The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again (21 page)

She dressed slowly, taking her time, although her fingers trembled. In the kitchen, she drank some orange juice and took her vitamins with warm milk while she brewed a pot of decaffeinated coffee. When Hank returned to their quarters, she was psychologically geared for battle.

“They’ll be here in just a moment,” Hank said. The frown had returned to his face.

Carolyn set the sterling silver coffeepot on the tray and began to carry it into the living room, but her husband intercepted her.

“Let me carry that.” Taking it from her, he added, “And remember, I’m doing all the talking. You just try to keep calm.”

Carolyn settled in a wing chair when her father and his wife tapped on their door and entered their living room. Aubrey was dressed for the day in a navy turtleneck and a navy cashmere blazer. Heather wore a pink, flowered skirt and matching sweater.

As soon as they were seated, Aubrey took command of the room. “It’s lovely to see you both again, of course, but I don’t see why we needed to break into our schedule. What’s so urgent?”

Hank rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his hands. “Aubrey, the last thing I want to do is to offend you. Please believe that. But I’m very concerned about something, and I’d like to put my worries to rest.”

“Go on,” Aubrey ordered.

“Having been in your quarters several times now, I have to say I find it unbelievable that you and Heather spent two hundred thousand dollars on the new furniture there.”

Aubrey reared back, his face flushing. “Hank! What the hell? How
dare
you meddle in my private affairs? It is my money, let me remind you—”

“Yes,” Hank agreed mildly, “that’s right. But Carolyn and I are both aware of the general state of your finances. We know more or less how much money you have, just as you know how much Carolyn and I have. We’re afraid that if you continue spending like this, you’ll soon be wanting to draw money from Sperry’s reserves.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Aubrey snorted.

Hank looked totally unflappable. “What I would like to know, Aubrey, is exactly where you and Heather bought your new furniture, and how much you paid for it. I want to be sure some dealer didn’t take advantage of you.”

How clever Hank is, Carolyn thought, warm with admiration, to make it sound as if Aubrey and Heather bought the furniture together; this way it wasn’t a direct attack on Heather.

Aubrey frowned. “Good God, man, I didn’t buy the furniture. Heather did. Such a tempest in a teapot. Heather can give you that information.”

Hank turned expectantly to Heather.

Heather avoided their eyes. “I can’t remember the names of the dealers.”

“That’s all right,” Hank assured her. “Just show me the canceled checks. Or the transfer record of the checks you wrote. Should be in the checkbook.”

Heather’s face darkened, her lower lip pleating like a child’s before a tantrum.

Aubrey looked at his wife. “Heather?”

“I—I-I got cash at the bank,” Heather stuttered. “The dealers said they preferred it that way.”

“Never mind, darling.” Aubrey smiled indulgently at his wife. “Just show them the receipts.”

Heather looked trapped. “I d-d-don’t have any receipts. I didn’t think to get any.”

The four of them sat in solemn silence for a moment.

“I’ll get the yellow pages,” Carolyn offered. “We can read the names of the dealers to see if you remember any—”

Heather’s face flushed. Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re all so mean!” She hit her thigh with a clenched fist. “So so so so
mean
!”

Aubrey looked thunderstruck. “Heather?”

“I’m sorry!” Heather sobbed. “I didn’t know what else to do!” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “It’s for my brother, I did it for my brother.”

“Did what?” Aubrey asked, confused.

“I paid cash for the furniture, but not as much as I said, I wrote the checks for cash, and I thought if I got enough furniture, you’d believe I spent it all on the antiques, but I didn’t, I gave some of the money to my brother.”

“How much of the money?” Aubrey asked, his voice quiet.

Heather wailed, “Maybe a little over fifty thousand dollars. Maybe more.”

Aubrey leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes, pinching the top of his nose as if to halt the beginning of his own tears.

“Why does your brother need the money?” Hank’s voice was mild.

“He’s an invalid,” Heather told them.

“I thought he was a plumber,” Carolyn said.

“He was! But he was injured on the job and he’s in a wheelchair now, and he’s terribly depressed and he needs money for groceries and nurses and stuff.”

Aubrey sounded tired when he said, “But why didn’t you just tell me about this? Why didn’t you ask me to help?”

Heather lifted a pitiful face. “Because
you’re
all so elegant,” she said, quivering, “and my brother isn’t. He hasn’t been to college. He has a tattoo. He drinks beer in his undershirt.” She wept as if her heart were breaking.

Even Carolyn was moved. “Oh, Heather. I’m so sorry if we’ve seemed like snobs. If your brother’s injured, we want to help.”

“Carolyn’s right,” Hank added. “You should have simply told us the truth. We want to help your brother, of course. In fact”—he hesitated for just a moment—“why don’t we all go over there now and meet him and figure out how we can help him.”

Heather’s eyes rolled around like billiard balls. She gulped noisily. “Bathroom.” She coughed. “Morning sickness.”

Aubrey put a supporting arm around his wife and led her to the guest bathroom in Carolyn’s suite.

As Aubrey stood waiting in the hall, Hank turned toward him. “I’m sorry, Aubrey, to have upset you and Heather.”

Aubrey waved a weary hand. “It’s all so disconcerting.” He managed a weak smile. “It seems every woman I’ve ever dated has had a difficult, complicated family, either her own children, or her ex-stepchildren, or her siblings. Whatever. I thought when I met Heather, here is someone with whom my life can be simple.”

Carolyn touched his arm. “I hope you’re not angry with us, Father, for bringing up the issue of the money and the antiques. You were always so cautious with anyone
I
dated.
You
always warned
me
to beware of men who might marry me for my money. I suppose it was just natural that I’d be concerned in the same way for you.”

“I know. I understand. Don’t think I’m not grateful. There’s no fool like an old fool and all that.” Aubrey looked sad as he spoke, and in the past few minutes he seemed to have aged several years.

“You’re not a fool, Aubrey,” Hank assured him.

Heather came out of the bathroom, pale and shaky. “Sorry. I think I need to go lie down.”

“Of course.” Aubrey took her arm.

Heather looked at Carolyn and Hank. “I do want you to meet my brother. But I don’t want your first impression of him to be when he’s unshaven and rumpled. I’d like to give him time to have the house tidied and himself spruced up, just a little.” She shrugged apologetically. “He’s bound to be intimidated by you.”

“We understand,” Hank assured her, his voice kind. “Why don’t you phone him. Ask him when it’s convenient for him for us to come over and say hello.”

23

Faye stood in front of her bedroom mirror, inspecting herself one last time before her date arrived.

Roger Munson. Marilyn’s candidate. He had a nice voice on the phone, and he was taking her to dinner and a concert. Very promising.

She smoothed her indigo silk jacket over her turquoise vest and the pale lime silk shirt beneath. Beautiful colors, but they couldn’t disguise the weight she’d gained. She could barely squeeze into the largest size of clothes in her closet, and
they
were so tight, she felt like a watermelon in a grapefruit skin. Not long ago, she’d cheered herself up by naming the rolls of fat beneath her breasts Honey and Bunny. Now she had a new roll. She thought she’d call this one It’s Not Funny.

She’d just had her annual physical, and the results were alarming. Her blood pressure was too high and her cholesterol was off the charts. She’d started taking Lipitor, and she hated taking medication. Worse, she was borderline for late-onset diabetes. She had to face it: she was getting to the age where what she ate wasn’t just about how she looked, it was about how long and how well she was going to live.

Now she was glad her friends had encouraged—all right,
compelled
—her into dating. If nothing else, it gave her something to do at night. She’d let herself become too solitary, and since Laura had left for the Coast, she’d eaten too much in the evenings. How ironic that all that comfort food ended up making her feel uncomfortable.

So she’d begun a diet and was considering joining an exercise group at the spa. And she was dating, which did help her feel, if not young, at least foolish.

The buzzer for her condo droned. She hurried down the stairs, into the small side foyer of the spa building, and opened the door.

“Faye?” A tall, lean,
handsome
man stood there.

She managed to act normal. “Yes. I’m Faye. You must be Roger.”

They shook hands, he helped her slip into her coat, and they hurried out to his car, which was—
Oh, gosh,
Faye thought—a Jaguar! She settled into it feeling absolutely giddy.

Faye hadn’t expected Roger to be so good-looking. His Cary Grant dark hair (he must use Grecian Formula) fell over his forehead, and his rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses gave him a kind of hip, urban, cyber-geek look.

On the ride into Boston, they discussed the weather, Boston traffic, Marilyn’s work at MIT, neutral topics. Roger seemed cool, reserved; his pace of speaking was just a few beats slower than Faye’s. Was her excitement making her babble? She forced herself to speak more slowly.

In the restaurant, as they ordered, she felt Roger studying her. Her body responded with such a spectacular hot flash, it was all she could do not to fan herself with the menu.

They settled back with their drinks.

“Marilyn tells me you’re a physicist,” Faye said. The old rule she’d learned about dating—ask him about himself—came easily to mind because she really was curious. “Tell me what you do.”

Roger gave a bashful smile. “Oh, you’d find it awfully dull.”

“No, I wouldn’t, truly. I’m fascinated with the new science.”

“Well . . .” Roger explained his field. He spoke clearly, deliberately, trying to make his points precise, and when Faye asked questions, he answered without making her seem like a complete fool. He talked about quantum mechanics, atomism, particles, and quarks. All the while, Faye ate her delicious dinner and nodded as if she understood. Really, she was simply enjoying looking at the man.

When the waiter came to take their order for coffee and dessert, Roger said, “Enough about science. Faye, tell me about yourself.”

“Well,” Faye began, “I’m an artist, and I teach art. My husband, Jack, died two years ago. I have one daughter, Laura, who is happily married and has a little girl. They’ve all just moved to California, and I miss them very much.”

“You’re lucky your husband died,” Roger said bluntly.

Faye blinked. Had she heard correctly? “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, you’re lucky you’re widowed rather than divorced. I got divorced last year, and it’s the worst experience imaginable.”

“Death is no picnic,” Faye assured him.

“No, but at least you’re allowed to keep your good memories.” As he talked, his handsome face grew bitter. “With divorce, the other person is still around, a constant reminder of unhappiness, plus a present and continual misery.”

“I’m sorry,” Faye began faintly, not sure how to turn their conversation back onto a more pleasant track.

“Now,” Roger continued, “your friend Marilyn took a big bite out of Theodore’s bank account when they got divorced. But his work is more lucrative than mine, so Theodore’s okay. Plus, his money attracted a real sizzler of a young woman.”

“Yes, but that relationship didn’t last,” Faye reminded him.

“You’re right. Michelle screwed Theodore,
literally.
She got knocked up, and Theodore’s got to pay child support. I guess you could call
that
a lasting relationship.” He laughed grimly. “But old Theodore will be just fine. His money’s a babe magnet. And Marilyn is one of a kind. She doesn’t hassle him at all.”

The waiter arrived with their coffees and desserts. Faye had virtuously ordered a fruit cup, but now she wished she had chosen something chocolate, to sweeten this evening, which had so suddenly gone sour.

“My ex-wife took me for every penny I had,” Roger continued, carefully stirring sugar into his coffee. “Our two sons have grown, thank God, so she can’t get to me that way, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to extricate her fangs from my neck. Oh, no. She has the house, the furniture, all our savings, and she’s still after me for more.”

“Weren’t all financial matters legally settled in the divorce?” Faye asked.

“Sure. But she
claims
her arthritis makes it impossible for her to work, which is ridiculous. The woman
needs
to work. She was a real beauty. Now she just sits around doing nothing. She’s let herself get fat, fatter than you, and the more she sits, the less she can do. She expects me to keep shelling out for more treatments.”

Roger continued raging, describing in detail medications and therapies his ex-wife needed. Now he spoke rapidly, as if he couldn’t get it all out fast enough, this scalding stream of anger, but Faye’s mind had stalled on the words, “she’s let herself get fat, fatter than you.” What a horrible thing to say to someone on their first date! Well, Faye thought, their first and
last
date.

Roger only stopped his rant when the waiter discreetly deposited the leather billfold with the check inside on their table.

“We’d better go,” Roger said. “Don’t want to miss the concert.”

——————————

It was a pleasure Faye had forgotten, entering the concert hall in the company of a handsome man. She noticed several admiring glances cast their way from gaggles of single women. She imagined their envy when Roger leaned over to whisper something for her ears alone. Little could they guess that he was saying, “And another thing, she started eating herself into her so-called arthritis right after the kids were born. Everyone knows sugar’s a toxin, but did she resist sugar? Hell, no.”

The music—Mozart and Haydn—was lovely. For entire minutes at a time, Faye forgot that the man sitting next to her had called her fat, and as they left the concert hall to drive home, it seemed the music had soothed Roger’s savage breast as well. He discussed music during the ride home.

When they arrived at the spa, he asked, “Want to invite me up for a nightcap?”

Not really,
Faye thought, but not wanting to be rude, said, “Of course.” She led him into the side foyer and up the stairs to the third floor and her small condo.

“It’s temporary,” she told him as he looked around. “Just until I decide where I want to live the rest of my life.”

Roger studied her books and bits of art while she poured them both brandies. When she sat on her sofa, he sat, to her surprise, next to her. Putting one arm up on the sofa behind her back, he leaned toward her and clicked his glass against hers. “Here’s to the rest of our lives,” he toasted.

“Chin-chin,” Faye responded.

Roger tossed back his drink, set it on the coffee table, and moved closer to Faye. He took her glass from her hand, set it on the table, and pulled Faye against him. Slowly, with great deliberation, he kissed her.

Stunned, she allowed herself to be kissed. His lips were warm and soft, his breath a mixture of coffee and brandy.
Hey!
She wanted to scream.
I thought you think I’m fat! At least he’s not complaining about his ex-wife,
another part of her brain pointed out.

He continued his kiss, and now he brought his hand to rest just against her collarbone. Faye tried to move away—this kiss was a little intense for a first date.

“Roger,” she said, but her word was muffled against his mouth.

Slowly he lowered his hand to rest on her breast.

Faye pulled back. “Roger. Please. I—”

“Don’t stop now, baby,” Roger murmured, pressing his lips against hers.

Oh, Lord, this man had more personalities than Sally Field in
Sybil,
Faye thought. With both hands, she shoved Roger away.

He kept his hand on her breast. In fact, he moved his hand lower and pinched her nipple.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want this,” he said.

She grabbed his wrist and removed his hand. “I don’t want this,” she said firmly.

“Sure you do,” Roger assured her, and dove toward her for another kiss.

“Roger, stop this, please,” Faye said in frustration. “We hardly know one another!”

“Oh, don’t be a tease.” Roger grabbed her hand and put it on his erection. “Look what I’ve got for you.”

His erection squirmed against her hand like a live gerbil. Slightly fascinated—it had been a long time since she’d touched a man’s penis—but more angry, she wrenched her hand from his. A hot flash—a searing volcanic explosion—tore through her body, making her legs weak, her mind blank. Awkwardly she pushed herself up off the sofa.

“I think you should go now.”

He rose, too. “Oh, come on now, Faye.” He looked amused. “We’re adults, after all. We’ve had a nice evening together, haven’t we? Didn’t you enjoy your nice meal and the concert?”

Before he could say another word, Faye snatched her purse, took out a fifty-dollar bill, and thrust it at him. “Here. My share.”

“Fine.” With two fingers, he took the bill from her hand. “I thought someone like you might be grateful to have a little romance in your life, but if you say no, I’m not going to force you. Good night, Faye.”

Faye bolted her door behind him and collapsed on her sofa, so overwhelmed with conflicting emotions she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

——————————

On a Friday night in early February, after The Haven board meeting, Alice, Marilyn, and Faye joined Shirley in her condo for drinks and dinner, then relaxed over coffee while Faye entertained them with a detailed account of her date with Roger.

Because Shirley was director of the spa, she’d chosen the condo on the top floor, at the opposite end of the offices, so she’d have the illusion of distance between her private life and work. The rooms of the various condos were of similar sizes and shapes, since they’d been created from the classrooms for which the building was originally built, but Shirley’s space had an ambience like no one else’s. The walls, painted lavender, were hung with eagle feathers, dried roots, and paintings of naked goddesses.

Marilyn said, “I’m so sorry, Faye. I had no idea Roger was such a boor.”

“No problem,” Faye assured her. “He wasn’t a monster. And he phoned to ask me out again, which made me feel that even if I’m fat, at least I’m not a
dog.
I declined, however.”

“Good for you for trying,” Shirley said. “We’ve got to take some risks now and then if we don’t want to curl up like dust bunnies in the corners of our lives.”

“Hear, hear,” Alice agreed.

“Anyway,” Faye continued, “his insults only reinforced my determination to make some changes. I started dieting after the first of the year, and I’ve lost four pounds!”

“I’m impressed!” Alice said. “How’d you do it?”

“Basically, I torture myself,” Faye admitted. “No fats. No sweets. Just fish, chicken, veggies, and fruits. Plus, I’ve started using the stationary bike down in the workout room, three times a week.”

“And you’ve only lost four pounds in one month?” Marilyn asked.

Faye nodded. “It’s the whole metabolism thing. I could probably survive on air and lettuce.”

“It’s the whole depressing over-sixty thing,” Alice said.

“Sixty isn’t depressing!” Shirley contended hotly.

“Oh, come on,” Alice snorted. “Get real.”

Shirley stood firm. “Getting older doesn’t have to mean getting tired, bored, and lethargic! People of our generation live differently from the way our parents did. We’re more active—I’m speaking in general, here—we’re more willing to try new things, learn computers, learn tai chi, whatever—and as long as we keep active, we can have a couple of decades of great-quality life!”

“Yeah,” Alice said, “except we still look old.”

“Not necessarily,” Shirley shot back. “If we control our weight—”

“No matter what we do,” Alice argued, “we still have creepy old veins sticking up like worms on our hands and bulging out of our foreheads! And fat? My naked backside would give Stephen King nightmares! Plus, get real, Shirley, most of us have some complication like arthritis, like I do, or mild incontinence.
Something.
”

“I’m not saying we can look like we’re twenty,” Shirley began.

Alice interrupted. “Twenty, hell, I can’t even look like fifty!”

“I don’t mind looking my age,” Faye began.

“Well, I do!” Alice snapped. “I think it really sucks that older men look sexy enough to attract young women, but older women have trouble getting dates. Mother Nature is
such
a bitch! Do men have periods? No! Do they have to worry about getting pregnant when they have sex? No. Do they have to swell up and lumber around for nine months and then go through hellish labor to have a child? No. Are their bodies stretched and sagging from having children? No. Men can make more babies after fifty, and they can still look sexy enough after fifty for a woman to want to have their babies! Who dreamed this system up, anyway!”