The Hot Flash Club Chills Out

by Nancy Thayer

  She padded barefoot downstairs to the kitchen. Faye had brewed coffee, and the pot was half-full. Polly tested the side of the pot with her hand, decided it was warm enough, and poured herself a mug, adding plenty of milk and sugar. Carrying it back up the stairs, she unpacked the many shimmery bottles and tubes, setting them out on the bathroom counter, sipping her coffee while she read the directions. As she did, an old, almost atavistic, thrill awoke within her. She was shot through with sensations wrought from a lifetime of faith in the alchemy of beauty lotions and potions. She was a little girl again, watching her mother carefully paint her face before going to a party. She was a young teen, experimenting with makeup, covering her childish freckles with a smooth makeup base. She was a college student who wanted to lose her virginity, rouging her mouth in a flamboyant creamy red.

  She tied her auburn and white hair back with a band, rinsed her face with water, then applied the first coat for deep cleansing. After the requisite ten minutes, she wiped her face clean with soft tissues, then opened the second jar, the extravagantly expensive gold jar full of “microencapsulated nanosphere” ingredients that would provide deep exfoliation, leaving her skin smooth and radiant. The cream quickly hardened into a bright orange mask from which her eyes peeked out like someone in a state of shock. She would have laughed, but she didn’t want to break the mask. She wished Faye were there to see her.

  She had to wear the mask for thirty minutes. It wasn’t spread on her lips—her mouth required a different cream—so she padded back down the stairs to refill her coffee. She was pretty sure she could sip coffee if she did so slowly, without moving her jaw.

  Carrying her mug with her, she wandered through the big old house, admiring the various antiques, wondering what some of the odder bibelots were, checking her reflection in every shining bit of silver. At the front of the house she looked out at Orange Street, its colors muted by the streaming rain into an array of grays. The pavement was pewter, the sky dove, the shingled houses granite. The only spots of color were from the petunias and pansies in the window boxes, and even their cheer was dimmed by the downpour.

  A big black SUV rolled up the street, its lights blurring in the rain. Just at that moment, a small tabby cat streaked out from under a rhododendron, racing into the street. The SUV slammed to a stop, but its front wheel had made contact with the cat.

  “Oh, no!” Polly raced out the front door, down the steps, and out to the street.

  The driver, a young woman, had already jumped out of her vehicle and was bending over the cat. “Oh, God! Oh, God! I didn’t see her coming.” Her face was white with shock.

  “She ran out in front of you,” Polly assured her. “You couldn’t have known.”

  They squatted next to the injured animal. The young woman wore a raincoat, but Polly and the cat were quickly sodden as the rain streamed down. The cat wasn’t bleeding, and hadn’t lost consciousness, but when it tried to rise, its right hind leg wouldn’t support it. It looked at Polly and made a pitiful meow.

  “I’ll take it to the vet.” The young woman’s hands were trembling—her whole body was trembling.

  “I’ll get a blanket to wrap it in.” Polly rose.

  “Wait, I have one in the car.”

  The rain soaked Polly’s back and snaked in rivulets around her neck and down the crease between her breasts. She reached out a tentative hand to pat the cat. “Poor kitty, kitty. You’ll be okay, kitty, kitty.”

  The cat lay still on the cold, wet street, regarding her with trusting eyes. Polly stroked its head and neck, murmuring comforting words. The cat had no collar, no ID tag. The young woman returned with a plaid wool blanket. Carefully they arranged it so they could lift the cat onto it, then they folded the blanket around the animal, who didn’t object or fight or try to flee but only mewed feebly. Polly opened the door, and the young woman laid the cat carefully on the backseat.

  “Would you like me to go with you?” Polly asked.

  The other woman looked surprised by Polly’s offer. “No, no, thank you. You’re kind, but I think we’ll be fine. I should just hurry and get her there.”

  As the SUV thundered off, Polly went back to the house. No wonder the young woman didn’t want her company, she thought, with a shaky laugh. She was still in her robe, which was drenched and sticking to her skin. Her face was orange. Heaven only knew what her soggy hair looked like! Time for more coffee and a hot shower!

  Energized, she turned the knob on the front door, pushed, and—nothing happened.

  She pushed again.

  The door was locked.

  “You idiot!” Polly hit herself on her forehead, forgetting to worry about cracking the mask. “You unbelievable ninny!”

  Moving as fast as she could without slipping on the soggy ground, she hurried around the side of the house and up the back porch steps. The back door was locked, too.

  “Damn!” She stomped her foot, then looked around helplessly. If she could get to a phone, she could dial Faye’s cell and ask her to come home and let her in. Slogging through the rain, she returned to the front of the house and, because she was such a big fat dope, tried the front door again. Still locked.

  No lights showed in the houses across the street. Just a few feet away, all the shops on Main Street were open, but she could hardly wander down there in her soaking cotton robe and nightgown, her face a cracking mask of orange.

  She could wait on the back porch. She’d be sheltered from the rain, and it was warm today. She wouldn’t catch pneumonia. But the thought of sitting in wet clothes for endless hours didn’t thrill her.

  There was a light on next door, at the aptly named Lucinda Payne’s house. Even if the cranky old bat didn’t like her, surely she would allow her to use her phone.

  What other choice did she have?

  Polly trudged across the sidewalk, up the steps, and knocked on the door.

  After a few moments, the door was slowly pulled back, revealing the owner of the house, fully clad in alabaster silk slacks and matching shirt. Pearls hung at her neck, and pearl earrings gleamed from her ears, making her white hair luminous and accentuating her brilliant green eyes.

  Her expression as she took in the sight of Polly in her wet robe and orange mask did not change except for a slight, disdainful, pursing of her lips.

  “Yes?” Her voice was cold.

  “Mrs. Payne? I’m Polly Lodge. I live next door. Well, I don’t live there, I mean my friends and I are staying there as guests of Nora Salter…” Polly stumbled on the name of the woman who was known to be Lucinda Payne’s enemy. The older woman did not react. Polly bumbled on. “I did a foolish thing. I dashed out of the house like this because I saw a car hit a cat right in front of the house—”

  The older woman leaned out into the rain to survey the street.

  “She’s okay, the cat, the driver took her to the MSPCA, I think maybe the hind leg was broken, but the thing is, I’ve managed to lock myself out of the house. I mean, I didn’t even think to grab the keys or to check that the lock was off, so I’m wondering, could I please use your telephone? I’d like to phone my friend and ask her to come let me in.”

  Lucinda Payne looked Polly up and down with the scrutiny of an airport security guard. Obviously she didn’t approve of what she saw. Still, she opened the door wider.

  “Come in. But please stay in the hall until I’ve brought you a towel.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Polly shivered now, and hugged herself as she looked around. The wide board floors of the hall were bare, the walls ivory, the only furniture a small chrome table with a Nantucket lightship basket centered on it, holding letters.

  The towel the older woman brought her was thick and soft, more luxurious than some of Polly’s best clothes. She dried her hands and dabbed at her hair, but hesitated to touch the towel to her orange face—she didn’t know whether the chemicals would stain the towel, and she didn’t want to sink any lower in Lucinda Payne’s estimation. Finally she dried her
neck and draped the towel around her shoulders for warmth.

  Lucinda had gone off again, leaving Polly standing in the front hall. Leaning forward, she peered into the parlors on either side, surprised by the modernity of the furnishings. This house had the same basic architectural style as Nora Salter’s—the wide board floors, the plaster rosettes centering the ceilings with lighting fixtures, brick fireplaces, and six-over-six paned windows. But unlike Nora Salter’s, the furniture and decorations were new. Everything was cream, with a few spare touches of navy blue. The mantels and tables held no clutter, simply a few vases with fresh flowers, a magazine or a book, candlesticks, and a clock. The result was a remarkably fresh, young, almost urban ambience, surprising from a woman Lucinda Payne’s age.

  “I’ve brought you the phone.” Lucinda Payne handed the portable handset to Polly. Quickly she punched in Faye’s number—winging a silent prayer to thank the gods that she’d remembered Faye’s number!—and explained her problem to Faye, who promised to come back immediately.

  Polly handed the phone back to Lucinda. “She’s on her way.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s out in ’Sconset, having a cup of tea in the café there. She’s an artist, and she’s been working on a landscape out that way, and she thought the rain would clear, but obviously it hasn’t.”

  Lucinda looked at Polly, calculating. Polly looked back at the older woman, teeth chattering.

  Lucinda sighed and resigned herself to the obvious demands of normal human etiquette. “You look cold. Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you some tea.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Polly eased off her slippers and dried her feet thoroughly before padding down the hall. As in Nora Salter’s house, the kitchen was at the back of this house, but unlike Nora’s, it had been modernized. Everything was white and gleaming chrome, except for the teak table and chairs centered on the black-and-white tiled floor. Next to a lone place-mat lay a book of crossword puzzles, a dictionary, and a pen.

  Delighted to have a neutral topic of conversation, Polly remarked, “Ah, you like crossword puzzles!”

  “They serve to keep one’s mind sharp,” Lucinda said. “Earl Grey?”

  “Perfect, thanks.”

  The older woman took two cups and saucers from the cupboard and set them on a tray. She brought out two teaspoons and lay two cloth napkins beneath them. She poured milk into a small pitcher and set that on the tray. She worked in silence, moving with arthritic stiffness and elegant, rigid posture. Finally she carried the tray to the table and sat down to pour the tea.

  Even though the silence was uneasy, Polly waited until the little ceremony of tea serving had been performed and the other woman seated before speaking.

  “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you.”

  Okay, Polly thought, so this is going to be work. At least I’m drying off.

  “How old is this house?”

  “It was built in 1840 by a whaling ship captain.”

  “Ah, like Nora Salter’s house, then.”

  Lucinda’s face darkened. “This house is two years older than the Salter house.”

  Polly sidestepped to a neutral subject. “There’s so much history on this island.”

  But Lucinda wanted to make a point.

  “It’s unusual for houses to remain in one family through the generations. My father, Wetherford Payne, inherited the house from his father, and so on, back to 1840.”

  “Did you grow up here?”

  Lucinda sniffed. “Of course not. My father was a banker. This was our summer retreat. I grew up near Boston.”

  Polly frowned. “Your last name is Payne?”

  “I reverted to my maiden name when I was divorced.”

  “And your children?”

  “I had two sons. They’re both deceased.” Lucinda glared at Polly, as if she were responsible.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Lucinda nodded. “I wanted more children, but I had several miscarriages, unlike that breeder next door. Nora has three children, but what good has it done her? They’ve all moved to the west coast.” Icicles dripped from her words.

  Polly smiled. “Children do go off on their own. I have one son, and he lives in Massachusetts, but his wife tends to keep him to herself.”

  “How is Nora?”

  Slightly thrown by the quick change of subject—and then realizing that as far as the older woman was concerned, the subject hadn’t changed; Lucinda could care less about Polly—she replied, “I don’t know Nora well. I’ve met her at a couple of events. She’s the friend of Shirley Gold, who owns The Haven, a spa outside Boston.”

  “But Nora’s not coming down at all this summer?” Lucinda’s green eyes bored like diamond drill bits into Polly’s.

  “She has to have an operation.”

  Lucinda’s eyes took on a gleam of pleasure. “A serious operation?”

  Polly was reluctant to give the other woman the information. But she was horrible at pretense. “I believe she’s having a hip replaced.”

  Lucinda smiled slightly. “Ah.” More to herself than Polly, she murmured, “Total anesthesia is always dangerous for one her age.”

  Well, you’re a charming old ghoul! Polly thought, bristling. “Her daughter’s coming back from California to take care of Nora after the operation.” The light went from Lucinda’s face. Damn, Polly cursed silently, why did I let myself get caught up in this bizarre competition Lucinda seems to have going with Nora?

  “How fortunate for her.” Lucinda’s voice was etched with acid. “And when she dies, her children will inherit the house. It will be passed on to other Pettigrew descendants. While this house”—she lifted her arm, languorously waving it to indicate the room and the rooms around it—“is willed to the Historic Preservation Association, which will, no doubt, sell it to some millionaire who made his money with a national cesspool-equipment company and use the revenue to buy open land.”

  There were so many land mines of toxic subjects in that little speech, Polly had to struggle to come up with a dispassionate reply.

  “Your house is in beautiful condition. And so…uncluttered.”

  It was the right thing to say. Lucinda’s despondency lifted. She smiled, ever so slightly. “Unlike Nora’s. What a pack rat.”

  Geez! Polly felt as if she were in a tug-of-war. Loyally, she countered, “She has accumulated an enormous variety of possessions, true, but they all look old and valuable. Perhaps they’re family heirlooms.”

  “Perhaps.” Lucinda’s elegant head lifted. “Someone’s at the door.”

  “Oh! That will be Faye!” In her eagerness to jump up, Polly hit her knee on the underside of the table. She cursed inwardly, but outwardly remained—she hoped—calm. “May I help you clear the tea things?”

  “No, go on.” The older woman made a little shooing motion with her hand. “You must be eager to get into clothes, since it’s almost noon.” You lazy cow, her tone of voice implied.

  “Thank you so much for allowing me shelter,” Polly said formally, and sincerely.

  Lucinda simply nodded her head, in majestic acknowledgment of her benevolence.

  “Perhaps you’d allow me to take you to tea sometime,” Polly offered. “Or have you to tea at Nora’s house.”

  Lucinda shrugged. “We’ll see. I’m very busy.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, thanks again.” Once again Polly hurried down the hall, her bare feet making slapping noises on the floorboards.

  She flung open the door. Faye saw Polly’s orange face and burst out laughing. Standing there in her cherry red raincoat, laughing, Faye looked like heaven to Polly.

  30

  On this warm July morning, Faye woke with the sun. She jumped from bed, hurriedly dressed, and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen to make coffee. She filled a traveling coffee mug, grabbed the juice, sweet roll, apple, and sandwich she’d prepared the night before, and rushed out to her Jeep. By five o’clock she
was on her way.

  The light. The light! No matter where she set up her easel, there was the light, as clear as a spotlight, or shimmering with humidity, or softened by clouds to a veil of gray, and always firing the landscape with a heart-stopping incandescent reality, a kind of visual truth. Here was the world, budding and ripe together, past, present, and future, consecrated by the sunlight. The light fell down from the heavens like psalms.

  Some days she returned to a site to finish a complicated painting that took several days. The scenes by the harbor, with the verticals of sailboat masts and the shifting iridescence of the water, were the most challenging. Some days she woke knowing she wanted to go to the moors to paint the delicate pink and yellow blooms of Goat’s Rue, or the grasses around the ponds. Other days, her subconscious informed her she needed to paint a particular Nantucket house, one she’d passed while driving off to get groceries or strolling around town.

  Today rain threatened as clouds rolled overhead, making the light fickle. She drove just a few blocks, to the cross street near a house that had most recently caught her eye. She parked the red Jeep on Fair Street, because the house she wanted to paint was on a narrow lane with no sidewalks or room for parking.

  The house itself wasn’t unusual; it was much like many others on the island, over a century old, gray shingled, and modest. Its two and a half stories squarely faced the street, its chimney rose straight from the middle of the center-ridged roof. What set it apart was its oddly romantic state of dilapidation. The white trim around the windows was weathered to a mottled, almost feathery softness, like a pigeon’s breast, as was the picket fence dividing the small garden at the side from the street. A luxuriant New Dawn rosebush scaled the side of the house, smothering most of the windows with a fairy-tale abundance of fragile pink flowers. At the front, the branches of a holly tree, thick with shiny, prickly leaves, stretched across the front door like a barricade. The windows at the front of the house were swathed with pink and purple clematis, while hollyhocks stood at attention like sentinels in the small space between the house and the street. The grass behind the picket fence was unkempt, uncut, and twined with weeds.