Not that she was thinking about what might motivate Fergus.
She wasn’t thinking about him at all.
“Hey, Phoebe!”
“Hey, handsome.” Typically she was effusively greeted the instant she walked into the rest home—as were the dogs, who were as welcomed here on Sunday afternoons as she was. In principle she had her hands full with her baby clients, but the manager of the rest home had somehow conned her into regular weekend visits. She hadn’t said yes because she was a sucker or weak-willed or anything like that. She just hadn’t quite known how to say no.
Barney—who she invariably called Handsome—was ninety-three and skinnier than a stick, but he still Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
had a full head of fluffy white hair. He could walk with a cane, although he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking anymore. The dogs piled over to greet him, as did Phoebe, who enthusiastically—if carefully—pecked him on the cheek.
“I swear,” she whispered, “you’re so good-looking, I think we should run away from this place and have a wild, crazy affair.”
“Go on with you. You’re young and beautiful—”
“And you’re not?” She raised her eyebrows and patted him on the fanny—which he loved—and then she moved on.
The bad wing was on the west side. She always started there. No one seemed to touch the end-stage patients but the nurses. The staff offered necessary care and caring, but no one had time to express affection or gentleness.
Mop and Duster were allowed on the beds—encouraged, in fact. Even the Alzheimer’s group roused to pet a dog. She brushed hair, rubbed shoulders and necks, massaged cheeks, patted, soaked feet and hands. Some didn’t respond. But some always did.
An hour later she hit the east wing—which was definitely more of a kick-ass crowd. They fought over the dogs, chattered nonstop, bent her ear with their endless array of health complaints.
She couldn’t help loving them. They made her feel so needed.
Most had lost the spouse who would have still touched them, and other living family seemed afraid of their brittle bones. They were so hungry to hold hands, to feel a cheek against theirs, to stroke and hold and hug.
The manager at Young at Heart had repeatedly begged Phoebe to go on retainer for them as a regular.
He claimed the whole place perked up after one of her visits; she made that much difference in health and morale.
That was nonsense, of course. But for the next couple hours, she was busier than a one-armed bandit.
She washed Willa’s hair—not because the rest home didn’t have a regular hairdresser, but because Willa adored the head massage. Who didn’t, Phoebe thought.…
Which reminded her again of how Fergus had responded to even the most basic massage techniques.
The Lockwood brothers had confused her by intimating Fergus was unreachable. Cripes, he’d melted faster than a sundae in the sun.
It kept coming back to her…the feeling of his scalp in her hands, the short hair shivering through her fingers…but the best had been that one moment when she finally felt the tension in his muscles let go, let go, slow as a shadow, the pain in those beautiful eyes finally easing.
“How come some nice man hasn’t snapped you up?” Martha always asked, invariably, like now, when Phoebe was soaking her feet in a baby oil and clove mixture. “I just can’t understanding it. You’re so pretty, with all that gorgeous red hair—”
“I came close to marriage one time.” She gave the standard answer, standard smile, standard laugh. “But thankfully I escaped that fate worse than death by moving here.”
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“You won’t be singing that tune forever,” Martha said shrewdly. “He just wasn’t the right one. But it just makes no sense. The men should be pounding on your door.”
“Nah. I think word’s spread that I’m a mouthy, bossy troublemaker.”
Gus, who only asked one thing from her every week—to sit in the TV room holding hands for ten minutes with a dog on his lap—piped in, “I’ll marry you, Phoebe. You can have all my money.”
“I’d marry you for love any day, you sweetie pie. I don’t want your money.”
“A looker like you should be more greedy. Nobody can survive in this world without a little selfishness in their soul. You gotta think about taking care of yourself. Looking out for number one.”
It was funny, she thought, how easy it was to fool people. She’d never have done this kind of work if it didn’t give back to her tenfold. The truth was, she was selfish and greedy and she always put herself first.
And she proved it when her cell phone sang on her way home.
It was Harry Lockwood. “Could you come for Fergus again?”
“Can’t.” Her answer came out sure as sunshine.
“He asked for you.”
She believed that like she’d believed at fifteen when her date swore he’d stop, promise, hope to die.
“Look, if Fergus calls and asks me to come, I’ll set up a time with him. But it’s Sunday night. I haven’t had any dinner. I have to wash my hair, get my stuff together for the week, groom the dogs. Sunday nights are sacred, you know?”
“This is about hair?”
“No. It’s about my not believing your brother asked for me.”
“Okay,” Harry said, and hung up.
The cell phone rang again just as she was pulling into her driveway. “Phoebe? Did I mention the last time I saw you that I’m deeply and hopelessly in love with you?”
She laughed even before she recognized Ben’s voice. “I swear, the two of you are bad to the bone. But the answer is no. Absolutely no. I’m not intruding on Fergus again unless he specifically wants my help.”
Ben went on as if she’d never spoken. “I’ve never been tempted to marry, but then I saw you. I’ve always been a fanny man, and your darling little butt is really the best I’ve ever—”
She
