“Bridgewater Hall,” Ollie repeated, sagging back against the folded blanket that was serving as his pillow. Maybe the painkiller was finally kicking in. “Couldja tell ’em that for me?” He closed his eyes and was out like a light.
“Well, you managed to calm him down,” Sunny told her dad. “That was pretty impressive. How did you know about Bridgewater Hall?”
“It was my first choice after I had the heart attack and didn’t know if you were coming up to help out,” he replied a little grimly. “Sounded great to me, except for one little thing.”
“What was that?” Sunny asked.
“They told me I couldn’t afford it,” Mike replied. “But I figure Ollie is loaded. He should be able to swing their fees.”
2
After Ollie finally settled down, Sunny got a chance to talk with some of the doctors. Surgery to implant a brace on the broken bone was tentatively scheduled for the next afternoon, and shortly afterward a social worker would be turning up to get the ball rolling on some place for rehab. Mike made sure to mention Ollie’s preference for Bridgewater Hall. The discussion took a while, and by the time Sunny and her dad got out of the hospital, true dark had already established itself.
As they drove home, Mike discussed the pluses and minuses of other nursing homes in the area. “I think physical and occupational therapy, they’re the big considerations,” he explained. “Otherwise, you’re just being warehoused, lying in bed, watching daytime television. Bridgewater Hall has two hours a day, one in the morning and then one in the afternoon. Everywhere else I looked into only had an hour. The place isn’t all that big—only seventy-five beds both for the old folks who are permanent residents and the short-timers in for recuperation. But the rehab patients have a separate wing of the building with exercise space and equipment. And the therapy staff has a reputation all over the state. They get good results.”
“The physical therapist who came to the house and worked with you was pretty good,” Sunny pointed out. “Getting results when he could only come once a week—well, that depended a lot on my nagging.”
Mike sighed. “I know I gave you a hard time about my exercises. It’s easier taking orders from a stranger than from your own kid.”
“Having a hard time taking me seriously because you once changed my diapers?” Sunny inquired, grinning.
“That’s probably part of it,” Mike said with a laugh. “Also, in a facility, it’s harder to escape when they want you to do stuff. You can’t get away with giving them guff about wanting a nap or not feeling up to exercising.”
“Looks as though it turned out pretty well for you despite convalescing at home,” Sunny told him. “Nowadays you can walk your kid right into the ground.” She glanced over at her dad. “Do you really feel you missed out on the fancy-schmancy rest home?”
“I was really glad when you came home to help out.” Mike’s voice grew rueful. “But maybe if you’d stayed in New York, you’d still have your job.”
Sunny briefly turned to give Mike a pat on the arm. “I wouldn’t blame yourself for that, Dad. The Sentinel was bleeding jobs well before I took my leave of absence. Sooner or later, my number would have been up.”
Although it kind of stings when the editor who cans you is also your ex, Sunny’s uncompromising back-of-the-head voice felt compelled to add.
They continued on in silence until Sunny made the turn home onto Wild Goose Drive. “What was that?” Her voice grew sharp. For just a second, the Jeep’s headlights had ignited an answering glow in a pair of animal eyes.
Mike rolled down the window and peered out into the gloom. “It’s the damn cat.”
“Shadow? What is he doing out?” Sunny exited the SUV and stepped forward. With his striped gray fur, Shadow was almost invisible against the dark grass.
“I think he figured out how to gimmick the screen door in the kitchen,” Mike said. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see him all afternoon.”
Shadow came toward Sunny, but stayed just out of reach, then turned away, his legs and back stiff, his tail a flag of offended pride.
“Shadow!” Sunny called after him.
“You missed his supper,” Mike said. “I guess he’s peeved.” Despite having turned his back on Sunny and stalking off, Shadow somehow still managed to zip between her legs and into the house as she unlocked the front door. He elaborately ignored her as Sunny headed to the kitchen and got out a can of the good cat food, and even stayed aloof as she scraped the can into his dish and added fresh water to his bowl. He waited until she was well away before he came up and began taking small, determined bites.
He’s got to be starving, but he won’t let himself be hurried, Sunny thought, watching him from the kitchen doorway “Hey, how come the furball gets fed first?” Mike demanded, reminding her that there were other hungry people in the house.
Sighing, Sunny went to the refrigerator and got out the deli salads she’d picked up at Judson’s Market the day before. They might be leftovers, but with some bread and cold cuts, they’d make a decent cold supper.
Mike came into the kitchen to get plates and scowl at Shadow. But when he saw Mike, the cat abandoned his bowl and advanced on Sunny’s father, reaching out a paw to pat at his shin.
Mike’s grim expression melted to a wry grin. “Crazy cat.”
Yeah, the sarcastic voice in Sunny’s head commented, but he’s still getting fed first.
*
Four days later, Sunny had fallen into a routine with the hospitalized Ollie. At the end of the day, she’d bring any business that needed his approval up to County General. Thankfully, with the weekend there hadn’t been much for Ollie to deal with when he was really out of things, just a real estate deal with somebody in Portland who kept making phone calls to the MAX office.
Although Ollie had a boatload of businesses, the tour office served as headquarters and nerve center of his miniature financial empire. That’s where all the files were kept, all the mail was delivered, and all the calls kept coming in from Mr. Orton in Portland.
Today was the big day when Ollie transferred out of the hospital and into the nursing home. Sunny left the office early, carrying a fat envelope full of papers that Mr. Orton had express-mailed over for Ollie’s signature ASAP. Placing the bulky package on the passenger seat of her trusty maroon Wrangler, Sunny set off for Bridgewater Hall.
The orthopedic surgeon had worked quickly to pull Ollie’s broken bone together—and the hospital had worked just as quickly to get him out of there. An ambulance arrived to take Sunny’s boss to Bridgewater Hall around noontime. Mike Coolidge had volunteered to help with the move and get Ollie established in his new digs.
Heading north from Kittery Harbor, Sunny stayed on the interstate until she reached the exit that would take her to Levett. Then she followed a series of country roads until she came to the stone bridge that gave Bridgewater its name. The village had a downtown about a block long—a food store, Laundromat, barbershop, gas station, and dry cleaner’s. Following the instructions she’d downloaded, Sunny passed the business district, took the next left, and five minutes later pulled up in the driveway of Bridgewater Hall.
“Yikes!” she muttered, taking in the view. Except for the cyclone fence and the parking lot taking up a good piece of the front lawn, the place had a distinctly baronial feel. A three-story stone structure rose up on the left, complete with a two-story bay with battlements on top. And just to the right of those rose a heavy arch framing a pair of bronze and timber doors that would probably require a major battering ram to bust through if the local peasants ever decided to revolt.