Hot Flash Holidays (20 page)

“Here we are!” Hugh stepped into the room. By his side was a beautiful younger woman, her arm linked through his, her long blond hair falling against Hugh’s shoulder.

“Oh!” said the woman.

“Oh,” said Hugh.

“Oh!” cried Polly. Frantically she grabbed a throw pillow and held it over her naked torso. Of course, it was too small to cover
everything.

Hugh began, “Polly—”

“No, no!” Polly babbled. Jumping up, she snatched the other pillow, and holding both pillows over her front, she ran past Hugh and the woman, shamefully aware of all her jiggling, lurching blubber. She scurried down the hall and into the bathroom, where she dropped the pillows and yanked on her clothes. She didn’t bother to put on her pantyhose, but stabbed her bare feet into her shoes.

All she wanted in the world was to get out of there, now! Blood pounded through her body, making her completely deaf and nearly blind, but she moved as fast as she could, vaguely aware that she was sobbing. Throwing back the bathroom door, she raced down the small hall and spotted her purse where she’d left it on a table.

Hugh and the woman were in the living room. The woman had taken a chair. Hazily, Polly heard Hugh say to the woman, “Just wait here a moment—”

She didn’t waste time taking her coat from the closet, but snatched up her purse, yanked open the door, and raced down the long, curving staircase so fast she slipped and nearly fell.

“Polly!” Above her, Hugh materialized, his ruddy face concerned. “Wait! Let me explain!”

But Polly flew out the door, down the street, and into her blessed Volvo. She was shaking so hard, it took her several tries to stab the key into the ignition. Finally, she connected, started the engine, and accelerated onto the street. Weeping, she drove home, so sick with humiliation and despair that she was halfway there before she thought to turn on the heater.

26

“MRS. D’ANNUCIO?” ALICE GRIPPED THE PHONE SO tightly she thought she’d leave permanent indentations in the plastic. She was on the hospital pay phone. Her cell phone only worked outside, and she didn’t want to be too far away from the operating room.

Deep breaths,
she reminded herself. “This is Alice Murray. I’m fine, thank you. I’m calling about Jennifer. No—she’s—” For a few moments, Alice bit her tongue and tapped her foot, until the other woman stopped spitting out words.

“I’m calling because Jennifer is in the operating room right now, having a C-section. She—” Again, she listened to the other woman’s shrill voice. “Yes, I know it’s a month early, but you know she has preeclampsia—”

A barrage of sound hit Alice’s ear. Alice inhaled so hard she was surprised she didn’t suck the phone down her throat. No wonder Jennifer hadn’t told her mother about her health problem. The woman didn’t stop talking long enough for anyone to tell her anything.

“It’s a medical condition involving high blood pressure and it’s dangerous to the mother and the child—”

Alice held the phone away from her ear while Jennifer’s mother screamed, “Oh, my God!” thirty or forty times.

The line was muffled. Alice heard rustling noises and arguing voices. Then a man’s voice came over the phone.

“This is Jennifer’s father. Where is she now?”

Alice spoke fast. “She’s in Emerson Hospital in Concord. She’s in the operating room. They’re doing a C-section. Alan’s with her. She was awake when they wheeled her in. I think they’re planning to give a local anesthetic.”

“We’ll get in the car and come up at once. We’re on the Cape, so it might take about two hours, depending on traffic.”

“We’ll be here.” Alice doubted that he heard her, because his wife was in the background, screaming.

“Could you take our cell phone number and phone us if you know anything?” Mr. D’Annucio asked.

“Of course.” Alice dug around in her shoulder bag, pulled out a pad and pen, and wrote down the information. She was surprised at how it helped, having
something
to do.

She returned to the waiting room. Gideon sat on a turquoise vinyl couch, thumbing through an old issue of
Newsweek.

“Her parents are on their way up,” Alice told him.

“That’s good.” Gideon patted the seat next to him. “Sit down, Alice.”

“In a minute.” She stayed on her feet, pacing the maternity-ward waiting room like a caged panther.

“Alice, come on and sit down,” Gideon pleaded. “You’re recovering from a heart attack, for God’s sake. You know you’re not supposed to get agitated.”

Alice reached the end of the room, wheeled around, strode toward the opposite wall. “I’m supposed to get exercise, too,” she reminded him. “So let’s just call this exercise.” She clenched her fists and opened them nervously. “I just wish I could
do
something.”

“It’s not going to help Jennifer if you have another heart attack,” Gideon soberly reminded her.

“I’m not going to have another heart attack! I’m going to—oh!” Alice slapped herself in the middle of the forehead. “I know what I should do! I should call her best friend, Maya, remember, who came to the party we threw for Alan and Jennifer this summer? And what were the other girls’ names? Two of them were married— Alisa and Morgan—but I think Maya was only engaged. Now, what were their last names?”

“Why don’t you wait until Jennifer’s out of surgery?” Gideon suggested. “You don’t want everyone rushing down here.”

“Well, if
I
were Jennifer, I’d want my friends to know!” Alice argued.

“But they’re all having their Thanksgiving dinners,” Gideon pointed out.

Alice stopped pacing, folded her arms, squinted into the distance, and debated Gideon’s line of reasoning. “I understand where you’re coming from,” she told him. “I won’t ask them to come down here, not unless they volunteer. But I want them to know what’s going on.”

“You want them to worry about something they can’t do anything about?” Gideon asked.

“But they
can
do something,” Alice insisted. “They can
worry.
”

Gideon exhaled noisily, like a principal with a recalcitrant child. “And their worry is going to help Jennifer?”

“Yes,” Alice told him decisively. “Worry is a kind of prayer. It
helps.
Maybe it’s a female thing, but it’s what I feel is true, and it’s what I’m going to act on. If
I
were Jennifer’s friend, I would want to know.”

She rushed to the nurses’ station, borrowed a phone book, and made a list of phone numbers. The mental effort it took to remember Jennifer’s friends’ last names provided a moment’s ease from her own anxiety.
God,
she thought,
I hope I’m not relieving my fear by passing
it off onto these young women.
She stopped, searched her soul, then made the phone calls.

She was just hanging up for the last time when she saw her son striding down the hall toward the waiting room. For a moment, her legs went so weak, she nearly fell.

Then she saw his face.

“Alan?” The word came out in a croak.

“We have a daughter, Mom,” Alan said. “Five pounds, one ounce.”

That even one tiny ounce could be measured against the enormity of all their hopes and fears made Alice burst into tears. “How’s Jennifer?”

“She’s got a headache. She’s going to have to stay in the hospital for a few days. She’s not out of the woods yet, but she’s going to be okay.” Alan wrapped his mother in a tight bear hug. “It’s okay, Mom.”

“I’m so glad!” Alice dug a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.

Gideon came out of the waiting room. Alan told him the good news while Alice pulled herself together.

“I phoned Jennifer’s parents,” Alice told her son. “And all her friends.”

“And CNN and all the major networks,” Gideon joked.

Alice made a face at him. “Her parents are on their way. I’d better phone them and Jennifer’s friends again.”

“Want to see your granddaughter first?” Alan asked.

Alice staggered backward, amazed. “Can I?”

“Sure. Come on.” Alan wrapped a supporting arm around his mother and led her down the hall.

They passed through a swinging door into a room so bright it seemed like heaven. Jennifer lay on a high table, as white as the sheets covering her. Her eyes were closed. But when Alan and Alice came to her side, she opened them.

“Look who’s here.” She adjusted herself slightly on her bed, turning so Alice could see the very small person bundled in her arms.

Alice bent over and gently pulled the blanket back from the baby’s face. Her eyes were swollen nearly shut. Her tea-colored skin was blotchy, and her vulnerable scalp was covered with a few black curls.

“Oh, my,” Alice breathed. “She’s
beautiful.
”

“We think so,” Jennifer agreed. Reaching out, she took her husband’s hand. “Her name is Alice.”

27

SHIRLEY WAS IN HER OFFICE AT THE HAVEN ON MONDAY afternoon when her phone rang.

“Shirley? This is Hugh Monroe.”

“Oh, hi, Hugh, how are you?”

“I’m well, thank you, but I’m concerned about Polly. Have you spoken with her recently?”

Shirley thought for a moment. “Not since last Wednesday. Have you—”

“I’ve tried to phone her for three days now, and her line’s always busy.”

“How odd!” Polly frowned. “Have you called Carolyn? Polly spent Thanksgiving with her and the Sperrys.”

Hugh made an ambiguous coughing noise. “Well, I saw Polly—briefly—Thanksgiving night, but that’s a good suggestion. I’ll call Carolyn right now.”

“I’ll check in with Alice and Marilyn, see if they’ve heard from her,” Shirley told Hugh. “Faye’s out in California with her daughter. Hugh—” She paused. “Is there any reason to worry? I mean, I don’t want to pry, but did you two have a fight or something?”

Again, the ambiguous cough. “Not a fight, no. More of a . . .
something.
”

“I see,” Shirley said, although she didn’t. “I’ll call you back after I talk with Alice and Marilyn.”

“Alice? It’s Shirley. How are you?”

“Still in
heaven.
I’m just leaving for the hospital to visit Jennifer and baby Alice.”

“Well, listen, just tell me, have you spoken with Polly in the last few days?”

“Um, no, actually. I tried to call her several times to tell her about the baby, but I’ve always gotten a busy signal. Why? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Hugh just called. He can’t reach her, either.”

“Well, damn! That’s weird. Have you talked to her son?”

Shirley snorted. “Yeah, like
he
would know.”

“I think Polly was going there for Thanksgiving . . .”

“Yeah, and to Carolyn’s after that. Hugh says he saw Polly briefly Thanksgiving night.”

“Briefly.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure what that means. I asked if they had a fight, and he said they had a
something.
”

“Oh-oh. Sounds worse than a fight.”

Shirley clutched the phone tight. “But even if they did have a fight, or broke up, or
something,
Polly wouldn’t do anything
rash,
would she?”

“Of course not. Polly’s sensible, optimistic—”

“But you
know
how the holidays can make you crazy. I mean, it’s hard to be alone at Christmas, and her son and his wife aren’t exactly loving, and if she and Hugh broke off—”

“I’m going over to her house.”

“Wait, Alice. Let me see what Hugh says after he talks with Carolyn.”

“You can call me on my cell phone. I’m driving over there now.”

“Shirley?” Hugh’s voice was taut with concern. “I spoke with Carolyn. She said Polly was very emotional on Thanksgiving. Made a bit of a scene and stormed from the house without taking a bite of her Thanksgiving meal, Carolyn said. She’s been trying to phone her without any success.”

“I spoke with Alice. She hasn’t talked with her, either. She’s driving over to Polly’s house right now. Listen, Hugh, I don’t want to pry, but . . . did you and Polly break up?”

“No, no, no,” Hugh insisted. “Nothing like that.” He hesitated. “Well, maybe it was something like that. I mean, not on my part. We had . . . a misunderstanding, Shirley. I don’t want to say more without talking to Polly about it first. It’s kind of a sensitive matter.”

The hair on the back of Shirley’s neck stood on end. “Oh, God! I’m going over there.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“She keeps a key hidden in a metal box behind the drainpipe next to the garage.”

“I know.”

“I’ll check in with Marilyn from my cell phone.”

“Marilyn? Listen, have you talked with Polly in the last few days?”

“No . . .” Marilyn’s voice trailed off as she turned her head from the phone. “It’s Shirley, Mother.” Her voice was clear again. “Why? You sound worried.”

“I
am
worried. Hugh phoned and he hasn’t been able to get hold of her, and he saw her
briefly
on Thanksgiving night, and Carolyn said Polly was
emotional
and Hugh said he and Polly had a
something.
He wouldn’t give any details.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds bad. Have you—okay, Mother. Shirley, Mother says hello.”

“Tell Ruth I say hello.”

“Mother, Shirley says hello. Have you spoken with anyone else?”

“I called Alice. She’s been trying to reach her, and so has Carolyn.”

“I think I’ll drive over there,” Marilyn said.

“I’m on my way right now. And Hugh is, too.”

“Yes, but I think I live closer to her than you do. What?” After a pause, Marilyn said, “Mother wants me to tell you it’s always darkest before the silver lining.”

Heat broke out over Polly’s body, so intense it made her stomach heave as she lay twisted in her disgustingly damp and tangled sheets. With weak arms, she fought to shove the covers away. The movement made her stomach roil—desperately she flung her head over the side of the bed and barfed violently into the lobster pot sitting on the floor. How did that get there?

Her head was thick with heat and nightmarish blips of sound and color. Orange, purple, worms, swollen masses of—she barfed again. This time only a thin stream of liquid trailed out, burning her mouth as it came.

Collapsing back among her pillows, she touched her forehead with a shaking hand. She was sick. Really sick. Flu, probably. She’d been wallowing in her bed like an overwrought sow for—how long? She couldn’t figure it out. She remembered coming home from Hugh’s, weeping hysterically and shaking with cold, or with cold and emotion. She’d wept—she’d
howled
—she’d been so out of control she’d scared herself. She’d drunk some brandy, but vomited it all up immediately.

She
hated
vomiting, but it did clear her head momentarily. Her memory flashed vivid bits, out of sequence. She must have pulled herself together enough to get herself to bed, because she could remember morning sunshine streaming in through the windows and Roy Orbison sitting by her on the bed, whining pitifully. Dutifully, she’d risen, wrapped her robe around her (when had she put on her nightgown?), and gone downstairs. The kitchen door had a dog flap, so she didn’t have to worry about putting Roy Orbison out. She’d filled his food bowl to overflowing, grabbed the lobster pot, and staggered back up to bed.

Now she was
cold,
so cold her skin was covered in goose bumps. Chills rippled up and down her body like icy fingers on piano keys. She grabbed for the covers, the movement stirring up a rolling ocean in her stomach. She clutched the blanket to her chin.

“Where’s a damn hot flash when you need one?” she whined.

Her voice came out in a croak.

Great, she had laryngitis, too.

Roy Orbison thought she’d called him. With a giant leap, he landed on the bed. The impact of his weight made the bed rock. Oh, God, she was so dizzy! She needed to get to the bathroom, but she felt too sick to move. Roy licked her arm. She managed a feeble pat on his head. Good old loyal companion.

Speaking of companions, why had none of her friends called? How much time had gone by? One day? Two? Well, Faye was in California, visiting her daughter. But why hadn’t Marilyn phoned, or Alice or Shirley? Not to mention Hugh. She had been sure he would phone her to apologize, to explain, to—to
something
! He was a gentleman, after all; he wasn’t a monster. She could understand how he would dump her in order to be with that lovely young woman. Men did it all the time. She hated it that he’d betrayed her, but she was astounded that he hadn’t phoned to somehow attempt to make her feel better about it.

She was so thirsty! Her throat burned. She could actually feel her esophagus drying out like a sponge left in the sun. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a can of ginger ale on her bedside table. Feebly, she reached out for it, brought it to her parched lips, and discovered it was already empty. When had she drunk it? For that matter, when had she brought it upstairs?

“Oh, boo hoo,” she cried helplessly, as tears slid down her face. How did her body manage to produce moisture everywhere except where she needed it?

Next to her, Roy Orbison suddenly sat up. He cocked his head. Then he leapt off the bed and skittered out of the room. She heard his nails clicking busily as he went down the stairs.

Probably he was going to eat again. All Roy’s best ideas involved eating. Polly sank into her pillows, a blubbery, pathetic mass of nausea and discomfort. In a moment, she’d get herself to the bathroom, and then she’d phone someone . . .

She heard voices. Several voices, all talking at once. Oh good, now she was hallucinating.

The voices got louder. Steps sounded on the stairs. Who . . . ? A burglar? Maybe someone was coming to murder her. She felt so sick she almost didn’t think she’d mind.

“Polly!”

Alice exploded into the room, followed by Shirley, Marilyn, Ruth, and Hugh. Waves of cold air swept in with them, making Polly shiver. They radiated health, energy, and good humor as they gathered around her. She was aware of how she must appear, with her hair clumped with sweat and sticking out all over, her nose red, her eyes puffy, her lips chapped, her breath foul.

“Polly!” Shirley sank onto the bed, touching her cold hand to Polly’s hot forehead.

“I’ll empty this.” Marilyn grabbed the lobster pot and disappeared into the bathroom.

Alice was fixing something on the bedside table. “Polly, you moron, you left the phone off the hook.”

“Polly.” Hugh peered over Shirley’s shoulder. He was so handsome, his blue eyes so full of concern! “Polly, that woman was my niece.”

“Oh, honey,” Ruth cried, “you’re sick.”

“Oh,” Polly sighed, closing her eyes. “I’m so glad.”

28

I AM NOT NERVOUS, FAYE ASSURED HERSELF AS SHE waited for her guest to arrive. I’m an independent, intelligent woman, and if necessary, I can be stubborn. Or even
rude.

To remind her guest that she was a professional artist— something Faye had almost forgotten after her husband’s death, something she’d almost
lost
—she remained in the clothes she’d pulled on this morning: jeans with an elastic waist, a white cotton tank top, and a long, loose blue denim shirt, everything spotted here and there with ruby and celadon oils from painting Ruth’s portrait. Her long hair was pulled back in a clip. Her nails, which she’d grown long during the past year when she wasn’t painting, were clipped short again, the way she liked them when she was working. She wore no makeup. Now, at the last moment, Faye rushed upstairs and put on a touch of blusher and lipstick.

As always, a pause in front of a mirror led to a confrontation with her inner nag, who sounded very much like Joan Rivers.
For God’s sake, look at you! You’ve
gained back the weight you lost! Your skin is blotchy!
Haven’t you ever heard of exfoliation? And why are
your eyes so puffy?

“Stop it!” she scolded herself, and ripping her attention away from the mirror, she went back down the stairs—slowly, so she wouldn’t fall—and into the kitchen to turn the burner on under the teakettle.

She took out the flowered Limoges teapot that had belonged to her grandmother and filled it with loose leaves of Earl Grey. Running her hands over the rounded belly of the pot, she admired its classical lines, delicate painted flowers, and brilliant gilding. All her life she’d intended to pass this tea set down to Laura.

During her visit to San Francisco this Thanksgiving, Faye had realized that Laura would never use this pot. Would never
want
to use this pot. The life Laura and Lars lived was so different from Faye’s. Streamlined. Urban. Modern. And, it seemed to Faye, centered around electronic equipment. Lars and Laura were always on the computer or cell phone. Megan, at four, spent what to Faye were inappropriate amounts of time in front of the computer and television. Or else she was shipped off to the expensive, elite neighborhood preschool, while her little brother, only six months old, dawdled in a play-pen at the accompanying nursery. Lars worked endless hours, and Laura also worked, in her own way, keeping to a rigorous exercise routine with her trainer at the local health club, supervising the live-in housekeeper/ baby-sitter, attending committee meetings for the chicest charities, and planning cocktail and dinner parties for Lars’s partners and potential clients.

It amazed Faye how different Laura was in San Francisco from the way she’d been just three short years ago, when Megan was still an infant. Laura had been depressed and overwhelmed with the responsibilities of motherhood. Now, somehow, she’d found herself; she’d entered that kind of “I am woman, hear me roar” phase that Faye could remember from her early days as a young mother. Laura had had her thick, long hair, for so many years tumbling to her shoulders, sheared into a kind of skullcap that made her eyes huge. She had lost more weight than Faye considered healthy, and racing around in her tight, rather athletic-looking clothing, she resembled a young boy, or an elf.

And she was radiantly happy.

The children were thriving, Lars looked at Laura with adoration, they were all having great fun—and their lives were so
different
from Faye’s!

They loved California. They’d never return to the East Coast.

As Faye flew home from her visit, she’d leaned her head against the window of the huge humming plane, considering all this, trying to come to terms with the truth of it, struggling not to feel rejected, or disappointed, or solitary. Or, admitting she
was
solitary, but capable of making this phase of her life into one she not merely survived, but actually enjoyed. After all, she had her friends, she had a beau, and now, again, thanks to Ruth, she had her work.

The thought of Ruth’s portrait, waiting for her in the little bedroom/studio, lifted Faye’s spirits. The picture was finished; Faye had had it framed, and was keeping it until Christmas, when Ruth would present it to Marilyn.

It was a good portrait.

Somehow, as if a spell had been lifted, Faye was painting again. Really working.

Just before Faye left for San Francisco, while she was getting ready to take apart the little scene she’d set up, her attention had been captured by the way the light fell on the birds’ nests in Ruth’s portrait. The scratchy texture of the nests and the subtle, varied hues of the dried grasses challenged her. An image appeared in her mind— a still life of the nests, juxtaposed with fresh flowers. Daffodils? No. Something autumnal. Mums? Perhaps a sheaf of bright mums, lying on their side, their fluffy petals silky against the crisp grass of the nests—that would be fun to try to capture. During her stay in California, the thought of that still life nestled against her heart like a gold locket.

So that was what she was returning to: her work. It had always been part of who she was, why she lived, and now it had regained its place in her life. This year, she hadn’t bothered to put up a tree in the kitchen. The little blue spruce in the living room was much smaller than any she’d ever had before. Since she’d been home, she’d been absolutely
high,
full of energy, eager to get to work every day, obsessed with thoughts of building a real studio in her back garden, so interested in her work that she considered Christmas a kind of interruption.

Three days ago, Carolyn Sperry had phoned and asked if she could meet with Faye. Regarding a
business proposal,
she had added, mysteriously.

Of course, Faye, always polite, had agreed, but she’d thought,
Egad! Now what?
She knew Carolyn wanted Aubrey to date Polly, but would she be brazen enough to offer Faye money to stop seeing her father? What else could she mean by a business proposition?

As Faye set out the teacups, cream and sugar bowls, and silver spoons on the tray, she saw that her hands were shaking.

“I liked it better last year,” Alice mused thoughtfully, as she reclined on a sofa in the lounge of The Haven, cuddling her namesake in her arms. She drove out almost every day, to take care of baby Alice so Jennifer could take a bath or a nap.

Shirley, kneeling on the floor amid a crackling muddle of wrapping paper, paused to study the Christmas tree. “I know. Me, too. It’s bigger than last year’s tree, so all the ornaments are there, but it still lacks something.”

“Maybe we should hang some tinsel?” With the tip of her finger, Alice pushed back the blanket around the baby just a millimeter, so she could see all of her smooth, curving cheek.

Shirley watched Alice gaze adoringly upon her granddaughter. “Maybe some pacifiers and booties?” she teased.

“Maybe,” Alice cooed.

“Oh, Alice!” Shirley laughed.

Alice looked up. “What?” She focused. “No, hey, I heard you. I mean it. What if we hung little bits on the tree that symbolized what we’re celebrating this Christmas? Pacifiers would be
cute
! And some lacy tags from Havenly Yours. And since Marilyn went to Scotland, she could hang bagpipes, or little Loch Ness Monsters . . .”

“Are you nuts? You know Marilyn broke it off with Ian because of her mother. That’s certainly nothing to celebrate, and as for me—I could hang, um, let me see, what have I achieved this year—oh,
I
know! A broken heart!”

Alice’s face fell. “That’s not
all
you’ve achie—” Shirley waved her hands. “I’m sorry, Alice, forgive me for being such a pill.” Pushing aside a roll of wrapping paper, Shirley lay back on the floor, stretching, closing her eyes.

“You’re not a pill.” Alice said everything in a light, breathy voice, so she wouldn’t wake the infant in her arms. “But you’re not at ‘The End,’ either. You’re just kind of at a station, waiting for a train.”

“I don’t know.” Shirley allowed herself to be honest. “It’s been over three months, Alice, since Justin hit the road.”

“Since you righteously kicked his nasty ol’ ass out of here,” corrected Alice.

“Whatever. Since I’ve been with a man.” Self-pity struck her. She sat up, as if she could physically move away from it, grabbed a present, centered it on a square of paper covered with dancing reindeer, and grabbed the scissors. “I wish I could be the kind of woman who doesn’t need a man!”

“Well, you are, in many ways.” Alice leaned sideways, stretched out an arm, and grabbed her cup of tea from the table. “I mean, you’re professionally and financially self-sufficient. It’s not like you lack meaning in your life.”

“I know. I know.” Shirley measured a length of scarlet ribbon and snipped. “Still . . .”

“Still, you’re happier with a man around.” The baby squirmed and squinched up her face. Alice loosened the blanket around little Alice’s feet and retucked it.

“Yes, who isn’t?” Shirley said, defensively.

“I’m not arguing.”

“That’s a first,” Shirley muttered under her breath.

Alice just smiled. “All right, we’ve named the problem. What can we do about it?”

“I wish I knew!” She reached for another box.

“Let’s see.” Alice tapped her lower lip with one long, red nail. “If I met Gideon at the symphony, and Polly met Hugh at the doctor’s, and Marilyn met Ian while traveling, then how . . .”

“Sounds like there’s a light-bulb joke in there,” Shirley chuckled.

Alice brightened. “I know! Remember last year? We all found one single man for Faye to date.”

“Yes, and remember last year? When none of them worked out? Faye met Aubrey at our open house, by accident.”

“Hm.” Alice subsided against the sofa. “You’re right. Well, then, let’s think of places where you could meet a guy.”

Shirley set a present under the tree. “Not here, because mostly women come here.”

“Okay, how about a bookstore?”

“Right. I’ll just lounge around the auto repair section.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Actually,” Shirley said, as she cut along another roll of paper, “I’m kind of off books in general, after Justin.”

“Understood. What kinds of clubs could you join? Or maybe you could take some courses. Remember, you met Justin when you took that business management seminar.”

“That might work. But not until after the first of the year. So that’s another month without getting laid.”

Alice pointed a finger at Shirley. “Is that all you want? Think about it. Remember how old you are. Men your age, our age, aren’t going to be as lusty as younger men.”

“So I’ll date younger men.”

“I don’t think that’s smart. You seem to get in trouble with younger men. Besides, Shirley, men are already, naturally,
psychologically
younger than women. You were dating Justin, who was fifty, which was sort of like dating someone, oh, forty-two, but if you date someone sixty-three, he’ll be fifty-five.”

“Maybe psychologically or intellectually, but sexually, to date a man who’s fifty, I need to date a man who’s forty.” Confused, Shirley threw up her hands. “Look. I’ll date anyone any age, but first I have to
meet
someone, and I don’t seem to be doing that!”

Alice leaned her head against the sofa and closed her eyes. “We’re two creative, intelligent women. We ought to be able to find a solution. I mean, even a hundred years ago, women answered ads as mail-order brides, so—” She sat up, swung around, set her feet on the floor, and faced Shirley. “I’ve got it. We’ll sign you up on an online dating service.
Match.com
or something like that.”

Shirley looked at Alice. “Hmmmm.”

“It’s brilliant!” Alice said. “Tell me it’s not.”

Thoughtfully, Shirley twirled a strand of hair. “I’m not so sure about
brilliant,
but it could be fun . . .”

“Let’s go try it out now!” Alice said, getting to her feet.

“But I’m not through wrapping—”

“Oh, you can do that later! Come on!” Alice clopped away across the parquet floor, and in her arms, little Alice made kissy movements with her mouth as she slept.

“Your house is really lovely,” Carolyn told Faye as she settled on the sofa by the fire. Carolyn was clad in a snug-fitting camel pantsuit that set off her sleek blond hair. She looked chic, young, and terrifying.

“Thank you.” Faye finished the tea ritual and handed Carolyn a cup of steaming Earl Grey. She felt like a hippo entertaining a gazelle. Leaning back in her chair, she aimed for a pose of relaxed confidence, but even though Carolyn had seemed friendly so far, Faye knew that if she tried to lift her cup off its saucer, everything would chatter like teeth in the Arctic.

“Delicious.” Carolyn sipped her tea, and with steady hands, returned the wafer-thin cup to its saucer. “Faye, I’ll get right to the point. I think the Christmas card you sent us is absolutely beautiful. And when I was here for your Halloween party, I saw your paintings. Aubrey told me you did wonderful work, but I had no idea. Your paintings are exceptional.”

“Thank you.” Faye’s infinite relief sparked off a hot flash.

“Sperry Paper is hitting hard times,” Carolyn continued. “We’ve got so much competition these days. We produce premier-quality, personal stationery, but we’re looking for ways to branch out. I’d like to put out a line of note cards, with your paintings reproduced on the front. Some of what you’ve already done would work well for what I have in mind. But I’m hoping you wouldn’t be averse to creating a few scenes especially for our purposes. Holiday scenes, for example, and occasion scenes. Birthdays. Anniversaries. That sort of thing.”

Faye was stunned. If she’d been standing, she would have fallen down. As it was, she was overwhelmed, her brain short-circuited with shock.

Apparently Carolyn was used to causing this sort of response. “I’ve mentioned it to Father, by the way, and he thinks it’s an excellent idea.” When Faye still didn’t speak, Carolyn shifted on the sofa, crossing one sleek leg over the other. Her hand fiddled with the heavy gold chain around her neck—the only sign that she might be nervous herself. “I realize I haven’t been what you might consider welcoming over the past few months. I apologize. My father’s been very happy since he’s been dating you, and I want you to know I’ll stop trying to match him up with Polly. I can be stubborn and I like to have my own way, but I know when it’s time to quit.”