The Hot Flash Club Chills Out (16 page)

“Did you see anyone?” Marilyn asked.

“No.” Shirley leaned forward, a new urgency in her voice. “But we think a little Fabergé box disappeared from the front parlor table.”

Alice added, “You know those photos I took? I compared them with what’s there now—not an easy task, let me add. And I didn’t get as close up as I should have. I’m going to take more photographs with more detail. But anyway, there is a little box missing.”

“I wonder whether anyone on the island buys antiques,” Polly said. “Maybe I’ll check around, see if I can spot any of her pieces.”

“Good idea,” Alice told Polly.

“Here comes our ferry!” Marilyn cried.

They paid their bills and hurried out to the dock where they all hugged once again. Marilyn, Alice, and Shirley headed up the ramp and onto the boat. Polly and Faye stayed on shore, waving until the boat left the dock, and with three blasts of its horn, sped out into the harbor and around Brant Point, out of sight.

25

W
hen Faye and Polly arrived at the Orange Street house, they saw Kezia’s silver SUV parked in the driveway. They discovered Kezia herself at the back of the house. Her baby Joe was stashed in a backpack, a teething ring in one hand and his mother’s thick black braid in the other.

“Hi, guys!” Kezia greeted them with a big smile. She glowed with a healthy tan and energy. “Sorry to barge in on you, but I thought it might be a good time to come take your trash. You’ve all done such a
good job
sorting it!”

“Thanks.” Faye found herself both amused and vaguely insulted by the younger woman’s compliment. They’d read the instructions Kezia’d left for them in the kitchen, and they weren’t quite so senile they couldn’t differentiate among the bins set on the back porch stating in clear large print:
Glass. Misc. paper. Garbage. Plastics. Aluminum cans.

Perhaps Kezia felt Faye’s coolness. “I’m sorry if I came at a bad time. I just don’t know when you guys are here. Want to set up a pickup schedule for me? Or you can phone me.”

Polly suggested, “Could we schedule it for some afternoon? I want to be able to wander around in my nighty with a cup of coffee in the mornings.”

“Good idea,” Faye agreed.

Kezia pulled a tiny electronic toy from her back pocket. “Wednesday afternoons are free for me and Joe.”

“That works for us,” Faye said.

“Great!” With surprising ease, Kezia hefted four sagging trash bags out of their bins, bounded out the back door and down the back porch steps, and disappeared around the corner of the house. Faye and Polly heard her singing, “Giddy-up horsie!” to her little boy.

A few seconds later, Kezia bounded back up into the kitchen. “That’s that!” She went to the sink and vigorously scrubbed her hands. “Now!” Turning to face them, she asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Actually,” Faye said, “if you have time, could you drive us out to the airport? We’ve rented a Jeep for the summer and we want to pick it up today.”

“Cool! Let’s go!”

Polly sat in back so she could play with baby Joe. Faye took the passenger seat in front. “Were you born on Nantucket?” she asked Kezia.

Kezia tossed back her head and laughed. “I wish! No, I was born in New Jersey, came here during college to make some money waiting tables one summer, met B.J., and fell madly in love. With him and with the island. Joe and his family are natives, and so is little Joe.”

“But Kezia’s an island name, isn’t it?” Faye inquired.

Kezia gave Faye an admiring glance. “You’ve been boning up on island history! Yes, Kezia’s an island name. My given name was Kathy, and I just felt it was so boring, and Kezia’s so unusual, I legally changed it. I’ve never met another Kezia! Plus, it makes me feel more linked to the island. I’m just dotty about the place.”

“Do you own a house here?” Faye asked cautiously. “I mean, I know how expensive they are.”

“We do own a house!” Kezia nodded so enthusiastically her braid bounced. “It’s just a tiny little thing, not at all like Nora’s grand old heap, but we own it. Out in Tom Never’s Head. My clever ol’ husband built it with his own hands. Our mortgage is humongous, but we’ve got about a thousand years to pay it off, so that’s all right. Once we build another room on to it, we’re going to have another baby!”

Braking exuberantly, Kezia pulled up in front of the airport’s doors. “Car rental agency’s right in there.”

“Thanks, Kezia.” Faye was very aware of her own size and speed next to Kezia. She couldn’t
jump
out like Kezia. She felt like a lumbering old mastodon as she eased her bulk down from the high SUV seat. When Polly extracted herself from the back and joined her on the sidewalk, Faye was grateful for her company. She felt less of a circus fat lady with Polly there.

The two of them waved as Kezia sped away.

“I need a nap,” Polly said, only half-joking, to Faye. “Did we
ever
have that kind of energy?”

“Did we ever have that kind of body?” Faye wondered in return. “I don’t think I did. She’s so slim!”

“She’s young.” Polly and Faye were quiet for a moment, as if paying their respects to their own lost youth.

Then Faye cheered up. “Come on. Let’s get our car!”

At the rental counter, they handed over their driver’s licenses, signed papers, and were duly given the keys to a four-wheel-drive Jeep. They whooped when they saw it—it was as red as a hot flash! Faye played chauffeur on the trip back to town, driving slowly as Polly navigated. There was no garage attached to the Orange Street house. They were fortunate, they’d been told, even to have a shoebox-size brick parking spot squeezed between their house and the one on the left.

“Good grief!” Polly shrieked as Faye carefully inched the Jeep into place. “One millimeter wrong and you gouge the house with the side mirror!”

“This will teach us patience,” Faye muttered. When she’d parked the Jeep successfully, she unfastened her seatbelt. “What next?”

“Let’s go everywhere!” Polly suggested.

“Excellent idea!” Faye fastened her seatbelt again.

All afternoon they toured the island, rattling over cobblestones, making paper-clip turns from one narrow lane to another, shrieking with laughter when the side mirrors almost touched the walls of houses built right next to the street. They exclaimed with pleasure as the landscape opened out on the long road to Madaket on the far western tip of the island. They sighed with admiration for the romantic mansions along the Cliff with its stunning view of the harbor and Nantucket Sound. And they were stunned into silence by the old-fashioned beauty of the little village of ’Sconset at the eastern edge of the island, with its wide, elegant, tree-shaded avenue.

Here they stopped at the ’Sconset Market, an old-fashioned store with wooden floors and delicious ice cream sold at new-fashioned prices. They each bought a cone to lick as they strolled along gazing at the old fishermen’s cottages now transformed into miniature fairy-tale homes. They drove back into town, went around the rotary, familiarized themselves with the area where Stop & Shop and other stores were located, then rode out past the schools all the way to Surfside Beach.

Here, the land sloped down to a long golden curve where the waves soared and dropped, churning the water with sand and foam. Sunbathers in swimsuits, with towels and sweatshirts pulled around them to block off the breeze, were making their way up the hill in the late afternoon light, past the gray-shingled concession stand, and back to the parking lot.

Polly leaned out the window, looking. “We should come here some evening with a little picnic.”

“Good idea,” Faye agreed, then added, “Why not tonight?”

Polly jumped out of the Jeep and stood in the open air. “It’s kind of breezy.”

Faye jumped out, too. “We’ll bring sweaters.”

They raced to their house to equip themselves, then hurried back to the shore. It was just past the summer equinox, so the sun was still high, but the late June water was still too cold for most swimmers and the evening air too cool for sunbathing. The beach was almost deserted. Snug in quilted jackets and scarves, they established a little nest between the dunes, and laid out a blanket. Faye opened a bottle of wine while Polly made a plate of cheese, crackers, and dark, oily olives.

“They say if you sail from here in a straight line, the next land you hit would be Portugal,” Faye mused.

“We should come out here some morning to watch the sun rise,” Polly suggested, leaning back on her elbows and stretching out her legs. “Oh, it’s so peaceful here.” She turned to Faye. “Did you see any places you’d like to paint?”

“I saw a hundred places!” Faye told her. Waving her hands, she said, “Just look at the light! Sometimes it’s diamond sharp, sometimes the mist diffuses it into a kind of illuminated net. I’m going to paint tomorrow.” She hugged her knees. “I can’t wait.” Glancing over at Polly, she asked, “What will you do tomorrow?”

Polly thought a moment. “I’ll make us a wonderful dinner.”

Faye frowned. “Polly, you don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to,” Polly insisted. “I love to cook. And it will be nice to have someone to cook for. I’m in such a funny mood. I never know what’s going to make me start crying. If I see a dog, I think of poor old Roy. If I see a man, I think of Hugh, and when I see couples together, I think of Hugh and his ex-wife!” Tears sprang to her eyes. Polly angrily wiped at her cheeks. “Damn it! I promised myself I was not going to loom around you like Eeyore.” Pushing herself up, she announced, “I’m going for a walk.”

Faye watched her friend stride off, down to the water’s edge where the tide chased lacy waves up onto the sand, then sank back, hissing. Polly headed to the west, so Faye decided to take a little walk toward the east.

Polly moved rapidly along, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket, the tip of her scarf flipped by the wind against her cheek. She was angry with herself for being such a blubbery wimp, for spoiling a lovely evening by the sea for herself and Faye. But her entire body seemed to be swollen to overflowing with the salt water of tears. She wanted to cry. She needed to cry. And here on the edge of the island, just now, just this moment on this evening, she allowed herself to weep, for the death of her loyal old dog, for the death of her beloved husband, for the loss of her son to a woman who, for whatever reasons, kept him separated from Polly. And last, for a romance with Hugh that was as lovely as that streak of rose light glowing along the horizon—and as steadfast.

The sand was pocked with footprints from earlier walkers. The tide rushed up, filling in the hollows, carelessly erasing all signs of human presence. By the shelter of a dune, she came upon a heart drawn into the sand, complete with an arrow through it and the inscription
Andrew loves Jenn forever!
Polly stood a moment, her sobs lost in the pounding of the surf.
Forever.
Andrew and Jenn had to be young, and powerful with the hope of the young. For them, their love was larger than the ocean, their lives as bright as a summer day. When you are older, Polly thought, you know that life really is an island, and to be old is to be like this, perched alone on the edge of the land, knowing that
forever
was as cold and uncaring as this ocean, eternity as dark and unknowable as the swirling jade waves.

Faye ambled along the golden beach, picking up and discarding shells, skipping out of the way of an unexpected rush of surf, gazing right toward the gray-shingled cottages set back among the beach grass and dunes or left, out to the ocean, infinite, mysterious, and radiantly blue beneath the sinking sun.

Her mind teemed with thoughts of Winslow Homer’s seascapes, and Childe Hassam’s rainy day Nantucket scenes, and of the way George Inness caught the mess of daily life in a moment of radiant beauty. She meditated on the genius of Eastman Johnson’s Nantucket painting “The Cranberry Harvest.” She thought of color and light and line, of shadow and darkness.

Then, from nowhere, completely unexpected, came a hot flash, whipping through her body like a creature escaped from a cage, blanking all thoughts from her mind in an inferno of discomfort. Only with great effort did she restrain herself from simply plunging into the ocean, whose waves offered such cool deliverance. She untied her scarf, yanked off her jacket, and still bursting with heat, she collapsed on the sand, untied her sneakers and tore off her socks. She dug her feet into the sand, which felt deliciously icy next to her burning skin.

She thought as she sat there how her hot flashes were like warning lights, like the flashing lights on streets or the beacons from lighthouses, or the blaze of color in autumn leaves, reminding her that she was approaching the end of her particular travels, that unavoidable dangers loomed ahead, that she should declare her talent
now,
while she still could. She was falling in love with this island, with its infinite variety of beautiful views. She was eager to paint, not so that she would have the paintings, but so that she would once again be immersed in her work, in the mysterious alchemy Fate had delivered to her between the world, her eye, and her hand. She was falling in love with herself as a woman of a certain age, alone.