A Real Basket Case

by Beth Groundwater

  “Who’re you calling an older woman?” Claire had never attached that label to herself before.

  Ellen grinned. “Older than he is, that is. If you want a little excitement, all you have to do is say yes.”

  “I’m married, remember? I couldn’t do that to Roger.”

  Ellen shrugged. “Wake up and smell the cappuccino. You’re no more important to him than a piece of furniture.”

  The words stung, but Claire had to admit her friend probably was right. The hugs and hand-holding of years past had given way to quick pecks on the cheek. Guiltily, she realized that mixed with her shock was pleasure that she had attracted Enrique’s attention—that she could attract any man’s attention.

  “Roger will never find out,” Ellen said. “Does he even know you’re here today?”

  “No.”

  “See? And he probably doesn’t care, either.” She peered at Claire. “C’mon. A little fling will do wonders for your attitude, let alone your sex life. Think about it.”

  With a disturbing premonition that Enrique signaled trouble —deep trouble—Claire shook her head and rubbed the hand he had grasped.

  ___

  Claire glanced at her watch that night—nine-thirty. When is Roger coming home? As she rose from the family room sofa, her stiff joints cracked. She stretched and made a note to take another ibuprofen, the candy of the middle-aged, before bed.

  The TV sitcom had been one long string of sexual innuendoes and worn-out, demeaning jokes. Why did she sit through the tiresome show until the end? Because she had nothing better to do—like talk to her husband. She’d finished a basket order late that afternoon and couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to start another one.

  She glanced at two of her large Colorado Collection gift baskets, which sat on the side table, ready for their Thursday delivery to a local real estate agent. Decorated with leather strips, beads, and turkey feathers, they brimmed with Southwestern food products—wildflower honey, blue cornbread mix, and the requisite hot sauces and salsa mouth-burners with names like Pure Hell, Durango Red, and Scorned Woman.

  Claire’s lips curled. Scorned Woman, that’s what I feel like.

  She scooped up the remains of another soup-and-crackers dinner, stomped into the kitchen, and dumped the dishes in the sink. She picked up the phone, then slammed it back down again. Where would it get her to yell at him?

  She paced the floor and took a couple of deep, calming breaths, then called Roger at his office. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Jeez, I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ve got my staff hustling to get ready for our investors’ briefing Friday.”

  “That’s four days from now. Why are you working late tonight?”

  “Because I have a goddamn mountain of work to do.” Roger paused, then resumed in a more conciliatory tone. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take out my stress on you. I’ll be tied up on this all week. I can’t force my staff to stay and not stay myself. The dry run’s Thursday, and I have to get the books in order by then.”

  Claire drummed her fingers on the counter. “Does that mean I’ll be eating alone every night until Friday?”

  “I’m afraid so. I can’t let Ned down on this one.”

  Since being promoted to the position of chief financial officer a year ago, Roger had been diligent in doing whatever Ned Peters, president of the mid-sized technology company, asked. Excessively diligent.

  “But you can let your wife down,” she said.

  “Dammit, Claire, that’s not fair. You know this is an important step in my career. If I perform well as CFO for Ned’s private company, I can move on to a large public firm. Then the bucks’ll really flow.”

  “But I don’t want more money. I want you.” God, that sounded pathetic. But she was sick of playing second best to Ned and his infernal chips and bits.

  Roger exhaled loudly. “You know it’s not just the money. I’ve told you before. It’s the prestige. CFOs are part of the elite, the movers and shakers of the corporate world.”

  Again, Roger hadn’t understood her point. Frustration welled up in her throat. “You act like you value your career more than our marriage. Can’t you delegate some of this work so you can come home at a decent hour once in awhile?”

  “It’s my responsibility to make sure this briefing is right. I can’t delegate that.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll take you out to dinner Friday when this is all over. You pick the place. In the meantime, why don’t you get out more on your own? Do something with your girlfriends.”

  Could she count on Ellen or Jill to kiss her goodnight, hold her in their arms, make love to her? Hell, no. Roger wasn’t going to either, hadn’t for what, weeks now?

  Claire slapped the refrigerator door, then stared at her reddened palm. He still didn’t see what he was doing to their marriage. But from the irritation in his voice, she knew the time had come to back off. “I started an exercise class today.”

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about. Make new friends in the class, organize a ski trip with them, whatever.”

  She remembered their family ski trips, when the kids were young enough to put up with their parents’ companionship and Roger could escape from his work long enough to actually have some fun. Back then, Claire and Roger had looked forward to traveling more when the kids were grown, and they had planned imaginary trips to romantic, faraway places like Tuscany, Bangkok, and Cancun. Nowadays, Claire rarely ventured farther than the factory outlet shops in Castle Rock.

  “I’d rather ski with you,” she said.

  “I already told you. You can’t depend on me to fill your time. Not when I’m building a reputation here.”

  “You promised we’d go to Breckenridge one weekend this month.”

  “There’s not a chance in hell that’s going to happen now.”

  Claire simmered. “So a promise to your wife means nothing anymore.”

  “Honey, that’s not—wait a minute.” Roger covered the receiver to talk to someone in his office, then returned. “Gotta go. We’ll talk about this later. Don’t wait up for me.”

  “Roger—” Claire realized she was talking to a dead line.

  ___

  On Wednesday, Claire took the ten a.m. aerobics class again. She had trouble keeping her eyes off Enrique and concentrating on the exercises. He seemed to watch her more than the other women, or was that her overactive imagination? She caught herself sucking in her stomach and comparing her profile to others in the mirrors. Not as bad as the Bartlett pear in the back row, but no comparison to willowy Brenda. Claire’s form was more like a sturdy oak.

  Afterward, Claire’s sore muscles complained about being strained again so soon. In the locker room, she popped an ibuprofen into her mouth while she changed into street clothes. She chatted briefly with Jill, who raved about a new almond coffee cake recipe before leaving to attend a PTO meeting at her son’s high school.

  After a quick shower, Ellen had rushed to a massage appointment. Claire wished she had a massage appointment. She rubbed her neck with one hand while she walked down the corridor toward the front door of the gym.

  “Feeling a little sore?” Enrique stepped in front of her, his grin showing dazzling white teeth.

  Surprised, she sucked in a breath. A whiff of his musky aftershave stirred up a little quiver in the pit of her stomach. “I guess I’m not used to this yet.”

  “Let me.” He eased her around and kneaded her shoulders expertly, forcing taut muscles to loosen.

  Face flushing, Claire protested, “No, no, I’m fine. Aren’t we in the way here?”

  Enrique continued the massage. “You are too tight, and others can walk around us. No problem.”

  She gave up and tried to relax. His hands on her felt good—too good. As his thumbs worked up the back of her neck, she closed her eyes and let her head loll. When he stopped and turned her around to face him, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

  “Better?”
<
br />   Claire rolled her shoulders. “Better.”

  He cupped her elbow. “Now we will have a drink together, some juice, perhaps, and discuss your exercise program.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” Enrique steered her into the gym’s health food bar and toward a booth in the rear.

  The chatter of conversations and the roar of blenders devouring ice assaulted Claire’s ears. The place smelled like a farm market—grass, probably wheat grass, and carrots, lemons, and cucumbers. Bewildered, she sat in the booth.

  Enrique slid in across from her. “Carrot-apple juice with protein powder will restore your electrolytes. Okay?”

  Claire knew nothing about electrolytes. “Okay.”

  He ordered two drinks from the waitress. Then he rubbed his hands together. “It has been awhile since you exercised, yes?”

  “I walked some in the summer and fall, but I quit when the cold weather moved in. Then I got busy over the holidays.”

  “Typical. We must get you limber and fit again.” He grabbed one of the drinks the waitress delivered and took a couple of gulps. “You need to start a weight-lifting program to build your strength and bones.”

  A vision of herself pinned by a dropped weight bar, sprawled on her back like a flipped turtle with arms and legs flailing, almost made Claire spit out her drink.

  He poked a thumb at his chest. “I will be your personal trainer.”

  “What do you charge?”

  “Nothing for you.”

  “Why would you do that for me?”

  Enrique patted her hand. “You are a beautiful woman, Claire. I will make you even more beautiful.”

  She pulled her hands into her lap. It had been a long time since someone had called her beautiful.

  Enrique gazed into her eyes. “I am serious. You have a very nice body, just a little soft. But your face, ah, your face. Your eyes are large and blue, blue like our Colorado sky. They are mirrors to your soul.”

  Claire felt her cheeks redden.

  He smiled. “Right now, you are a little embarrassed.”

  “A little.” She leaned back. He was getting too close. “I’m not sure I like where this conversation is going.”

  Enrique drank some juice and studied her. “I think you do like it. Very much.”

  She picked up her glass and took a nervous sip of the grainy, sweet juice. Was he flirting or just stating what was obviously written all over her face?

  He grinned at her. “You see?”

  She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a smile. “I’m a terrible liar.”

  He leaned forward. “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

  “I . . . nothing.”

  He finished his juice and stood. “Meet me here at ten. We will go through the weight machines. Then you will be very sore. You will need a massage. All over.” He winked and strode off.

  Claire’s chin dropped. A massage? She stared at his retreating form. He has great buns. Oh, God.

  Then she noticed the check. She pulled out her wallet, dropped some money on the table, and picked up her gym bag. I have to call Ellen.

  ___

  Claire paced across her Mexican-tiled kitchen, phone clutched tight against her ear. She stared out the window. Her house nestled among scrub oak and ponderosa pine in the foothills of Colorado Springs. Patches of snow dotted the yard where shadows hid them from the February sun. A squirrel scampered along the rail of the redwood deck. The creature seemed to know what direction to take—unlike herself.

  When Ellen answered the phone, Claire said, “I’m in trouble. Big trouble. Enrique plans to guide me through the weight machines tomorrow, and he said something about massaging me all over.”

  “See, I told you he was interested. Here’s your chance for a little fling.”

  Claire twisted the phone cord. “I don’t want a fling.” Her chest and cheeks flushed, either from a premenopausal hot flash or the thought of a fling with Enrique. She couldn’t tell. She picked up a magazine and fanned her face.

  “Nothing like a little action on the side to liven up a marriage. I should know. The best sex I ever had with Dave was after he started seeing that slut.”

  “C’mon, Ellen, I’m not looking for a divorce.”

  “Of course not. You won’t have a serious relationship with Enrique. Just a little fun. That’s all he wants.”

  Claire felt her eyes narrow. “How do you know?”

  “He won’t tell you, but some women in the class have been with him. They can’t resist bragging in the locker room.”

  “Yuck.” Claire remembered that woman, Brenda, arranging to meet with Enrique.

  Ellen laughed. “You don’t have to tell a soul. In fact, I advise you not to. An opportunity like this doesn’t come along very often. Not with a hunk like Enrique.”

  Claire sucked in air between her teeth. She still loved Roger, even if he never gave her a chance to show it. But lately, she’d begun to wonder if he still loved her. “I can’t sneak around behind Roger’s back, no matter how troubled our marriage is. Maybe I should just quit the class.”

  “Not after I finally convinced you to start exercising. You need this class.”

  “I do need to lose a few pounds.” Claire pinched the skin over her abdomen. More than an inch for sure.

  “And Enrique’s right. Aerobics won’t do it alone. You need to lift weights, too.” Ellen paused. “You should meet him tomorrow.”

  “I told you. I’m not going to cheat on Roger.”

  “I know, I know, though I’m disappointed in you. Just tell Enrique you’re not interested in fooling around. He’ll shrug it off, and you’ll still get the weight-training you need.”

  Nibbling at her lip, Claire said, “But no massage.”

  “If you don’t get a massage after that session, you’ll ache all weekend. And he gives a great massage.”

  Claire’s hands turned ice-cold at the thought of a strange man placing his hands on her not-so-firm-anymore body. “I would feel too self-conscious. I’ll just soak in the tub and take some ibuprofen.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Ellen sighed. “Sometimes you need to be nudged in the direction that’s best for you.”

  Claire managed a sheepish laugh. “Like when you talked me into starting my basket business?”

  “Exactly. You were blind to all the compliments you got on ones you made as gifts for your friends. Someone had to force you to see how good you were at it.”

  “I’m glad you did. Creating them keeps me from missing the kids so much.”

  “Back to Enrique. Just remember, there’s no harm in looking, and he’s definitely an eyeful.” Ellen hung up.

  Claire stared at the phone. The thought of spending the next morning with Enrique sent a shiver down her spine that settled in the pit of her stomach. Oh, God.

  THREE:

  BODYWORK

  Claire shoved her bag into a locker. Nervous sweat dampened her hands as she took off her coat and checked her reflection in the mirror—oversized T-shirt and leggings, slouched socks, and sneakers. If only she’d shopped the day before for a coordinated exercise outfit like Ellen’s.

  Sucking in her stomach, Claire took a last glance and patted down her hair. She gritted her teeth and stepped out of the locker room.

  Enrique stood by the door to the weight room, reading a fitness magazine. His skimpy shorts and tank top left little to the imagination. When he saw her, he smiled and returned the magazine to the rack. He pushed his arms up in a mock-lift that made his biceps bulge. “Ready to build those muscles?”

  Claire squared her shoulders. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good. Let us begin.” He waved his hand toward the rows of weight machines. “We will start with a circuit of eight machines.”

  She groaned.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Enrique patiently explained each machine. He helped her find ideal seat positions and selected weights that ma
de her work, but not too hard. Moving from machine to machine, he recorded the positions and weights on a clipboard chart.

  Distracted by his nearness, Claire struggled to listen to his instructions. She gradually lost her nervousness while Enrique pointed out—on her—the muscles each machine worked. Straining against the machines gave her a sense of power. She could learn to like this.

  At the end of the circuit, Enrique studied her chart before sliding it into a file cabinet drawer. “You did very well for your first day. Are you surprised by how much weight you can lift?”

  Claire rolled her stiff shoulders. Her leg muscles complained, too. “I may not be able to lift much tomorrow.”

  Enrique laughed, then leaned in close and lowered his voice. “That is why you must continue to lift, to keep those muscles from freezing.”

  As his breath caressed her cheek, heat rushed into Claire’s face.

  “A massage helps, too.” He pulled an envelope out of his shorts pocket and handed it to her.

  Puzzled, Claire opened the envelope. She pulled out a gift certificate for a massage made out to her and signed by Ellen.

  “Ellen told me you were interested in a massage today.” Enrique winked.

  Claire felt boxed in, the decision already made for her. Wasting Ellen’s money by refusing would be awkward. She gulped and nodded. “But nothing else.”

  “That is fine with me.” Enrique tilted her chin up so she had to look directly into his eyes. “Until you decide you are ready for more.”

  She stared, tongue-tied.

  Enrique dropped his hand. “Now you must change. I will meet you in the lobby, then we will go to your house.”

  “My house?” No way.

  “Where else?”

  “Doesn’t the gym have massage rooms?”

  “I am a freelance therapist and cannot use those rooms.”

  She tried to hand the certificate back to him. “I don’t feel comfortable with—”

  “Massage therapists make house calls all the time.” He patted her shoulder. “Many clients prefer to relax in the privacy of their own homes.” With a confident stride, he headed down the hall, toward the men’s locker room.