The Hot Flash Club Chills Out (4 page)

Polly laughed. It would be such fun telling Hugh—

The red light was blinking on her answering machine—while she’d been in the shower, someone had left a message.

She collapsed on the side of the bed, just staring at the machine. She knew it would be Hugh, canceling. And she knew she’d be so frustrated, she’d go downstairs and eat both steaks plus the pint of ice cream in the freezer.

5

S
hirley knew she was a nitwit, as far as men were concerned. She didn’t need her Hot Flash friends to point it out to her. She’d been married and divorced three times. She’d had lots and lots of lovers.

Which was not to say she’d had lots of
love.

Although she
had
had lots of fun.

Not to mention, she admitted to herself wryly, quite a bit of heartache.

Part of her problem, she was well aware, was that she couldn’t help falling for handsome, younger men.

Now she stepped from the shower, dried herself in a fluffy towel, and rubbed generous dollops of perfumed lotion into her skin. Feet, legs, torso, arms, neck, hands. Really, for a woman in her early sixties, she had a great body. Over the years she’d done zillions of stupid things, but one thing she’d done right was to practice yoga and keep her body supple and slender. Marilyn was slender, too, but she had terrible posture from slumping over textbooks and test tubes or whatever in her labs. Faye, Alice, and Polly, however, were just plain overweight, in spite of their diet and exercise programs. Not that Shirley ever mentioned it—they were all so touchy on that subject.

But Faye, Alice, Polly, and Marilyn all had men in their lives. Men who loved them.

Shirley was alone.

Not that Shirley felt competitive. Well, okay, she
did
feel competitive. She loved her Hot Flash friends, she couldn’t live without them, they’d made all the difference in her life. Without them, she wouldn’t have The Haven, she wouldn’t have any kind of a future.

But they were so
judgmental.

They would tell her, she just knew they would, that the dress she slid over her head was too young for her. That it plunged too low in front, that the skirt was too short and her heels too high. As she made up her face, she could just
hear
them whispering affectionate,
subtle
suggestions:
Maybe not quite so much mascara, Shirley. Are you sure you want to wear such bright red lipstick?

“Oh, shut up!” Shirley shouted at the empty room. “I’m going out with the bleeping accountant, aren’t I?”

Last fall, when Shirley’s lover Justin—her twelve-years-younger, handsome, sexy, charming, knock-your-socks-off lover, Justin—had proved to be a user and a cad, Shirley had broken off with him. She’d been proud of herself, and her friends had rushed to comfort and encourage her. Which was all very nice, except Shirley really,
really
liked having a man in her life. At Christmas, after three months of agonizing celibacy, Shirley had whined to Alice, who was a great problem solver. She’d recommended Shirley try an online dating service.

Shirley took Alice’s advice. At first, she was wildly optimistic. She tended to be optimistic, anyway, and she got so many hits, and spotted so many guys whose profiles looked wonderful, she’d thought the problem would be choosing from an embarrassment of riches.

Not.

First of all, very few men were interested in over-sixty females, especially, it seemed, the over-sixty males. The men who did make it past her three-step weed-out—e-mail conversation, phone conversation, Hot Flash Club approval—were all fine on paper but lacking in real life. Her first date, a divorced salesman, was in a contest with a friend to see how many women he could get into bed. Her second date, a garage mechanic, had a great, earthy sense of humor, bad breath, and teeth the color of old bruises. Her third date lived with seven cats. The rest blurred in her memory—for once she was grateful her memory was failing.

Tonight’s date was the exception. Stan Elliot was a sixty-three-year-old widower, retired from a lifelong position as an accountant for the IRS. His two children lived in other states; one in California, one in Florida. He owned a handsome little condo near the Belmont Country Club, where he played golf three days a week with friends. He drank, ate, and exercised in moderation. He was not only solvent, he was, as he often told Shirley, so carefully and strategically well invested, he wouldn’t have to worry about money for the rest of his life. He had insurance policies in case he’d ever need assisted living or long-term medical assistance, and also for his burial service, so his children would never be responsible for him. He was lost in the kitchen, however, he’d confessed to Shirley on their first date. He missed having a woman around. He was healthy, and pleasant, and kind.

And punctual. Shirley hurried out to her car and zipped off toward Boston. She was meeting him at a restaurant he’d chosen because it was almost exactly halfway between her home and his. She’d met him here for dinner before, and even though Shirley hadn’t felt that little
zing
of attraction, she did appreciate his obvious niceness.

His rather
bland
obvious niceness. Stan wasn’t a handsome man, but he wasn’t ugly, either. He wasn’t brilliant, but neither was he stupid. He was kind, clean, inoffensive—perfect, if she wanted to date a Boy Scout.

Still, it gave Shirley a little shiver of pleasure to enter the restaurant in her flirty new dress, to sense people looking her over, and to say, “I’m meeting Mr. Elliott.”

“Of course. Please follow me.” The maître d’ threaded his way through the tables. Shirley followed, feeling just a little bit
onstage,
and quite a bit pleased with herself because the person waiting for her was, for all the room to see, a man. A respectably dressed, very pleasant man. She felt
chosen.

Stan rose when she arrived at the table. Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek. “Hello, Shirley.”

“Hello, Stan.” She sank into the terribly comfortable chair and allowed the waiter to slide her toward the table.

“Notice anything?” He cocked his head playfully.

Shirley inspected him. His head was bare except for the toilet-seat-fringe of white hair around his balding pate. He hadn’t had a haircut. She thought his metal-framed glasses were the same. Oh! “You wore a purple tie!”

He nodded, smiling. “Had to buy it. Didn’t have one.”

He did it because she’d said purple was her favorite color. That was just
sweet.
“Well, it looks wonderful on you, Stan. Really becoming.”

“Not too gaudy?”

“Not at all.”

The waiter interrupted their fashion analysis, took their order, and went off.

“How has your week been?” Stan asked.

“Okay.” Shirley sipped some of her sparkling soda. “Actually,” she continued, “it’s been rather annoying. I’m a creative kind of person, a hands-on person. Remember, I told you, I used to be a massage therapist, and I like that personal contact, but now that The Haven’s up and running, I spend an enormous amount of time reading boring forms and sitting in on committee meetings.”

“Perhaps you should retire,” Stan suggested.

Shirley shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m not ready for retirement.”

“You might like it. I do. This week for example, I improved my golf game by two strokes.” He paused, expectantly.

“Really?” Shirley tried to appear sufficiently admiring.

“Really. As one grows more mature, the quality of flexibility is not as present as it was during younger years, which means that one’s swing is thrown off, necessitating a relocation of the wrist hinge. Also, the club rests on the fingers rather than the palm of the hand.”

Shirley rested her chin in her hand, trying her best to stay with him, but her mind kept drifting away. Stan’s manner of speaking reminded her of her high school geometry class, where the teacher spoke very slowly, pronouncing each word carefully, as if enunciation alone would enlighten his audience.

“…a ninety-degree angle should exist between the shaft and the left forearm at the top of one’s swing…”

Good grief, it
was
just like geometry, Shirley thought.

The waiter brought their dinners. Shirley ate like a starving woman, thrilled to have something interesting to do.

“…if one increases one’s wrist hinge for a full backswing…”

Mentally, Shirley pulled out her hair. Did the man lack the normal conversational sensors? She didn’t think so. He spoke almost
confidingly,
as if he were sharing the secrets of his soul. What if he really was? There was a scary thought!

When the waiter arrived with dessert menus, Stan said, at last, “Oh-oh. I have been going on, haven’t I? You must think I’m obsessed with golf.” Before Shirley could answer, he continued, “My wife would laugh if she were here.”

Briefly, Shirley had the unnerving image of his wife at the table with them.

“She used to get on me about how I go at things. I can’t help it. Before my knees went, I was a fanatical jogger. I ran two hours every morning before work, six days a week, fifty-two weeks of the year. I found that jogging helped me concentrate later at work. I learned to pace myself…”

And we’re off, Shirley thought ruefully, listening to Stan present a treatise on jogging shoes, paraphernalia, and lore.

He’s not an ax murderer,
Shirley reminded herself. During her life, there had been long lonely periods when that was about her only criterion.
He’s solvent,
she continued mentally,
he’s polite, he’s educated, he’s kind. He does resemble a big toe, but he can’t help that. He talks.
It was hard to find a man who actually talked about what was important to him.

Finally, the evening was over. Stan paid the bill, stood in a gentlemanly way to pull back Shirley’s chair, and escorted her through the restaurant and out the door.

“Let me walk you to your car.”

“Thanks.” It was one of the ten words she’d been allowed to get into their conversation the entire evening. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she’d parked. She scanned the lot, thinking. “My brain’s clogged,” she joked. “I need Braino.”

Stan stepped back from her quickly, as if afraid she might detonate. “Are you all right? Do you need an aspirin?”

“No, no, Stan, I was joking. Drano, Braino, get it?”

“Oh.” He thought a moment, then produced a dutiful laugh. “Ha, ha, ha.”

Shirley spotted her car. “Over there!”

When they arrived at her sporty little convertible, Stan surprised her by putting his hand on her shoulder. He was just her height, so he didn’t have to lean down as he kissed her. It was a tidy kiss, with no teeth, lips firmly closed, moderate pressure, and no hand-straying or body-bumping. Shirley bet Stan had calibrated a schedule for his sexual encounters. First date, handshake. Second date, thirty-second kiss. Third date—did she even want to know?

Stan stepped back. “When can I see you again?”

Shirley paused. She
did
wonder how many dates it would take him before they’d go to bed. And she did wonder what he’d be like in bed. Perhaps he’d be methodical, but he also seemed dutiful, so perhaps he’d make sure she was pleased. Perhaps she could do something that would make him deviate from his schedule. That might be kind of fun.

“How about next Friday night?” she said. “Come to The Haven. I’ll make you dinner.”

As she drove home, she regretted her invitation. He was such a nice man, but how long was she going to live and how much time did she have to spin on a man who monopolized the conversation? Stan hadn’t even asked whether she played golf. Probably, it wouldn’t have mattered. Shoving her Aerosmith CD in, she let their music make her pulse pound, the first time it had done so all evening.

The Haven was dark when she got home, but a light still shone in the gatehouse where Jennifer and Alan and their baby lived. She knew they wanted to buy a house of their own, and she didn’t blame them, but she would miss them when they were gone. Letting herself into the grand old stone building, she thought how incongruous it was that she’d moved from her shambling little house in Somerville to become chatelaine of this magnificent old mansion. Sometimes people rented the other condos on the second floor. Faye had for a while, and so had Star, the yoga teacher, before she moved into a house with her boyfriend. Justin, that creep, had lived with her for a year, and now as she unlocked her door, she felt, as always, a little pinch of melancholy. She’d been lonely so much of her life that loneliness almost felt like home.

The light was blinking on her answering machine. Shirley hesitated. This was her personal number, but people still used it for business purposes. It could be Elroy Morris, the building and grounds manager, about the new septic system. It could be Polly about Havenly Yours. She really had to talk to Polly, who was doing too much, without any kind of a salary, something they had to address at the next board meeting. It might be one of her Hot Flash friends. But it was probably too late to phone them back, unless it was an emergency.

Kicking off her high heels, Shirley hit the play button and collapsed on her sofa, closing her eyes as she listened.

What she heard surprised her so much, she jumped off the sofa and stood in the middle of the room, laughing out loud and hugging herself at the games life played.