with the polished mahogany banister, sweeping gracefully to the second floor. The corridor above was set off against the dark wood railing. A very appealing picture. Probably not so different from Henley House at the height of its glory. In fact, except for the cutting-edge safety and security details—coded-card system, fire detectors and monitors—Olivia Henley Simonett probably felt right at home here. Of course, she would have to use one of the two elevators set off to the side of the staircase.
A polished reception area with more fresh flowers lay straight ahead of me. I walked past the formal sitting room to the right. I stopped to observe. Two white-haired women with walkers sat chatting on one of several chintz sofas. Behind them a girl of about twenty with purple spiky hair stared out the window. She wore a uniform that matched her hair, and was holding her fingers in a way that smokers do when they need a fix and can’t get outside.
A painfully thin man with lank dark hair sat hunched over in a motorized wheelchair in high-gloss red. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-nine, his poor bony shoulders making dents in his T-shirt. He faced a large baroque cage with a pair of small parrots. He was quite obviously upset. I couldn’t make out what he was trying to say, but his agitation was growing. His legs jerked.
One of the women on the sofa turned toward the girl with the purple hair and whispered to her.
“Pretty boy,” the green parrot said seductively.
The blue and yellow one tried its luck with, “Treat time?”
The girl at the window turned, walked to the young man, and gently pushed his hair back. “You got your hair in your eyes again, dude. You’re going to need to get a do like me, Gabriel,” she said. “And a bit of gel.”
His answer was unintelligible to me.
“You’re welcome,” she said, patting his shoulder. “All part of the service.”
“Thank you,” said one parrot.
“Snack?” said the other one.
“May I help you?” a voice said.
I whirled, expecting a third parrot, perhaps pink. A birdlike woman smiled at me. I recognized that particular smile. It was the type you reserve for prospective clients. I should know. I have my own prospective-client smile. I took a lesson from this woman and reminded myself to let my smile reach all the way to my eyes.
I did my best to smile back. I’d felt apprehensive coming to Stone Wall Farm, but now I was relieved. The place was immaculate, well run, organized—qualities I love.
I asked for Olivia Simonett. The birdlike woman gave a small flutter and said, “Oh, I don’t think . . . I mean, well . . .”
“It won’t take long,” I said confidently. “I just want to say hello to Olivia. I brought her some chocolates.”
“She’s been very . . . perhaps you shouldn’t . . . so distressing.”
A bell rang sharply on the desk, and the woman nearly took flight. The bell rang again, and she fluttered down a short hallway to a doorway marked “Executive Director .” A tall woman with smart silver hair stood in the door watching me. From where I stood I could feel her ice blue eyes assess me, before she turned away.
I shuffled my feet for a moment and then gazed up the long, curved polished wood staircase. I thought I saw a movement. I squinted. Sure enough, I spotted shoulder-length white waves and a flowing flowered garment. Olivia was making her slow way along the upper hallway, with the help of a walker and the sturdy dark-haired attendant, whose glasses still had a definite tilt. I moved without thinking.
They had just entered a suite when I caught up. The door stood open, revealing a vast and lovely room, full of light and chintz and flowers. A talk show played on the television set.
The attendant whirled and gasped, “Who are you?”
“A friend of the family.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that’s all right. Marilyn hasn’t been herself.”
Marilyn? Was I in the wrong spot?
I stared at the elderly woman who
A polished reception area with more fresh flowers lay straight ahead of me. I walked past the formal sitting room to the right. I stopped to observe. Two white-haired women with walkers sat chatting on one of several chintz sofas. Behind them a girl of about twenty with purple spiky hair stared out the window. She wore a uniform that matched her hair, and was holding her fingers in a way that smokers do when they need a fix and can’t get outside.
A painfully thin man with lank dark hair sat hunched over in a motorized wheelchair in high-gloss red. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-nine, his poor bony shoulders making dents in his T-shirt. He faced a large baroque cage with a pair of small parrots. He was quite obviously upset. I couldn’t make out what he was trying to say, but his agitation was growing. His legs jerked.
One of the women on the sofa turned toward the girl with the purple hair and whispered to her.
“Pretty boy,” the green parrot said seductively.
The blue and yellow one tried its luck with, “Treat time?”
The girl at the window turned, walked to the young man, and gently pushed his hair back. “You got your hair in your eyes again, dude. You’re going to need to get a do like me, Gabriel,” she said. “And a bit of gel.”
His answer was unintelligible to me.
“You’re welcome,” she said, patting his shoulder. “All part of the service.”
“Thank you,” said one parrot.
“Snack?” said the other one.
“May I help you?” a voice said.
I whirled, expecting a third parrot, perhaps pink. A birdlike woman smiled at me. I recognized that particular smile. It was the type you reserve for prospective clients. I should know. I have my own prospective-client smile. I took a lesson from this woman and reminded myself to let my smile reach all the way to my eyes.
I did my best to smile back. I’d felt apprehensive coming to Stone Wall Farm, but now I was relieved. The place was immaculate, well run, organized—qualities I love.
I asked for Olivia Simonett. The birdlike woman gave a small flutter and said, “Oh, I don’t think . . . I mean, well . . .”
“It won’t take long,” I said confidently. “I just want to say hello to Olivia. I brought her some chocolates.”
“She’s been very . . . perhaps you shouldn’t . . . so distressing.”
A bell rang sharply on the desk, and the woman nearly took flight. The bell rang again, and she fluttered down a short hallway to a doorway marked “Executive Director .” A tall woman with smart silver hair stood in the door watching me. From where I stood I could feel her ice blue eyes assess me, before she turned away.
I shuffled my feet for a moment and then gazed up the long, curved polished wood staircase. I thought I saw a movement. I squinted. Sure enough, I spotted shoulder-length white waves and a flowing flowered garment. Olivia was making her slow way along the upper hallway, with the help of a walker and the sturdy dark-haired attendant, whose glasses still had a definite tilt. I moved without thinking.
They had just entered a suite when I caught up. The door stood open, revealing a vast and lovely room, full of light and chintz and flowers. A talk show played on the television set.
The attendant whirled and gasped, “Who are you?”
“A friend of the family.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that’s all right. Marilyn hasn’t been herself.”
Marilyn? Was I in the wrong spot?
I stared at the elderly woman who
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