The Hot Flash Club Chills Out (7 page)

9

T
hey scouted the area for Kezia Jones, Nora Salter’s caretaker, who had said she’d meet them at the boat.

“Maybe she’s over by the luggage racks,” Faye suggested.

They followed the crowds across the parking lot to the blue baggage wagons parked near the pay telephones and taxis. Various individuals approached, then passed on to greet someone else. After ten minutes, most of the crowd had dissipated, everyone else off in a car or cab to enjoy the beautiful day. The four friends stood on the dock, backpacks and duffel bags in hand, looking around.

“She said she’d be here,” Shirley murmured hopefully.

“Do you have her cell phone number?” Polly asked.

Shirley was digging through her purse when they heard a squeal, and around the corner zoomed a huge silver SUV. It braked to a halt next to them.

Out jumped a slender young woman. Her black hair swung in a high ponytail, her eyes were a dazzling dark blue, her nose and cheeks were sunburned, and her smile was infectious. She wore old leather work boots, shorts, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a long-billed scalloper’s cap.

“Hi, guys! Are you Nora’s friends? I’m Kezia! Sorry I’m late! Everything seems to take just a bit longer now that Joe’s in my life.” She nodded over her shoulder.

The women peered in the SUV’s window. Happily ensconced in a car seat was the world’s cutest baby, gnawing on a blue vinyl teething ring. Seeing the women’s faces, he shrieked with glee and offered it to them.

While the women cooed at Joe, Kezia opened the back of her gigantic vehicle and began putting in the luggage. Her long legs were tanned and supple, and she swung the bags up as if they weighed no more than a flea.

“Can you all squash in?” she inquired. “Sorry, but Joe’s seat takes up a lot of room.”

“We can manage,” Faye affirmed. “Polly, you sit up front. Shirley or Marilyn can sit on my lap. It’s just a short ride, right, Kezia?”

“Right!” She slammed the hatch shut and jumped into the driver’s seat. While the older women got themselves in and adjusted, she turned to the backseat to flirt with her little son. “Who’s Mr. Cutie Pie?” Her baby chuckled, blew bubbles, and waved. “Ready? All hands on deck?” With a flip of her ponytail, Kezia faced front and put the car in gear.

In a matter of seconds, they were bouncing over the uneven cobblestones on South Water and Main Streets.

“Did you have a good trip?” Kezia called over her shoulder. They scarcely had time to respond when she said, “I’ll bet you did. It’s such a great day. You’ll probably find it a little cooler here than in Boston. We’re always cooler here in the spring, but warmer in the fall. You guys’ll want to get outside today, it’s just so gorgeous. Sometimes we get lots of wind and rain in the spring. We’ll probably still get some crazy weather in June, but today is heaven. B.J.—that’s my husband, Big Joe—B.J. works construction and his crew’s getting a pantload of stuff done with weather like this. He’s actually ahead of time!”

As Kezia chattered away, the older women stared out the windows at Main Street, with its charming brick storefronts. The windows displayed gorgeous clothing and needlepoint and furniture. The window boxes shimmered with daffodils, lilacs, and tulips. Then the SUV turned up Orange Street and with breathtaking insouciance, Kezia steered her huge vehicle into the narrowest driveway in the universe.

They clambered out of the car and found themselves in front of a tall, gray-shingled house, with white trim and a neat blue front door that had a brass knocker shaped like a mermaid.

“Good grief!” Shirley looked up and down the narrow street. “These houses all look alike!”

“Many of them do,” Kezia agreed, opening the hatch and hauling out the luggage as she talked. “We’re in the Historic District, so most of these houses were built over a hundred and fifty years ago, when the Quaker Society of Friends was centered here. To them, simplicity and plainness were virtues. But don’t worry, you’ll find plenty of ostentatious homes.” Tossing all the luggage over her shoulders, she strode up the sidewalk, up the wooden steps to the small front porch, and jangled a set of keys.

“Here you are, guys!” With a flourish, she gestured to the open door.

They hurried up the steps and through the door.

“I won’t come in with you,” Kezia said. “Too much bother getting His Highness out of his throne and all that. But here’s a set of keys to Nora’s house.” She handed them to Shirley. “Now if you want to make copies, go ahead, but remember, we’re already having some theft in this house and you don’t want to go making keys and losing them all over the island for everyone else to find.”

“We’ll be careful,” Shirley promised.

Kezia smiled. She had a gorgeous smile, as wholehearted and carefree as her son’s. “Okay. If you need anything, my phone number’s on the notepad by the phone. If you have any problems with the house, call me. ’Bye, guys!” With that, she sprinted down the front steps and back into her SUV. She leaned over the seat to give her baby a big kiss, then put the car in gear and roared away.

“What a little powerhouse!” Faye said.

“What I wouldn’t give for a fraction of that energy,” Polly murmured.

“Hey,
guys
!” Shirley bounced up and down, pretending she was Kezia. “Want to see the house?”

Like kids released from school, they raced off in all directions. Inside, the house was larger than it looked from the street. All the rooms—front parlor, back parlor, dining room, den—were floored with gleaming wide boards. All but the kitchen had fireplaces.

Upstairs were five bedrooms, each with a fireplace, and two bathrooms, one with a claw-foot bathtub and wooden floor, and a newer one, built out on an ell, with ceramic tile and a shower. Stairs at the back of the house led to the second floor and on to the attic, where another bathroom and several more bedrooms were squeezed beneath the eaves. Another set of stairs led down to a dark, uninviting basement. The walls were brick, and from the ceiling beams, bare lightbulbs hung down like the tubers of tulips and daffodils, giving the basement a very underground ambience.

“I’m glad the washer and dryer are in the old butler’s pantry,” Polly said as they scurried back up the stairs.

Throughout the house, the furnishings were mostly antiques of the more sturdy and usable sort, American pine in the kitchen, Empire sofas in the parlors. Many of the chairs had frayed caning or worn needlepoint seats, the Persian rugs were thin in spots, and the swooping drapes were faded. But the sofas were deep and comfortable, the beds were firm, and the cupboards were filled with beautiful old embroidered sheets as smooth as silk to the touch.

“Five bedrooms,” Faye called out. “Let’s each choose one!”

“Shirley,” Polly said, “you get first pick, because you’re the reason we’re here.”

Shirley hesitated, then staked her claim. “I really do want this one at the back of the house, because of the ocean view, but when I’m not here, anyone else can use it.”

“Who wants the other ocean-view bedroom?” Faye asked.

Polly said, “I don’t care about an ocean view. I’d love the little side bedroom with the two white iron beds and the patchwork quilts. There’s a cradle in there, too, filled with antique dolls.”

Marilyn and Faye inspected the three remaining bedrooms.

“I’ll take one of the two at the front of the house,” Marilyn decided.

“But don’t you want the ocean view?” Faye asked.

Marilyn blushed. “I’d rather have the room with the queen-size bed.”

“Aha,” Shirley said, “for when Ian visits!”

“Then I’ll take the ocean view.” Faye stepped into her room and sank for a moment onto the window seat. “Heaven.”

“But what about Alice?” worried Shirley. “That only leaves the smallest bedroom at the front of the house for her.”

Faye thought about it. “I doubt that Alice will fuss. She doesn’t seem very keen on this little enterprise. She probably won’t spend as much time here as the rest of us.”

As if speaking of Alice had conjured her up, they heard a car door slam, and a few moments later, Alice was knocking on the front door.

All four women clattered down the front staircase to the entrance hall.

“Alice!”

Alice stepped inside, pulling her rolling suitcase with her. Always beautifully, even glamorously, put together, today majestic Alice was disheveled.

“Oh my God!” She returned their hugs only halfheartedly. “Have you ever flown on one of those little toy planes they use to get to this island? Seats about ten? Honestly, I’ve worn coats bigger than the plane I just flew in!”

“You should have taken the boat with us,” Shirley told her.

“I’ll certainly take the boat back.” Alice dropped her purse on her suitcase and looked around. “So this is it?”

“This is it.” Faye held her arms wide. “We just got here ourselves. We’ve been choosing bedrooms.”

Alice strode through the house, scrutinizing it. “Quaint.”

“This is your bedroom.” Shirley lead Alice into the bedroom at the front of the house. It was very simple, with a spool bed, a wooden rocker, a wooden chest, and a large pine armoire.

“Where’s the closet?” Alice asked.

“They didn’t have closets when this house was built.” Polly had done some reading before she came. “Over the years, closets have been built into some rooms, but this bedroom has this.” She opened the armoire to show the wooden rod with pretty padded hangers.

Marilyn opened a window, letting the brisk spring wind whisk into the room. “You’ll hear the street noises from this room. Will that bother you?”

Alice shook her head. “Too much
quiet
would bother me. Traffic noises will make me feel right at home.” Aware that her friends were rather breathlessly awaiting her reaction, she told them, “This all looks great. And I want to see the town. But first, I want to eat. I’m starving!”

It took about two minutes to walk to Main Street. They passed the bookstore, an antique shop, a couple of clothing stores, and a jeweler that made them pause for a moment of window-shopping. The first restaurant they came to was called Even Keel. They peered inside, studied the posted menu, approved, and went in. Its bustling coffee bar, Internet section, and long chrome counter gave it a chic urban feel. Colorful canvases by local artists brightened the walls. They settled in around a table, and as they ate lunch, they studied the various guides and newspapers they’d picked up, reading the interesting bits aloud.

“There’s so much to do here!” Polly chirped. “Plays, museums, lectures at the library.”

“Openings at art galleries,” Faye murmured, circling dates with a pen. “Lots and lots of art galleries.”

“We’ll make a list,” Marilyn suggested.

“Oh, yum,” Shirley cooed. “We’re going to have such fun!”

Alice was frowning. “I wonder how Aly likes her other grandmother.”

Polly reassured her. “I’m sure she adores her!”

“But not
too
much,” Shirley quickly amended, knowing how easily Alice would get jealous.

10

A
fter lunch, the group decided to go their separate ways. Faye hurried off to check out the art galleries. Polly and Marilyn decided to tour the Whaling Museum together.

Shirley and Alice stood on Main Street, blinking slightly beneath the sun.

“I’m going down to the harbor,” Shirley said. “I love looking at the boats, and according to the map, there’s a small beach within walking distance. I might get my feet wet.”

“The water’s going to be cold,” Alice warned. She yawned. “You know what I’d really like to do? I’d like to take a nap.”

“Then you should do just that.” Shirley reached into her purse. “Here’s the key Nora gave me to the house. I’ll have copies made for each of us.”

“Thanks. Oh, man, I can’t wait to take off my shoes!”

Shirley studied her guide book. Nothing was more than a few blocks away from the water, so she meandered through town on the way to the harbor. Nantucket center was as neat as a village in a model train set, just a few streets in a tic-tac-toe lattice of cobblestone and brick. Shirley took note of the location of the brick post office, and the magnificent Greek Revival library. She strolled back to Lower Main Street, and down to the Hy-Line docks.

Straight Wharf was bustling with passengers arriving and departing, some with babies in Snuglis, others with dogs on leashes, some with babies
and
dogs, and one woman with a dog in a Snugli. Daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths were everywhere—in pots, in window boxes, on sweaters. The people disembarking from the ferry and those waving hello all looked so healthy, so hearty, so
athletic,
in their khakis and L.L. Bean plaids, their canvas shoes and sneakers, their heads protected by baseball caps. They looked ready to paddle their own kayaks. Shirley felt a bit out of place in her lavender batik sundress and multicolored shawl, and her stacked high-heeled pastel sandals were definitely unsuitable! She’d been letting her red hair grow out from the tidy businesslike pageboy she’d adopted when she was first starting The Haven. She’d worn her hair long all her life, and now that the wellness spa was prospering, she felt she could relax a bit, even show a bit more of her true inner self.

Perhaps she also secretly thought—and even more secretly,
hoped
—the sign of a slightly wilder Shirley might scare her boring beau Stan away. With her Hot Flash friends breathing down her neck, reminding her constantly how pleased they were that she was finally dating someone
appropriate,
she didn’t dare break off with him. They’d kill her if she did. Alice would kill her twice. So she was resorting to subterfuge. Plus, it felt really nice, the bounce of her long curls against her neck, the flirty swish of it when she turned her head quickly. But here on the wharf, it seemed all the other women wore their hair restrained by a clip, or cut in short, sensible styles that wouldn’t blow in their eyes while they were reeling in a bluefish or take too long to dry after a hard day on the tennis court.

Charming little shops with wooden toys and seashell chimes beckoned enticingly along the brick wharf, but Shirley wanted to find the beach. Spotting an empty bench, she sat for a moment, feeling a bit self-conscious as she studied a map, sure she’d get it wrong. She hadn’t had much opportunity to travel in her life. She wasn’t even sure how to read a map.

It’s all right!
she told herself.
Take your time!
It was good for the aging brain to learn new things, she reminded herself, and squaring her shoulders, she chose a direction and set off. If she kept the water on her left, she couldn’t go too wrong. The cobblestone road and brick sidewalks were so uneven beneath her dainty pastel high-heeled sandals that she tottered and tripped, feeling self-conscious and idiotic.

She hurried to the quiet passageway along New Whale Lane. On her right, fuel tanks loomed behind a chain-link fence, casting the small cobblestone avenue in shadow and providing a contemporary note to the rest of the area, which was probably much as it had been for over a century. At Old South Wharf, a row of fishermen’s shacks converted into posh boutiques extended far into the harbor. She passed boats of all sizes bobbing gently in their slips along Swain’s Wharf and then, between two small gray cottages, she spotted a bit of golden beach. A few sailboats idled in the shallow waters and a pair of mallards bobbed dreamily beneath the spring sun.

Wobbling along, she made her way past the cottages and onto the sand, which was damper than she’d expected. With a squelching noise, her sandals sank. Shirley extracted her feet, walked to higher and dryer ground, plunked down on the sand and removed her shoes.

When she stood up, the wet sand felt chilly to her exposed soles. She took a few exploratory steps. Well! Walking was easier barefoot. She could expand her stride, she could move with more freedom. Holding her sandals by one finger, she ambled over the beach, testing the feel of the seaweed lying over the sand in clumps—it was slightly rough and tickly, but it provided more give than the sand.

By the time she reached the town pier, she was feeling just a bit like an athlete, or some kind of person at ease with the outdoors. She’d always lived in Massachusetts, but she’d never had the time or money to play by the seaside. She didn’t even know how to swim. She knew enough to tell that the boats tied up at the town pier were mostly motorboats rather than sailboats. She hesitated, wondering whether it would be all right for her to walk the length of the pier. Did you have to own a boat tied up here to step on it? She didn’t see a No Trespassing sign. She set off. In contrast to the sand, the boards were warm on her feet, and made satisfying thumping sounds as she went. At the end of the pier loomed an eighty-foot-long fishing trawler, magnificently serious among the wastrel pleasure boats, like a Saint Bernard deigning to share space with Jack Russell puppies. Shirley studied it for a while, admiring its sturdy, battered steel hull, its cables, thicker than her wrists, its chains and ropes and masts, all so complicated, so silently self-confident and powerful.
Masculine,
she thought to herself with a smile.

According to the map, the harbor ended a few hundred yards away in a series of salt marshes. She strolled in that direction, idly gazing at the tide lapping the shore in light, lacy foam. High up on the sand lay clusters of overturned rowboats. Gulls squawked and dipped, occasionally landing on the roof of one of the little seaside cottages.

A golden Lab suddenly appeared out of the tall beach grass, galloping toward her with a big grin on its face. Shirley bent to pet the dog, but she didn’t want to be petted—she wanted Shirley to throw her stick into the water. Shirley obliged. With great gusto, the Lab plunged into the harbor, swimming out to grab the stick in her mouth and return it proudly to Shirley. She threw it again, and again, smiling at the dog’s pleasure. After about seven hundred repeats of the game, she tired, and turned to walk back to town. The Lab bounded through the grass up to the spot where her owner was painting an overturned rowboat a wonderful bright cherry red. He waved at Shirley, who waved back. That much contact—that islander’s wave—made her believe she could actually fit in here, even in her inappropriate lavender batik.

This gave her the courage, at last, to dabble her toes in the water. Alice was right. It
was
cold. But it would warm up. Shirley vowed to herself that this summer she would swim in the ocean.