George Holmes was a deeply sarcastic and impolite man, but he had always had a very good memory, which is precisely why – while sitting in his living room and trying very hard not to stew like he was tempted to – he suddenly remembered Ms. Pittman’s eleventh-grade literature lesson on poetry.
More specifically, he remembered the line of some poem that said, “The best laid plans of mice and men most often go astray.” Because damn, whoever that poet had been (so maybe his memory wasn’t that sharp, anymore), he’d been on the ball.
Especially since, instead of plotting world domination – or at least plotting how to anger the President of Western Palms Retirement Community, which was honestly just as good – he was currently glaring daggers at some cane-wielding asshole by the name of House.
Greg House.
And as luck would have it, Greg House was glaring back.
“You’re acting like children,” sighed James Wilson, who – for all intents and purposes – seemed to be a much more even-keel, level-headed kind of guy than his traveling companion. He sat on one edge of the couch, sipping the (sadly decaffeinated) coffee that Jon had made earlier. “House, you’re the one who wanted to come down here. Just because he wounded your ego – ”
“This is nothing about my ego,” Greg House grumbled, shooting James a look that could give a sulking six-year-old a run for his money. “I have been replaced. By an amateur.”
James sighed and rolled his eyes. “I didn’t realize torturing Cuddy was an art form. I should call the Louvre. See if they have room for your ‘exhibit.’”
“You do that.”
There was venom in Greg’s voice, and Jon raised an eyebrow in George’s direction. George didn’t blame him. Jon, at least as far as he could tell, actually liked Lisa. And, come to think of it, he didn’t seem to mind this James character (then again, neither did George). And though he wasn’t displaying enough hatred for Greg House to suit George’s taste, he certainly didn’t seem to be fond of the guy.
At least, not too much.
“The whole plan is stupid, anyway,” Jon finally decided. He set down his cup and saucer on the coffee table. (George found that it took all his restraint not to remind him of what a girl he was.) “Why can’t you just leave Lisa alone?”
“Have you met her?” George blinked and looked at Greg as the words tumbled out in a perverted unison. He lowered his eyes slightly, watching as the other man did the same thing back. Even though they looked nothing alike – George rather liked to think he had more young-and-innocent features than old-and-grizzly ones – he was left with the rather unsettling impression of looking into a mirror. “She’s obnoxious.”
“A nag,” Greg added.
“All about the rules.”
“No imagination.”
“Naïve.”
“Clueless.”
George sighed. “And hot,” he finished, and only realized after he had that Greg had said the same thing.
Jon and James exchanged tense looks, leading to James setting down his cup – no saucer, thank God – on the table as well. “When she kills you,” he said, looking directly at Greg, “I will have no pity.”
“And I’ll haunt you to your death,” Greg retorted, “so we’re even.”
“You’re both nuts,” Jon put in, which allowed George a moment hide the smirk he’d almost allowed himself. “I’m not taking any part in this.”
George snorted. “You’ll watch,” he challenged, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “You’ll laugh with the rest of us, and when I remind you that you wanted no part in it, you’ll just bat your long eyelashes at me.”
Rolling his eyes, Jon rose to his feet and gathered up his cup and saucer, and then James’. “You’re the one with the girly eyelashes,” he reminded George. “Now come help me with the sandwiches.”
“Or?”
“I’m not going to tell you what the other half the stipulation is in front of our company, idiot. C’mon.”
George didn’t like the smirk on Greg’s face at that comment, but he was also not a moron. So, instead of arguing, he rose to his feet and followed Jon and his girly coffee supplies into the kitchen.
He’d almost made it through the doors when he heard James’ voice, clear as day, remark, “And here, I thought I was the one with the long-lost brother.”
He smirked. Maybe it would be a fun day, after all.
==
The plan was simple enough: crash Lisa’s patio party. Certainly not rocket science, especially not for two retired doctors (Greg and James), a retired accountant (Jon), and a retired grocery store manager (okay, so George wasn’t exactly proud of his past occupation, but hey, it’d been a living). And even with Jon disavowing involvement (minus one accountant) and James seeming to only go along with the plan because Greg would hit him with the cane otherwise (and really, George didn’t blame him), well, it didn’t seem to be all that hard. It didn’t take two college degrees and a world-weary people-person to crash a party.
Or so you’d think.
“You have a golf cart,” Greg bitched as they walked down the sidewalk, leading the pack despite having no clue where Lisa’s house even was. “I saw it parked out there. It’s a nice, new, shiny golf cart, and you’re making the cripple walk.”
“Oh, poor baby,” George snapped back, tugging his jacket closer. He didn’t see how these New Jersey people could be running around in seventy-degree weather in t-shirts. They really were freaks. “Do you want me to carry you?”
Greg snarled over his shoulder. “I’d like to see you try, short stack.”
“Oh. I’m hurt. Let me go cry.”
“I wouldn’t want you to ruin your makeup.”
James frowned. “Is he always like this?” he asked Jon.
Sighing, Jon simply nodded.
George, standing next to him, was sorely tempted to smack him upside the head. In fact, he probably would have if he wasn’t so sure it’d turn into a Three Stooges episode, right there on the sidewalk. Instead, he just rolled his eyes. “Whatever happened to ‘stand by your man’?”
“The same thing that happened to ‘thou shall not steal cable from the neighbors,’” Jon returned.
“He does that too?” James blinked. “I thought House was the only one.”
George swore he could feel Greg smirking in front of them.
It only took five minutes to walk to Lisa’s house; George reasoned it could have taken less time if they’d just piled into the golf cart, but he was too stubborn a man to not make the sarcastic gimp suffer just a little. As it happened, the gimp very nearly walked right past Lisa’s, and George considered letting him until he realized that his surprise would be ruined without Greg’s presence. From what he could tell, James and Lisa were actually sort of friends, and really, what kind of torture would that be? “Hi, Lisa. Brought your old buddy for a visit. Can we come in?” No, the rival needed to be there, the source of that infamous rant that had made every retiree from Paul Abrams to Nancy Zettinger cower in fear:
Greg House.
So he stopped Greg and wandered up to the door. Lisa’s house was actually fairly nice, considering the quality of some of the older models, and came complete with a fancy glass-and-reinforced-wood front door and shiny house numbers. And that wasn’t even mentioning the brand-spankin’-new, state-of-the-art doorbell George had had installed for her.
(She hadn’t expected it, or the bill, and had yelled quite a bit when she’d found it, but the look of horror on her face when her doorbell belted out “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” for the first time had been well worth all the yelling.)
Jon frowned as George mashed the doorbell button, the bugle boy starting to boogie-woogie no less than six times in rapid succession before he actually let the song play out. “Hey, George?”
“What?” he replied. He also very nearly reminded Jon that he was a traitor and deserved smacked, but decided he didn’t want to be exiled from the bedroom the one night they actually had guests inhabiting the guest room.
“Doesn’t it seem like something’s wrong with this picture?”
George sighed and decided to indulge Jon’s little question, especially since he’d just pushed the doorbell again. James was standing on the front walk, hands in his pockets, and Greg was smirking smugly. Typical. Jon had a look on his face that looked like it was almost amused, which was also fairly typical. (And annoying.) Lisa’s doorbell was ringing, her front porch light was causing their shadows to tumble across the front lawn, and – other than the pointless conversation and the ever-ringing doorbell – the night was silent.
He pressed the doorbell again. “Where the Hell is she?” he mumbled.
“Not home.” If ever Greg House had looked as smug as smug could be, it was right now, and he leaned forward on his cane as though that was really going to drive home his point. “Cuddy duped you.”
George frowned, and looked at Jon. He frowned again and looked at James. And damned if the non-participants weren’t smirking at him.
“That’s impossible,” he retorted huffily, though he would later deny that there was any huff in his voice. “I overheard her talking to Betty, next door, and she was saying how she was having this big patio party.”
“Right.” Jon looked very much like he was either going to cry or laugh, and George really didn’t want to know which. “Because it’d be just like her to tell someone about a party she wouldn’t want you at when you’re within earshot.”
Greg did laugh, which said something about his restraint (or lack thereof), and the cackle grated on George’s nerves so much that he very nearly hit something. “Then where the Hell is she?” he demanded, stomping a foot. “It’s not like she has better things to do than be here. She doesn’t have friends or a life! She has us.”
Frowning, James nudged Greg in the arm. “And I thought you were the only one miserable without Cuddy.”
The glare he got in response could have melted ice at thirty paces. Actually, more at thirty thousand miles. “Say that again, and I’m going to ‘lose’ your plane ticket. You can hitchhike back to Jersey.”
“That risks me becoming the permanent ride-along companion to some sweet young thing named Al. I’d be careful what you wish for.”
“James Wilson and a trucker? That’s worth losing your ticket, you know.”
As much as George would have normally enjoyed listening to the banter – and rooting for James to verbally beat Greg into the ground – he found that his head was starting to hurt. And, to make matters worse, the doorbell had apparently jammed and was now repeating “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” ad nauseum.
“Hey, what’s this?”
Greg and James stopped bickering and George stopped massaging his temples to look at Jon, and then, at the note Jon had apparently pulled off the front door. (In retrospect, George realized he should have looked there. The pink Western Palms Retirement Community stationary wasn’t hard to miss.)
George snatched it away from him. “Give me that,” he commanded and, opening the note, began to read.
“‘Dear boys (George, Jon, Greg, and James),
I decided that this was the perfect weekend to go over to Orlando with some of the girls, especially since you somehow got the mistaken idea I was having a patio party. I wonder how that happened. Must have been some miscommunication.
I have heard that the best laid plans most often go astray, but I propose that it’s the best laid men who have that problem. Hell, maybe it’s both. Whatever the case, I’ll be back Monday, a few hours after certain people are back in Jersey.
George, you still owe me for the garbage can incident. House, I’m speaking at the hospital next month, and Wilson’s already promised dinner at your place.
Hope you’re having fun,
Lisa
P.S. – House, did you really think telling Stacy about your plan wouldn’t get back to me? We Retirement Community Presidents do talk, you know. Idiot.’”
The pink note landed in the middle of the lawn, crumpled into a nice little ball, around the time that Greg spoke.
“Garbage can incident?” he asked.
George snarled. “Stacy?”
For a moment, and if you overlooked the bugle boy boogie-woogie-ing his heart out, there was silence.
The two men sighed in unison.
“Never mind.”
==
“You really are evil, you know.”
Stacy Warner said this with almost an air of appreciation as she settled further into the hot tub, her arms stretched along the side. Quiet classical music flooded the spa, echoing off tile and glass before disappearing into some sort of ethereal emptiness. Well, maybe not quite that, but it beat lawnmowers and golf carts.
Smiling, Lisa Cuddy sipped her fruit smoothie. “I tolerated nearly thirty years of House’s constant abuse, and George really isn’t much better,” she replied idly. “The way I see it, this is simply divine justice in its purest form.”
Stacy arched an eyebrow. “If this is divine justice,” she questioned, “what was paying for their house to be fumigated starting on Monday?”
She shrugged. “A well-laid plan,” she said, and allowed herself to relax against the calming pulse of the hot tub jets.
