of this particular chicken house.

  I don’t like him, and I don’t like the fact that he’s made any sort of impression on me. In the few seconds my eyes are on him, he looks in my direction and meets my gaze.

  I have no idea what he’s thinking, and I look away almost immediately. I’ve made a point all my life of never being a silly woman. I’m not going to start now.

  I turn back to Charlotte, who is nodding across the room. “Gordon Marcus, for instance, can’t keep his eyes off you.”

  The name rings a bell. And then I recognize the face of the man who is seated in a chair directly across from me with a glass of punch in his hands.

  Gordon Marcus. It must be the same man. I went out with him for a couple of months in my twenties. A solid, white-bread, polite young man who was working his way through medical school.

  We got along fairly well, and I certainly would have continued dating him, but he stopped asking me out and that was that.

  Most of my relationships ended that way. No huge blowup or dramatic angst—just a slow fizzling out.

  Gordon obviously recognizes me, though, since he nods and smiles when our eyes meet. I give him an answering smile and a little wave, and I’m pleased when he stands up and starts to make his way over to me.

  “You know him?” Charlotte asks.

  “Yes, he’s an old boyfriend of mine. Nothing serious, but we went out a long time ago.”

  “Well, it’s the perfect time for firing up old acquaintances.” Charlotte gives me a little wink and leaves just as Gordon comes over.

  He takes the chair she vacated and says, “It’s Ellie Davenport, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Good memory. I had no idea you were here too.”

  “I’ve been here for just over two years. I saw you earlier in the week and have been waiting to say hello.”

  My eyes
widen. “Why didn’t you say hello earlier?”

  He gives a little shrug. He looks just as solid and white-bread as he did as a young man. He’s pleasant enough to look at, and I like the friendliness in his brown eyes. “I thought about it, but there wasn’t a good opportunity.” He pauses, then adds sheepishly, “To tell you the truth, you looked like you didn’t want company, and I didn’t want to bother you.”

  So that’s not exactly what I want to hear. Evidently, I’ve been giving off a keep-away vibe, even to an old friend like Gordon.

  It’s not that I never want to talk to people. It’s that this is entirely new and I’m not comfortable yet, and I’ve always been more secure when I keep my own company.

  “I guess I’m just trying to get used to it here,” I say, hoping a friendly smile will counter that standoffishness I’ve been exuding. “I’m very glad to see you here. So you stayed in the area after medical school?”

  “Yes. I was a surgeon in Roanoke for over forty years. I came here after my wife died.” He looks around the room, nodding with what looks like satisfaction. “It’s a nice place. I’m glad you joined us.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So did you ever get married?”

  I hate that question—not because it bothers me that I’ve been unmarried all my life but because so many people seem to think it’s a sign of failure that I never managed to snag a husband. But there’s no sense in lying about it, unless I’m prepared to concoct an elaborate backstory and manufacture evidence in support of it.

  “Oh, no. I never did. I went to graduate school and became a university librarian.”

  “Oh, excellent. A career woman. I should have known you had it in you.” He grins at me affably, and—as far as I can tell—his admiration is genuine.

  “I had a very nice career,” I say. “And a good life. I hope the same is true of you.”

  “Very good. Very good. Four children, you know.”

  “Oh, excellent. And what are they all doing now?”

  He tells me about his children and grandchildren for a while, and I’m surprised by how quickly the time passes.

  As Gordon and I talk, Dave has four different dance partners.