Hunt waved him off. “Don’t bother. I think you pretty much hit the highlights.”
“If you say so,” Ben agreed. He left quickly—Hunt couldn’t help thinking—curiously relieved.
CHAPTER THREE
WEDNESDAYS WERE ALWAYS a bitch as far as Sarah was concerned. She closed her eyes and rubbed her lower back. This particular Wednesday was proving to be beyond bitchy.
She turned her head and eyed the seventy-year-old woman next to her who was adjusting the plunging neckline of her bathing suit. For someone her age, she looked fantastic. Okay, she had the usual upper arm waddle and her thighs, while toned, showed signs of cellulite. But, hey, Sarah wouldn’t mind having that body at that age. Even half her age for that matter.
Sarah looked down at her swollen belly with its spidery stretch marks. “Wanda, do you really think a bikini is the way to go?” Thirty weeks along in her pregnancy, she was exhibiting all the expected signs, like clockwork.
Talk about stretch marks. Besides her belly, pink and purple lines now etched her breasts and inner thighs. Lovely. Then there was her belly button, which had gone from being an innie to a full-blown outie.
All those women who positively glowed in pregnancy? Not Sarah. Her cheeks might be flushed, but pimples had a way of erupting daily on her chin and the tip of her nose. She had found this incredibly expensive “nighttime eruption solution” that seemed to help. A little.
Sarah rubbed her swollen belly and told herself to quit being cranky. After all, it was all worth it, right? Still, just because she could accept the changes in her body didn’t mean she felt obliged to flaunt them. “Maybe I could wear a T-shirt over the bikini top?” she said.
Wanda grabbed the combination lock from her tote bag and slammed the metal locker shut. “Nonsense, baby bumps are all the rage now, isn’t that right, Lena?” Wanda turned to her good friend. Lena was Wanda’s tennis partner as well as Katarina’s grandmother.
Lena adjusted the strap of her bathing cap under her chin. “What’s that? Who’s right?” Lena patted Sarah protectively on her arm. “Never mind. You would look wonderful wearing a burlap bag. And in that suit—” she raised her arms, hands open “—you are the image of a Rubens beauty in all your womanly glory.”
Sarah twisted her neck around. “Are you trying to tell me that my butt looks fat?” She gripped one cheek in an assessment.
“Nonsense, dear,” Wanda said. “You’re every woman’s dream—a long-stemmed American beauty, curvy like the legs of a Chippendale table, and with breasts the size of cantaloupes. That’s why we all agreed that the bikini was absolutely, positively the right choice.”
Sarah shook her head. “Thanks, I think.” She was still trying to wrap her head around the image of Chippendale furniture and cantaloupes until she decided it was just another strange moment in an already eventful day.
Because at the end of a full schedule of running multiple physical therapy sessions, three of Sarah’s late Wednesday afternoon clients had thrown her a surprise baby shower. They included Wanda, a retired high school math teacher, who was having treatments for the tendonitis in her tennis arm. “I know it would probably get better if I developed a two-handed backhand, but at my age…”
Lena was there, too, a sturdy fireplug of a woman who when she spoke still had a hint of her native Czechoslovakia in her accent. Her arthritic knees had started to act up on her. Too many years of standing up at her hardware store and playing tennis. She’d had some arthroscopic surgery over the summer to clean up one knee, and was now diligently doing her rehab.
Rounding out the group was Rufus Treadway. A mainstay of the local African-American community, Rufus had had a hip replacement about a year ago. Unfortunately, he was not yet tripping the light fantastic, which was a real shame, as far as Sarah was concerned. So she’d pulled some strings and got him an appointment with the hip specialist at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.
Anyhow, when the three of them had pulled out the streamers and party blowers, Sarah had been truly taken aback. Lena had made a plum tart. “Not to worry. It’s mostly fruit,” she had said.
And butter and eggs, Sarah had thought.
When they next produced several wrapped boxes, she was overwhelmed. “You shouldn’t have,” Sarah protested, expecting to get several hand-knitted baby sweaters and maybe a baby-size Grantham University baseball cap.
“Start with the squishy one,” Wanda insisted.
Sarah carefully removed the wrapping paper—no sense in wasting perfectly good paper when it could be reused—and found a Speedo bathing cap.
“How lovely. I don’t have one,” Sarah said, confused but careful to affix a smile.
“Now the flat one.” Rufus pointed to an oblong wrapped box.
That one yielded flip-flops. Another had a rolled up beach towel.
Sarah laughed. “I think I see a theme here. I know I always tout the virtues of swimming as a low-impact exercise for you all, so I’m glad to see the message is getting across.”
Then came the biggest box. It seemed to contain mostly tissue paper, but buried deep inside Sarah found a maternity bathing suit in electric orange. A teeny-tiny, two-piece maternity suit. “I didn’t know they made bikinis for pregnant women.” She held up the top and bottom to universal clapping.
And last but not least, Rufus pulled out a slim envelope.
“A ticket to the Bahamas?” Sarah joked. She slit the envelope open and read the contents, “This confirms your registration in the Adult School ‘Light Water Aerobics’ class for pregnant woman and those rehabilitating from injuries.’”
“Isn’t it great!” Wanda had exclaimed. “It’s tonight, and Lena and I have signed up, too! It’ll be like a continuation of our workouts here!” Then she squealed.
That should have been a tip-off, Sarah thought as she now stood in the women’s locker room on the second floor of the Grantham Middle School. Goose bumps appeared on more exposed skin than she cared to think about. She picked up her towel from the bench and wrapped it around her waist. There might be less of her on display to the world, but she was afraid she now looked like a beached whale in terry cloth.
Indeed, the whole idea of lowering her inflated body into a chlorinated swimming pool was just not all that appealing to her at the moment. Any sane person in a similar circumstance would be home, curled up in a comfy chair, watching the rerun of Comedy Central’s Daily Show and eating a grilled-cheese sandwich, better yet, mocha-chip ice cream straight out of the container.
“C’mon, dear, you don’t want to be late. If you think I’m a stickler for punctuality, wait till you meet Doris,” Wanda said.
Sarah scooped up her bathing cap and obeyed. So much for sanity. She followed Wanda and Lena down the stairs and, mindful of her manners, she held open the door to the pool area for the older women first. Wham! The heat and humidity assaulted her immediately. The smell of chlorine just about brought up the plum cake.
Sarah looked down and gulped. Finally, she risked lifting her head—and got her first look at the pool. “Wanda, I thought this class was for women only?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Wanda asked all innocent.
Sarah looked around again. Three other women in various stages of pregnancy were there, none of them wearing bikinis. Great. She also couldn’t help noticing that they all had male partners in tow.
The couples clustered together in a circle, tight enough that a take-out venti couldn’t fit in between. As Sarah walked by, she could hear them exchanging due dates and giggles. Men-and-women giggles.
Wanda and Lena moved to the side of the couples group, where they joined an older man with a vertical scar down his chest. Bypass surgery. Next to him was another man who looked to be in his fifties, almost a carbon copy of the older guy except with more hair, considerably less weight, and a hollow look in his eyes and cheeks. Father and son seemed to be old friends of Wanda and Lena, since the four of them…well…mostly the three of them, were chatt
ing it up. The son appeared to hang at the fringes nodding at appropriate times, but adding little to the conversation.
She was about to join them and introduce herself when the buzzer sounded, signaling the start of class. The instructor, clipboard in hand, with a whistle hanging from a lanyard around her neck and reading glasses halfway down her nose, strode to the edge of the pool. She might be pushing sixty, but she looked like she could wrestle a grizzly bear with one hand tied behind her back while teaching the fundamentals of lifesaving with the other. She blew her whistle. The giggling and whispers halted.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m Doris Freund, your instructor for Light Water Aerobics,” she announced.
“Why don’t I call the roll before we get down to business.” She started rattling off names with marine sergeant precision, and when she was partway down the list she called out, “Halverson, Sarah.” She peered over her reading glasses.
Sarah waved. “Pres—”
The door to the pool swung open. Doris looked up at the clock. Everyone else stared at the door.
Sarah immediately saw a man, and from his surfer’s shorts, lanky walk and thin frame assumed he was of college age. But after a quick glance at his face, she realized he was older—mid-thirties. He had the kind of features—sharp, high cheek bones, deep-set ice-blue eyes with lines fanning out at the corners, and a wide mouth with thin lips—that hinted at intelligence, wit, and, okay, might as well admit it, Sarah said to herself, long-term sex appeal. But there was also an air of mystery, or maybe it was sadness. Which only made him more intriguing. But truth be told, the physical attribute that had caught her attention was that he was thin. Very thin, on a frame that could use an extra twenty pounds.
Cancer and the side effects of chemotherapy. Pretty rough. He was young and as an expectant father…
Sarah waited, watching the door, wondering what his wife would look like. Only nobody came. She raised an eyebrow. So if he wasn’t an expectant father…
She saw him glance quickly around and stop. His mouth opened, but no words came forth. He surveyed the group slowly, then screwed up his mouth.
“I find as a rule that the class works better if we all arrive on time,” Doris said sternly. “I’ve scheduled a number of activities, and to maximize the benefits and everyone’s enjoyment I’d prefer not to have to rush any of them, if you catch my drift?” She waited for an acknowledgment.
The latecomer breathed in and lifted his head, elevating his proud chin. “Duly noted,” he said. He blinked. “Mrs. Montgomery?”
“Huntington? Huntington Phox, is that really you? I haven’t seen you since you were in fifth grade.”
“Fourth,” he said.
Doris arched one brow critically.
“Well, maybe you’re right. Fifth.” He didn’t sound convinced but obviously was astute enough to know when to give in. “And most people call me Hunt now,” he said.
“Yes, well, Huntington, it’s good to see you after all this time. But it’s not Mrs. Montgomery anymore. Mr. Montgomery passed away some twenty years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“And then there was Mr. Dunworth.” Her voice took a reflective tone. “He was a merchant marine. But you know how they are. So now it’s back to Ms. Freund, my maiden name. But everyone may of course call me Doris.”
LIKE THAT WAS ABOUT TO HAPPEN, Hunt thought. He noticed that all the class members nodded nervously, all except this one tall woman with straight dark-blond hair that she was attempting to squeeze into a racing cap.
Under other circumstances he might have admired her fine features, but these were not exactly normal circumstances.
How normal could it be given the fact that he was forced to stand in front of a bunch of strangers, not to mention his former grammar school teacher, wearing the only pair of swim trunks he had managed to find in the bottom of his dresser drawer. Not just any trunks, either, but some faded board shorts, half-forgotten mementos from a surfing vacation during his junior year spring break.
But enough about his laughable figure—too bad he wasn’t laughing—since his attention anyway was fixated on this real-life grown-up female. Wearing a bright orange bikini that barely held her bountiful curves.
Hunt blinked, amazed that here at the Grantham Middle School swimming pool of all places, the embers of sexual urges long dormant—one of the many side effects of chemo that didn’t really compute until you experienced them—had suddenly started to smolder. Talk about less than normal circumstances.
And the smoldering was especially bizarre given that her little scraps of stretchy material did nothing to hide the fact that not only did she have the breasts of a pinup, she also was very pregnant—very, very pregnant.
Hunt cleared his throat and turned to address Ms. Freund, or rather, Doris. “Please do not take this personally if I slip up now and again. I seem to find it difficult to call my fourth, no, fifth grade teacher by her first name.”
Doris clucked. “You’re your mother’s son, that’s for sure.”
There were some twitters, and Hunt searched out the source of the laughter. He recognized Lena Zemanova, the grandmother of Ben’s wife. The sprightly seventy-something-year-old wore a no-nonsense racing suit, navy with white piping, and a red bathing cap. She looked ready to swim the English Channel. The woman next to her, with spiky black hair and a leathery tan that spoke of years of retirement and a complete disregard for sun block, also looked familiar. Though Hunt couldn’t quite place her, unless…unless…. He raised his eyebrows.
“That’s right, Huntington,” she replied with a snap of her gum. “I’m your worst nightmare. Wanda Garrity, your high school math teacher from freshman year. And I’m still waiting for your problem set on quadratic equations.”
Hunt caught sight of her pierced belly button, visible through the large silver ring holding together her low-cut silver swimsuit. He closed his eyes. “I’ll have it for you next week.”
“Well, now that we’re all here, why don’t I explain how the course works,” Doris went on in full lecture mode. “As you know from the course description, this class is designed to provide a low-impact aerobic workout. I promise to raise your heart rate in a way that will not tax your joints but instead strengthen your muscles. We’re also going to work on flexibility and strength exercises that are appropriate to your conditions, whether recuperative or reproductive.”
Doris waited. “Does everyone understand?”
A MIASMA OF CHLORINE-INFUSED air produced a rainbow glow around the wall lights. Moisture clung to the white tiles like a sheen of sweat. Sarah patted the back of her neck. Now that she was here, she was ready to get on with things.
Lena leaned across and nudged Sarah. “I’m excited but a little nervous. What about you?” She smiled.
Sarah smiled back at Lena’s bright blue eyes, sparkling with encouragement. “I feel the same,” she said.
“And you’re sure you’re not achy and tired after so long a day? I worry, you know,” Lena said.
Sarah leaned down and whispered, “Not to worry. I’m glad I’m here.”
“Good things will come of it, I promise,” Lena told her.
“Excuse me.” Doris gave them an evil look and went on with various bureaucratic details, like how to notify her if they had to miss a class and the policy on makeups, until finally she put her clipboard and reading glasses on a low bench by the wall. “So, if there are no questions or further interruptions—” she eyed Lena “—why don’t we all get in the water? Congregate in the shallow end and find your partner.” Doris brought her whistle to her mouth and gave an emphatic blow.
They shuffled to the end of the pool. Some of the couples jumped in. Spray splashed up. Giggles arose again, as the pregnant women floated, their bellies giving them terrific buoyancy. Carl, the older gentleman from earlier, used the ladder and steps on the side. Lena and Wanda squatted down and slipped in from the water’s edge. Lena immediately got wet all over. Wanda was careful
not to get her hair wet.
Finally, all twelve members of the class were in the water.
Except for two.
Sarah and Hunt stood by the water’s edge, seemingly frozen to the tiled floor.
Doris sniffed. She was at the side of the pool ready to make a formal entry. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Partner? Did you say something about everyone having a partner?” Sarah said.
HUNT SHIFTED HIS EYES between the woman in the electric-orange bikini and Ms. Freund. “No one told me about a partner, either.” Doris tsk-tsked and slid into the water gracefully. “Didn’t you read your course book?” She managed to look down her nose despite standing below them in the shallow end.
Sarah shook her head. “No, I…ah…friends enrolled me in the class without giving me all the details.”
“I’ve got much the same story,” Hunt added.
“Well, then you two will just have to pair up,” Doris said. She turned to the rest of the class. “Let’s do some gentle bobbing as a warm-up.”
Hunt frowned. He looked at Sarah. “One of your friends wouldn’t happen to be my mother, would it?”
“I don’t know. Who’s your mother?”
“Iris Phox.”
“The Iris Phox?”
“So you know her?” he said.
“Well, of her. You can’t live in Grantham without having heard of her.” She sought out Lena in the pool. Her bathing cap bobbed up and down. “Lena, do you need a partner?”
Lena pointed to her right. “I’m with Wanda.” Wanda was bobbing up and down. Whatever gel she had applied to her hair kept the spikes perfectly in place.
“I guess I don’t measure up to your idea of a partner,” Hunt said casually. Not that he was looking to be anybody’s partner, but if there was going to be a rejection handed out, he found himself annoyed that he had been the one to be dumped.
Sarah turned to him. “Listen, it’s nothing personal, but these days I don’t do men partners.”
Family Be Mine Page 3
