Dear Emily (16 page)

S
hortly before noon the next day Ben Jackson entered the clinic and said, “Whoa, you need sunglasses when you come in here. Sorry I wasn’t home when you called last night. How’d it go with Mr. Sex Appeal?”

“We had a
great
day financially. If it keeps up, we’ll do okay, but I’m realist enough to know it can’t keep up like that. Charley and I had a talk yesterday. Meet me in the cool-down room; I have to explain how these machines work to that lady in the green sweat suit.”

“If you tell me where the cool-down room is, I’ll be glad to meet you there.”

“Around the corner. If you get bored, feed Harry and Harriet.” Emily grinned.

When Emily joined Ben fifteen minutes later, she laughed at the way he was sprawled out on the futon, his eyes glued to the fish tank. “Before you ask whatever it is you’re going to ask me, I want to ask you something. Will you have dinner with me on Saturday night?”

“You mean a date?” She felt flustered, remembering the time they’d been glued to the workout mat.

“Date
’s a good word. Two people having dinner. I can pick you up and then it’s a real date. If you meet me at the restaurant, we’re two people having dinner.”

Emily’s face was as pink as the towel in her hand. “Okay. You can…you can pick me up.”

“Okay, that sounds good. Chinese, Italian, French?”

“Chinese. I like Italian and French too,” Emily said carefully.

“Well, I guess we could go Chinese for the wonton soup, hit the Italian for the ravioli, and then go French for some chocolate mousse,” Ben said with a straight face. “Busy night, though.”

“Chinese.”

“Sounds good. I’m looking forward to my fortune cookie already. How about you?”

“Can’t wait.”

“Six-thirty okay?”

“Six-thirty’s good. We close at six. Pick me up here, okay? I hate to admit this, but we’re showering here at the clinics to save on our water bill at home,” Emily said.

“Makes sense. Now, what do you want to talk to me about?”

Emily told him about the conversation she had with Charley. “I think he’s right. These clinics are geared to middle-aged women. You’re middle-aged and you look…good. They’ll be comfortable with you.”

“Comfortable!” Ben protested. “Comfortable!”

“You know what I mean,” Emily said, remembering the feel of his body next to hers.

“I’m not into satin capes and Speedo tights or whatever that…that thing is the guy wears.”

“It’s a bathing suit. They sell them everywhere.”

“To exhibitionists,” Ben grated. “I’m not shaving the hair on my body. And I’m not oiling it either.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“It means I’ll think about it,” Ben said.

“You’ll have to sign up for Charley’s class. I’ll pay for it.”

“Emily, I’m forty-five years old. Do you really expect me to get up there with those young studs and do…well, whatever the hell it is they do? Oh, no, that’s not for me.”

“How about private lessons?”

“If you give them to me. You’ve seen the video a hundred times. But at your house. I still have to think about this. I’m not committing.”

“A private lesson is good,” Emily said weakly. “Do you think it will help, Ben? Your honest opinion.”

“Sex sells. Everyone knows that. Alluding to sex sells. Sex is fun. I’m just not sure I’m up to peddling my body. At my age it seems a little decadent.” There was a hint of a smile on his face, Emily noticed.

“Uh-huh. I guess that’s a good answer. What you’re saying is it will probably work. At least for the time being. Decadent is in,” she said devilishly.

“On that thought, I’m going to leave you. I have to go to Princeton to do a workout with some executive who’s seventy-eight pounds overweight. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“See that you do,” Ben said, rapping her butt with one of the pink towels.

He’s flirting with me. A man is flirting with me. A man has asked me out on a date and I said yes. A man is really taking me out to dinner and he’s going to pay for it. Oh, my. What to wear?

Seven phone calls later it was agreed that she was to wear a dress with a long, circular skirt with an Indian pattern, low-heeled shoes because she was just as tall as Ben, with a single strand of pearls and pearl earrings. When Emily hung up the phone, she decided her friends were more excited than she was.

She thought about Ian then because she always thought about Ian when things were going badly or particularly well. Where was he? Had he filed for a divorce? Bastard. He’d never called once to see if she was alive or dead. You’re renting space in your head to Ian and he isn’t paying for it, Emily. Shelve it. Think about your date with a very nice man. Think about how well you get along. He likes you. He teases you, flirts with you. When did Ian ever do that? Only when he wanted something from you.

Business was brisk, but not overwhelming. Slow and steady. Emily had time to do some of the laundry, chat with her new customers, and still call the other clinics to see how they were doing. All of them gave positive reports.

How long was it going to last? Ben didn’t seem overly optimistic. Sex sells, he’d said, but what happened when women got tired of looking at young muscular bodies? What happened when they decided they didn’t want to look at Ben Jackson? Then I’m just another exercise clinic or health club. What made her clinic different from a health club? A club had members who gathered for a common purpose whereas a clinic was a facility for diagnosis and treatment for outpatients. She truly believed in her heart that, psychologically, women in midlife felt more comfortable knowing they were in a clinic as opposed to a club.

“Whatever will be, will be,” Emily murmured. “If I fail, I’ll go on to something else.” She looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes until the ladies on the NordicTracks were due to move on to the treadmills. Time to read up on the herb book Lena had given her. She made notes as she read. It was all so interesting she had to be called twice when the buzzers on the machines went off.

Inside the workout room, Emily addressed the nine women on the machines. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. How do you all feel about herbs? What I mean is, if I told you there were herbs you could take to keep your bodies in good shape, would you take them, knowing what we all know about osteoporosis in women our age? Just raise your hand. How about teas made from the herbs—would you drink them?” All nine hands shot in the air. “Would you drink them here or would you make them at home?” Fifty fifty.

“Let me ask you something else. If I held a class over the weekend at one of the clinics on nutrition, herbs, and vitamins, would any of you take the time to come and listen? The class would be free, of course.” Seven hands shot in the air.

“I work weekends,” one woman said.

“I go to Pennsylvania to see my mother in a nursing home,” the other woman said. “I’d take any literature you have, though. If you had a class during the week or at lunchtime, I might be able to make it. Is it a one-time class or is it ongoing?”

“I’m not sure. I just want to get a feel for how receptive you ladies are. It’s preventative. However, there are herbs for ailments too.”

“Give us an example of both,” a woman on the exercycle called out.

“A tea made with mistletoe will help to bring down high blood pressure. You can mix it with angelica root, ground fine, mix two teaspoons of each in a pint of water and bring to a boiling point, cool it and drink two or three cups a day. You might be interested to know mistletoe is the only herb mentioned in the U.S. Dispensatory as a treatment for high blood pressure. That’s if any of you are interested.

“Here’s one for hair. It prevents you from going gray. I’m going to try it myself. You make a tea from the leaves of a grape vine and wash your hair in it once a month. Supposedly Indians used it. Some lady in Utah says it works. I guess you could use it as often as you wish.”

“You got any more, Emily?”

“How about flushing out fat and cholesterol with garlic and vinegar.”

“If it works, you could probably make a fortune.”

“Better be prepared for the medical profession to come down on you real hard.”

“I’m for whatever works,” a woman doing leg lifts gasped.

“That’s pretty much how I feel about it,” Emily said. “I’m not saying people shouldn’t take prescription drugs. I’m saying if there’s a way to treat a condition or ailment without drugs, try it.” The women concurred.

This from someone who used to be married to a doctor, Emily thought as she made her way to the front desk to answer the ringing phone.

Emily listened for a moment, her eye on two of the women on the machines. She rattled off her spiel automatically. “We have a pay-as-you-go program or we can do a full year’s membership. I offer one-on-one counseling. We suggest before embarking on any physical fitness program that you check with your doctor. Yes, our machines have pulse and heart monitors. We’ll teach you how to take your own pulse when you’re doing aerobics. We have showers and a cool-down room. So far we haven’t had any men sign up. We’re a chain organized for middle-aged women. Most of our clients are over forty. Yes, we know when to call a halt if you start to sweat too much. Of course we have a television set for you to watch while you’re exercising. I understand you want to watch your soap operas. Killing two birds with one stone is good if that’s how you feel. Food? We’ll give you a wide selection of diets to follow. Of course it’s the honor system. Yes, it is your body. Freeze-dried food? We’re working on it, but as of now, no, we don’t have it.”

Emily hung up the phone and rushed to turn off the treadmill. “That’s enough for you, Mrs. Sanchez. Tomorrow you’ll increase it by two or three minutes. You didn’t put that weight on overnight and it isn’t going to go away with a few sessions. You want to do this right and lose your weight slowly. Inches are important. We’re striving here to lose body fat. Twelve minutes on the exercycle and then you cool down. Can you read while you’re cycling? Good, here’s a book on herbal medicine I’d like you to peruse. You’re doing well, I’m proud of you,” Emily said, patting the chunky woman on the shoulder. The woman beamed with Emily’s praise.
And I would have killed for a kind word while I was torturing myself.
One woman helping another, that’s what it was all about.

Emily woke on Saturday with a feeling that something wonderful was going to happen. While she dressed, she played her date back and forth in her mind. Dinner meant dinner. Nothing was said about after dinner. Maybe they’d stop at Charlie Brown’s for a drink since the Chinese restaurant didn’t serve liquor. And then…and then…back to her house or back to Ben’s apartment? Did she have the nerve to go? Would he ask her back to see his etchings? Did they use that term anymore or did they say something like, Let’s go back to my apartment to see my new CD player or let’s check out my big screen TV? Maybe they were even more risqué and suggested X-rated movies. She needed a plan. Asking her roommates would be futile since they’d been as dateless as she was. She could follow Ben in her car, since he was picking her up at the clinic.

She caught her reflection in the mirror. Emily Thorn stared back at her. She squinted, trying to see traces of the long-ago Emily, but age and the ravages of her life had definitely taken their toll. With her index finger she pulled skin toward her ears, from around her eyes. Makeup could only do so much. A facial even less. The loose skin around her neck bothered her, but at least she’d lost most of her triple chin. She was not pretty, didn’t consider herself attractive at all. Why was Ben taking her to dinner? What did he expect? Better yet, Emily, what do
you
expect? What I expect is…is a nice dinner with someone I’m comfortable with, maybe a drink afterward and then…and then, perhaps a long, lingering kiss. Nothing more. I wish I could turn the clock backward, erase the calendar, become the old Emily with a twitch of the nose or an airy wave of a finger.

In the kitchen over a bagel and coffee, Emily listened to the good-natured teasing about her date. Her face was warm, but she loved every minute of it. A collective “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do” rang in her ears as she scurried through the door, her dress and makeup bag under her arm. “I’ll see you…whenever.” She smiled as she listened to the hoots of laughter that followed her to the car.

The hours passed quickly. Saturdays, she’d found out, were her busiest days. She had a system now for the machines as well as the aerobic classes. “Smooth as silk,” she’d told the other girls. Damn, she felt good. Really good. She was doing something she loved, something she was convinced in her heart would work, and while she was doing it, she was helping other women.

The hours passed, and before she knew it, the last group of women were packing up to leave. They called her Emily and asked her advice on their workout clothes, on any number of things. She was a mentor now and she thrived on it.

“C’mon, c’mon,” she said, making shooing motions with her hands. “I have a date and you guys are going to make me late. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”

“We want to hear all about it next week,” the last woman through the door said, grinning. “Take notes.”

“You bet,” Emily promised. She locked the door, closed the blinds, and sprinted for the shower.

When her hair was dry, her large, gold hoop earrings in place, she stood back to admire her reflection. The Indian print skirt was perfect. The wide leather belt with its ornate clasp riding low on her hips with the top bloused over it was more than fashionable. Kelly’s contribution. The suede boots, a rich copper color, were comfortable—contributed by Martina. The burlap carry bag with its leather handles and buckles were donated by Nancy.

Emily opened her makeup bag. She had one of everything. It really wasn’t going to help her to make up. If anything, makeup, no matter how skillfully she applied it, would call attention to the fat deposits under her eyes, announce the deep creases around her mouth and nose. Better to smile a lot and pretend they were laugh lines. Her fingers found the loose skin under her chin. Too much, way too much. And she was getting liver spots. She wasn’t sure if she could tolerate the ugly, brown blotches much longer. She had one in the middle of her nose that definitely had to go, but it was the ones on the backs of her hands that bothered her the most. If she wanted to pay out the money, she could go to a good dermatologist and have them singed off. She made a mental note to call the first of the week for an appointment. She made a second mental note to seriously look into cosmetic surgery. A nip, a tuck, or an entire overhaul. If she sold her furs, it would probably cover the cost. Something for herself. And she was going to look into the possibility of having the veins in her legs stripped. She wondered what it would be like to be free of the awful ache in her legs. She’d lived with the aches and pains for so long it was a way of life.