After the FBI seized my life’s work, thanks to my embezzling fiancé, I had a choice to make: stay where I was or make a change. And what I realized on that cold, snowy night two days before the new year dawned, was this: I had already left too much of myself where I didn’t want to leave it. It was time for a change.
So I took my friend Brigitte up on an offer to be the director of a senior citizen complex. It moved me from the Upper West Side of Manhattan with a Central Park view, to an English cottage in the middle of the American Deep South–downtown Savannah, Georgia, America’s Most Charming City.
I wanted to get there, do my job, depend on myself and no one else. Be the director of this complex. Enjoy some sunshine and not wear a winter coat for four-to-six months out of the year.
Easy enough, right?
Not when three of the nicest folks ever visit you within three hours of arriving. Or when these senior citizens are so hilariously endearing, you couldn’t keep to yourself if you tried. Or when one of those folks who visited you on that first day is an insanely handsome lawyer who challenges every brick you built your wall with.
Plus, there’s this little tidbit that makes my brain hurt and my heart quirk: this beautiful city has not celebrated Valentine’s Day in more than 40 years due to some wacky Mayoral Ban put in place in the early 1980s. That is, until this year. The University of Georgia Bulldogs have finally won the National Championship, which means Valentine’s Day is back on.
These seniors, and the rest of Savannah, have high and clear expectations of what this celebration should look like.
I just hope that along with thawing my heart out, and in the midst of forgetting traditional events and trying to meet all of those expectations, I can plan a celebration worthy of these beautiful, kind people.
And maybe not fall in love. Too cliche on Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?
