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“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” she points out, finally removing her eyes from the sign long enough for me to open the door.
I enter after her. “That would be stupidity, signs of which include glassy eyes and an inability to process information quickly. Remind me . . . How long did you stare at the sign for?”
“It’s called surprise.”
I drop the issue, leading the way to Margret’s office. “This path will lead you to Margret. If you have any questions while you’re here, she’s your best bet at answering them.”
Payton trails behind me, unable to keep up with my long strides. I slow a bit and peek at her from the corner of my eyes. She tracks every inch of the place with obvious fascination written all over her. I can’t blame her.
Cresthill isn’t like most retirement homes. It offers assisted living, independent living, and a custom mix of the two. It lacks for nothing as well. Anything you can imagine is here. Card rooms, shuffleboard, spa services.
I once caught Ivy in the movie theater, watching an unreleased film through our subscription deal with the biggest Hollywood distributors.
(They agreed seniors should have early access to films given their age and the possibility they won’t live to see the release. Well, after Cyrus showed up and made them agree.)
“Who’s Margret?” Payton finally asks, glancing up at the chandeliers fixed to the high ceilings.
Cresthill was designed to resemble a luxury resort. Large, airy, and bright. A glass pivoting wall system stretches across the entire waterfront side of the building. It offers unfettered views of the Hudson. At any given time, you can watch the boats drift by.
Payton catches sight of one, pausing to watch it pass. It’s peaceful and calming. Better than a vacation.
“The director of Cresthill,” I answer, leading us through the common room.
In the corner, Nancy is playing the piano like always. A rowdy group plays cards in the center. Emily flops on triple aces. Henry wins a pot of fake chips on a wild bluff. I shake my head, a smile forming.
Always savage, Henry.
I turn to Payton to see what she’s gawking at now.
Me, apparently.
I catch her watching me with a peculiar look on her face. Her pupils are wider than normal, and she looks confused. As if she’s trying to reconcile the idea of why she’s here with me. More accurately, of why I brought her here. Like, for the first time, she’s considering the possibility of there being more to me than meets the eye.
I feel seen all of a sudden.
It’s like a gut punch.
This was not what I had in mind when I rated this a calculated, controlled risk and decided to run with it.
My survival instincts kick in. I paste a scowl on my face and straighten my shoulders. I make myself larger, more consuming. It feels cowardly using my size like this, but the alternative is dangerous. Physical intimidation, it is.
But Henry catches sight of me and springs out of his chair with an unmatched agility that has me rethinking my decision to lowering Cresthill’s age requirement from sixty-two plus to fifty-five plus.
He pinches my arms, then nudges me with his elbow. “Bringing out the big guns for your girl here, boy?”
Dammit, Henry.
Never in the history of humankind has anyone been taken seriously after being called “boy.”
Payton knows it because she snorts and mouths “boy” behind Henry, a smirk gracing her lips. I should be thankful she didn’t latch on to the “your girl” part.
“I read a study once that poker is bad for mental acuity in seniors. Maybe it’s time to rethink Cresthill’s policy.”
It’s bullshit. Well, maybe it isn’t, but if it’s not, I wouldn’t know. I don’t spend my time reading poker studies. I’d rather play it.
Henry guffaws, knowing I wouldn’t. “Sure thing, kid. I interrupted your date. I can take a hint.” He nudges me again with his elbow, despite the nearly foot-high difference between us. “Remember the hydro surfboard I requested next time you use us to impress your girl.”
And then he’s gone, moving on to his next victim.
