When All the Girls Have Gone Read online

  “Right.” Charlotte cleared her throat.

  “Looked good in his uniform,” Ethel said. She winked. “Never could resist a man in uniform. That’s how I met him, you know. We were both in the military. I was a nurse. Left to get married and raise the kids.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that. You also made a point of saying that after his death you struggled as a widow with two young children to raise.”

  “Yep.”

  “Is it possible that, as much as you loved your husband, deep down you perhaps felt some resentment toward him because he left you and the children alone?” Charlotte suggested gently.

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t easy making ends meet after he was gone,” Ethel allowed. “But we managed.” She beamed. “My son is a doctor, you know. My daughter is a lawyer.”

  “You already told us twenty or thirty times that your kids are all successful,” Hazel Williams muttered, not bothering to conceal her resentment.

  Hazel Williams had raised three children, but she had included only two of them in her memoir—a daughter who was a teacher and a son who worked in construction. Although she had dutifully recorded the birth of a second son in the family tree chapter, there had been no further mention of him. Every family had a few secrets, Charlotte thought. It was an unwritten rule in the class that the members of the group were entitled to their secrets. No one had a right to pry into another person’s past.

  “I’m just telling you that we did all right after Harold was gone,” Ethel said.

  “That’s obvious,” Charlotte put in quickly, hoping to change the topic. “It was a tremendous accomplishment, raising two children on your own and working full-time. You have every right to be proud.”

  Stan Barlow snorted. “Why is it that when a woman raises kids by herself, everyone thinks it’s some kind of big deal? But if a man raises a family without a wife, he doesn’t get any credit.”

  Mildred Hamilton, seated at the desk in front of Stan, turned in her chair. “I don’t know any men who raised a bunch of kids on their own. All the men I know who lost their wives or got divorced were married again within six months. Take yourself, for instance.”

  Stan reddened. He had recorded three marriages.

  “I’m just asking a reasonable question,” he said.

  “I think we’re getting off topic here,” Charlotte said. She rose to her feet and made a show of looking at the large clock on the wall. All the clocks at Rainy Creek Gardens had big, easy-to-read numerals. “I see our time is up and it’s almost happy hour in the Fireside Lounge. The assignment for next week is to work on the section of the booklet titled ‘My First Job.’”

  Most of the memoirists pushed themselves upright, collected their canes and walkers and filed out of the classroom at a brisk pace. Happy hour was another popular activity that Charlotte had implemented. Management had voiced some alarm at the start, but Charlotte had pointed out that many of the residents were already in the habit of enjoying a predinner glass of wine or a martini in the privacy of their own apartments. She had convinced her boss that an organized happy hour was a better alternative. It not only enhanced socializing in a segment of society that was at high risk for loneliness, it was safer than drinking alone.

  The reaction to the introduction of happy hour had been so enthusiastic that Charlotte was fairly certain the residents would revolt if it were ever terminated. But it was highly unlikely that the event would be removed from the schedule of activities because there had been an unexpected upside. It turned out that featuring a daily happy hour had proven to be a highly successful marketing tool. The business of selling the retirement community lifestyle to seniors was a highly competitive industry.

  Ethel waited until the others had left. Then she levered herself up out of her chair, gripped her walker and fixed Charlotte with a determined expression.

  “I still say killing off Harold makes for a better ending,” she said. “More dramatic. Sort of like you getting left at the altar a couple of months ago.”

  Charlotte tried not to wince.

  “It’s dramatic, all right,” she said. “But keep in mind that you are writing this for your children and your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. This memoir will become a permanent family legacy that will probably be handed down for generations. It will be uploaded online. If your descendants question the reality of some parts of your story, they might decide that you made up other elements, as well. It could call into question the authenticity of your version of your family’s history.”

  “Huh.” Ethel squinted a little. “Hadn’t thought about that angle.”

  “I suggest you do consider it,” Charlotte said. “Writing a memoir entails certain responsibilities.”

  “Good point.” Ethel nodded. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Now, I’ve got to go change for happy hour.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Enjoy it.”

  “Always do.” Ethel paused at the door and wrenched the walker around so that she once again faced Charlotte. “You got lucky, you know.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Just think how you’d be feeling now if you’d married the bastard.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have given the issue considerable thought and you’re absolutely right, Ethel. I had a very narrow escape, didn’t I?”

  “Yep. Remember that when it comes time to write your own memoirs.”

  Charlotte smiled. “I will.”

  Ethel maneuvered her walker through the doorway and disappeared.

  Charlotte listened to the soles of Ethel’s sturdy shoes clumping down the hallway. Ethel was not the first person at Rainy Creek Gardens to point out that she had dodged a bullet. Everyone in the community—staff and residents—knew about the fiasco with Brian Conroy because they had all been invited to the reception.

  Charlotte had booked the Fireside Lounge for the festivities. Jocelyn had been shocked by the choice. She had even offered to pay for a more elegant setting as a wedding gift. With her charitable foundation connections, she had access to any number of high-end venues. But Charlotte had been adamant. She had pointed out that she was new to Seattle, so most of her friends and acquaintances were connected to Rainy Creek Gardens. It had made sense to hold the event there. Besides, as she had told Jocelyn, most of the residents would have had a difficult time getting to an off-site location. Very few of them still drove.

  The upcoming wedding reception had been the talk of the community for weeks. The sudden cancellation five days before the nuptials had stunned everyone. There was no getting around the fact that it had been the most dramatic thing that had happened at Rainy Creek Gardens since the last earthquake drill, when several residents had mistakenly believed it was the real thing.

  She had, indeed, been lucky, Charlotte reminded herself. But the knowledge that she had come within a hairsbreadth of marrying Brian Conroy—aka Mr. Perfect according not only to her own criteria, but to Jocelyn’s, as well—sent chills down her spine.

  When she went through her list of desirable traits in a husband, it seemed as if she could put a check mark in each box. Brian was a friendly, outgoing, well-mannered man. He had appeared to be thoughtful and kind. He was intelligent and interesting and he had a good job teaching social sciences at a local college. He was easy to talk to and the two of them had enjoyed many of the same things, including long walks, the symphony, blah, blah, blah.

  Mr. Perfect. Right. What could possibly be wrong with this picture? Oh, yeah. Nobody was perfect.

  But as devastating as the canceled wedding had been—dealing with the sympathy from others had been the hardest part—she knew she could not blame Brian, at least not entirely. She knew exactly why he had gotten cold feet at the last minute. Her therapist had made it clear that she had to accept a large portion of the responsibility. She had tried to play it safe, as usual. The bottom line was that at some point Brian had awaken
ed to the realization that she was boring.

  You need to push yourself out of your comfort zone, the therapist had said. You need to try new things, open yourself to new experiences.

  She’d given it a whirl with a class in kayaking—and quickly discovered that she did not like getting wet, especially when the water was cold. She’d also experimented with skiing lessons, only to find out that she really hated falling down in snow. As a last resort she had bought a bicycle, determined to bike to work for the sake of the environment. That plan had been shelved when she had nearly been crushed under the wheels of a delivery truck.

  In the end she had settled for lessons in meditation. The therapist had not been impressed.

  The truth was, now that the trauma of the canceled wedding was fading, Charlotte was aware that what she felt was a surprising sense of relief. Ethel was right. She’d had a very close call. But that didn’t mean that she wasn’t still pissed at Brian. A woman had her pride.

  She gathered up her papers and notebook and headed for the door. When she passed the Fireside Lounge she was pleased to see a large crowd. Music from a bygone decade played in the background. Voices were raised in conversation.

  She wished that she was looking forward to an after-work drink with someone. Usually she would have given Jocelyn a call and arranged to meet her at one of the popular downtown bars or restaurants. But Jocelyn was out of town for the month.

  She paused at the memorial board to look at the faces of the recently deceased. The pictures on the board almost always featured the individual in the prime of his or her life. The men were often dressed in dashing military uniforms or well-tailored business suits and ties. The women were invariably garbed in the style of another era. Some were in wedding gowns, their eyes radiant with the anticipation of a blissful future.

  Charlotte was pretty sure that none of them had expected to end up at the Rainy Creek Gardens Retirement Village. But the truth was that those on the memorial board had survived whatever life had thrown at them—tragedy, trauma, disappointment and heartbreak—and lived to tell their tales at Rainy Creek.

  In the grand scheme of things, Charlotte thought, getting left at the altar was nothing more than a dramatic story that, with luck, she would be telling her friends and neighbors and, perhaps, her own grandchildren decades from now.

  She went into her office, made a few notes about the next memoir writing session and then went over her schedule.

  Sarah Jameson appeared in the doorway. She was in her late fifties, a trim, attractive woman who favored skirted business suits and black pumps. She lounged in the doorway, arms folded, and smiled.

  “I hear there was a bit of a dustup in the Write Your Life group today,” she said. “Something about Ethel Deeping wanting to end the chapter on her marriage by saying that she killed her husband decades ago.”

  “Word travels fast,” Charlotte said.

  “Blame happy hour.”

  “There appears to be some confusion in the class about the fine line between writing memoirs and writing fiction,” Charlotte said. “Ethel says her husband was a successful, well-respected man who gave back to the community, but I think she carries some residual anger toward him. He died when their kids were young and Ethel was left to raise them on her own. I think she’s using a fictional ending as a way of taking revenge. Also, she says it’s more dramatic.”

  Sarah chuckled. “Well, she’s got a point. Who are we to stop her from writing whatever she wants to write? Besides, you did say that memoirs are a kind of therapy.”

  “True.” Charlotte glanced out the window. It was still raining. She retrieved her boots from under her desk and slipped off her heels. “The problem is that the rest of the class is upset with Ethel’s decision to embellish her life story.”

  “I doubt if Ethel is the only one who is guilty of that.”

  “Well, a pattern is emerging.” Charlotte tugged on the boots. “Most of the class prefers to write about the good stuff that happened to them and ignore the bad.”

  “Where’s the harm in that?”

  “I agree.” Charlotte got to her feet and took her anorak down off the coatrack. “There is definitely something to be said for denial. I’ve learned that much from working here at the village. Some of the happiest residents are those who seem to have done an excellent job of rewriting their own pasts.”

  She took her handbag out of the bottom drawer of her desk and slung the strap over one shoulder.

  “Any word from Jocelyn?” Sarah asked.

  “No. Incredibly enough, I think she must be enjoying herself at that convent retreat. I never thought she’d make it through the first week, to be honest. Jocelyn is practically hardwired into the Internet. I bet her ten bucks she wouldn’t be able to go a full month without checking her e-mail.”

  “Well, she’s only been gone for a week. You might win that bet yet. Got plans for this evening?”

  “Not really. I’m going to stop by Jocelyn’s condo to water her plants and collect her snail mail on my way home today. That’s probably going to be the highlight of my night. You?”

  “No, but I’m looking forward to the weekend. My husband and I are going to drive over to the coast. There’s another storm due in. I love the beach during storm season.”

  “Sounds great,” Charlotte said. “See you tomorrow.”

  She made her way through the lobby, said her good-byes to the front desk staff and went out into the rain-drenched gloom of the fall afternoon. She paused in the wide, gracious entranceway and reran the conversation with Sarah in her head. She did not care for the ending.

  I’m a single woman of a certain age and I’ve got zero plans for tonight and none for the weekend, she thought. That was ridiculous. No doubt about it, she had spent more than enough time brooding about the Brian Conroy disaster. She needed to get a life.

  She pulled up the hood of her jacket—only tourists carried umbrellas in Seattle—and got ready to step out into the steady drizzle.

  One of the many advantages of her job at Rainy Creek Gardens was that it was just a twenty-minute walk from her apartment. Actually, when she thought about it, everything she needed was within a twenty-minute walk of the apartment. Seattle had big-city lights, good shopping and all the other amenities of urban life, but it was still, in many ways, a small town. Brian Conroy and the rain aside, she was glad she had heeded Jocelyn’s advice and made the move from Oregon.

  An expensive-looking luxury car pulled into the small parking lot in front of the entrance. The driver’s-side door opened and a man climbed out from behind the wheel. He jogged toward the shelter of the covered entranceway. When he saw Charlotte, he smiled with just a polite hint of masculine appreciation.

  “Really coming down,” he observed. “But at least it’s not too cold.”

  “True,” she said.

  “You look a little young to be a resident,” he said. “Visiting a relative?”

  “I work here.”

  “Yeah?” He glanced thoughtfully at the lobby entrance. “I was hoping maybe you had a family member here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to ask your opinion of the place. The family has appointed me to shop around for a retirement community for my grandmother. Since you work here, though, I guess your opinion would not exactly be unbiased, huh?”

  “I work here because I like this community a lot,” she said. “There’s someone inside who can answer all your questions, but you really ought to bring your grandmother here to take a look for herself. Moving into a retirement community is a major lifestyle change. She needs to be involved in the decision.”

  Damn. She sounded way too earnest, even to her own ears. She could hear Jocelyn’s voice in her head.

  That’s right, Charlotte, a good-looking man flashes you a sexy smile and asks a simple question and you go straight into lecture mode
. You’ve got to lighten up, woman.

  The stranger’s smile dimmed a couple of degrees.

  “Right,” he said. “The thing is, I’m just trying to get a feel for the options that are out there. Grandma has lived in the same house for fifty years. She’s nervous about moving into a community full of strangers.”

  Charlotte felt herself on solid ground now. Forget trying to flirt with him, she thought. Just stick to business.

  “Does your grandmother play bridge, by any chance?” she asked.

  He seemed surprised by the question, but he recovered quickly.

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “She plays killer bridge.”

  “Then she’s golden,” Charlotte said. “Trust me, as soon as the word gets out in the community that she plays, she’ll have no problem making friends.”

  “Thanks, I’ll let her know.” He paused, as if trying to decide whether to engage in further conversation with her. “What do you think the in crowd will be playing when you and I are ready for a retirement community?”

  “Video games, probably.”

  He chuckled and some of the warmth returned to his smile.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Well, thanks for the info.”

  He went through the glass doors and disappeared into the lobby.

  She went out into the rain and walked briskly along the sidewalk. She had managed to amuse him for a moment. That was the good news, she thought. The bad news was that she had not been trying to be funny. She had blurted out “video games” in answer to his question because it was the first thing that had popped into her head.

  She hadn’t exactly flirted with a stranger, but there had been a little whisper of the female-male vibe in the exchange and that realization boosted her spirits. Maybe whatever it was inside of her that had been crushed by the Brian Conroy fiasco wasn’t dead after all. Maybe it had just been hibernating.

  A little flicker of awareness prompted her to glance back over her shoulder. She didn’t expect to see the man again. By now he would be at the front desk in the lobby asking for more information and perhaps a tour of the village.