Wini shakes her head, rolling her eyes at the same time. “Oh, Viv, prisoners don't come knocking on your door to steal your heart. There’s being careful and then there’s keeping the sheets tight.”
“Sheets tight?” I walk the length of the bed and sit the remote control for the television on the unit.
“Yeah, you should be shaking the damn sheets with orgasms.”
“Wini!” My entire body heats quicker than a glasshouse in the midday sun. “I haven't found my swan yet.”
Her faint brows snap together. “Swan?”
“Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“Is that young people’s terminology for clitoris?”
“No!” I groan. “Once a male and female swan completes a wonderfully romantic courtship, they bond for life and raise their cygnets together.”
“If only life were that simple.” Wini smooths clean cotton over her thighs and yawns. “I bet swans get divorced and remarried too.”
I glance at the collage of photographs on her dresser. A younger, vibrant Wini poses in separate photos with her husbands. Yes, she had three weddings over the decades. The first husband died young. The second wedded his career until she divorced him, and the last man was a free spirit who packed his bags and never came back.
I’m sure each of them were ‘the one’ at some point, enough for her to agree to marriage three times. Or else she was in love with the idea of being in love, or being loved. I’m too scared to trust anyone enough to wish they’d be my swan.
I’ve dipped my fishnets into the dating pool and only caught catfish. The guys I met up with never understood me. One date actually described my job as being a caretaker in the living morgue and had the nerve to get angry when I called him an insensitive idiot. We split the bill after the main course.
“I accidentally met a handsome guy last week.” The hairs on my arms prick. “He looked older than me and rode a motorcycle, so I guess Nonna wouldn’t approve.” I half smile. “He’s on her substandard list.”
“Viv, I loved Nonna, but those darn lists have kept you like a caged swan. It’s your life, honey. My Harold drove a motorcycle, and he had the heart of a saint and the energy of a tiger.” She simpers.
Harold was reckless husband number one, which I’m guessing led to his early departure.
“I prefer the safety of an enclosed vehicle. Motorbikes are too open and extremely hazardous in the rain. And on that basis, it would never work. He likes danger, and I—” I sigh. “I prefer movie nights on the couch. Hewasvery hunky, in a manly way, though.” My insides boil over when I recall how he stripped off my thigh-highs. I pat my brow with the back of my hand. “It’s very warm today. I need a drink of water.”
“Did you get his name?”
“He’s called Danny. It just so happens he was the paramedic who assisted you last week.”
“Is that so?” Wini nods her head slowly and sets her spectacles on the tip of her nose. “He turned up in your life when you needed him. I seem to remember that happening before, when you found Nonna.”
“You're the one who needed him.” I feel a wave of color rise to my scalp. “Anyway, I haven't seen him since.”
Wini mutters something inaudible under her breath and peers at me over her frames with an odd look of amusement.
“What did you say?” I ask.
She grins at me like she’s pleased with herself. “I said, how about a cup of the sugary tea you bought off the Internet––and a cookie?”
A blast of air leaves my nostrils. “Fine.” I pout. “No sugar. One cookie. Then your medication.”
“Deal.” She slides her frames further up the bridge of her nose and reaches for the book. “I’ll be waiting right here. Enjoy that cold drink, honey.” Wini smirks as she leafs through the pages. Her eyes widen when she silently mouths an extract from the first chapter. “Oh my!” she exclaims. “Perhaps I’ll need a jug of water myself.”
After Nonna died, around two years ago, I poured my life into running Blossom Grove. I devote all my time to the elderly residents who live here when the world thinks they’re too old to bother with. Thoughtless fools call this place the waiting room to Heaven, whereas I think of it as a community where the older generation is respected and safe. We all get old in the end. With the addition of personal touches and soft furnishings, I’ve transformed Blossom Grove into a home from home.
“Give me five minutes.” I tie the curtains back. “Why is GG barking? The delivery guy usually comes in the afternoon.”
Leaving Wini’s room, I find my dog GG doing laps in the reception hallway near the entrance. The chubby pug’s shrill bark snaps and yaps. I used to bring her to work with me every day, rather than leaving her alone in my house. As time went on, she ended up staying here permanently. Everyone loves her, even when she breaks wind after dinner. That silent waft could clear a townhall.
I continue to the breakroom to make a start on the morning tea, leaving Dot to sort out the early sanitary delivery. “Hm, which tea shall we have today?” I mutter, flicking on the kettle and studying the lineup of canisters. “Earl Grey.” I pop the lid off. “This is definitely an Earl Grey morning.” I scoop out the perfumed loose leaves and tip them into the tea strainer, then submerge them in boiling water. The residents get a kick out of the assortment of specialty teas. It’s our thing now.
Since I was a teenager, I’ve consumed buckets of the stuff. All sorts of leaves from the darkest to the greenest. Nonna made me believe proper ladies sip sweet tea from a china tea cup with a matching saucer; although, whether that air of decorum attracts a good man is totally up for debate. These days I drink it from a mug because it saves me from refilling after every long gulp.
