The Hot Flash Club Chills Out (19 page)

Shirley slumped. “You play golf…”

“Of course, but I choose times when the fairways and the club houses aren’t busy.”

Be creative,
Shirley told herself frantically. Just because he liked routine didn’t mean she couldn’t propose stuff she’d enjoy. “Well, then, Stan, how’s this for an idea? I’ll put together a picnic for the Fourth of July. I’ll make ham sandwiches, or roast beef, whatever you want. And we’ll go to Walden Pond and have a picnic!”

Stan looked pained. “I’ve never enjoyed eating outdoors, Shirley. The food attracts insects of all kinds. As for swimming—I can only imagine how many other people will be in the pond, half of them urinating children.”

“Oh. Well…” Defeated, Shirley picked at her salad. “What would
you
like to do for the Fourth of July?”

“Well, there’s a Red Sox game we could watch on television.” Stan brightened. “I know what! You make your little picnic, and we’ll eat it in the living room, watching the Red Sox game!”

After dinner, Stan and Shirley watched an old black-and-white movie on television. It wasn’t particularly interesting, but Stan objected to renting movies from video shops on the grounds that it was a waste of money when so much was available for free on TV. When the movie ended, Stan clicked off the TV with the remote control and turned toward Shirley.

“Shall we retire to your bedroom?”

“All right.”

They didn’t turn on the lights, but left the door open to let light shine in from the hall. While Shirley turned back the covers, Stan undressed, carefully folding his clothing and draping it across a chair. They took turns in the bathroom, then slid into bed next to each other.

“You are a beautiful woman, Shirley,” Stan told her as he turned on his side and pulled her against him.

This was nice,
Shirley thought. Nice to be called beautiful, nice to be held. Nice to feel a warm male body.

“You’re still pleasantly slim,” Stan continued, running his arm over her back. “I really admire the way you haven’t let yourself get fat like so many other women your age.”

Well, that might not be the most romantic thing she’d ever heard, but it was a compliment. Shirley purred, “You feel good, too, Stan.”

He kissed her mouth. He kissed each of her breasts. He patted her crotch as if it were an obedient pet. He pulled away in order to slide on his condom.

Shirley took Stan in her arms and into her body. It wasn’t unpleasant. It didn’t hurt. But she felt disconnected. She caught herself looking over at the clock—she’d bet Stan wouldn’t take long.

He didn’t. Afterward, he hurried off to take a shower. Shirley lay there, remembering Justin, whose lovemaking had been masterful, ecstatic, sublime. He’d brought her to such extremes of joy she’d lain weeping in his arms afterward. Even Jimmy, her beau before Justin, Jimmy, who drank too much and had bad grammar and worse manners, Jimmy, who certainly had no sexual
technique,
Jimmy had still had a kind of primitive, physical, caveman appeal. He’d worn jeans and a studded black leather jacket—that had been as good as foreplay for Shirley. He’d been huge, strong, heavy, and vigorous, and when they were through making love, Shirley had felt wonderfully
used up.

But Jimmy had left her with a pile of unpaid bills, riding off on his motorcycle at a moment’s notice and never looking back. And Justin had done much worse than that to her.

Shirley sighed. Stan came out of the bathroom, fully dressed. Shirley pulled on a robe and accompanied him to the door.

Stan put his hands on her shoulders and gazed affectionately down at her. “I know you want to have a little more fun, Shirley. I can sense that about you, you know. I’m a sensitive man. I had an idea in the shower. I know what we’ll do for the Fourth of July!” Stan looked very pleased with himself.

She couldn’t help it. She perked up. “What will we do?”

“I’ll bring over a jigsaw puzzle! A nice, complicated one, at least a thousand pieces. I won’t bring one of my old ones, either. I’ll buy something new. I’ll surprise you.”

“Well,” Shirley said weakly. “I’ll look forward to that.” No fireworks, she thought sadly, this Fourth of July.

29

P
olly woke in her sweet twin bed with the ornate white iron head- and footboards, beneath a hand-sewn pastel quilt patterned with girls in sunbonnets. She lay there gazing at the other twin bed with its wedding-ring quilt, and at the small wooden cradle where antique dolls lay propped on lace pillows.

Life was so strange, she thought. This room brought back memories of her childhood dreams. She had planned to have daughters, and make all their clothes! As a teenager, while others were listening to Elvis Presley, Polly was designing matching mother-daughter dresses with pinafores. She could remember the exact details—the smocking, the heart-shaped pockets, the lace trim.

Instead of three daughters, life had given Polly one son. Of course she wouldn’t trade him for anything, but just for this very quiet moment, she allowed herself to remember the sweetness of her childhood dream. She planned to braid her daughters’ hair and tie the braids with grosgrain ribbons. To make clothes for their dolls to match their own clothes. To make dollhouses, with curtains, and tiny beds and tiny pictures on the walls.

Now her son was grown and married and had a child. A son. Polly loved Jehoshaphat, as much as she was allowed to, but she didn’t see him often. If David and Amy did ever have a daughter, Polly doubted that she’d be very much part of the child’s life. Amy and David were so inaccessible….

Now her thoughts were turning gloomy, so Polly threw back the covers and put her feet on the rag rug.

“Oh, gosh,” she said, looking at the clock on her night table.

It was almost ten o’clock! She shook her head in disgust. She was sure Faye had already gone off. Lucky Faye, to be obsessed with her work! Polly felt a bit untethered. This week, while Faye rose early to slip out of the house to paint, Polly had toured all the antique shops, “browsing,” and surreptitiously checking to see if the missing Fabergé box had turned up anywhere. She didn’t spot it, which made her feel she’d wasted her time, even though all the other Hot Flash Club women thanked her for her investigative work. It would have been such a coup to discover it! It would have been a little success, at a time in her life when she felt just a bit like a failure.

She did make wonderful meals for her and Faye every night, but while Faye retired to the front parlor to read, Polly slumped like a big fat blob in the back parlor, watching any old thing on TV. And last night, after Faye said good night and went up to bed, Polly had cut herself another slice of her homemade chocolate fudge cake and eaten it while watching
An Officer and a Gentleman,
where Richard Gere, in that snow white uniform, had swept Debra Winger up in his arms and carried her away. Oh, how Polly had blubbered at that part! She’d wept because life never gave you such a perfect moment, and she wept for the loss of her husband, and for the loss of her youth, and for the loss of her dog.

She hadn’t gone to bed until two.

In the bathroom, she peed, then exchanged grim glances with her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a depressed porpoise.

She had to snap out of this despondency! She was on Nantucket! She owed it to herself to enjoy herself!

But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mirror. The day was overcast, the sky threatening rain, and the dismal gloom from the window mingled with the utilitarian glare of the overhead light to spotlight her aging face. Her fair Irish skin had always been lightly freckled, but now some spots were for whatever bizarre reasons growing darker than the others, forming little constellations, Orion on her right cheek, the Big Dipper right in the middle of her forehead. The skin on her chin had a texture different from the rest of her face; it was pebbly, porous, and stippled, like the surface of the moon. When she lightly drew her fingers over the sides of her face, she felt tiny bumps beneath the smoother skin, little volcanoes preparing to erupt.

She couldn’t erase the creases in her forehead or the rings around her neck or the U-shaped rolls of flesh cradling her chin, making it look as if her jawline was supported by a series of rubber bands. But she could use the expensive skin creams she’d bought on sale a few weeks ago. She
should
use them! What else did she have to do today? Already rain was spattering the window.

She padded barefoot downstairs to the kitchen. Faye had brewed coffee, and the pot was half-full. Polly tested the side of the pot with her hand, decided it was warm enough, and poured herself a mug, adding plenty of milk and sugar. Carrying it back up the stairs, she unpacked the many shimmery bottles and tubes, setting them out on the bathroom counter, sipping her coffee while she read the directions. As she did, an old, almost atavistic, thrill awoke within her. She was shot through with sensations wrought from a lifetime of faith in the alchemy of beauty lotions and potions. She was a little girl again, watching her mother carefully paint her face before going to a party. She was a young teen, experimenting with makeup, covering her childish freckles with a smooth makeup base. She was a college student who wanted to lose her virginity, rouging her mouth in a flamboyant creamy red.

She tied her auburn and white hair back with a band, rinsed her face with water, then applied the first coat for deep cleansing. After the requisite ten minutes, she wiped her face clean with soft tissues, then opened the second jar, the extravagantly expensive gold jar full of “microencapsulated nanosphere” ingredients that would provide deep exfoliation, leaving her skin smooth and radiant. The cream quickly hardened into a bright orange mask from which her eyes peeked out like someone in a state of shock. She would have laughed, but she didn’t want to break the mask. She wished Faye were there to see her.

She had to wear the mask for thirty minutes. It wasn’t spread on her lips—her mouth required a different cream—so she padded back down the stairs to refill her coffee. She was pretty sure she could sip coffee if she did so slowly, without moving her jaw.

Carrying her mug with her, she wandered through the big old house, admiring the various antiques, wondering what some of the odder bibelots were, checking her reflection in every shining bit of silver. At the front of the house she looked out at Orange Street, its colors muted by the streaming rain into an array of grays. The pavement was pewter, the sky dove, the shingled houses granite. The only spots of color were from the petunias and pansies in the window boxes, and even their cheer was dimmed by the downpour.

A big black SUV rolled up the street, its lights blurring in the rain. Just at that moment, a small tabby cat streaked out from under a rhododendron, racing into the street. The SUV slammed to a stop, but its front wheel had made contact with the cat.

“Oh, no!” Polly raced out the front door, down the steps, and out to the street.

The driver, a young woman, had already jumped out of her vehicle and was bending over the cat. “Oh, God! Oh, God! I didn’t see her coming.” Her face was white with shock.

“She ran out in front of you,” Polly assured her. “You couldn’t have known.”

They squatted next to the injured animal. The young woman wore a raincoat, but Polly and the cat were quickly sodden as the rain streamed down. The cat wasn’t bleeding, and hadn’t lost consciousness, but when it tried to rise, its right hind leg wouldn’t support it. It looked at Polly and made a pitiful meow.

“I’ll take it to the vet.” The young woman’s hands were trembling—her whole body was trembling.

“I’ll get a blanket to wrap it in.” Polly rose.

“Wait, I have one in the car.”

The rain soaked Polly’s back and snaked in rivulets around her neck and down the crease between her breasts. She reached out a tentative hand to pat the cat. “Poor kitty, kitty. You’ll be okay, kitty, kitty.”

The cat lay still on the cold, wet street, regarding her with trusting eyes. Polly stroked its head and neck, murmuring comforting words. The cat had no collar, no ID tag. The young woman returned with a plaid wool blanket. Carefully they arranged it so they could lift the cat onto it, then they folded the blanket around the animal, who didn’t object or fight or try to flee but only mewed feebly. Polly opened the door, and the young woman laid the cat carefully on the backseat.

“Would you like me to go with you?” Polly asked.

The other woman looked surprised by Polly’s offer. “No, no, thank you. You’re kind, but I think we’ll be fine. I should just hurry and get her there.”

As the SUV thundered off, Polly went back to the house. No wonder the young woman didn’t want her company, she thought, with a shaky laugh. She was still in her robe, which was drenched and sticking to her skin. Her face was orange. Heaven only knew what her soggy hair looked like! Time for more coffee and a hot shower!

Energized, she turned the knob on the front door, pushed, and—nothing happened.

She pushed again.

The door was locked.

“You idiot!” Polly hit herself on her forehead, forgetting to worry about cracking the mask. “You unbelievable ninny!”

Moving as fast as she could without slipping on the soggy ground, she hurried around the side of the house and up the back porch steps. The back door was locked, too.

“Damn!” She stomped her foot, then looked around helplessly. If she could get to a phone, she could dial Faye’s cell and ask her to come home and let her in. Slogging through the rain, she returned to the front of the house and, because she was such a big fat dope, tried the front door again. Still locked.

No lights showed in the houses across the street. Just a few feet away, all the shops on Main Street were open, but she could hardly wander down there in her soaking cotton robe and nightgown, her face a cracking mask of orange.

She could wait on the back porch. She’d be sheltered from the rain, and it was warm today. She wouldn’t catch pneumonia. But the thought of sitting in wet clothes for endless hours didn’t thrill her.

There
was
a light on next door, at the aptly named Lucinda Payne’s house. Even if the cranky old bat didn’t like her, surely she would allow her to use her phone.

What other choice did she have?

Polly trudged across the sidewalk, up the steps, and knocked on the door.

After a few moments, the door was slowly pulled back, revealing the owner of the house, fully clad in alabaster silk slacks and matching shirt. Pearls hung at her neck, and pearl earrings gleamed from her ears, making her white hair luminous and accentuating her brilliant green eyes.

Her expression as she took in the sight of Polly in her wet robe and orange mask did not change except for a slight, disdainful, pursing of her lips.

“Yes?” Her voice was cold.

“Mrs. Payne? I’m Polly Lodge. I live next door. Well, I don’t live there, I mean my friends and I are staying there as guests of Nora Salter…” Polly stumbled on the name of the woman who was known to be Lucinda Payne’s enemy. The older woman did not react. Polly bumbled on. “I did a foolish thing. I dashed out of the house like this because I saw a car hit a cat right in front of the house—”

The older woman leaned out into the rain to survey the street.

“She’s okay, the cat, the driver took her to the MSPCA, I think maybe the hind leg was broken, but the thing is, I’ve managed to lock myself out of the house. I mean, I didn’t even think to grab the keys or to check that the lock was off, so I’m wondering, could I please use your telephone? I’d like to phone my friend and ask her to come let me in.”

Lucinda Payne looked Polly up and down with the scrutiny of an airport security guard. Obviously she didn’t approve of what she saw. Still, she opened the door wider.

“Come in. But please stay in the hall until I’ve brought you a towel.”

“Thank you. Thank you
so
much.” Polly shivered now, and hugged herself as she looked around. The wide board floors of the hall were bare, the walls ivory, the only furniture a small chrome table with a Nantucket lightship basket centered on it, holding letters.

The towel the older woman brought her was thick and soft, more luxurious than some of Polly’s best clothes. She dried her hands and dabbed at her hair, but hesitated to touch the towel to her orange face—she didn’t know whether the chemicals would stain the towel, and she didn’t want to sink any lower in Lucinda Payne’s estimation. Finally she dried her neck and draped the towel around her shoulders for warmth.

Lucinda had gone off again, leaving Polly standing in the front hall. Leaning forward, she peered into the parlors on either side, surprised by the modernity of the furnishings. This house had the same basic architectural style as Nora Salter’s—the wide board floors, the plaster rosettes centering the ceilings with lighting fixtures, brick fireplaces, and six-over-six paned windows. But unlike Nora Salter’s, the furniture and decorations were new. Everything was cream, with a few spare touches of navy blue. The mantels and tables held no clutter, simply a few vases with fresh flowers, a magazine or a book, candlesticks, and a clock. The result was a remarkably fresh, young, almost urban ambience, surprising from a woman Lucinda Payne’s age.

“I’ve brought you the phone.” Lucinda Payne handed the portable handset to Polly. Quickly she punched in Faye’s number—winging a silent prayer to thank the gods that she’d
remembered
Faye’s number!—and explained her problem to Faye, who promised to come back immediately.

Polly handed the phone back to Lucinda. “She’s on her way.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s out in ’Sconset, having a cup of tea in the café there. She’s an artist, and she’s been working on a landscape out that way, and she thought the rain would clear, but obviously it hasn’t.”

Lucinda looked at Polly, calculating. Polly looked back at the older woman, teeth chattering.

Lucinda sighed and resigned herself to the obvious demands of normal human etiquette. “You look cold. Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you some tea.”

“Thank you
so
much.”

Polly eased off her slippers and dried her feet thoroughly before padding down the hall. As in Nora Salter’s house, the kitchen was at the back of this house, but unlike Nora’s, it had been modernized. Everything was white and gleaming chrome, except for the teak table and chairs centered on the black-and-white tiled floor. Next to a lone place-mat lay a book of crossword puzzles, a dictionary, and a pen.