by Nancy Thayer
Alice looked around for Shirley. Dusk was just beginning to fall, softening the light and moderating the heat. Shirley was with Marilyn and Ian.
“Let me show you the walking paths before it gets dark,” she said. Shirley escorted them toward the woods.
Alice watched the three stroll away. Gideon and Hugh were engaged in a fierce discussion of the Red Sox.
Alice stood up. She was half-surprised by the direction her thoughts were carrying her legs, but as she strolled unnoticed into the kitchen of The Haven, she decided that somewhere in her unconscious mind she’d been plotting this all along.
Just waiting for the right opportunity.
Alice wanted a peek at Justin’s novel. Shirley might be shy about reading it, but Alice wasn’t.
In the kitchen, Alice took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the different light. Then she hurried.
She knew the layout of The Haven well. She’d examined every inch when Shirley was considering buying it, and during the past two years, Alice had made her way countless times past the back corridor leading to all the offices, into the great foyer, and up the handsome staircase to the second floor where the private condos were. She’d been in Shirley’s condo often, although not since Justin had moved in.
Shirley’s condo was at the end of the building. The door was open. Not just unlocked, but wide open. Good.
Alice stepped inside. Quickly she scanned the place. It was so very Shirley, with lavender walls hung with paintings of nude goddesses. Batik cushions spilled across the sofa. Candles and incense holders sat on every table.
A short hallway led to the bathroom and two bedrooms. Alice peeked in. On the left, a violet paisley duvet covered a bed. A man’s robe was tossed over a chair.
Alice went into the other bedroom. Aha! This was clearly Justin’s study, where he was writing his purportedly brilliant novel.
Two walls were lined with shelves filled with books. A handsome desk sat in front of the window, a computer humming on top of it. Filing cabinets stood in front of the fourth wall.
Quickly, Alice surveyed Justin’s desk. Well, well, he was a very tidy boy. She saw a calendar blotter, blank note-pad, pens, tape dispenser, stapler, paperweight, Post-its, and telephone, but that was all. No sign of the precious novel.
She crossed the room, stuck her head around the corner into the hall, and listened carefully. No sounds on the stairs. Good.
Approaching the filing cabinets, she yanked open a drawer, swiftly flipping through the files, which had been carefully labeled in a firm hand: Correspondence/ Agents. Correspondence/Publishers. Those held only polite letters of rejection. Files of newspaper and magazine clippings and online essays about how to get published or how to survive the trials of refusals filled the rest of the drawer. Alice felt a twinge of sympathy for Justin.
It didn’t last long.
She opened the next file drawer. It was crammed with lesson plans, sample tests, essays, and handouts from his days of teaching English. Another drawer held the boring paperwork of everyday life: a car insurance folder, passport information, receipts for tax purposes.
One more drawer. Alice pulled.
It wouldn’t open.
Ha! This drawer, no doubt, held the priceless manuscript.
She tried gently enticing the drawer open. It didn’t work. She yanked hard. It wouldn’t open.
Her heart was pounding. How long had she been away from the party? She should have noticed the time when she came in. She hurried to the window and looked out—everyone was occupied, talking and laughing; no one was looking around for her. Justin was still smarming around Carolyn.
Okay. Alice forced herself to take a deep breath. Plunking down in Justin’s office chair, she wiggled the mouse. The computer brightened and came to life.
She took a moment to study the icons on the screen, then opened the word-processing program. Clicking on the folder “C,” she learned it contained correspondence. Appropriate.
Could the folder named “N” possibly contain the novel?
Only one way to find out.
With a trembling hand, Alice clicked. Dozens of files marched down the screen. She moved the cursor to “Title” and clicked again. Her heart drummed in her ears.
Spa Spy, a novel by Justin Quale.
The words leapt out at her so fast, Alice gasped. She’d found it! She’d found his novel! Her heart went pit-a-pat.
Hang on now! It was called Spa Spy? That didn’t sound good.
She closed that file and opened the one labeled “Chapter One.”
She read the first page. He wrote well. It read fast. But . . . Alice was literally on the edge of her seat as she scrolled hurriedly down to the middle of the chapter.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. Stunned, she clicked and tugged the mouse, speeding the cursor through succeeding chapters.
Spa Spy seemed to be about a group of women who ran a wellness retreat for wealthy older women. Everything was rosy—until the second chapter, when it was revealed that spy holes had been placed in strategic spots in the walls of the locker room, Jacuzzi room, and massage therapy rooms. The managing group were using the spy holes to photograph and tape-record certain of their wealthiest clients, with blackmail plans in mind. The director’s lover, a handsome man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Justin, was trying to foil their scheme.
“Oh, no!” Alice cried again.
Her heart contracted fiercely as the full horror of it hit her. Justin had appropriated details of The Haven. Anyone reading this trash would immediately withdraw their membership. Even if there was the standard disclaimer about this being a work of fiction bearing no relation to any living person, it would still kill The Haven’s business. Shirley would be devastated.
And heartbroken. When Shirley realized what Justin had done, she would know the truth about the man she believed loved her . . . Alice’s own heart cracked at the thought.
A searing pain shot from Alice’s chest into her left arm. She clutched her arm, groaning.
What—?
What was happening?
She couldn’t get her breath. An immense pressure weighed against her chest—dear God! She was having a heart attack!
She tried to reach for the telephone, but only managed to knock the handset off before crumpling to the floor. She was aware of a suffocating pressure and a burning pain—and then it all went black.
“So that’s the main walking path,” Shirley told Ian as they came out of the shadowy forest onto the grassy lawn.
“It’s wonderful,” Ian said. “So many varieties of deciduous trees!”
Ian and Marilyn were holding hands and lingering in the shelter of the woods, as if the tree bark were amazingly interesting, which, Shirley thought, it just might be to this pair of scientific brains. Probably they wanted to press their noses up against the tree trunks, searching for bugs.
More likely, they wanted to remain hidden in the woods so they could kiss.
“I’ve got to run into the kitchen and get some candles,” Shirley told them.
“Need help?” Marilyn called dutifully.
“No, thanks!” Shirley grinned as she fairly skipped across the lawn.
Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Gideon and Hugh were still deep in discussion, probably solving the Red Sox pitching problems. Jennifer, Alan, and Ruth were sitting with Carolyn and Hank, who bounced his daughter on his knee. No doubt they were talking about babies. Faye and Aubrey were at the far end of the grounds, playing croquet.
Where was Alice?
She spotted Justin slinking into the kitchen.
Something about the way he moved worried her. He looked so . . . furtive.
She hurried onto the patio. “Just getting some candles,” she tossed over her shoulder.
The kitchen was dark, cool—and empty. Shirley went through into the foyer just in time to see Justin’s feet disappearing up the great front staircase.
She followed.
Where was he goi
ng? Why did she feel so nervous? Her palms were sweaty! Her heart was pounding! This was ridiculous! The poor man probably just wanted to take a pee.
But there were restrooms on the first floor, close to the kitchen.
Well, then, maybe he’d spilled something on his shirt and went to change it. Or something, anything—why was she so spooked?
She flew up the stairs after him.
At the end of the hall, the door to her condo was open, providing a direct shot into the foyer and down the little hall leading to the bedrooms.
Justin was standing in the hall. He was just standing there, staring. Staring into his own study. Not moving. Why would he do that? He looked oddly satisfied.
“Justin?” Shirley called.
He turned his head and saw her coming toward him. In a flash, he disappeared into his study.
“What’s going on, Hon?” Shirley asked, hurrying into the condo and down the hall.
She turned into Justin’s study. Justin was hurriedly moving the computer mouse—and Alice was collapsed on the floor!
“Alice?” Shirley ran into the room and threw herself down. “Oh, my God, Alice!”
18
ALICE LAY CURLED ON HER SIDE, UNCONSCIOUS.
“Justin! Call 911! Alice is—I think she’s had a heart attack!” Shirley turned Alice on her back. Alice flopped like a doll. She wasn’t breathing. “Oh, God, oh, Alice!”
Justin was speaking with 911. Shirley shoved the window up and screamed down at the backyard. “Hugh? HUGH! Come up here, please! Alice had a heart attack!”
Startled faces stared up at her from the patio. She dropped to the floor and began CPR on Alice. Shirley’s hands were shaking—her entire body was trembling as if it were about to shatter—but she forced herself to concentrate.
Kneeling, she pinched Alice’s nose tight, covered Alice’s mouth with her own, and blew. Once. Twice. Three times? She couldn’t remember how many times to breathe!
Alice didn’t respond. Shirley put her hands between Alice’s breasts and shoved down hard. Once, twice, three times—she knew she had to do it fifteen times at the rate of one hundred per second, or was it one hundred times at the rate of fifteen per second?
She blew again in Alice’s mouth. Alice had a mole by her left eyebrow. She’d never noticed that before. She moved back to her chest and pumped. Beneath her tangerine chiffon poncho, Alice’s chest remained still.
Suddenly Hugh was there, kneeling next to Shirley. “I’ll pump. You breathe.” He began to count aloud. Quickly they synchronized their efforts.
In a blurry kind of way, Shirley was aware of the others crowding into the room, asking how Alice was, what they could do to help. Justin bent down to unplug his computer, then lifted it off the desk and left the room with it in his arms.
“Mom?” Alan fell to the floor next to his mother. “Is she okay? What can I do?”
“Just give her room to breathe,” Hugh told him. “We’re doing what we can.”
“The ambulance is here!” Faye called.
“She’s got a pulse,” Hugh said.
“Should we stop now?” Shirley asked.
Two EMTs ran into the room.
The closest hospital was Emerson in Concord. The ambulance tore down The Haven’s driveway, siren blaring. The rest of the party followed in various cars. Since Justin had disappeared, Polly tucked Shirley into the back of Hugh’s Range Rover and sat with her, keeping a comforting arm around her.
“Justin was just standing there,” Shirley sobbed. “Just standing there, looking.”
Hugh spoke up from the front seat. “Not everyone knows how to give CPR.”
“Then he should have yelled out the window like I did. Phoned 911. Run back downstairs and grabbed you. Something.” Shirley couldn’t stop shaking.
“Take some deep breaths,” Polly told her.
Shirley tried, but her thoughts kept exploding. “And then, when I was giving her CPR, Justin was removing his computer from the room! As if he had something to hide!” She covered her face with her hands and wept.
At the hospital, the Hot Flash friends and their beaux clustered in a waiting room for what felt like an eternity. Shirley repeated her story over and over again, how she’d followed Justin, how sneaky he’d looked, and then how creepily he stood there staring into his study, looking alert and somehow satisfied. How Alice had lain unconscious, her face void of her formidable personality.
“If she doesn’t recover, I won’t be able to live with myself,” Shirley whispered.
“She’ll recover,” Faye promised, because anything else was unthinkable.
Hugh returned to the room, a physician in a white coat at his side. Everyone knew at once that Alice hadn’t died—both men were smiling.
“Alice is awake,” the physician informed them. “She suffered a mild cardiac infarction. We have her on an anticoagulant, and we’re going to run some tests on her to find out exactly what the problem is. She’ll be in the hospital for a couple of days at least. Who’s her next of kin?”
“I am!” Shirley cried eagerly, then added honestly, “Well, I feel like I am.”
“I am,” Alan insisted.
“I am,” Gideon bellowed.
The physician smiled. Pointing to Alan, he said, “We need you to sign some forms.” He looked at Shirley. “You must be Shirley. Come with me. She wants to see you. But only for a moment, you understand.”
Enthroned on a high white hospital bed, an oxygen tube snaking into her nose, IVs dripping into her arms, Alice lay beneath white sheets, sleeping.
“Alice?”
Alice opened her eyes. Seeing Shirley, she turned her hand over, palm up. Shirley grabbed it with both hands.
“Oh, Alice!” Tears ran down Shirley’s face, plopping on her shirt. “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re okay.”
Alice’s face grew serious. “Shirley. Must tell you.” Her voice was whispery, strained. “Justin’s novel? It’s called Spa Spy. It’s—bad. You can’t help him publish it.”
A nurse entered the room. “Ladies? What are we doing to get the patient agitated?”
“Alice.” Shirley bent close to her friend. “Don’t worry. I promise you, Justin Quale and his novel are on their way out of my life.”
“But—” Alice struggled to explain.
“Tell me the details later. I know all I need to know now.”
“How—?” Alice’s face creased anxiously.
Frantically, Shirley wondered how she could reassure her. “Justin gave The Hemingway Group ten thousand dollars this spring. I mailed them a check for ten thousand more last week. First thing in the morning, I’m calling the bank and canceling the check. Next thing, I’m throwing all his stuff out on the lawn.”
Alice smiled and relaxed into the pillows. “Sorry, kiddo.”
“I love you, Alice!” Shirley bent down and kissed her friend. “I’ll spend the night here.”
“Tell Alan and Gideon I’m okay.” Alice closed her eyes. “Just really tired.”
The other members of the Hot Flash Club volunteered to come with her, but Shirley insisted she needed to do this herself. So they arranged a schedule for sitting with Alice—Gideon and Alan would spend the night at the hospital; Polly and Faye would arrive early in the morning to take over; Marilyn would relieve them in the afternoon; and Shirley would join Marilyn whenever she was through with Justin.
Through with Justin.
When Shirley returned from the hospital, it was almost midnight. Someone had brought the food in from the patio, but empty plates and glasses were still scattered outside and the kitchen was in chaos. She checked her answering machine—perhaps Justin had phoned to ask how Alice was—but there were no messages.
Glad to have a use for her nervous energy, Shirley buzzed in and out the kitchen door, carrying trays of plates, utensils, and used paper napkins in from the patio. She sorted, tossed, rinsed, and stacked, until all that was left to do was turn on the dishwasher.
Its hu
m was comforting in the huge kitchen. It sounded kind, almost concerned.
“All right, now you’re getting weird on me,” Shirley said aloud, because that’s what Alice would say.
She turned off the lights and set the alarms. She climbed the stairs to her condo—the door was still wide open. She looked in Justin’s study. No Justin. No computer.
Still too restless to sleep, Shirley decided to pack Justin’s clothes. It was a melancholy task, and as she folded his white terry-cloth robe, the tears began.
Perhaps she’d suspected just a little bit that he didn’t love her. She could believe he’d pretended to because she provided free lodging and food, not to mention funds for the publication of his book.
But she’d never dreamed his novel was titled Spa Spy! It had to be based on The Haven. Oh, her poor clients would feel so invaded! Was she hopelessly naïve? She brought his robe to her face and sobbed into it, letting it absorb her tears.
The robe smelled so good. It smelled like Justin.
The worst thing, the very worst, was the memory of Justin standing there in the hall, alert, waiting. He’d been looking at Alice, collapsed on the floor, and had not done what any normal person would do. He had not run in to help her. He’d just stood there, watching, as if waiting for her to die.
She sobbed harder, in huge, heaving sobs that produced frightening noises, like some kind of jungle rampage. So what? No one was here to hear her.
That was all right. The pain of his betrayal hurt so much—but it was pain she had to bear alone. She’d never had a baby, but she’d heard other women talking about the agony of labor. Even though husbands, lovers, doctors, nurses, midwives, or coaches were with them, they all had to endure the pain in their bodies alone.
Shirley had to endure this pain alone. She could do it, she thought, if she could consider it a kind of labor, like giving birth to herself—a new and, dear God, please, less gullible self.
“Shirley?”
She woke. Sun streamed in through the windows. She was lying on her bed with Justin’s robe in her arms. Her eyes were swollen and crusty. Her mouth was dry.