by Nancy Thayer
“Okay,” Shirley said, “Polly has a new shawl, Alice has a new bracelet, Marilyn has a new shell, and I found this on the bulletin board outside a gift shop called the Hub—a list of yoga classes taught on the island. I love trying out different yoga classes, and one person offers yoga on the beach. Doesn’t that sound heavenly?”
Alice made a face. “Oh, yeah. Can’t wait.”
Shirley rolled her eyes at Alice. “What did you find, Faye?”
“I found the best thing of all,” Faye exclaimed. “I found so many places to paint! The beaches, the lighthouse, the gardens, the doors! I can’t wait to get back here with my easel and equipment!”
Relaxed and happy after lunch, the group strolled back to Orange Street to pack up their things. As they arrived at the house, the clock at the Unitarian Church struck three. They all paused, looking up at the fine wooden tower. Then they went up the steps to the front door. Like many houses on the street, there was no garden between the building and the sidewalk. All the open space was behind the house, in a small walled garden.
As Shirley dug in her purse for the key, they heard someone say in a loud, imperious voice, “Excuse me!”
Standing on the porch of the house next door was an elegant woman in a marvelous cranberry-colored wool cape. She looked to be in her seventies, but even with the marks of age, her face was beautiful and her clothes were fabulously stylish.
“Oh, hello!” Faye went down the steps, holding out her hand. “I’m Faye Vandermeer. We’re going to be living here this summer!”
The older woman recoiled. “You are—renters?” She endowed the word with the horror she might give to the word prostitutes.
“No, no,” Shirley hurried down the steps to join Faye. “No, Nora Salter is a friend of ours. She asked us to stay here for the summer—”
Before Shirley could finish her sentence, the older woman sniffed disdainfully. “She would.”
Alice drew herself up to her full commanding height. “She’s asked us to stay here because she has to have an operation and won’t be able to come down.” She purposely didn’t say that it was an operation on her hip, hoping to shame the old biddy into some kind of sympathy.
But their neighbor showed no compassion or even interest. “I hope you’re not bringing animals. Or intending to have loud parties. This is the Historic District, and we’re very strict about what goes on here.” She ran her eyes over all the women, obviously not impressed with what she saw. “I suppose you’ll invite all your relatives.”
“Yeah,” Alice snapped, “especially our teenaged nephews with their saxophones and drums.”
The older woman’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils quivered. Without another word, she turned her back on them and went into the house.
“Well,” Shirley said into the awkward silence, “that was special.”
“Who is she?” Marilyn wondered aloud.
“I’ll ask Nora when I get home,” Shirley said, turning the key and leading them all into the house. “She’s so beautiful,” Faye mused.
“Too bad she’s such an old witch,” Polly said.
“Maybe she’s lonely,” Shirley said. “Maybe when we get to know her—”
“Shirley!” Alice barked. “You are such a hopeless romantic!”
“No,” Shirley corrected with a smile. “I’m a hopeful romantic!”
Faye put her arm around Shirley. “Shirley’s right! Come on now, don’t let her spoil our mood! We’ve got to pack and get out of here or we’ll miss our ferry.”
“I wish we didn’t have to leave.” Polly sighed.
“I know,” Marilyn agreed.
“We’ll make plans on the trip back,” Alice said executively.
“Great!” Faye said. “Because I can’t wait to return!”
13
It was midnight. Faye lay in her own bed at home, wide awake and on the verge of tears. She was so tired. She was so tired and so virtuous—she’d managed to fall asleep without the aid of any pharmaceutical product. She’d waited patiently for sleep to come, and had finally sunk deep into the sweet healing oblivion of slumber…and boom! A hot flash hit her body like a thousand volts of electricity. In an instant she was awake, throwing the covers off, desperate to cool down, and emotionally frazzled.
Now she couldn’t fall back asleep. She’d exercised today, and eaten healthily, and was physically exhausted, and even so, her body would not subside. It was as if she were experiencing premenstrual tension, which was ridiculous, because she no longer had periods. The intense pressure beneath her skin was the same, though, and the irrational desire to scream and throw things. What was even worse was the knowledge that this episode tonight would exact a huge toll on the kind of energy and enthusiasm she would have tomorrow, so she suffered in the present and for the future at the same time.
What was the point of this physical mayhem? Scientific Marilyn would say it was the body’s way of telling a woman she was no longer of childbearing years, but Faye’s body had informed her of this long ago. Couldn’t her mind telegraph her body that she’d gotten the message?
But what was the point of anything? Faye wondered now as she lay alone. What was the point of her husband having a fatal heart attack at sixty-three? She wanted, she endeavored, to find meaning in the confusing, inexplicable ways of the universe, and many times she felt that while she had not arrived at a state of understanding, she’d come near enough to trust that something—a pattern, a design, a beautifully elaborate plan—existed.
Then she’d be hit by a hot flash and everything would seem simply ridiculous and chaotic.
She pulled on her kimono and slid her feet into her slippers. Sometimes she could trick herself into falling asleep in other spots in the house. Her physician had advised her to sleep only in her bed, to make that the “safe sleeping place,” but her physician, a lovely young woman, obviously had never suffered insomnia.
Without turning on any lights, Faye wandered around the second floor. Illumination from the street and the sky turned the guest room and her studio into chambers of gray and navy blue. She leaned against the door for a moment, thinking about the picture still on the easel. She’d just finished it, a commission for the Sperry Paper Company. It was a lush bouquet of red roses, white lilies, and evergreen fronds; the company would use it for their Christmas note cards. Carolyn Sperry, Aubrey’s daughter, had asked Faye to paint some still lifes and scenes for a set of exclusive note cards, and Faye had been delighted to oblige. It provided extra income for her, of course, but money was not the primary motivation. She wasn’t fabulously wealthy, but Jack had left her well-off, and she didn’t have exorbitant desires. She didn’t long for trips to exotic places, for designer clothing or fabulous jewelry. Now that her daughter was grown and happy, Faye’s greatest joy came from her work—
—and now she remembered the trip to Nantucket last weekend, and suddenly, in the dark hallway, she found herself smiling. She hugged herself, thinking of the Nantucket light. She’d noticed it once before, when she’d visited a friend on the island, but for some reason, this weekend, she’d been struck by it so forcefully it had been a little like falling in love. She supposed the scientific explanation was that the moisture in the air caused the luminous clarity that made everything seem somehow more than itself. Of course the ocean reflected back the light, making the translucent air dazzling. But even away from the water, along the side streets of the town, where spring was only beginning to come, the daffodils and hyacinths, the meandering brick walkways, the gray-shingled houses with crisp white trim, all were washed in a kind of brilliance; where time and weather had worn the paint away on a faded blue doorway, the gentle softness of it struck a note of gratitude in Faye’s heart.
She couldn’t wait to go back to Nantucket to paint.
Yawning, she stumbled back to bed, curling up on her side, remembering her bedroom in the Nantucket house. The cushion on the window seat had been so soft, its faded flowered cover like a comfortable old frien
d with secrets. And the view from the window! The panorama of town, harbor, and the thin streak of golden sand where Coatue’s sandy bars stretched—the tall white lighthouse on Great Point, shimmering in the sun like a dream…
Faye fell asleep.
In the morning, she took a second cup of coffee up to drink as she showered and dressed. She had so much to accomplish today. She’d woken early, eager to go to her favorite art supply store to purchase paints, canvases, and a lightweight easel to take to Nantucket.
The Hot Flash Club had come up with a tentative schedule for the month of June. Faye had the most free time during the week. Marilyn had courses to teach, Alice took care of her granddaughter, and Polly and Shirley were tied to The Haven—so until something changed, Faye would be living in the Nantucket house by herself during the week, returning on weekends when the other women would take over. The thought of being alone didn’t trouble her. Since Jack’s death, Faye had learned how to live alone, and she’d always craved great chunks of solitude for her painting. On Nantucket she was going to try landscape painting, a genre she’d not attempted for years. She knew her days would be full and stimulating; she’d be content to collapse in solitude in the evening with a good book.
The phone rang just as Faye was going out the door. She hesitated, then raced back to the kitchen and picked it up, in case it was her daughter calling.
It was Aubrey, sounding rattled. “Do you have any plans for the day, Faye?” Before she could reply, he told her, “I was hoping you could drive me to the hospital.”
Faye sat down hard on a chair. “Hospital?”
He chuckled. “Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you. I have to have an MRI. For my shoulder.”
“Which hospital?”
“Mass. General.”
“Oh…” Faye thought fast. Aubrey lived on Beacon Hill, only a few blocks from the hospital. He could walk there easily, and it was a beautiful day. “Aubrey, I’ve got a business meeting out at The Haven today.” That was true. It was in the afternoon, so Faye could possibly drive Aubrey to the hospital and back, but then she wouldn’t be able to get to the art supply store, and that would mean putting off her return to Nantucket.
Aubrey said nothing. Funny, Faye thought, how silence can carry the weight of disappointment. She knew she needed to make a peace offering.
“Why don’t you let me treat you to dinner tonight? At one of your favorite restaurants!”
Aubrey sighed. “I’m rather tired of eating in restaurants.”
“Then come here for dinner.”
“I’d rather not drive. My shoulder hurts when I do almost anything.”
“Oh! Well…why don’t I come in this evening and make you dinner at your place?”
“That would be very nice, Faye. If you’re not too busy,” he added petulantly.
She ignored the last remark. “What time would you like me to come?”
She chatted a little more with Aubrey, infusing her voice with warmth and caring, wondering why she was so reluctant to do such a simple favor as driving him to his MRI. He’d been wonderful to her, after all, the Christmas she sprained her ankle. He’d brought champagne and lobster dinners to her house for New Year’s Eve. He’d been absolutely gallant.
But he doesn’t have a broken ankle, she reminded herself. He’s got bursitis, not a brain tumor. An MRI might be boring or creepy, but it wasn’t painful or debilitating.
If she were a man, Faye thought with a twinge of bitterness, no one would expect her to neglect her work. Immediately, she corrected herself: Who was this great “no one” she was getting into such a snit about? It was her own sense of responsibility she had to appease. It had always been that way, she’d always had to divide her time between work and family. But Aubrey wasn’t family. And the hope of painting on Nantucket pulled at her so powerfully…she hurried out the door to buy the paints before the phone could ring again.
14
Marilyn opened the hatch of her Subaru. For a moment, she just stood there, looking at all the bulging plastic grocery bags. In the past year she’d gone from living alone to living with three other people, all of whom she cared for, all of whom had to be fed daily, and none of whom was ever around to help. Long ago, when she was married to Theodore, and was a mother with a little boy, she’d only had three people to shop for. Plus, she’d been younger, she’d had more energy.
But this was now. And she was a fortunate and happy woman, to have so many people she loved in her life. So she grabbed the first bunch of bags and lugged them into the house.
Back and forth she went. She stowed the groceries for herself, Ian, and Angus, then carried her mother’s groceries down to the basement apartment.
“Marilyn!” Ruth was seated in her favorite armchair, still wearing her spring sweater set with the butterflies and lilacs. A matching butterfly pin adorned her white curls. The television set was on, as usual. “Hello, darling! I’ve been waiting for you! Come over here and see what I’ve got!”
“I’ll just put your groceries away first, Mother.” Marilyn worked as she talked. “I don’t want your butter to go bad. Or your milk. I got you lots of bananas, I’ll put them here in the fruit bowl, okay?”
“Marilyn, sweetheart, you don’t need to hurry so. Come over here and sit with me for a while.”
I can’t sit! Marilyn wanted to shout. I’ve got papers to grade, lesson plans to prepare, dinner to fix, and for the first time in my life I have an adorable man I want to spend some time with! But she knew her mother got lonely down here by herself, and counted on Marilyn’s company. Still, today Ruth had gone to the Senior Citizens Center with her beau, Ernest, so Marilyn didn’t feel quite so guilty.
“I’ll be right there, Mother.”
Stashing the plastic bags in the trash beneath the sink, she noticed that Ruth had neglected to sort her trash into the various recyclable bins. Marilyn would have to do that later, when she carried the trash out to the barrels. Or should she do it now? The remains of a can of tuna trailed soggily over the newspapers, and a glass jam jar had shattered and lay in shards among the rest of the trash. Marilyn would have to be careful when she sorted, or she’d cut herself. Of course, she could just cheat, this one time, and not recycle. But she knew so well how important recycling was. How did anyone decide between saving the environment and saving a few moments for one’s own sanity?
She shut the door on the trash and washed her hands. “Okay, Mother, now! How are you?” As Marilyn went over to the sitting area, she really looked at her mother. Ruth was sitting in a very odd way, hunched over herself.
Marilyn’s heart kicked with fear. Had Ruth had a stroke? God, Marilyn would never forgive herself—
But Ruth smiled beatifically. “Look what I’ve got.”
Marilyn came close. Now she spotted it—curled in Ruth’s lap was a tiny black kitten. “Oh, Mother! How adorable!” She knelt next to her mother, and gently put one finger onto the kitten’s silky head. The kitten responded by lithely twisting around to expose its very fat, soft, furry belly.
“She’s a present from Ernest,” Ruth said. “He knows I get lonely down here, and he thought she would be good company.”
“What a wonderful idea!” Marilyn wished she’d thought of this herself. “What are you going to name her?”
“Marie, I think. For Madame Marie Curie. I think Madame Curie is too much to say, don’t you?”
“Marie’s a great name.”
The kitten, awakened by their attention, mewed, then climbed up Ruth’s bodice to her shoulder and licked Ruth’s face. Ruth giggled like a little girl at the touch.
“I’m so glad Ernest gave her to you!” Marilyn said.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” The kitten was now on the back of the chair, batting at Ruth’s wispy white curls. “How was your day, darling?”
Marilyn moved to the sofa, wishing she had a nice glass of wine in her hand. “Busy. You remember how it was, teaching, sitting on committees, dealing with endless memos.”
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br /> “I wish you didn’t have to work so hard,” Ruth said sympathetically.
“Oh, but I love my work, Mother,” Marilyn reminded her. “Being busy’s not a bad thing.”
Ruth lifted the kitten off the back of the chair and set her on the floor. “You look a little tired.”
“It’s just the end of the day,” Marilyn told her. “I’ll get out of these shoes, have a glass of wine, and relax. I made lasagna last night for all of us. It will take about an hour to heat up. Want to come upstairs and have dinner with us?”
“Could you all come down here? I hate to leave Marie.”
“Well, bring her upstairs.” Marilyn didn’t want to have to carry all the plates, the heavy lasagna pan, the salad bowl, the bread basket, and wineglasses down the stairs and back up again.
“Do you think I should? On her first night? I’d rather let her get used to my apartment first. Maybe later she can come upstairs.”
Marilyn wanted to bang her head gently against the wall. “Sure,” she said. “We’ll bring dinner downstairs.” She rose. She’d change into comfortable clothes, drink a glass of wine while she prepared the meal, play a little Bach on the kitchen CD player to revive her spirits—
“Oh, darling, before I forget!” Ruth pushed herself up out of her chair and tottered over to the counter between the kitchen and her living area. “Marie is going to need a few things. A litter box and litter, and food, of course. I made a list. I’d like to get her a collar and perhaps a cute little bed, but that can wait until you can take me to a pet store. But she’ll need these things right away. Do you think you could get them before dinner?”
15
Shirley was a vegetarian, but she didn’t force her choices on others, and tonight she was roasting a chicken, because Stan was coming to dinner. She didn’t feel too guilty about the chicken; it was cows, with their kind, flower-eyed faces, whom she couldn’t easily cook. Shirley wouldn’t eat the chicken, and as she prepared it for roasting, she said a little prayer to it, the way she’d read Native Americans prayed to the deer they killed for food.