in her future. But for now, she was fine.
Still, there was a precariousness that came, not so much with retirement but with age. After she had dug herself out from the debt her husband’s exit had created, she had always said to herself, If I have to, I can do anything. I can wait on tables. I can work in retail. I can . . . The list was endless. But now that wasn’t so certain. Even if she had the strength and stamina required to do those jobs, would anyone hire her?
Paul Peavey had offered to pay her a good sum. A very tidy sum. Why wouldn’t she take him up on it?
Before she left her office, Jane called and left a message on Peavey’s office phone. She would be there Monday at ten. She also called Phyllis.
“All right. I’ll help you screen your dates.”
“Of course you will. The first one’s at two o’clock on Monday at Peet’s. Don’t be late.”
Chapter Two
Monday, August 6
At a little before ten on Monday, Jane pulled her sturdy, orange Volvo, known as Old Reliable, into the private road that led to Walden Spring. The complex stood high on a hill surrounded by woods and a golf course. Despite her reflexive dislike for these kinds of faux communities, Jane begrudgingly admitted the setting was attractive. She drove up the winding road and parked in one of the spots marked VISITOR. A wide walk led through a two-story archway in the building that bordered the parking lot. She had no idea what to expect.
Jane been a bit flummoxed about how to prepare for the meeting. She’d updated her résumé, such as it was, constructing a sanitized version of her “cases” in elevated corporate-speak. The hairdresser switch became “supplier reorganization,” and the peeing five-year-old became a problem of “inappropriate territoriality and boundary violation.”
It would have helped if she’d known what to do about the “community problems” once she got to Walden Spring. She thought her way through all the vapid morale-building seminars she’d gone through with the phone company. Nothing seemed to apply. She didn’t think she could stage trust falls with a group so prone to osteoporosis.
Although Peavey had appeared to hire her on the spot, she assumed he had other people he needed to account to—a board of directors or some far-off corporate owners—for the kind of expense she’d proposed, if the job lasted more than even a few days.
She’d taken care with dressing and grooming, too. Should she treat the meeting like a job interview, her first in more than thirty-five years, or should she try to “blend in” with the community? And, given the range of dress she’d seen worn by her age cohort in the wild, what did “blend in” mean?
In the end, she’d compromised, donning a khaki skirt and canvas flats, but paired with a crisp, pink blouse she could have comfortably worn to her old job. She put on lipstick and left the annoying new progressive glasses on her bedside table. She put on sunglasses but tucked an old pair of readers into her purse, in case she was called upon to review or sign some kind of contract. Satisfied, but still nervous, she’d headed out the door.
At Walden Spring, she stopped on the other side of the archway to take in the view. Two long, four-story apartment buildings formed an L-shape around a large, rectangular lawn with paths running through it. The green space had a lovely campus-y feel. On the third side of the rectangle, a freestanding building had a sign over its doorway that read, CLUBHOUSE. The fourth side of the lawn was open to the golf course.
Just inside the archway, she found the management office. Jane entered an ample reception room and knocked lightly on the open door to the only office. Paul Peavey stood up from behind his enormous mahogany desk and greeted her warmly.
“Mrs. Darrowfield—”
“Jane.”
“Welcome.” He motioned for her to sit and got down to business. She’d expected he would give her more background about her assignment. Instead, Peavey started right in, as if the deed were done.
“I think Mrs., um, Jane, the best thing to do is to treat you like a prospective buyer. It’s common for people who are considering purchasing at Walden Spring to move into one of our guest units and spend a little time getting a feel for the community and what it has to offer. I’ve asked our realtor to take you on a tour as she would any other prospect. She doesn’t know why you’re here.”
“Move in?” Jane was nonplussed. The idea had never occurred to her. “I’m terribly sorry. I wasn’t planning to move in.”
“But you must. I don’t think you’ll get to the bottom of it if you don’t.”
Avoidance seemed like the best tactic. She’d tell him she wasn’t moving in after she had something to report. “Can you tell me more about your problems? Get to the bottom of what?”
Peavey looked uncomfortable. “I think there’s a natural tendency in humans to gravitate to people who are like us, people who have similar interests and values.”
“That hardly sounds like a problem.”
“It’s not. But when there is hostility between groups of people, it can create a lot of tension and unhappiness.”
“Hostility?”
“Yes. You know, rivalries.” Now he looked not just uncomfortable but unhappy.
“Are you telling me you have gangs at Walden Spring?” For a moment, Jane flashed to a chorus line of elderly Sharks and Jets, snapping arthritic fingers and singing.
“Certainly we do not have a gang problem. I think it’s best for you to see for yourself.” Paul punched the numbers on his phone and then spoke into it. “Can you come over now?” After he hung up, he turned back to Jane. “Regina Campbell is our in-house realtor. She handles all our properties at Walden Spring.”
A few moments later, Regina strode through the door. She was broad-shouldered and tall, towering in her high heels. In her late twenties, professionally dressed, she had a pretty face framed by brown hair curling to below her shoulders.
“After you take Mrs. Darrowfield around to see the properties,” Paul told Regina, “could you give her a tour of the clubhouse and perhaps leave her there for lunch?”
“Lunch on her own? In the dining room? We don’t usually—” Regina seemed more than reluctant.
“Yes, please, Regina. I’m sure Jane will be fine.”
For the next hour, Jane and Regina toured the model apartments of Walden Spring. Patiently, Jane let Regina show off the granite countertops, the Jacuzzis in the master baths, and the large balconies overlooking the quad and the golf course beyond.
The two-bedroom models, the Emerson and the Alcott, appeared to be mirror images of one another. The smaller units were called the Hawthorne and the Thoreau. When Jane told Regina she expected the Thoreau to be a single room with no heat, the realtor stared at her blankly. Surely it couldn’t have been the first time she’d heard that joke. The Thoreau was the smallest of the units, just one bedroom, but turned out to be very nice. Open plan, spacious kitchen with plenty of storage, light and airy throughout.
The apartment buildings had multiple entranceways, which meant only
