by Joy Fielding
“Heathcliff.”
“Right. Good stuff. Anyway, I’m off. Wish me luck.”
“Why do you need luck?” Lily asked.
But the front door was already closing, and the only response Lily received was the flutter of Jan’s long, orange nails waving good-bye.
“Good luck,” Lily called out belatedly, hoping that Jan wasn’t about to do anything foolish. Such as consult another doctor about that brow lift she’d been considering ever since she saw a picture of Catherine Zeta Jones in one of the tabloids and remarked that nobody could possibly look that good without a little surgical help.
“It’s unnatural,” she’d proclaimed. “Not found in nature,” she’d added for good measure.
Lily walked around the reception desk to the small black leather settee, straightening the magazines that were strewn carelessly across the top of the square, oak coffee table in front of it. Julia Roberts smiled up at her from the cover of one magazine, Gwyneth Paltrow from another. They both looked impossibly beautiful, although Lily had seen pictures of Gwyneth in sweats and carrying a yoga mat, looking less than fabulous, and even Julia looked occasionally tired, wan, and downright horsey when she wasn’t all dolled up.
“The mark of a truly beautiful woman,” Lily’s mother had once told her, “is that she doesn’t always look beautiful.”
It was one of the things her mother used to say that sounded profound on the surface but didn’t make much sense upon closer examination. Still, Lily had taken comfort in those words, as she’d taken comfort in so much of her mother’s down-home blend of wisdom and common sense. If I can be half the comfort to my son that my mother was to me, I’ll count myself lucky, she thought, wishing her mother was beside her right now, reluctantly absorbing the ineluctability of her loss. So many losses, she was thinking, fighting back the sudden threat of tears. Her mother had been the one who’d held everyone together after Kenny had lost control of his motorcycle that awful, rain-soaked night, crashing it into a tree at the side of the road only blocks from home. Her mother had been the one who’d rocked her in her arms in the moments of her deepest and darkest despair, the one who’d tried desperately to assure her that Kenny’s death hadn’t been her fault, that she wasn’t to blame.
And Lily had almost believed her.
Almost.
The phone rang and Lily returned to the reception desk. “Scully’s,” she announced, her voice resonating with fake cheer. It was important to present a positive front, to remain optimistic. “Yes, we’re open until ten. That’s right. No, I’m afraid you have to take out a membership in order to use the facilities. But we’re having a special introductory offer.… Hello? Hello?” Lily shrugged and hung up the phone, no longer offended when people cut her off in midspiel. People were busy after all. They didn’t always have time to indulge others, especially once they realized they had no interest in whatever was being offered. She’d stopped taking such rudeness personally, just as she’d stopped interpreting her scores of rejection slips to mean she was a lousy writer. Reading was subjective after all. Her book club had certainly taught her that. What one person found scintillating and profound, another found disappointing and shallow. You couldn’t please everyone. You shouldn’t try.
Lily watched Sandra Chan, an attractive woman in her mid-to-late thirties, climb off the elliptical machine and wrap a thin, white towel around her equally thin, white neck, then wait for her friend, Pam Farelli, to finish up on the treadmill. Minutes later, the two women, talking animatedly, pushed through the heavy glass door that separated the exercise room from the reception area and proceeded into the small locker room behind the black leather settee without so much as a glance in her direction. I’m invisible to them, Lily thought. “Which is a good thing,” she reminded herself in her best Martha Stewart voice.
The front door opened and a rugged-looking man with short, dark hair, a sturdy build, and massive hands protruding from under the sleeves of his tan windbreaker stepped inside. “Good morning,” he greeted Lily as she reached underneath the counter to hand him a fresh towel.
“How are you today, Detective Dawson?” she asked, as she asked every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday when the plainclothes police officer dropped by for his regular forty-minute workout.
“Not bad at all,” came his standard response. “Even better if you’ll agree to have dinner with me tonight.”
Lily took an involuntary step back, not sure how to respond. This was a deviation from their familiar banter, and she was unsure how to proceed. It wasn’t that she didn’t find Detective Dawson attractive. She did, and had, ever since he’d come storming through the doors just after she started working at Scully’s, barking, “Is that your white Impala parked illegally in the handicapped zone? Because if it is, it’s about to get towed.”
“It’s not mine,” she’d stammered. “I don’t have a car.”
“No, but you have an awfully pretty smile,” he’d replied quickly, with a smile of his own.
“Tonight’s my book club,” she told him now.
Jeff Dawson narrowed his dark blue eyes and wrinkled his twice-broken nose, as if he’d just stumbled onto something sinister. “Book club? You mean, like Oprah?”
“Except for the cameras and the seven-figure salary.” Lily smiled, thinking that he wore his weight well, then shook her head, angry at herself for noticing. It was precisely because she found him so attractive that she could never go out with him. Hadn’t she decided that part of her life was over? She had a young son to think about, a life to rebuild. A little innocent flirting was one thing, but she didn’t have the energy for the trivialities of dating, the time for the vagaries of the single scene, the patience for the inevitability of disappointment, the stamina to withstand, once again, the horrible sounds of her world crashing down around her.
“How about tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow?”
“Seven-thirty? Dinner at Joso’s?”
Lily had never eaten at the popular, and very pricey, downtown restaurant, although she’d heard wonderful things about it. McDonald’s was more her speed these days. And besides, where would she find a babysitter at this late date?
“I have a son,” she told Jeff Dawson simply, searching his face for even the slightest hint that this was more than he bargained for.
“A son?”
“Michael. He’s five.”
“My daughters are nine and ten. They live with their mother. We’re divorced. Obviously.” He laughed selfconsciously. “Almost three years now. You?”
“Widow. Last year. Motorcycle accident,” she clarified before he could ask.
“I’m sorry.”
“I can’t have dinner with you tomorrow night,” Lily said.
Jeff Dawson nodded, as if he understood. “Maybe another time,” he said easily, moving away from the desk and toward the exercise room at back, almost colliding with Sandra Chan and Pam Farelli, who were now dressed and ready to leave.
“He’s cute,” Pam said, loud enough to be heard as Sandra’s eyes trailed after him. “Great triceps,” she continued, watching the detective shed his tan windbreaker to reveal the muscular torso straining against his white T-shirt.
“We always leave too early,” Pam pouted. “Who is he anyway?” she asked Lily, as if suddenly aware of her presence. “Is he a regular?”
Lily felt an unexpected stab of jealousy and fought the urge to run around the desk to trundle these two would-be poachers out of the gym. “I’m sorry. What?” she said instead.
“The guy bench-pressing two-hundred-pound weights without breaking a sweat,” Pam said, pointing with her chin. “What do you know about him?”
“Is he married?” asked Sandra Chan.
“I know he has two daughters,” Lily said, pretending to be busy with something under the counter. “Nine and ten years old, I believe.”
The women shrugged in unison. “Damn,” one muttered.
“The good ones are always married,” sa
id the other.
Well, it wasn’t quite a lie, Lily decided as the two women pushed open the outside door and disappeared in a burst of sunlight. “He does have two daughters. They are nine and ten years old.” But why hadn’t she simply told the women the truth? She pulled her hair into a tight ponytail, secured it with a black scrunchie from her tote bag, and straightened the stacks of thin, white towels that were already perfectly straight, directing her eyes resolutely away from the exercise area. She didn’t want to see an attractive man only a few years her senior, wearing a tight-fitting, white T-shirt, and bench-pressing two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat. That was the last thing she wanted to see, the last thing she needed to see. Men like Jeff Dawson might fuel her fantasies in unguarded moments, but what she needed right now was a healthy dose of reality. Lily pulled the large stuffed envelope out of her tote bag and laid it on the counter. Reality it is, she thought, pulling out both her story and its accompanying letter of rejection.
Dear Ms. Rogers,
That would be me.
Thank you so much for the opportunity to read your short story, “Last Woman Standing.”
Dumb title for a story. I should have called it something else.
While we found the story to be entertaining and well written,
And what’s wrong with entertaining and well written?
we don’t think it is quite right for the readers of Women’s Own.
Why the hell not? What’s not quite right about it?
We wish you the best of luck in placing this piece with another magazine,
What other magazine? I’ve tried all the other magazines.
and hope you’ll think of us in the future.
Fat chance of that.
Sincerely …
“Insincerely,” Lily stated out loud, returning both the letter and the story to the envelope. That’s quite enough reality for one day, she decided, her gaze drifting toward the exercise room despite her best intentions. Ada Pearlman, whose fine, gray hair was pinned into an elegant French twist at the nape of her neck, was trudging along on her treadmill at roughly two miles an hour, which was still faster than Gina Sorbara, a verging-on-obese, middle-aged woman who seemed to be sleepwalking on hers. Jonathan Cartseris was struggling with the rowing machine, and Bonnie Jacobs, an elderly woman who’d recently been diagnosed with osteoporosis, was standing in front of the rows of free weights as if she didn’t have a clue what she was doing there. Only Police Detective Jeff Dawson looked as though he belonged, lying on his back with his legs spread on either side of the narrow bench, sturdy thighs tensed inside his black sweatpants, as he repeatedly heaved a two-hundred-pound barbell into the air above his head. He does look good, Lily found herself thinking, noticing that Bonnie Jacobs was waving at her. Lily smiled and waved back, but the woman persisted, beckoning her inside. Lily quickly got off her stool and went into the exercise room, careful to avoid a closer peek at the now-grunting police detective. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Jacobs?”
“The doctor says I’m supposed to exercise with free weights, but I have no idea what to do.” She grabbed a ten-pound weight in each hand and almost fell to her knees.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Jacobs. That’s way too heavy for you. You’ll injure yourself. Why don’t you start with these?” She lifted two, two-pound barbells from the shelf, transferring them gingerly to Mrs. Jacobs.
“Is that enough?”
“It’s all you need. Trust me,” Lily said, wondering why Mrs. Jacobs should trust her, why anyone should trust her. She then demonstrated several easy exercises for the biceps and triceps, as well as one for the pectoral muscles and several for the back and shoulders. “I’ll write them out for you, if you’d like,” she offered, returning as quickly as she could to the reception area.
The next half hour passed uneventfully—she said hello to the people who came in, good-bye to those who left, answered the phone, did one load of wash and started another. She wondered how Michael was doing in school, he’d taken his new Kermit the Frog puppet in for show-and-tell; what Jan was doing that she’d needed luck for; and whether she should attempt to write another story. She had lots of ideas, although most of them were pretty far-fetched. What was it they always said? Write about what you know? Could she do that? she wondered. Could she be that brave? That stupid?
She shook her head, inadvertently glancing toward the exercise room just as Jeff Dawson raised himself up and sat straddling the bench. Immediately the bench became a motorcycle. Lily gasped, brought her hand to her mouth. Of course he rode a motorcycle. He was a cop. Riding a motorcycle probably came with the territory. She turned away, refusing to dwell on such possibilities. What difference did it make, since she had no intention of going out with him?
“Everything okay?” he asked, appearing suddenly at her side.
For such a big man, he moved very gracefully, she thought. “Everything’s fine. Why do you ask?”
“You look a little pale. You feeling okay?”
“Do you drive a motorcycle?” she heard herself ask.
If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t let on. “No. Not since I had kids.”
Lily nodded and looked toward the phone, as if begging it to ring.
“Does this mean you might reconsider going out with me tomorrow night?” he asked after a pause.
“Sorry, I can’t,” Lily said as the outside door opened and her neighbor Emma Frost walked through. “Emma! Hi,” Lily greeted her, smiling at the woman as if she were her best friend on earth. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d check out where you work, maybe see about signing up.” Emma’s huge eyes wandered aimlessly around the premises.
“That’s great. We’re having a special introductory offer right now. Just two hundred and fifty dollars to join, and thirty dollars a month.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars?” Emma repeated, eyes coming to a stop on Jeff Dawson.
“It’s a good deal when you compare it to other clubs in the city,” Jeff chimed in.
“And you are?”
“Jeff Dawson, member in good standing.”
“I’m sure it is,” Emma said playfully, extending her hand. “Emma Frost.”
“Have we met before?” Jeff asked, shaking Emma’s hand and staring at her intently.
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“You just look so familiar to me.”
“Emma’s eyes used to be on all the packages for Maybelline mascara,” Lily volunteered.
“I don’t use a lot of mascara,” Jeff said with a laugh. “At least not lately. My boss kind of frowns on it.”
Emma dropped her gaze to the floor. “And what is it you do, exactly?”
“Jeff’s a police detective,” Lily said. Was it her imagination or did she see Emma flinch?
“I better get going,” Jeff said, pushing himself away from the reception desk. “You have my number in your files,” he told Lily. “Call me if you change your mind.” He needed only three steps to reach the front door.
“Nice tush,” Emma said as the door closed behind him. Then, “Change your mind about what?”
Lily shook off the question with a toss of her head.
“You two have something going on?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then why are you turning all shades of purple?”
“I am not,” Lily said, sounding just like her son.
“Okay.” Emma shrugged. “Maybe I will come to that book club thing you mentioned earlier, if the invitation’s still open.”
“Sure. Great. Any chance you’ve read Wuthering Heights?”
“Are you kidding? It’s one of my favorites.”
“Terrific. Then I’ll see you later.”
Emma walked to the door, stopped, and turned back. “You don’t want to get involved with a cop,” she said.
“You have something against the police?” Lily asked, trying to sound casual.
Emma shrugged. “Just never f
ound them to be very useful.”
SEVEN
The main difference that Jamie could determine between Florida and Georgia, at least along this section of I-75, was in the ubiquitous billboards punctuating the flat landscape along the side of the busy highway. Georgia tree-ripe peaches had replaced Florida juicy oranges as the highly trumpeted fruit of choice; Vidalia onions now filled the void left by the Sun Pass when it disappeared, along with the turnpike, at Wildwood; instead of signs counting off the miles till Yeehaw, there were countless billboards hailing the arrival of peanuts and pecans—WE’RE NUTS! WE SHELL! YOU CAN PECAN! There were also an alarming number of ads for what appeared to be pornographic truck stops—CAFÉ RISQUÉ—WE BARE ALL, and its sister club, CAFÉ EROTICA—WE DARE TO BARE. COUPLES WELCOME, several signs encouraged, while others bragged of GREAT FOOD along with the nude women. These women—COEDS, one sign promised, although JAILBAIT was probably a more apt description, Jamie thought, judging by the pictures of the puffy-haired, pouty-lipped young girls staring down at her from their cardboard perches—were available all day and night for the jaded traveler’s entertainment, along with a wide selection of ADULT TOYS AND VIDEOS. These roadside oases were OPEN 24 HOURS, serving up heaping portions of FOOD-N-FUN.
“Food-n-fun,” Jamie repeated, shaking her head at the number of cars parked outside each such establishment they whizzed past. It was almost six o’clock, although the sky was still as blue and as bright as it had been at noon. Jamie stretched her legs, arched her back, and rotated her neck in a wide semicircle, hearing her various muscles groan and her bones crack. She was weary of sitting in the same position, even though it was Brad who’d been doing all the driving.
“Tired?” he asked, as if reading her thoughts.
“A little.”
“We can stop at the next ‘risky café.’ ” Blue eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Are you serious?”
“You know I’d do anything to make you happy.”
Jamie smiled. “I love it when you say things like that,” she said, and he laughed. Jamie loved when he laughed. In fact, she’d pretty much decided there was nothing about Brad Fisher she didn’t love. Was it possible to fall head over heels in such a short time? Less than twenty-four hours, to be precise. Her sister would undoubtedly insist she was in the throes of infatuation, that she was rebounding from her last, ill-fated affair, which was also not real love, her mother would have added. Real love was built on a foundation of trust and truth. It took time to develop and was based on common goals and interests, respect as well as chemistry. Besides, any idiot could fall in love, both would have agreed. It was the staying in love that was the hard part. “So, what are your hobbies?” Jamie asked now, in an effort to silence their nagging, all-knowing voices.