I wince and gently grip her by the shoulders.
“I know. Schedule’s been crazy. I wish I could be here more. Honestly—they give me more than I give them.”
Clara’s expression softens and she pinches my cheek. “You’re a good one, Ryan.” Then she nudges me toward the hallway. “Now get in there before The Bettys hogtie me for holding you up.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll head back now.” I lean in and kiss her cheek. “Mmm. Tastes sweet.”
She shoves at me. “Boy, get out of here!”
Still laughing, I head down the hall and push through the double doors markedCommunity Space.
The moment I step inside every head turns.
A couple gasps, one squeal.
“Ryan!”
“Oh, my goodness!”
“Look who it is!”
I spread my arms in mock grandeur. “Well now,” I say. “If I’d known I’d get this kind of reception I’d have come sooner.”
Laughter ripples across the room.
Well… almost the whole room.
One table doesn’t even glance my way.
The Bettys.
The Bettys consist of three women: Betty, Betti, and Bette. The undisputed queen bees of Golden Days Retirement Village.
Betty is their ringleader.
It’s veryMean GirlsmeetsGolden Girls.
When I first started coming here, they wouldn’t give me the time of day. But I love a challenge. It didn’t take long to win over Betti and Bette. Betty, though? She was a tougher nut to crack.
Until the day I noticed she never touched the food on her plate. At first, I thought she just hated my cooking. That upset me more than it should have. So, I kept trying different recipes. Then one afternoon Betti pulled me aside.
“Don’t you fret yourself, young man,” she said gently. “It’s not your cooking. Your food is magnificent.”
I blinked at her, confused.
“She’s too proud to tell you,” Betti continued, “but Betty had throat cancer.”
My face fell.
“None of that,” Betti said quickly. “She kicked cancer’s ass.” Then she sighed. “But the radiation therapy left her throat dry as a desert. She has a hard time swallowing.”
My eyes widened.
“Sometimes food gets stuck,” Betti explained. “She has to sputter and cough it up. She just doesn’t want to embarrass herself in front of you.”
That very minute I marched into the kitchen and set to work. That day I made French-style scrambled eggs—soft and buttery. Then I whipped goat cheese until it was extra smooth and folded in a drizzle of white truffle oil from the chef bag I keep tucked in the back of the kitchen.
For dessert, I cubed brioche, toasted it, soaked it in coffee and Irish cream until it softened into a bread-pudding texture, and topped it with fresh whipped cream.
