The simple salmon stucco room feels pleasing with dark wood trim around the doorway. Along one wall, a cabinet holds towels and bottles labeled with a variety of oils from herbal extracts. The scents of orange and basil hang in the air and a massage table with white sheets stands in the center of the room.
Venus dims the lights until only the soft glow of gas flames in sconces along the walls illuminate the room. She turns her back to Hunter and says softly, “Please disrobe and lay face down on the table.”
Hunter hangs the robe on a hook. He climbs on the table and buries his face in the opening until he’s comfortably staring at the stone floor. The soft plucking of strings echoes in the room. A Roman lyre, Hunter guesses. He feels Venus place a sheet over him from the waist down.
Her hands rub warm mud across his shoulder blades. She spreads the gritty stuff in a circular motion and Hunter feels himself sink into the table. Venus works his shoulders where he stores most of the tension and his mind goes straight to the source of his stress.
He’s not looking forward to today’s meeting with a bunch of intellectuals who never have the guts to think for themselves. Yes, mental masturbation is the only thing they’ve accomplished in their nearly finished lifetimes. And they are experts at it. In their journal articles, they analyze other people’s theories over and over, rather than coming up with one of their own. That’s why they resent him, why they’re joining forces to work against him.
Venus squeezes his shoulder blades and holds them tight until his bitter thoughts vanish and all he can hear is the sound of the lyre. He lets out a sigh.
Moving down his back, Venus rubs in the warm, soothing mud. But as she moves closer to his waist, an arousal awakens him.
Venus lifts the sheet off his legs and lays it across his butt. She spreads the mud around his whole thigh, front and back, and works her way down to one knee. And then she works the other thigh. By the time she finishes massaging his calves and feet, Hunter’s breathing has changed.
This is awkward. He’s a married man. A happily married man. With his thumb, Hunter twists the wedding band on his finger. He swore he’d never be like his father and yet here he is, alone with a strange woman, wanting her.
In her soothing, resonant voice, Venus says, “Go to the shower across the hall. Your clothes are there.” The door clicks shut and Venus is gone.
It’s just the massage. Nothing to worry about. It’s not like he’ll act on it. Nor will she. The woman is a professional masseuse.
Hunter grabs the robe to cover himself. He crosses the hall and closes the door in a room that replicates an ancient Roman shower. A steady stream of water spouts from the mouth of a panther’s head made of stone. And in the corners, round Roman columns seem to hold up the room.
Hunter lets warm water loosen the mud on his back. He wants to relax, but all he can think about is Venus, the masseuse, and how much she looks like Venus di Milo. Tall, with strong, sculpted features.
While working to put an end to his arousal, Hunter conjures up an image of his wife, Botticelli’s Venus. Short, soft body, long red hair. But the image of his wife evaporates like steam in the shower. Again, he forces himself to visualize Vanessa, but all he sees is Venus, the masseuse. Finally, when it’s over, Hunter feels a deep sadness. This is not who he is. He’s nothing like his father.
As he dries himself with a towel, Hunter thinks about his mother. He found her dead when he was sixteen. She’d taken too many pain pills to stop the heartache that marriage to a cheating, lying husband had caused. Hunter begged her to divorce him, but she wouldn’t. She was Catholic. It wasn’t allowed.
After her death, it was just Hunter and his philandering father. Until last year, when his father was murdered by the Napa Valley Killer. Hunter didn’t grieve for his father nearly as much as he had for his mother. And he swore on his mother’s grave he’d never be that kind of man.
After getting dressed, Hunter makes his way back to the entrance where Rayna greets him with another welcoming smile. “Would you like that annual membership now?”
Hunter pauses. Aside from his reaction to the massage, all in all, it was a deeply relaxing experience. This masseuse is good. And his Vanessa deserves the best.
“You know, I will buy a membership. For my wife.” He hands over the credit card. He’ll never come back. This place will become his wife’s sanctuary.
And for the rest of the drive to Berkeley, Hunter grins. He can’t wait to surprise Vanessa with an annual membership to Spa di Venus.
She will love it.
CHAPTER 5
VANESSA
DAMN. HE’S HOME. I thought he’d be gone a lot longer. I take my time getting up from my computer to greet him. Now he’s calling me. Christ. I should get him a dog. Then I’d have to take care of it, too.
I skip down the marble steps and say in my most upbeat voice, “Hi Sweetie.” It’s obviously my duty as his wife to ask how his meeting went, even though I could care less. “How was it?” I grab his hand, pull him into the family living room, and plop on the sofa as if I can’t wait to hear the whole story.
“The old geezers were about as supportive as I expected,” Hunter says.
I run my fingers through the curls in his hair and say, “I’m sorry.”
Hunter sighs. “I talked to the dean about it and he suggested we host lots of dinner parties for the professors and their wives. Get to know them outside of the University, you know, on a more personal level.”
I pat my hands together, like mini clapping, and say, “Oh, that sounds fun.” Only because we’re rich now and I can afford to have it catered.
Hunter squeezes my hand. “What would I do without you?”
This is weird. Normally, Hunter comes home from work with a hard on and expects me to take care of it. But today he’s deflated and tired. Where is his I-don’t-give-a-shit-what-anyone-thinks attitude? I want that badass man I married.
I say, “How about Sunday night, in two weeks?”
Hunter nods. “That’s fine. Think I’ll relax by the pool.”
I’ve never seen him look so sad. But I don’t have time to deal with it. I have a dinner party to plan.
Hunter opens a bottle of Pinot Noir and pours two glasses. He hands one glass of red wine to me and takes the other up the steps to go put on his swim trunks.
Something’s not right. I can feel it.
CHAPTER 6
EVERY TIME HUNTER rides by Spa di Venus on his way to and from work, his breathing accelerates. This time, he reaches around for his wallet where he keeps the membership card and turns on the blinker. And then he stops himself.
A new obsession is emerging.
One thing Hunter knows about himself is that he’s easily obsessed. He can obsess about anything, especially sex. The solution has always been to choose his compulsions wisely. Obsess about work. Find balance with his compulsive nature. Time to give Vanessa that card and be done with it.
On Sunday morning, the house is bustling with caterers and florists. Invitations were sent and all the guests had RSVPed. All eight are coming. Hunter surmises the dean spoke to them, too.
At precisely seven o’clock, the doorbell chimes. Hunter tucks a black T shirt into his black jeans and looks over at Vanessa. Her long red hair shines on the little black dress she’s wearing. He cups his hand around her waist and they open the giant double doors of their home.
The first to arrive is Dr. Jones. As boring as the beige suit and tie he’s wearing. On one arm, he escorts his wife, who’s sporting a floral dress with gobs of costume jewelry. In his other arm, he cradles a gift, a tall gold box with a white bow on top. Most likely a bottle of wine or cognac.
After the customary introductions, Hunter escorts the guests to the formal living room.
Dr. Jones scans the room. “Marble floors, wood beams, ahem, very Roman.” He says it with a hint of disdain and sets the gift on the coffee table next to a vase of fresh tropical flowers. Mostly heliconia and blood lilies, wit
h a single bird of paradise perched at the top.
“Lovely flowers,” Mrs. Jones says awkwardly.
Vanessa takes a seat next to her and says, “Thank you. I hand selected each one, just for tonight.”
Hunter smiles softly. He loves that Vanessa is unaffected by their guests’ bitterness and it gives him a surge of confidence.
After the three other professors and their wives arrive, and all the introductions are made, and all the drinks are served, Dr. Jones hands the gift to Hunter and says, “A small token of our appreciation for your leadership. From all of us.”
The gift is much heavier than Hunter expects and when it slips, he grabs the bottom of the box and heaves it onto the bar. After removing the lid with the bow, he looks inside. It’s not a bottle of anything. It’s a marble statue. Hunter grabs the head and pulls it out of the box. And there, cradled in his arms is a statue of Venus. Not Botticelli’s Venus. This is a statue of Venus di Milo. The one at the Louvre. The one who looks identical to his masseuse—the owner of Spa di Venus.
“We know she’s your favorite goddess,” Dr. Jones says with a belittling chuckle.
Vanessa scrunches her eyes. “Who is it?” she demands. “I thought Venus was your favorite.”
The four professors smirk, but their eyes dance with delight at Vanessa’s ignorance.
Finally, Mrs. Jones says, “That is Venus, Dear.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Vanessa storms off to the kitchen. “A Venus with no arms,” she shouts over her shoulder.
“I’m sure you’ll find the perfect spot for her,” Mrs. Jones says. “Your home is quite lovely.”
“Thank you all,” says Hunter. “I’m deeply moved by this meaningful gesture.”
The fact that the other professors aren’t saying anything tells Hunter Dr. Jones is their spokesperson, their leader in the collaborative attempt to undermine his authority. Wanting to get the dinner ended as quickly as possible, Hunter carries the statue with him and says, “Shall we move on to the dining room?”
“Yes, let’s do,” one of the other professors speaks up a little too enthusiastically.
They follow Hunter through the marble foyer, into the enormous dining room that boasts a long hand-carved wooden table. At each setting, sitting atop a dinner plate, is a small plate of Caprese salad, drizzled with fig balsamic vinegar and garnished with fresh basil.
“Oh, my,” says one of the wives, scanning the room with her hand on her chest.
Hunter places the statue on the formal buffet server that sits beneath a giant rendition of Botticelli’s painting, The Birth of Venus.
Mrs. Jones studies the table. “No place cards?”
“Please,” Hunter says, waving his hand down. “Sit wherever you like.”
Again, looks of scorn.
Hunter pauses and then says, “Would you excuse me for a moment, please?”
Off in the kitchen, Vanessa obviously overheard that conversation and says, “I told you we need place cards.”
“And you were right,” Hunter says. “Now, let’s bring out the feast and get them drunk.” He kisses her cheek and lifts the platter that holds a black pepper encrusted rack of lamb garnished with mint leaves and surrounded by roasted rosemary potatoes and onions.
Vanessa follows with a tray of parmesan covered asparagus in one hand and a basket of steamy bread in the other.
Rather than hiring servers, they carry everything out themselves to give the night a more casual feel. And it seems to be working. A river of red wine flows down the long dinner table and after finishing off the tiramisu, everyone is chatting and laughing. Everyone except Hunter.
Throughout the evening, the statue of Venus di Milo has been staring at him from the buffet server. All he can think about is that massage and how it affected him. And now, in his own home, Venus di Milo is having that same effect.
After the last guests leave and Hunter is alone with Vanessa, she says the oddest thing. She asks if Hunter noticed one of the wives flirting with another wife’s husband. “I think they’re having an affair,” Vanessa slurs.
Still aroused by Venus di Milo, Hunter scoops up Vanessa and climbs the marble stairs to their room. “I can’t even fathom why someone who’s made a vow of marriage would do that.”
He lays her on the bed and helps her out of the dress. Vanessa is drunk, and this time, she lets him in.
And on this night, Hunter feels more powerful than Jupiter, god of all gods. Yes, thunder rumbles and lightning flashes. And it goes on and on, into the night.
CHAPTER 7
ON MONDAY MORNING, Hunter follows the sound of the blender into the kitchen. Vanessa hands him a protein shake.
“Banana blueberry,” she says. “Your favorite.”
Vanessa takes a sip of her shake, while Hunter downs half of his. Last night boosted his ego back to where he likes it. He feels powerful again, ready to take on the political chaos at the University.
He gazes lovingly at Vanessa and says, “What are you up to today?”
She rubs her flat belly. “After last night, I better start making that room upstairs into a baby nursery.”
He moves a wisp of red hair off her eyes and drapes it around her ear. Gently, he kisses the creamy mustache off her lips. He wants to swipe all the pots and pans from last night’s feast off the countertop and take her again, right there in the kitchen.
But the doorbell chimes and Vanessa wiggles her way out of his arms. “That’s the cleaning service,” she says hurriedly.
While Vanessa answers the door, Hunter wanders into the dining room and sitting there, in front of Botticelli’s Venus, is Venus di Milo. The gift from his colleagues.
Hunter studies Venus di Milo’s face. He touches her lips, her wavy hair. She’s androgynous compared to Botticelli’s Venus, who is the epitome of femininity. Two different interpretations of the same woman. The marble Venus di Milo statue, carved in ancient times, is more authentic than Botticelli’s interpretation that came fifteen centuries later.
The rattling of dishes snaps Hunter out of his thoughts. And watching him from the doorway is his feminine, fifteenth century Venus look alike. He squeezes by, kisses Vanessa’s cheek and digs the car keys out of his pocket.
After Hunter gets settled in the Fiat and is on the road, he pulls out his wallet and finds the spa membership card. He still has Rayna’s card, too, and he calls to make an appointment for a massage on the way to the University.
“She’s booked this morning,” Rayna says. “Her next opening isn’t until five this afternoon.”
“That’s fine,” Hunter replies. “Five it is.”
When he passes Spa di Venus, the circular drive is lined with cars. His stomach squeezes. Going back to the spa is a bad idea.
His obsessions want to drive him, but he needs to be the driver. Sort the good compulsions from the bad. The ones that benefit him from the ones that cause him harm.
Don’t become my father.
Hunter rests his head back and exhales. He’ll find a different way to relieve the tension that comes with his newfound success. Meanwhile, just one more massage and then he’ll give the spa membership to Vanessa.
She will love it.
CHAPTER 8
SPA DI VENUS has fewer cars parked in the drive by five in the afternoon. Hunter greets Rayna and says, “My appointment’s with Venus, not someone else, right?”
“Your membership is for one massage per week. With Venus.”
Hunter grins and makes his way to the dressing room near the warm mineral bath. This time, two other men are relaxing in the pool. A young man rushes out and pours Pinot Grigio into a glass. He hands the white wine to Hunter and retreats to the shade of the porch.
Hunter holds up the glass. This is new, serving wine. Nice touch. He takes the wine and moves to a corner of the bath and gazes up at the statues of Venus di Milo watching over from atop each column. What a weird coincidence that he received a smaller version of that same statue from his colleagues.
He sips the wine and his taste buds explode. White wine isn’t his thing, but this is refreshing.
And then he hears her voice. “Dr. Flynn, I’m ready.”
She takes him to the same room as before. Except one thing is different. The music. This time it’s not the plucking of a lyre that relaxes his senses. It’s a wind instrument.
“Sounds like a Roman tuba,” Hunter says before burying his head in the hole at the front of the table.
Venus rubs mud into the muscles in his back and says, “Yes, except it looks more like a French horn.”
It’s surprising she’s having a conversation with him. The first time, when she didn’t speak at all, Venus seemed mysterious. And his physical attraction to her, that was a complete mystery. Why would he be attracted to a six-foot-tall androgynous woman? It made no sense. At least now he can relax and enjoy a normal, soothing, professional massage.
“I’m impressed with your knowledge of ancient Rome,” Hunter says to the stone floor.
“And I with yours.” Venus presses into his shoulder blade. “I read your book.” She spreads more mud on his back.
“Which one?”
Her strong fingers knead the mud into his lower back. “Demythologizing Romulus and Remus.”
Through the face hole, Hunter studies Venus’ feet. They’re large and she’s wearing brown leather strap sandals that wrap up her legs. “What did you think,” he asks, “of the book?”
When her feet disappear, Hunter feels her hands on his thighs. He wants more than anything for this conversation to demythologize Venus, this masseuse, but that doesn’t happen. And she doesn’t answer his question. Finally, the massage is over. Unfortunately, it’s time to get off the table.
This time, Venus waits.
As Hunter stands, he reaches desperately for the robe. But it’s too late. Venus’ eyes are moving down his body.
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