The Hot Flash Club Read Free Page A

pebbles. The air smelled of apples and roses. On the massage table, the older woman lay, facedown, completely relaxed and, for a while, free from the arthritic pain that plagued her.
    Shirley moved around the massage table like a white dove. She was barefoot, dressed in loose white pants, and a loose white cotton jacket, tied at the waist. Her long, vibrant, red hair was caught up in a clip. Silver moons dangled from her ears, a silver bracelet circled one ankle, and every finger and thumb wore a ring. The stones—moonstone, garnet, opal, cat’s-eye—winked at her as she worked, drawing her hands in long, deep strokes down Nora Salter’s back.
    She concluded the massage with brief gentle touches on her client’s coccyx, shoulders, and head, just as the alarm clock buzzed.
    “Oh, my.” Nora Salter sighed. “That was wonderful.”
    “I’m glad.” Shirley went into the bathroom to get Nora a glass of water, and to allow her a moment to rise and pull on a robe.
    “Here you are,” she said, handing Nora the glass. “Drink it all, now.”
    The older woman obeyed with an almost childlike meekness. Nora Salter was in her seventies, and her wealth attracted many admirers, and she was suspicious of them all. Her children lived in other parts of the world, her husband was dead, and like many older people, she went through her days without even the most brief human touch. Shirley knew her massages nourished the other woman’s soul as much as they relaxed and comforted her body.
    Shirley gathered her CD player, scented candle, balms, and oils, and slid them into a purple batik tote bag. She folded up the massage table, tucked it into its thick canvas carrying case, and hoisted the strap onto her shoulder.
    “I’ll see you next week,” she told Nora, hugging the older woman.
    “All right, dear,” Nora said. “Thank you.”
    As Shirley had lugged her bag of paraphernalia and the heavy massage table down the hall, she felt her own body slump. She was exhausted. Good thing, she thought as she pulled on her coat, hat, and mittens, Nora Salter’s house was grand enough to possess a staff elevator.
    Shirley was sixty years old. Too old, really, to be doing this kind of strenuous work. But she couldn’t afford to quit. Three disastrous marriages, all ending in divorce— not to mention an excess of other stupid life choices— had left her scrambling. Over the years, she’d built up a good, reliable clientele, earning enough to keep up the mortgage payments on her sweet little house. Besides, she loved her work.
    She trudged out of the house and down the drive, opened the hatch of her ancient VW Rabbit, and wrestled the table inside. She wished she could, at least, cancel all the clients who wouldn’t come to her home for their massages, but she couldn’t afford even that. Most wanted her to come to them. Because it took time to drive to their homes, sometimes as much as an hour, she charged twenty dollars more for a house call. But that didn’t make up for the massages she’d have been able to give if she’d stayed in her house.
    But enough negativity, she decided. Between massages she did what she could to restore her natural high spirits. Sometimes she used the drive to listen to inspirational tapes. Today, she parked by Fresh Pond, locked her car, and hit the trail for a twenty-minute jog, her Discman firmly attached to her belt. The music she played for her clients had to be mellow: Enya, Celtic musical, classical. To infuse her with the energy to give the massages, she listened to rock as she ran. Mostly Aerosmith, whom she adored. Good old Boston boys who’d sunk as low as she once had, then recovered, blasting into the stratosphere, now and forever more, the best rock band in the world.
    It was her addiction to Aerosmith, and her collection of CDs by Bob Segar, U2, Tom Petty, and ZZ Top that made her current lover, Jimmy, believe she was younger than she was. She’d never lied to him, but she’d never told