Second First Impressions

She turns to her computer and begins typing. Just as I think a miracle has occurred—she’s doing some work—my computer chimes with a meeting request for Friday five P.M. Subject? The Sasaki Method, of course. I click accept, and just like that, the conversation is not over, just rescheduled.

Chapter Two

After our yogurts, Melanie begins setting up the new resident profile in the system, but now that she’s working, I kind of wish we were still chatting. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Through the open office door, I can see the neat path leading to the residents’ accommodations. There’s perfect hedges, emerald grass, and a tiny sliver of blue sky. “I like Sylvia’s view from this chair.”

Melanie replies, still typing, “Are you angling to get her job?”

I nod. “If nothing disastrous happens, she says she can retire with confidence.” I think she means, she’ll retire before things get serious.

Prescott Development Corporation (PDC) acquired Providence eighteen months ago. They have a reputation for giving their acquisitions a glamorous, repurposing makeover. Would Providence become a wellness center? A boutique hotel? A set for a reality TV show? Time passed and nothing happened. There was no visit, no call, no bulldozers, but eventually a decree was issued on PDC letterhead: All tenancy agreements have been altered to have the same end date of December 31 next year.

“That’s fine,” Mrs. Whittaker (she of the legendary three boyfriends) told me when I dropped off the paperwork explaining the tenancy amendment. “I’ll be dead by then, honey. Got a pen?” The attitude of residents has either been cheerful don’t-careness or gossipy conspiracy theories. The calls from their families were stressed-out questions we still can’t answer. By next Christmas we could be packing up this office.

We keep trying to impress PDC with the perfect investment they’ve made, by sending through regular financial reports and cute newspaper clippings about our contributions to the community. But our corporate daddy’s too busy to not

ice our A+ report cards and flawless ballet recitals. We are the forgotten achievers. And I’m really okay with that.

Melanie’s head turns. “Oh, I hear a scooter. Tag, you’re it.”

“Part of your duties is assisting the residents. Probably your top duty.”

“They’re all so old with see-through skin. I can’t handle it.” Melanie gets up and goes into the bathroom, phone in hand. I walk outside to create a drive-through service.

A sharp voice shouts, “You’d think for the price we pay, they’d do something about the turtles.” Steaming down the hill toward me are the Parloni sisters. The older sister taking the lead is Renata. She’s just turned ninety-one. I put a birthday card in her mailbox and it was returned to me, torn into pieces. It’s okay—I knew she’d do that.

“Be more careful, they’re endangered” is what Agatha (Aggie) replies. She is younger at eighty-nine years old and she is correct: They’re endangered tortoises and they’re everywhere. Providence has the highest concentration of golden bonnet tortoises of anywhere on the planet. They swerve their scooters around the slow-motion lumps dotting the path and my heart is in my throat.

Renata bellows back, “I’m the one who’s endangered around here. I want to turn them into hair combs.” When they reach me, they brake to a stop. Britney Spears blares from a portable radio in Aggie’s front basket.

Renata was once a fashion editor. The devil wears brands you’ve never even heard of. YouTube has footage of a fashion show in 1991 when she called Karl Lagerfeld “Weekend at Bernie’s” to his face. He called her something far worse in French, but she considers it a triumph. He had no creative reply.

HOT OR NOT magazine is long gone, but Renata is not exactly retired. I can pick out brand logos all over her.

Her sister, Aggie Parloni, is my style goal. Gray suit, white blouse, and black loafers. She has fine white hair cropped close to her head and is smart, neat, and reasonable. I get along with her great. Aggie is a quiet person, but she’s noisy because of her radio. The local station has a competition: Win $10,000 if they repeat the same song in a day. Aggie doesn’t need the money, or any of the random prizes she’s always trying to win. It’s the what-if feeling between entering and the prize draw that she is addicted to.

I ask her loudly, “Any luck?”

Aggie turns down the volume a touch and holds out some envelopes to me. They’re prestamped and ready for the afternoon’s mail run. They’ll be twenty-five-word-or-less entries. Collect-ten-coupons. Name This Yacht for a Chance to Win. “I did have a small windfall,” she says carefully, like she knows she’s about to be teased.

“She won a Frisbee,” Renata cackles. “Let’s ask the neighbors to toss it around, shall we? Break a few hips.”

The mental image almost pixelates my vision. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” The fact that their assistant isn’t in tow is a very bad sign.

Renata smiles, and it’s pure evil. “We need a new one.”

I know exactly what she means. “What happened to Phillip?”

She ignores me and lowers her sunglasses, cooler than I’ll ever be, and looks through to Melanie’s vacant chair. “Where’s your pretty Asian minion? Or is that not PC? Inspired by her, I ordered a lovely black wig.”

“You absolutely cannot call her that.” I hold eye contact until I see she understands. “But in regard to the wig, Melanie will be very flattered. She’s busy checking her social media in the bathroom.”

Renata’s cackle always hits my bloodstream like a drug. It’s the Providence equivalent of making the popular girl at school laugh. “The youth of today. On the toilet, right where they belong. I wish I’d had ‘the Instagram.’”

“Is it too late for you to try it?” Aggie’s a quiet instigator. Thanks a bunch. Before the day’s out, I’m going to be taking street-style shots of Renata leaning against a brick wall.

Renata narrows her eyes like I’m a magazine cover and I’m Not Hot. “You’re looking very old today, young woman. Where’s the visor I bought you for Christmas? You are asking for LIVER SPOTS,” she booms, loud enough to scare birds. “Look at my spotty OLD HANDS. This song was playing this morning,” Renata says to Aggie abruptly when the radio changes tracks. “Quick, call them.”

Aggie consults her notebook. “It was ‘Billie Jean’ at 9:09 A.M. This is ‘Thriller.’ Tell her what you did to Phillip.”