The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again

by Nancy Thayer

  “Sonny, I have to ask you something.”

  Sonny was buttoning his jacket. “Shoot.”

  “How do you feel about Robin?” There. Embarrassment and terror sent her body temperature into the danger zone.

  Sonny looked at Beth. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you still attracted to her?”

  Sonny shook his head and gently cuffed Beth on her shoulder. “You’re kidding me.”

  Beth kept silent.

  “Beth, come on!” Seeing that she was serious, he put both hands on her shoulders, pulling her to him. “I love you. I want to marry you.”

  “And Robin?”

  “Robin’s like another sister. Part of the family.”

  Quietly Beth said, “She was your first love.”

  Sonny rolled his eyes. “I was a kid then. Come on, Beth, have I ever given you any reason to think I’m attracted to her?”

  Beth thought about this for a moment. “No.” In a small voice she added, “But she’s always touching you . . .”

  “So’s the dog.” Sonny tilted her chin up so she had to look him in the eyes. “Robin’s a babe, I’m not denying that. She was my first girlfriend. But I don’t lust after her, and I don’t love her, although I suppose I do care for her, in pretty much the same way I care for my sister. You’re the one I love, Beth. Trust me, okay?”

  “Okay.” Beth closed her eyes in relief as Sonny engulfed her in a giant hug.

  ——————————

  “Go, Pats!” the family roared in greeting when Sonny and Beth entered. The Sunday afternoon the family had watched the Super Bowl, Beth had thought she’d go deaf when, in the final few moments, the Patriots won, and the Young household exploded with cheering.

  “Go, Pats!” Sonny and Beth yelled back.

  “You’re late!” Sonny’s brother, Mark, yelled from the refrigerator as he lifted out a handful of beers. “Dad and I got first call on the Corona, so it’s Miller Lite for you.”

  “Sonny!” His sister, Suze, was opening a bottle of red wine, so she motioned to the table with a jerk of her head. “Mom’s gone mad!”

  In the kitchen, pots and pans clattered, steam billowed, people yelled as they cut back and forth across the room, bumping each other like billiard balls. Every single person wore gray hoodies with the navy and red New England Patriots logo on the front. The sweatshirts had been Merle and Bobbie’s presents to their family on Christmas—and they had even given one to Beth, who had been so pleased to be included that she hadn’t pointed out that they’d given her a size large. She wore it now. It hung down to her knees and weighed heavily on her shoulders. She had to roll the sleeves up several times, and the thick bunch of fleece cuffing her wrists was a nuisance.

  “What’s cookin’, Mom?” Sonny kissed his mother on her cheek. “Something smells great.”

  Bobbie smiled indulgently at her oldest, favorite son, whose thick black hair, deep blue eyes, and profile were a carbon copy of hers. “I thought we’d try something a little different this Sunday and have a Mexican meal. You boys always loved tacos so much.” She set a large bowl of chopped onions on the table. “Hi, Beth. Hope you like spicy food.”

  Robin was here. Of course she was here, standing at the stove, stirring a pot. Her sweatshirt fit as if it had been custom-tailored to accentuate the expanse of her bosom against the narrow curves of her waist.

  “Scoot over,” Sonny told Robin. “I want to put this bread in the oven to heat up.”

  “God, we don’t want bread, Sonny.” With a tilt of her slender hip, Robin nudged Sonny away. “Not with tamales, tortillas, beans.” She cooed the words in Sonny’s ear in a low, suggestive voice, as if describing sexual positions.

  Beth glanced at Sonny’s mother. When Beth had phoned Bobbie on Friday, Bobbie had told her she was roasting a leg of lamb she’d gotten a good deal on at Stop & Shop, and Beth had said she’d make a loaf of homemade bread. Instead, Mexican food? Bobbie bared her teeth at Beth in a smile that would have frozen Cruella De Vil in her tracks.

  Beth held her platter high. “I brought cookies for dessert.” Her voice was lost in the general commotion. The whole yelling thing she hadn’t quite managed to acquire. She set the platter at the back of the counter.

  Merle hunched at the head of the table looking unhappy. “All these vegetables and beans will have me gassed up like the Hindenburg,” he grumbled.

  “Oh, go on, you need more greens for your cholesterol,” Bobbie told him, placing a platter of tamales covered with melted cheese before him. Her husband reached out with a fork and she slapped his hand. “Hang on! Let the others at least sit down. Honestly.” She patted his head with absentminded affection as she looked around the room. “Mark? Take the burritos from the oven and put them on the hot pad here in the middle of the table. Sonny? Grab the bowls of chopped peppers and tomatoes. Suze, got the shredded cheese? Oh, and, Robin, are the beans ready?”

  “Ready,” Robin called, bringing the earthenware bowl to the table.

  Beth swallowed. Quickly she counted the places set at the table. Seven. Okay, so at least Bobbie hadn’t cut her completely out of the group. This was the first time Bobbie had so openly ignored Beth. Was it because she realized Beth wasn’t going to go away, that Sonny really loved her and intended to marry her? Whatever, it was becoming more and more clear that Bobbie meant war.

  Everyone settled at the table, and as always conversation faded to a mutter as the food was passed around.

  Beth rose.

  Bobbie glanced up from her plate. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure,” Beth answered with her sweetest smile. “I just want to get a wineglass, I think I’ll have some of that merlot.” And she went right to the cupboard where the wineglasses were kept.

  “We shouldn’t be drinking wine, we should be drinking tequila,” Suze told the group as she reached across the table to pour wine into Beth’s glass.

  “Oh, yeah, tequila in the middle of the day, that would be sweet,” Mark said, laughing.

  “Hey! Remember the time we all had a contest to see who could drink the most margaritas?” Robin laughed so hard her breasts bobbled beneath her sweatshirt.

  “I do not,” Bobbie said emphatically.

  “Oh, Mom, not you,” Sonny told her. “Of course you and Dad weren’t there. It was the year Suze turned eighteen, so she wanted to get officially drunk, so Mark and Robin and—who were you dating then, Mark? Oh, yeah, right, the delectable Kathy.”

  “Please,” Suze cut in, “that Kathy was such a slut.”

  “We’re at the dinner table if you don’t mind,” Merle growled.

  “Anyway, we were at that dive over on Spring Street—”

  “Best margaritas on the East Coast!” Mark yelled.

  Even their conversation is a team sport, Beth thought as her eyes flew from one face to the other, her own face held in an expression of fascinated interest she’d had plenty of practice achieving. Sonny’s family never asked her how her week went, what kind of work she was doing, what she was reading for her degree.

  Next to her, Sonny’s father belched loudly. “Excuse me,” he said with pride.

  “Robin put ground coriander in the beans,” Bobbie told them.

  “What’s coriander?” Sonny asked. “I don’t think I like it.”

  “You’re thinking of fennel,” Robin told him, turning to him and holding out her fork. “Just take a little taste; you’ll like it.” She leaned toward him, her beautiful face rosy from the heat of the kitchen, her gorgeous pink lips moist with grease.

  But Sonny turned away from Robin and put this hand possessively on Beth’s thigh. “Have you ever used coriander in any of our meals?” He couldn’t have said more clearly, I’m with you.

  “I don’t think so.” Flushed with happiness, Beth felt charitable. “But, Robin, these beans are delicious.”

  “Sonny,” his mother called from her end of the table, “guess who I saw last week.”

  “Dig
a me,” Sonny said.

  “What?” Bobbie reared back a little, frowning.

  Sonny translated, “That means ‘tell me’ in Spanish. Since we’re eating Mexican food and all.”

  “How do you know Spanish?” Bobbie asked, flashing a quick glance at Beth, as if she were responsible.

  “Mom, come on. I had it in high school. I still remember some of it.”

  Bobbie rolled her eyes. “So, anyway, I saw Karen Renfro.”

  “No way!” Robin cried. “I thought she’d moved to California.”

  “She had, with that stupid hippie Dan or Dave or Doug or something—”

  “Dimwit,” Merle interjected.

  “But she left him, moved back here, and she’s getting married to—wait for it!” Bobbie was nearly choking with laughter. “Gregory Malone!”

  The table exploded.

  “No!” Robin screamed. “Stop! I can’t stand it!”

  This must be what Princess Di felt like when she took meals with the queen and the rest of the family, Beth thought. Except Beth knew Sonny loved her. Oh, poor Princess Di, who didn’t even possess her husband’s love! And who was hungry all the time, too. It had truly stunned Beth when Princess Di’s marriage had fallen apart. For Beth, as for many women everywhere, it was like watching the shining mirror of a shimmering fairy tale that reflected all women’s lives fade into tarnished glass, then shatter. Many times Beth found herself hoping one of the two royal sons would rebel, champion his dead mother’s cause, and reject the entire family, after first giving Prince Charles a nice fat fist in the mouth—

  “Beth?” Sonny nudged her. “Want some ice cream?”

  “Oh! Sure! And I brought cookies.” Beth jumped up to help the others clear the table, brew the coffee, and dish out the vanilla ice cream. When she returned to her seat, she could sense a tension in Sonny simply by the way he held himself, a little more rigid and alert, as if he were about to bungee jump. Knowing what he was about to announce, Beth held her breath.

  “Guess what?” he began, then stopped himself and began again. “Actually, none of you would guess this. I’ve decided something. I’m going to go back to school to get a degree in architecture.”

  For the first time that day, dead silence fell over the room. His father continued to spoon ice cream into his mouth, as if he hadn’t heard a thing, but Beth caught the look that passed between Bobbie and Robin.

  Undeterred by the lack of support, Sonny continued. “I took my College Level Examination tests last week and did pretty well. I’m taking College Writing Two at Bunker Hill Community College this semester, while I check out programs in the area.” He paused, waiting for any kind of reaction. When none came, he went on, “I’m thinking of the Boston Architecture College; they take transfer students, so I’d have two years credit to start with—”

  “Oh, please, Sonny!” From the end of the table, Bobbie looked toward her son, an expression of gentle disappointment on her face. “Honey, you don’t need all that academic stuff! You’ve got Young’s Construction! What more could you want?”

  Sonny put his elbows on the table and faced his mother. “I’m interested in design. Don’t ask me why, I just am, I always have been. I’d like to be able to design houses, oversee the entire project from the word go, read blueprints—”

  “You want to be better than us, that’s what you mean.” Sonny’s brother, sitting across the table, shoved his chair back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Sonny turned scarlet. “Oh, stuff it up your a—”

  “Sonny.” Bobbie’s warning was one low word.

  “He’s right, though.” Sonny’s sister, sitting on his left, entered the fray. Her face flushed with anger, she leaned forward to point an accusing finger at Beth. “Ever since he’s been dating her, he suddenly thinks he’s too good for us. We didn’t go to college.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sonny snapped.

  “I’m not being ridiculous!” Suze had her father’s coloring, but in anger her jaw worked just like Sonny’s did. “You never do things with just the family anymore. You moved out of the house—”

  “Hey!” Sonny was furious. “Look. One, I started college, I always wanted to go to college, I wanted to be an architect, but I didn’t have the money for tuition. Two, I moved out of the house before I met Beth, remember? Three, Beth and I have eaten here every Sunday for the past few months, which some people would consider pretty unusual. It’s not like we’re the goddamned Cosa Nostra or something!”

  Silence fell again, and then Robin spoke. “Well, I think it’s wonderful that Sonny’s going back to school.” The entire Young family stared at Robin, astonished. “When we were in high school, he always talked about becoming an architect—”

  Bobbie looked shocked. “He never discussed it with me!” She studied her husband’s face. “Or with any of the family.”

  Beth couldn’t stop staring at Robin, who was looking at Sonny with melting eyes. She was so softly beautiful, a dream woman, and when she spoke her voice was a caress. “No, I don’t suppose he did. You don’t tell your family everything when you’re a teenager. You keep your dreams private.”

  Beth took a sip of wine, glad she still had a bit left in her glass. She wished it were pure vodka. Sonny had warned her to expect some kind of scene, but she hadn’t counted on Robin weaseling in like this. She couldn’t decide whether it was better to feel ignored, as she usually did during Sunday dinners, or blamed. Blamed, she thought, because then at least Sonny’s family admitted he shared a connection with Beth.

  Merle brought both hands down on the table with a heavy thud. “Just how are you proposing to pay your tuition?”

  “I’ve got some savings. I plan to work two jobs this summer. I’m going to move in with Beth, so we’ll have just one rent to pay. And I’m going to apply for scholarships.”

  “So you’re planning to continue working with us?” Merle’s eyes seared Sonny’s face.

  “Absolutely, Dad, of course.”

  “Don’t expect any breaks from me because you’re in school. You won’t get a lighter load. I won’t stand for any shoddy workmanship. No excuses. No special treatment.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” Merle said. “I’d like some more ice cream.”

  Three of the women—Bobbie, Suze, and Robin—but not Beth, rose to fetch it for him. Since no one else would, Beth passed the platter of cookies around, nearly crying with relief when everyone took a few and ate them.

  28

  Alice’s candidate, Glen Wells, had suggested that he and Faye meet at the Museum of Fine Arts, one of Faye’s favorite spots in Boston, so as Faye drove toward her appointment, she was optimistic.

  Plus, she’d been dieting for six weeks, and she’d lost six pounds, which had brought her down from 164 to 158. The day that little red arrow on her scales quivered beneath 160 had been so satisfying! Her clothes felt less tight, and she no longer looked nine months pregnant. Encouraged by her Hot Flash Club friends, she’d also changed her hairstyle, forgoing her usual tidy chignon, and weaving her white hair into a loose braid, letting wisps of hair drift free around her face. She thought it made her look a little more youthful, and even, perhaps, a bit bohemian. Why not? After all, she was an artist.

  She parked in the lot and hurried through the cold morning air to the art museum. She left her coat at the coat check, dropped the plastic, numbered button into her purse, and took the stairs to the second floor. She and Glen had agreed to meet in the Monet Water Lily room. She was a few minutes late, so she assumed he’d already be there—and when she arrived in the gallery, a man stood in front of the picture, studying it. She took a moment to study him.

  He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short. Not fat, not thin. He wore casual chinos and a blue denim shirt. So far, so good, if this was Glen Wells.

  “Glen?” Faye asked quietly.

  He turned. “Hello.”

  When she saw his
face, she had an immediate reaction—unfortunately, a negative one. It wasn’t so much the peculiar shape of his head that bothered her, although it was a bit unsettling, the way his forehead protruded. His baldness accentuated his bulging brow. He was not a handsome man, but worse, his eyes seemed flat, judgmental.

  Hoping her disappointment didn’t show, Faye quickly held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said politely.

  “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we?” Glen responded without a smile to take the edge off his words.

  Unsure whether he was joking, Faye gave a faint laugh. “Um, I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic—”

  Glen looked at his watch. “You’re only eleven minutes late. That’s not unacceptable.” He glanced at the water lilies. “However, I’ve spent as much time with this old thing as I’d like. Let’s move on to the Picassos.”

  “Certainly.” Faye loved the water lilies and would have liked to spend a few moments gazing at the canvas—it lifted her up, somehow. But she had been late, and she could always come back.

  As they strolled through the galleries, Glen said, “Alice tells me you’re a painter.”

  “Yes. Although I haven’t painted since my husband died.”

  “She told me your husband died. I’m sorry.” For a moment, his eyes rested on Faye with a genuine warmth.

  “Thank you.” Faye swallowed the lump that always rose when she talked about Jack. “He had a heart attack. He was very young. Only sixty-four.”

  Glen gave a small laugh. “Funny, how we get to the age where sixty-four seems young.” He stopped in front of a Klee and cocked his head, studying it. “What kind of painting did you do? Abstract?”

  “Oh, no. Contemporary impressionist. Still lifes, mostly.”

  “Ah. Pretty pictures.”

  “Yes, pretty,” Faye echoed, adding defensively, “Some even called them beautiful. The Quinn Gallery on Newbury Street shows my work.”

  “Very impressive.” He moved down toward an enormous Jackson Pollock. “I like Pollock. I like edgy art that makes me feel uncomfortable. Perhaps because as an accountant, I’m always working with numbers, everything precise and rigid and inflexible. I like the energy of modern art.”