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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

To my husband, Dennis

Chapter One

I
blame the Internet.

After suffering three straight days of crushing fatigue, I decided to do a little research. Unfortunately, that research eventually led me to a page listing thirty-four symptoms of menopause. Number four on that list was fatigue.

Sitting in my cramped and cluttered closet-turned-office, with a cup of coffee warming my left hand, I clicked the arrow on my computer keyboard to scroll down the checklist.

Hmm.

Hot flashes? Yes, I’d had a few.

Irregular periods? Several of my recent cycles had not been so regular.

Mood swings? Definitely. Happy one minute, crying the next. Just ask my kids. Also my husband, the cats, the dog, the mailman, and that annoyingly slow teller at the bank.

Hair loss? As a matter of fact, I’d just discovered the beginning of a bald patch and blamed my new coconut oil shampoo.

Headaches? Yes.

Dizziness? Yes.

Bloating? Yes.

Bleeding gums? Yes.

Panic disorder? YES! I was panicking at that very moment.

There were other symptoms which I won’t describe because they were, um...personal, but suffice it to say of the thirty-four symptoms of menopause listed on that page, I had all thirty-four of them.

To calm myself down I took a deep cleansing breath followed by a hefty swig of the coffee. Well, I thought, no need to worry. There was a treatment. I typed “Hormone Replacement Therapy” into the search engine. I’d heard this term bandied about on shows like Oprah and The View. Not that those women were shining examples of successful therapies. If Congress ever felt the need to pass a bill requiring the incarceration of all menopausal women, and wanted the country’s support, all they needed to do was tell everyone to tune into The View. Those are some moody, moody ladies.

In any event, I didn’t have to dig too deep to find out that the hormones for Hormone Replacement Therapy are derived from horse urine. That was a disturbing fact. I’m not a horse. The idea of taking pills that were in any possible way connected to horse pee gave me a serious case of skin-crawling heebie jeebies.

So that’s how I found Dr. Sadistic.

I mean, Dr. Sadjik.

Dr. Sadjik was a holistic physician I sought out at the Natural Life Wellness Clinic on the north side of Rustic Woods. She was forcing me to become a healthier person through diet and exercise. Well, okay she wasn’t forcing me, but she did exert a good amount of force by pushing the guilt button. You know, things like, “Your body is a temple to be worshiped, not corrupted,” and “Don’t you want to live long enough to see your grandchildren?” Things like that. Okay, I’m making that up. She actually didn’t push any button of guilt. But she did sit there with that taut, glowing skin, looking at me through clear, bright eyes, as if she were plucked from a granola ad (I think I even heard angels singing), and I knew that I had to follow her plan.

A healthy diet filled with fresh, organic fruits, vegetables, beans, nuts, seeds, fish, and chicken, plus a daily elephant-sized dose of supplements, topped off by an hour of exercise a day, would bring my body into proper balance and the symptoms of menopause should minimize. At first, this didn’t seem so bad. I can do that, I thought.

But then she handed me a list of foods I couldn’t eat.

Stupid Internet.

No sugar, white flour, egg yolks, white rice, red meat, white potatoes, processed foods of any sort, chips, sodas, fried foods, cakes, cookies, donuts, candy. Basically: everything I enjoyed eating.

Maybe the horse-pee pills weren’t such a bad idea after all. I mean, people are always saying, “So-and-so is as healthy as a horse,” and health was what I was going for.

As I was leaving the office with a fifty-page volume of things I couldn’t eat, and a very short list of things I could, Dr. Sadistic, I mean Dr. Sadjik, reminded me: “And don’t forget to exercise for an hour each day.”

I stared at her blankly, wondering how I would possibly have any energy for exercise on her despotic diet of lettuce and bean sprouts.

So, on a chilly November morning three days after beginning Mission: Slay Menopause, I tied myself into a pair of sneakers and prepared for a brisk one-hour walk. The crushing fatigue had not diminished entirely, so the shoelace-tying alone, was not an easy task to confront. A few months earlier, I would have talked my friend and next door neighbor, Roz Walker, into keeping me company, but one too many “adventures” involving guns and felons had scared her and her family clear across the continent. When the deal to sell their house fell through in the eleventh hour, they found a young, childless couple to rent it at the last minute. I’d spoken with our new neighbors only a few times, so I hadn’t yet graduated to a come-on-a-walk-with-me level of acquaintance.

But I had other friends to employ. My tummy grumbled as I dialed Peggy’s number, hoping she’d agree to join me on my jaunt. She must have seen my name on caller ID. “Ciao, Signora!” she answered perkily. “Come stai?”

Peggy Rubenstein was my good friend whose Irish genetic code was apparent in her fiery red hair and pasty white skin. She grew up on corned beef, cabbage, and soda bread, and then, at the age of twenty-five, fell deeply in love with the very Jewish Simon Rubenstein. She said good-bye to the Pope and hello to Rabbi Goldman. But, when the newlywed Rubensteins landed on the shores of Bella Italia while honeymooning, Peggy found her true calling: the religion of Italianism. She fell in love with the people and the culture. Ever since, she’s walked Italian, talked Italian, cooked Italian, and often forgotten that her maiden name was McCarthy and not Minelli. Because I’d known Peggy for so long, I knew that “Come stai?” was Italian for “How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” I said, “but it’s nothing that an hour-long, invigorating walk won’t cure. Wanna come?”

“I would, Bella, but there’s a Fall Festival planning meeting at Dandi Booker’s house.”

Ugh. Dandi Booker. She was the new PTA president at Tulip Tree Elementary. Dandi was possibly the shortest woman I’d ever met, but what she lacked in height she made up for in zippy enthusiasm. She was like a high school cheerleader on a caffeine drip. You know: one of those people who just
loves
everybody. I don’t trust people who
love
everybody. It’s not natural. You have to dislike some people and I’m not just talking about Hitler and puppy killers. For that reason, I was wary of Dandi Booker. Peggy claimed I was paranoid and that Dandi was just the nicest person and I needed to give her a chance. For that reason, I was starting to hate Dandi Booker. Peggy was
my
friend first and I was beginning to suspect that Dandi was stealing her away. Roz had already deserted me, so losing Peggy was out of the question.

“Forget Dandi,” I said, reining in the urge to whine. “Play hooky. Please, please, please.”

“I can’t, she needs my pumpkins.”

“Sounds like a bad pick-up line to me.”

I heard her sigh. “Another day, but I gotta run now.”

“Some friend you are.”

“This diet is making you very grumpy. Is there hope you’ll feel better soon?”

“Walking and talking with a good friend is just the medicine I need for the grumpies. Tell Dandi she can have your pumpkins later. And while you’re at it, would you ask her how she got that silly name?”

“I’ll call you later. Maybe we can get together for a glass of wine.”

“It’s not allowed.”

“Coffee?”

“Nope.”

“Green tea, then.”

“Have you tasted green tea? You might as well throw three blades of grass in a cup of hot water and call it healthy, because that’s what green tea tastes like.” The urge to complain had grown stronger than my ability to hold it at bay.

“Barb?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, and I know the last few months have been really rough on you, but I need to go right now. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Yeah.”

A dial tone buzzed in my ear. I clicked the receiver off and contemplated my options. Husband Howard couldn’t walk that fast, that far, or that long with his bad leg. Daughters Bethany and Amber had just left for a fun-filled day of education at Tulip Tree Elementary School, and teenaged Callie had zipped off to Rustic Woods High in Howard’s Camry. I sighed, then clicked the phone back on and hit number three on my speed dial. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” I murmured under my breath.

After four rings, my body relaxed when a familiar voice answered. “Yo.”

“I need you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, Beautiful.”

Speed dial number three was my buddy from the college days, Colt Baron, who had been kind enough to walk with me the day before. Colt was confident, sexy, and sensitive all at the same time. He had wispy blond hair barely touched by gray, a good view from behind when he wore jeans, an enviable talent for cooking, and he really needed a woman in his life to pamper. I’d been working on finding him the right woman, but for today, was hoping he’d be willing to pamper me. Or at least keep me company.

“Walk with me again today?”

“I told you yesterday, I can’t. I’m on a job.”

Did I mention that Colt’s a private investigator? Adds to the whole sexy-factor.

“Start after the walk,” I said.

“Curly, I’d walk with you to the Moon any other day of the week, but today is a no-go. Out of the question. How about your mother?”

“I’d rather walk with Mussolini,” I said with an uncontrollable grimace.

“Mama Marr?”

Alka Marr was Howard’s mother who lived with us and who was known to just about everyone as Mama Marr. “Her sciatica is acting up.” My grimace had turned into a pout. I decided to play the guilt card. “After Howard’s accident you said that you were here for me whenever I needed you, and I need you now.”

“That was three months ago and I was there for you twenty-four hours and day, seven days a week, remember? I turned down job after job to be with you and the girls. I need to make some money now before the bill collectors start camping out on my front door.”

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