Best Staged Plans (8 page)

Greg opened the front door and looked out. “Holy shit,” he said. “There are people setting up chairs on our property.”

I tied an old terry cloth bathrobe over the T-shirt I’d slept in and joined Greg at the door. A couple pushed two redheaded kids in a tandem stroller through our driveway. A third redhead followed on a tricycle. People were marching onto our front lawn from every direction, like armies of green-clad ants.

“What are we going to do?” I said.

Greg shook his head. “Sell popcorn?”

Halfway down the long triangle of lawn, a family started setting up a hibachi. Two burly men in leprechaun hats and T-shirts that read
GANG GREEN
placed a huge green and white cooler on the ground nearby.

“Could they possibly think this is town property?” Greg asked.

“Maybe we should call the police,” I said.

Greg pointed. A cruiser was parked on the edge of our lawn, too. Two cops sat on the hood.

We watched in silence as hundreds of people filled every inch of our front yard.

Shannon squeezed into the space between us. “Are we Irish?” she asked.

“Yes,” Greg said. “And proud of it. But these idiots can kiss my sweet blarney stone.”

I elbowed him.

“How many percent Irish?” Shannon asked.

“About fifty percent,” I said. “Just not the parade half, honey.”

“I can’t watch this,” Greg said. “Let’s get out of here.”

But it was too late. Cars had parked across both ends of our driveway and blocked in our minivan. We were St. Paddy’s Day prisoners in our own home. Our feeble protest was to sit in the living room with the kids and ignore the sound of the bagpipes and the
clip-clop
of horse hooves as we played game after game of Hungry Hungry Hippos and Operation.

Every year after that we got out early. And the next morning we’d head out to the front yard to clean up the empty beer bottles and candy wrappers, and once a scattering of green foil–wrapped condoms stamped with shamrocks. It was just the downside of owning a house in the area south of Boston known as the Irish Riviera.

CHAPTER 11

“S
HOULD WE
wake up Cellar Dweller and see if he wants to escape with us?” Greg asked.

“Nah. He’ll probably sleep through the whole thing and think he was dreaming about bagpipes. I can’t believe we have to do this again. We swore we’d be out of here before the next St. Patrick’s Day parade.”

Greg grabbed his keys off the hook on the back of the mudroom door. “Well, look on the bright side—this place will probably be a lot more saleable after the parade is over.”

I gulped down the rest of my coffee and put the mug in the dishwasher. “I don’t know. I think it’s all perspective. If you love a parade, the location is a huge Erin Go Bragh perk. And think about how many hundreds of people would have seen the
FOR SALE
sign out there today.” I sighed. “If only there was one.”

Greg placed his mug beside mine in the dishwasher. “Don’t start, okay? I have a surprise for you.”

He reached into his pocket and handed me an envelope. Inside were two tickets. I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe tickets to a jazz brunch or a midmorning movie matinee. I reached for a pair of cheaters on the kitchen counter so I could read them.

FLY SOUTH REAL ESTATE SHOW

Keep on truckin’, Boomers . . . South, that is. Ditch your winter coats and those high taxes and discover beautiful, affordable new frontiers for the next phase of your life. Make new friends and invite the old to join you.

“Wow,” I said. “Thank you. How on board of you.”

Greg kissed me on the forehead. “I have my moments.”

An hour later we were standing in line to pick up our show packets in a dingy hallway adjacent to a ballroom in a decrepit hotel on the outskirts of Boston.

A bubbly gray-haired woman checked off our names on the list. “Don’t forget to wear your name tags,” she said. “They’re all you need to make new friends.”

“I kept waiting for her to sing the Girl Scout theme song,” I said as we walked away. “You know that one about make new friends and keep the old, la la la la and something about gold.”

“Sorry,” Greg said. “The Girl Scouts wouldn’t let me in. Too much testosterone.”

“That was my first thought when I met you, too,” I said. “But I adjusted.”

I checked out the other couples as we milled around. I thought we looked younger than most of them, but maybe they all thought they looked younger, too.

“Whoa,” I whispered to Greg. “Would you look at those mom jeans.”

Greg flicked his head. “On her?”

I held up one hand to block the finger I was pointing with. “No, on
him
.”

“Is that a toupee?” Greg said.

I followed his gaze. “Ya think?”

Hundreds of booths had been set up along little fake avenues marked by green street signs winding around a big central stage area.

We stopped to read some signs, which were printed in oversize Boomer-friendly letters.

“Cute,” I said. “We’re at the intersection of Penny Lane and Abbey Road.”

Greg opened up the show map. “I’d say we want to head in the direction of Bleecker Street.”

“Ooh, ooh. Who sang that?”

“Simon and Garfunkel.” Greg ran his finger over the map. “ ‘Positively Fourth Street’ was Dylan, ‘Cyprus Avenue’ was Van Morrison. Let’s see . . . ‘Blue Avenue’ was Roy Orbison. ‘Love Street’—”

“The Doors,” I said. “ ‘Cotton Avenue’ was Joni Mitchell and ‘Main Street Saturday Night’ was Carole King. Boy, they’re really pushing the Boomer button, aren’t they? I wonder if you get a
Timeless Tunes of the 1960s and 1970s
CD when you put a deposit down on a house.”

“They probably give you an eight-track tape,” Greg said.

We took a right on Abbey Road. “Lots of whiteheads here,” Greg said as we threaded our way through the crowds.

I decided not to point out that salt was winning out over pepper in Greg’s hair. It looked good on him, and I hated that I couldn’t just let mine go, too. But while I believed in gray hair politically, I had to admit it was the rare woman who didn’t look older as a graynette. I’d been dyeing my hair for so long I couldn’t even remember how long ago I’d started anymore. A part of me really, really wanted to know what my hair would look like au naturel. Would I have my paternal grandmother’s gorgeous white waves? And what if Mother Nature had graced me with salt-and-pepper hair so fabulous it would outshine the color I paid for every five weeks? But somehow I just didn’t think I’d turn out to be one of those rare women. My drab gray locks would simply make me look washed-out, invisible,
old
.

We stopped at a huge poster of a mountain-backed lake surrounded by lush greenery and a walking trail. Cute little docks dotted the front of every adorable house. It looked a bit Stepford Wife-ish, but it’s not like I’d have to wear a ruffled apron or anything. And I was more than ready to trade the charm of our 1890s Victorian for walk-in closets and dual vanities.

I reached for a brochure.

“How close is the nearest airport?” Greg asked the guy behind the booth.

The guy reached for a brochure, too. “About four hours, but it says right here it’s an easy ride.”

Greg looped an arm around my shoulders. “Is there a major fitness center?”

The guy kept reading. “It’s in the planning stages, but it looks like there’s plenty of fishing in the meantime.”

Greg leaned in for the kill. “Trader Joe’s?”

“Don’t count on it,” the guy said. He looked over his shoulder. “Don’t hold your breath for any Starbucks either.”

We circled the conference room in silence. “You totally set me up,” I finally said.

Greg put his arm around my shoulders again. “No, I didn’t. Come on, we can just catch the Walk Till You Drop seminar.”

We slid into our seats as the PowerPoint presentation was starting.

“Savannah,” a white-haired man said as a picture of the city lit up the screen, “is our number one pick for most walkable Boomer-friendly southern city. Plenty of sights to entertain you while you walk, plus lots of great water features, including the Savannah River, the ocean, and let’s not forget the spectacular fountains in the beautiful parks.”

Everybody nodded and a few people made notes.

Our white-haired guide clicked a tiny remote. “New Orleans,” he said, “is our number two Walk Till You Drop city. Eminently walkable, and if you get tired, you can jump on a trolley in the French Quarter and take it right to the Garden District in Savannah.”

“New Orleans,” I mouthed.

He clicked another slide. “Asheville is third on our list. Beautiful mountain views, rugged hiking trails, a great walkable downtown area. Just walking through the Biltmore Estate alone will give you a workout if you decide to settle in Savannah.”

“Asheville,” somebody yelled.

“Good choice,” our guide said. “I can’t recommend it highly enough. Everybody who moves to Asheville falls in love with Savannah.”

“Terrifying,” I whispered to Greg as we tiptoed away. “That could be us in a few years.”

Greg grinned. “Well, at least we wouldn’t have to move. We could just stay right here . . . in Savannah.”

“Cute.”

“Come on, let’s go somewhere romantic and grab a sandwich and a green beer.”

I checked my watch. The marching band would be warming up, and the rest of the town would be firing up their hibachis on our lawn.

We decided to skip the green beer, since any pub in the Boston area would be a mob scene this weekend. We drove to the North End instead.

“But we always go there,” I said when Greg suggested our favorite Italian restaurant. “It’s not like there’s a shortage of great restaurants in the North End.”

Greg pulled into the small lot we always parked in. “It’s just that I can taste that broccoli appetizer already. And you know how you love that pumpkin tortellini.”

I hated that my mouth actually watered in Pavlovian betrayal. “Fine,” I said.

“To us,” Greg said a few minutes later as he clinked his glass of Chianti to mine.

“To us,” I said. “Same old boring, never try anything new, us.”

Greg wiggled his eyebrows in a bad Groucho Marx imitation. “Why mess with the rest when you’ve already got the best?”

I looked around the tiny dining room with the open kitchen. A candle wedged in an empty bottle of Chianti lit our wobbly wooden table. It was hard to tell who was older, the rickety brown chairs we were sitting in or us.

I reached into my shoulder bag and dumped the pile of brochures we’d collected at the Fly South show on the center of the table.

Greg flipped two over. “I’ve got a pair of North Carolinas.”

I reached into the pack. “I’ll see your two North Carolinas and raise you one Tennessee.”

Greg turned over another brochure. “I’m going to have to up the ante and throw in a Florida.”

I slapped a brochure on top of the pile. “I think Georgia might be the tiebreaker.”

Greg took another sip of his wine. “You always had the worst poker face.”

“Gee, thanks.” I took another sip of mine. “And when did we ever play poker?”

“I mean I could always tell whether you had a good hand or not. Old Maid, Go Fish, Fireball Island.”

“Fireball Island,” I said.

“The game where you had to try to recover the giant ruby and take it to the dock while avoiding the fireballs that shot out of the giant idol? Wow, remember how much Luke loved Fireball Island?”

I ran my finger around the lip of the wineglass. Shannon had been just as devoted to Mouse Trap, so we used to have to alternate games.

“Get the cheese, but don’t get trapped,” Greg said.

I shook my head. “We don’t even need to talk anymore. We can just read each other’s minds as they atrophy.”

Greg reached for my hand. “Of course we do. Talking to you is the best part of my day.”

“After tennis,” I said.

Greg grinned. “Okay, maybe it’s a tie.”

“Here’s the thing,” I said. “I don’t want to spend the rest of our lives remembering. I want to make new memories.”

“I hear you,” Greg said. “I’m just not sure it’s all about the house.”

“Okay, so what’s it about?”

Greg leaned forward. “I think we need another dog. Or maybe a cat. But definitely a new pet. Something to bring in some fresh life.”

Once for a school project, Luke had drawn a timeline of our family pets: Tigger, the sweet shelter cat we’d adopted to keep the mice in our new house at bay, and who lived to be a whopping twenty-two years old. Deaf and senile, she meowed at the top of her lungs all night long, night after night, until she forgot she was nocturnal and started doing it all day, too. Then she somehow managed to sneak out, only to get her neck broken in our driveway in broad daylight by something she no longer recognized as a dog.

Dash and Ashley, our much-loved but too-often-neglected Lab-cross shelter dogs who kept each other company when we were too stressed-out with our kids’ crazy schedules to give them the attention they deserved. Dash died at thirteen, and Ashley died of a broken heart a few months later.

Indiana Jones, the adorable two-year-old psychotic female beagle we adopted next from a family who couldn’t keep her. She chewed the shingles off the house and made a break for freedom the minute anyone left the door open longer than a nanosecond. Right before the four of us left for a funeral one day, I went back into the house to grab some tissues. She darted out between my legs and raced across the driveway and into the road. The big green landscape truck never even saw her coming, and she exploded on contact, splattering the street with black, white, and red pieces of Indie. A passing fire truck circled back and washed off the street, and a kind firefighter with kids of his own wrapped what he could in an old blanket so we could bury her.

Rainbow and Star, the sweet rabbits we loved almost as much as they loved each other. And Comet, Luke’s pet rat the rest of us were so sure we’d hate, but who turned out to be one of the smartest, most affectionate pets of all, like a little dog, really. He died a horrible, painful death as a tumor grew on his neck, finally cutting off his oxygen supply during a crazy winter’s nor’easter, when the power went out and all we could do was take turns sitting vigil with him by candlelight until the sad, sad end.