The Hot Flash Club Chills Out

by Nancy Thayer

  Shirley was only now admitting to herself that the success of her dream had grown past her original dream. The Haven was a thriving establishment. Its membership was steadily increasing. And so were Shirley’s responsibilities.

  Because Shirley was the director of The Haven, and because it had originally been her idea, she was always the one who met personally with every new client, interviewing them over herbal tea, filling out a form and jotting down notes about what courses and programs she thought would best serve each individual. During the last week of June, she’d interviewed eighteen new clients, which was wonderful, a sign that The Haven was becoming increasingly popular and profitable, but also, for Shirley, just a tad bit exhausting, because she had to schedule the interviews in among so many boring administrative details.

  The interviews were her only real contact with her clients. The rest of her workday was spent in her office, dealing with hundreds of details—salaries, additions to the personnel handbook, health and accident insurance, building and grounds maintenance—something always needed repairing, the storm windows, the hardware on the doors, the faucets. Some days seemed to be spent entirely on the phone chasing down the men responsible for keeping the gym equipment or the Jacuzzi or the locker room toilets in good working order. Meetings with the accountant for The Haven were almost the worst of all. Shirley had never been interested in money, and it cramped her style and crimped her brain to concentrate on his numbingly dull, finite, black and white figures.

  She passed through the connecting doors between the classroom wing and the long corridor with four private condos. Star, the yoga teacher, lived in one of the condos. Shirley lived in the largest one, at the far end, and she unlocked the door, went in, and collapsed on her sofa. She kicked off her heels and unbuttoned her jacket. Curled on her side, her head resting on one of her purple velvet pillows, she stared at all her beautiful, inspirational possessions, her statue of the angel and the unicorn, her Tree of Life banner, the mermaid figurine, her labyrinth hanging, her “jewel”-encrusted goblets etched with dragons, Celtic crosses, ravens, and fairies. They sustained her. They had always sustained her. She believed in them as much as Marilyn believed in the Loch Ness Monster. She believed magic existed in the world, that humans only saw one tenth of all the miraculous network around them.

  Now she sensed a kind of magic on Nantucket.

  And she wanted to slap herself upside the head for thinking that that guy Harry was part of the magic.

  Hadn’t she learned enough hard-knock lessons about men and magic? Hadn’t she allowed herself to trust her feelings, her instincts, about men, and hadn’t she, every single time, been wrong? She’d been married and divorced three times. Three times! She’d need an abacus to list all the short-term romantic liaisons that had started like a violin concerto and ended like a car crash. Her last and truest love, Justin, would have given her a royal screwing, and not the sexual kind, if Alice hadn’t stopped him.

  She was in her sixties, for heaven’s sake! She ought to be grateful simply to be alive. She was grateful to have such wonderful friends, and she would never stop thanking the universe for making her dream of The Haven come true. If she felt overwhelmed by boring practicalities of running the place, tough toenails! This was real life. How many people got to have their dreams come true, after all? She was almost unique!

  If only…if only her personal life held just a touch more romance. She knew she should respect her Hot Flash friends’ advice and be glad to have such a reliable, honest, earnest man as Stan in her life. Hell, she should be glad to have any man in her life at her age.

  A breeze drifted through her open windows, tinkling the wind chimes and dappling coolness through the hot room. It was almost the Fourth of July. Last year, Shirley had had a wonderful Fourth of July picnic here at The Haven. It had been a perfect day. She’d had red, white, and blue decorations everywhere, even her earrings had been like little firecrackers, and sweet little old Ruth had worn a red, white, and blue sweater with a matching bow in her white curls. All her friends and their beaux had come, and Alan and Jennifer had announced that they were married and Jennifer was expecting.

  Shirley wasn’t holding a picnic this year. First of all, Faye and Polly were going to be on Nantucket. Second, she suspected Alan and Jennifer were too beat and overwhelmed to want to help cook for a large group. Third, and mostly, Shirley just didn’t feel up to it. Maybe she’d ask Stan if he’d like to go to the local baseball field for the fireworks display Monday night. That could be fun. Shirley had always loved fireworks. The thought of them bursting out in blossoms of color against the night sky, the designs they made, the excitement of the explosions—it invigorated Shirley. She got up to change clothes for her date with Stan.

  Promptly at six-thirty, Stan appeared at the main door of The Haven. Shirley let him in and together they went up the stairs to her condo.

  “Something smells very nice, Shirley,” Stan said as they entered her living room.

  “Thanks. It’s lasagna.”

  Stan removed his sports jacket, opened the closet, and hung it inside. As Shirley watched, a slight trickle of alarm tingled through her. This was the third time he’d been to her place, and already he was acting as if he belonged here. He irritated her further by immediately sitting on the sofa, picking up the remote, and clicking on the TV.

  Don’t be so contrary, Shirley admonished herself. She’d set a board of cheese and crackers on the coffee table. Just like last time, they’d have a drink and watch the news before dinner. What did she expect? That he’d throw her on the rug and ravish her?

  She asked, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “I’d prefer a gin and tonic, actually.” He was settling into the sofa, stretching both arms proprietarily out over the back.

  “I don’t keep hard liquor here, usually, but I bought a bottle of wine because I know how much you like it with your meal.”

  Stan peered at her over the top of his eyeglasses. He thought for a moment, then patted the sofa next to him. “Sit down for a moment, Shirley.”

  She sat.

  Putting his hand on her knee, Stan smiled. “You’re a wonderful girl, Shirley. I really enjoy being with you, and I don’t think I’m wrong believing you like me, too. So why don’t we just go on and get some things out of the way. I don’t mind that you’re a recovering alcoholic—”

  “You knew that about me before we met,” Shirley reminded him. She’d told him that when they were in the first e-mail stage.

  “That’s true, that’s true. But if you and I are going to have a lasting relationship, we’re going to have to make some compromises. For example, you’re going to have to start stocking hard liquor. I’m hardly an alcoholic, but I do like my evening drink. It’s part of my routine, and I like my routine. If you can keep away from wine, I expect you can resist the temptations of gin.”

  It wasn’t what he was saying that irritated her so much, Shirley thought. It was the way he expressed himself. He was prissy, and he was condescending. He was just like her geometry teacher.

  “And we might as well address the matter of your vegetarianism,” Stan continued. “I’d bet ten dollars your lasagna is meatless.”

  “You’re right,” Shirley told him. “It’s got mushrooms, and zucchini, and—”

  “But I like meat, Shirley. If we’re going to continue dating, I’ll expect you to provide me meat.”

  “Well, I did roast a chicken for you last time,” Shirley reminded him.

  “True, and a very nice job you did of it, too. So why did you have to cook vegetarian tonight?” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “After all, when I take you out to dinner, I allow you to eat whatever you want.”

  “But isn’t it a bit different when you or I actually cook the food?” Shirley asked. “I mean—”

  Stan looked impatient. “I’ve already told you I don’t cook. I think we should alternate eating out and your cooking for me. That’s fair. I pay for one meal, and t
hat’s always more expensive than your cooking at your own home. You cook next, and it’s only fair that it should be something I like, don’t you think? Then I take you out for the next meal. And so on.”

  Shirley squirmed on the sofa. “Doesn’t that lack a little…spontaneity?”

  Stan smiled kindly. “At our age, we don’t really need spontaneity, do we? At our age, I think security is much more important.”

  Shirley’s brain whirled. Of course security was important, she knew that! Still…

  “I’ll pour your wine,” she said, wanting to get away from him.

  By the time she returned from the kitchen with his wine and her cranberry juice, Stan was engrossed in the news. Shirley returned to the kitchen, put the bread in the oven to warm, and tossed the salad.

  As they sat at the table, eating her meatless lasagna, Shirley said cheerily, “Shall we plan to do something fun for the Fourth of July?”

  Stan was busy cutting his lasagna into ten pieces of the same size and shape. “Sure. What do you suggest?”

  “I’m thinking of going to one of the local baseball games, where they have fireworks after.”

  Stan shook his head. “That wouldn’t be a good idea, Shirley. Anyplace where they set off fireworks is a potential disaster scene. Fireworks are dangerous.”

  Shirley opened her mouth. “But—”

  “There will be fireworks on television if you want to see them. Besides, I don’t attend minor league baseball games.”

  “But I thought you loved baseball!”

  “I enjoy watching the Red Sox. I’m familiar with their players and their statistics. But I don’t go to their games, either. I’m very uncomfortable in large crowds, and I very much dislike the difficulties of getting out of congested parking lots.”

  Shirley slumped. “You play golf…”

  “Of course, but I choose times when the fairways and the club houses aren’t busy.”

  Be creative, Shirley told herself frantically. Just because he liked routine didn’t mean she couldn’t propose stuff she’d enjoy. “Well, then, Stan, how’s this for an idea? I’ll put together a picnic for the Fourth of July. I’ll make ham sandwiches, or roast beef, whatever you want. And we’ll go to Walden Pond and have a picnic!”

  Stan looked pained. “I’ve never enjoyed eating outdoors, Shirley. The food attracts insects of all kinds. As for swimming—I can only imagine how many other people will be in the pond, half of them urinating children.”

  “Oh. Well…” Defeated, Shirley picked at her salad. “What would you like to do for the Fourth of July?”

  “Well, there’s a Red Sox game we could watch on television.” Stan brightened. “I know what! You make your little picnic, and we’ll eat it in the living room, watching the Red Sox game!”

  After dinner, Stan and Shirley watched an old black-and-white movie on television. It wasn’t particularly interesting, but Stan objected to renting movies from video shops on the grounds that it was a waste of money when so much was available for free on TV. When the movie ended, Stan clicked off the TV with the remote control and turned toward Shirley.

  “Shall we retire to your bedroom?”

  “All right.”

  They didn’t turn on the lights, but left the door open to let light shine in from the hall. While Shirley turned back the covers, Stan undressed, carefully folding his clothing and draping it across a chair. They took turns in the bathroom, then slid into bed next to each other.

  “You are a beautiful woman, Shirley,” Stan told her as he turned on his side and pulled her against him.

  This was nice, Shirley thought. Nice to be called beautiful, nice to be held. Nice to feel a warm male body.

  “You’re still pleasantly slim,” Stan continued, running his arm over her back. “I really admire the way you haven’t let yourself get fat like so many other women your age.”

  Well, that might not be the most romantic thing she’d ever heard, but it was a compliment. Shirley purred, “You feel good, too, Stan.”

  He kissed her mouth. He kissed each of her breasts. He patted her crotch as if it were an obedient pet. He pulled away in order to slide on his condom.

  Shirley took Stan in her arms and into her body. It wasn’t unpleasant. It didn’t hurt. But she felt disconnected. She caught herself looking over at the clock—she’d bet Stan wouldn’t take long.

  He didn’t. Afterward, he hurried off to take a shower. Shirley lay there, remembering Justin, whose lovemaking had been masterful, ecstatic, sublime. He’d brought her to such extremes of joy she’d lain weeping in his arms afterward. Even Jimmy, her beau before Justin, Jimmy, who drank too much and had bad grammar and worse manners, Jimmy, who certainly had no sexual technique, Jimmy had still had a kind of primitive, physical, caveman appeal. He’d worn jeans and a studded black leather jacket—that had been as good as foreplay for Shirley. He’d been huge, strong, heavy, and vigorous, and when they were through making love, Shirley had felt wonderfully used up.

  But Jimmy had left her with a pile of unpaid bills, riding off on his motorcycle at a moment’s notice and never looking back. And Justin had done much worse than that to her.

  Shirley sighed. Stan came out of the bathroom, fully dressed. Shirley pulled on a robe and accompanied him to the door.

  Stan put his hands on her shoulders and gazed affectionately down at her. “I know you want to have a little more fun, Shirley. I can sense that about you, you know. I’m a sensitive man. I had an idea in the shower. I know what we’ll do for the Fourth of July!” Stan looked very pleased with himself.

  She couldn’t help it. She perked up. “What will we do?”

  “I’ll bring over a jigsaw puzzle! A nice, complicated one, at least a thousand pieces. I won’t bring one of my old ones, either. I’ll buy something new. I’ll surprise you.”

  “Well,” Shirley said weakly. “I’ll look forward to that.” No fireworks, she thought sadly, this Fourth of July.

  29

  Polly woke in her sweet twin bed with the ornate white iron head- and footboards, beneath a hand-sewn pastel quilt patterned with girls in sunbonnets. She lay there gazing at the other twin bed with its wedding-ring quilt, and at the small wooden cradle where antique dolls lay propped on lace pillows.

  Life was so strange, she thought. This room brought back memories of her childhood dreams. She had planned to have daughters, and make all their clothes! As a teenager, while others were listening to Elvis Presley, Polly was designing matching mother-daughter dresses with pinafores. She could remember the exact details—the smocking, the heart-shaped pockets, the lace trim.

  Instead of three daughters, life had given Polly one son. Of course she wouldn’t trade him for anything, but just for this very quiet moment, she allowed herself to remember the sweetness of her childhood dream. She planned to braid her daughters’ hair and tie the braids with grosgrain ribbons. To make clothes for their dolls to match their own clothes. To make dollhouses, with curtains, and tiny beds and tiny pictures on the walls.

  Now her son was grown and married and had a child. A son. Polly loved Jehoshaphat, as much as she was allowed to, but she didn’t see him often. If David and Amy did ever have a daughter, Polly doubted that she’d be very much part of the child’s life. Amy and David were so inaccessible….

  Now her thoughts were turning gloomy, so Polly threw back the covers and put her feet on the rag rug.

  “Oh, gosh,” she said, looking at the clock on her night table.

  It was almost ten o’clock! She shook her head in disgust. She was sure Faye had already gone off. Lucky Faye, to be obsessed with her work! Polly felt a bit untethered. This week, while Faye rose early to slip out of the house to paint, Polly had toured all the antique shops, “browsing,” and surreptitiously checking to see if the missing Fabergé box had turned up anywhere. She didn’t spot it, which made her feel she’d wasted her time, even though all the other Hot Flash Club women thanked her for her investigative work. It would have be
en such a coup to discover it! It would have been a little success, at a time in her life when she felt just a bit like a failure.

  She did make wonderful meals for her and Faye every night, but while Faye retired to the front parlor to read, Polly slumped like a big fat blob in the back parlor, watching any old thing on TV. And last night, after Faye said good night and went up to bed, Polly had cut herself another slice of her homemade chocolate fudge cake and eaten it while watching An Officer and a Gentleman, where Richard Gere, in that snow white uniform, had swept Debra Winger up in his arms and carried her away. Oh, how Polly had blubbered at that part! She’d wept because life never gave you such a perfect moment, and she wept for the loss of her husband, and for the loss of her youth, and for the loss of her dog.

  She hadn’t gone to bed until two.

  In the bathroom, she peed, then exchanged grim glances with her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a depressed porpoise.

  She had to snap out of this despondency! She was on Nantucket! She owed it to herself to enjoy herself!

  But she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mirror. The day was overcast, the sky threatening rain, and the dismal gloom from the window mingled with the utilitarian glare of the overhead light to spotlight her aging face. Her fair Irish skin had always been lightly freckled, but now some spots were for whatever bizarre reasons growing darker than the others, forming little constellations, Orion on her right cheek, the Big Dipper right in the middle of her forehead. The skin on her chin had a texture different from the rest of her face; it was pebbly, porous, and stippled, like the surface of the moon. When she lightly drew her fingers over the sides of her face, she felt tiny bumps beneath the smoother skin, little volcanoes preparing to erupt.

  She couldn’t erase the creases in her forehead or the rings around her neck or the U-shaped rolls of flesh cradling her chin, making it look as if her jawline was supported by a series of rubber bands. But she could use the expensive skin creams she’d bought on sale a few weeks ago. She should use them! What else did she have to do today? Already rain was spattering the window.