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TRINITY
It’s not my fault that I set off the alarm on the front door of the Precious Meadows Care Center for the fourth time this week. Stacy, the greeter who sits at the front desk and monitors traffic in and out, should really keep Ambrosia on a leash.
Ambrosia is the center’s therapy dog. She’s a hundred and forty pounds of gentle fluff and love who would never hurt a fly. And it’s really not her fault that she nearly outweighs me (and has a lower center of gravity to boot), and that I always have my hands full when I come in.
Today, most of my stuff is crammed into a messenger bag, but my hands are still full, between Princess Lay-ah’s soft-sided pet carrier and the container of snickerdoodle cookies I brought for the staff.
Today, when Stacy buzzes me in through the front door, I carefully balance the tub of cookies in the crook of my arm so that I can open the door and slip inside. Of course, I know better than to touch the push bar. Once the door is open, I catch it with my foot before shifting my belongings back into their correct hands and strolling into the foyer.
As the door closes behind me, Stacy—who is talking to a tall, stupidly handsome man—glances in my direction and gives an obvious sigh of relief that I’ve made it through the door without mishap. For once.
Except then, Ambrosia comes ambling down the hall.
Ambrosia normally has free rein of the memory center, since she has the energy level of a manatee and the gentle temperament of Nana from Peter Pan. There is one thing that gets her excited though. Chickens.
So as soon as she sees—or smells?—Princess Lay-ah’s carrier, she cranks up the pace. But it’s okay. I still have this. I raise the pet carrier up out of her reach and take just the smallest step back.
And that’s where all my plans fall apart.
She jumps up and puts her paws on my shoulders. I stumble back a step. The panic bar hits me mid-back. The alarm shrieks through the room. I lurch forward, since it will stop as soon as I’m not touching it. But somehow my bag gets caught on the panic bar. Ambrosia knocks the cookies out of my hands. Genuinely fearing for Princess Lay-ah’s life, I hold her crate even higher. I finally free myself of the push bar, only to fly forward.
Though by some miracle, I don’t land on my face. Ambrosia breaks my fall and doesn’t even complain about it.
The chaos will last only a few seconds. Probably. I hope.
But by the time the dust settles, I’m sitting on my ass, clutching the pet carrier to my chest, Ambrosia is eating the snickerdoodles, and the handsome stranger is glaring at me like I just pissed in his Cheerios.
Stacy—who has a limited tolerance for my shenanigans anyway—looks at me from over the rim of her glasses. “Ms. Lewis,” she chides with the air of someone very put-upon. “I thought we discussed this.”
“I didn’t touch the panic bar.” I look from Ambrosia to the man, who is watching all of this with total disdain, half hoping one of them will come to my defense. Neither of them do. “Between Ambrosia … and the cookies … and Princess Lay-ah … and …”
Stacy gives the man a long-suffering look. “If you’ll just give me a moment, Mr. Harris.”
He gives a stiff nod and then glances away to look around the center’s entrance, as if put out by the inconvenience of my mere existence.
I get that a lot. I’m high energy and a bit of a klutz. A great many people find me inconvenient.
Stacy picks up the handset on her desk and says coolly into the receiver, “Anthony, if you could come assist in the front lobby, Ms. Lewis could use your help. And while you’re at it, inform the cleaning staff that we’ll need someone to come clean up…” she looks at the mess Ambrosia is making and then arches a brow in my direction.
“They were snickerdoodles,” I offer helpfully.
She clears her throat and says, “We just need someone to come clean up.”
She hangs up before Anthony can respond. The too-handsome man just continues to stare at me like he’s not at all sure what to make of this.
I’m not sure I can blame him.
“I’m sorry. I’m not normally such a hot mess.” I give him my signature plucky-but-apologetic smile. “Only sometimes, I guess.”
Not only does he not smile in return, but his scowl deepens, like he’s uncertain where I fit in at Precious Meadows.
As elder care centers go, Precious Meadows is posh AF. Other than the panic bar on the door, nothing in this room would indicate it’s a health care facility. The furniture is all heavy wood, oversized poofy chairs, and glistening light fixtures. It looks like it belongs on the cover of Southern Living. Everything here is designed to fool the patients into feeling at home. Needless to say, I don’t fit in here, but my grad school advisor had an in with the staff, and it’s close to my apartment, so it’s where I’m doing my practicum.
The man is not someone I’ve ever seen here before, which says something, since I come visit the center several times a week to study the benefits of therapy animals for patients with dementia.
He’s at least six feet tall, with silky brown hair that’s a little long and scruffy on the top, and several days worth of growth on his jaw. Between his skin tone and his hair, he could be one of the millions of Texans of Latino descent, but it’s impossible to say. He’s in cargo pants, boots, and a slouchy leather jacket, all of which look worn but expensive. Like he’s the kind of man who has the money to buy the nicest things, but not the vanity to care whether or not he looks impressive. He exudes casual wealth without pretension.
