The Hot Flash Club (23 page)

As the music billowed with complicated chords and tumult, Alice tried to relax into it, letting the swirling sounds carry her back to the Midwest, where the wind blew ferociously and hail pelted the roofs and torrents of rain—no, she mustn’t think about rain. The music thundered to a crescendo. A similar force gathered in Alice’s sinuses. She was going to sneeze. And when she sneezed—

Desperately, she pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose. The music continued to swell and crash. The sneeze died, unexploded. The music ended. The audience applauded wildly. Alice was exhausted.

She planted both feet on the floor, preparing to rise the moment the person on either side did. To her dismay, the conductor strode back onstage, bowed, raised his arms, and turned to conduct an encore.

Sinking back in her seat, Alice thought of deserts. Beaches—whoops, too close to the ocean. Dust. Dust was good.

Finally, the encore ended. After another, less enthusiastic round of applause, the audience began to rise and file out of the auditorium.

When her neighbor stood, she saw that he had broad shoulders and was almost exactly her height. He leaned near, to be heard over the general tumult. “It was nice chatting with you.”

“Yes. Nice chatting with you, too.”
Move,
she urged him silently.
Go on, you can shove that woman a little,
she doesn’t look frail, just sluggish.

“I wonder, would you like to have a cup of coffee?”

“Oh. Well. Yes, that would be nice.” He could have asked her if she wanted to go bungee-jumping, and she would have agreed, she could scarcely think, she was becoming nothing but a swollen skin of pressure. At least the row was moving out into the aisle. With each step, Alice’s bladder sensed the proximity of relief, and the strain Alice had thought was already at its maximum increased as they slowly crept, along with the crowd, out of the auditorium. “I need to use the ladies’ room first,” she told him when they finally reached the corridors.

“I’ll wait here,” he told her.

She raced away.

His name was Gideon Banks. They sat across from each other at a nearby Starbucks, where Alice ordered a cup of decaffeinated coffee and he ordered a bran muffin and a glass of orange juice.

“I’m diabetic,” he explained. “Just got that way two years ago; it’s called late onset diabetes, and I can control it without insulin if I eat right. I apologize for talking about it, I know it’s boring.”

“No, not at all,” Alice hastened to assure him.

“It’s one of the reasons I sort of gave up on dating,” Gideon told her. “I mean, you’d think at my age dating would be a relatively simple matter. I’m not looking for a woman to bear my children and share my life, I don’t have to worry about liking my in-laws, because they’re probably all dead by now, the kids are grown up and on their own, I’m over my midlife crisis. But on the other hand, I find I’ve become remarkably entrenched in routines. I have to arrange my life around when I eat, what I eat, the damned exercises I ought to do every day. I also know by now that I don’t enjoy going to bars, I’m never going to learn to dance, or ride a horse, or scuba dive. So I’m a pretty lame date for most women.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not so.” Alice cocked her head as she scrutinized him. He was no Denzel Washington, but then she was no Vanessa Williams. “Most women my age aren’t up for scuba diving.”

“You’d be surprised. I find your gender much more open to new experiences than mine. Lots of women say there’s just one thing they really want to do while they can—climb Mount Saint Helens or see Australia. I’m happy just where I am.”

“I’ve never thought about one thing I want to do before I die,” Alice mused. “But then, I thought I’d be working for a few more years.”

He inquired about her work, listened attentively, and asked intelligent questions. He had gorgeous teeth, and a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled.
He’s got to
be a serial killer,
Alice thought. No way can this man be available. But when they left the café to go their separate ways, Gideon asked for her phone number, and Alice gave it to him.

Walking back to her condo, Alice found herself humming a few bars from the encore. The resonance of the sound in her throat felt unusual and pleasant. It surely had been a long time since she’d sung. Well, if this was what retirement was going to be like, then she might be able to welcome it. Certainly she’d enjoyed looking at Gideon Banks. She could imagine accompanying him to movies, dinners, other concerts.

She could even envision—almost—going to bed with the man.

The thought stunned her so completely, she walked right past her condo and had to retrace her steps.

36

Down the stairs of the Eastbrook mansion came Eu-genie Eastbrook in a floor-length gown of apricot silk. Her hair, coiled tightly in a chignon, was as pale as the diamonds glittering from her ears and around her neck. Her hips were as narrow as a boy’s, her breasts as full and high as a nubile girl’s, her stomach flat as a panel of wood. If you didn’t know she was the mother of a woman in her twenties, you wouldn’t be able to guess her age; nothing gave it away, not the line of her jaw, which was firm and lean, not the lids of her eyes, nor the smooth pane of her brow. This was a woman from a magazine ad, a television ad, from the movies, this was the model for American women of a certain age, the goal to shoot for, the standard by which to compare.

And as Faye stood waiting on the first floor, watching Eugenie Eastbrook descend, she was painfully aware of exactly how she measured up. Beneath her practical navy suit, she felt the width of her hips, the slump of her buttocks, the channels of fat on her back, the flesh kimono swinging from her upper arms, not to mention her stomachs.

But Faye preferred her own body. Her hips had widened from giving birth to Laura. Her weight had accumulated gradually over years of cooking and enjoying delicious food and wine with her family and friends. Her posture and face were marked with grief for the loss of the man who was the love of her life. Why would she want to look as if nothing in life had affected her? Why would anyone? The truth was, Eugenie Eastbrook didn’t look young; she looked fake.

Nevertheless, Faye proffered the obligatory compliment. “You look beautiful tonight, Mrs. Eastbrook.”

Mrs. Eastbrook unfolded an indigo pashmina shawl and settled it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, apathy draining her words of any meaning. For Eugenie Eastbrook, Faye’s words were only to be expected, it was what an employee would say, it didn’t signify.

Dr. Eastbrook came swiftly down the stairs, sleek in his tux, shooting his cuffs to be sure the heavy links were exposed.

“We’ll be late,” he warned his wife. He didn’t bother to speak to Faye, but strode across the hall, yanking the front door open.

“Lock up after us and set the alarms,” Eugenie Eastbrook instructed Faye.

“Of course.”

“We won’t be back until after midnight, I’m sure. We’ll come in the back way. Don’t wait up.”

Faye nodded. She shut the heavy door and went to the window to look out. She watched the Eastbrooks settle into the Jaguar and, with a spurt that scattered the white gravel, race away from the house.

Faye checked her watch.

The annual Plastic Surgeons of New England Gala had been on the Eastbrooks’ calendar for months. It would take forty minutes, more or less, for the Eastbrooks to drive in to the Copley Plaza where the reception, dinner, and dance would begin at seven, so the earliest they could return home would be midnight, and Lila told Faye that in the past few years, her parents had stayed out past two.

So it was safe.

Faye opened the box and switched off all the alarms. She hurried to her room, seized the duffel bag hiding at the back of her closet, and carried it swiftly down the hall to the family room. She unlocked Dora’s door and entered.

Dora sat in her wheelchair, rubbing her hands together nervously. “Have they gone?”

“Yes, and they won’t be back for hours. We’ve got all the time in the world. Don’t worry. Let’s concentrate on you.”

Dora giggled. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Need the bathroom first?”

“No thanks, I’m set.”

Faye unzipped the duffel bag and pulled out a garment of lavender silk and chiffon.

Dora sighed with pleasure. “It’s so beautiful.” She leaned forward, allowing Faye to undo the Velcro fasteners at her shoulders and lift off the brown dress.

“The dressmaker promised me this would be as soft as an angel’s kiss.” She shook out the lavender silk, hoping the rustle of the fabric would distract Dora from any embarrassment she might be feeling at having someone new see her bare back, twisted cruelly and laced with scars from operations. Carefully, Faye slid the garment over Dora, clasping the Velcro straps at her shoulders and letting them rest against the young woman’s skin.

“Okay?”

Dora smiled, watching herself in the mirror. “Oh, yes.”

Faye knelt in front of Dora, tugging the silk, arranging it to fall in little waves to her feet, resting on the wheelchair footrest. “There’s more.” From the duffel bag, she lifted a swath of chiffon, pale as lilacs, sprinkled with seed pearls and silk violets. This she settled over Dora’s shoulders like a shawl. Then she lifted one more thing from the bag, a ring of real violets and pale white baby roses, which she settled on Dora’s head.

“Wow!” Dora whispered. Pressing a button, she zoomed forward, getting as close as she could to her reflection.

“Would you like some lipstick?” Faye asked. “I don’t think you need blusher, your cheeks are already rosy enough. Maybe mascara?”

Dora nodded eagerly. “Lipstick. Mascara.”

Faye knelt next to the young woman and carefully applied the makeup.

Dora’s eyes widened. “Why, I’m almost pretty.”

“Honey, you
are
pretty,” Faye told her. But as she looked at Dora’s reflection in the mirror, she saw the young woman’s eyes darken, and she knew what Dora was imagining—being healthy, upright, strong, walking arm in arm with a man who couldn’t stop looking at her, dancing with a man who would drink in her beauty with his eyes.

Perhaps, Faye thought with a terrible pang in her heart, perhaps she’d been wrong to clothe Dora in such attire, even if only for one night. Perhaps it would make Dora feel more deeply the difference of her own circumscribed circumstances, and grieve for all she would never have.

“Dora!”

Faye and Dora turned—Dora with a whir of her power chair—to see Lila coming through the door from the family room. Lila was radiant in a white silk dress, her blond hair crowned with a halo of baby roses.

Lila rushed to her sister and fell beside her. “Oh, darling, you look so beautiful!” Her love for Dora was like an invisible bridge over the darkness, like a rainbow arching through clouds.

Faye’s throat ached with tears as she dug through the duffel bag for her camera. She found it, removed the lens cap, and began snapping photos of the sisters together.

Then Teddy Becker entered the room, debonair in a handsome navy blue suit, white dress shirt, and red tie, a white rose on his lapel.

“Teddy. Come meet my sister,” Lila called.

Marilyn Becker, lovely in a pale green suit, arrived next, followed by a tall young woman wearing the white robe and purple stole of a minister, carrying a Bible.

Introductions were made all around, and then the Reverend Smith organized the wedding group into their appropriate places, the bride and groom in front of her, Dora on Lila’s left, Marilyn on Teddy’s right.

“Dearly beloved,” the minister began.

Quietly Faye circled the group, pressing the zoom button, clicking the shot. The modern little camera whirred with exquisite efficiency, its clever digital speed counter-pointing the solemnity of the old familiar words.

“For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.”

Faye remembered the day she married Jack, the gloss and weight of her heavy ivory satin gown, Jack’s smile when he saw her come down the aisle, the blur of the minister’s words, and most of all, the way Jack took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, right in front of everyone, not for show, because Jack didn’t care about shocking his parents or hers, but because he wanted to give her a kiss she’d never forget.

“With this ring I thee wed.”

Laura’s wedding to Lars had been held on Nantucket in August. Both families had rented several large houses for all the bridesmaids, ushers, friends traveling back from afar, and relatives. Beneath a sunny sky, everyone spent the days before and after the ceremony swimming and sunning on the beach, and the wedding reception took place beneath a tent on a lawn at the edge of the ocean. Strings of white lights had laced the hedges and trees, a small band had played, champagne had flowed, Laura had never been more beautiful, and Lars had blushed the entire time he danced with her.

“Let no man put asunder.”

Faye snapped a shot of Marilyn smiling as her son said the venerable words. If Marilyn was pinched by the irony of hearing the words as she stood alone, her husband having filed for divorce, having moved in with a younger woman, she showed no signs. But then Marilyn was a generous-hearted woman. She might be obsessed with the distant past, but she clearly understood that with a wedding, as with a birth, the world begins anew, as fresh and full of hope as the sun rising up to bring a new day.

The ceremony was finished. The groom kissed the bride. Faye zipped down to her own room, wheeling back a cart of champagne, glasses, and clever little canapés. She poured the champagne and handed it around, she passed the canapés on their silver tray, then she took more photographs. She had a glass of champagne herself—she deserved it.

“How can I ever thank you?” Marilyn hugged Faye. “This is the best wedding I’ve ever attended! And Teddy looks so happy!” She leaned closer, whispering in Faye’s ear. “Dora’s adorable! How can her parents keep her hidden away like this?”

“It’s Dora’s choice,” Faye told her, turning her back to the young woman to hide her words. “She finds most people’s attention too painful to bear. And she tires easily. She likes having this room, everything within reach, nothing surprising, she likes her routines.”

Marilyn said, “Teddy told me he and Lila have asked Dora to live with them, but she refused.”

“Well, Dora’s happy here. She feels safe. And she worships her mother. But I’m sure Dora will want to have Lila and Teddy visit.”

Her power chair humming, Dora rolled toward Faye. “I want to give them my present.”

“Of course.” She handed her glass to Marilyn. “Hold this a moment, will you?” She followed Dora to the back of the room. Hidden behind a bookshelf was the picture Dora had drawn with her pastels. Faye had spirited it out to a shop where it was encased in a beautiful gold frame, and now she slid it from its hiding place and set it on Dora’s lap.

“This is my wedding present to you!” Dora called out.

Dora had drawn a yellow vase holding pink tulips on a blue background. The lines were slightly wobbly, and there was no sense of depth, but even so it was a fine and cheerful sight. Faye watched proudly as Lila and Teddy made a great fuss over the drawing, promising to hang it in pride of place above their fireplace in their house.

But Faye noticed how Dora was sagging in her chair, and Dora’s face was strained, too; she was becoming tired. Faye caught Lila’s eye and cocked her head in Dora’s direction. Lila nodded, and soon everyone was hugging and saying good night.

Marilyn and the minister left. Lila stayed to help Dora undress while Teddy and Faye gathered up the champagne glasses and returned the cart back to the kitchen.

“So you still plan to let Dora break the news to the Eastbrooks?” Faye asked, hands deep in soapy water.

Teddy picked up a dish towel. “Lila says it’s what Dora wants. She’s had so little power in her life, and very few chances to help her sister—it’s always been the other way round.”

“It’s going to be quite explosive around here.” Faye carefully rinsed the soap off the last flute and set it in the drainer. “I think Dora’s strong enough to take it.”

“And you’re leaving tonight?”

“I am.” Faye dried her hands and looked around the kitchen to be sure everything was in perfect order. “If I thought it would help Dora, I’d stay, of course. But the Eastbrooks will know I’m the one who disarmed the alarms—Dora could have managed to open the front door, but she couldn’t have reached the alarm boxes. This way, I’ll disappear, and the Eastbrooks can spend their fury trying to trace down a person who doesn’t exist.”

“Won’t they call the people who gave you—who gave ‘Mrs. Van Dyke’—references?”

“I doubt it. They never called them when they hired me. Just having the names on my résumé was sufficient.”

“What about tracking you through your car?”

“Alan rented it. If the Eastbrooks pursue it that far, they’ll have to assume they have the wrong license plate number. But I’m sure they didn’t bother to notice the number. They were too busy.” Faye flicked off the kitchen lights and led Teddy back down the hall. “They’ll be overwhelmed by all this,” she told the young man. “I’m glad Lila had Dora with her for your marriage ceremony. I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t firmly believe it was the right thing to do. But I wonder whether Lila might reconsider now, and go through with the wedding her mother planned for September.”

Teddy tried to look solemn, but he couldn’t keep from breaking into a great smile. “I don’t think that would work. Lila’s pregnant. The baby’s due in September.”

“Oh, Teddy!” Faye swooped to hug the young man. “Does Dora know?”

“Lila’s telling her now.”

At eleven o’clock, Faye stood alone in the imposing front hall of the Eastbrook mansion. Everything was quiet; everything was done. She’d stripped her bed and washed the sheets and towels; they were in the laundry room off the kitchen, tumbling in the dryer now. She’d packed her bags and carried them stealthily out to her car. She’d looked in on Dora, who was sleeping soundly in her bed, the circlet of flowers lying on her bedside table, where her mother would see them when she brought Dora breakfast in the morning. Faye could imagine the scene Eugenie Eastbrook would make. Dora’s face had glowed mischievously as she assured Faye she was up for shocking her parents. Faye smiled, thinking how everyone should have a chance to rebel at least once in her life.

Checking for the third time to be certain all the alarms were set, Faye laid her house keys on the antique table in the front hall, opened the door, and stepped out into the night. She pulled the door shut firmly behind her and stood for a moment, saying farewell to Mrs. Van Dyke and the life she’d led in this sumptuous place.

She was glad to be leaving. For the first few days it had been amusing, playing at being a housekeeper, and she was glad to have helped Dora, and Lila, and especially Marilyn. But she missed her old life, her real life. Eugenie Eastbrook’s world of taut perfection was too chilling, too humorless. Faye was eager to become herself again, and so she hurried over the white gravel to her little rented car and drove away, back toward the comforts of her own home.