by Libby Klein
Mrs. Dodson tipped her head to the side. “Pirates of Penzance.”
Mrs. Davis shook her head. “I thought that was the same as H.M.S Pinafore.”
Aunt Ginny gave me a droll look and grabbed a cookie.
Mother Gibson leaned into the conversation. “No, I think they’re two different musicals about sailors on boats.”
Mrs. Davis sat back flustered. “Well, that’s just excessive.”
Mrs. Dodson considered the ladies, then turned her attention to me. “Anyway, he loved the theater. He was good too. And then came Romeo and Juliet.”
Mother Gibson bobbed her head and her bosom bounced in time. “And that hussy, Moira Finklebaum.”
Mrs. Davis sang out, “Bla-anche.”
The ladies looked at Aunt Ginny to pick up the story.
She took a long drink from her cup, as if trying to absorb courage in the form of Colombian Medium Roast. “Our senior year, Royce was cast in the lead role of Romeo, and Moira Finklebaum beat me out for the role of Juliet. They were reviewed in the local paper as ‘gifted’ for giving a ‘Broadway-quality performance,’ and it went right to their heads.”
“Oh no. What happened?”
Aunt Ginny fiddled with her locket some more. “Right after graduation, Royce said he had something important to tell me. I put on my best dress and rouged my cheeks . . .” Aunt Ginny’s voice caught. She turned her head and looked out the window.
Figaro crept into the room and his hair bristled as if he picked up on the tension. He jumped on Aunt Ginny’s lap and spun around a couple of times before settling down facing the cookies.
I prompted Aunt Ginny to go on. “He didn’t ask you to marry him?”
She shook her head no. “He told me he was leaving in the morning with Moira for New York. They were going to try out for a Broadway production of Our Town.”
Mrs. Dodson picked up the story with a tap of her cane. “We never saw Royce again. Moira returned a few years later and told everyone she’d changed her name to Blanche Carrigan. She said she was retiring from theater life and settling down. A bunch of hogwash, if you ask me.”
Oh, poor Aunt Ginny. I wanted to put my head in her lap and let her stroke my hair like when I was little. She looked so sad and forlorn.
Figaro, the opportunist, took advantage of our distraction and shot out a gray fluffy paw, snagging a peanut butter cookie before anyone could stop him. He hurtled through the room, keeping to the perimeter with the cookie in his mouth, while the ladies grabbed their coffee and cookies and held them aloft with cries of “What in the world!” and “Good gracious!”
Aunt Ginny let out a cackle of delight and the mood was instantly lifted. I was so grateful to see her smile that I decided to let the little terror keep his ill-gotten treat.
Aunt Ginny set her coffee back in the saucer with a tiny clink. “So, every now and then there would be an article in the paper about some play Royce was starring in or an award he received. I hadn’t heard anything for a while and thought he’d retired.”
Mrs. Davis giggled. “Well, he’s back now, so who knows. Maybe this is your second chance at love.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
Aunt Ginny narrowed her eyes. “What are you, some kinda nut? I don’t need a man at this age. What would I do with him?”
Mother Gibson grinned. “Same thing you used to do with them, only now it takes longer.”
Aunt Ginny blushed. “Lila!”
Mrs. Davis shook her head. “Oh no, she’s right. And sometimes you need props.”
My face was getting hot.
Aunt Ginny glanced at me and tried to change the subject. “Well, I’m not interested in that life anymore. Love is for the young. That’s why old ladies like me are never the heroines of romance novels or leading ladies in those romper movies Poppy likes.”
I looked up from my coffee. “Rom-coms.”
Aunt Ginny tossed her head. “Rom-coms.”
Aunt Ginny was right. You almost never see a romance starring the more mature. That’s hardly fair. Geez, even AARP thinks senior life starts at fifty. My God, I’m only seven years away from that. Am I really almost a senior citizen? I’m running out of time. What have I done with my life? Who’s going to take care of me when I have to have hip replacement surgery?
“Poppy!”
I looked up. “What?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Do you think I should try out?”
I looked at each of the biddies in turn. They were all watching me, waiting for an answer. “Try out for what?”
Mrs. Dodson tsked and shook her head. Mother Gibson chuckled. Mrs. Davis picked up another cookie and Aunt Ginny sighed. “Now that Royce is supposedly retired and living with his sister in Cape May, the Senior Center is finally putting on that musical we’ve been asking for. Do you think I should try out?”
I was seven years away from being a senior citizen, but Aunt Ginny . . . I couldn’t even finish the thought. “I think you should do whatever you want and embrace your life to the fullest!”
Aunt Ginny’s eyebrows flicked together, and she gave me a look like I was disturbed. “Okay, settle down. It’s just the Senior Center. It’s not Andrew Lloyd Webber.”
Mrs. Davis giggled. “Besides, we want to see if Royce has lost his hair or grown a hump or anything.”
Aunt Ginny clasped her locket again. “Well, I’m sure he won’t remember me. Besides, I’m not interested, and I’m not going to any special trouble to impress him.”
Mrs. Dodson tapped her cane. “Sure.”
Mother Gibson nodded. “Perfectly reasonable.”
Mrs. Davis giggled. “Uh-huh.”
Aunt Ginny bounced her foot. Then checked her watch. Then stood and started to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To make a hair appointment.” Aunt Ginny touched her perfectly red hair. “It’s my regular time to have my roots done.”
Chapter Five
My life had become a series of wrestling matches. Wrestling with bill collectors to give me time to launch the B&B. Wrestling with my heart over Tim and Gia. Wrestling with discipline to eat kale and grilled chicken instead of jelly doughnuts and Yoo-hoo. And wrestling with the zipper on my jeans that was currently mocking me with every illicit bite from my Restaurant Week baking.
I lay on the bed sweating and cursing, having lost the match. Figaro sat close by, mildly amused. I had two choices. Pull all my larger-size clothes out of storage, where I’d optimistically hidden them from myself, or buy Spanx. I peeled off the jeans and threw them in the corner until they’d had time to think about their treachery, then fired up my laptop. There were many styles of Spanx to choose from. One was a corset that ran from bra to hip bone. I’d have that sucker rolled up like a headband within an hour. The other extreme was ankle to shoulders. My ankles were probably fine sans compression, and I knew my bladder did not have the fight it once had to withstand a twenty-minute spandex peel-off in an emergency situation, so I picked something in between. The link opened to a discount website selling knockoff Spanx—or Spunks. They looked the same and the price was way better, so I bought two pair. Then I fished around my dresser for a pair of yoga pants for today because breathing was high on my list of priorities.
I unrolled my yoga mat and did a few sun salutations. Maybe I would feel less like a failure in downward-facing dog. While I hung upside down, my mind wandered back to Gia and Tim. They were both getting serious. If only I could split myself in half to be with both of them. I was really starting to feel uncomfortable kissing two different men. Don’t get me wrong, I was enjoying it. I just wasn’t enjoying how it made me feel about myself.
I closed my eyes and breathed in a snootful of whiskers. “What are you doing?”
Fig gave me a nose bonk and did a few figure eights through my hair.
I rose to warrior II pose and he lay down on the middle of my mat in loaf position.
; “I know what you’re up to, and you’re just going to have to wait.”
I did another downward dog into child’s pose, nudging Fig out of the way.
Fifteen pounds of menace hopped up his persistence, and my back lowered like a pressure plate.
Fig stood on me, purring as I lay with my face smashed into the yoga mat, considering my life.
With a sigh, I grumbled, “Eat.”
Ffwomp. “Merow. Merow.”
We both knew who was in charge.
* * *
Aunt Ginny was in the kitchen fiddling and fussing with the blender pitcher. “Why can’t I get this doohickey to work!”
I took the pitcher of fruit and yogurt from where she was trying to cram it onto the wrong base and moved it over to the Ninja.
“I feel like a cat on the freeway.” She shook her hands in front of her.
“Why are you so wound up?”
“Tryouts are this afternoon. What if Royce is there? What if he sees me?”
“I thought that was the whole point.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking! This is a mistake. I’m going to tell the girls I changed my mind.”
“If Royce has really moved back to Cape May, you’re going to see him eventually.”
“Oh no I won’t. I don’t ever have to leave this house again. What is taking so long for that smoothie?!”
I reached over and flicked the switch, turning the blender on. It surged to life and Aunt Ginny put her head in her hands.
“I can’t do it. What if I make a fool of myself?”
I turned off the blender and tapped Aunt Ginny’s smoothie into a glass. “I don’t remember you being worried about that when you signed up for belly dancing classes.”
“Royce wasn’t in the class, and that wasn’t my first time belly dancing.”
“Oh.” Let me file that away. I handed her the glass. “What are those red and orange pieces?”
“Fruity Pebbles. Will you please come with me this afternoon? For moral support.”
“Of course.”
Aunt Ginny’s shoulders relaxed, and she sank a straw in her questionable breakfast. “Oh good. It’s supposed to be Mamma Mia! I’m trying out for the part of the sexy best friend, Tanya. I sure hope they typecast.”
“What time are tryouts?”
“Right after dinner.”
“So . . . five o’clock?”
Aunt Ginny looked up from her straw and nodded.
I tried to choose my next words carefully. “Mamma Mia! seems a bit of a challenge for the Senior Center. How are they going to fill the younger parts?”
Aunt Ginny shrugged. “We have a lot of young people. Some of our folks are only in their sixties.”
“Uh-huh.” I should probably check that our hospitalization is up to date. “Are you better now?”
She slurped on her sugar smoothie. “Yeah. I think I was just hungry. I’m feeling much better as long as you’re going to be there to cheer me on. And if Moira—sorry, Blanche—should happen to show up for tryouts, maybe you could distract her away from the audition.”
“How am I gonna do that?”
“I don’t know. Get a hot dog on a string and lure her out to the hall.”
“Oh yeah, that can’t fail.” I put the water on for coffee.
“I don’t know what I’ll do if she beats me out for a part again.”
“Maybe she won’t even be there.”
Aunt Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Right. And maybe this smoothie isn’t full of chocolate syrup.”
I got two coffee cups down from the cabinet and took out the coffee beans and broached a subject that had been heavy on my heart. “I’m starting to feel guilty about kissing both Gia and Tim when I don’t know which one I want to commit to.”
Aunt Ginny made a face and shook her head. “You’re too young to worry about that. And I don’t see a ring on your finger, so just have fun.”
I’d been warming up to the big question, but every time I tried to get it out the words stuck in my throat. “Aunt Ginny, did people back in your day ever . . . have sex before marriage?”
Aunt Ginny started choking and I had to pat her on the back. “What? You can’t ask me stuff like that before nine a.m. Good lord, no! Absolutely not. Any lady of quality would never give the milk away for free. We waited until our wedding night.”
“Oh.” I see. “That’s what I thought.” I took the kettle off the burner and hit the button on the coffee grinder. “What about before their second marriage?”
Aunt Ginny blushed up to the roots of her red hair. “Oh, my lord . . . Is that . . . what time is it? I’m going to be late to the salon. I can’t keep Mr. Charles waiting.” Aunt Ginny coughed and backed out of the room, leaving me with a whole new set of questions.
Chapter Six
I sat in the sunroom checking email on my phone while I waited for Aunt Ginny to emerge from her boudoir. I didn’t know what was going on in there, but it sounded like quite the undertaking. Even Figaro had come running through the kitchen with his tail between his legs after a particularly fretful-sounding procedure. Finally, I heard high heels clacking through the kitchen, but nothing could have prepared me for the vision that came around the corner. Aunt Ginny was dressed in a tailored white pantsuit with a double-breasted jacket and had square-cut emeralds the color of her eyes dangling from her ears. Her hair was a deeper shade of red than it had been in the morning, and her beehive was gone. She was all spiky on the top and pointy down to her jaw.
“Mr. Charles called it the Sharon Osbourne. What do you think?” With a freshly manicured hand, she smoothed her bangs.
“I think you look fabulous! Royce is going to be blown away.”
Figaro took a step toward Aunt Ginny in full sniff mode.
She raised her finger in his direction. “Don’t touch me!”
He flopped over and stared into space.
She checked the time on her gold watch. “Close your mouth. You look like a fish.”
I snapped my jaw shut, still mesmerized by her transformation.
Aunt Ginny handed me a baguette-style handbag. “Here, hold my pocketbook while I touch up my lipstick in the natural light.”
I took the small, white purse and almost dropped it. “What do you have in here?”
She smacked her lips together to blot her burgundy lipstick. “Brass knuckles.”
I was unable to formulate a follow-up.
“Always be prepared when Moira Finklebaum is in the mix.” She took her purse back and donned a new pair of Donna Karan rose-gold sunglasses. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
I grabbed my keys and coat from the foyer. Aunt Ginny wrapped a white wool cape around her shoulders, being careful not to smudge her makeup or unsettle her hair. And with one final look down the hall to Figaro, whose tongue was now hanging out of his mouth, we were out the door.
* * *
The Senior Center may as well have rolled out a literal red carpet and rented spotlights, because the ladies of Cape May were dressed for the Academy Awards. Mrs. Davis’s pink hair had grown several inches through the magic of extensions, and she was tightly encased in leopard-print leggings and a red bustier. A couple of newly platinum blondes had poured themselves into XXL leather miniskirts paired with orthopedic shoes. Even Mrs. Dodson had bedazzled her cane for the occasion. Everyone was sporting the teased-up bouffant of having just come from the beauty parlor. The yellow craft room was alive with perm solution, Aqua Net, and Old Spice.
The tables were laden with beads and glue, felt, and spools of yarn. The back of the room offered a vending machine selling minipacks of Lorna Doones and Pecan Sandies and the like, and another selling water, soft drinks, and nutritional shakes for the elderly.
Mr. Ricardo, the silver-haired salsa instructor, was dressed in black tuxedo pants and a ruffled red shirt that was open to the waist. He had two ladies on each arm and was laying down a thick layer of suave and offering to show off his appendix scar.
I grinned. “How come you’re not all decked out?”
She shook her salt-and-pepper fade. “I don’t need to impress anyone. And I’m glad to see you don’t either.”
I brushed some muffin crumbs off my chest. How long had that been there?
One of the men shuffled into the room with a fat manila packet. He had close-cropped white hair in a military buzz cut and a pointy goatee. I had seen him around a few times when I’d brought Aunt Ginny up for activities, but we’d never officially met. He worked his way around the room, passing out booklets.
Mrs. Davis fished a pair of reading glasses out of her bustier and peered down her nose at the booklet. “What is this, Duke?”
Aunt Ginny took one. “Is this the play? I thought we were doing Mamma Mia!?”
Mr. Ricardo kept his arms folded. “That says The Naked Burg. I don’t do naked unless I get top billing.”
“Just take one.” He shoved a booklet at Mr. Ricardo.
My neighbors from down the street, Mr. and Mrs. Sheinberg, entered the room, and Duke passed them a booklet.
“What’s this meshuggener?”
“Just keep an open mind.”
Mrs. Dodson reluctantly took hers. “What does that mean?”
As he came by, he handed me one. The cover was faded and worn on the edges. The tagline read My life on the mean streets of Sea Isle. I gave it a flip through. It was a script.
“It means I wrote this. This is my play.” Duke grinned broadly.
Mr. Sheinberg threw his script on the activity table. “Not interested.”
Everyone else added their copies to the stack in rapid succession. I didn’t want to be rude, so I dropped my copy in my tote bag to throw it away at home.
Duke held out his arms. “Oh come on! You haven’t even given it a chance!”
Mrs. Davis crossed her arms over the ruffle of her bustier. “We’re doing Mamma Mia!”
Duke waved his manila packet. “But this is so much better than that drivel.”