The Hot Flash Club (15 page)

25

Sunday morning Faye awoke determined to get into the secret room. It was the best opportunity that had presented itself so far. Margie had the day off and had, after tidying the kitchen Saturday night, gone into Boston to stay with her sister. That morning Faye fulfilled Margie’s duties, preparing fresh coffee, bowls of chopped fruit, and slices of dry lite toast for the three Eastbrooks to eat in their bedrooms. Shortly after that, Mrs. Eastbrook informed her that the three of them were off to church, then to the country club for lunch with friends. If Faye would be kind enough to remove the breakfast trays and tidy the kitchen, and also throw together a large salad for the family to have later that evening . . .

Of course, Faye replied. Sunday was not officially her day off, it was Margie’s, but Faye’s duties were light. Someone had to be at the house, and there was always bookkeeping needing doing, or laundry and ironing.

Faye watched from the kitchen window as the three Eastbrooks settled into the Jaguar and drove away from the house. Hurriedly she fetched the trays, carried them down the back stairs to the kitchen, and did the washing up, her mind buzzing with thoughts as she worked.

On the housekeeper’s key ring were all the keys to most rooms of the house, except for the private door off the family room, but Faye
did
have the key to Eugenie’s office, and she knew Eugenie kept
her
keys in the right-hand drawer of her desk. Both maids had the day off and would stay down in their quarters in the staff house. Margie and all the Eastbrooks were gone. It was the perfect opportunity.

Faye moved through the house swiftly. The quiet was unnerving. Faye rushed through her Sunday duties, making the beds in the Eastbrooks’ rooms, gathering up used towels and putting out fresh ones, collecting used water glasses and setting out fresh ones, double-checking to be sure the Waterford crystal was spotless.

At last she was through. Swiftly she entered her office, slipped through the connecting door to Eugenie’s office, crossed to the beautiful ornate desk, and put her hand on the right-hand drawer.

It slid open as easily as if it were made of silk.

Eugenie’s set of keys lay glittering, waiting.

Faye snatched them up. Back in her own office, she took the time to compare this set with her own. Eugenie’s set held two extra keys, both with ivory plastic covers. Clasping them tightly, Faye hurried down the hall and through the family room.

She stopped at the locked door. She took a deep breath. She said a little prayer for courage. She inserted a key—and the lock clicked.

She pushed open the door, feeling like Alice stepping into Wonderland, and to her surprise, what she came upon was rather like Wonderland.

Wide, spacious, decorated in shades of pinks and blues, the room expanded around her. Light filtered rosily through the windows, all curtained with pink-flowered chintz. To her left was a canopy bed, covered with a deeply quilted spread. To her right were a large television set, an old black-and-white movie blaring from it, and shelves of books, toys, games, and puzzles. A table desk stood against the wall, with a computer on it, balloons floating across the screen.

In a wheelchair facing the television sat a young woman, as twisted and bent as a gnome in a fairy tale. No larger than a ten-year-old, she wore a loose caftan sort of garment, striped in pink and white. Short dark curls covered her head, and from the gaunt, skeletal face of an ancient goblin peered the dark, glittering eyes of a young woman.

She said, “Hello.”

Faye gulped. “Hello. Forgive the intrusion, I was just—”

The young woman raised one hand and pressed a button on her wheelchair, which, with an amiable buzzing noise, turned in Faye’s direction. “Come in, please. I’m always bored on Sunday mornings.”

Faye crossed the room and, dropping in a kind of curtsy that brought her to the little woman’s level, offered her hand. “I’m Faye Van Dyke, Mrs. Eastbrook’s new housekeeper.”

Three crooked fingers gripped Faye’s in a surprisingly tight grasp. “I’m Dora Eastbrook. Lila’s younger sister.”

“Hello, Dora,” Faye said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“You look uncomfortable squatting like that. Please sit down.” Dora gestured to a chair facing her own.

“Thank you.” She couldn’t take her eyes from Dora’s face, which, although set crookedly on her body, radiated intelligence. “I shouldn’t be in here,” Faye confessed.

“I know!” Dora giggled, her odd little body shaking. “My poor parents. They think it would destroy their business, you see, if people knew the brilliant Dr. Eastbrook has a child who looks like a troll.”

Faye cocked her head. “I wouldn’t say troll. More like sprite, or fairy.”

Dora clapped her hands together. “Yes! I think you’re right! And thank you for not condescending to me, for not pretending that I look normal. Believe me, I know how I look. I’ve had eighteen years to come to terms with it.”

“Are you in any pain?”

“Not as long as I take my pills, do my stretching exercises, and try not to do what I know I can’t do.”

“Do you ever go out?”

Dora shriveled a little. “Not much. Most weather hurts my skin or my lungs, and I’m susceptible to every passing germ, plus I can’t bear the looks I get. It’s hardest when teenage boys see me. They’re either grossed out or they gawk at me like I’m a science experiment.”

“I’m sure your father has done everything medically possible for you.”

“Oh, God, yes. He and my mother have devoted their lives to me. I was born with spina bifada and a few other interesting physical complications, and I would have died six or seven times during infancy and childhood if not for their knowledge and care. This” —she held up her two deformed hands—“is as good as I’m ever going to get.” Before Faye could speak, Dora pushed a button, and her wheelchair spun her around in a complete circle. “Wheeee! But think how fortunate I am to be born to a family with such financial and medical resources! And to have a sister who loves me as much as Lila does. I hardly ever get bored. I have CDs, and the television, and my friends and Internet relationships.” A shadow crossed her face. “But sometimes—” Her tilted little head darted forward. “Like to play cards?”

“Why, yes, I do. But” —Faye looked at her watch— “I’m not sure how long I should stay in here. And I’m a little concerned about what I should do now, I mean, whether I should tell your mother that I’ve—”

“Oh, you can’t tell her. She’d fire you at once. Plus she’d be a nervous wreck, not that she isn’t already. She’s not unkind, don’t misunderstand me, but she’s terrified that news of me will leak out. I’d be a great story for the tabloids.
Plastic Surgeon Wizard Hides Ultimate
Failure.
”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Faye murmured.

“Perhaps, but true. You could sell my story to someone for a nice pile of money, or you could blackmail my parents.”

“I’d never do either one!”

“Well, I hope not. It would be a disaster if you did.”

“But why? Surely people—”

“Surely people aren’t vain, superficial, and irrational? Please. Look at my father’s patients, then look at me! I scare people! If patients even saw me in the house, they’d run for their lives. People are afraid I’m contagious. They don’t want to know I exist, and more than that, they don’t want to think they could have children who look like me.”

“But—”

“And before you get righteous on me, let me tell you something you probably don’t know. My father rakes in a ton of money, making handsome people look young, and he needs that money, not just to keep me in all my luxuries, but to take part in DART. Twice a year he flies down to South America to operate on the severely physically handicapped and injured. The cosmetic surgery he does there makes the difference between life and death. He not only does it without salary, he pays for medical supplies, nurses, and the clinic.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Damn right it’s wonderful. So you mustn’t endanger it.” Dora hit a button on her chair and went zipping across the room to a card table. “Enough about that. Let’s play cards. Gin rummy? I play on the computer, but it’s more fun with a live human being.”

Faye checked her watch. “I suppose I can stay in here for thirty more minutes.”

“Great. You deal.”

As Faye pulled out the folding chair, settled in at the card table, picked up the pack, shuffled, and dealt, Dora said, “Tell me about yourself, Faye. Where are you from?”

“The Boston area.”

“Married?”

“I’m widowed,” Faye said. “My husband died just over a year ago.”

“I’m sorry. Any kids?”

“A daughter.” She couldn’t help smiling, “And a granddaughter.” Faye waited to see if Dora would need assistance with the cards, but the young woman swiftly snapped them up and arranged them to her satisfaction between the six working fingers of her two hands.

“Names?”

“Laura’s my daughter’s name. Megan’s her daughter’s name.”

Dora discarded a three of clubs. “Healthy? Happy?”

“Healthy, yes. Happy—” She thought of Laura’s tears. “Married life can be difficult for young people, especially with a new baby in the house.”

“Well, I think you’re wise to take a full-time job out here.”

“Oh, why is that?” Faye drew a seven and stuck it between two others.

“I think it’s a mistake for parents to get too involved with their grown children’s lives. Except for someone like me, of course, but I’m an extreme case. ’Cause it’s never just one way, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Faye shifted uncomfortably in her chair, sensing she was about to learn something about Lila Eastbrook, and wasn’t that why she was there, after all, to find out whether Lila really loved Teddy Becker, or was just after him for his money? She just felt so guilty, hearing secrets from this young woman.

“Well, take Lila, for example. You know how hard she works for the clinic and spa.”

“Absolutely.”

“What you don’t know is beneath her beautiful exterior she’s terrified.”

“Terrified!”

“Sure. All her life she’s been gawked at just as much as I have, and sure, in a nicer way. She’s been the Eastbrook Poster Child for Beauty and Perfection. Now she’s engaged to this man she’s mad about, and she’s afraid once he gets past her looks he’ll discover she’s stupid.”

“Is she stupid?”

“No way! But she’s never been really
tested
. She’s been wrapped up in the family business all her life. She’s never held a job anywhere else. She’s never even
applied
for a job anywhere else. She got into a decent college, but she’s always suspected she was admitted because of our dad’s money. She didn’t finish college, because they needed her to help out here, that’s the story anyway, but she wasn’t making good grades, and that might have been because she was spending so much time here helping out, but she’ll never know, will she? I love Lila, and I love having her spend time with me, but I’m worried about her. She needs to detach from this family and stand on her own.”

“You’re very wise for someone so young.”

“Hey, I’ve had a lot of time to listen to Oprah. And by the way, gin.” She grinned. “Another game?”

“Sorry. I’d better get back to the rest of the house before they come home.” As Faye rose, her eye caught on several cheerful crayon drawings thumbtacked to the wall. “These are great! Did you do them?”

Dora shrugged. “Just kid stuff.”

“No.” Faye walked closer, bending over, because they were placed at Dora’s eye level, and studied the Crayola drawings of tulips, of a snowman, of a cherry tree in blossom, of the fountain at the back of the house. “No, these are quite good, really. Vibrant.”

“Thank you.” Dora motored next to Faye. “It takes concentration, but I really like doing it.”

“I can see that. Have you tried paints? Pastels?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No. No, I think you should try paints.”

“Do you paint?”

“Yes, actually—” Faye’s face fell. “I used to.” Dora’s eyes were gleaming. “I have a book you might be interested in. I’ll bring it the next time I see you.”

“When will that be?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to check the calendar to find the next time everyone will be out of the house. But I’ll come back as soon as I can.” Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed Dora on her slanted pixie cheek.

26

Late Monday afternoon, in the privacy of her Trans-World office, Alice was having trouble concentrating on her TransWorld work.

Because of the merger of Champion and TransContinent, many jobs overlapped, which meant some employees in the two gargantuan corporations had to be laid off. The big boys at the top had already hashed out the major executive positions, but Alice and Alison were charged with cutting twenty to fifty additional jobs on the next rank down. Of course they each wanted to keep their own people, so it was a difficult task, not unlike checking the chads on the Florida presidential ballots. They’d tried to work in a conference room, but that neutral space quickly became radioactive from their disagreements. Finally, they’d decided to work via e-mail from their offices, and they’d improvised a chart comparing several personal variables—title and definition of position, seniority, plus and minuses in personnel files from both senior and junior staff, present salary and benefits.

Alison had just whipped off, at two minutes after five, a new e-mail so dense with figures it spread itself across Alice’s screen like a rash of measles. Alice closed it. Her head was swimming. No more for tonight, she thought.

Tonight was the preliminary organizational meeting for Shirley’s retreat, and
that
was what Alice wanted to focus on. It would be at Alice’s condo, which would inspire more confidence in prospective investors than Shirley’s purple palace.

An ulterior motive also weighed in: Alice hoped Alan might get to know Shirley during the conference, and be more amenable to seeing her for massage and other therapies. She was beginning to realize what a breath of fresh air Shirley brought into her own life—even though Shirley was nearly destitute, she was so
buoyant
, so optimistic. Perhaps some of that might
rub off
on Alan, Alice thought, chuckling.

A discreet knock came at her door.

“Yes?”

Marilyn Becker looked in. “I’m leaving now, Mrs. Murray.”

Alice grinned, but kept her voice professional. “Step in here for a moment, Marilyn, before you leave.”

“Yes, Mrs. Murray.” Marilyn retained her professional demeanor as she entered Alice’s office, but once she’d shut the door, she giggled and hugged herself. “I think tonight’s the night!” she confessed in a triumphant whisper.

“Yes, for the Golden Moments meeting at my condo. Are you coming?”

Marilyn pulled an office chair close to Alice’s desk, leaned forward, and whispered wickedly, “I might be coming, but not at your condo!”

Alice laughed. “Why, Marilyn, you saucy thing. Got a date with Barton?”

“He’s taking me to dinner.”

“Aren’t you pleased with yourself?”

Marilyn chewed on the side of her lip. “Yes, but I’m also terrified. God, Alice, I feel about nineteen.”

“You
look
about nineteen, too, Marilyn. You’re glowing. ” A thought occurred to Alice, who squinted skeptically at her friend. “You aren’t falling in love with Barton, are you?”

“I’m not sure,” Marilyn answered truthfully. “I’ve never felt like this before. When I married Theodore, I wasn’t so much in love with him as I was certain that we were meant to live our lives together. It was an intellectual, philosophical kind of thing. With Barton, it’s all physical.”

“He sure seems attracted to you. He’s always hanging around your desk.”

“I know. But sometimes it actually has been about work. Even then, just having him so near makes me feel deliciously
melty
.” Seeing Alice’s expression, Marilyn hastened to add, “But don’t worry, Alice. I won’t forget my assignment! I intend to be
cunning
. When the time’s right, I’ll just throw in a few questions.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to go home and change! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Have fun!”

Alice watched Marilyn fairly prance out of the office. She looked great! It wasn’t just the cool new clothes and haircut. Marilyn was having
fun
. She was playing the role of vamp, and loving it. It made Alice remember the years, long ago, when she’d been in love with Bill Weaver. Just passing him in the office had been like plugging into a universal electric source; she’d been jolted by passion, and that energy had energized her work and her entire life.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and let the memories move through her like a favorite song. She would like to fall in love again.

Likely chance.
Snapping back to business, Alice wiggled her mouse, clicked her computer, and closed Alison’s everlasting e-mail. She’d deal with that tomorrow. She clicked the mouse again and checked her other e-mail.

All boring business-related matters—except for a mysterious surprise: something from “Your Secret Admirer.”

Right, Alice thought. I’ve got a secret admirer. Well, it
was
possible that one of the new executives found her attractive. Stranger things had happened. Look at Marilyn and Barton. She opened the e-mail.

Hey, Beautiful. I’d like to get to know you. Want to
get to know me?

Alice hesitated. This was undoubtedly worthless spam.

Still.

She clicked it open. The screen turned pink, filling, as Alice watched, with flashing red hearts.

That was all. No message, no clue about the sender. Whoever her admirer was, he was shy about it. Or maybe just flirtatious?

Enough! Alice turned off her computer and rose, put her hands on her aching back and stretched. Gathering up her Burberry and briefcase, she strode out of her office, down the long corridor to the bank of elevators. As she pressed the DOWN button, her heart rose up.

“Hi, honey. Wow, you look handsome.” Alan had

showered, shaved, and put on the new white shirt and

chinos Alice bought him. “And the room looks perfect.”

Alan had moved the kitchen chairs into the living room to form a circle for their guests. He’d fanned brochures out on the coffee table between bowls of nuts and plates of cookies. “I’m leaving to pick up Julie Martin now.”

“Great. Be gentle with her. She’s neurotically shy.”

Alice hopped in the shower, washing with a fragrant soap Shirley had given her. The floral scent lifted her spirits. She dressed in one of her favorite outfits, something too wild ever to wear at work, a turquoise tunic with matching slacks, and she was just loading herself with what she secretly called her war medals, heavy necklaces and bracelets of turquoise and silver, presents she’d given herself for each rise in pay and position, when the doorbell rang.

That would be Shirley, arriving before the others.

Alice greeted Shirley, who swept her up in a warm hug. “You’re so wonderful to do this, to have this here, my God, look at this place! It’s awesome!” She turned to Alice. “How do I look?”

Alice had suggested that Shirley tone down her astrologist’s appearance and try to present a more businesslike front for this crucial meeting. Accordingly, Shirley had braided her wild red hair and twisted it at the back on her neck, securing it with pins. She’d left off the purple eye shadow and dressed in brown slacks and a white shirt. Then, being Shirley, she’d added a silk shawl swirled with ambers and golds.

“You look perfect,” Alice told her.

They sat around the coffee table, going over the packets Shirley and Alice had put together. A handsome brochure announced the opening of “Golden Moments, Spa and Wellness Clinic.” Alice still flinched at the word “wellness,” but Shirley assured her it was part of the vernacular. On the front of the brochure was a photo of a person receiving a massage, seeming so blissed out that Alice relaxed just looking at it. Inside were the list of treatments the clinic would offer, and on the back the director of the clinic and her board were listed. At the moment, Alice, Julie Martin, and an MD and his aromatherapist were on the board.

Accompanying the brochure was a folder to be handed to each prospective board member that night when they arrived. Inside, compiled by Alice, were charts costing out the initial investment, the proposed time frame, and the dividends to be, eventually, paid out.

“Looks good, Shirley,” Alice said. It should; Alice had put it together on her own laptop. Consulting with Shirley, she’d written every word. And Alice felt as giddily nervous about it as she had when her boys starred in kindergarten plays.

The doorbell rang.

It was an odd group who arrived. Gruff Dr. Peter Donovan, a psychiatrist, grumbled in with his fey aromatherapist wife Reya fluttering around making his scotch and water just the way he liked it, asking in whispers if he needed another pillow for his back. Suzanne West, the astrologist, had a surprisingly gravelly voice for someone dressed in layers of pastel chiffon. Nora Salter, Shirley’s wealthy socialite client, made a stately entrance, leaning on a cane.

Tom Warren, a yoga instructor, was Alice’s age, and attractive, his bald black head shining, his movements gentle, almost delicate. Shirley thought he might be a prospective beau for Alice, who had insisted she wasn’t interested in anything like that, so Alice was amused at her disappointment when she realized he was gay.

Jennifer D’Annucio was invited even though Alice knew the young woman had no money—she needed to meet other people, Shirley had insisted, and Jennifer, delighted to meet a new set of people, had brought along some of her hand-concocted canapés. Fred and Ted, who owned the beauty salon where Alice had her hair done, were also there, at Alice’s request. Not only did they have plenty of money, should they want to invest, they also would be great word-of-mouth advertisements for Shirley’s retreat.

Alan had picked up Julie, whom he now escorted into the room. Shirley hurried to greet the timid young woman, who had gone wild and pulled on a pair of khakis and a clean, if unironed, blue cotton shirt. She’d even combed her hair.

Shirley put her arm around the young woman. “Julie, you look great! Come sit down here, I’ve set a chair for you right next to me.”

For a while, Alice and Shirley let the others mingle, drinking coffee or tea, admiring the view. Then Alice invited them all to have a seat. She remained standing.

“I want to thank you all for coming this evening,” she said. “As you can see, you’re part of a very small group of select individuals. We’ve invited you here to announce the creation of a new enterprise.”

As she spoke, the conversation she’d had two days ago when she and Shirley discussed the sales pitch danced mischievously at the back of her mind. “It’s not an
enterprise
!” Shirley had asserted. “It’s a retreat, a shelter, a haven, a—”

Alice had interrupted. “Do you want people to invest money?”

“Um, yes.”

“It’s an
enterprise
.”

“Okay.”

Alice continued. “We’re all aware of the way our lives are changing. Everything moves faster. Music’s louder. People want more of our time, our money, our attention. Everything’s competitive. Everything’s tugging on us. No matter how much we do, we can’t get everything done, which makes us move faster and fall farther behind.” As Alice spoke, she realized she meant exactly what she said.

“Shirley Gold wants to create a shelter for those of us who are superstressed. She wants to create an environment where we can relax and be refreshed. This is where we, adults who take care of so much, can be taken care of, ourselves. As vice president of TransWorld Insurance Corporation, I find Shirley’s idea brilliant. I’ve spent time with Shirley, having massages, and it’s been good for my body and soul.”

She paused dramatically. “As a businesswoman, I’m getting in on the ground floor, being one of the first to invest in Golden Moments, because I think it will be good for my checkbook.” She smiled around the room. “I’ll let Shirley tell you more about her concept.”

Shirley stood. At first, she was dry-mouthed and obviously nervous. As she spoke, she became calmer and more assured. Explaining her dream, she was caught up in the excitement of its possibilities, and soon she was waving her hands around, trying to conjure up pictures in the air. She was irrepressible, and Alice felt almost maternal as she watched.

Really, she didn’t know when she’d felt so—
content
? Was contentment what she felt? Well, how would she know? She’d never felt it before. Triumph, yes, she’d felt that, many times. Pride, exultation, self-respect, all consequences of her disciplined labors, her self-determination, her ambition to succeed. Of course she’d felt love: carnal and romantic love for her husband, Mack, and her lover, Bill Weaver. And she’d adored her two sons, adored them still, love for them was woven into the matrix of her heart.

But
content
. No, she couldn’t remember when she’d felt that. Part of it came, no doubt, from being a component in the creation of a new enterprise. If there were an entrepreneurial gene, it was built into her DNA. She had always thrived on challenge.

But this was different somehow. More personal. More healthy.

More fun.