Yardley

“Hi, Greta,” I say softly, showing myself into her tiny apartment at the Park Woods Center for Independent Living. She’s seated in her pink recliner, chin tucked against her chest. The TV plays The Price is Right on full blast but she’s snoring away. I figured she’d be sleeping.

Moving closer, I hunch down, running my palm along her arm until her eyes flutter. She’s shocked at first but when she realizes who it is, her face lights and she places her hand over mine.

“Yardley,” she says. “So good to see you.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve called,” I say. Normally I visit her after work or on weekends. She’s not used to me dropping by mid-morning.

“No, no, it’s fine,” she says, rising and reaching for her cane. “Let me fix you something to eat. You hungry?”

I chuckle. “No, Greta. It’s only ten a.m.”

And I managed to choke down an orange juice and an egg McMuffin on the way over, though I’m not sure I tasted any of it.

Greta sits back down, wrinkled eyes sparkling. “It’s so good to see you, my dear. But is everything all right? You never stop by like this in the middle of the day.”

“Just wanted to see you, that’s all,” I say. Visiting Greta is like visiting a grandma, and both of mine are long gone. I never met my father’s mother. She passed before I was born. But my mother’s mother was a frequent staple in our Del Mar home. When we moved to Lambs Grove, she only came out a couple of times per year.

I love my bond with Greta. She’s the grandmother I never had.

“Was going to see if you wanted to get lunch today? The Bamboo Garden is having their buffet special. I know how much you love Chinese …” I say with a wink.

“Oh, sweetie …” There’s an apologetic squint in her clear blue gaze.

And then I notice something.

Her white hair is freshly permed and her glasses hang from a pearl chain around her neck. The cardigan of her pink twinset sweater is buttoned at the top. On top of that, her nails are freshly painted.

Greta Gaines is dressed to the nines.

“Greta …” I wear a smirk. “Do you … do you have a date today?”

She lifts a crinkled hand to her lips and fights a smile. “Yes. I suppose you could say that.”

“Okay, tell me his name. Tell me everything about him.”

Greta swats her hand, chuckling, and she’s radiant, sporting a youthful glow I haven’t seen on her in forever.

“His name is Wilfred,” she says. “He’s seventy-four. A retired farmer.”

“How’d you meet?”

She pulls in a deep breath, fingers tapping on the arms of her chair. Just talking about him makes her giddy, I can tell.

God, I miss that.

“He’s new here,” she says. “Just moved in a couple weeks ago. We met playing Cribbage in the community room. Never thought I’d meet anyone who loved Cribbage as much as me! It’s getting harder and harder to place those little pegs in the holes, you know? And he sat next to me. Helping me. He’s got a steady hand, that Wilfred. And nice lips.”

I playfully brush my hand along her arm. This is too freaking adorable.

“When’s your date?” I ask. “And where is he taking you?”

“We’re having lunch at some little café on the square. I don’t know what it’s called, but he chose it. He also sent flowers to my room yesterday.” She points to a vase of pink roses sitting on the little oak table in her dinette. “Aren’t they gorgeous? Anyway, he’s picking me up in about an hour and we’re taking a cab.”

“Are you nervous? Excited?” I ask.

“Everything.” She laughs, and her right hand lifts to her chest. “Almost feel young again, and that’s something I haven’t felt in almost forever. But enough about Wilfred.” Greta rolls her eyes. “I want to know what’s going on with you? And I don’t believe for one second that you stopped by here this morning for no reason. You never take time off work. What’s going on?”

I sink back into her floral sofa, crossing my legs and resting my chin against my fist.

“There’s someone from my past who recently came back into my life,” I begin. “And not by his choice.”

She lifts a sparse brow, sitting up.

“And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Mainly about regrets,” I say, choosing my words carefully. I don’t want to word vomit my life story the way I did with Bryony last night. There’s no point. And Greta doesn’t know half of what happened before …

“Oh, please.” She chuckles. “You’re twenty-eight. What regrets could you possibly have at this point in your life? As someone who’s three times your age, I can tell you, regrets are a good thing. How else are we supposed to learn from our mistakes? We live, we learn, and we do things that shape us and make us into better people. End of story.”

“Do you have regrets?” I ask.

Her thin lips twist at the sides as she stares to her left, contemplating. “I used to think I did. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve given myself credit for some of the more brazen things I did in my younger years. There were a few times I put my foot in my mouth or spoke up when maybe I shouldn’t have, and at the time I thought I’d made a fool out of myself, but in retrospect … no regrets.”

I wish I could say Greta’s words soothed my ego, but no dice. Maybe someday, when I’m in my seventies, looking back on everything, I’ll be able to give myself credit too, but right now that feels like lightyears away, and right now my ego is a mottled shade of bruised purple.

“So tell me, sweet Yardley. What are these regrets you’re talking about?” she asks.

I purse my lips and shake my head. “It’s complicated.”

“Do you regret marrying Griffin?” she asks, referring to her grandson.

My gaze lifts onto hers.

I don’t know how to answer her.