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IT’S MY FIRST OFFICIAL FRIDAY night cocktail hour at Belleview and the night isn’t going... as
well as I’d hoped. We’re already half an hour in and it’s just Stormy, Mr. Morales, Alicia, and
Nelson, who has Alzheimer’s and whose nurse brought him in for a change of scenery. He is,
however, wearing a dapper navy sport coat with copper buttons. Not that many people came when
Margot was in charge, either—Mrs. Maguire was a regular, but she was moved to a different nursing
home last month, and Mrs. Montero died over the holidays. But I made such a fuss to Janette about
how I would breathe new life into cocktail hour, and now look at me. I feel a little olive pit of dread
in the bottom of my stomach, because if Janette catches wind of how low the attendance is, she might
cancel Friday night social after all, and I had the funnest idea for the next one—a USO party. If
tonight’s a flop, there’s no way she’ll let me run it. Also, throwing a party and having four people
show up, one of whom is dozing off, feels like a huge failure. Stormy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t
mind; she just keeps singing and playing the piano. The show must go on, as they say.
I’m trying to keep busy, keep a smile on my face: Tra-la-la, everything is loverly. I’ve lined up
the glassware in neat rows so it looks like a real bar and brought a bunch of things from home—our
one good tablecloth (no gravy stains, freshly ironed), a little bud vase I put next to the plate of peanut
butter cookies (at first I hesitated at peanut butter, what with allergies and all, but then I remembered
that old people don’t have as many food allergies), Mommy and Daddy’s silver ice bucket with their
monogram, a matching silver bowl with cut-up lemons and limes.
I’ve already gone around knocking on doors of some of the more active residents, but most weren’t
home. I guess if you’re active, you’re not staying in your apartment on a Friday night.
I’m pouring salted peanuts into a heart-shaped crystal bowl (a contribution from Alicia, who
brought it out of storage, along with her ice tongs) when John Ambrose McClaren walks into the room
in a light blue Oxford shirt and navy sport coat, not dissimilar to Nelson’s! I nearly scream out loud.
Clapping my hands to my mouth, I drop to the floor, behind the table. If he sees me, he might run off. I
don’t know what he’s doing here, but this is my perfect chance to take him out. I crouch behind the
table, running through options in my head.
And then the piano music stops and I hear Stormy call out, “Lara Jean? Lara Jean, where are you?
Come out from behind the table. I want to introduce you to someone.”
Slowly, I rise to my feet. John McClaren is staring at me. “What are you doing here?” he asks me,
tugging on his shirt collar like it’s choking him.
“I volunteer here,” I say, still keeping a safe distance. Don’t want to spook him.
Stormy claps her hands. “You two know each other?”
John says, “We’re friends, Grandma. We used to live in the same neighborhood.”
“Stormy’s your grandma?” My mind is blown. So John is her grandson she wanted to set me up
with! Of all the nursing homes in all the towns in all the world! My grandson looks like a young
Robert Redford. He does; he really does.
“She’s my great-grandmother by marriage,” John says.
Stormy’s eyes dart around the room. “Hush up! I don’t want people knowing you’re my great-
anything.”