Page 2 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

WILLOW

I swerve to avoid hitting Roberto, who is trailing along behind his walker down the middle of the street in Washington Heights, looking at the ground and not where he is going. Not that Roberto knows where he is going most of the time.

“Oh dear.” I stop the food van quickly two blocks shy of his and Juana’s house, then hop out and run to the old man’s side. “Roberto, how are you doing?”

He turns his head my way, his watery eyes not recognizing me for a moment. But then he smiles. “Willow! Oh, I’m fine, just fine. But… where is my house?” he asks anxiously.

“You’re almost there,” I reply, gently turning him around and pointing at his house.

Poor Juana, apron full of cornmeal dust from grinding corn—because she has never eaten a store-bought tortilla in her life and isn’t about to start now—comes running down the middle of the street herself. “Ah, Willow! Thank God for you. Roberto, my love, I thought you were watching the game? ”

He looks confused. “Was I?”

“Yes, darling, you were.” Juana puffs as she stops next to us, leaning over to catch her breath before taking Roberto’s arm and slowly shuffling down the street with him.

They’re the most adorable little couple and aren’t on my route today, since I’m filling in for a sick volunteer with the food van and not meeting with people about their landlord issues, but I can tell they need my help. There are strain lines on Juana’s face again.

I decide the food will keep. “Let me drop off Mrs. Baumgartner’s food real quick and I’ll be right back, okay, Juana? I can tell something’s wrong.”

“Thank you, angel. But you finish the meals first. No one should ever go hungry,” she says firmly. “Silver Hearts is lucky to have you.”

I give her my sunniest smile. “I’ll get the meals done quickly and then we can talk about… Mr. Powers?”

Juana shakes her head. “Roberto Jr. this time.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Ah yes. The son who wants to put them in a home. “You leave it to me, Juana. I’ll be back right after I finish these deliveries.”

She gives me an indulgent smile. “I know you will get here when you can.” She gives me a big, floury hug. “And don’t forget about the fundraiser!”

I hug her back with all my might, then give them both a wave as I hop back into the van.

I’m really supposed to be having a meeting about said fundraiser in a few hours, but they’ll wait for me.

Juana’s situation, in my opinion, is the fire burning within my reach, and I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t know how to pivot.

Mr. Katz sticks his head out of his door as Juana and Roberto pass, then looks at me. I roll down my window .

“Mr. Powers sent out more letters. I think he really means to evict us all this time,” Mr. Katz wheezes just loud enough for me to hear.

He’s stretched his oxygen cord as far as it will go to come talk to me, and, as usual, Old Tucker, his elderly golden retriever, trots out of the house to tug on his owner’s shirt.

Old Tucker is the more responsible of the two when it comes to Mr. Katz’s oxygen.

Hmm. Obviously, I’m going to have to reschedule the fundraiser meeting and have a neighborhood meeting here instead. Poo on Mr. Powers for scaring his elderly tenants like this! “I’ll be back soon, Mr. Katz. You tell the neighbors we’re going to have a meeting later today, okay?”

He nods, scooting backward with every tug of Old Tucker’s teeth on his shirt. “Thank you, Willow. We know you have that fundraiser meeting.”

“It’ll keep.” That is my motto. You put out the fires burning closest, and anything else will keep.

“Say hello to Mrs. Baumgartner for me?” Mr. Katz asks shyly.

I smile. I wish the cords running from her oxygen tank and his oxygen tank were long enough that the two of them could go on a proper date.

But both of them are still waiting for more lightweight portable systems to make going out more feasible.

Something else I need to follow up on. “I will bring her all your love.”

Mr. Katz’s ears turn pink and he mumbles a “thank you” before letting Old Tucker pull him back into his house.

I put the van in gear and drive another three blocks, waving to Juana and Roberto as I pass, then pull up in front of a faded brick walk-up that always looks like it’s exhaling under the weight of time.

The once-bright red fire escape is rusting, the windows sag under peeling trim, and the stoop has settled unevenly, as if the building itself is weary.

It’s been that way since Mr. Baumgartner passed unexpectedly from a heart attack.

Mrs. Baumgartner still lives in their rent-controlled apartment on the ground floor, but she can’t keep up with the little things—dusting the hallway light fixtures, sweeping the front steps, making sure the door buzzer works when it feels like quitting.

I make a mental note to send a volunteer to help with a few minor repairs.

I’m stepping out of the van, about to grab her meals, when my phone rings. It’s the caterer for the fundraiser.

“Ms. Harper.” I wonder if the uptight Ms. Banks sounds this beleaguered with all her clients. “You need to tell me how many people will be at the fundraiser.”

“Please, call me Willow,” I reply cheerfully. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know our headcount yet. I was going to go over the numbers tonight with the committee, but…”

There was a longsuffering sigh. “But something’s come up.”

“Y-Yes,” I say sheepishly. I feel like a student being taken to task by a teacher. Or I’m about to be.

“Ms. Harper, I run a business. I need a minimum deposit…” Ms. Banks begins in a nasal tone that reminds me of Charlie Brown’s teacher. I’m sorry to say her lecture also sounds about the same to me: “Wah-WAH-wah-WAH-wah-wah.” I’ve heard it before.

“Oh dear, look at the time! I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. By the end of today. Thank you!” I babble and quickly hang up.

I lean against the side of the van with a sigh.

The main problem is while we provide many services for a lot of elderly people who want to stay in their homes, our budget remains woefully tight.

Hiring a caterer at all is an astronomical expense, especially since I don’t know if this fundraiser will even be successful or not.

With the caterer and venue rental, it’s possible we won’t even break even. And I just can’t have that.

“You should let Juana make tortillas,” Mrs. Baumgartner says, coming out onto her porch.

Mrs. Baumgartner never misses a trick. “I’m afraid she actually would.” I chuckle, bouncing up the stairs. Mrs. Baumgartner is also straining the length of her oxygen tubing. If it were just a little longer, she could sit outside her door in the sun sometimes.

Instead, I go inside a stale-smelling home.

She keeps it up as well as she can, but dust has settled in places and formed a kind of furry film in a few corners.

I’d add another volunteer to my mental list, but Mrs. Baumgartner is too proud to have someone else come in and clean.

And I like that independent spirit about her and wouldn’t change it for the world.

I give her a bright smile. “Pot roast and summer squash this time. Your favorite.”

“With the little red potatoes?” she asks, looking hopeful.

“Of course!” I grin. “Now, you sit down. Lunch today is a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato soup. I’ll heat it up for you.”

“Oh, Willow, you don’t have to do that. I know you’ve got enough on your plate without heating up lunch for this old biddy.”

“Nonsense. Oh—before I forget,” I add, my grin turning mischievous. “Mr. Katz sends his love.”

Mrs. Baumgartner smiles fondly and does, indeed, sit down on her sofa, allowing me to heat up her food. “That old charmer.”

“He’s only charming to one person I know,” I tease.

She chuckles and looks off into the distance, tugging a little on her oxygen tubing.

I hurry over to rearrange the nasal cannula back into position while the aged microwave struggles to heat her food. “Don’t want that going anywhere.”

“True. But I’d like to go somewhere. When will they have my new oxygen?” Mrs. Baumgartner asks, not really asking me but rather lamenting aloud.

“I’m going to check into that,” I assure her, patting her hand. The microwave dings and I scurry back into the kitchen. I come back out with the cookie sheet we’ve been using as a tray and set her soup and sandwich on a TV table next to her.

Mrs. Baumgartner begins to eat half-heartedly, and I wonder if I should have mentioned Mr. Katz at all. Then she suddenly points her grilled cheese at me. “You need a good man.”

“What now?” I respond with a startled laugh.

“You heard me. A good man. Why haven’t you settled down yet? You’re so kind. You’re beautiful. You’re the ‘whole package’ as the young people say.” Mrs. Baumgartner waves the grilled cheese at me as though it’s a man she has on offer.

I can’t help the giggles that bubble up inside me. “Mrs. Baumgartner! Now that you’ve got yourself another good man hanging on your every word, you’re trying to set me up?”

She nods seriously. “Yes.” Her phone chimes loudly. “Oh, speaking of which…” She picks it up and answers a FaceTime call. “Hello, Irving darling. ”

I see a picture of Mr. Katz’s hair-sprouting ear on the phone and cover my mouth so I don’t laugh.

“Irving, dearest, we’re on the FaceTime. You can look at me on the screen,” Mrs. Baumgartner says patiently.

The image tilts and moves and suddenly we’re looking up Mr. Katz’s nose. “Doris?”

“A little further away, dear.” Mrs. Baumgartner smiles.

Mr. Katz finally appears onscreen with Old Tucker trying to squeeze his head into the frame as well. “I just wanted to wish you a nice lunch, Doris.”

“Thank you.” She blushes. “Are you having the lasagna today?”

Mr. Katz holds up the box for a TV dinner. “Pizza.”

Mrs. Baumgartner laughs and it’s the most adorable young girl giggle I’ve ever heard. I like that they keep each other young. “Well, have a slice for me.”

“I will,” Mr. Katz says.

“And stop feeding it to Tucker!” she admonishes him.

Mr. Katz has no intention of listening to her. I know it. She knows it.

And the salivating Old Tucker knows it, too.

“Sure thing,” Mr. Katz lies. “Oh, looks like it’s time for Family Feud. Shall we watch it together?”

I turn on the TV for her. She always has it on the Game Show Network. Just like Mr. Katz. “I’ll show myself out,” I whisper.

“Wait! You still haven’t told me why you’re not married,” Mrs. Baumgartner argues.

“Good question,” Mr. Katz agrees.

I smile at her and the phone, which she is holding up in one just slightly trembling hand. “I don’t have time! Besides, I haven’t found someone fun enough yet. ”

Both of them snort, but then get so absorbed in each other that I’m able to make a sneaky retreat.

My heart squeezes a little for the rest of the day. I suppose it would be nice to have a partner to go through life with. Someone fun, kind, flexible. Someone like me. A real partner in all things.

I finish my day and head home after the late-night neighborhood meeting where I calm everyone down.

Mentally, I’m trying to stop myself from leaving a flaming bag of poo on Mr. Powers’s doorstep, but I don’t want to cause any more trouble for my clients.

Silver Hearts doesn’t need him working against us, and neither do the clients. Well, any more than he already is.

Once I get in the door of my dilapidated old apartment, I see my cats, Rufus and Mingo, have knocked all the flower pots off the tables and counters and left a terrible mess on the floor, while Tiny, my pit bull, has ripped the newest dumpster-dived couch cushions to shreds.

Spike, my elderly dachshund mix has also had an accident and is hiding behind said couch.

His last owner threw him out for being incontinent and he always seems to be afraid I will too.

I look at the disaster and just laugh. “Come here, Spike, you poor thing. Oh! Tiny, you’ve still got some cushion in your mouth!” I scoop them both close to me and kiss their heads.

Rufus and Mingo meow and one tangles herself around my ankles while the other headbutts me.

I don’t bother with the mess for a long time. “How are all my silly gooses?” I baby-talk to them. “My silly little gooses.”

I think again about finding a life partner and add one more nonnegotiable item to the checklist. “He’d better be an animal lover.”