The way Harold is looking at Granny May is so loaded that I half expect the sprinklers to activate from the heat between them.
A woman in a cardigan that screams “activities coordinator” interrupts our tree theft conspiracy theories. “Mrs. Pine! You’re just in time for caroling!”
Granny May’s face lights up. “Oh, wonderful! Harold and I have been practicing.”
“Practicing what?” Mrs. Pine asks suspiciously.
“Our duet, dear,” Granny says innocently.
The next half hour is a blur of holiday songs performed with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and in some cases, horror. Harold and Granny May’s rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” is both charming and mildly scandalous.
I lean toward Melody during a particularly off-key version of “Jingle Bells.”
“Are all retirement homes this horny, or is it just this one?”
She stifles a laugh. “I think it’s sweet.”
Watching Melody during the caroling session is fascinating. She helps a woman with trembling hands hold her songbook. She compliments an old man’s baritone. She remembers everyone’s name after hearing it once.
“She’s something special, isn’t she?” Charlie says, catching my observation.
“The kind of something special that makes three grown men act like lovesick teenagers? Yes.”
Charlie grins. “Four if you count Oxford.”
“The llama doesn’t count. He’s clearly the most emotionally mature of all of us.”
After caroling, we’re herded into the crafts room where tables are set up with supplies for making ornaments. I find myself seated between a woman named Edith, who keeps calling me “young man” in a tone that suggests it’s not a compliment, and a gentleman named Walter who has strong opinions about modern literature.
“It’s all sex and swearing now,” Walter informs me as he carefully glues sequins to a foam ball. “Whatever happened to storytelling?”
“Sex and swearing are integral parts of the human experience,” I reply, struggling with the glue. “Even Chaucer knew that.”
Walter’s bushy eyebrows rise. “You’ve read Chaucer?”
“I have a PhD in literature,” I admit. “Though I try not to bring it up in casual conversation because it makes me sound pretentious,” I stage whisper.
“Too late,” Charlie calls from across the table.
Walter looks delighted. “Finally, someone to talk to about books! Everyone here just wants to discuss their grandchildren or their bowel movements.”
For the next hour, Walter and I debate the merits of various literary movements while I create what might be the world’s ugliest Christmas ornament.
Walter and I are still deep in literary debate when I notice Melody across the room, her blonde head bent close to an elderly woman’s as they work on ornaments together.
“So you’re saying Hemingway was overrated?” Walter demands.
“Not overrated, just unnecessarily glorified for his machismo,” I argue, fumbling with a tiny bell that refuses to attach to my disaster of an ornament. “The man never met an adjective he didn’t want to murder.”
Walter laughs, a deep rumble that ends in a concerning wheeze. “Refreshing perspective, young man. Everyone here just nods along absentmindedly with whatever I say about the classics.”
“That’s because they’re not listening,” Charlie interjects, sliding into the chair beside us. She’s created an ornament shaped suspiciously like a penis, though I doubt the activity coordinator has noticed yet. “They’re just waiting for their turn to talk about their grandkids or their arthritis.”
“Charlie!” Mrs. Pine scolds.
Melody approaches our table, holding a perfectly crafted miniature wreath ornament. Probably a secret omega crafting gene that missed the entire beta population.
“Mrs. Lemmings has invited me to her grandson’s wedding,” she announces, sounding pleased about this theoretical future event.