Page 8 of Book Boyfriends
“Seattle, not Canada, Peach.” His lips pucker. “Well, not anymore. He’s in Irvine now.”
It’s almost a dare. For the last three years, Doc and Estelle have dangled their grandson like he was a piece of candy for me to take.
“It must be nice to have him so close.” I don’t take the bait.
I may want a relationship and be open to finding it, but blind dates are the worst. Tonight reinforces that. First, there’s the pressure of the blind date. Second, there’s the potential to disappoint the person who set you up. No doubt, Jackson will be unhappy with tonight’s outcome. Even though I’m hurt that my younger brother had to call in a favor to get me said bad date, my stomach churns at Jackson’s impending disappointment. I can already hear his “Another one, Georgia?” admonishment.
Affection brightens Doc’s features. “We hated having him so far away, but he was making his way in the world. You know how it is… One must follow one’s passion. A life without it is just empty.”
My heart squeezes at that. After Hope, Doc is the second person I’d shown my first completed manuscript to. A voracious reader, he’d devoured it in three days and returned it with so many notes.
Once the mortification of an octogenarian’s notes on the sexier scenes in my book dissolved, Doc became my go-to alpha reader for all my books.Shifted Heart, my werewolf/vampire, opposites attract paranormal romance.Twice Baked Love, my small-town second chance romance.The Duke’s Darling,my regency romance. He’s read them all, multiple times.
“Speaking of passion, I believe someone’s late on their latest manuscript.” He wags a thick finger at me.
“It’s coming. Just polishing up.” The lie sours in my throat.
For the last six months, I’ve started, stopped, deleted, and restarted three different projects. The way the words just came with the first three books meant I’d never considered what would happen if they stopped. Ideas aren’t my issue, it’s theexecution. Each book’s ending is clear, but there’s no map to get me to it.
“It’s just a first draft. Nobody expects perfection.” He places a palm on my shoulder, and the weight soothes the worry slinking through me.
“I know,” I murmur.
That’s a lie, because I have no idea. Is it the fear of making mistakes? Is it that my talent has dried up? Is it the fear of disappointing readers like Doc? Whatever the reason, the stories inside me aren’t talking to me.What if they never talk to me again?
“Doc, it’s almost time.” Pilar tips her head toward him.
“My public awaits!” He bows and turns.
It’s the best part of the week. Each Friday night, available employees and volunteers escort patients from the rehab and hospice units to the outdoor courtyard at the center of the building. This little courtyard is my favorite place at SPN. Despite the sadness that often tiptoes through this place, the courtyard is an oasis for patients, loved ones, and staff. Where death and worry may live outside the four walls surrounding the courtyard, hope resides here.
Patio tables and chairs, some shaded by umbrellas and others under leafy palm plants, fill the area. The solar lights at the edge of the cobblestone path that loops through the garden and overhead strings of lanterns cloak the courtyard in a magically romantic glow, as if fairies would appear at any moment.
Pilar and I grab a spot against the west wing’s wall. Despite the coolness of the bricks seeping through the thin fabric of my dress, warmth twines around me every time I’m here. Unlike most hacienda structures built in California during colonization, this former residence, constructed in 1908, is an ode to the style. Still, I can’t help but feel transported to a different timeand place. The way every crevice shimmers in both sunshine and moonlight. How the sweet smell of jasmine drifts around the space. The quiet hum of the water fountain at the heart of everything.
“Where is my fairy queen?” Doc steps in front of the fountain, his right hand above his bushy black eyebrows as if searching.
“I’m right here, you old goat!” Estelle hands a patient a cup of water before she shuffles toward her husband.
“Well, come on, baaaby…” he says, mimicking a sheep. “Curtain call is promptly at eight.”
“I said goat, not sheep,” she teases. Where Doc is tall and broad, his wife is a short Black woman with a plump pear-shaped figure.
Laughter wafts around the courtyard. Their playful banter is just one part of this weekly spectacle. Even before Doc retired, they’d pick a different Shakespeare play, mostly the comedies, and do a dramatic reading for staff and patients. Outside ofRomeo and Juliet, they never perform the tragedies. Despite death’s presence within these walls, hope and joy remain the mission. Goodbyes are sad enough; there’s no need to add to it.
“Tonight’s offering isA Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Pilar leans in and whispers.
“I figured as much.” I point at the fairy queen crown that Doc bestows on his wife, the pink flowers pop against her short white curls.
The sweetness of this moment surrounds me. Scripts in hand, Doc and Estelle laugh through lines and overact in terrible, fake British accents. They weave through the clusters of seated patients in wheelchairs or in patio chairs, asking those who are able to read different parts. Despite the ache of my feet in my high heels, I remain pressed against the wall with a smile stretched across my face.
This is my happy place. For the ninety minutes that it takes Doc and Estelle to read through the play, that worry that knotted in my belly unspools. There’s no thought of the bad date, Jackson’s forthcoming disappointment, or the uncompleted manuscript. There is only joy. Joy in the happiness of this courtyard full of people, some who don’t have long left in this world. Joy for the love that radiates at its center.
“I want that,” I whisper to myself. Hollowness twinges in my chest from the unfulfilled want within me.
“What’s that?” Pilar leans close.
“Nothing…” I murmur, emotion thick in my throat. “Just hope I’m like them when I’m older.”
