by Nancy Thayer
“Good.” Shirley made a note. “Then you can help me decide whether we need a full-time shrink on our team for clients who have more serious problems.”
Alice looked worried. “Good thing we’ve got plenty of malpractice insurance.”
“Yes,” Shirley said, “but aside from the legalities, I want to be sure we can actually help our clients. Another woman, for example, has a more serious medical problem.” She shot a stern look around the table. “This, as you know, is in confidence.”
The other three nodded.
“Since you’re on the board, I can tell you her name. A woman in her late thirties joined last month. She wants help keeping her blood pressure down and relaxing in general, because she’s pregnant, and she already has high blood pressure. Her name is Carolyn Sperry.”
“Sperry Paper?” Alice asked.
Shirley nodded.
“She’s famous,” Faye said. “What a plum for The Haven!”
Marilyn cleared her throat. “I’m not sure I know who she is.”
“Sperry Paper Company is one of the state’s oldest businesses,” Alice told her. “An entire town’s grown up around it over the last century. Aubrey Sperry, the current president of the company, shows up at all the best society functions, plus he’s extremely generous to local charities.”
“Carolyn is Aubrey’s daughter,” Shirley continued. “The founder of the company was a woman, and it’s been handed down from mother to daughter until Aubrey’s mother had only one child, a boy. But Carolyn is the heir apparent, so she’s got to remain involved with the daily running of the company, while at the same time being sure she carries her child, which is a girl, to full term. Plus, her father’s just brought a new wife into the family constellation.”
“And she has high blood pressure?” Faye asked. “She’s got a lot on her plate.”
“I know,” Shirley agreed. “This is the sort of client who makes me lose sleep. I can only advise her. I’m not her boss, her parent, or her doctor, so I can’t insist or enforce.”
“What have you suggested?” Marilyn inquired.
“Beginner’s yoga, weekly massage and aromatherapy. And I tried to get her to join the Friday-night quilting class, because I think it would do her good to build a community, friends with their own problems who will make her feel not so neurotic, friends she can laugh with. But she wasn’t very keen on the quilting group.”
“Maybe she’ll make friends on her own,” Faye suggested. “After all, the four of us met at a party.”
“Maybe.” Shirley shrugged. “Maybe not. She’s pretty standoffish.”
“Speaking of making friends . . .” Alice’s grin had a touch of mischief. “Have we all completed our HFC assignments?”
“Oh, please,” Faye groaned. “Seriously, please, let’s not do this.”
“Too late,” Shirley announced. “It’s already done!”
“Shirley,” Faye said, “I’m grateful for your concern about my health and my happiness, but what the three of you are suggesting is only making me miserable.”
Marilyn looked across the table at Faye. “It really will make you feel better.”
“Don’t even think about the sexual side of it,” Alice advised her. “Just think of what fun it is to make new friends.”
“I don’t need any new friends!” Faye protested, hugging her silk jacket against her protectively.
“But you’ll like them!” Shirley insisted. “Let me tell you about my candidate. Teddy Timlin. Actually, he goes by ‘Tank.’ He’s a friend of my old boyfriend Jimmy, and he’s a totally good guy. And—”
“I’m not going out with a man who calls himself Tank!” Faye said.
“How old is he?” Alice asked.
“Does it matter?” Shirley shot back. “We’re not talking marriage here! We’re just trying to give Faye some dating experiences, a little fun in her life, and believe me, Tank’s fun.”
“I think my candidate’s more appropriate,” Alice said.
Shirley shrugged. “Okay, fine, who is he?”
“Glen Wells. Just retired from the accounting department at TransWorld. Glen’s a completely reliable, stand-up kind of guy. I’d trust him with anything. He’s divorced, got two grown children, likes art museums and the symphony and so on—you’d really like him, Faye. You two would have a lot in common.”
In reply, Faye leaned her elbows on the table and buried her head in her hands.
“Who’s your candidate, Marilyn?” Shirley asked.
“Roger Munson. Ph.D. Works in my department at MIT. In his fifties, divorced, absolutely brilliant.”
“Good.” Alice rapped her pencil on the table. “Three good possibilities. Did you come up with anyone, Faye?”
Faye lifted her head wearily. “I. Did. Not. Please. I don’t want to date!”
“But you have to agree with us in theory,” Marilyn argued.
Faye sighed. “In theory, yes, I suppose I do. Meeting new people is good for us, and dating can be rejuvenating. But not always. For example, I was chatting with a young woman in my yoga class, Beth Grey, and she’s just fallen in love, which is wonderful, but her boyfriend’s family’s sending her self-esteem into a nosedive.”
“Let’s get her together with Julia and Carolyn,” Shirley suggested. “They’ve all got relative problems.”
“What a good idea!” Faye said. “Now, how should we do this?”
“First,” Alice remarked drily, “we should finish our discussion about you, Faye. Stop trying to wriggle out of it.”
“But I really don’t need a man in my life!” Faye contended.
“What’s the harm in trying?” Marilyn coaxed. “It could be fun. If nothing else, it could be interesting.”
“Yeah, well, it could be humiliating, too,” Faye grumbled.
“Hey!” Alice pointed an admonishing finger at Faye. “Remember the first rule of the Hot Flash Club. Don’t let fear rule your life.”
Faye shook her head. “I’m not afraid.”
“Then do it,” Shirley said. “Start with Tank. I can personally vouch for the guy, he won’t rape or murder you—”
“Be still, my heart,” Faye muttered.
“—and you already know he’s not the kind of man you’d match up with long term, so this is just kind of a fun experiment.”
“We’re not letting you off the hook,” Alice said.
With a desperate sigh, Faye capitulated. “All right. I’ll go out with Tank.”
“Great! I’ll phone him tonight to set something up. You’re free every night, aren’t you?”
Faye snorted. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“Speaking of boyfriends.” Alice skewered Shirley with a look. “How’s Justin?” When Shirley flushed, she increased the pressure. “Has he found another job yet? I mean, he’s been unemployed for, um, how many months now?”
Shirley glared. “He’s looking for another job.” Shirley sat up straighter, running a hand over her already smooth hair. “Actually—”
Alice narrowed her eyes at Shirley suspiciously.
Shirley bit the bullet. “I want to hire Justin to teach at The Haven.”
“You’re shitting me,” Alice said.
Shirley’s lips thinned in anger. “No, Alice. I am not shitting you. I think a course in journal writing and one in poetry and one in creative writing would be an excellent addition to our programs. I mean, come on, Faye teaches art therapy at the spa—”
Alice interrupted, “May I remind you she does it for no pay?”
“That’s her choice,” Shirley snapped back. “She likes doing it. Besides, Faye’s one of the investors, and she’ll eventually get a profit on her shares, so it behooves her to help The Haven be successful!” Shirley paused, stunned that she’d actually said behooves and wondering if she’d used the word correctly.
Alice turned to Faye and Marilyn. “You’re both on the board. What do you think of Justin teaching at The Haven?”
“I think the cou
rses he offers sound interesting,” Faye told her. “And he does have a Ph.D.”
Marilyn agreed. “And whatever salary he’d make would be minimal. As a part-time employee, he wouldn’t be eligible for health benefits. It wouldn’t hurt to give him a trial run.” She gave Alice a level stare. “The Haven was Shirley’s brainchild. She should have creative control.”
Gritting her teeth, Alice gave in. “Fine.”
Shirley was eager to change the subject. “Hey! I know how to get our three new kids together. I’ll invite them to try, for free, a special course combining Jacuzzi with aromatherapy. The three of you can be there, too, you can get them started talking and, when the time’s right, diplomatically slip away.”
“That’s not a bad idea, Shirley,” Alice said.
“I like it, too,” Faye agreed. “Although Julia knows I teach art therapy here . . .”
Shirley said, “So what? Teachers should help judge what works.”
“Plus, I won’t say no to the Jacuzzi and aromatherapy,” Marilyn put in.
“Let’s do it,” Alice said.
Shirley checked her calendar. “Next Friday evening good for you all?”
The other three looked in their appointment books and agreed on the date.
“What a productive meeting this was!” Shirley looked around the table, beaming. “And we didn’t even eat chocolate!”
Alice had the final word. “Yet.”
11
About twenty miles southwest of Boston lay the tree-lined, money-groomed, wealth-cushioned enclave of Dover. In the heart of this suburb, on Chestnut Street, in a brick Georgian mansion on a three-acre lot enclosed by wrought-iron fences, lived Polly’s mother-in-law, Claudia Lodge.
Polly parked her car on the driveway, then stepped out into the bright autumn day. The trees burned like flames in the crisp air, and she wished she could take the time to enjoy the day, but she was a woman on a mission, one she dreaded but knew she must complete, so she dragged her reluctant body to the front door and knocked.
Her mother-in-law opened the door instantly. “Good. You’re on time.” Claudia’s tone implied that she’d spent most of her life waiting for clueless Polly to show up.
“Hello, Claudia,” Polly said. Entering the beautiful old home, with its family portraits, antique furniture, thick Persian rugs, and well-polished wooden floors, Polly had the illusion of stepping back into time, or into a book by Henry James. She handed Claudia her light jacket, revealing the beautiful hunter green corduroy dress she’d made herself. She seldom wore dresses, preferring jeans or trousers and shirts, but she’d learned to dress as Claudia preferred.
“You’re looking well,” Polly dutifully complimented her mother-in-law.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Claudia commanded. “I look ill, and I am.”
Polly blinked. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, so dim in this hallway after the glare of the sun, she could tell that, yes, Claudia had lost weight. “You’re ill, Claudia?” she repeated cautiously. Claudia hated anything verging on personal.
Claudia hung Polly’s jacket in the hall closet. “Let’s do wait until we’ve had some tea,” Claudia said, her tone of voice implying that Polly had done it once again, committed yet another social blunder.
But you brought it up first, Polly wanted to retort, and swallowed her remark. She hated how Claudia reduced her, in minutes, to an infantile state of mind.
Obediently, she followed the other woman into the drawing room, sinking, at Claudia’s imperious gesture, into the indicated armchair. On the table between them sat the sterling silver tea service that had been in the family for generations. Polly waited while Claudia poured the smoky Hu-Kwa into thin china cups and handed one to her, without asking whether she wanted cream, sugar, or lemon. There was, in Claudia’s point of view, only one way to drink tea. Her way.
Claudia was immaculately dressed, as always. She wore a plaid wool skirt, wool sweater and matching cardigan, and a string of pearls. Her hair, once dark, was now white, but shaped as it had been all her life, in a pageboy, folding under just at her ears, to accentuate her pearl earrings. In her youth, Claudia had been a great tennis player and sailor, strong, nimble, and tanned, and now in her eighties the creases and folds of her skin bore testament to all those days in the sun. Nearly six feet, and always slender, she did not try to disguise her height but wore handsome three-inch heels. Although Polly had often rued Claudia’s arrogance, she’d always envied her posture, so straight and regal.
Polly sipped the smoky tea. The silence speckled in the air around them, like dust motes. Polly couldn’t wait to share her news. “I’m a grandmother now, Claudia! Amy—”
Claudia waved at the air as if dismissing a gnat. “I’ve asked you here to discuss something important.”
Polly swallowed her anger. Claudia had said she was ill—
“Some tests indicate the possibility that I might have ovarian cancer.”
“Oh, Claudia,” Polly cried, stunned by the news. “I’m so sorry.”
Claudia sighed, exasperated. “I didn’t ask you here for you to go into a sentimental fit. You can’t be any help to me if you’re going to be maudlin.”
Polly’s face flushed, but she straightened. “All right, then. How can I be of help to you?”
Claudia took a sip of her tea, settled the delicate cup in the saucer before replying. When she spoke, she kept her eyes on her tea. “I’m not able to drive any longer. Nothing to do with my illness; my eyes are not good enough for me to renew my license. I need someone to take me to the hospital.”
“Well, Claudia, of course, I’ll be glad to drive you.”
“Good. I have an appointment for Friday afternoon, at three o’clock, at Mass. General, with Dr. Monroe. It would be convenient if you drove me and accompanied me there. The hospital is large, and I’m not as robust as I once was.”
“All right,” Polly said. “I’ll pick you up at two.”
“You’ll pick me up at one. The traffic might be bad, and the registration procedure is lengthy.”
“All right.” In a way, it was a relief that Claudia remained her normal prickly, officious self. “One it is.”
“Also, I want you to know I have my legal affairs in order.”
Polly nodded and waited.
Claudia aimed her dark eyes to a spot just to the side of Polly’s left ear. “You will be my executor. I’m leaving everything to the New England Historical Society. Robert Gershong is my lawyer. He has a draft of the will, and I have one, as well, in my safe-deposit box. As executor, you will receive a slight fee, and if there’s any particular item you’d like to have—a painting, this silver tea service, whatever—you may choose something. Everything’s in order.”
“Well,” Polly responded carefully, “that’s good. That you have everything organized.”
“I have written explicit instructions for my burial. My plot is in Forest Hills Cemetery, next to my husband’s. I do not want a memorial service of any kind. Simply a few words read at my interment. I’ve already arranged that with Reverend Alexander.”
“Goodness, Claudia, don’t you want some kind of ceremony? You have so many friends—”
Claudia interrupted, “If you feel unable to carry out my wishes, I’ll find someone else to do it.”
“Of course I’ll carry out your wishes, Claudia.”
“Very well. Thank you.” Claudia’s face was as haughty as marble, but an odd little sound escaped her—a burp?
Polly felt her lips twitch and squelched a childish desire to giggle.
Claudia touched a damask napkin to her lips. “I’ll see you at one on Friday,” she murmured.
This was her signal to leave, Polly knew. “Claudia, before I go, can I get anything for you?”
“I’m quite all right, Polly. I’ll see you Friday.”
“Would you like me to carry the tray into the kitchen?”
Claudia hesitated, then shook her head. “Pearl can deal with it tomorrow
.”
“Well, then. I’ll see you Friday.” As she rose to go, Polly yearned to perform some act of consolation, to offer comfort in some way. Since Claudia did not like to be touched, Polly simply said, “Good-bye,” and went down the long hallway and out of the dark house.
——————————
Polly had always thought people who were comfortable with silence held some kind of power over those who weren’t. Were they, perhaps, higher up on some evolutionary scale? Conversation seemed to Polly a normal, basic, universal human need. And there was always so much to discuss—fall fashions, movie-star marriages, politics, even the weather, for heaven’s sake. Friday afternoon, as Polly drove Claudia to the hospital, she attempted to converse on these neutral topics, but was met with stony silence.
And yet, Claudia could have asked someone else to drive her to the hospital. Her “friends,” were, Polly thought, social acquaintances, the sort of people with whom Claudia would discuss fall fashions, charity functions, and politics. Perhaps Claudia didn’t want to expose any weakness to them. Still, Claudia could have phoned a limo service or even a cab. Instead, she’d commanded Polly. Which meant what? Nothing that Claudia would ever articulate, not even the simple, obvious fact that Polly was Claudia’s only surviving relation.
Once inside, winding their way through the endless hospital corridors, without turning even slightly in Polly’s direction, Claudia began to speak, allowing a few syllables to fall from her lips, as if her words were bits of gold she was certain Polly would rush to catch. “The gift shop here is actually rather nice,” she said as they passed it. In the elevator she announced, “My primary physician here went to the same private preschool as Tucker.” Polly understood that this was cocktail-party patter, a pretense of conversation performed for the benefit of others in the general vicinity. “Oh, really?” was the only response required of Polly, and she duly provided it.
The reception area was large and attractive, with gorgeous silk-screen prints of flowers and a wall of windows overlooking the Charles River and Storrow Drive. A bank of receptionists and secretaries murmured as they processed the patients who docilely sat waiting their turn. As they took their own seats, Polly longed to be her normal chattering self with her mother-in-law, wished she could relieve the tension by saying what she felt: “Isn’t this scary! Isn’t cancer the creepiest word? Don’t you want some Valium, or an antidepressant, or at least an enormous box of chocolates? I do!” But Claudia took a paperback Edith Wharton from her purse and began reading. Polly had also brought a book, so she settled her glasses on her nose and pretended to read.