The Red Hat Society's Domestic Goddess

by Regina Hale Sutherland

  Millie had a five second warning that something funny was about to happen when water gurgled under her feet. Then the sprinklers started, shooting streams of water across the grass. And Millie’s hair and shirt and pants. It even trickled down her ankles and pooled in her white canvas shoes.

  Taken off guard by the impromptu cold shower, Millie’s attention was drawn away from spying through the shrubs. She didn’t notice that Charles had come outside until his dog was yapping around Millie’s dripping ankles. She pressed a finger against her lips, hoping the animal would obey the universal silencing gesture before its master investigated what had it barking. “Shhh…”

  It bounced around more, its little body shaking as it vigorously wagged its tail. A motor rumbled, louder than the water rushing through the spigots, as a car backed down Charles’s drive. Millie caught a glimpse of his visitor through the driver’s window. Blonde, beautiful, young.

  Even though it was only a glimpse, Millie was pretty certain she’d never seen her before. The girl, and the car, disappeared from view as Charles stepped around the shrubs and blocked Millie’s line of vision. But she’d already seen enough of her competition. Not that she was actually competing for Charles, at least not anymore. That was the problem with men Millie’s age. They didn’t want women Millie’s age.

  “How many times have I told you to stay out of the sprinklers?” Charles scolded his dog, his deep voice full of exasperation. And he hadn’t even noticed Millie yet.

  “This is the first time that I know of,” she said, swallowing her sigh of disappointment as his gaze traveled from his dog, which was lapping the water off her ankles, up her drenched body, to meet hers. His amazing blue eyes widened with shock. He backed away, maybe out of fear, maybe just to give her room to get out from under the water spray.

  Either way she took advantage, stepping around the shrubs to stand with him on his driveway. The dog, keeping close to her, shook itself, sending more water flying at her. Millie resisted the urge, barely, to follow the dog’s example and shake off some water, too. Charles, speechless, still stared at her.

  He undoubtedly thought her a psychotic stalker now. The tide of embarrassment that flooded her body wasn’t entirely unwelcome as it warmed her chilled, damp skin.

  Her brain scrambled for any half-baked explanation. “I was bringing this by,” she said, extending the dripping plastic bowl toward him, “when I thought I noticed Kim’s cat dart into the shrubs.”

  The nearly plausible story spilling from her lips surprised her; maybe cold showers did help clear the mind. At least it had hers. Or maybe the age and beauty of his visitor had.

  He hesitated before reaching for the bowl. When he touched it, his fingers slid across the wet plastic and tangled with hers, warming them, before he took the bowl from her. It slipped in his grasp, and he fumbled it twice before getting a good grip on it. “More pie.”

  “I know you like it,” she said. And now she knew what else he liked. Young blondes.

  “You had some left?”

  “No, it’s fresh.” Just like he liked ‘em.

  But he seemed less interested in the pie than her dripping clothes. She glanced down and noticed, highlighted in his porch light, how tightly her pale green knit shirt clung to her. A little pride joined her embarrassment now. She might actually stop complaining about all those tortuous exercises Kim made her do, since the results of all that hard work had brought about a flare of interest in a certain set of blue eyes.

  “So was it?” he asked.

  “Was what?”

  “Kim’s cat,” he reminded her. “Isn’t that why you were in the bushes?”

  She wished it were. “Oh; yeah…”

  “You didn’t catch it.”

  She shook her head, and water flew from her curls like it had the dog’s fur. She bit her tongue, holding in a dismayed gasp, as droplets darkened spots on his white oxford shirt. He wore it tucked into jeans faded by design not wear. Even in casual clothes, Charles Moelker looked like a movie star.

  “That was probably Buddy’s fault,” he said, a bit apologetically.

  “Buddy?”

  “The dog,” he said, “who adores you, by the way.”

  She glanced down at the little Schnauzer, who was leaning against her leg and staring up at her with its tongue hanging out.

  For a moment there, she’d thought Charles had come close to looking at her that way. But it was clear to her that the dog was more interested in her than its owner. And she’d seen the reason why driving away. For now. Millie had no doubt that the young woman would be back.

  But Millie wouldn’t. Her attempts at flirting had embarrassed her enough for a lifetime.

  “Well, I better go,” she said, easing away from the dog who flopped on its back and gazed hopefully up at her. She couldn’t deny it a quick pat to the belly, not after having almost run it over. How the dog could like her after that near miss she couldn’t fathom.

  “Well, thanks for the pie,” Charles said, lifting the container in a little salute. “I hope you teach us how to do this.”

  “What?”

  “In your class,” he explained. “I hope you share your pie recipe.”

  The class. She might not come again to Charles’s house, but she wouldn’t be able to avoid him. Only now, knowing that he didn’t spend his nights with only Buddy for company, she would not be flirting anymore.

  Chapter Seven

  “Making coffee has become the great compromise of the decade. It’s the only thing ‘real’ men do that doesn’t seem to threaten their masculinity. To women, it’s on the same domestic entry level as putting the spring back into the toilet-tissue holder or taking a chicken out of the freezer to thaw.”

  —Erma Bombeck

  Class starts tonight,” Theresa reminded Wally as she refilled his coffee cup. She’d switched from decaf, skipped over the lite brands featuring half the caffeine, and gone right back to the leaded stuff she hadn’t used in ten years in the hopes that it might give him more energy. Or at least keep him awake until noon.

  Wally lifted his gaze from the newspaper, lowered his reading glasses, and blinked bleary green eyes at her. Although it was late morning, he still wore his robe, not the soft velour one she’d bought him for Christmas but the ratty plaid flannel one he refused to throw out. “It starts tonight?” he asked. “So did Millie talk her son into joining?”

  Theresa nodded as she settled into the padded wicker chair across from Wally in their sunbathed breakfast nook. This was her favorite part of the condo, with two-story windows that looked out over the treetops on the east side of the hill. Before he’d retired, Wally had never had time to appreciate the beauty of the view. She’d thought that would change once he wasn’t rushing off to work early every morning. But still, he couldn’t appreciate what he had.

  “Yes,” she confirmed, “she talked both of them into joining.”

  Wally turned the page of his paper and said, “Since they’re going along with it, you don’t need me.”

  She was tempted to agree with him. But they’d been together too many years. She reached for a piece of the paper and noticed that the business section was untouched. All he read now was the sports page, and she didn’t think he had much interest in that, either, except to leave the wrinkled papers lying around the house.

  “You really need to go,” she insisted, staring him down over the rim of her coffee mug. Maybe the caffeine wasn’t a good idea for her; it tended to shorten her usually long temper. “You promised that you would.”

  He sighed. “To help Millie’s son. But his brother will be there—”

  “He’s only one other student. We need more than that, or Steven will catch on.” And so might Wally, if she didn’t control her frustration. She had to be careful not to tell him how many had actually signed up for their class, thanks to their Red Hat chapterettes. “He can’t think this class is just for him, or he’ll drop out.”

  “So what’s it going to be?”
he asked, in his usual defeated tone. “Me and two guys young enough to be my sons? I won’t be able to catch on as fast as they will. The only thing having me in that class will accomplish is my slowing them down.” These were the most words he’d spoken in one conversation lately; it was no wonder that he had to stop to expel a ragged breath before adding, “and embarrassing you.”

  Theresa’s heart softened, and she would have reached for one of his hands but he’d fisted them around the paper, crumpling it into illegibility. “You won’t be the oldest,” she assured him. “Mr. Lindstrom signed up. So did Charles Moelker.”

  “Moelker?” He blinked, eyes full of surprise. “He’s married, too.”

  “Not anymore. His wife divorced him a while ago. She’s already remarried.”

  Wally pushed the paper aside, sending the unread business section to the terra cotta floor. Of course he didn’t lean over to retrieve it, just left it lying there. Then he took a sip of coffee, studying her silently as he swallowed. Could he taste the caffeine? She’d added some sugar, too, so maybe that masked the flavor.

  To distract him from the coffee, Theresa said, “You should get to know Charles.”

  And not just because they might have something in common. She suspected Millie was interested in him, although she would hotly deny it if Theresa or Kim outright asked. Out of loyalty to Bruce? Or embarrassment? Was that why she’d dyed her hair, to attract his attention?

  If so, Theresa had a feeling that the class was going to be really interesting. “I think you’ll enjoy the course.”

  Hopefully he’d learn something, like how to pick up after himself. And maybe he’d find something, too, like the man he used to be before he sold his business, because Theresa missed him. She didn’t know how much longer she could live with this depressed stranger.

  She’d tried to get him help, but he wouldn’t see a psychiatrist, wouldn’t even admit to his primary care physician that he was struggling to deal with his early retirement. The class was her last hope to lift him out of his funk, and to save their marriage.

  Millie clutched the lesson book to her chest as she leaned over the railing around the basement stairwell. Even from where she stood, she could see the mess on the family room floor. Along with a discarded dress shirt, a bag of chips lay on the carpet, crumbs spilling out and embedding themselves into the fibers. She had vacuumed just the day before. How had he made such a mess already?

  “Steven?”

  “I’m on the phone, Mom,” he called up.

  Hope lifted her heart. Maybe finally, after days of no communication between them, he was talking to Audrey. Millie would have crossed her fingers, but she had them clasped tightly around the thick binder.

  She, Theresa, and Kim had spent a lot of time creating the lesson plans, a colored tab differentiating the cooking segments from the cleaning, shopping, and laundry. They had so much to teach their students.

  Teach. Nerves kicked up in Millie’s stomach, churning the M&Ms she’d eaten to bolster her confidence. She’d never done anything like this. Even with Theresa and Kim’s expert help, she had a feeling she’d wind up like she had the other night. All wet.

  She closed her eyes, trying to squeeze out the image of those two silhouettes in Charles’s front window, of the blonde as she’d backed down the drive. Young. Beautiful. Instead of stewing over it, she should have just asked Charles who his visitor was.

  Maybe she would, if she could catch him alone during class. Her hands trembled with nerves—over teaching, not seeing Charles. She had no reason to be nervous over seeing him again, especially if he had someone in his life already.

  But still, Millie had been careful when she’d dressed. She wore a bright orange, short-sleeved sweater and jean capris with colorful flowers embroidered down the seams. She hadn’t chosen her favorite color for Charles, but to bolster her confidence, like the M&Ms.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she turned toward the door. She’d wanted Steven’s help carrying stuff out to the car—things, besides the lesson book, that were necessary for the first class. Coffeemakers, hers plus some she’d borrowed, were lined up along the hall, and even though the stove in the community center had six burners, she’d scrounged up some hot plates, too. Thank goodness she had dropped off the perishables at the community center.

  She already picked up a coffeemaker and reached for the door just as it flung open, banging against the wall. Startled, she juggled the maker, trying not to drop the glass carafe.

  “Mom, what are you doing?” Mitchell asked as he tossed his briefcase onto the floor.

  “I need to get this stuff to the community center,” she explained.

  “And you need help,” he surmised. But he walked past her and leaned over the basement railing, yelling out, “Steven! Get your butt up here!”

  “Shhhh,” Millie cautioned. “He’s on the phone. I think it might be Audrey.”

  Mitchell turned back, his brown eyes bright with hope. “Did he call her?”

  “No, and no,” Steven answered for himself, as he climbed the stairs. “That was a business call.”

  Not personal. He didn’t have a personal life anymore, Millie realized. Disappointment soured her hopefulness. “Ah, Steven…”

  “Call her,” Mitchell urged.

  Steven shook his head and expelled a ragged breath. “How many times do I have to tell you two that she wants nothing to do with me?”

  “She doesn’t know that you’re taking the class yet,” Millie pointed out. “You need to tell her that you’re trying—”

  “What’s the name of the course?” Steven interrupted, pointing to where the lesson book precariously balanced on the top of the maker Millie still held. “A Bachelor’s Survival course. That’s why I’m taking it.”

  Millie’s heart clenched with pain, but it was nothing compared to what darkened Steven’s eyes. “Oh, honey…”

  “Face it, you two,” he advised them, “I’m going to be a bachelor again.”

  “Technically I don’t know if you can be one again,” Mitchell said, perhaps hoping to lighten the mood with some humor. “A bachelor is someone who never got married.”

  Steven drew in a deep breath and quipped, “You should know. No woman alive would agree to marry you.” Even though he teased, his mouth didn’t lift into a smile, his eyes didn’t brighten.

  He needed this class. They both did.

  Millie lifted her chin, squashing her nerves. She couldn’t worry about herself, about a little potential embarrassment. She had a mission. “Okay, boys, help me load the car. We need to get this show on the road!”

  “I’ll hold the door,” Mitchell offered, gesturing toward his suit and tie, as if carrying things might muss them up.

  Millie took advantage of his open arms to load the coffeemaker into them, but she grabbed the binder. In addition to the lesson plans, it held many important recipes, ones she’d taken from what she lovingly referred to as her cooking bible, The Red Hat Society cookbook.

  Her sons grumbled complaints under their breaths, but they helped her load the trunk, then unloaded it at the community center. But when they walked into the industrial-sized kitchen, with its stainless steel appliances and long, granite countertops and island, they retreated, claiming something had been left in the car. They had probably not been overwhelmed by what they were about to do, but by the argument between the two women there, wrestling over a stool. Kim and Theresa fought over the workstation setup.

  Millie glanced from them to where Wally stood by the sliding doors to the deck which encompassed two sides of the brick building, and was suspended over the hillside. He lifted his hands to demonstrate his helplessness.

  “We agreed on how we were setting up the class,” Millie reminded her friends, moving between the pub tables they’d brought in earlier that day from the rec room. With them and some extra stools, they’d have ample workspace. Although they kept bickering, Theresa and Kim helped her set out the coffeemakers, hot plates, and other ma
terials required for this lesson.

  “It’s a beautiful evening,” Kim said with a sigh. “We should face the windows.”

  “It’s a cooking class. We should face the stove,” Theresa insisted.

  “We’re learning more than cooking,” Kim argued.

  “Ye—” Millie couldn’t even agree before Theresa snapped back.

  “Yes, coffee making—”

  “That’s a bad idea,” Kim said. “You definitely had too much coffee today.”

  “The lessons are all planned out,” Theresa reminded her.

  “But you brought regular coffee. You know caffeine isn’t good for you. I taught that in my class.”

  “Well, this isn’t your class,” Theresa countered.

  As strong women with strong opinions, Theresa and Kim often butted heads, but Millie couldn’t afford to let things get out of control already. She raised her voice to shout above their bickering, “It’s my class!”

  Wally shot Millie a smile of approval. Her heart swelled with a little pride. If she could referee Kim and Theresa, and her boys, she’d have no problem teaching.

  Then Charles walked in. And suddenly she felt as deflated as if she were standing wet and humiliated in his shrubs. Heat rushed to her face, and she busied herself behind the counter, putting away the extra ingredients until she heard Charles ask Kim, “So did you find your cat?”

  Millie sucked in a deep breath, holding it, as she studied Kim’s reaction.

  Beneath her spiky bangs, Kim’s forehead puckered with confusion. Then she nodded. “Yeah… I found it.”

  “Millie’s some great friend. She got soaked in the sprinklers trying to catch it. Then Buddy rushed out to help her.” Charles chuckled.

  Before responding to Charles, Kim gave Millie a pointed stare across the counter. “Yeah, she’s some great friend…”