by Nancy Thayer
Anytime, Polly had told them, shaking her head. How like Claudia, who had been a wealthy but puritanical old bat, to will her clothing to Polly, who was much too short and plump ever to fit into her lean, lanky mother-in-law’s clothing! Not that Polly would ever wear them anyway—Claudia had liked plaid wool skirts and trousers, brisk little white blouses, and severe, shapeless black dresses. Her fashion style made L.L. Bean look like Versace.
Still, Polly thought, Claudia had always invested in good quality. And if Polly wasn’t going to use the clothing, she should donate it to Goodwill or someplace else where it would be appreciated.
Taking up her scissors, she cut open the top box, which had been fiercely taped and marked with her name. Folding back the four leaves, Polly looked inside, expecting to see tartan trousers and ancient wool cardigans.
What she saw was so unexpected, it took her eyes a moment to adjust.
Lace. It looked like old lace. Polly dipped her hands in and lifted out an ivory lace evening wrap. Beneath it lay several pairs of lace gloves. Beneath those was a satin packet containing dozens of handkerchiefs trimmed with all kinds of lace. Then, lace nightgowns. Lace slips. Bits of lace, and more bits.
Polly lifted an ivory lawn nightgown out and held it up to the light. It was delicate and beautiful, but ripped in several places. She took out a pale white blouse with lace cuffs and collar. The lace was lovely, but the body of the blouse was stained with dark spots.
She delved deeper into the box, coming up with a pile of lace jabots and dickeys—detachable blouse fronts popular in the early part of the twentieth century but hardly of use now. Lace fichus, scarves, veils, and tippets. How curious!
The second box was piled with lace antimacassars and doilies, lace-trimmed napkins and tablecloths. Beneath were lace pillowcases and lace-trimmed sheets—but not entire sets of sheets, and often not even the entire sheets. In most cases, the lace had been cut away, leaving only a bit of ivory linen or blue cotton attached.
The third box held more lace, and also what looked like hundreds of embroidered handkerchiefs, hand towels, pillowcases, and gloves. Again, every item was either ripped or stained beyond repair.
None of the items was particularly old. Claudia had been in her eighties when she died; perhaps the oldest item was the remnants of a christening gown that might have been hers. None of the lace was of museum quality, yet all of it was lovely. So many different patterns and kinds . . .
Trust Claudia, Polly thought with a laugh, to leave her all this stuff that was not valuable, but was too good to toss out. Probably Claudia’s estimate of Polly herself.
She ran her hands over various bits of lace. Could she piece together a pretty blouse for herself? Probably not.
The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts.
“Hi, Polly!” Carolyn’s voice was chipper but clipped. “What are you up to on this beautiful day?”
“I’m organizing my workroom,” Polly told her. “I’ve decided to start up my little sewing business again.”
“Oh, Polly, if you need money—”
Hurriedly, Polly interrupted Carolyn’s offer. “Carolyn, I love my work as much as you love yours. And you are at work now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, right. I wanted to call before I forgot. I’ve decided to give an intimate little dinner party at my house on February fourteenth. Can you come?”
Polly hesitated. “February fourteenth? Valentine’s Day?” Carrying the portable phone with her, she walked back to her kitchen and the calendar hanging on the wall, even though she knew damned well she had nothing penciled in for that night.
As if Carolyn read her mind, she continued, “You don’t have anything planned with Hugh, do you?”
Polly, who was a terrible liar, stuttered. “We–well, not formerly.”
“What?”
“I mean, not formally. I mean, Hugh and I usually spend time together on the weekends, and the fourteenth is a Saturday this year. But I could bring Hugh—”
“Oh, Polly, I was hoping you could come alone. Hank’s other sister, the one you haven’t met yet, will be in town that weekend with her husband, and I wanted you two to get to know each other. I want to have just a little family affair.”
Polly closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. What Carolyn meant was that she wanted her father to come, but without Faye, and she wanted Polly to come, but without Hugh.
“After all,” Carolyn continued, “you’re part of the family now. You’re Elizabeth’s godmother.”
Carolyn was such a forceful personality, Polly thought. All right, perhaps she was a little spoiled, too, but didn’t she deserve to be? She’d lost her mother when she was only seven. And perhaps she was a little bossy, but like many younger women, she had had to learn to be assertive. She ran a large business, after all. Polly didn’t want to hurt Carolyn’s feelings. She cared so much for her, and was so grateful to feel valuable in, and connected to, someone else’s life. Certainly her own son and daughter-in-law were not inviting her for Valentine’s Day dinner.
Still, it was Valentine’s Day! A day to spend with your lover, not your family.
“Let me talk with Hugh,” Polly said decisively. “I’m not sure what our plans are. Can I call you back?”
“Sure. If I don’t catch the phone, leave a message on the machine.”
They spoke a few more minutes. At ten months, Elizabeth was starting to crawl, which meant she also investigated minute bits of mud, fluff, or food accidentally dropped to the floor, bits so small Carolyn and Hank and the nanny couldn’t see them from their vantage point. Since Elizabeth considered tasting part of her investigative skills, Carolyn spent much of her time on the floor with her, being sure she didn’t pick up the wrong thing.
“Last night,” Carolyn said, “Elizabeth found one of those cloth-covered rubber bands Ingrid holds her hair back with. She started gnawing on it before I could stop her, and when I took it away from her—she could choke on it so easily!—she threw such a tantrum, you wouldn’t believe it!”
Actually, Polly thought, I would believe it. Carolyn’s daughter was as strong-willed as her mother. But she kept quiet.
Carolyn said, “Oh, the other line’s ringing. I’ve gotta go, Polly. Call me!”
“I will,” Polly promised.
Polly spent the rest of the day working. She checked out prices of newspaper ads and reviewed her list of customers. Getting out her colored pencils, she played around, composing a clever little communiqué announcing her return to business. It was fun, drawing in bobbins, skirts, a measuring tape, a pincushion, and finally a wedding gown. She wrote the body of the missive on her computer, changing fonts and sizes until she found exactly what worked, then with scissors and tape, cut and pasted her drawings in the margins of the letter. She copied it on her machine and found that it came off quite nicely. She ran off fifty copies, then sat down to the less creative business of addressing the envelopes.
When she decided to stop for the day, she was surprised to find it was after five thirty. The sun was staying out longer. Spring wasn’t far away. No wonder she felt cheerful!
She stretched to release the tension in her neck and shoulders, then flicked off the computer and the lights in her workroom and went through the house, turning on lights for the approaching dusk.
Her old hound, Roy Orbison, lay on the sofa, snoring like a powerboat. Usually by five thirty Roy was agitating for his dinner, but tonight he was still sound asleep. Polly gazed down fondly at the dog.
“You’re getting on in years, old boy,” she said softly. “And so am I.”
In the kitchen, she prepared an enormous salad with tons of vegetables and heated up a big mug of chicken broth. As always, she was trying to diet, and tonight she didn’t feel especially hungry. Alerted by her noise, Roy woke and joined her in the kitchen, eating his dog food as if he’d just returned from a sixty-mile run. Lucky Roy, who didn’t even know the concept of dieting!
After dinner, Polly started a
fire in the fireplace and curled up on the sofa with a cup of herbal tea and a fat new mystery. In January, she’d had the smoke-scorched living room repainted in pale yellow while she sewed new drapes and throw-pillow coverings from a gorgeous blue silk printed with birds, boughs, and blossoms. All signs of the Christmas Eve fire had disappeared and the room, even at night, looked fresh and cheerful.
Sometime tonight, she knew, Hugh would phone. On most weeknights he didn’t visit Polly, but collapsed in his own apartment, tired from his day at the hospital. He always phoned her, though, and they talked, sometimes for hours, as current dramas reminded them of past events. One of the nicer things about being older, Polly thought, was that they had so much to tell each other, so many memories to recount.
It was almost ten o’clock when Hugh phoned.
“Sorry to call so late,” he said. “I fell asleep when I got home. Just woke up a while ago, had a shower and a late meal.”
“Busy day at the hospital?” Polly asked as she settled back to listen. Hugh seldom discussed his patients, having more than enough to complain about or entertain Polly with by talking about his staff, the secretaries, his fellow physicians, the hospital administration.
Polly told Hugh what she’d done during the day. Then she took a deep breath, screwed up her courage, and said, as sexily as she could without humiliating herself, “So, Hugh, do we have any plans for Valentine’s Day? I noticed on my calendar that it falls on Saturday this year.” Hugh was clever and creative about their dates; perhaps he’d take her to some ski resort where they could spend the entire time in the room, drinking hot buttered rum and making love. It had been a marvelous surprise to Polly, what a good lover Hugh was.
“Oh, hell, Polly,” Hugh answered. “My daughter’s having a Valentine’s Day dinner party, just for the family.”
Disappointment surged through Polly. What was it about this generation of children that they thought Valentine’s Day was a family occasion? Polly didn’t have to ask whether or not Hugh’s ex-wife Carol would be there. Of course she would. It irked her that Carol would be with Hugh on Valentine’s Day.
“You still there?” Hugh asked.
“Yes,” Polly said, weakly.
“I’m sorry, Poll. I hate to think of you alone on—”
“Oh, I won’t be alone,” Polly hastened to assure him. She didn’t want him ever to pity her. “Carolyn has asked me to dinner at her place that night, but frankly, I’d rather spend it with you.”
“Let’s have our Valentine’s Day dinner Friday night, what do you say?”
“I think we’ve scheduled our Hot Flash Club meeting for that night, and I’d hate to miss it. We haven’t been meeting regularly.”
“Sunday night then?”
This was good of him, Polly knew, because Mondays Hugh worked, and Mondays were hard. “Why don’t we meet here after our Saturday-night dinner parties?” she suggested. “I’ll have lots of Champagne and chocolate, and all kinds of treats, so we can celebrate Valentine’s Day Sunday morning. In bed.”
Hugh laughed, and Polly’s heart went all gooey. Hugh had a wonderful, deep, hearty laugh. She could just see him, his belly trembling, his perfect white teeth gleaming in his handsome face.
“That’s a great idea, Polly. Let’s make that a date.”
After they said good-bye, Polly considered phoning Carolyn to tell her she could come to the dinner, but it was too late, especially since they had a baby in the house. She’d phone first thing in the morning. As Polly got ready for bed, she considered calling Faye tomorrow, to discuss this whole weird triangle they were caught up in, Polly–Carolyn–Faye. Or was it more a pentagon, because Aubrey and Elizabeth were both involved, too? Polly admired Faye so much, but she wasn’t sure she could bring up the subject. It was awkward. It was terribly like high school. Oh, well, Polly thought, sliding into bed, at least that made her feel young.
11
IT WAS FEBRUARY THIRTEENTH, AND LEGAL SEAFOODS was crowded on Friday night, but the five members of the Hot Flash Club were given their usual table tucked away in the far corner of the restaurant where they could chat without being overheard. They settled in, ordered drinks, glanced quickly at the menu—by now they all knew their favorite dishes—then leaned forward.
“Faye, you’re here with no neck brace or crutches!” Alice observed. “How are you?”
Faye lifted a languid hand to rub the back of her neck. “I get twinges from time to time. And I think my chances for a speed-skating career are pretty much over.”
“But you can always do yoga,” Shirley reminded her cheerfully.
Faye flushed. “I know I’ve gained weight. Give me a break! I was hardly able to move for a month. I still have to be careful.”
Shirley blinked, surprised at Faye’s belligerence. “I didn’t mean— Yoga’s not about losing weight,” she said softly.
Brightly, Marilyn asked, “So, Faye, have you been able to teach your art therapy classes this semester?”
Faye shook her head. “I had to skip the winter semester. I can hardly teach if I can’t stand up or move my arms. And I hear the new art teacher is doing beautifully. I doubt if The Haven will need me again.”
The other four women exchanged worried glances. Faye, being negative?
“Of course The Haven wants you to teach again,” Shirley rushed to assure her. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Faye shrugged and said nothing.
Polly sagged in her chair, nearly ill with guilt. Obviously Faye was depressed. The whole Carolyn–Aubrey– Valentine’s Day dinner arrangement had to be part of the cause. Could Polly bring this up now? Should she?
Alice turned to Marilyn. “How’s your mother? Did she want to join us tonight?”
“She’s fine. And there’s an old movie on television she wanted to watch, thank heavens. I mean, I adore my mother, but it’s nice to get away from her now and then.”
“Are you managing to have any time alone with Faraday?” Shirley asked.
Marilyn folded her napkin in careful little pleats. “No, and I’m glad. I know I’m using my mother as an excuse to avoid talking with him about this marriage business, but I do have to decide about Ruth, that’s the most important thing right now.”
“You’ve had her with you for two months,” Alice pointed out. “How’s she doing?”
Marilyn frowned. “Well, you’ve seen her. She gets words confused now and then—”
“But so do I,” Polly interjected.
“—and she forgets what she’s doing sometimes—”
“So do I,” Shirley said.
Marilyn nodded. “I know. I do, too. Sometimes I have to make a note on a piece of paper and carry it with me from one room to the other. Otherwise, I’ll get distracted and forget what I came in for.”
Alice laughed. “I hear you. The other day I was on a tear, looking for my reading glasses, and all the time they were on top of my head. I said to Gideon, ‘Good grief, Hon, how are you going to know when I’m senile?’ ”
“Exactly!” Marilyn agreed, then said in an irritated tone, “Oh, damn!” She unbuttoned her cardigan and tore it off.
“Hot flash,” Polly said sympathetically.
Marilyn nodded and fanned herself with the menu. “What were we talking about?”
“Your mother,” Alice reminded her.
Marilyn shook her head. “I really don’t know what to do. I love her so much, and most of the time I enjoy her company. Plus, I feel obligated to Sharon. She’s taken care of our mother most of our lives. It really is my turn now. And I don’t think I can just dump her into an assisted living facility because she’s forgetful and deaf.”
Shirley chuckled. “Speaking of deaf, let me tell you what happened in Star’s yoga class yesterday. Star had some new students, older people bused over from a retirement home, seven really cute little old ladies who want to stay limber. They’d never taken yoga before, so this was their trial class. So Star put them up front and went through the poses slo
wly, telling them not to strain themselves. You know the routine. So she had them all seated with their eyes closed, and she said slowly, ‘Feel your breath.’ And one little old lady yelled, ‘Feel my breasts? What kind of class is this!’ ”
When their laughter died down, Alice pinned Marilyn with one of her no-nonsense glances. “But if you didn’t have to think about your mother, would you marry Faraday?”
“Honestly? I just don’t know.”
“Did you talk to him about the sex thing?” Alice demanded.
Marilyn blushed. “I tried to. I mean, I sat him down and told him how I felt, and suggested he get something like Viagra. He had that deer-in-the-headlights look. Trapped and tortured! Why is it so difficult to talk about this with men?”
“Because we don’t want to hurt their feelings,” Alice said. “Men’s egos are so fragile. And their private parts are so private. Women are used to having their reproductive organs plumbed and scanned and inspected, not to mention expanded to give birth. We have to be more practical, less sensitive about it all.”
“You know, Hugh’s a doctor,” Polly said. “And he’s in his sixties, and has no hesitation about using an erectile dysfunction medication from time to time.”
“Does it work?” Alice asked.
“Very well,” Polly answered, blushing. “So, Marilyn, what did Faraday say after you suggested Viagra?”
Marilyn looked exasperated. “Nothing! He said absolutely nothing! Or, rather, he said there was a show on Nova right then that he wanted to watch. So we watched television, then he kissed me politely good night and left.”
The waiter brought their food. For a few moments everyone was engrossed in tasting and exchanging bits with one another. Alice and Shirley, who were sitting the farthest from each other, didn’t offer to give the other a taste of their dishes, which made Marilyn and Polly exchange nervous glances, while Faye continued to seem lost in her own private world.
“So, Faye.” Marilyn turned to her friend. “How is Laura these days?”
Faye lifted her head and forced a smile. “She’s well, thank you. She’s very good about e-mailing me daily. Lars’s parents are staying with them while they look for a house in San Francisco, so they take care of Megan every afternoon. That gives Laura a chance to nap. And Evelyn—Lars’s mother—loves to cook, so she’s been preparing dinner for everyone. Laura tells me she feels rather spoiled.”
