Authors: Lynne Spreen
“She’s sharp enough to be pissed off about you using Jessie and the baby as bait.”
“I did what I had to, and she’ll thank me for it. Or she would have if you hadn’t interfered.” They turned at the sound of the door opening.
“You’re wrong about that, too.” Frieda stood in the doorway with her coat and purse.
“Mom, you can’t traipse off across the country like this. You’re not well. It’s not safe.” Sandra’s face crumpled. “Please don’t go.”
“Karen, would you mind getting my bags?”
Karen picked up the photo album and left the room, Sandra’s voice ringing in her ears. “You don’t even know her. What if you get sick?”
“She’s a good girl. I’m not worried.”
“You should be! What’s the plan, Mom? Are you going to let her stick you in some ratty rest home in California to die?”
“Sandy, you’re overreacting.”
Karen tiptoed past the kitchen, carrying Frieda’s bags. She saw Frieda reach out and grasp Sandra’s hand.
“We all have to make up our own minds, Sandy. I want to see the ocean before I die.”
Karen closed the front door as quietly as possible, went down the stairs, and loaded the van. A gardener pulled up on the other side of the street,
banda
music pouring from the truck. Sprinklers went on in the garden, their spray creating a rainbow in the morning sun. Her phone rang but Karen kept her eyes on Sandy’s door, waiting for the two women to emerge. If she were ninety years old, assuming she lived that long, she wanted to live life on her own terms. The risk was Frieda’s choice.
The massive door closed on Frieda. Karen helped her down the steps. “Will she be okay?”
“She’s got Richard.” Frieda stared at the house as Karen started the engine.
“Are you absolutely sure this is the right thing to do?”
Frieda nodded, her chin trembling. Karen put the van in gear and pulled away from the curb. The guard waved as they passed through the gate. “I know it’s your decision, but I feel terrible.”
“Then don’t.”
“I spoke with Sandra while you were packing. She’s difficult, but she cares about you, and she means well.”
“Guess that makes me a bad mother,” said Frieda.
“I didn’t mean that.”
Silence fell between them as Karen drove toward the freeway, where she turned west toward the Rockies.
“Thought you were taking the southern route to Albuquerque,” said Frieda.
“We’re spending the night in Aspen, it’s my treat, and I don’t want you arguing.”
.
K
aren rechecked her mirrors and stepped on the accelerator, sending the van up the first part of the grade that would take them up and over the Continental Divide. Cool air rushed in the window, and the traffic dropped away behind them as they left the city and its pedestrian concerns. As she urged the van up the grade, the clicking in the motor returned. Karen tilted her head. The sound seemed to come from beneath the floor, between the driver and passenger seats. When she accelerated harder, the noise remained the same.
So she put it out of her mind. They were off to a late start and already a summer storm was taking shape over the pass. Clouds turned the mountains gunmetal-gray, and a light drizzle spat at the windshield. Behind her, the skyscrapers of Denver shot heavenward, a handful of glass spires punctuating the high plateau. Up ahead, the steep roadway gained in elevation.
Frieda cried out and pointed to a small herd of buffalo grazing amid patches of snow. Mining equipment from the last century lay rusting alongside the highway like giant yard art. Lush pine forests marched up the slopes on both sides of the road, and Karen felt happy with her decision.
An hour out of Denver the Eisenhower Tunnel appeared, cutting through the Continental Divide. The narrow chute bored through the mountains at eleven thousand feet, well-lit but tight. She kept to the right, working to stay ahead of the grumbling parade of trucks while trying not to push the van too hard.
After almost two miles, the van shot out of the tunnel into a light snowfall, and the women gasped, for the terrain had changed as dramatically as if they had passed through a time warp. Snow lay deep across the landscape in every direction, unmelted even in early July, the glacial crags cloaked in white. One peak, taller and steeper than the rest, resembled the fabled Matterhorn.
“How are you doing with the altitude?”
“I feel fine,” said Frieda. “I’m glad we came this way. I never would have imagined.”
“Me neither.” Karen drove carefully, avoiding holes in the weather-worn blacktop as she started downhill on the rain-slick roadway. She dodged a small boulder in the middle of her lane, and passed two runaway truck ramps, their gravel surfaces groomed and ready to capture brakeless eighteen-wheelers, whose wheels could spew rock with the velocity of shotgun pellets.
As the elevation dropped and the roadway widened, she began to relax. The snow gave way to grass again, and small mountain communities appeared. She wondered what it would be like to live in this wintry Eden. Surely there would be snow storms that trapped the residents for days on end, and the late-summer monsoons would be horrific, but the spectacular beauty of the place would compensate.
The clouds parted, exposing cobalt sky. Rivulets of snowmelt poured off the rocky hillsides, creating ponds on both sides of the highway. Wildflowers blanketed the western slopes in hues of yellow and blue and white.
They passed Vail, its condos and cafes swarming the base of the ski lifts. In Glenwood Springs they saw multi-colored tulips decorating every front yard, and stopped at a restaurant warm with the aroma of freshly baked bread. The waitress brought sandwiches and iced tea, and by the time they had satisfied their hunger, it was mid-afternoon.
Karen spread the map on the table. Aspen lay less than an hour to the southeast. When she asked for a recommendation, the waitress tore a page from her order pad. “The best place is the Hotel Jerome. It’s pricey, but you’re in the off season. Call and ask. You might even see a movie star. I heard George Clooney was in town last week.”
“Sounds like our kind of place.” Frieda’s eyebrows wiggled.
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T
hey followed the Roaring Fork River through meadows of blue columbine and yellow paintbrush until the highway curved against a backdrop of white-tipped mountains. In the town of Aspen they drove past clapboard homes and buckled sidewalks to the Hotel Jerome. When they stopped in front of the hotel, a bellman opened Frieda’s door. “Oh, my.” She accepted his hand, her cheeks pink.
Karen gave her keys to the valet and followed Frieda through the bronze-clad entryway. Built during the silver boom of the late eighteen-hundreds, the hotel had recently been remodeled to within an inch of its life. The foyer opened to a high-ceilinged lobby where leather armchairs and chintz sofas surrounded a crackling fire. A formal dining room and bar stood adjacent to the lobby, where a uniformed clerk greeted them from behind a burnished wood desk.
“I think you’ll like the rooms, Ms. Grace. Both are south-facing, with a nice view.”
“Two rooms?” Frieda asked. “Can we afford that?”
“It’s my treat, remember?”
After making dinner reservations with the concierge, they followed the bellman upstairs. When he opened the door to Frieda’s room, she stepped back. “Heaven forbid.”
Two upholstered chairs and a Queen Anne table sat in front of the windows for a breathtaking view of Aspen Mountain. A fireplace glowed nearby, and brocade covered the antique four-poster.
“Karen, come look at this.” Frieda stood in the bathroom, which featured a whirlpool tub and a separate shower, marble floors and high-end bath products. Billowy terry robes hung on the back of the door. “I feel like royalty.”
“That’s our goal, ma’am.” The bellman accepted Karen’s tip and disappeared.
“I’m going to stretch out,” said Frieda. “Call me in a couple hours.”
Karen headed for her own room, where she found a minibar stocked with goodies. She mixed a scotch and soda, sank into a plush wingback, and took a sip. The scotch hit bottom, and her stomach warmed agreeably. Alone at last, she felt free. She admired the mountain and let her mind ramble.
Option One was to head back to California as fast as possible and find a new job.
She sipped her Scotch. Jazz wafted up from the street below through the open window, and she leaned back and put her feet up on a fat ottoman. A big sigh escaped from her chest. Life was beginning to feel normal again. Racing back to California was the practical solution, but it did involve a certain amount of discipline, which the liquor was eroding.
Besides, who knew how much time Frieda had left?
Option One began to lose ground to Option Two, which was to show Frieda the time of her life and find a job once the two of them were settled.
Karen took another sip. At the ripe old age of fifty, she had earned the right to find balance in her life, and there was so much she wanted to do. Her termination was a blessing, in a way, because it broke her out of her rut and allowed her to think differently. This would be a part of the Option Two playbook. Relaxation, the arts, creativity, long walks on the beach, showing Frieda whatever delights her fading stamina allowed–that was how Karen planned to live her new life. Even her marriage breaking up didn’t seem so bad at the moment. By following his own dreams, Steve had done her a favor. She was now free to create a new life according to her own standards. The thought made her incredibly happy.
After a while she freshened her drink and filled the tub, similar to the one in her house in Newport. As she sank into the deep cloud of lavender suds, the sheer luxury of the hot water and fragrance surprised her. Karen rarely took the time for a bath, tending to hurry through showers on her way to whatever urgent business called her. How stupid to never indulge in such a treat when it had been right at her fingertips for years. She leaned her head back against the porcelain and closed her eyes.
A memory flickered in her mind, and she gasped at the pain knifing through her mid-section. She envisioned the honeymoon cottage where she and Steve had mapped out their dreams, and later, nursery furniture, disassembled along with her hopes, the materials carted off quietly by kind neighbors.
And now, a career had been vaporized, and a family was disappearing into time.
She grimaced. This was not Option Two living. Torturing herself with regret was not the new way. The new way involved more hot water, an appreciation of the fragrance of lavender, and the sight of the suds billowing anew. In the second half of her life, Karen would slow down and be mindful. She tilted her glass for the last swallow of Scotch, but it went down wrong and she sat up, coughing. Her throat burned and her eyes filled with tears.
So much for relaxation. She set the glass on the edge of the tub and stood. As the water and suds coursed off her body she saw that her belly and butt seemed more rounded and substantial. She ran her hands over the warm and slippery curves, feeling almost voluptuous, and her image in the gilt mirror on the opposite wall flattered her. This being the case, why the hell had she worked so hard for so many years to remain thin?
She unzipped her suitcase and dug around for something suitable to wear to dinner, but all she had was her funeral suit and a collection of throw-ons from Walmart. Ah, well. This was Aspen. The funeral jacket over a tank top would go a long way toward dressing up a cheap pair of jeans.
At Karen’s knock, Frieda opened her door wearing a polyester top with a butterfly brooch at the shoulder. “Don’t we look pretty,” she said, taking Karen’s arm.
They walked several blocks to LuLu Wilson’s, arriving as the mountain turned to gold in the sunset. New grass carpeted the ski slopes and aspens shimmered at the mountain’s base. Karen found a small table on the bustling patio and ordered a plate of coconut shrimp for a snack. Nearby, a young man flirted with a tight-faced old woman whose tiny dog snarled and fretted. Two handsome cowboys strolled in, wearing chaps and spurs, and a sulky foreigner pulled up out front in a growling Maserati.
Frieda leaned toward Karen. “We’re not in Dickinson anymore.”
Three women sauntered onto the patio. One wore a slash of red lipstick and a pillbox hat over thinning white curls. Her friend was well-packed into a pair of seersucker Capris, and the two of them laughed like they were sharing a marvelous truth. Karen wondered if you could get to an age where you look adorable just because you still tried. The third woman was fifteen years younger than the other two, and with her bright yellow hair and frozen eyebrows shooting skyward, she almost looked older.
The hostess waved for Karen, and they followed her inside across scuffed wooden floors. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, and the tables were covered with linen and silver. Frieda opened the menu. “You paid for my room. I’m buying you dinner.”
Karen gaped at the prices. “You don’t have to.”
“Shut up and enjoy yourself.” Frieda signaled the waitress. “Please bring us a bottle of your most popular champagne.” The sommelier returned with an ice bucket and bottle, popping the cork with finesse. Frieda watched him pour two glasses. Then she raised hers. “To our roadtrip, with all the ups and downs and inbetweens. It’s been glorious.”
Karen’s hand stopped in mid-reach.
Frieda noticed. “Don’t think about it,” she said. “Listen. We survived. Now let’s celebrate the future. Raise your glass.” The old woman’s eyes sparkled as she took a delicate sip of bubbly.
“Braised short ribs?” The server placed the platter in front of Karen, and a rack of lamb in front of Frieda. A pianist in a long white skirt and cowboy boots struck the opening notes of a jazz standard as the women picked up their forks. The ribs, dripping with sauce, fell from the bones at the slightest touch. Karen thought again about her new curves, the appearance of which pleased her. Soon she would probably have to embark on a diet to regain her angular frame, but not tonight.
The room filled, and Frieda and Karen fell quiet, intent on the feast. When they finished, they ordered pineapple cheesecake and chocolate mousse, with a glass of cognac for Karen.