Page 2 of Distant Shores (Stapled Magnolias #2)

IRELAND

I knew the nude body of Mrs. Lenora C. Apworth better than my own.

Probably because it’d welcomed me three times per day over the past week.

This afternoon, the smell of gardenias and mild pet dander served as a soft prelude to her naked form as I crossed the zero-step threshold into her home, a hallmark of all residences here at Live Oak Independent Living.

Even the chorus of yips, barks, and whines from her menagerie of pets couldn’t muffle the brazen greeting from the full-frontal, true-to-scale, and—presumably—accurate full-body nude portrait that hung proudly in the foyer.

As I propped my longboard against the foyer wall, my phone beeped from my back pocket, telling me that I was on schedule. I had exactly thirty minutes to get this crew taken care of before I had to be back at the Locc—The Live Oak Community Center—to teach this afternoon’s adult tap class.

That wasn’t a tall order, thankfully. The Locc was nestled in the center of Live Oak’s campus, making it a short trip on my longboard. Since I’d sold my car earlier this winter, the only other mode of transportation available to me was Dad’s Vespa, so I was shit out of luck if it rained.

Which… it did often here on the Alabama Gulf Coast.

Dogs circled my ankles while others whined from behind gates.

There were a lot of animal politics at play at Miss Lenny’s house, and I’d spent hours here the first time I met with the eccentric woman, taking copious notes on how to care for her animals.

After countless trips here while she vacationed to places that I suspected didn’t welcome clothes, I had it down to a science.

I knew which dogs got along with which, which pairs could go into the fenced yard together, which had bad hips and needed to be taken out the front door on a slip lead, and which needed a grain-free treat to coax them back inside.

It was organized madness, and I was determined to never fuck it up.

Not even once.

Not after she took a chance on me and gave me somewhere safe to land so many times. I wasn’t sure if she saw the desperation in my eyes when we’d met, but I would forever be thankful for her.

Twenty-five minutes later, according to the next warning beep from my phone, I brought the final wave of backyard potty goers back inside.

The members of this crew—a chihuahua mix with a spicy personality who looked like a fruit bat and two nearly identical Pomeranians—all yipped excitedly at my ankles before I sequestered them behind the gate that separated the living room from the kitchen.

After one final walk-through, I grabbed my longboard from the front and saluted Miss Lenny’s bare breasts before heading out. I knew the lady of the house would appreciate it, given that 1) she was an actual nudist and 2) she didn’t hang such a thing in the foyer hoping people wouldn’t look.

I closed the heavy door and then fought with the lock—all locking mechanisms wanted to fight me for some reason—as my phone beeped again, warning me that it was the end of my visit and I needed to get to the Locc.

I hated alarms, but I also couldn’t survive without them. Not anymore.

With one more yank on the knob to confirm it had truly locked, I stepped out into the midday sun, grimacing at the soupy coastal Alabama air.

After dropping my longboard on the sidewalk with a clatter, I typed out a detailed report for Miss Lenny on my phone.

She’d told me she’d be back in time for an art class at the Locc this afternoon but not in time to let the dogs out, so this was my last trip to her house here on Camellia Lane.

I’d already erased all signs I’d ever been here before I left early this morning, and then I stuffed my things into a duffel bag that was wedged inside my locker at the Locc.

Sudden nerves had me restlessly shifting my longboard under my foot, making the wheels bump over a break in the sidewalk over and over.

I’d almost gotten comfortable this past week. It was the longest stretch of time that I’d had a real bed in months. It was such a simple thing, knowing where you would be sleeping.

For as long as I lived, I’d never take it for granted again.

Pushing down all thoughts of homes and lack thereof, I sent Miss Lenny a photo of Reggie, her senior Jack Russell terrier who almost never knew what was going on but was always happy despite it. Based on how many photos of Reggie hung on the walls of her home, I thought he might be her favorite.

My gaze lingered on the photo before I sorted it to my “happy” album, which was filled with hundreds of photos of pure vibes. An unexpected sunset, a perfect cappuccino, my pointe shoes inside my dance bag.

Dad used to get annoyed with me for taking photos everywhere I went, but the compulsion to take them had only gotten worse, and they almost felt like… life insurance.

If I eventually lost it—my mind, my memories—I would at least have proof that they happened.

A bead of sweat ran down my spine as I slipped my phone back into my pocket and pushed off into the road. It was already incredibly hot and muggy this afternoon, and it was only March. The strands of my honey-brown hair that weren’t long enough to stay in my ponytail were stuck to my neck.

So gross.

The sound of my wheels on the pavement muffled my scrambled thoughts as I lifted my head toward the sky, welcoming the breeze that danced around me.

That week “away” had been just what I needed, but now it was time to go back.

Just a few winding streets later, the Locc came into view.

I kicked up my board and tucked it under my arm before walking toward my reflection in the windows of the doors.

Most of what I saw could be described as average except for the silhouette of the ballerina dancing among flowers tattooed in bold, black lines on my upper right arm, with other bold geometric lines below it to the crook of my elbow .

Jillie, the Locc manager who had done me more than one solid since I first came through these doors, was behind the reception desk.

Her curly dark red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her Live Oak polo was wrinkle free as she spoke on the phone with her best customer service smile in place.

Her expression turned more genuine when she saw me, which squeezed my heart.

Besides Gil, she was one person I considered a friend here.

We exchanged waves before she focused back on her call, and I carried on to the locker room to get dressed for class.

The next hour would be fine , I told myself as I slipped into dance shorts and a loose T-shirt.

As long as no one fell, I added, shutting my locker with more force than necessary.

Someone always fell.

Going from teaching young, bounce-back-from-anything kids to retirees and senior citizens had been… an experience.

Readjusting my expectations, I backtracked.

Class would be okay as long as Miss Trish didn’t fall. Because when Patricia Beauregard fell, she blamed me.

Or rather, my face.

“ I simply cannot focus on my taps, spanks, and flaps when you’re always scowling at me, Irene. It scares me half to death, and considering how close I already am to it, it is truly a hazard .”

My actual name—Ireland—was just unusual enough to offend the sensibilities of a lot of the wealthy Southern retirees around here.

But if I could just keep her feet on the floor and my incurable resting bitch face pointed away from her—a tall order considering one wall of the room was made of floor-to-ceiling mirrors—it might all be okay.

Because on good days when I pushed out the back doors of the Locc and walked across the courtyard to Zinnia House—Live Oak’s state of the art, multi-story memory-care center—the first thing I’d be asked was if I found any happiness today.

It would be such a good feeling to not lie.

Unfortunately, I lied most days.

I walked to the sink in the locker room, where I filled my hands with cold water and dunked my face into my palms over and over until the shock of it overrode everything else.

I could do this. There was no choice.

With my well-worn tap shoes strapped to my feet, I headed into the studio. My gaze trailed along the mirrored wall as I quickly threw together a lesson plan and a playlist based on who was—and wasn’t—in attendance.

Today was a good mix of community members and older Live Oak retirees who lived at the Villas, which meant a mix of ’70s and ’80s songs would probably be best. I could almost hear the relieved sigh of the liability lawyers Live Oak kept on retainer as I did one more sweep to confirm Miss Trish wasn’t here.

I flipped through the booklet of burned CDs—no Bluetooth speakers here—for the one I needed and popped it into the ancient system.

“Come and Get Your Love” by Redbone crackled through the speakers, and without further ado, I strode to the front of the class, pointed my toe in front of me, and led the class in our usual warm-up sequence.

It’d take only a few classes for the regulars to catch on to my brand of teaching—minimal speaking, maximum movement—but they did, and it was that kind of small win that helped my spirit from withering entirely.

But every time I was in front of this mirror, I remembered another studio a few hundred miles north of here, where Sasha, my old college roommate and former business partner, was likely teaching right now.

In the studio I’d worked for years to open and had to give up my rights to less than two years after its opening.

“Shuffle-tap-heel eight times—front, side, back, side,” I instructed over the music, my voice rough as I choked down the unhelpful thoughts.

That life might as well be a million miles away for how disconnected I was from it.