The Hot Flash Club (16 page)

27

“This is it.” Barton Baker unlocked his apartment door and ushered Marilyn inside. “Pretty basic, isn’t it?”

The room was small, square, and gray. The gray sectional furniture sat on a gray rug that ran right up to the gray-and-white faux-marble tiles of the chrome-and-gray kitchen.

As far as Marilyn was concerned, the place was done up in leopard skin and fur. However it looked, it was the lair of a single man, a man ten years younger than she was, a man who had just taken her out to a heavenly dinner and kissed her so passionately in the elevator on their way up Marilyn thought her clothes might ignite.

“Nervous?” Barton asked. He ran his hands through his already disheveled black hair, a sign, Marilyn thought, that he was excited.

Marilyn nodded. They were still standing just inside the door. Marilyn’s knees were so weak she wasn’t sure she could take another step. She hadn’t spoken with Theodore since she caught him with the grad student, and just then she didn’t care if she ever spoke to her husband again.

“I am, too.” His voice cracked endearingly. “I’ve got some good white wine. Unless you’d prefer cognac?”

“Cognac,” Marilyn croaked.

“Hey.” Barton put his hands on Marilyn’s shoulders. “Don’t be afraid. We won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

His touch was enough to bury her fears in a landslide of lust. Marilyn lifted her head and took a step forward. His arms went around her, his mouth lowered to hers. He pressed his body against hers, and someone moaned. Marilyn was pretty sure it was she.

Barton was taller than Theodore, and both slimmer and more massive. His chest was hard, his stomach flat, his hips, oh Lord, what was that? It had been so long since she and Theodore had made love, and it had been years—decades—since he’d pressed a big long erection against her loins. She’d forgotten how perfectly configured the biological system was, how the circuitry of the human body was wired superbly for this—mating.

“Let’s have the cognac later, okay?” Barton asked, his breath making every little hair on her neck stand at attention and tingle like antennae.

“Okay.”

He led her into the bedroom. More gray. He tossed back the duvet and lowered her with him onto the bed. In his hurry, or perhaps out of kindness, he didn’t turn on the lamp but let the light from the living room drift in through the open bedroom door to bathe the room in silver. Still, as they removed their clothes, Marilyn felt like the contemporary little pill bug related to the trilobite, who rolled up in a ball whenever frightened. She almost wished she could curl up in a ball herself, defending and hiding her ancient body, so inscribed with the stretch marks of her pregnancy with Teddy, her skin speckled like a duck egg with millions of tiny pink moles that had blossomed all over her during the past two years. Her breasts were full, with unusually wide, dark nipples that resembled those rubber plugs used to stop drains, and that morning in the shower, she’d found several white hairs in her pubic hair. She’d yanked them out, but all day long she’d been so worried about the coming date with Barton she’d probably grown in a new white crop.

But his hands, warm and gentle, slid gently over her body. His palm brushed one nipple, then the other, then circled down to crush her pubic hair. His hand slipped between her legs. She wanted to pull a pillow over her face and bite it hard. She settled for burrowing her face into his chest. She laced her fingers through the curly hair on his chest, pressed her hands against his ribs, arched like an arbor over his abdomen, which was softer than bone but compact and firm as a carapace, and sliding her hand down, she accidentally touched his swollen penis, and they both gasped.

“I can’t wait,” Barton said.

“I can’t either.”

He twisted away from her to open the drawer on his bedside table, and in a flash he took out a foil-wrapped condom, which he ripped apart. He pulled on the condom and rose over her. Marilyn closed her eyes.

He entered her.

She sank down through ocean depths to the soft and unfamiliar muddy floor where the planet’s own skin churned, sliding open and apart, while volcanoes thrust lava into the water, hardening, contorting, fracturing into crystals. As the ocean surged and shoved, eye-less creatures were overwhelmed by the roiling elements, squeezed, dissolved, crystallized, and Marilyn was there with them, in that elemental turbulence, she was tossed, raised, and compressed until she was too changed to be Marilyn who was afraid, and she became only a creature subject to nature’s gorgeous domination. Her own body fractured open, spilling poppies, lilies, camellias into the sea.

A trilobite crawled up to nibble on a petal.

“Good God,” Barton gasped, collapsing next to her.

Marilyn opened her eyes. They were both drenched with sweat. “That was wonderful,” Marilyn whispered.

He held her tight. “Amazing.”

“I saw a trilobite,” she murmured.

“A what?”

“A trilobite. A minute little creature composed of calcite who lived 500 million years ago.”

Barton was quiet a moment. “You saw a trilobite while we were making love?”

Marilyn nodded. “It was one of the most glorious experiences of my life.”

He raised himself on one elbow and peered down at her. “Um, I’m not sure I understand.”

Marilyn stretched luxuriously, still dazed with sexual pleasure.

Barton persisted, “I mean, why would you see a trilo— whatever—when we were making love? Why would you
want
to see one?”

“Because I’m a scientist. I study them.” Turning on her side, Marilyn walked her fingertips through the jungle of Barton’s chest hair.

“You’re a scientist?”

“Well, in my own way,” she confessed modestly. “I have a Ph.D. in paleontology, and I’m a professor at MIT.”

“Then why,” Barton asked gently, “are you working as a secretary?”

Marilyn blinked. The intoxicating nebula of sexual pleasure lifted off, leaving her stranded, naked, and foolish. “Oh, dear.”

“What?”

“I’ve just done something terrible.”

“I think you’ve just done something pretty great, myself,” he teased, tracing the circle of her nipples with the tips of his fingers.

Sensations as elementary as the planet’s minerals spun through her at his touch. She gazed up at him, amazed at the sheer beauty of his face. His eyes were tender, guileless, and she felt his renewed erection pressing against her thigh.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Barton said.

Marilyn’s entire body flushed with the shock of his words, and when he raised himself up over her once again, a force as powerful as the moon sent tides of pleasure surging through her. She closed her eyes, surrendered, and sank into the subterranean world where fire burst into ocean depths.

After that, they slept for a while. When they awoke, they were both starving, so Barton stalked naked from the room, returning quickly with two glasses of cognac and a bag of potato chips. “Not elegant, but it’s all I’ve got.”

Marilyn sat up in bed, pulling the covers up to her breasts. Salt surged into her mouth from the potato chips, it was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted, she wanted to grab the bag from Barton and cram them into her mouth, she wanted to find the salt shaker and cover her tongue with salt, and when she drank the cognac, she almost wept with delight.

Wide-eyed and addlepated, she turned to Barton. “I think I’m drunk.”

“I doubt it. You had only one small glass of wine at dinner.”

“Then I’m drunk on sex,” she decided.

“Did you see a trilo—whatever this time?”

She smiled. “No. What did you see?” she asked, frivolously.

He put his hand on her face. “You. I saw you.”

She almost fainted. Barton’s handsome face was soft, his expression so earnest he almost reminded her of her son Teddy, who could be so vulnerable. She was profoundly moved with a desire to protect this sweet man. “Barton, I’m not who you think I am.”

“Oh, right. You were going to tell me about that.”

“If I tell you,” Marilyn said, “you mustn’t tell anyone else.”

“All right.”

She sucked the salt off her fingers, and handed the potato chip bag to Barton.

“No more chips? Must be pretty serious.”

“It is. It really is.” The words stalled in her mouth. Was this the wrong thing to do? She was supposed to find out whether or not Alison Cummings wanted to edge Alice Murray out and take over her job. Perhaps if she were honest with him, he would be honest with her. He had said he was falling in love with her. He made love to her as if he cared for her. She could trust him. Still, she urged, “Promise me you won’t tell anyone else.”

“I promise,” Barton said.

28

Shirley had the blues. Sometimes, after a day of good luck—and God knew
those
had been rare enough in the past few years— sometimes, right when you think you’re actually going to get your shit together and haul your flat, wrinkled ass a few steps up out of the mire of your life, then it seems the gods look down from where they recline on their clouds, sipping nectar and nibbling pitless peaches, and decide, if not to pull the rug out from under you, at least to jiggle it a bit under your feet, just to remind you they can. It was one of those days. She awoke, full of optimism and energy, still high on the drug of the previous night’s wonderful meeting at Alice’s place. She jumped out of bed—well, that was the first disappointment. She only tried to jump. She actually jerked and stumbled, landing on stiff legs, falling sideways, wrenching her spine. Good Goddess! Her back had been bothering her more and more, recently. Wearing those damned high heels to the meeting, instead of her comfortable sneakers or clogs, had pulled something out of alignment. She absolutely
hobbled
into the kitchen, her limbs and joints as brittle and wooden as Pinocchio’s.

After a breakfast of cleansing green tea and muesli, she took a hot shower. She still didn’t feel up to par, so she broke down and took two aspirin, and as much as she hated to admit it, the damn aspirin helped. Her mood rose.

Then the phone rang.

“It started again,” a woman sobbed.

“Oh, honey.” Shirley listened while Betsy Little grieved because her period had arrived; once again she’d failed to get pregnant.

“It
will
happen,” Shirley promised forcefully. “All your medical reports indicate you’re a healthy young woman with no physical problems. You only need to relax—”

“No more!” Betsy wailed. “No more advice, no more massage. I’m canceling, Shirley. Today’s session and all future sessions. I’ve got to find someone else. You’re bad luck.”

“Betsy, honey—”

But the line went dead.

Shirley clicked her phone off and thumped her forehead down on the kitchen table. She understood that today, probably
nobody
could say anything that would console the other woman. Betsy would just have to walk through her particular pain on her own. Still, it killed Shirley that Betsy thought she was bad luck. It really, really
hurt
.

Plus, there went a chunk of her income.

Before her thoughts began a downward plummet, she slammed the brakes and reminded herself to be positive.

She had to remember: With Alice’s help, she’d soon be starting up her retreat. Golden Moments. Now
that
was something to be joyful about! Shirley grabbed the phone and punched out Alice’s number, eager to discuss the investors’ meeting.

“TransWorld,” said the receptionist.

“Alice Murray, please.” She wouldn’t keep Alice on the phone long. She knew Alice was overwhelmed with work, but she just wanted to hear her voice, to regain that electric connection.

There was a brief silence. Then, “I’m sorry, Alice Murray isn’t here.”

“Oh.” Shirley checked her calendar. It
was
a weekday. “Is her secretary, Marilyn Becker, there?”

There was a pause. “No, I’m sorry, she’s not.” The other woman’s voice sounded different,
wary.
“Could I take a message?”

“Um, no. No, I’ll call later.” What was going on? Shirley clicked off, then tried Alice’s home phone.

“You have reached Alice Murray. Please leave a message.”

“Hi, Alice, it’s Shirley. I just wanted to thank you for your help last night, and to talk it all over with you. It was so great! I couldn’t reach you at work, but I’ll try you at home tonight. Thanks again—a million!”

She tried to sound cheerful, but as she hung up, she felt dissatisfied and irritable—
thwarted.
Jumping up, she checked her calendar—four appointments that day, the last one with Julie. Great! They could talk about Golden Moments. Perhaps cautious Julie would be ready to discuss how much she wanted to invest. Buoyed by this thought, Shirley loaded her Discman, tied on her sneakers, and headed out for a jog—or maybe, she thought as her knees twinged, a brisk walk.

“Hello!” Shirley sang out as she entered Julie Martin’s dark house.

“Hey,” Julie answered, tapping away on her computer keyboard.

Shirley opened the shades, lighted some cinnamon candles, set up the table, and inserted a CD. “Okay, hon,” she said, patting the table.

With docile reluctance, Julie left her computers and lay down for her massage. Shirley worked on Julie’s body for a full hour without saying anything that would distract Julie from her relaxation, although she allowed herself to visualize Golden Moments. Why not? Her dreams just might drift into the other woman’s mind.

After she brought Julie a glass of cleansing water, Shirley returned to the kitchen to make some tea for both of them. She often spent half an hour or so, just chatting with Julie, and she never charged her for the additional time, even though Shirley knew the comfortable conversation was a kind of therapy for the reclusive young woman. It was always hard work, like trying to make a toad talk. Usually Shirley regaled Julie with tales of celebrity scandals, or recounted more inspirational tales she’d read in some of her massage newsletters.

Instead she decided to talk about Golden Moments.

Heart banging, she carried two mugs into the living room. Julie, having pulled on her sweatpants and old T-shirt, was looking, longingly, at the computer.

“Sit down a minute, hon,” Shirley said. “Let’s have some tea.”

“All right.” Julie slouched over to the end of the sofa and collapsed.

“How was the massage?” Shirley asked, settling at the other end of the sofa.

“It was good.” From Julie, this was explosive praise.

Encouraged, Shirley said, “It was great to see you at the Golden Moments meeting last night. Did you enjoy it?”

Julie nodded shyly.

“Well, good! What did you enjoy?”

“Jennifer D’Annucio? She drove me home? She gave me some of her brownies? They’re really delicious.”

“Hey, that’s great!” More than great, Shirley thought; Julie had actually interacted with someone. That was freakin’
miraculous
! “Have you given any thought to Golden Moments?”

Julie shrugged. “It seems like a good idea.”

“And also, a pretty exciting investment opportunity?”

“Maybe.”

“Just
maybe
?”

“Over half of all new small businesses fail.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the national average,” Shirley protested, “but this will be
my
business.”

Julie folded her arms defensively over her chest. “Maybe after it’s off the ground, I could invest.”

“Hey, Julie,” Shirley coaxed. “Haven’t you told me you’re healthier because of my visits?”

Julie nodded reluctantly.

“Well, then! Other people feel that way, too. You know I could make a success of this. I’m not looking for a huge amount of money from you, just—”

Julie shook her head. “I’m too scared.”

“
Scared?
I don’t understand. You play the stock market. That takes
lots
of nerve.”

“
That’s
totally impersonal. I can be ruthless. What if
your
retreat fails? I might hate you for failing to provide me any return on my investment. I’d lose you as a friend. What if it succeeds? I’d lose you as a masseuse.”

Shirley hesitated before replying. How easy it would be to say:
Well, you know, you little birdbrain, if you
don’t invest, you could lose me as a friend
and
as a
masseuse!

But she didn’t want to win Julie’s investment that way.

“I see where you’re coming from, Julie. I really do.

And I won’t lie about it. I was counting on you as an investor. But I respect your concerns. Here’s what I ask: Please, whatever you decide, don’t act from fear. You were so brave, coming out last night. It took a lot of courage. I know it did. So stay strong. Make your decision wisely. Call some of the others, if you want, and talk it over. I’ll be your friend whatever you decide. Just don’t let fear rule your life.”

“Okay,” Julie agreed, in a small voice.

“Great. Well, I’d better go.” Shirley gathered her stuff, hoisted her table, and said good-bye, giving Julie a hug and a smile, and thinking how easily moods could be transmitted. She hoped she’d cheered Julie up. She herself felt depressed, exhausted, and—after Julie’s reluctance to invest in Golden Moments—she felt
scared
.

Back at her house, she dropped everything just inside the door and ran to her answering machine. Surely Alice would have phoned. Or maybe some of the other potential investors—

The message light was blinking! She punched the RETRIEVE MESSAGE button so hard, the machine almost flew off the table.

“Hi, Shirley. It’s Faye Vandermeer. I’m just wondering whether you found out anything about—about the situation.” The other woman’s voice was gentle, but tense.

“Oh, no.” Shirley sank onto her sofa and put her head in her hands.

“End of messages,” droned the robotic voice.

The last thing in the world she wanted to do was convey bad news to someone else. And this news would set off a chain reaction of misery.

But what could she
do
about it? Her HFC assignment was to find out whether Lars Schneider was having an affair, not to change things. Would it be better if she waited another day to tell Faye, or worse? She felt
terrible
. Jeez Louise, perhaps what Betsy had said that morning was true! Maybe Shirley
was
bad luck. Poor Faye and her poor daughter! Poor sweet, lovestruck Jennifer, for that matter.

Plus, it was after seven, and Alice hadn’t called. She couldn’t
believe
Alice hadn’t called to talk over their successful meeting! She couldn’t believe Julie wouldn’t invest. Shirley didn’t know anyone else who had the kind of money Julie did, not even Nora Salter, and Nora had already suggested how much she was willing to invest. Without Julie’s money, Shirley simply couldn’t undertake building her retreat.

A muscle in Shirley’s back cramped, sending an entire Fourth of July fireworks of pain through her shoulders and neck. As she dug out her electric heating pad, she was dismally lonely. The night before, she’d dressed up and given her all, trying to inspire others with her own plans. And here she was less than twenty-four hours later, all alone and knowing the retreat had failed before it even started.

Her neck pain flared up like a brush fire, but it was the pain in her heart she thought would kill her. It twisted in her chest like a creature splashed with acid. She really didn’t think she could bear it.

Vodka would relax her back, and dull all sorts of pain. There was a bar only a few blocks away, a cozy place with low lights, good drinks, and a jukebox playing country songs, all about loss and sorrow. She could almost hear an old cowboy’s melancholy twang, and he seemed to be calling her name.