The Hot Flash Club Chills Out (18 page)

Darwin, startled by the sharpness in Marilyn’s voice, quivered and peed on the floor.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Angus!” Marilyn screamed. “You have got to get yourself in control!”

27

A
lice rose early Thursday morning, sliding quietly from the bedroom where Gideon remained snoring. She showered and dressed, scribbled a note for Gideon, and hurried down to her car.

She wanted to get out to The Haven early, before Jenn and Alan opened their bakery, so she’d have a few moments to talk to them.

She had to do it today,
immediately,
before she lost her nerve. Her five days on Nantucket had brought home quite clearly how tired she was, and how much more she enjoyed her life when she wasn’t frantic and rushed. Saturday night, she and Gideon had played bridge with friends, and for the first time in a long time, Alice had been able to
focus.
She’d played like a champ, her happy mind clicking away memorizing the other players’ bids, the cards they’d played, figuring out who had what king, queen, or jack, and she’d won almost all the games, except for the one where she and Gideon were both dealt hideous hands. Afterward, she’d felt absolutely exhilarated. Sunday, she and Gideon had taken a long, slow stroll through the city, holding hands and talking, and Alice didn’t feel exhausted, but invigorated by the walk. Gideon had seemed so much more charming to her, so much less irritating, and when she mentioned this to him, he’d said, with a rueful smile, “Alice, I’m the same as I always am. It’s you who’ve changed. You’re more relaxed.”

It was true. The five days on Nantucket had worked like a stay at a health spa. Her heart hadn’t acted up once. Her senses were sharper. Food tasted better, flowers were more fragrant, and Sunday afternoon, when she and Gideon attended a concert, the music had sent her spirits soaring.

So she was determined to change her life. She’d talked it over with Shirley and her Hot Flash friends and with Gideon. She’d given it serious thought. She would tell her son and his wife that she couldn’t babysit every single day for darling baby Aly. She’d continue for a week or so, until they lined up a replacement. She’d remain available in an emergency. She’d even babysit one or two days a week, regularly, so she could have time with her granddaughter. But she just couldn’t keep doing it every day.

Now Alice parked at the front of the gatehouse and let herself in with her own key. Alan and Jenn kept the front door of their home locked, so customers wouldn’t wander in.

The small living room was cozy, cluttered today as it was every Monday morning, with the debris of a lazy Sunday. Newspapers hung over the coffee table, and baby paraphernalia was scattered everywhere. It was only a little after eight o’clock. The shop didn’t open until nine, but Jenn and Alan would have been up since five-thirty, baking. Aly might be asleep in her cot in the private kitchen, or lying there, blowing bubbles at the brightly colored plastic mobile hanging above her. Alice didn’t call out because she didn’t want to wake the baby.

She headed toward the kitchen.

And stopped dead.

“I can’t do it anymore, Alan!” Jenn’s voice was shrill. “I’d rather get divorced!”

Alice’s heart shot rockets of fear through her body. Her fingertips and lips went cold. She grabbed the back of the sofa for support.

A door slammed. A few moments later, Alan’s bakery van raced around the side of the gatehouse and out to the main road.

Jennifer walked into the living room, holding the baby in her arms. Aly was awake, her lower lip protruding, obviously on the verge of tears.

“Alice!” Jennifer jumped.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Alice hurriedly informed her daughter-in-law. “I came early. I wanted to talk with you and Alan. I’m sorry if I intruded.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Jennifer said. “Look, Aly!” With a false smile and a forced chipper voice, she plunked down on a chair, holding her baby up. “Alice is here!”

Alice waved her arms and smiled. Alice took the baby from Jennifer and sat down on the sofa with her, cooing to her and nuzzling noses in the way that always made the baby laugh.

“I was going to talk with you about it, anyway,” Jenn said in a martyred tone. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes.

“What’s going on?” Alice asked.

Tears rolled down Jenn’s cheeks. “Alan. He’s gotten so
weird.
He’s not the man I fell in love with. He’s not the man I married. He’s sullen, and negative, and so easily offended. We seem to fight all the time.”

Alice lay the baby on her back along the length of her legs. Aly’s diaper was full, she could tell by the smell, but this was no time to interrupt Jenn, and the infant was content, blowing bubbles as Alice bounced and cooed.

“You’re both overworked,” Alice began.

Jenn shook her head. “We’re not working any harder than we were a year ago.”

“But you have a baby,” Alice pointed out. “A new baby in the house always complicates everything.” Smiling down at her granddaughter, she said in a singsong voice, “And she’s such a perfect little baby, too!”

“Yes, she is, but she still won’t sleep all night.” Jennifer gave way to full-force sobbing. “I’m so sleep deprived.”

“When your mother was here—” Alice began.

Jenn cried harder. “Oh, she was wonderful with the
baby,
but she kept comparing my life to my sisters’.
Their
babies are all perfect.
They
don’t have to work, so they can keep the house in order. And my brother’s wife has a full-time live-in nanny!”

Anger stung Alice. Jenn’s mother clearly disapproved of Alan as father and husband. Because of Alan, Jenn had to work. Because of Alan’s lack of financial success, they couldn’t afford a full-time nanny.

“Well,” Alice thought aloud. “What if you stopped working for a year or so? Until you thought Aly was old enough to spend some time in day care? If you stopped working—”

“If
I
stopped working, we’d have to hire someone in my place, and pay a salary and we’d never save any money toward a house of our own!” Jenn dug in her pocket for a tissue and noisily blew her nose. “Alan certainly couldn’t manage without my help. He’s hardly doing his part as it is, and he’s gotten so sluggish and
pathetic
about everything. He’s just
dragging
himself through life, and he’s pulling me down with him.”

“Oh, Jennifer.” Alice hated the sound of condemnation in her daughter-in-law’s voice. Yet she understood Jennifer’s impatience. Alan had been a “moody” child. A couple of years ago, after a failed marriage, Alan was diagnosed with depression. It worked on him silently, gradually, he told her. It was not abrupt, not like being hit by lightning. It was more as if, normally, his good spirits flowed through him like a recirculating fountain, until something, some rogue chemical in his brain, pulled the plug. Slowly, gradually, relentlessly, his energy, love of life, and optimism were drained away, leaving him empty and emotionally weak. The illness was sneaky, too. He never knew it had hit him until he was sapped and strained, and after his medication kicked in and his good spirits recovered, he couldn’t believe he’d ever been as despondent as people told him he was.

“You know,” Alice said slowly, “Alan does have a problem with depression.”

Jennifer sniffed. “I can’t tell my mother that. She’d freak out.”

“Depression is nothing to be ashamed of,” Alice reminded her. Yet as she spoke, she knew she was being hypocritical. Ever since Alan had been diagnosed with depression,
she
’d felt ashamed, and
guilty.
Didn’t everything in Alan’s personal makeup come from either nature or nurture? And wasn’t she responsible for both?
She
had never had depressive episodes, but her ex-husband Mack, the boys’ father, had been a charming womanizer, capable of great highs and also great lows that sent him off to neighborhood bars and other women’s beds. Perhaps Mack had a problem with depression, but back then, no one ever called it that. But Alice had married Mack, which made her responsible for the genes that created Alan. But would Alan be
Alan
without his depression? Certainly he wouldn’t be who he was if she’d married someone else.

“Maybe not to
you,
” Jennifer said sulkily.

Alice was surprised by Jennifer’s tone. Jennifer was usually such a sweetheart, so good-natured, so buoyant. “Jennifer,” she said softly, trying not to upset the baby, but putting a warning in her voice, “
you
went through a pretty bad postpartum depression after baby Alice was born.”

“Great, throw that in my face!” Jennifer snapped. “
I
had a
reason
to be depressed, I’d just nearly died with preeclampsia, I was bloated and my blood pressure was all over the place. There was a physical cause for my depression.”

“That’s true,” Alice said softly, conciliatorily. “And as I recall, Alan was wonderful then. He was solicitous and caring. He ran the bakery and pampered you. Perhaps he’s tired. Perhaps your mother’s disapproval hurt him and—”

“Oh, fine, blame it on my mother!” Jennifer began to sob again.

The baby’s little face scrunched up in a pre-tear pucker. Alice hoisted the baby to her shoulder, stood up, and walked around the room, bouncing Aly, holding her so she could see the gleam of light on a brass candlestick, one of her favorite sights. The baby cooed at the candlestick, waving her arms in excitement.

“Jennifer,” Alice said softly. “Why don’t you go lie down for a little while?”

“I can’t!” Jennifer’s voice was shrill. “I’ve got to be in the shop. Alan’s off on a delivery.”

“I’ll man the shop,” Alice said.

“How can you do that and take care of Alice?” Jenn demanded. “Believe me, she’s not going to fall asleep.”

“Look, your shop is not exactly Au Bon Pain,” Alice pointed out sensibly, which only made Jenn cry harder. “I mean, you’re out in the country here. I’m not going to have to feed the multitudes. Most of your drop-ins are people from The Haven wanting a cake or a loaf of bread, right? Some mornings you hardly have any drop-ins at all.”

“No,” Jenn refused, wiping her eyes. “No, you’ve got enough on your hands with Aly.”

“If the shop gets busy, I’ll phone Shirley and ask her to come help,” Alice said. “Now go on, grab a nap while you can.”

“Well…okay then.” Jenn wobbled off into the bedroom.

Alice put a fresh diaper on Aly, then carried her through the bakery kitchen and out to the little shop. Already her shoulders ached. With relief, she spotted the playpen in the corner, behind the display case and next to a small desk where they answered the phone and typed orders into a computer. She settled the infant on her back in the playpen. The baby waved her legs and smiled at her mobile.

The phone rang. Alice picked it up and took an order for a birthday cake to be picked up on Friday. As she tapped the information into the computer, she glanced at Aly. The baby had fallen asleep, her long eyelashes slanting against her chubby cheeks, her perfect mouth making sucking motions, as if she were dreaming of her bottle.

Alice looked around the shop. All was quiet. Everything was clean and shining. Clearly Jenn and Alan kept their place of business in perfect order, even if their home was in chaos. Alice slipped into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and returned to the shop. From here she could see cars going up the drive to The Haven. It cheered her to know that Shirley was so nearby. Maybe she’d phone Shirley, invite her down here for a little chat…

…and maybe she wouldn’t. Shirley would be sure to remind Alice that Alice had decided to stop working so hard, to start taking care of herself. Shirley would remind her, and so, when she returned home this evening, would Gideon, and so would her other friends when she spoke to them, that Alice had planned to tell her son and his wife that they needed to make other arrangements, so she could stop making the daily drive out to help them.

Well, obviously, she couldn’t let her son and his family down now. Alice sipped her coffee, her thoughts racing. When Alan returned from his delivery, she’d have a little heart-to-heart with him. She’d suggest he go back on his medication. If he did that, his temperament would improve rapidly, within a month or so. She could continue to help out here for at least another month.

Her heart did a triple somersault worthy of a carnival acrobat. Rubbing her chest, Alice blamed it on the caffeine in her coffee.

28

F
riday afternoon, Shirley drifted through The Haven. In the hopes she’d look professional and administrative, she carried a clipboard, but really she was just trying to inhale some of the stimulating, relaxing, life-affirming scents, sounds, and vibrations from all the various rooms.

Star was leading a yoga class in the smaller workshop space. Her voice was so full of warmth and serenity, Shirley wanted to unbutton her tight jacket, lie down on the floor in her business suit, kick off her heels, and let herself drift.

In the gym, several women were spinning away on their stationary bikes, singing along to headphones, really caught up in the movement. A blonde’s long ponytail bounced to the beat, reminding Shirley how she used to jog to Aerosmith, filling her lungs with good clean air while her spirits soared on the wings of Joe Perry’s guitar.

She didn’t jog anymore. She hadn’t mentioned it to her Hot Flash friends, but her right knee was sort of falling apart. She tried to stay healthy with regular yoga exercises, but her running days were over, and she’d been informed by her doctor that knee surgery was in her future.

Laughter and chatter flew like bright birds around the locker room. Women rushed in and out, showered, dressed, or undressed for a massage, or an aromatherapy session, or a soak in the Jacuzzi. Shirley stuck her head into the aromatherapy room and took a long inhalation of the scent wafting through the air—thyme, she thought, and perhaps grapefruit?

She went up the back stairs to the second floor, her knee twinging with each step. Beth Young stood in front of a classroom of fourteen women, teaching a seminar called “Medieval and Modern Women: How Different Are We?” Shirley smiled and leaned against the door jamb for a few moments, listening.

A petite brunette, Beth had once been shy to the point of invisibility. She’d first come to The Haven because her boyfriend’s family was superathletic, while the heaviest thing klutzy Beth ever lifted was an anthology of English literature. Slowly and steadily, Beth had developed, if not muscles, then the belief that muscles could exist on her slight frame. More importantly, she’d increased her self-esteem. She’d married her boyfriend Sonny, finished her Ph.D., and made close friends with three of the women she’d met at The Haven. Her life was full, and Beth was flourishing. She’d even gained some badly needed weight. It was as if she had become substantial to herself.

A success story. One of many. Shirley allowed herself a moment of pride at the thought. Then, because she didn’t want Beth to see her lurking out there, she moved on down the hall. The other rooms were empty at this hour. Faye had once taught art therapy here, and a new teacher had taken Faye’s place, but she could teach only on Saturdays. Justin, Shirley’s vile ex-lover, had once taught creative writing here. No one had replaced him, which was okay for the summer months when fewer people signed up for indoor activities. She’d find someone to teach starting in the fall, when, as the days grew shorter and colder, people sought out classroom endeavors.

Shirley loved that Beth, once a student, now taught at The Haven. There was something fluid, circular, and whole about it, something taken and given back. This was exactly the sort of thing she’d always dreamed of achieving: creating an atmosphere where women could be soothed, healed, and rejuvenated.

Shirley was only now admitting to herself that the success of her dream had grown past her original dream. The Haven was a thriving establishment. Its membership was steadily increasing. And so were Shirley’s responsibilities.

Because Shirley was the director of The Haven, and because it had originally been her idea, she was always the one who met personally with every new client, interviewing them over herbal tea, filling out a form and jotting down notes about what courses and programs she thought would best serve each individual. During the last week of June, she’d interviewed eighteen new clients, which was wonderful, a sign that The Haven was becoming increasingly popular and profitable, but also, for Shirley, just a tad bit exhausting, because she had to schedule the interviews in among so many boring administrative details.

The interviews were her only real contact with her clients. The rest of her workday was spent in her office, dealing with hundreds of details—salaries, additions to the personnel handbook, health and accident insurance, building and grounds maintenance—something always needed repairing, the storm windows, the hardware on the doors, the faucets. Some days seemed to be spent entirely on the phone chasing down the men responsible for keeping the gym equipment or the Jacuzzi or the locker room toilets in good working order. Meetings with the accountant for The Haven were almost the worst of all. Shirley had never been interested in money, and it cramped her style and crimped her brain to concentrate on his numbingly dull, finite, black and white figures.

She passed through the connecting doors between the classroom wing and the long corridor with four private condos. Star, the yoga teacher, lived in one of the condos. Shirley lived in the largest one, at the far end, and she unlocked the door, went in, and collapsed on her sofa. She kicked off her heels and unbuttoned her jacket. Curled on her side, her head resting on one of her purple velvet pillows, she stared at all her beautiful, inspirational possessions, her statue of the angel and the unicorn, her Tree of Life banner, the mermaid figurine, her labyrinth hanging, her “jewel”-encrusted goblets etched with dragons, Celtic crosses, ravens, and fairies. They sustained her. They had always sustained her. She believed in them as much as Marilyn believed in the Loch Ness Monster. She believed magic existed in the world, that humans only saw one tenth of all the miraculous network around them.

Now she sensed a kind of magic on Nantucket.

And she wanted to slap herself upside the head for thinking that that guy Harry was part of the magic.

Hadn’t she learned enough hard-knock lessons about men and magic? Hadn’t she allowed herself to trust her feelings, her instincts, about men, and hadn’t she, every single time, been wrong? She’d been married and divorced three times. Three times! She’d need an abacus to list all the short-term romantic liaisons that had started like a violin concerto and ended like a car crash. Her last and truest love, Justin, would have given her a royal screwing, and not the sexual kind, if Alice hadn’t stopped him.

She was in her sixties, for heaven’s sake! She ought to be grateful simply to be alive. She
was
grateful to have such wonderful friends, and she would never stop thanking the universe for making her dream of The Haven come true. If she felt overwhelmed by boring practicalities of running the place, tough toenails! This was real life. How many people got to have their dreams come true, after all? She was almost unique!

If only…if only her personal life held just a
touch
more romance. She knew she should respect her Hot Flash friends’ advice and be glad to have such a reliable, honest, earnest man as Stan in her life. Hell, she should be glad to have
any
man in her life at her age.

A breeze drifted through her open windows, tinkling the wind chimes and dappling coolness through the hot room. It was almost the Fourth of July. Last year, Shirley had had a wonderful Fourth of July picnic here at The Haven. It had been a perfect day. She’d had red, white, and blue decorations everywhere, even her earrings had been like little firecrackers, and sweet little old Ruth had worn a red, white, and blue sweater with a matching bow in her white curls. All her friends and their beaux had come, and Alan and Jennifer had announced that they were married and Jennifer was expecting.

Shirley wasn’t holding a picnic this year. First of all, Faye and Polly were going to be on Nantucket. Second, she suspected Alan and Jennifer were too beat and overwhelmed to want to help cook for a large group. Third, and mostly, Shirley just didn’t feel up to it. Maybe she’d ask Stan if he’d like to go to the local baseball field for the fireworks display Monday night. That could be fun. Shirley had always loved fireworks. The thought of them bursting out in blossoms of color against the night sky, the designs they made, the excitement of the explosions—it invigorated Shirley. She got up to change clothes for her date with Stan.

Promptly at six-thirty, Stan appeared at the main door of The Haven. Shirley let him in and together they went up the stairs to her condo.

“Something smells very nice, Shirley,” Stan said as they entered her living room.

“Thanks. It’s lasagna.”

Stan removed his sports jacket, opened the closet, and hung it inside. As Shirley watched, a slight trickle of alarm tingled through her. This was the third time he’d been to her place, and already he was acting as if he belonged here. He irritated her further by immediately sitting on the sofa, picking up the remote, and clicking on the TV.

Don’t be so contrary,
Shirley admonished herself. She’d set a board of cheese and crackers on the coffee table. Just like last time, they’d have a drink and watch the news before dinner. What did she expect? That he’d throw her on the rug and ravish her?

She asked, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“I’d prefer a gin and tonic, actually.” He was settling into the sofa, stretching both arms proprietarily out over the back.

“I don’t keep hard liquor here, usually, but I bought a bottle of wine because I know how much you like it with your meal.”

Stan peered at her over the top of his eyeglasses. He thought for a moment, then patted the sofa next to him. “Sit down for a moment, Shirley.”

She sat.

Putting his hand on her knee, Stan smiled. “You’re a wonderful girl, Shirley. I really enjoy being with you, and I don’t think I’m wrong believing you like me, too. So why don’t we just go on and get some things out of the way. I don’t mind that you’re a recovering alcoholic—”

“You knew that about me before we met,” Shirley reminded him. She’d told him that when they were in the first e-mail stage.

“That’s true, that’s true. But if you and I are going to have a lasting relationship, we’re going to have to make some compromises. For example, you’re going to have to start stocking hard liquor. I’m hardly an alcoholic, but I do like my evening drink. It’s part of my routine, and I like my routine. If you can keep away from wine, I expect you can resist the temptations of gin.”

It wasn’t
what
he was saying that irritated her so much, Shirley thought. It was the
way
he expressed himself. He was prissy, and he was condescending. He was just like her geometry teacher.

“And we might as well address the matter of your vegetarianism,” Stan continued. “I’d bet ten dollars your lasagna is meatless.”

“You’re right,” Shirley told him. “It’s got mushrooms, and zucchini, and—”

“But I like meat, Shirley. If we’re going to continue dating, I’ll expect you to provide me meat.”

“Well, I did roast a chicken for you last time,” Shirley reminded him.

“True, and a very nice job you did of it, too. So why did you have to cook vegetarian tonight?” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “After all, when I take you out to dinner, I allow you to eat whatever you want.”

“But isn’t it a bit different when you or I actually cook the food?” Shirley asked. “I mean—”

Stan looked impatient. “I’ve already told you I don’t cook. I think we should alternate eating out and your cooking for me. That’s fair. I pay for one meal, and that’s always more expensive than your cooking at your own home. You cook next, and it’s only fair that it should be something I like, don’t you think? Then I take you out for the next meal. And so on.”

Shirley squirmed on the sofa. “Doesn’t that lack a little…spontaneity?”

Stan smiled kindly. “At our age, we don’t really need spontaneity, do we? At our age, I think security is much more important.”

Shirley’s brain whirled. Of course security was important, she knew that! Still…

“I’ll pour your wine,” she said, wanting to get away from him.

By the time she returned from the kitchen with his wine and her cranberry juice, Stan was engrossed in the news. Shirley returned to the kitchen, put the bread in the oven to warm, and tossed the salad.

As they sat at the table, eating her meatless lasagna, Shirley said cheerily, “Shall we plan to do something fun for the Fourth of July?”

Stan was busy cutting his lasagna into ten pieces of the same size and shape. “Sure. What do you suggest?”

“I’m thinking of going to one of the local baseball games, where they have fireworks after.”

Stan shook his head. “That wouldn’t be a good idea, Shirley. Anyplace where they set off fireworks is a potential disaster scene. Fireworks are dangerous.”

Shirley opened her mouth. “But—”

“There will be fireworks on television if you want to see them. Besides, I don’t attend minor league baseball games.”

“But I thought you loved baseball!”

“I enjoy watching the Red Sox. I’m familiar with their players and their statistics. But I don’t go to their games, either. I’m very uncomfortable in large crowds, and I very much dislike the difficulties of getting out of congested parking lots.”