Stef Ann Holm by Lucy Back (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

Walking the polished linoleum floor of the Sunrise Trail Creek Seniors Home, Jacquie thought about their class today. Salsa dancing. Good Lord, but it was going to be a hoot watching Spin shake her skinny ass.

Jacquie turned the corner into Spin’s room.

“Spin, you wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. My stupid cell died and this fabulous listing of mine—” She cut the sentence off.

Spin’s bed was empty.

Not just empty-unmade, as if she were in the restroom or in the dining hall…but empty of her favorite floral-print linens. Empty of Spin’s rose-colored, twin-size chenille bedspread, her TV pillow, her pink fuzzy slippers.

Panic welled in Jacquie. Her chest constricted and she felt as if she was suffocating.

No, no, no!

Running out of the room, she went to the nurse’s station and found one of the familiar charge nurses for Spin’s unit.

“Hi, you know me. I come here all the time,” Jacquie said in a rush. “I’m looking for Fern Goodey-Leonard. She’s tall, skinny as a broom handle and…”

The nurse’s expression was one of sympathy.

Jacquie refused to acknowledge it. No! She continued in a fast slur of words. “Her bed’s not made the way she likes it. Where are her sheets? And what h-happened…t-to her s-slippers?”

Jacquie’s shoulders began to quake, her body trembled. Tears splashed down her cheeks, onto the front of her blouse, wet spots on the fine silk.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said, her mouth creasing with empathy. “They tried to call you this morning to tell you, but we couldn’t get hold of you.”

“Spin…” Jacquie let go of the sobs. “Ohmygod… Spin.”

Jacquie lifted her chin, her vision blurry. The nurse’s gentle tone had been placating, but Jacquie’s pulse threatened to pump out of control.

“She died in her sleep,” the nurse murmured. “She wasn’t in any pain and she lived a good, long life. Everyone here loved her.” Even the nurse got a tissue and blew her nose. “She was a real kick in the pants.”

The words simply refused to register. All Jacquie knew was that the best friend she’d ever had in her life wasn’t in her room, in her bed, with the television blaring with a Bonanza rerun.

Vaguely hearing herself talk, Jacquie said, “We were supposed to have salsa lessons today.”

“I’m so sorry,” the nurse said, sympathy etched on her young face. She went to a white cabinet, came back with a large manilla envelope and handed it to Jacquie. “She left us instructions to give this to you on her passing. She also has something in the art room for you. We left it just as it was.”

Unable to speak, Jacquie took the offered envelope and walked numbly down the hallway.

Grief had never been one of her strong suits. When her mom died, Jacquie hadn’t done well at the funeral. She didn’t like sad or depressing things. Which was why she sometimes filled herself with artificial happiness, anything to rid herself of lonely realities that, at times, were too much for her.

Without Spin, Jacquie didn’t know how she would have gotten through her breakup with Drew. Oh, hell…she would have done it, she was strong. But my God…Spin.

Spin…you saved me.

Jacquie gulped hard, yielding once more to the compulsive sobs that shook her shoulders. Her hand grabbed the hall railing. She couldn’t move forward. She had to lean into the wall for support, her cheek against the cool surface.

She’d known this day would come. And yet, no matter how much she’d told herself she could deal with it, she couldn’t face the pain of losing someone who’d meant so much to her. Who’d actually taught her to value herself more than a relationship, to place her wants and desires before that of a man.

If she’d just jumped right into the next affair without healing from the last one, she never would have understood that she was worth the wait for the right man. That even with her faults and flaws, she was worthy of being loved and cherished for who she was, not who someone wanted her to be.

Thank you, Spin.

Once in the art room with its multitude of windows flashing in sunshine, she went to the corner where Spin’s easel was set up. All the paint tubes and the waxed-paper palette were just as she’d left them; a canvas was on the easel, but covered with a paint-smeared cloth.

Using just her fingertip, Jacquie slowly lifted the cloth and took a peek underneath. Seeing mostly an area of candlelight-white on the canvas, she lifted the cloth higher until the entire painting was revealed and the cloth fell to the floor.

Even Jacquie Santini knew what the Lord’s Supper was.

The painting was blotchy and some areas not sharp, as if filled in by sections. But the spiritual feeling was there, godly, dominant and meaningful.

Fresh tears fell down Jacquie’s face, her heart melting into a puddle of nothing. Emptiness. Loneliness. Despair. They hit her all at once.

“Spin…” she uttered, her voice cracking.

Jacquie lowered herself into a chair and rested the manilla envelop on her lap. Swallowing hard, she stared at the painting.

After a long moment, she opened the envelope and took out the contents. Sheets of papers. On the very top, a letter. Handwritten. Spin had kept her good penmanship, even in her declining years. The woman had perfect form on all the curls and loops, the legibility still impressive.

Unsure if she could read the letter yet, Jacquie gazed out the window and recalled her first meeting with Spin. The veranda, the pond and geese.

Hot tears silently stole down Jacquie’s face, her neck, into the collar of her blouse. She dug into her purse for a tissue and couldn’t find one. She ended up using the easel cloth to wipe her nose.

She began to read the letter, slowly…blinking several times to clear her vision….

Jacquie—

    If you are reading this, then that means I’m gone. Don’t ruin your makeup and cry for me. I was old. I lived a long time. Now I’m with my Wally and we