The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again

by Nancy Thayer

  “Oh!” Heather gasped, fluttering a hand at her chest. “You startled me!”

  “You startled me,” Carolyn countered. “Aubrey told me you’d gone to Arlington for the morning.”

  “I thought you were at work,” Heather rejoined. In her fleecy yellow cardigan embroidered with flowers, with her flushed face and nervous mannerisms, Heather resembled a chubby adolescent who’d been caught sticking a plastic tattoo on her arm. Still, Carolyn noticed that, shocked as Heather was, she was busily clicking and dragging the mouse, no doubt closing a file.

  “This is Mrs. B.’s desk.” Carolyn walked around the desk to look at the screen, which, sure enough, now showed only the blue screen saver.

  Heather cleared her throat. “This house is so complicated. I thought I might be able to find a chart here about which rooms are used, where the linens are, that sort of thing. Also, I’d like to start cooking for Aubrey. Does Mrs. B. have any special vegetarian recipes on her computer?”

  “Best if you wait and ask her when she’s here,” Carolyn said coolly.

  “Of course.” Heather chewed her lip.

  Carolyn sat on the edge of the desk. “I had to leave work early today,” she explained, trying to be friendly. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

  “Oh, dear. Can I get you something? Some aspirin? Or, perhaps, make you some chicken broth? I’ve read that Harvard scientists did a study that proved chicken soup has healing qualities.”

  “That’s kind of you, Heather,” Carolyn said sweetly, noticing as she spoke that the household ledger was open on Heather’s lap. “But I think I’m going to cut myself a slice of the chocolate cake.”

  “It’s delicious, isn’t it?” Heather clapped her hands like a child. “That was so thoughtful of you, Carolyn, to surprise us with a cake. It makes me feel so welcome.” Then she noticed Carolyn looking at the open ledger. With the swiftness of a Jekyll and Hyde, Heather’s face hardened. Her voice was harsh when she demanded, “Who has signatory powers for this account?”

  The sudden change of subject surprised Carolyn and affronted her. What right did this little interloper have to question her about personal financial matters?

  The right of a wife, Carolyn realized with a jolt.

  “Mrs. B. does,” Carolyn told her. “And I do. And, of course, my father.”

  “I’ll have to be able to use this account, too.” Now Heather was matter-of-fact, even official. “I’m going to start cooking all of Aubrey’s meals. I’m going to be sure he gets more salads and vegetables.”

  Carolyn laughed. “Good luck getting him to eat them.”

  “Oh, he’ll eat them if I fix them,” Heather said confidently. “I want him to live a long time, after all.”

  Carolyn met Heather’s eyes. The little-girl meekness was gone, replaced by defiance . . . even a glint of menace.

  “I want him to live a long time, too,” Carolyn agreed mildly. “I hope you can get him on a healthy régime.” She moved away from the desk, toward the door. “I’ll talk to Mrs. B. tomorrow, to tell her to have your name added at the bank.”

  “Oh, please, don’t trouble yourself,” Heather sweetly protested, adding firmly, “I’ll tell her myself.”

  ——————————

  Dazed, Carolyn wandered back through the halls and into her private wing, so disconcerted she forgot the chocolate cake. As she passed through her living room and dining room, she drew her hands over the backs of the sofas and chairs, grounding herself in a blessedly familiar reality. In the kitchen, she turned on the kettle and took a packet of chamomile tea from the cupboard. An invisible pressure pushed against her skin, as if her body were a balloon being inflated, making her edgy, uncomfortable. High blood pressure, she thought, closing her eyes and leaning on the counter. Heather’s unexpected metamorphosis had unsettled her.

  But why?

  Think it through, Carolyn told herself. She was a sensible woman, capable of comprehending that the last few moments with Heather had caused her suspicions to flare up, jumping from Point A, Heather’s transformation, to Point X, which was—what, exactly? What did the most neurotic side of her fear?

  Could a dumpling like Heather have designs on the ownership of the Sperry Paper Company! Carolyn laughed at the thought.

  Still, she needed to sit down with her father to discuss all the legal ramifications of his marriage. She had to find out if there was a pre-nuptial agreement. How would Aubrey alter his will? Was he giving any of his shares of the company to Heather? Did they plan to have children?

  Children.

  Carolyn’s heart boinged like a jack-in-the-box. She forced herself to breathe deeply, but she was so light-headed, she collapsed in a chair.

  What if young, round, sweet, nurturing Heather had a baby? A little girl, who would rival Carolyn for her father’s love, and for control of the company?

  Now she was being ridiculously paranoid.

  Wasn’t she?

  9

  Oooh, isn’t it delicious, lying naked like this,” Julia crooned to her husband as they lay side by side Sunday morning. They’d just finished making love with the kind of blissful abandon that can happen only when a child isn’t within hearing distance. Belinda had spent the night with her best friend, Sarah, and for once they had the house to themselves.

  Tim gave a jaw-cracking yawn. “I don’t know whether to fall back asleep or go make breakfast.”

  “Breakfast, I think,” Julia said. “I’m starving. Let’s eat in bed, and read the papers, and then nap.”

  “I have a better idea.” Tim pulled her hips against his. “Let’s have breakfast in bed, read the papers, make love again, and then sleep.”

  “Brilliant.” Julia nuzzled him, curling her fingers in his chest hair.

  “You stay in bed,” Tim told her. “I’ll make omelets.”

  “With peppers and onions and cheese?”

  “Absolutely.” Tim rolled out of bed and stalked, naked, out of the room.

  Julia stretched like a cat and licked her lips. God, how she’d been craving this spell of grown-up pleasures! She hoped someday she and Tim would have children of their own, and she truly didn’t resent the way her life was ordered by Belinda’s needs. But these moments of satisfaction of her adult desires lent a lusciousness to her daily life, like bands of velvet on a cotton quilt.

  Belinda accepted only the sweet breakfasts her mother had prepared for her: pancakes drenched in syrup, cinnamon toast sagging under the weight of butter and sugar, or cereal containing more glucose than grain. Tim, always rushed, usually grabbed a cup of hot coffee and swigged down a glass of orange juice before leaving for work. Julia drank green tea and nibbled a PowerBar as she got Belinda ready for school. Their evening meals centered around cajoling Belinda to eat the foods Julia found repellent—macaroni and cheese, tortellini, fish sticks. Occasionally Julia prepared something just for her and Tim—beef simmered in red wine, linguine with clams—but Belinda felt left out when Julia and her father ate different foods, so very much rejected that she lost all appetite for her own meal. Usually, it was simply easier to eat what Belinda ate.

  But couldn’t they change things just a little? Julia wondered as she lay naked on the stirred, warm, sex-scented sheets.

  For now, she’d indulge in the food whose aromas now drifted tantalizingly from the kitchen. Next, she’d get out of control with her husband. Then, she’d plan ways to incorporate grown-up meals into the food that pleased Belinda.

  Tim raced into the room, looking frantic. “Can’t you hear? Someone’s knocking on the door!”

  “I’ll get it.” Julia’s limbs felt warm and heavy as she rose from bed and slipped into her black silk robe.

  “Thanks. I’ve got to get back to the kitchen or the omelets will burn.”

  Julia sauntered down the hall to the front door, wondering who would be knocking on a Sunday morning. Kids selling magazines for Little League?

  She opened the door.

  �
�Oh! It’s you!” Belinda’s maternal grandmother, Agnes, stood there, looking offended. “You gave me a fright! I’ve been knocking for hours! I’m just longing to see little Belinda.”

  Julia found herself backed against the wall as Agnes stormed into the house. Clad in yellow sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt adorned with a faux needlepoint rendition of a basket of kittens, her white hair bobbing around her chubby face like a bunch of bubbles, Agnes was a living Trojan horse, hiding beneath her grandmothery surface the heart and mind of Vlad the Impaler.

  “Tim?” Julia’s voice cracked with tension. “Darling, Agnes’s here!”

  Agnes was set on charging down the hall to Belinda’s room, which would have taken her near the kitchen, where Tim was preparing breakfast in all his naked glory.

  Julia had to stop her.

  “Agnes!” she cried, and with a desperate smile, threw her arms around Tim’s first wife’s mother, hugging her tight. “It’s so good to see you.” Gripping Agnes’s shoulders fiercely, she chirped, “But you look different. Let me see now. Is it the hair? No, I don’t think you’ve changed it, it’s the same beautiful color. I know! You’ve lost weight. Come on, confess, you’ve been dieting, haven’t you?”

  Agnes preened, looking down at her pumpkin-size belly. “No, dear, I haven’t been dieting. I’m so busy, I just work it off.” Returning the assessing glance, she arched her eyebrows. “Did I wake you? I didn’t think I could. It is almost eleven.” Translation: Aren’t you a little slut, not dressed at this hour of the morning like a decent woman should be!

  Tim came down the hall. He’d pulled on chinos and a white polo shirt, but he was barefoot, and his hair stuck up all over. “Agnes. How nice to see you. Sorry to say, Belinda’s not here. She spent the night at Sarah’s house.”

  “Spent the night?” Agnes’s hand flew to her chest as if she’d been stabbed in the heart. “She’s only seven years old!”

  “She’s spent the night at the Fergusons’ before, many times,” Tim reminded his former mother-in-law, adding, “All the therapists we saw said it was good for her to do this, to live like a normal child.”

  Agnes slumped. “Oh, well.” Then she brightened. “She’ll be home soon, won’t she? I’ll just wait! After all, I’ve driven for three hours.” Her piggy nose quivered. “Something smells good!”

  Tim looked at Julia, who looked back helplessly. “I was just making breakfast for Julia and me. Would you like to join us?”

  “I suppose so.” Agnes’s eyes raked Julia. “I’m so afraid you’ll catch cold, dear, wearing only your robe and no slippers like that. I’m sure we can wait to eat until you’ve had time to pull yourself together.” Translation: Trollop.

  A protest bloomed on Julia’s lips. Who was this person, telling her how to dress in her own home?

  But as Julia opened her mouth to speak, Agnes performed one of her brilliant whiplash maneuvers. “I’ve always wondered whether Annette would have gotten ill like she did if she’d taken better care of herself. If she’d taken a daily vitamin or worn warmer clothing. I always made her wear warm clothes when she lived at home, but after she got married, well, she just didn’t seem to take care of herself.” Agnes’s face sagged with genuine sadness.

  Gently, Tim reminded Agnes, “But Annette didn’t die of pneumonia. She didn’t die of anything we could have prevented. Remember, we asked the doctors what caused her cancer, and they told us nothing she did or ate or wore or thought caused it. These things just happen, and no one knows why. Now, come on to the kitchen, and let me fix you a nice hot breakfast.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Tim.”

  “I’ll just dress,” Julia muttered, heading for the bedroom.

  Quickly she pulled the duvet up and set the pillows against the headboard, so the room would look tidy if, or more likely when, Agnes peeked in. Honestly, the woman had the instincts of a dope-smelling DEA dog! Julia pulled on a pair of black jeans and a baggy, black cashmere sweater. Sliding her feet into moccasins, she checked her image in the mirror and rolled her eyes at herself.

  How could Agnes sense this was the first time she and Tim had had alone for months? The more important question was, why wouldn’t Agnes want Tim to be happy?

  In the kitchen, Agnes had settled at the table. Tim hurriedly whisked eggs.

  “Can I help?” Julia asked.

  “Please,” he said, busy with a frying pan and bread. “I’m making Agnes French toast—”

  “I can’t believe you’re eating onions and peppers for breakfast.” Agnes shook her head. “You’ll get terrible indigestion from all that hot, spicy food. It’s so foreign.” Probably what terrorists eat.

  “I’ll rescue the omelets.” Julia lifted the eggs from the pan with a spatula and carefully scraped off the burned bottoms. She melted more butter, set the pan on low heat, and covered it. While the omelets were reheating, she said to Agnes, “Would you like some juice? Coffee?”

  “Both, please.” Agnes watched with glittering eyes as Tim and Julia moved around the kitchen. When they were all served and seated, she said, “Thank you, Tim. This looks delicious.” She took a bite, then patted her mouth with a napkin. “Oh, my. You’re still using paper napkins.” She glared at Julia. Translation: My daughter always used cloth napkins, and I’ve suggested—politely, of course—that you use them, but you obviously don’t care about the finer things in life, so you’ll probably turn my grandchild into a tattooed drug fiend.

  Tim spoke up. “I prefer paper napkins. It saves on laundry, and neither Julia nor I have time to iron.”

  “Yes, I realize that.” With a grimace, Agnes applied herself to her French toast.

  This woman has lost her daughter, Julia reminded herself. Be nice!

  “Another thing I’ve been meaning to mention, Julia,” Agnes said suddenly, laying her fork on her plate and skewering Julia with a deadly look. “And this is the appropriate time to bring it up, I think.”

  “Yes?” Julia kept her voice light.

  “Must you wear black all the time? It’s so gloomy.”

  Julia laughed. “Agnes, just about all my clothes are black. I like black.”

  Tim added, trying to be helpful, “It’s chic, you know, Agnes. It’s urban. It’s artistic.”

  “It’s funereal,” Agnes shot back. “I’m sure it makes Belinda think of death.”

  Julia’s jaw dropped. “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “If it’s a matter of money, I’d be glad to buy a few things for you,” Agnes offered.

  “That’s very generous of you, Agnes.” Julia strained to be kind. “But I can pay for my own clothes.” Desperation broke out all over her body in a kind of invisible sweat. She wanted to cry: I’ve changed so much for love of this man. I’m trying so hard. I keep the house in perfect condition for Belinda. I eat the food Belinda likes. I never make noise when I have sex with my husband. Do I have to start wearing butterfly-embroidered sweat suits to make everyone happy?

  Tim reached over and touched her arm. His lips moved but no sound came out. He frowned. “Julia? Can’t you hear me?”

  Julia put a hand to her temple and shook her head like a dog coming out of water. “Sorry, no. That sinus headache’s come back. I think I’d better go lie down. Excuse me, Agnes.”

  In the bedroom, she shut the door against Agnes’s pain-filled voice and lay down on the bed, where she curled into a fetal position. Her hearing wavered, then disappeared. A white rush of noise like a waterfall filled her head. Right now, this was a relief.

  10

  When the monthly meeting of The Haven ended, most board members packed up their briefcases and left the handsome boardroom, heading out to their cars. Shirley, Alice, Marilyn, and Faye remained around the conference table. The formal board meetings dealt with the hard facts, mostly the finances of the spa. The relaxed, more intimate sessions were for brainstorming, casual discussion, letting new ideas drift by. They were, after all, the original founders of the spa; they knew it was their open
ness to new ideas that had helped them achieve this thriving business.

  Alice slipped off her shoes and plopped her feet on a chair, smoothing her silk trousers over her legs. “I’m really happy about the treasurer’s report.”

  Shirley nodded. “We haven’t broken into the black yet because of the cost of renovations, purchasing equipment for the weight rooms, and advertising, but few businesses do the first year, and we’re almost there.” She tapped her lower lip with the end of her pen to hide a smile—sometimes she couldn’t believe she was the president of a functioning, profit-making business!

  “The spa’s reputation seems to be spreading by word of mouth!” Faye spoke with forced gusto. Her daughter had moved two weeks ago, but she was going to be cheerful if it killed her.

  “I know!” Shirley unbuttoned the jacket of the boring boxy suit she had to wear to these meetings, letting her lavender silk shell show. “It’s fabulous. We’re adding a few new classes in yoga, spinning, and Pilates. The Jacuzzi’s a great success, and we’re getting estimates for an indoor lap pool.”

  Marilyn took a sip from one of the bottles of water set around the table. “Any problems?”

  Shirley took a moment to consider. “Not problems, no. More like challenges. Most of our clients are fairly easy to serve. They want to lose weight, gain muscles and flexibility, learn to relax, reward themselves for tough days at the office or home with special treats. But just last week I did intake interviews on two women with slightly more complicated problems. One young woman has an intermittent hearing problem. She’s seen specialists who can find no physical cause. I referred her to a psychologist and explained that The Haven is a wellness spa. If the cause of her hearing loss is some deep trauma, she needs the help of a trained therapist. I went through our brochure with her, suggesting beginner’s yoga, aromatherapy, and massage. I want to track her progress.”

  Faye leaned forward. “I know the woman you mean. Julia something. She seems happy enough. Married, gorgeous, energetic, a bit severe. Her field is photography. She’s in my art therapy course.”