The Hot Flash Club (21 page)

Marilyn snickered. “Yes, and they’re so serious about their bowel movements. So
proud
of them. Theodore always describes his to me, as if he’s just produced a missile for NASA.”

“Yeah,” Alice added. “You know why? Because they can’t have babies, and they never have periods, and they have to get excited over
something
that comes out of their bodies.”

Shirley snorted. “That’s why they stand in front of us and fart and belch. That’s why they pick their noses like they’re mining for plutonium.”

Marilyn nodded thoughtfully. “Men are basically very primitive.”

“Men are lazy and spoiled,” Shirley asserted. “Most of them just want to be serviced. And it doesn’t matter who the woman is. I read that
Marilyn Monroe
had to give her lovers blow jobs.”

“But some men have problems getting erections,” Marilyn interjected. “I mean, Theodore
always
did, even before he turned middle-aged. Oral sex was the only way he could get aroused.”

“Honey, there’s a bridge I’d like to sell you,” Shirley chortled.

“It’s true that older guys have a hard time getting erections.” Alice smirked at her own inadvertent humor.

“Yeah,” Shirley agreed. “Listen, if we’re the Hot Flash Club, hell, older men should form the Limp Dick League.”

“That’s why there’s Viagra,” Faye said.

“Hey!” Shirley snapped. “Why haven’t they made a Viagra for women?”

“They will.” Faye spooned more mousse onto her plate. “I think it balances out. Women have vibrators, but men have no electrical substitute.”

“That’s true,” Marilyn said. “They must get tired of their hands.”

“An electric vagina,” Alice said thoughtfully.

“Sounds scary,” Faye said.

“They don’t need appliances,” Shirley argued. “There are always plenty of women, eager to please any man.”

“Maybe women don’t need sex the way men do,” Faye began.

“
I
certainly do!” Shirley argued.

“Let me finish,” said Faye. “My most sexual memories aren’t of the orgasms I’ve had, and I’ve had plenty. But I remember the first kisses, the intimate glances, the early excitement of laughing at the same jokes. And as I grew older, I didn’t stop lusting after Jack, but it wasn’t that I wanted to have an orgasm. Why, there were times when I’d watch him undress, and I’d see the red impression where his belt had been too tight because he’d gained weight around his middle, and the way his calves were bald because over the years the socks had worn off the hair, and how his jawline had become a jowl line, and how his chest was kind of growing breasts and his chest hair and pubic hair were turning gray—why, he’d seem so precious to me, then, so vulnerable and beloved, I’d just pull him down on the bed and kiss him all over his body and give him whatever kind of sex he wanted, and scratch his back and the top of his head when we were through, and it was lovelier to me then than any orgasm I’d ever had in my life.”

The other three women stared.

Marilyn had tears in her eyes. “You’re so lucky.”

Faye shrugged. “I’m not so sure. My husband’s dead.”

Marilyn nodded. “And mine’s alive, but I’ve never felt that way about him. That
tenderness
—I don’t think we
ever
had it.” She tapped her nail against her coffee cup, took a deep breath, and admitted, “I’m not sure I’ve ever had an orgasm, either.” Blushing crimson, she added softly, “At least not with Theodore. I think I might have, with Barton.”

“Well, honey,” Faye lifted her coffee cup in a toast, “I’ll drink to that!”

Alice cleared her throat. “Let’s get back to work.”

“That damned Barton.” Shirley was licking her spoon. “I want to get revenge on him. For seducing you and using you.”

Marilyn looked confused. “But I was trying to do the same to him!”

“I’m not talking
death
revenge. Just a little mortification.”

Marilyn smiled. “That sounds appropriate.”

Alice put down her fork, picked up her pen, and scribbled a note on her list.

33

Tuesday night, Barton Baker opened the door to his condo the moment Shirley Gold knocked. For a moment, the two just stood there, taking each other’s measure.

She saw a handsome man whose tight blue jeans and white T-shirt displayed a stunning physique, better than that of most men in their twenties. Quite impressive. He was barefoot. His tousled black hair was wet and shining. A towel hung around his neck, testimony to a recent shower. Considerate.

He held out his hand. “Barton Baker.”

She took it. “Shirley Gold. Hello.” She made her voice brisk, like a German nurse’s. To secure an equally hearty, no-nonsense image, she’d tamed her glorious red hair into two taut braids and fastened them over her head like a crown. She wore no makeup, which made her look drab, and she’d borrowed a gray turtleneck from Marilyn to wear with her white tunic and loose white cotton trousers. Her dangling sun and moon earrings, her crystal pendant, her dolphin bracelets, all those she’d left at home. She looked severe, seasoned, and sexless.

“Come in.” Barton stepped back from the door. He seemed nervous. “I still haven’t been able to discover who entered my name in the drawing.”

“It had to be someone at the Chestnut Hill Mall,” Shirley lied reassuringly. That was the posh one; the kinds of people Barton knew would shop there. “Here’s my card. I am an accredited member of the American Massage Therapist Association.”

As she spoke, Shirley studied the room. An open bottle of wine and two glasses waited on the coffee table. Romantic mood music filtered dreamily from the CD player. Her estimate of the man plummeted. It was obvious what kind of massage this guy hoped he was going to get. Thank heavens she had taken pains to look like a masseuse from the Center for the Chronically Chaste.

“If you’d rather not have the massage, you can give it to a friend . . .” She could tell he was reevaluating the situation. When she’d gone to the TransWorld offices, Barton had been in a meeting, so Shirley had spoken with Frances, the secretary at the main desk, who passed along Shirley’s “Congratulations! You’ve won a free massage!” card. Barton had called to make an appointment that evening. Now he could see that a massage was all he was going to get, and he relaxed—Shirley could read it in his body language. One of the advantages of being sixty was that she could look great when she wanted to, she could even look sexy, but she’d never ever again be considered a
babe
, and sometimes that was very restful for herself and her clients.

Barton cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. “No. No, I could use a massage. I’ve been tense lately. Just moved here a month ago, getting used to a new location and all.”

“The massage will last forty minutes. I’ll set up my table here,” Shirley announced bossily. “I’d like to put one of my CDs on. It will help you relax.”

“Well, fine.” She handed him a disc which he took over to his media center.

As she unfolded her table, Shirley asked, “Have you ever had a massage before?”

“Well—” Looking over his shoulder, he flashed a gorgeous naughty-boy grin. “Maybe not this kind.”

Shirley frowned. No doubt about it, Barton was cute. She could understand how Marilyn would be beguiled by the man. But Shirley resented any sexual innuendoes about her work. She was a health professional, and she wished the rest of the world would get on the same page.

“I need to wash my hands.”

“The bathroom’s through the bedroom.”

“While I’m there, you should undress and lie facedown on the table. Leave your undershorts on,” she added, a little more fiercely than she intended.

She passed through the bedroom. Bed, bureau, bedside table. CD speakers. Against the wall, a NordicTrack. No photos. No framed pictures. Nothing out of place. The gray duvet was pulled neatly to meet the gray pillowcases. One book on the bedside table:
Keeping Fit
after Forty.

Well, well.

Marilyn hadn’t been optimistic about this little ruse when they first discussed it. “Look,” Shirley had insisted, “I’m not going to
harm
the man. He’s going to get a free massage! I’m just looking for some kind of weakness, so we can find a way to get revenge on him. You do want revenge, don’t you?” Before Marilyn could reply, Shirley snapped, “Hell,
I
want revenge, whether you do or not! Alice has been fabulous with me. She’s worked her ass off designing a brochure and talking me through the business process. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some guy ruin her life and humiliate you!”

“But there’s nothing in his apartment to
see
,” Marilyn had protested. “I was there. It’s scarcely furnished! He’s just moved in. I can’t imagine what you could find.”

“Did you look in his medicine cabinet?”

Marilyn had recoiled. “Of course not!”

Now Shirley shut the bathroom door and locked it. On the counter next to the sink stood a bottle of Barbasol and a Gillette razor, a tube of whitening toothpaste and an electric toothbrush. Marilyn said Barton was forty-five; he looked to be in pretty good physical condition. Most men had begun to sag a little, especially guys who spent their time behind desks. Most older men had bellies, or doughnuts around their waists. Yet Barton Baker, however old he really was, obviously understood the importance of looking young, and it was hard to keep up that appearance without cosmetic and often pharmaceutical assistance.

She knew all about pharmaceutical assistance. She opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. She spotted a box of Band-Aids, a tube of first-aid cream. Aspirin. Ben-Gay. A couple of Ace bandages.

And several rows of bottles.

Shirley grinned.

Mega-Man Vitamins with additives promising to reduce fat and increase muscle.

Mega-Man Testosterone Enhancement Capsules. Mega-Man Arginine to increase sexual satisfaction. Mega-Man Power Penis Builder, guaranteed to increase both length and width of penis. Funny how the smartest men fell for that scam. Freud had gotten it wrong. It was
men
who had penis envy. An expensive bottle of Armani aftershave next to one of Adonis aftershave, “containing odorless pheromones, guaranteed to attract women and cause them to demand sex.”

She shut the cabinet door, flushed the toilet, and turned on the hot water. This was all very interesting, and slightly amusing, but also, Shirley thought, rather endearing. Heaven knew she’d tried a few sexual enhancement capsules in her lifetime, and what were hair coloring, nail polish, and makeup? Some of these pseudo-medications might indicate a naïveté on Barton’s part—to think that a pill could enlarge a penis! On the other hand, she had to give him credit for trying.

Back in the living room, she found Barton stretched out on the massage table, his face down in the well, his long body stretched out like a sunbather’s. Soothing classical music drifted through the air, a mixture of Brahms, Schumann, and Bach played with a slightly religious air, which Shirley found helpful for setting the mood with a new client, especially a male.

She lit a candle—vanilla—inhaled deeply, and set to work, taking her time, not bothering to go too deep; after all, this was a freebie, and she didn’t plan to see him again, even if he called to schedule appointments. She was there on Marilyn’s behalf. As the man relaxed beneath her hands, she thought how easy it would be to inflict physical harm on him—but she shuddered. She didn’t like having that sort of thought anywhere near her head. She didn’t want to
hurt
him. He was a weasel, not a fiend. She only wanted to embarrass him as he’d embarrassed Marilyn.

When he turned over for the second half of the massage, she discovered her weapon.

Many men who worked with weights shaved their chest hair, but Barton didn’t, which was the first clue. Pressing the heels of her palms deep into his pectoral muscles, she encountered an unusually firm resistance. At the same time his eyes flickered, his whole body tensed. He was wary; she was getting close to a secret.

Smoothly she moved her ministrations to his arms, compressing the long triceps, massaging his palms and each finger. With fluid strokes, she moved back to the top of her table, stood behind his head, and pulled both his arms up, extending them in a long stretch that opened up his rib cage and made him breathe deeply.

“That feels great,” he murmured.

“Good.” She kept the triumph from her voice. No casual observer would notice what she saw, you had to know what you were looking for, really, you had to be an expert to spot the white scars hiding beneath the armpit hair that proved what Shirley’s hands told her.

Barton had had silicone implanted in his chest.

That explained why this forty-five-year-old man had the delineated pectoral muscles of a twenty-year-old. It was why Barton’s physique was of a vigorous, youthful, powerful male.

It was enough of a secret to embarrass Barton with, but not so terrible that he could be fired over it. It was perfect. She and Marilyn could go to an Internet café somewhere and e-mail everyone in TransWorld. Everyone would smirk when they read that Barton had silicone pec implants. Barton deserved, at the least, to be smirked at.

She finished the massage and went, automatically, into the kitchen to get him a glass of water, then to the bathroom, to give him time to dress.

“That was wonderful,” Barton said when she returned to the living room to pack up. He was stretching his arms, cracking his knuckles.

“Great.” Hoisting her table onto her shoulder, she said,

“You’ve got my card, if you ever want another massage or if you want to recommend me to friends, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure.” He opened the door to the hall. “Thanks.”

She waited to the count of five. Most people who got free massages tipped her something, but Barton was obviously not going to. Well, then, she thought. Now she had
no
qualms about embarrassing him.

34

"Are you going to do it?” Shirley asked. Marilyn nodded, then realized Shirley couldn’t see her over the phone. “I am. Today. I’m going over to MIT now. I’ll use one of the lab computers.”

“Cool. What are you wearing?”

Marilyn looked down at her body. “My plaid wool robe. It’s so cool for Ma—”

“I don’t mean what are you wearing now!” Shirley said with laughter in her voice. “I mean, what are you wearing over to MIT?”

“Well . . .” Marilyn twisted the phone cord nervously. She was in the bedroom, and they hadn’t gotten around to installing portable phones yet. Now they never would. The house was on the market, and she had to decide what to do with the furniture and all their possessions: towels, sheets, pots, pans, china and silver not used for years . . .

“Marilyn?”

“Oh! Sorry. I was thinking—what did you ask?”

“What you’re wearing today. Look, just put on something you bought with the HFC, okay?”

“Well, I’m only going to the lab . . .”

Shirley sighed gustily into the phone. “Marilyn. Your husband’s left you for a younger woman. Maybe
you
don’t care what you look like, but
I
do. Wear your new clothes and put on some makeup.”

“Yes, yes, all right, I will.”

Marilyn hung up the phone and hurried to dress before she forgot what Shirley recommended. She had so much to think about these days! The divorce, and the sale of the house, and Barton’s treachery, and now this lovely bit of revenge. It would be perfect, embarrassing, but not life-threatening. Hurriedly she dressed, ran a brush through her great hair—short, shaggy hair was so easy to handle!—and rushed out of the house.

Thirty minutes later, she was inside the MIT lab. Just being there whetted her appetite for her own little project. It had been days since she’d devoted any time to her trilobite, and she felt guilty. Still, she had something more important to do first.

She meandered through the building, looking for an abandoned desk. She spotted an open laptop and noticed that a Web browser had been left open on an e-mail page. The sender was listed as “[email protected].” Perfect! She chose the Times New Roman 18 font and typed:

BARTON BAKER
HAS
SILICONE CHEST IMPLANTS!

She addressed the first e-mail to Frances, the receptionist on the thirtieth floor of TransWorld. Taking her notebook from her purse, she flipped it open to the list of names she’d brainstormed with Alice. Twenty secretaries, ten executives. Fingers flying, she spammed the e-mail to thirty people.

Then she leaned back in her chair and smiled.

She only wished she could be there when everyone read the announcement. No one would suspect Marilyn had sent it. How clever Shirley was, to have spotted those scars. Marilyn had actually been naked with the man and hadn’t noticed. Of course, the light had been low, and she’d been preoccupied . . .

In gratitude, she’d promised Shirley she would invest substantially in Golden Moments, but she wouldn’t be able to give her an exact figure until she met with her lawyer and had some idea how much money she’d have after the divorce.

“Marilyn?”

She jumped. “Oh, Faraday. Hello.”

“What are you doing in this part of the lab?”

“Oh, I, uh, um.” Marilyn exited the Internet and stood up. “I was just on my way to my work room, and I remembered something I had to check, so I just, um, used this computer . . .”

“I’m going that way myself. I’ll walk with you.”

“Oh. Well, good!” she said, flustered.

“You look lovely today, Marilyn.”

She glanced up at the tall Scot. “Why, you do, too.” And he
did
. His peppery hair, red and white and crisply rising from his head and framing his jaw, made her remember what Shirley said about red hair being
vital
, which made her think of
virile
, which made her blush.

He threw back his head and laughed. “First time I’ve been called lovely.”

His laughter, sonorous and easy, startled her at first. She couldn’t remember when she’d last heard a man laugh. It was a wonderful sound, and it made her nipples stand on end, straining for more. She felt them push against her silk blouse and hoped they weren’t noticeable.

“Oh, well, I mean, I,” she stammered.

He linked arms with her as they strolled along. “
Lovely
’s a fine word, Marilyn. Tell me, how are you?”

“Why, I’m okay.”

“You don’t seem distressed.”

“Oh, you mean about Theodore?” Marilyn cocked her head. “Well, I am sorry, of course, but not actually
distressed
.” She looked at Faraday. His blue eyes were so warm, it made her remember how astronomers realized the hottest stars burn with blue light, how in spite of the common perception, blue is hotter than red.

“I’m divorced, you know,” Faraday volunteered.

“I didn’t know. What happened?” Marilyn tried to remember his wife. Sarah, she thought, a pretty blonde.

“We just grew apart. When the children grew up and left home, we discovered we had nothing to talk about.”

“And are
you
distressed?”

“I was at first. It’s been several years now. Sarah’s remarried, quite happily, to a man who owns an automobile dealership.”

“Really!”

Faraday smiled. “Surprising, I suppose, but I’m glad she’s happy. She never did understand all the fuss about paleobiology.”

“Well, it isn’t the sexiest science,” Marilyn observed, blushing deeply when she realized she’d said
sex
.

To her surprise, Faraday chuckled, as if she’d said something amusing. “You could be right. What, then,
is
the sexiest science?” He stroked his beard. “In vitro fertilization? Human genome technology? Cloning?”

She’d always loved intellectual discussions. “Space exploration,” she eagerly volunteered. “Because of the rocket shooting upward, penetrating space.”

This time Faraday didn’t laugh. He smiled. He stood right next to her, his body tall, massive, warm, radiant, a Jupiter of a man, and he smiled at her, his blue eyes warm.

“Well, well, Marilyn,” he said softly.

Oh, dear, Marilyn thought. He must think she was flirting with him.

Wait a minute, she thought. She
was
flirting with him! Accidentally, perhaps, but she could
feel
a connection between them.

“There’s a lecture on the Burgess Shale tomorrow night,” Faraday said. “I wonder if you’d like to attend it with me.”

“Oh, well, I’d love to do that, Faraday.” Her toes curled up in her shoes.

“How about a light dinner before?”

“That would be great.” Her heart grabbed her lungs and began to tango.

“Great. Why don’t I pick you up at six?”

“Wonderful. See you then.” Her mind stuck a rose behind her ear.

She watched him walk away. His shoulders were wonderfully broad. She estimated his height at about six-foot-two. She wondered if there were a correlation between body height and length of penis. Theodore’s penis was short and stubby, like him. That might mean that Faraday’s was—

“Good morning, Marilyn.” A lab assistant hurried past, giving her an odd look.

Marilyn realized she was hugging herself and grinning rather maniacally. She straightened. “Good morning, Ming Chu.” She turned to her workstation, bent over her length of shale, picked up her brush, then just stood there, eyes closed, thinking green and succulent thoughts.

Out at the Eastbrooks’, Faye was in Dora’s room.

“Yes, the pastels are beautiful.” Faye snapped one in half. “But they’re not sacred. They crumble, they break, and guess what? You can always buy more. You’ve got to experiment with them, get the feel of them, in your hand, on the different textures of paper. If you don’t like the way it looks or feels, we can move to oils or acrylics, but I think you’ll get to like pastels.”

Dora chose a rose pastel and broke it. “I told my mother that Lila gave me the pastels.” She touched the point to the paper fastened on the portable reading stand that now served as an easel.

“Good. Try different strokes,” Faye advised. “Long, direct, keeping the same weight. On some papers, the grain will cause the line to break or blur. That’s good. Use it.” She handed a yellow pastel to Dora. “Now try hatching this color over the rose. You can blend it, you can use your fingers to blur and burnish it. Remember how I showed you to do the main outline? Okay, here’s your subject.” She placed a green vase of red and yellow tulips on the table. “Loosen up your hand. Play around a bit first. Experiment. If you draw something awful, so what, you’ve learned something.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to go, Dora. They’ll be back soon.”

She kissed Dora on her cheek. At the door, she looked back. The tip of Dora’s tongue pressed against the side of her mouth as she bent, rapt, to her work.

Faye went through the door into the family room, double-checking to make certain it was locked. Mrs. Eastbrook and Lila had gone down to the clinic for an organizational meeting, and Margie was in the kitchen preparing a beef Wellington for tonight’s dinner party, so Faye had taken the opportunity to see Dora. She did so often, now, with impunity. After all, she’d completed her assignment for the HFC. She could leave anytime. Working for Mrs. Eastbrook was growing tiresome, too; the doctor’s wife never eased up, relaxed, laughed, sang, or even stretched and yawned. She was strung tightly as a high-tension wire every minute, and Faye was pretty sure Mrs. Eastbrook hadn’t molded herself to fit her professional role. Eugenie Eastbrook would be pretentious in a Turkish prison.

Still, Faye was reluctant to leave Dora. She settled in at her desk to work on household bills. Relegating her personal thoughts to the back of her brain to simmer, she directed the computer to the bookkeeping program.

Her door to the hall was open, but she sensed rather than saw Mrs. Eastbrook and Lila pass. She heard Mrs. Eastbrook’s office door slam. From the other side of the wall came voices murmuring fast and low. The voices rose. Faye could understand them without straining.

“—don’t
know
how Teddy found out!” Lila’s voice was anguished. “It doesn’t
matter
how he found out! The point is, he knows about Dora, and he’s fine with it. He even suggested she come live with
us
after we’re married! You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“May I remind you, there’s more at stake here than you and Dora.” Mrs. Eastbrook’s voice was cold and brittle.

Lila’s tone was placating. “I understand how you feel—”

Mrs. Eastbrook interrupted. “If I agree to let Dora live with you after you’ve married Teddy, will you stop this foolishness about having Dora attend the wedding?”

“No! Come on, Mom,” Lila cried passionately. “Dora’s my sister. I love her. I want her at my wedding.”

Scornfully, Mrs. Eastbrook commanded, “Be reasonable, Lila. You know how Dora hates crowds. She says it’s painful for her to be stared at. It takes her weeks to recover—”

“So I’ll have a small wedding. I never wanted a—”

“Oh, please, Lila, don’t start this again! We’ve made all the wedding plans! The invitations have gone out. We can’t tell three hundred people we’ve changed our minds.”

“Of course we can, Mom! I don’t care about those people! This is my wedding day, and I—”

“
You
’ll be the star,” Lila’s mother purred. “Your
dress
, sweetheart, think of it! You look
astonishing
in it. This is a
huge
society event, and a crucial moment for your father and me, and for our clinic.”

“I don’t care about any of that! Not the dress, not society, not the damned clinic!”

“You don’t mean what you’re saying.”

“But I
do
!” Lila pleaded. “Mom, I want my own life. I don’t want to be your little showpiece anymore! I
won’t
be! I won’t be the star of your show, I won’t turn my own wedding into a spectacle! I don’t care whether Dad loses clients! I want my sister at my wedding!”

“Lila.” Eugenie Eastbrook’s voice darkened.

“I mean it!”

“I’m finding this very difficult, Lila.” Mrs. Eastbrook’s words were frosty with precision. “After all we’ve done for you, you refuse to do this one thing for us.”

“Oh, come on, I’ve done—”

“I think you should leave.”

“Leave?” Lila laughed with surprise.

“Leave this house. If you don’t care about us or the clinic, if this wonderful life, with every possible luxury, isn’t good enough for you, then just leave.
Now.
”

“Mom. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Eugenie’s words shot like bullets. “Pack a bag. Pack it with whatever you want to take, because you’re not returning to this house. Call a cab. And give me the keys.”

“What?”

“I want the keys to the house, and the clinic, and I want the keys to your car. If you’re too pure to help us, then you’re too pure to drive that fabulous little convertible we gave you.”

Lila sounded astonished. “Mom. Please. What about Dora?”

“Dora’s my daughter. I know what’s best for her.”

“She’s my sister, and I love her!”

Eugenie Eastbrook was adamant. “It’s your choice, Lila. Either stay and have the wedding we’ve planned, or leave.”

“You’re insane. All the laxatives and injections and diets have finally—”

The slap was loud enough to resonate clearly through the wall.

The silence was louder.

Eugenie Eastbrook’s voice was glacial. “Give me the keys to the house and the clinic. All of them. And your car keys. Now, get out.”

Mesmerized at her desk, Faye listened. She heard Mrs. Eastbrook’s office door slam. She heard Lila sobbing as she ran down the hall and up the stairs. She waited to hear Eugenie Eastbrook cry, but the other room held only silence.