by Marci Nault
“Yes, but I think there might be something wrong with my water heater,” she yelled. The shower dial was turned to hot, but the water was ice cold. She wrapped her body in a fluffy white towel and then fiddled with the shower knob trying to force hot water from the showerhead.
“I’ll have Molly get Bill to come take a look. It probably needs to be reset. It hasn’t been used in years,” Victoria said from the hallway.
“Thank you,” Heather said. What more could go wrong? She was beginning to feel like her house was haunted or that someone was sabotaging her living space. But both ideas were ridiculous.
The Mobil station on the corner looked out of place, its blue-and-red fiberglass sign an intrusion on the colonial ambiance of Littleton town center. The church bell rang out as Heather waited at a stoplight. In the park, children played tag around the white gazebo while their mothers sat on the park bench socializing. The old hotel with the wraparound porch had been converted to apartments and retail stores. The proprietors sat on the front steps sipping Cokes out of the can while they fanned their faces. It’s like I’ve gone back to the 1950s, Heather thought.
The women directed Heather to the consignment shop and she pulled into the driveway. The Victorian home had been painted dark purple, green, and blue to accentuate its architectural details. Deck furniture, an old wishing well, weather vanes, and a spinning wheel dotted the front lawn.
“Over here.” Molly motioned to the side yard as they got out of the car. “Isn’t it in beautiful condition?”
Six teak chairs with armrests surrounded the beautiful wooden table. A blue umbrella protected the smooth red wood from the sun. Heather ran her fingers along the curve of the chair. She picked up the price tag and her throat constricted. “I thought this was a consignment shop.”
“Oh, don’t look at that.” Molly took the tag.
Heather punched her heels into the soft earth. “I can’t let you buy this. It’s too much.”
“Nonsense. Think of it as our investment in Nagog’s beautification. During our evening walks we’ll get to look at it,” Molly said.
“Do you like it?” Victoria asked.
The furniture looked like it belonged on the cover of a home magazine. The two women waited for her response with anticipated smiles.
“It’s gorgeous.”
Molly bounced with excitement to the front door of the shop. “I’ll have them deliver it this week. You’ll have to plan a dinner party to christen it.”
Victoria put her arm around Heather and steered her to follow.
“Victoria, I can’t . . .”
“Darling, when someone gives you a gift, it’s best just to say thank you,” Victoria said. “We’re trying to make you happy, not uncomfortable.”
Heather smiled. “Okay. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I love it.”
When they returned to Nagog Drive, Agatha and Sarah were at the picnic table in the front yard knitting and they scowled as the women stepped from Heather’s car.
Heather turned to Molly and Victoria. “Would you like to come in for a brownie? I have skim milk. It has to cancel out some of the calories.”
“Skim milk won’t do. I’ll be right back,” Molly said, and headed for her house.
Victoria and Heather went inside and Heather curled onto the couch, the big white pillow across her lap. “So what’s the deal between you and the knitters?”
“Deal?” Victoria looked around. “You really did a lovely job on this room. The pale green is perfect and the furnishings are great, but I do think you need some accents. I have three full boxes of decorations from my old house that I can’t use. You’re welcome to look through and pick out anything you like.”
“That would be great. Thank you,” Heather said. “And did you notice that I thanked you instead of protesting? I did listen to your wisdom.”
Victoria smiled as she looked out the window to where Sarah and Agatha were gathering their things.
“Do I need to get out the Hershey’s Kisses and decaffeinated coffee to get you to answer my question?” Heather asked.
Victoria sat in the overstuffed chair. “Jealousy is a powerful emotion. Same with anger and resentment. All three combined can’t be undone.”
“Are they jealous of you?” Heather asked.
“I know it’s hard to believe, but there was a time when people admired my life. I thought I had years to make amends, but some mistakes are too big.”
“And some people can’t accept those who stand out,” Molly finished, walking into the room, a glass bottle from the farm up the road in hand. “Let’s dig in.”
Molly passed Heather a thick brownie and a cup. The milk tasted like cream, and the gooey dessert melted in her mouth. “Molly, we can’t be friends. Your baking is going to cost me too many dress sizes.”
“Better to have sweet friendships and big thighs than be skinny and never taste the goodness of life. That’s what my mother always told me,” Molly said.
“So, Victoria, why are the knitters jealous?” Heather asked.
Victoria focused on the brownie, nibbling the corners. “I left Nagog to try my hand at becoming an actress and I didn’t come home very often.”
“Were you famous?” Heather leaned forward.
“Like Ingrid Bergman,” Molly said.
“Really? Like Casablanca?” Heather asked.
“Something like that,” Victoria said.
“Were you in that movie?” Heather asked.
“Casablanca came out when I was a teenager,” Victoria said. “If you’re going to hang with us cool old ladies, you’re going to have to learn about the classics. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll teach you about movies if you tell me where you shop. Those shoes are exquisite.”
“Deal. I can’t believe you were a movie star. What was it like?”
“In my time, it was all about the glamour. Life was sequins and diamonds, and extravagant parties with gowns and tuxedoes,” Victoria said.
“Tell me everything,” Heather said as she took another bite of the brownie. “How did you break into the movie business?”
“Hard work,” Victoria said. “My first apartment was a dump. I worked as a receptionist, which drove my mother to complete heartache. Of course, she never knew about the years I danced at a dinner theater. She would’ve thought I was a whore dancing for money, but the place was classy and elegant.”
“How long did it take you to make it big?” Heather asked.
“I don’t know that I ever made it ‘big.’ I spent years going to casting calls and dance tryouts competing against hundreds of other hungry actresses, but it was modeling that gave me my break.”
“Really?”
“It hadn’t been my dream, but the first time I saw my picture larger than life on a billboard, I stopped my car and simply stared for hours, shocked that everyone that passed it would see my face.”
“You had your own billboard?”
“For Coca-Cola.”
“Wow,” Heather said. “So when did you start doing movies?”
“I got my first role five years after I moved to Hollywood. It was three lines and a main dance number that took about a minute. Of course, the filming of that dance took two days to get it perfect. Patience is the one thing you learn when you’re an actress. With the lighting changes, the cameramen not getting the right angle, the director feeling that someone in the background cast a shadow somewhere that wasn’t flattering, people tripping . . . we did thousands of takes. I think that’s why they stopped making movies as musicals—it was too much work to get the stages set.
“But back then, the studio sets were romantic and elegant. The costumes were handmade works of art. After a long day of filming, we would hit the bars and drink until three in the morning. It was a fun time in my life. What I wouldn’t give to do it all again.”
“How many movies were you in?” Heather leaned forward entranced by Victoria’s past.
“Hundreds. As a dancer I could be cas
t in different projects at the same time and I would race from one studio to the next for rehearsal and costume fittings. When movies began to feature fewer musical numbers, I traveled all over the world doing lower budget films with starring roles. But my biggest films were always as the supporting actress.”
“But she always stole the show,” Molly said. “And she won an Oscar! It was so much fun to see her movies at the theater.”
Heather nibbled at her brownie. “Wow, an Oscar? When did you stop performing?”
“I stopped filming after my granddaughter was born. I missed the dancing and singing, so I switched to theater and performed in London for a few years. When my daughter passed away from cancer, I stopped working to take care of my granddaughter.”
“Victoria, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d lost your daughter.”
Victoria waved her hand to ward off the conversation and they moved on to other subjects. The sky turned dark and Heather turned on the floor lamps to illuminate the room. They ordered pizza and Heather opened a bottle of wine. Soon all three women were sharing.
“You’re a young woman, a new generation,” Victoria said. “Much more open, more liberal. I thought . . . I thought you might have some advice on how to spice up a sex life.”
The wineglass knocked against Heather’s front tooth. She choked and the wine caught in her windpipe.
“Victoria, you’re embarrassing the girl.” Molly jumped up and patted Heather’s back. “Put your arms over your head, dear.”
“We’re all women,” Victoria said.
“We’re old enough to be her grandmothers,” Molly said.
“Well, she has to know you don’t give up sex as you age. Are we so repulsive you can’t imagine us being intimate? You know, ugly people of all ages do it too. It’s not just for the pretty ones like you,” Victoria said. “How do you think we became grandmothers?”
“Victoria, do you remember how repressed our mothers were? No one discussed money, never mind sex,” Molly said.
“Oh, I have a good story for you,” Victoria said. “I’m not certain which of the girls told Sarah this, but she came to our room at school and asked me if I wanted to know how a woman became pregnant. Well, of course I said yes.”
“What did she tell you?” Molly asked.
“We were curled up in bed, and she whispered, ‘The man takes a razor and cuts the woman’s belly open. Then he places a seed inside and sews her up.’ That’s when Sarah and I decided we would never have children.”
“How old were you?” Heather asked as she caught her breath.
“Fifteen,” Victoria said.
Heather’s mouth fell open.
“Honey, you have to remember we thought War of the Worlds was a news broadcast,” Victoria said.
“Oh yes, people were jumping out of windows, killing themselves just like the day the stock market crashed,” Molly said.
“So how did you find out the truth?” Heather took another sip of wine to soothe her throat after coughing.
“When you met the man you were going to marry, he usually explained it on your wedding night,” Molly said. “They talked to other men, read books, and I think their anatomy has a homing device. It knows how to find its way.
“I remember the first time Bill asked me . . . to, you know . . . down there.” Molly motioned to her lap.
Heather shook her head in disbelief.
“I believe you kids call them ‘blow jobs’ these days,” Victoria said. “And yes, some older people still enjoy it . . . they just have to ensure their dentures are secured properly. Or not in at all.”
Heather covered her face with the pillow and sank to the floor. “Oh, God, don’t tell me these things. I’m very visual.”
“So, Molly, what were you saying about the first time you gave Bill a—”
“Don’t say it again,” Heather cried out in a muffled plea from under the pillow.
“All right, we’ll call it fellatio. Go on, Molly.”
Heather dug her face into the couch.
“Well, I’m not as good of a girl as I come across. I always wanted to please Bill, and he was a wild one. When we started dating at fifteen—”
“You dated him at fifteen?” Heather said.
“Well, courtship. He was always trying to sneak kisses and hold my hand. Of course, we never did anything serious that would get us good little Episcopalians in trouble. Well, most of us didn’t, but Victoria was wearing lipstick by twelve. And for your information, Heather, wearing lipstick or your father’s shirt tied up around your midriff was a sign of being loose.”
“A shirt and lipstick. You’re kidding? I was wearing short shorts and half shirts by age nine.” Heather looked at Victoria. “Wild woman. Was it red lipstick?”
Molly answered for her. “I could tell you some stories about her time in Los Angeles, or her European adventures. If she ever gets on your case about the men you date, let me know and I’ll give you plenty of ammunition to fight back.”
“You were telling us about Bill asking you for a certain something?” Victoria said.
“Oh, yes. It was our first anniversary, and Bill told me that if I kissed him down there it would help me to get pregnant.”
Heather lay on the couch and threw the blanket over her head. “It’s a wonder your whole generation reproduced.”
“Are you kidding? The Pill didn’t become available until the sixties. All I can say is, thank God for small miracles. I love every one of my children, but having babies until I was fifty, like my mother, was unappealing. And I enjoy my marital bed.
“So, getting back to my first anniversary. I didn’t know what to do. Bill told me to treat it like an ice cream cone. I was young and pretty and had a curvy, tight little body. Don’t I miss that figure.”
“You’re sidetracking, dear.” Victoria placed a hand on Molly’s arm.
“Yes, well, I decided a little ice cream might help my nerves and give me something to focus on. It worked for me, but poor Bill. It was years before he asked again. That ice cream nearly gave him frostbite.”
Heather threw off the blanket and sat up. “What will make you stop?”
“Give us your best tip,” Victoria said.
Could Heather tell them what was going through her mind? It was the one sex secret Gina had shared, and she wasn’t sure it was for the elderly. “Fine. But we never discuss this again.”
CHAPTER 14
Early-morning dew soaked through her sandals, the scent of sap filled the crisp air, as Victoria made her way toward the beach. She stepped onto the dock. The lake was still. At this hour the community was silent, and no lights had been turned on in her friends’ homes.
She knew better than to dip her toe in the water, the cold temperature would convince her to turn back. Once, when she was a teenager, she’d tried to walk slowly into the water at this time of morning but never got past her thighs. Morning swims had to be done with one quick plunge. She unzipped her velvet sweatshirt and matching pants, exposing her torso in the yellow one-piece suit, and left her clothes in a folded pile on the dock. Before she could change her mind, she dove into the cold water, her lungs constricting with the frigid temperature.
Victoria surfaced and treaded water moving her muscles to warm them. She looked to Maryland’s, now Heather’s home, and stared at the upstairs window where she knew the girl slept. The thought of Heather tucked under a soft blanket brought her comfort.
The previous day with Heather had given Victoria the strength to return to life. The company had brought laughter and memories without pain, and she realized she was tired of being a woman locked in the past, barely living.
It had been months since she’d exercised. With years of practice she pumped her legs and swept her arms in graceful arcs, water droplets falling from her skin as she swam away from the dock. With her face in the water the world around her sounded tinny. She could hear her heart beating faster with the exertion. At first her muscles screamed in protest and h
er bones creaked and groaned after months of disuse. She fought, knowing that the only way through the discomfort was to keep going.
The sun rose overhead and illuminated the fog with golden light. In the middle of the lake she floated and caught her breath. With her hands overhead and her toes pointed to the lake bottom she sank into the dark water, then with a quick burst of movement, rose and came back to the surface. She laughed, then repeated it, falling and rising in the water, feeling weightless as she twirled in the darkness and light. The rhythmic dance of her youth made her feel alive.
For a quick second the question flashed through her mind. What right do I have to feel joy? She stilled the voice in her head. Not today. Let me have one day without my grief.
The fog began to lift and she could see the other side of the lake. The distance between Nagog’s beach and the woods on the other side of the water was approximately forty laps in a pool. Victoria floated on her back, staring at the blue sky through the last of the low clouds. Her mind brought her back to the summer she and Annabelle had spent in Nagog when her granddaughter was a teenager.
Victoria was sixty-three when Annabelle turned sixteen, and raising her alone in Southern California had been challenging. The child had become obsessed with boys, clothing, socializing, and rushing ahead to adulthood. Victoria worried about the tiny outfits and the boy she’d seen Annabelle necking with on the couch when Victoria came home early one day. Instead of letting her spend the summer with her friends, Victoria had packed up the infuriated Annabelle and headed to Nagog.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. I’m going to lose an entire summer of theater and dance classes,” Annabelle yelled in the first-class cabin. “How am I going to get into Juilliard if I can’t practice?”
“You’re being obstinate. A proper lady acts with dignity and grace,” Victoria said through clenched teeth as she pulled her seat belt tight.
“Well, I don’t want to be a proper lady. I want to be a performer,” Annabelle said, and placed her headphones over her ears. They had arrived in Nagog in silent fury. Annabelle put on her string bikini, the forbidden one, and smiled at Victoria, daring her to restart the fight. When she returned for dinner, her eyes were distant and dreamy. “So, Tommy Woodward, does he have a girlfriend?” she’d asked.