“Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “Problem was, it was windy. I ended up with more spray on me than on the bushes. It took two showers before I could get rid of the smell. That stuff reeks to high heaven.”

“That’s why the deer stay away from the camellias.”

For the first time, I noticed a man dressed in rumpled khakis and a faded brown sweatshirt hovering near the entrance. When he saw me look his way, he ducked his head. Bill followed the direction of my glance and motioned the man over.

“A friend of yours?”

Bill made the introductions. “Kate, this is Gus Smith. He’s new to Serenity Cove Estates.”

“How do you do,” Gus mumbled, extending his hand but avoiding eye contact.

Knowing the Babes would want a full report on any newcomer, I gave Gus the once-over. He was average height and a little lumpy around the middle like many men his age, which I took to be sixtysomething. His hair was mostly gray and mostly gone, also like many his age. Except for a prominent nose, his features were unremarkable. He would blend perfectly into the male population of any retirement community in the country.

“Nice to meet you, Gus.” Odd guy, I thought, but any friend of Bill’s was a friend of mine. “What brings you to Serenity Cove?”

He shrugged. “I, ah, moved down here from a small town in northern Michigan. Got tired of all the snow.”

“Gus owned a place up near where I used to hunt,” Bill explained.

Bill’s originally from Michigan, too-Battle Creek, to be precise, cereal capital of the world. I remember his pin-pointing the exact spot using the palm of his hand, a neat trick if you’re from a state shaped like a mitten. Not so easy for those of us from Ohio, much less for those who happen to hail from New Jersey. But whether from Michigan or Ohio, Bill and I were both transplanted Midwesterners. After my husband, Jim, died of a massive coronary, I decided to remain in the “active” adult retirement community we had fallen in love with. I’ve never regretted the decision.