Happily Ever After by Susan May Warren Page A

when they’d changed the name. When Joe and his ailing mother had first checked out the place, it
     had been simply referred to as the Residence. He liked the Garden better, like they were cultivating something special.
    Spotting a carved sign, he turned onto an unpaved road and followed the scent of pine through towering blue spruce and birch.
     Through a thinning of trees, he sighted a log home, recently built. The pale, skinned logs gleamed with sealant. It looked
     rustic, but from the pictures in the brochure, he knew otherwise. Plush and expensive, the institution had a long waiting
     list. He’d had to pull a fistful of strings to get Gabe admitted.
    He drove under a wooden entrance gate, noticing The Garden elegantly carved into the wooden plaque attached to the top crossbar. Rip barked, balancing on the bench seat. Joe placed
     a hand on his back. “Calm down, bud.”He spoke to himself as well.
    They weren’t expecting him, of course. He hadn’t called, had never personally talked with the new director. Just sent the
     monthly dues. He slowed, approaching the main lodge. In the circle drive, he stopped next to a long porch. An assembly of
     residents, apparently gathered for after-dinner air, fixed their eyes on him.
    “Stay,” he commanded Rip, who clambered over him to get to the door. He scowled, spying a fresh paw print on the leg of his
     khakis. Quickly, he opened the door, slipped out, whirled, and slammed it in Rip’s face before the dog had a chance to protest.
    Joe felt the residents’ eyes on him, but no one spoke, and he heard only the wind whistling through the trees. Fighting the
     urge to dive back into the cab, Joe brushed off his pants, straightened his tweed blazer, and pasted on a smile. He skirted
     his truck and made for the wide center porch steps. Not a word of greeting came from the dozen or so spectators.
    He thudded up the steps and stood on the porch. “I’m looking for Gabriel Michaels.” His voice didn’t sound like his own.
    “Gabe’s inside, working on the dishes.” A lean, middle-aged woman with stern eyes stepped from behind a screen door. A man
     with thinning gray hair and almond-shaped eyes peered from behind her.
    Joe returned her stoic gaze. “I’m his brother.”
    Defense dropped from her face, leaving surprise behind. She smiled, and warmth broke through her hazel eyes. “Glad to meet
     you, Joe. My name is Ruby Miller. I’m the director.”
    He shook her hand, curious that she knew his name.
    “We didn’t know you were coming.”
    He scrubbed a hand through his hair, then cupped the back of his neck. “I didn’t either. It just sort of happened.”
    She pinched her lips. “In between trips?”
    Inquisitive ears edged in on their conversation. He flicked a nervous glance at the closing horde. “Yes and no.”
    Her eyebrows flared in surprise, and he wondered how much she knew.
    “Where did you go last, Joe?”
    Joe turned and found the owner of the voice, a young woman in her mid-thirties. Her brown hair curled gently around full cheeks
     and smiling eyes.
    “Um, here and there. Saw Mount Hood in Oregon State.”
    “I have a poster of that,” another voice said from behind him.
    “Gabe reads us all your letters,” announced a plump girl with straight blonde hair.
    “And your pictures are all over his room,” added a young man, whiskers sprouting over his face.
    Joe felt surrounded. They knew his world, his life. And he knew nothing about them. His mouth seemed filled with cotton.
    “Come on, Joe.” Ruby’s voice parted the crowd with the effectiveness of a shepherd’s crook. “I’ll take you to Gabe.”
    Joe followed Ruby inside, hearing the group file in behind him. Obviously, they didn’t get many visitors.
    They walked through a large family room. Navy and forest green accented the overstuffed sofas, and paneled tabbed curtains
     hung from skinned, shellacked tree branches—the latest in woodsy decor. The smell of oiled wood reminded