by Nancy Thayer
“Dear Spirit of This Little Hen,” she prayed, “forgive me for sacrificing your life so that Stan might have food. Actually, you might never have had a life if you hadn’t been bred for human consumption, and according to the packaging, you never had to live in a cage but got to walk on the ground, eating organic feed, so maybe you had a really wonderful little chicken life. I hope so. And thanks.”
She slid the roasting pan into the oven, then washed her hands. A fresh salad waited for its dressing. She was making a mushroom risotto for her own dinner and for Stan’s, and she’d prepared a bowl of fresh fruit for dessert.
She’d also bought a bottle of red wine. It gleamed temptingly from the table. She’d been in AA for most of her life, and most days now she didn’t miss drinking, but during times of stress, her very bones seemed to plead for just one nice hit of alcohol. Plus, all the health experts claimed a drink a day was good for the heart.
Her problem was that she wouldn’t be able to limit herself to one drink a day. After one drink, her body, mind, and very soul would be dancing with joy, freeing her from all inhibitions, and coaxing her to have just one more drink…and just one more, until she turned into a staggering, yodeling, hiccuping blob.
No. No wine for her. But Stan enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine with dinner, and she rather hoped he’d drink the entire bottle. Perhaps it would relax him. She thought they’d probably make love again tonight, and she wanted to see if she couldn’t slow him down a bit, entice him away from his lovemaking timetable. Her Hot Flash friends thought he was such a great catch, and they hadn’t liked Justin, who’d turned out to be a complete rat, so she knew she should pay attention to her friends’ advice. She really wanted to do her best to make this relationship work.
The buzzer sounded. Shirley skipped down the stairs and across the foyer to open the door. Evening yoga classes were going on, but the students entered at the other end of the building. This door was locked at five, when Wendy, Shirley’s assistant, left for the day.
“Hello, Shirley.” Stan stood there in a new multicolored cotton sweater. Shirley knew he’d bought it to please her, to show her he could be colorful, too. She tried to be fond of him because of this. She tried to ignore that the sweater, splashed with burgundy, brown, and yellow, reminded her of her worst hangovers. Stan held out a box of chocolates.
“Hi, Stan. Well, thanks! Come on in.”
“How was your day?” Stan asked, as they climbed the stairs to Shirley’s condo.
“It was okay. How was yours?”
“Well, let’s see.” Stan took the question seriously. “The morning started off well enough, although I was constipated, even though I drank Metamucil last night. Then my breakfast was interrupted by one of those telemarketers. I said to him, ‘Look, young man, my toast is growing cold because of you. I’m going to have to throw it away and make myself a new piece. That’s just wasteful. If you consider all the toast you’re ruining all across the United States as you and your colleagues make these totally unnecessary phone solicitations, you’ll realize that you’re responsible for an inordinate amount of wasted food, which in the long run is bad for the economy, not to mention the impact on people’s dispositions. Why, you could be starting a chain reaction…”
Shirley pretended to be listening as she poured Stan a drink. Setting the chocolates on the counter, she saw the price tag still stuck to the side of the box. They were from a discount house, marked down from ten dollars to two. She shouldn’t care. She knew Stan prided himself on his frugality. But she wished he’d removed the sticker. Although perhaps he’d left it there on purpose, as a point of honor.
Shirley lit the candles and carried the food to the table. As they ate, Stan continued to take her through each moment of his day. She was beginning to understand that Stan didn’t enjoy conversation; he simply needed an audience for his monologues. All Shirley had to do was say “Oh,” or “Ah,” at an appropriate moment. She allowed her mind to drift.
She admired the romantic ambience she’d created: the pale lavender tapers on the table; the bouquet of spring flowers she’d bought at a farm market, set in a tall green vase on the coffee table; the overhead lights turned off and only a couple of table lamps and the candles filling the room with a soft, romantic light. She was a spiritual person. She was sensitive, receptive. She wished she could channel Danielle Steel or, better yet, Sawyer from Lost.
Last year, when Marilyn was dating Faraday, Marilyn had complained of his impotence problems. Shirley had tried to get Marilyn to slip a few capsules of the Chinese botanical supplement Horny Goat Weed into Faraday’s food, but scientific Marilyn tended to scoff at herbal remedies. Shirley had been disappointed—she loved hearing firsthand accounts of the effectiveness of herbal medicines. She was definitely planning to serve Stan some tea with ginseng, which helped boost testosterone, and she’d considered slipping a few capsules of a male libido enhancer made from Chinese herbs, fried antler glue, and mantis-egg-case into his dessert. But Stan’s problem wasn’t really impotence. Stan was simply not romantic. No herbal cure had been discovered for that.
After dinner, Shirley and Stan sat on the sofa watching a Red Sox game on television. All through the evening, Stan threw numbers at Shirley—each player’s RBI stats, the number of times a particular player had hit a home run against one of the opposing team’s pitchers, the varying sizes of ballparks. The miles per hour of each pitch was often flashed on the screen—this game was an accountant’s dream.
Men all over America were watching baseball, Shirley reminded herself. Plus, many of them were swilling beer and scratching their armpits. Stan was clean and clothed. He was not going to murder her. He was not going to steal her money. He was not going to use The Haven in some disgraceful way. She wanted a man in her life, and here he was. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she be happy?
16
Ladies!” Alice held her hands up as if she held a megaphone. “Start your engines!”
This Saturday morning was so brilliant with light it seemed the sun was brand new. The Hot Flash Club gathered at the main doorway, clad in easy off-and-on clothes, credit cards poised in their purses next to their shopping lists. They were at the Burlington Mall!
“Our mission, should you accept it,” Alice announced, “is to buy as many fabulous summer clothes as possible before lunch.” She held up her arm. “Synchronize watches. We meet at the Cheesecake Factory at two o’clock.”
“Check,” Faye said. “Okay, then, I’m off to J. Jill.”
“I’m going to Ann Taylor and Talbot’s,” Alice said. “Who wants to come?”
“I’m more a Target girl myself,” Shirley reminded them.
Alice grabbed her arm. “You come with me.” Scrutinizing the group, she said, “Someone’s got to supervise Marilyn.”
Marilyn didn’t object. She knew she had no fashion sense.
“I’ll do it,” Faye said. “Polly, want to join us?”
“Sure!” Polly was glad she’d be with Faye, who was voluptuous like Polly.
Laughing with anticipation, they bustled through the main door, then went their different ways. They flew through the stores. They purchased beach robes and bathing suits and saucy sarongs. They bought white slacks and turquoise shirts. Lime green sundresses and straw hats with green, white, and pink striped bands. Loose long shirts in deep azure or fuchsia, crisp white nightgowns and fluffy toweling robes. Khaki shorts and polka dot capris, gauzy gypsy shirts and tees in pastel blue, rose, and lemon. Sundresses with spaghetti straps and soft pashmina shawls. Silk and lace undergarments in playful colors. Thonged shoes with faux gems, and sandals with stacked heels, and striped slide-on sneakers.
Then they went for the jewelry. Had there ever been a summer with more fabulous jewelry around? Chunky turquoise or pink quartz necklaces, wide beaded bracelets, jade and amethyst earrings, and for Marilyn and Shirley, both of whom had nice flat waists, leather belts with elaborate jeweled buckles.
When they met
in front of the restaurant for lunch, they were too encumbered with packages to gather at any table, so they raced out to stash their loot in their cars first. Back at the restaurant, they were seated at a round table, and ordered.
“I am so psyched!” Shirley giggled as she held up the bracelet she hadn’t been able to resist putting on immediately. “It’s like I’ve been dying for turquoise! And I bought the most adorable little beaded shoes. Totally impractical, and completely fabulous!”
“I bought a beaded sweater!” Alice said.
“I bought a beaded skirt!” Faye said.
“I bought a beaded shawl,” Polly said.
They all looked at Marilyn.
“Uh…I bought…” She looked hopelessly at her friends.
“You are so maddening!” Faye said, laughing. “We found Marilyn a cashmere tee as light as a moth’s wing and a long, embroidered silk skirt. Tres romantique!”
“Well,” Shirley announced, “I’ve bought you all a present!”
“Oooh, goody.” Faye rubbed her hands together expectantly. “I love presents!”
Shirley passed around four little lavender paper bags. Each woman pulled out a key chain shaped like a silver scallop shell. One key dangled from each chain.
“Now we each have a key to Nora’s house,” Shirley told them.
“Thanks, Shirley!” Alice reached into her capacious leather bag and drew out her electronic journal. “I’ve made up a rough schedule for June, showing what dates each of us is going to be there. Any changes, let me know.”
“Now that Rosa’s taking over the supervision of Havenly Yours, I’ve got loads more free time!” Polly’s relief was evident in her smile.
“Cool!” Faye took Polly’s hand. “Come down with me tomorrow. I’m going to be there for the week.”
Polly chewed her lip. “I don’t know whether I can leave Roy Orbison that long. Although the neighbor’s boy has dog-sat Roy a lot, and Roy always seems perfectly content there.”
“Never mind your dog, is it wise to leave Hugh alone for any length of time?” Shirley wondered. “I mean, out of sight, out of mind, and all that.”
Polly twirled her new key chain. “I don’t want to live my life that way, afraid I’ll lose Hugh if I go out of town. Hugh doesn’t seem afraid to lose me during all the times he spends with his ex.” When the others started to speak, she held up her hand. “I’m not doing this for spite, or to make a point, or to make him miss me. I just want to go to the island and relax. Not worry about Havenly Yours, or Hugh’s weird family, or anything. I want to catch my breath.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Faye agreed. “I’m tired. I’m rattled. I may not look my age, but I certainly feel my age. Aubrey’s got to have an operation for a torn tendon, after which he has to wear a sling for at least three weeks and not turn or raise his arm or stretch the tissues. He’ll need to be driven to physical therapy for several months. And while I’m terribly fond of Aubrey, I don’t want to become his full-time nurse.”
“No reason for you to,” Alice remarked sensibly. “He’s got plenty of money. He can hire around-the-clock help.”
Faye nodded. “True, but he says he doesn’t want strangers taking care of him.”
“What about his daughter?” Shirley asked.
“Oh, you know Carolyn. She’s busy running the company, plus she’s got a baby. She’s not the caretaking type, anyway.” She ran her fingers up and down the cool runnels of the little silver shell. “I love this, Shirley,” she said. She smiled. “I’m planning to spend a week on the island. I’m going to rent a Jeep and drive all around the island, looking for landscape scenes to paint. I’ll see how I like it there, before I decide how much to take on with Aubrey.”
“I’ll go with you,” Polly decided. “I’ll protect you from ghosts—and the next-door neighbor.”
“That reminds me!” Shirley leaned in. “I spoke with Nora about that witchy old bat. Nora said Lucinda Payne and she have known each other since childhood, and hated each other every minute of every year. Their families got involved in some feud years ago, and they’re still adversaries. But Lucinda’s also a snob, turns her nose up at everyone.”
“So,” Alice pinned Shirley with a glance. “Sounds like none of your ‘all you need is love’ stuff will charm her.”
“I know,” Shirley agreed. “I’ll just ignore her. She’s in her seventies; even at my most optimistic, I don’t think I could change her in one summer.”
“Plus,” Faye instructed sternly, “no one is taking on any more personal responsibilities! Nantucket is for relaxation and rejuvenation.”
“And eating chocolate,” Polly added.
“I’ll drink to that,” Alice said, raising her glass.
17
Howling winds and streaming rain beat against the ferry as it bucked and pitched its way over Nantucket Sound. The heaving waves slammed the steamship into the dock. It was still rocking as Polly and Faye staggered down the ramp, clutching their coats and bent nearly double by the forceful gusts.
They hailed a cab, tossed their luggage in the trunk, and squeezed in. Their driver was a genial young Russian whose tag told them his name was Boris.
“What happened to summer?” Polly inquired.
Turning around to face them, Boris nodded fervently. “Yes, yes!”
“Watch out!” Faye called, as the cab missed another car by an inch.
“Yes, yes!” Boris agreed happily. Facing the road again, he drove with operatic flourishes and a jerking right foot over the uneven cobblestones on South Water Street and Main Street, singing loudly in Russian.
Faye tugged on Polly’s sleeve. “Don’t distract him,” she whispered.
Five minutes later, “You here are!” Boris announced suddenly, braking so hard the women nearly flew over the seats into his lap. Jumping out, he lifted out their luggage and opened their doors with the élan of a diplomatic attaché.
Faye hurriedly gave him his payment and tip, then she and Polly raced through the rain, lugging their bags up the steps. Polly used her key to let them into the house, where the air was as chilly and almost as damp as it was outside.
“I’ll pay for the fuel,” Faye announced decisively, turning up the thermostat. “I’m soaked and freezing.”
“We could make a fire,” Polly suggested.
“Let’s wait and do that this evening,” Faye told her. “We’ve got to get supplies before we can settle in.”
Polly stood dripping on the front hall rug. “Should we change?”
“We’ll only get wet again,” Faye said. “Come on, let’s brave the storm.”
After double-checking their maps, they pulled the hoods of their raincoats up over their heads and set off down Main Street. By the harbor, they found the Grand Union. Consulting their shopping lists, they pushed their carts up and down the unfamiliar aisles, paid for their purchases, then began the return trek home. Polly started a stew roasting while Faye went back out into the blustery day to buy wine. By the time Faye returned, the aroma of garlic, onions, and olive oil drifted through the house.
With a great heave, Faye set the packages of wine on the kitchen counter. “Mmm, Polly, that smells divine.”
Polly was staring out the window at the small back garden and the houses beyond. Everything was as blurred and gray as smoke. “Where can we go on a day like this?”
“Well, where’s the best place to go on rainy days no matter where you are?” Faye asked. “Let’s hit the library.”
The wind whipped their raincoats around their legs as they hurried down the brick sidewalks, passing small shops whose windows glowed through the downpour like little golden grottoes. Across from the post office sat the majestic white Greek Revival building, the Nantucket Atheneum.
After being given their library cards, they scanned the new books in the fiction and nonfiction sections, then headed to the Great Hall on the second floor, where the art and history collections were kept. Polly settled in one corner
of the room with a pile of books on Nantucket crafts while Faye established herself near a window, poring over books on art. At closing time, they hurried home, juicy new novels clutched to their chests beneath their rain gear.
Still the rain thundered down, veiling the spring evening in gray. The house was warm and cozy, a refuge in the storm. Faye hurried upstairs to shower and unpack while Polly headed back to the kitchen to check on the stew.
Then Polly climbed the stairs, her own luggage in each hand, and finally reentered the small side bedroom with its charming white iron beds and rag wool rug.
Flicking on the overhead light, she looked around the room, smiling with pleasure. It was so clean, so simple, it was a retreat.
Then her eye fell on the bed by the window, “her” bed, as she’d come to think of it, and she blinked.
How odd.
“Faye?” she called.
Faye came down the hall, wrapped in her turquoise kimono, toweling her hair dry. “What’s up?”
“No one’s been in this house since we were all here in May, right?”
“Right.”
“No other friend of Nora Salter’s might have used the place?”
“Not as far as I know.”
Polly rubbed her arms for warmth. She was still in her damp clothing. “Well, this might seem trivial, but the day I left, I put one of the little china dolls from the cradle on my pillow.” She blushed to admit something so childish. “And now she’s not there.”
Faye crossed the room and lifted up the quilt and pillow shams. “Hmm.” Pulling the bed away from the wall, she looked down at the floor. “Nothing, not even a dust bunny.” She looked under the bed. “Well, there’s no doll here—have you looked in the cradle? Maybe you only thought you put the doll there.”
