Hot Flash Holidays Page 3

  Faye could understand Carolyn’s possessive concerns. Carolyn and Aubrey shared the ownership and responsibility for the Sperry Paper Company, which had been handed down through the generations. No wonder Carolyn had freaked out when, the previous fall, Aubrey had, on a whim, married a much younger woman who had appeared naïve and sweet but turned out to be manipulative and mercenary.

  In a way, Faye had been part of the chain of responsibility for this revelation. She, Alice, Marilyn, and Shirley, the founders of the Hot Flash Club and of The Haven, had followed their chosen life directive, which was, in a word, Interfere. They’d realized that four of The Haven’s clients needed help, so they’d organized a special Jacuzzi/aromatherapy encounter for the women, who quickly became friends, and did what women friends have done since the beginning of time: plotted clever ways to solve one another’s problems. Aubrey’s wife’s deceitful scheme was destroyed, and Aubrey’s brief marriage was annulled.

  And Aubrey’s ego was crushed. He was seventy. He’d wanted to be youthful and virile. Instead, he’d been exposed as a fool.

  In their most intimate, tender moments together, Aubrey had confessed his humiliation to Faye. He did not go so far as to say that he was anxious about his possible sexual performance, but their initial adolescent lust was cooled by the realities of life and aging. Faye let him know that she could be patient. After all, she was anxious, too.

  They’d been dating for almost eight months now, and had not yet progressed past affectionate kisses and fraternal hugs. But that was all right. They’d both been so overwhelmed with moving houses.

  Faye had done the lion’s share of sorting through her possessions of over thirty years when, the year before, she’d sold her house and pared down to the bare necessities for her condo at The Haven. She’d sold some of her heirlooms, given stuff away, and rented a storage facility for furniture with which she couldn’t bear to part.

  It had been fun for a while, in a clean, crisp kind of way, to live in small rooms on the third floor of a building whose grounds were groomed by professional gardeners. But quickly she realized she wanted to have her own place, with her own yard, her own flowers, her own bird feeders.

  So she’d bought this little Cape Cod located halfway between The Haven, where she taught part time, and Boston, with its theater, museums, and art galleries. During the past few months, in a kind of domestic ecstasy, she’d chosen new rugs, new wallpapers, new furniture, and unpacked her treasures from the storage units, rediscovering each beloved possession with a new delight. She’d hung her favorite still life, the painting Jack had loved the most, one she’d painted only a year before his death, above the mantel in the living room. She hoped it might inspire her to return to her work.

  So far, she hadn’t set up her easel or picked up a brush.

  But in the fall, she’d planned and planted her garden with spring blooms. Digging into the ground, crumbling rich fertilizer into the dark earth, preparing healthy beds for the plump garlic-shaped bulbs, had been a satisfying and deeply sensual experience. She felt connected to the land, as if she’d planted part of her heart among the flowers. Afterward, she was too tired for much more than a microwave dinner and an evening with a book. She didn’t miss the energetic demands of sexual passion, and she very much enjoyed the daily phone conversations with Aubrey.

  Aubrey’s relocation had been much more complicated. He, his daughter Carolyn, her husband Hank, and their baby had lived in a magnificent, if slightly Edward Gorey–esque, Victorian mansion riding high on a hill overlooking the town of Sperry. Big as an ark, the dwelling had been built by Aubrey’s grandmother at the turn of the century, when servants as well as family were housed there. Aubrey had his own wing, and Carolyn had hers, and there were common rooms, and a plucky, though overwhelmed, housekeeper, who tried to keep the pantries full and the dust at least rearranged.

  But the house was dark and inconvenient. Hank had been the one to suggest they move. He and Carolyn had bought a modern, sleek, practical new house near the mill, where Carolyn was executive vice president. Aubrey, officially president but eagerly easing out of the position, letting Carolyn take over the reins, had opted to buy a handsome apartment forty minutes to the east, in the middle of Boston, on Beacon Hill, near his various private clubs and the restaurants he loved to frequent.

  The process of breaking up the Sperry home, which was practically a museum, and would actually become a museum for the town, was a staggeringly exhausting endeavor. The Sperrys had antiques and oil paintings needing expert appraisal, and it all required the services of several lawyers, which of course made the process even more time-consuming. Some weeks passed when Aubrey barely had the energy to phone Faye to say hello before he tumbled into bed.

  So it was no wonder they hadn’t yet tumbled into bed together.

  It just might prove to be a problem, Faye thought, leaning against the kitchen counter, staring out her window at the moonlight on the snow, that she and Aubrey had not been able to consummate their relationship before they remembered how old, creaky, and saggy they were. Now that they had the time and the distance to regard the matter intelligently, they both had gotten shy about their aging bodies.

  Aubrey was such an elegant man, with a luxurious wardrobe and courtly manners, so meticulous about his grooming. He was actually shocked, Faye thought, to find that in spite of his rigorous personal hygiene, his body had betrayed him. Arthritis made him stoop and creak. He had to pop pills or suffer painful indigestion and even so, what he called “dyspepsia” called up embarrassing burps at inappropriate times and often, if he forgot his medicine, made him nearly double over in pain. His beautiful white hair was thinning, his pink scalp showing through, the few surviving strands at the front of his head crinkling and refusing to lie down, waving in the air like survivors from a sinking ship.

  Still, he was head-turningly handsome. Faye enjoyed entering a party or the theater on his arm. More than that, she enjoyed looking at him, admiring his aristocratic profile, the way his face changed subtly when he was amused or aroused. Because she was thirteen years younger, she thought she’d be able to shut out the wailing Greek chorus of her own vanity when they ever did get around to making love—especially if they kept the lights off.

  What would Laura think of Aubrey? Faye had told her daughter all about him, and Laura had assured her mother she was delighted to know Faye was dating. Aubrey was coming to the little Christmas Eve party tonight and would stay for a cozy family dinner afterward.

  Faye imagined it: the four of them around the table, Aubrey charming Laura and Lars as they talked, and adorable little Megan on Faye’s lap. It had been six months since Faye had flown out to California to visit her daughter’s family. Yes, they had “talked” via their web-cams almost every day, but children took shy easily. Would Megan allow Faye to put her to bed? Faye had bought a rocking chair for Megan’s room. Closing her eyes, she conjured up a vision of perfect holiday happiness: rocking her granddaughter to sleep, softly singing the same lullabies she’d once sung to Laura, gazing down at her grandchild’s face, while downstairs the others got to know one another over coffee and Dutch apple pie, Laura’s favorite dessert.

  Her thoughts lulled her. The sweet, heavy brandy of sleepiness flowed through her blood, weighing down her limbs. Leaving the punch bowl on the counter, Faye left the kitchen and, flicking off the lights as she went, returned to the living room. She lay on her side on the sofa, pulling a woven tapestry throw over her for warmth. This familiar old trick had often allowed her to sink into sleep on nights when she tossed and turned in her own bed. She knew she would sleep now, and she was so grateful.

  The lights of the Christmas tree shone in the room, like dozens of bright angels keeping watch.

  Faye woke to find the sun streaming in. Great! No weather problems would keep Laura’s plane from landing.

  She stretched, feeling wonderfully rested. Glancing at the clock, she gave a little cry of terror—she’d slept almost until nin
e o’clock!

  Racing into the kitchen, she started her coffee, then phoned American Airlines to see whether Laura’s plane had left yet. A robotic voice presented “options,” but of course the option to speak with a living human being wasn’t one of them. Faye had to suffer through several minutes of pushing buttons and negotiating with a system that somehow, even though computerized, managed to be as smug and implacable as a high school principal. And it was like being back in school; it was like taking a test. The computer had all the power. She had to concentrate fiercely on what the robot said, and if, God forbid, she pressed the wrong number, she’d flunk and have to start all over again.

  The whole process was so infuriating, it made her erupt in a Mount St. Helens of a hot flash. Really, Faye thought, there should be an option for menopausal women, who could scarcely remember their own names: “If you belong to the Hot Flash Club, press I for Insane and someone will be with you instantly.”

  Finally she keyed in the flight number and was connected to an information bank. Laura’s flight had not yet departed.

  Oh, no! The plane was due to leave at nine in the morning, and it was two minutes after nine! What had happened? Weren’t they going to be able to make it? There couldn’t be a blizzard in California—my God! What if there’d been an earthquake?

  She raced into her tiny family room and turned on the television, quickly clicking the remote control to CNN. After a few minutes of watching the news, she calmed down. No earthquake reported. No disaster in L.A. All right. Fine. Everything was fine. The plane might be late——because while it was nine o’clock here, it was only six o’clock on the West Coast, she remembered, laughing out loud with relief. What an idiot she was! She had to calm down!

  She finished her coffee, then went into the dining room, found the damask tablecloth, and flapped it out— she’d always liked the way the cloth flew out, exuberant, like a bird delighted to spread its white wings—over the long dining room table. As she drank her coffee, she nibbled on Christmas cookies and her homemade, salted, candied pecans. Perhaps not the healthiest breakfast, but it was the holidays, hardly time even to consider dieting.

  She rinsed the punch bowl and set it on the table, then brought out the punch cups, the ladle, the Christmas napkins, the pitchers for juice and sparkling water for those who didn’t want punch, the plates, and the silver. She stacked Christmas CDs in her stereo player.

  When the phone rang, she jumped so hard she nearly launched herself into space.

  “Hello, my dear,” Aubrey said. “I thought I’d check in to see if you need anything for tonight.”

  “Oh, thanks, Aubrey, that’s so kind of you.” His voice made her smile. “But I think I’ve got it under control. I’m just scurrying around, getting things ready for the little party.”

  “Then I won’t keep you,” Aubrey told her. “But you know I’m here if you need me. You’ve got my cell phone number.”

  She grinned like a schoolgirl. How sweet was that, to say I’m here if you need me! Oh, gosh, this really was going to be the best Christmas ever!

  She unwrapped the twisted red, white, and green Christmas candles and put them in their tall silver holders. When the florist arrived with the flowers she’d ordered for the mantel, dining room table, and guest room, Faye was still in her robe, with so much left to do.

  Hurriedly she showered and dressed, then drove off to pick up the turkey and the bluefish pâté from the health food store. She stopped at Wilson’s Farm to buy apples, oranges, clementines, grapes, and several kinds of sweet rolls for tomorrow morning’s breakfast. Her pantry and freezer were crammed with food already, but she wanted to have an abundance, wanted no one to be deprived of a thing.

  It took her four trips to carry everything from the car to the house, and by the time she’d unpacked it all, she was drenched from a hot flash and trembling. Collapsing on a chair, she munched whatever was closest on the kitchen table. A few grapes. An onion bagel with a chunk of cheddar. She brewed a new pot of decaf with one hand while punching numbers in the phone handset with the other. Yes, the flight from L.A. had left on time, and was expected to arrive in Boston on time.

  Her heart leapt with joy.

  She’d better get busy! A huge pan of lasagna was in her refrigerator, dinner for tonight after the holiday cocktail party, so that was under control. It was the party itself she had to get ready for. She clicked on the radio to the classical station and heavenly Christmas music accompanied her as she chopped, diced, stirred, and spread.

  Her hand was trembling. She needed something to calm her down—a glass of wine? No! She had to drive out to the airport in just—oh my God, in just one hour! She would not allow herself to impair her already excited senses. Chocolate. She needed chocolate.

  From the freezer, she took a pint of Ben and Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk, which she’d always found worked better than a trip to the psychiatrist and a couple of Valium, and faster. So what if she automatically gained two pounds? It was the holidays; she had no time to worry about her weight.

  She nuked the ice cream in the microwave for thirty seconds, just the perfect amount of time to get it to the perfect degree of melted richness. Digging a spoon in, she ate directly from the carton as she rushed upstairs to dress. Quickly, she removed her shirt and pulled on a Christmas sweater she’d ordered especially to please her granddaughter. Bright red, it was decorated with a scene of Santa in his sleigh, his sack bulging with presents, his white beard blowing back in the wind. The string of reindeer wrapped around the sweater, ending with Rudolph with his red nose on Faye’s back shoulder.

  Admiring the sweater, her eye fell on her clock. Oh, no! It was already one forty-five. Laura’s plane landed at Logan at three! It would take Faye a good hour to drive there, and that would be only if the traffic was not too congested.

  Hurriedly, she kicked off the ancient loafers she wore to do housework, grabbed the half-eaten carton of ice cream, and started down the stairs in her thick wool socks. Her purse was on the hall table. She’d pull on her boots, coat, gloves, and just go. The car keys were in—

  Suddenly, she slipped. Her body was sailing in the air.

  “AAAH!” she cried, throwing out her hands to grab something, anything. In a flash, she hit the wood floor at the foot of the stairs. Her head hit hard on the last step. For a moment she actually saw stars. Then everything went black.

  She was dreaming of Christmas when a car alarm sounded rudely in the distance. Why was she sprawled out on the cold, hard surface of a parking lot? And who had run over her? Why wasn’t someone coming to help her?

  Faye opened her eyes. She was collapsed in the front hall. Her ankle hurt. Her back hurt. Over in the corner, by the umbrella stand, lay an ice-cream carton in a puddle of brown liquid.

  The noise wasn’t a car alarm; it was the telephone. She’d been lying here long enough for the ice cream to melt—Laura!

  Faye pushed herself up. A searing pain shot through her, beginning in her neck and radiating out to her shoulders and back.

  The phone continued to ring. Carefully, Faye turned her arm so she could see her watch. Three thirty-seven. Laura’s plane had landed, and here Faye was, on the floor.

  “All right,” she said to herself in the calm voice she’d used years ago when Laura was a child, “it’s going to be all right. If you can’t pick up Laura and Lars and Megan, they’ll simply grab a cab. They’re not helpless. You need to get yourself to the kitchen, swallow a couple of aspirin, and you’ll be fine.”

  Slowly, sensibly, she tried to roll over.

  Her left ankle exploded in fireworks.

  She fell back against the newel post, eyes closed, gasping with pain.

  “Shit!” she cursed. “This isn’t right. This is terrible! It’s Christmas!”

  The phone continued to ring, a shrill, demanding, exasperating sound.

  Well, if she couldn’t walk to the phone, she’d damn well crawl.

  Resting her left ankle on top
of her right knee, she pushed with her right foot. Awkwardly, like a debilitated seal, she scooted on her back down the hall.

  Someday, she knew, she would find this funny.

  Right now, she felt only pain and frustration.

  Tears ran down her cheeks. The phone rang and rang. After what seemed like a century, she bumped off the wood floor and onto the tile of the kitchen. A few more shoves, and she reached the alcove where she kept her phone book and phone. The demon clamped on her neck would not allow her to sit up, so she lifted her good leg and clumsily kicked at the ringing phone until it clunked to the floor.

  “Mom?” a tinny voice said.

  Grimacing in agony, Faye reached over and grabbed the handset.

  “Laura!”

  “Mom? I’ve been calling for ages. We’re at the airport, we—”

  “Laura, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

  Laura laughed. For a moment, Faye was horrified. How could Laura laugh at her? Then she remembered the television ad for an alarm button one could wear around one’s neck. The actress who displayed it was a little old lady who quavered, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” For some reason, which at the moment completely escaped Faye, she and Laura had always laughed maniacally at this ad, and so had everyone else she knew.

  “I’m not joking, Laura.” Faye strained to sound firm instead of frantic. “I fell down the stairs. I’ve twisted my ankle, and I’ve done something to my neck.”

  “Oh, poor Mommy!”

  Laura’s words were muffled. Faye could hear her repeating the information to Lars.

  “Listen, Mommy,” Laura said, clear once again. “We’re going to grab a cab to the house. I want you to hang up now and phone your neighbors. Have someone get over there—”

  “Darling, I can wait until you and Lars get here.”

  “No, Mommy,” Laura insisted. “You need to get medical attention as soon as possible. I don’t want you lying on the cold kitchen floor, and if you’ve injured yourself, you’ll need to have it taken care of as soon as possible. Who knows how long it’s going to take us to get a cab here at the airport the day before Christmas? You should absolutely not wait.”