The Hot Flash Club

by Nancy Thayer

  Jennifer, it turned out, didn’t live in one of the houses, but in the apartment over the garage of one of the houses. Shirley groaned. She hated carrying her massage table up stairs. But she was feeling unusually optimistic after her session with Alice, so she hoisted the carrying case strap over one arm and her bag of oils and CDs over the other, took a deep breath, and began climbing.

  “Hello,” Jennifer sang, throwing open the door. “Here, let me help you with that. No, please, I insist.”

  Shirley nearly fell back down the stairs with shock. Jennifer, sleek slick secretary, wore jeans and a T-shirt, both covered with flour. Her long black locks were stuck up any which way on the back of her head with several barrettes, and her hair and face were also powdered with flour.

  “God, it smells good in here,” Shirley said as she stepped inside.

  “I know! Isn’t it wonderful? I made some pies for a friend’s child’s day-care’s bake sale. Apple, pecan, and peach. Where would you like to put your table? There’s more room in the living room.”

  “Could we close the curtains?” Shirley asked. “Just to dim the light of the room so you can really relax.”

  “Sure.”

  Shirley couldn’t help but think, as she set up her table and arranged her oils and plugged the electric blanket in to warm the pad, that if she lived here in Jennifer’s apartment, she wouldn’t need a massage. She hadn’t ever seen a more welcoming space. Several ancient silky deep Oriental carpets overlapped one another, obviously covering worn spots. The far wall was entirely covered with shelves, holding all kinds of books, paperbacks mixed in with thicker hardbacks, with brightly framed photos and painted pots and statues tucked in here and there. A fat, ancient sofa, draped in soft shawls and littered with plump cushions, sat near an old trunk serving as a coffee table, holding more books and a low vase of daffodils. Two other chairs, venerable and cozy, book-ended the trunk. The window was draped with curtains in rich floral pinks and greens; Shirley could imagine Jennifer closing them against the bitter winter dark, blushing the room with summer. A drop leaf walnut table, much polished, stood in front of the window, a vase of spring flowers on it, and just a few steps away was the kitchen, old-fashioned, the appliances nearly antediluvian, but everything shining clean. And on the counters sat the pies with their beautiful golden crusts.

  Jennifer helped Shirley move the chairs and trunk to make room for her massage table, then went off into the bathroom. Shirley set up her CD player and slipped in an Enya CD, then set out her oils and aromatherapy candle. On second thought, she didn’t light the candle; the smell of baked pies was therapy enough.

  Jennifer came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped modestly around her torso.

  “I’m fat, I know,” she said apologetically, “but you see, I love to cook. I love to eat.”

  “Sweetheart, believe me, you’re not fat,” Shirley told her. “You’ve got a fabulous body.”

  “Thanks, but it’s true, I am fat, at least for getting a man. Men want their women lean and muscular these days.”

  Jennifer lay on the table, and Shirley flicked on the Enya CD and began the massage. Jennifer’s skin was as smooth as cream, the flesh beneath it firm. Her hair was silky and luxurious. She carried her tension in her hips and lower back and in the arches of her feet, and as Shirley worked, she felt the young woman’s body relax, rock turning to petal.

  The phone rang. Shirley’s ears perked up.

  “Let the machine get it,” Jennifer murmured from her deep repose.

  “Hi, honey. It’s Carol. Adrienne told me I could call you and beg you for some cookies for the church spring fair. You know yours sell before anyone else’s, and we desperately need new choir robes, so if you could promise us, oh, say, twelve dozen cookies and maybe a pie or cake? Please? It’s not our fault you’re such a good cook.”

  Interesting, Shirley thought. Jennifer’s body didn’t tense at the message, but seemed to expand even more into a mellow space.

  Jennifer purred. “I love baking,” she said. “I’m always so glad when I have a reason to do it.”

  “They’re all lucky to have you bake for them,” Shirley said.

  As Shirley kneaded the knots in Jennifer’s lower back, the phone rang again, and this time a man’s voice came into the air. Jennifer’s body tensed.

  “Hi, Jenn, it’s me. I think I can make it tonight. Sevenish. Dinner? I’ll bring wine. Okay, then. See you later.”

  “Your boyfriend?” Shirley asked.

  Jennifer sighed. “Kind of.” Her muscles, which had been nearly fluid, knotted up as she spoke. “I mean I love him. And he loves me. But he’s married.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “And his wife just had a baby.”

  “Oh.”

  “You must think I’m a terrible person.” Face flat down on the table, Jennifer’s voice was muffled.

  “No, not at all,” Shirley told her honestly.

  “I never meant to be a home wrecker.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.” Shirley went to the foot of the table, lifting and arranging the sheet so that Jennifer’s left leg was exposed, and worked on her thigh with long, smooth motions.

  “He insists he loves me. He says his marriage is just a sham, that all his wife cares about is the baby. She never wants to make love anymore, she never cooks for him, she doesn’t care about him, she’s always nagging him, they never have fun, she’s always running home to her mother and leaving him alone without dinner and all alone all night.”

  Shirley moved to the other leg. “That must be difficult for him.”

  “It is! Very! He says if he crawled in the door bleeding one day, she’d just scream, ‘For God’s sake, take care of the baby for a while, I’m exhausted, I have to have a nap!’ And he works so hard; no one works as hard as he does.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a lawyer in the firm I work for. He’s way junior, so he’s like their slave, he has to take what they dump on him, he’s given all the shit work. He’s a really nice man, he never meant to run around on his wife, but he says she wouldn’t even care if she knew, she can’t stand to have him touch her, all she wants to do is sleep.”

  “Well,” Shirley said, “it is exhausting, having a newborn baby in the house.”

  Jennifer tensed all over. “But if it were my baby, I wouldn’t ignore my husband!”

  You’re not here to give a lecture, Shirley reminded herself. You don’t even know yet who the man is. There must be hundreds of new fathers in the Boston area.

  “He must feel like he’s entering heaven when he comes over here,” Shirley said honestly. “Your home is so welcoming, and I’ll bet you make delicious meals for him.”

  “It’s true, I do. He’s always so grateful. And so tired. You know, most of the time we don’t really have sex. What I think of as sex. We don’t actually make love, not very often. He’s always in a hurry to get home so his wife won’t find out, so usually I just give him a blow job.”

  Shirley moved to the head of the table. The hour was almost up, and she still didn’t know the boyfriend’s name. Still, she couldn’t help but feel slightly protective of this beautiful young idiot. “Let’s see now, you feed him and comfort him and love him and what does he do for you?”

  “Why—he loves me!”

  “Which he shows, how?”

  Jennifer’s body was a mass of knots all over again. “He tells me he loves me. He sends me flowers. He gave me a beautiful bracelet from Cartier.”

  “Is he going to leave his family and marry you?”

  Jennifer sat up, red-faced, indignant. “Jesus! You sound just like my mother!”

  “I’m sorry,” Shirley said. “I had no right to ask you that. It was very unprofessional of me. I guess I just got involved.”

  “That’s all right.” Jennifer’s shoulders slumped. “You’re not saying anything I haven’t said to myself, believe me.”

  “Yes, but it’s my job to help you relax. You sh
ould get up from this table invigorated and refreshed.” She smiled. “Next time I come, we won’t talk, how’s that?”

  “All right.”

  “I usually get my clients a drink of water after a massage,” Shirley informed Jennifer. “Would you mind if I get you a glass of water from your kitchen?”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “I always ask the first time. I never want to overstep any boundaries.” In the kitchen, Shirley ran the water, quickly scanning the calendar on the wall for names. She saw hearts drawn next to some dates, but no names. She filled the glass and brought it to Jennifer. “Drink it all down,” she instructed. “It will help drain off toxins loosened into your system by the massage.”

  While Jennifer was dressing in the bathroom, Shirley packed up her gear.

  “I do feel more relaxed,” Jennifer said. “Especially right in my back. Did you do that thing for my thighs?”

  “That thing for your thighs?”

  “You said you had a technique to get rid of cellulite.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, I did. But for your first time I have to go carefully. I’ll work a little harder on that area next time. Is next Saturday okay, same time?”

  “Sure. Oh, and um, I know I won these sessions, but I’ve never had a massage before—um, should I tip you?”

  “It’s not necessary, hon. And I wouldn’t take a tip today. I feel like I upset you rather than calming you down.”

  “No, honestly, I feel really good now,” Jennifer protested. “Look! Would you like a bag of my cookies? I just made some oatmeal-raisin yesterday. Oatmeal and raisins are healthy, right?”

  “Jennifer, I would love some of your oatmeal-raisin cookies.” And I’d love to know the name of your married boyfriend, but I guess I’ll learn that next time, Shirley thought.

  At the door, Jennifer surprised Shirley by hugging her. “You’re really nice,” she said. “I think you bring good energy with you.”

  “You give off good energy, too,” Shirley said, and she meant it.

  “Let me help you carry all that down the stairs,” Jennifer offered.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Oh, dear, Shirley thought as she walked to her car. If I were a man, I’d want to be with Jennifer. Jennifer seemed like a nice girl with a lot to give. Shirley would do what she had to do for her HFC assignment, but she knew she also would like to do something to make Jennifer happy.

  20

  Monday night, all four women arrived at Legal Seafoods at exactly the same moment and had time only for a flurry of greetings before the maitre d’ said, “Hello, ladies. Nice to see you again.”

  He ushered them to a table, Faye leading Marilyn and Alice, all three in tidy suits, with Shirley in her gypsy dress with the swirling skirt bringing up the rear. He seated them and handed them menus.

  The moment he stepped away, Faye leaned forward. Several curls had escaped from her smooth silver chignon and dangled in rather charming disarray around her face. Unbuttoning the severe suit jacket she’d worn as she left the Eastbrooks’ house, she revealed a loose turquoise linen shirt, one of her favorite old garments, comfortable as her skin but too elaborately sensual for her housekeeper’s work. Faye announced, “I’ve got a lot to report!”

  Alice grinned. “I suspected as much. I was afraid you were going to trample the maitre d’.” She took her notebook and pen from her purse.

  “Are you kidding?” Faye looked indignant. “I’d never hurt anyone leading me to food.”

  Alice laughed. “Good policy.”

  Shirley flung her violet scarf over her shoulder and arranged a silver-and-amethyst pendant against her bosom. “I have a lot to report, as well.”

  “Great,” Alice said.

  They waited a beat, then turned expectantly to Marilyn, who had taken her compact out of her purse and was studying her reflection with such fervent intensity, she seemed unaware of the others.

  “Marilyn?” Alice prompted.

  Marilyn jumped. “What?” she asked, looking around rather wildly.

  “Do you have something to report?” Alice asked.

  “Yes!” Marilyn responded. “I do!” She blushed scarlet. “But I’d like to order a drink, first.”

  “Well, well,” Faye said, cocking an eyebrow at Marilyn. “How interesting!”

  Taking charge, Alice signaled the waiter. Once their drinks arrived, she announced, “All right. Let’s get this meeting of the Hot Flash Club rolling. Faye, want to start?”

  “Absolutely! I’m having so much fun at the Eastbrooks!” Faye confessed. “It’s like I’m playing house, but with life-sized furniture and people. The place is palatial, isn’t it, Marilyn?”

  Marilyn was gazing at the ceiling. Shirley nudged her with her elbow. “Um? Oh, yes, palatial,” Marilyn agreed.

  “But I must say the Eastbrooks all work incredibly hard.” Faye wanted to be fair. “I doubt they take time to enjoy the splendor around them. Eugenie Eastbrook is chilly, but Margie says she has a good heart, and I trust her judgment, although I’m not comfortable enough with her yet to ask about the locked door—”

  Alice interrupted. “Who’s Margie?”

  “Wait!” Shirley pleaded. “What locked door?”

  “Oh,” Faye laughed, “I’m confusing you, aren’t I? I’m getting everything all bunched up. Jack called this ‘getting tangled up in your underwear.’ ”

  “Men have more openings for that than women do,” Shirley said.

  “Unless you count bras,” Alice added.

  “I wouldn’t mind getting tangled up in men’s underwear,” Marilyn said dreamily.

  Faye, Shirley, and Alice gawked at Marilyn, who went back to observing the ceiling.

  “All righty, then,” Faye said, cocking her head in Marilyn’s direction.

  “Start over,” Alice suggested.

  “Right.” Faye took a deep breath. “The Eastbrook household is completely geared toward Dr. Eastbrook’s work, the clinic, their clients, their potential clients. They have two full-time maids in the house who are under my supervision, and a cook. That’s Margie. She’s been with the family for fifteen years. She’s friendly to me but loyal to the Eastbrooks, whom she genuinely admires. She told me the Beckers”—Faye glanced at Marilyn—“are a pack of geniuses, but that the Eastbrooks are also intelligent. Her words, if I remember correctly, were that the Eastbrooks might seem like whipped cream, but the substance is there.”

  “Whipped cream,” Marilyn echoed dreamily.

  Faye rolled her eyes and continued. “When the Beckers were there for dinner last week, I happened to overhear Teddy and Lila catching a few stolen moments together. Nothing too intimate! It certainly seemed to me that Lila’s genuinely in love with Teddy. But there’s a door off the family room that’s locked, and it’s the one door in that entire, enormous house I’m not allowed to enter, so naturally my curiosity’s piqued. I’ve seen Lila go through the door, and Mrs. Eastbrook, but it’s at the other end of the hall from my office, and I don’t have much of an opportunity to be in that wing. But, believe me, I’m going to find out what’s behind that door!”

  “Oooh, that’s kind of spooky,” Shirley said, rubbing her hands with ghoulish relish. “It’s like Mrs. Rochester in the attic in Jane Eyre.”

  “Why was Mrs. Rochester in that attic anyway?” Alice wondered.

  “She was mad, the poor old thing,” Faye said.

  “She was probably just menopausal.” Alice laughed, then stopped. “That’s not funny, is it?”

  Just then, their meals were set before them, and they turned their attention to their food. After a quartet chorus of appreciation, Faye asked, “What have you found out, Shirley?”

  Shirley speared a piece of broccoli with her fork, chewed it, then took a sip of water. “I gave Jennifer her first massage on Saturday. Her apartment is the sweetest place, comfortable, charming, and Jennifer’s always baking things for friends, so the air smells divine. She’s terribly sweet, and really beautiful—” />
  Noticing how Faye’s face sagged at Shirley’s report, Alice broke in. “Enough of the praise! We’re not here to start the Jennifer D’Annucio fan club. We just want to know if the woman’s having an affair with Faye’s son-in-law.”

  “Yes, Generalissima,” Shirley retorted. “The answer is, I don’t know. I do know she’s having an affair with a married man, a lawyer, who has a new baby in the house. The wife is always running home to her mother and leaving the husband alone every night—”

  “Oh, dear,” Faye murmured. “It must be Lars.”

  “Maybe not!” Shirley reached over to give a consoling pat to Faye’s hand. “There must be tons of married men with new babies in the Boston area. Don’t fret until we know for sure. I have another appointment with her next Saturday. I’ll know more, then.”

  Faye put down her fork and leaned back in her chair, unable to finish her dinner.

  “Oh, dear,” Shirley said. “I’ve depressed you. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not depressed,” Faye assured her. “Just worried. It’s true Laura’s been coming home a lot with Megan. I actually thought it was a good thing, because I know how hard Lars is working and how impossible it is to get a good night’s sleep with a baby waking up every couple of hours. He’s stressed out enough as it is. And Laura’s nursing, so I’ve been cooking healthy meals for her.”

  “How old is Laura?” Shirley asked.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  Shirley looked skeptical. “Isn’t she kind of old to be running home to Mama?”

  Alice waved her fork at Shirley. “Listen, it’s impossible to know exactly when to help your kids and when to back off, even when they’re adults. Maybe even especially when they’re adults. I told you, my son Alan’s living with me, and he’s thirty. He’s brilliant. He’s got an MBA. He was married to a beauty queen. Now he’s divorced, without a job, and virtually homeless. And all he’s done for the past week is watch television, sleep, and cook.”

  “Why don’t you kick him out?” Shirley asked, with genuine curiosity.

  “Because he’s her son!” Faye interjected. “Because no matter how old they get, you always want to help your children. It’s a natural instinct. Perhaps the most powerful one.”