The Hot Flash Club Chills Out

by Nancy Thayer

  “I’m glad the washer and dryer are in the old butler’s pantry,” Polly said as they scurried back up the stairs.

  Throughout the house, the furnishings were mostly antiques of the more sturdy and usable sort, American pine in the kitchen, Empire sofas in the parlors. Many of the chairs had frayed caning or worn needlepoint seats, the Persian rugs were thin in spots, and the swooping drapes were faded. But the sofas were deep and comfortable, the beds were firm, and the cupboards were filled with beautiful old embroidered sheets as smooth as silk to the touch.

  “Five bedrooms,” Faye called out. “Let’s each choose one!”

  “Shirley,” Polly said, “you get first pick, because you’re the reason we’re here.”

  Shirley hesitated, then staked her claim. “I really do want this one at the back of the house, because of the ocean view, but when I’m not here, anyone else can use it.”

  “Who wants the other ocean-view bedroom?” Faye asked.

  Polly said, “I don’t care about an ocean view. I’d love the little side bedroom with the two white iron beds and the patchwork quilts. There’s a cradle in there, too, filled with antique dolls.”

  Marilyn and Faye inspected the three remaining bedrooms.

  “I’ll take one of the two at the front of the house,” Marilyn decided.

  “But don’t you want the ocean view?” Faye asked.

  Marilyn blushed. “I’d rather have the room with the queen-size bed.”

  “Aha,” Shirley said, “for when Ian visits!”

  “Then I’ll take the ocean view.” Faye stepped into her room and sank for a moment onto the window seat. “Heaven.”

  “But what about Alice?” worried Shirley. “That only leaves the smallest bedroom at the front of the house for her.”

  Faye thought about it. “I doubt that Alice will fuss. She doesn’t seem very keen on this little enterprise. She probably won’t spend as much time here as the rest of us.”

  As if speaking of Alice had conjured her up, they heard a car door slam, and a few moments later, Alice was knocking on the front door.

  All four women clattered down the front staircase to the entrance hall.

  “Alice!”

  Alice stepped inside, pulling her rolling suitcase with her. Always beautifully, even glamorously, put together, today majestic Alice was disheveled.

  “Oh my God!” She returned their hugs only halfheartedly. “Have you ever flown on one of those little toy planes they use to get to this island? Seats about ten? Honestly, I’ve worn coats bigger than the plane I just flew in!”

  “You should have taken the boat with us,” Shirley told her.

  “I’ll certainly take the boat back.” Alice dropped her purse on her suitcase and looked around. “So this is it?”

  “This is it.” Faye held her arms wide. “We just got here ourselves. We’ve been choosing bedrooms.”

  Alice strode through the house, scrutinizing it. “Quaint.”

  “This is your bedroom.” Shirley lead Alice into the bedroom at the front of the house. It was very simple, with a spool bed, a wooden rocker, a wooden chest, and a large pine armoire.

  “Where’s the closet?” Alice asked.

  “They didn’t have closets when this house was built.” Polly had done some reading before she came. “Over the years, closets have been built into some rooms, but this bedroom has this.” She opened the armoire to show the wooden rod with pretty padded hangers.

  Marilyn opened a window, letting the brisk spring wind whisk into the room. “You’ll hear the street noises from this room. Will that bother you?”

  Alice shook her head. “Too much quiet would bother me. Traffic noises will make me feel right at home.” Aware that her friends were rather breathlessly awaiting her reaction, she told them, “This all looks great. And I want to see the town. But first, I want to eat. I’m starving!”

  It took about two minutes to walk to Main Street. They passed the bookstore, an antique shop, a couple of clothing stores, and a jeweler that made them pause for a moment of window-shopping. The first restaurant they came to was called Even Keel. They peered inside, studied the posted menu, approved, and went in. Its bustling coffee bar, Internet section, and long chrome counter gave it a chic urban feel. Colorful canvases by local artists brightened the walls. They settled in around a table, and as they ate lunch, they studied the various guides and newspapers they’d picked up, reading the interesting bits aloud.

  “There’s so much to do here!” Polly chirped. “Plays, museums, lectures at the library.”

  “Openings at art galleries,” Faye murmured, circling dates with a pen. “Lots and lots of art galleries.”

  “We’ll make a list,” Marilyn suggested.

  “Oh, yum,” Shirley cooed. “We’re going to have such fun!”

  Alice was frowning. “I wonder how Aly likes her other grandmother.”

  Polly reassured her. “I’m sure she adores her!”

  “But not too much,” Shirley quickly amended, knowing how easily Alice would get jealous.

  10

  After lunch, the group decided to go their separate ways. Faye hurried off to check out the art galleries. Polly and Marilyn decided to tour the Whaling Museum together.

  Shirley and Alice stood on Main Street, blinking slightly beneath the sun.

  “I’m going down to the harbor,” Shirley said. “I love looking at the boats, and according to the map, there’s a small beach within walking distance. I might get my feet wet.”

  “The water’s going to be cold,” Alice warned. She yawned. “You know what I’d really like to do? I’d like to take a nap.”

  “Then you should do just that.” Shirley reached into her purse. “Here’s the key Nora gave me to the house. I’ll have copies made for each of us.”

  “Thanks. Oh, man, I can’t wait to take off my shoes!”

  Shirley studied her guide book. Nothing was more than a few blocks away from the water, so she meandered through town on the way to the harbor. Nantucket center was as neat as a village in a model train set, just a few streets in a tic-tac-toe lattice of cobblestone and brick. Shirley took note of the location of the brick post office, and the magnificent Greek Revival library. She strolled back to Lower Main Street, and down to the Hy-Line docks.

  Straight Wharf was bustling with passengers arriving and departing, some with babies in Snuglis, others with dogs on leashes, some with babies and dogs, and one woman with a dog in a Snugli. Daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths were everywhere—in pots, in window boxes, on sweaters. The people disembarking from the ferry and those waving hello all looked so healthy, so hearty, so athletic, in their khakis and L.L. Bean plaids, their canvas shoes and sneakers, their heads protected by baseball caps. They looked ready to paddle their own kayaks. Shirley felt a bit out of place in her lavender batik sundress and multicolored shawl, and her stacked high-heeled pastel sandals were definitely unsuitable! She’d been letting her red hair grow out from the tidy businesslike pageboy she’d adopted when she was first starting The Haven. She’d worn her hair long all her life, and now that the wellness spa was prospering, she felt she could relax a bit, even show a bit more of her true inner self.

  Perhaps she also secretly thought—and even more secretly, hoped—the sign of a slightly wilder Shirley might scare her boring beau Stan away. With her Hot Flash friends breathing down her neck, reminding her constantly how pleased they were that she was finally dating someone appropriate, she didn’t dare break off with him. They’d kill her if she did. Alice would kill her twice. So she was resorting to subterfuge. Plus, it felt really nice, the bounce of her long curls against her neck, the flirty swish of it when she turned her head quickly. But here on the wharf, it seemed all the other women wore their hair restrained by a clip, or cut in short, sensible styles that wouldn’t blow in their eyes while they were reeling in a bluefish or take too long to dry after a hard day on the tennis court.

  Charming little shops with wooden to
ys and seashell chimes beckoned enticingly along the brick wharf, but Shirley wanted to find the beach. Spotting an empty bench, she sat for a moment, feeling a bit self-conscious as she studied a map, sure she’d get it wrong. She hadn’t had much opportunity to travel in her life. She wasn’t even sure how to read a map.

  It’s all right! she told herself. Take your time! It was good for the aging brain to learn new things, she reminded herself, and squaring her shoulders, she chose a direction and set off. If she kept the water on her left, she couldn’t go too wrong. The cobblestone road and brick sidewalks were so uneven beneath her dainty pastel high-heeled sandals that she tottered and tripped, feeling self-conscious and idiotic.

  She hurried to the quiet passageway along New Whale Lane. On her right, fuel tanks loomed behind a chain-link fence, casting the small cobblestone avenue in shadow and providing a contemporary note to the rest of the area, which was probably much as it had been for over a century. At Old South Wharf, a row of fishermen’s shacks converted into posh boutiques extended far into the harbor. She passed boats of all sizes bobbing gently in their slips along Swain’s Wharf and then, between two small gray cottages, she spotted a bit of golden beach. A few sailboats idled in the shallow waters and a pair of mallards bobbed dreamily beneath the spring sun.

  Wobbling along, she made her way past the cottages and onto the sand, which was damper than she’d expected. With a squelching noise, her sandals sank. Shirley extracted her feet, walked to higher and dryer ground, plunked down on the sand and removed her shoes.

  When she stood up, the wet sand felt chilly to her exposed soles. She took a few exploratory steps. Well! Walking was easier barefoot. She could expand her stride, she could move with more freedom. Holding her sandals by one finger, she ambled over the beach, testing the feel of the seaweed lying over the sand in clumps—it was slightly rough and tickly, but it provided more give than the sand.

  By the time she reached the town pier, she was feeling just a bit like an athlete, or some kind of person at ease with the outdoors. She’d always lived in Massachusetts, but she’d never had the time or money to play by the seaside. She didn’t even know how to swim. She knew enough to tell that the boats tied up at the town pier were mostly motorboats rather than sailboats. She hesitated, wondering whether it would be all right for her to walk the length of the pier. Did you have to own a boat tied up here to step on it? She didn’t see a No Trespassing sign. She set off. In contrast to the sand, the boards were warm on her feet, and made satisfying thumping sounds as she went. At the end of the pier loomed an eighty-foot-long fishing trawler, magnificently serious among the wastrel pleasure boats, like a Saint Bernard deigning to share space with Jack Russell puppies. Shirley studied it for a while, admiring its sturdy, battered steel hull, its cables, thicker than her wrists, its chains and ropes and masts, all so complicated, so silently self-confident and powerful. Masculine, she thought to herself with a smile.

  According to the map, the harbor ended a few hundred yards away in a series of salt marshes. She strolled in that direction, idly gazing at the tide lapping the shore in light, lacy foam. High up on the sand lay clusters of overturned rowboats. Gulls squawked and dipped, occasionally landing on the roof of one of the little seaside cottages.

  A golden Lab suddenly appeared out of the tall beach grass, galloping toward her with a big grin on its face. Shirley bent to pet the dog, but she didn’t want to be petted—she wanted Shirley to throw her stick into the water. Shirley obliged. With great gusto, the Lab plunged into the harbor, swimming out to grab the stick in her mouth and return it proudly to Shirley. She threw it again, and again, smiling at the dog’s pleasure. After about seven hundred repeats of the game, she tired, and turned to walk back to town. The Lab bounded through the grass up to the spot where her owner was painting an overturned rowboat a wonderful bright cherry red. He waved at Shirley, who waved back. That much contact—that islander’s wave—made her believe she could actually fit in here, even in her inappropriate lavender batik.

  This gave her the courage, at last, to dabble her toes in the water. Alice was right. It was cold. But it would warm up. Shirley vowed to herself that this summer she would swim in the ocean.

  11

  That evening, Nora Salter’s house was full of light, movement, and pastel flurries of perfume as the five women got ready for dinner out.

  “This is like college!” Wrapped in a towel, Faye left the steamy bathroom and passed Marilyn in the hall, headed for her own shower.

  I wouldn’t know, Shirley thought, I didn’t get to go to college. All the other women were better educated. Plus, they all had children. She was the outsider. Still, she reminded herself, they had come here because of her, because she, uneducated, childless, thrice-divorced Shirley, had been asked to use the house by Nora Salter, who probably had enough money to buy a college. The thought cheered her. Why was she so easily dispirited these days? She didn’t used to be so whiney.

  “Ready?” Alice called. “I’m starving!”

  They gathered up their purses and wraps. Shirley locked the door behind them as they stepped out into the bright spring evening. The day’s breeze had grown stronger, making their skirts and scarves flip like kites. They all lurched occasionally as their high heels caught on the uneven paving of the brick sidewalks and the cobblestone streets. Startled, they laughed at their unexpected clumsiness.

  “Stop!” Faye giggled. She whispered, “I’m not wearing a pad!”

  “Pad!” Alice snorted. “I need a catheter with a hose connected to a bag on my ankle.”

  This made them all laugh even harder. By the time they arrived at The Boarding House, they were staggering with their knees locked together, bent nearly double.

  “Dignity, ladies,” Shirley exhorted.

  They choked back their laughter as they were shown to their table. The beautiful room’s elegance calmed them, and by the time they’d ordered martinis and wine and sparking water for Shirley, they were back in sophisticated mode.

  “It’s cooler here than I thought it would be,” Polly observed.

  Alice lifted one eloquent eyebrow. “Oh, and that’s why you bought that cashmere shawl?”

  Polly laughed. “Isn’t it gorgeous? Touch.”

  Everyone leaned forward to stroke the shawl.

  “It feels like spun whipped cream!” Faye sighed.

  “Trust you to use a food analogy.” Alice laughed. “The quality of the shops here is amazing.”

  “So you’re glad you came?” Shirley inquired anxiously.

  “Yes, and I’m coming next weekend, if that works,” Alice said. “I want to attend The Nantucket Film Festival.”

  “Oh, yum.” Faye licked her lips. “Do tell.”

  Alice’s silver and turquoise bracelets clattered as she waved her hands. “They’re showing first runs of new movies, and some directors and actors will be here. Steve Martin, for one.”

  “I’ll come, too,” Faye said. “Is it expensive?”

  Alice dug in her purse. “I have a brochure here somewhere. Oh, and that weekend there’s a performance by that wonderful Asian cellist, the beautiful young woman, oh, what’s her name…”

  Before she could remember, the waiter arrived with their starters. Faye had the mussels in white wine, Alice the grilled scallops in wine sauce, Marilyn, a crepe filled with lobster and cream, vegetarian Shirley a salad of field greens, and Polly the smoked salmon.

  Alice took a bite. “Divine!”

  “Too good,” Polly agreed with a sigh. “How can I eat food like this and still fit into a bathing suit?”

  Faye grinned. “A man asks his wife what she wants for her birthday. She’s our age. She wants to be a little wild, a little daring. She envisions herself in a sporty little convertible, so she hints, ‘Give me something that goes from 0 to 200 in 6 seconds!’ So, on her birthday, her husband gives her a bathroom scale.”

  “Oh, no,” everyone groaned.

  “Look.” Alice put on her ex
ecutive face. “We’re supposed to be relaxing here, right? We’re supposed to be de-stressing. We’ve got to have a rule. No dieting on Nantucket!”

  Faye lifted her wineglass. “I’ll drink to that.” She looked over at Marilyn. “Hey, you’re pretty quiet this evening. Did you enjoy your day?”

  “Loved it!” Marilyn answered.

  “Anything here to pique your interest?” Alice asked.

  Marilyn said, “Well—”

  “Look!” Shirley interrupted. “There’s Kezia!” She twiddled her fingers in greeting at the young woman entering the restaurant with three other people.

  All the members of the Hot Flash Club stopped to stare. Kezia wore a scarlet tank top ending above her belly button, and an azure silk skirt riding low on her hips, accentuated by a baroque jeweled belt. A slice of her sleek belly showed like tanned satin as she walked. Her thick black hair was free from its ponytail and fell around her shoulders like a gleaming shawl. A necklace of glittering stones lay across her chest. She threw the group a gorgeous smile and waved.

  “She looks like a medieval princess.” Shirley sighed.

  “Is that her husband?” Polly gaped at the tall blond man who pulled out Kezia’s chair. “Gosh, he’s handsome. They’re all so beautiful! So perfect! They look like gods!”

  “They’re young,” Marilyn reminded her. “They haven’t been marked by time.”

  Alice raised a critical eyebrow. Quietly, she muttered, “I want to know how they can afford to eat in a restaurant like this. They’re island people, aren’t they? Not dot-com zillionaires.”

  “Oh, silly.” Shirley laughed. “Her husband’s in construction. He probably makes eighty dollars an hour.”

  “Then why is she caretaking?” Alice demanded.