The Glory Girls: The Shady Lane Series, #1

By Michele Z. Sargent

Too young for retirement and too old for trendy fashions, their marriages and their waistlines have seen better days.  Sassy, classy and just a touch smart-assy The Glory Girls, may be women of a “certain age” but they have no intentions of acting like it.

Determined to combat marital complacency, the trials and tribulations of mid-life and the inevitable monotony of predictable days, they invent the “flipping” game.  Playing by their own rules, when the last envelope is opened their next escapade is determined.  Each of them is required to participate, willingly or unwillingly, but nothing could have prepared them for what was coming next, nothing in their wildest dreams! 

Mayhem ensues when they land in a class to learn the Art of Seduction.  Stirring up laughter, mischief, revenge and long-lost loves along the way, the eight-week course merrily dances them down a path to crossroads they have been diligently avoiding for years.

Three time divorcee Jazzy O’Brien has a knack for picking the wrong man for all the wrong reasons and it appears that she’s about to do it again. Always in charge, Dell Potts wears the pants in her family—and everywhere else for that matter, but when another woman takes an interest in her husband, is it time for a change?   Logical, level-headed Vivienne Fletcher always plays by the rules but finds the flames of her second marriage have burned down to dying embers, leaving her with three choices – live with it, light a fire under it or stomp it out. 
Irreverent, fun-loving, Nina Kimball hates to play by any rules except her own until she is plunged back into a twenty year old game that she is determined to win this time — one way or the other. 

Sworn to a solemn oath to remain friends forever because they know too much about each other and blackmail is not beneath any of them, The Glory Girls is a lively, fun-filled, glimpse into the bonds of friendship, the strength women draw from one another, and the undying truth that “a good friend will help you move, but a really good friend will help you move the body“.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michele Z. Sargent
• Release date: Nov 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990929703

Book preview

Prologue

If you have a magnifying glass big enough and a map detailed enough and if you tip your head to one side and squint, you will find the tiny town of Glory nestled into the southern Green Mountains of Vermont, population 1165. Settled in 1784 by Jedidiah Glory, nothing much has changed in the last 200 years with the exception of the influx of ill-mannered skiers during the winter and hordes of road clogging leaf-peepers in the fall.

Those of us who live here have always lived here, as have generations before us. The recurring threats of leaving this one-horse-town for a warmer, more glamorous part of the country are not uncommon. We talk about it, dream about it and at times even go so far as to Google it, but in the end, few of us ever leave. Resigned to be the status quo and lacking any real incentive to change anything, we muddle through our predictable lives day by day. The years slip quietly away with few surprises. Perhaps someday all the stars will align correctly in the heavens and the gods will look down favorably upon us, insisting we go south as quickly as our aching feet can carry us, but until that magic moment happens, we will be what we have always been - the girls from Glory.

We are ordinary women living ordinary lives. Our clothes are off the rack. We drive late model cars, live on a budget, clip coupons, shop the sales, have hundreds of recipes for leftovers and wish we had more money. We have learned to make do with what we have and not to waste time worrying about what we don’t.

Neither sophisticated nor worldly, none of us have traveled extensively except vicariously through the National Geographic Channel or Rachael Ray’s $40 a Day. None of us have expensive jewels unless you count wedding rings; most of us have had a couple of those.

Born into the notorious Baby Boomer generation, we’ll be eternally blamed for ruining the proper society that came before us. Of course we did — we had the pill! Despite the those who made headlines with their antics, love-ins, sit-ins, and much publicized dysentery problems at Woodstock, tucked back in the hills of Vermont, where cell service is still not available in most places, life for us happened at much slower pace. We were not part of the infamous, rule-breaking hippies. We were standing in a long line under the big sign that read: Others.

We were not flag burners, rally goers or flower children. A sit-in was what we did when we were sent to our room─ we’d sit in it. Drug and alcohol abuse weren’t even considered unless one counts beer, and growing up in Vermont, nobody counted beer. They still don’t. Communal living meant sharing a room with your sisters and a single bathroom with your whole family. Woodstock was a town in the middle of the state where rich people lived. Free Love wasn’t even open for discussion.

Pre-marital sex was absolutely forbidden. According to our proper mothers, virginity was the gift you gave to your husband on your wedding night. I personally had thought a nice pair of gold cuff links would have been sufficient.

We had been brainwashed into thinking that our only mission in life was to become a wife and mother. Any ambition beyond that was frowned upon or ignored. As a result, at the tender age of nineteen, veiled and demure with sixteen bridesmaids dressed in hideous rainbow colored taffeta marching in front of us, we floated on a cloud of happiness down the aisle to Prince Charming and the long awaited fulfillment of our destiny. We believed we were about to embark on an endless honeymoon and live happily ever after. We had dreamed about this day from the time we could walk and the fairy tale was at long last coming true. A month later, reality set in when those magical words, I do immediately translated into: "You bet you will!"

You will wait on your husband hand and foot because his mother did it before you, and her mother before that. This boy to whom you had blindly and eagerly pledged your troth until death do you part, wouldn’t make himself a tuna fish sandwich if you wrote out the directions and practiced with him for a week.

You will become thrifty and without a doubt, learn to do without. At the ripe old age of twenty-two, without a college education, our new husband brought home a grand total of $73.52 a week. Barely enough to pay the rent much less eat.

You will have babies for the simple reason that you have sex. Sex was cheap and a readily available amusement. The stifling restrictions had been removed and we were flattered that our young husband could perform at the drop of a hat, taking great manly pride in proving how many times he could do the deed in a twenty-four hour period. We thought it was true love. He thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

And…..the showstopper of them all…. you will clean dirt. It doesn’t matter what kind of dirt it is. If it’s dirt, you’ll clean it. You will clean it off everything in sight, or out of sight for that matter. You will clean dirt off your clothes, your dishes, your floors and walls. You will clean dirt from every nook and cranny in your house, off your husband and children, and anyone else’s husband or children that are foolish enough to get in your path. You will clean dirt off the toys, the food, the furniture, the car and the dog. You will become obsessed with dirt cleaning. You will develop superhuman X-ray vision that will allow you to see invisible dirt that nobody else can see. You will never stop cleaning dirt. You will clean it over and over and over again, because you’ve discovered the ancient secret to true womanhood: you have been put on this earth to clean dirt. It is your duty and you will clean dirt until you die!

About the time we begrudgingly resigned ourselves to our mundane, poverty stricken existences, life laughingly threw us another curve ball. Blinded by the promise of a better tomorrow and desperate to talk with someone over the age of five, we jumped headlong onto the bandwagon of the Women’s Liberation Movement. Armed with our high school diplomas, certifications in nothing more than motherhood and dirt-cleaning, but secure in the knowledge that we could have it all, we went to work!

For $4.50 an hour we eagerly became lowly subordinates to male bosses who thought that in addition to a regular work load, we were also their personal servants. It didn’t take long to learn that the only difference between the new boss and the old husband was that you had to sleep with one of them; the other one was optional.

Within a few years of our new liberation, when the glow of being in the real world began to lose its luster and Prince Charming was becoming less and less charming, our eyes did begin to open. It didn’t take long to realize that we couldn’t do it all and we didn’t want to. We needed help. Out of sheer desperation we looked for others with whom to commiserate—and we found them— others adrift in the same leaky boat we were rowing, others who understood our plight and wanted to bitch about it as much as we did.

Our marriages have seen better days. The times when we couldn’t wait for the men to arrive home have long since ended. His and Her’s no longer applies to just the bathroom towels. We now live in a world where His and Her’s applies to almost everything: his car, her car, his television, her television, his room, her room, his money, her money, his friends, her friends, his life, her life. It feels as if the only time spouse comes into play is on a joint tax return.

Our mates, typical men, complacent and comfortable with the status quo, have long since forgotten they have wives except at feeding time. Retired from their jobs, they also retired from life, marriage and everything that resembled manual labor. Their paychecks along with their libidos, dropped like a ten pound rock off the side of a cliff and their interest turned elsewhere.

Thrown together by circumstances, common marital afflictions and the fact that we all lived on the same street, we bonded. Fortified with gallons of coffee, hours of conversation, more pastries than we’d dare eat now and an undying belief that our husbands were jackasses, we became friends, good friends.

For more than a quarter of century, we have laughed together, cried together and even upon occasion, fought with each other. We have loyally supported one another no matter what the circumstances. We have raised hell and sworn each other to secrecy. We have shared confidences, dreams, joys, disappointments and recipes for quick, easy 20-minute meals. We know each other’s faults and still, we like each other. Together we have survived most of what life has thrown at us, picked up the pieces and gone on. We have never been able to define what real women are, so to hell with it. Who cares? We certainly don’t. Definitions are for those who are trying to find themselves. We’ve been lost for so many years and we no longer give a damn.

When we found ourselves flirting with middle age, we decided we needed to make some changes, changes that didn’t include cooking meals, waiting on our husbands or cleaning dirt. We had no idea what that meant at the time and for the most part still don’t, but we were determined to find out together.

Dell, Viv, Jazzy and I are friends, lifelong friends. We have taken a solemn oath to remain friends forever because we know too much about each other and blackmail is not beneath any of us. For all the things we have done, all the wonderful memories we have and the screw-ups with incriminating pictures to prove them, nothing could have prepared us for what we did next, nothing in our wildest dreams.

Chapter 1

There is nothing like January in Vermont. The excitement of the holidays is long over. The tree, outside lights, house decorations and hideous blow-up lawn ornaments our husband insisted on anchoring in the middle of the front lawn, have all been stored away. The horrible gifts received and hated have been marked for re-gifting to some unsuspecting soul next year. There is nothing left to look forward to except Spring, but that is an eternity away. Cabin Fever is due to set in at any time.

The literal description of Cabin Fever is a condition that produces restlessness and irritability caused from being in a confined space for a prolonged period of time. That’s our description of marriage, not Cabin Fever. To us, it is boredom, pure simple boredom. There’s not much to do in Vermont in the winter and it’s too damned cold to do it anyway. For those who ski, snow-mobile, ice fish or participate in other insane outdoor winter activities suitable only for polar bears and penguins, the winters were less tortuous. For the rest of us the incarceration is endless.

There are certain undeniable facts of life such as birth, death, taxes, the fact that my mother was a virgin when she got married, and in Vermont, it snows in the winter—all winter. You have to shovel it, drive in it, slog through it, bundle up against it and hibernate indoors away from it.

Moreover, thanks to Day Light Saving Time, we are forced to live like moles, frozen moles wandering aimlessly in the dark for most of our waking hours from November until March. If we had any sense, we’d pull up stakes at the first sign of a snowflake and head south to wait it out in the warmth and sunshine. But, since we never have and probably never will, we amuse ourselves by flipping.

Initially designed to while away the long, dreary months of winter and weekend after weekend of being alone while our husbands hibernated at camp with their friends, flipping was the game we invented as a means of voting for what we wanted to do without hurting anyone’s feelings or coming right out and telling them their idea was stupid.

All ideas are sealed in plain white envelopes so that it would be impossible to tell one from the other. The envelopes were then shuffled and spread out on the table. One by one we’d take turns flipping a coin: heads, all envelopes remained, tails, one was randomly removed. The flipping continued until only one envelope was left and our next adventure was determined. The rules were simple. Willingly or unwillingly, whichever idea won is what we would do. No exceptions.

Over the years, flipping has taken us to good and bad restaurants, concerts, lectures, karate lessons and a host of other spur-of-the moment adventures. Little by little it became a year-round ritual. We ended up spending more time with each other than with our mates and for the most part liked it better.

Dell headed for my dining room. Okay. Let’s get this show on the road. Vivienne, Jazzy and I automatically grabbed our coffee cups and second helpings of dessert and followed behind. The flipping game was once again about to begin.

The sealed envelopes were stacked on the table. Jazzy hastily added her envelopes to the pile, five of them, an unusual number for her. On previous occasions, she might have offered one if she didn’t forget it at home. Sometimes she offered none. She was always hesitant about what she wanted to do, usually just going along with anything the rest of us suggested. We were working on her self-esteem, trying to convince her that no matter what we said about her ideas, she had every right to like whatever she wanted. Up until now our attempts had fallen on deaf ears, but five envelopes was a definite sign that she was improving. Dell, who always had a tendency to take charge, reached for the stack and started shuffling. Spreading out the envelopes, she automatically reached into the pocket of her jeans and handed us each a quarter.

Today, there were a total of twelve white envelopes, twelve possible new escapades. I had put in two: one for doing another play and one for taking golf lessons. Viv hated golf, but she’d learn to love it if I won. I couldn’t help thinking about the first time we’d flipped. Dell’s idea had won. We made genuine Vermont maple syrup.

Maple trees are abundant in Vermont and grace most of the front and back yards, bursting into breathtaking colors in the fall. However, a month later, the dead leaves are all over the lawn, killing the grass if they aren’t raked up, put into bags and hauled away. I’ve often thought of paving the backyard. Dell had six big maple trees in her back yard.

We had no idea what we were doing but when sap started running, so did we, slogging through knee deep snow back and forth to the garage to empty the sap buckets into whatever containers we could find. Sap, we discovered, needs to be boiled immediately or it sours. The first week’s collections had to be thrown out. After that we boiled as we collected, boiled and boiled and boiled using the biggest pots in our cupboards. It took long hours and turned Dell’s kitchen into a sauna, the constant steam giving us amazing facials and peeling the wall paper off her walls. In the end we produced about two gallons of maple syrup, two quarts apiece that cost $483.00─ the price of replacing the wallpaper and a couple of pots we had ruined beyond belief.

Our next venture, Viv’s idea, was less labor intensive and much less expensive. We took ceramic classes, tediously creating Christmas decorations. Since I am more of the idea person than the detail person, what should have been Santa in his sled pulled by eight tiny reindeer ended up looking like a little fat Buddha in red long-johns being pulled by eight goats with mange. Needless to say I have never displayed it. I did however gift it to Dell.

After that, our horizons broadened with a three-day bus tour to Washington D.C., another one to New York City to see the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall, a trip to Salem, MA at Halloween to see if we could actually find ghosts, secretly hoping we wouldn’t. We did have a psychic reading while we were there, excited to learn our moons were rising and Saturn was in our 7th house, whatever that meant.

Once we spent eight weeks taking tap dancing lessons that served as an aching reminder that our legs, bodies and timing were way out of step. Last Fall we won parts in a community theatre production of Steel Magnolias. Jazzy played the ever-searching, lost soul, Annelle. Viv, tucking her blonde hair under a brown football shaped wig, played a tall, thin version of the no nonsense, level headed M’Lynn. Addicted to double entendres myself, I was delighted to win the part of Clairee, smart ass of the South. I still tell everyone I know that I love my friends more than my luggage. Dell could not have been better as the in a bad mood for forty years Ouiser. The casting was perfect.

All went well until opening night when Jazzy developed stage fright, forgot her opening lines and nearly fainted on stage. After that we force fed her a bottle of Chablis before the curtain went up, drinking the other two bottles ourselves. She gave fabulous performances. So did the rest of us.

I couldn’t help but wonder what we were going to be doing this time. It could be almost anything. In between bites of pie and a flow of salacious gossip, we narrowed the field to one envelope. Dell, still in charge, opened it.

Oh, no! Oh, hell no! she exclaimed, tossing the winning entry onto the table. Which one of you jokers is responsible for this?

Viv reached across the table for the envelope. What are you talking about?

That! Dell pointed. There is no way in hell I’m doing that. A strange look, a mix of amusement and disbelief crept over Viv’s face as she read it. Without saying anything she handed it to me.

Oh, come on. What’s all the fuss? How bad can it be? I asked taking the paper. What is it this time? Mud wrestling or sheep shearing? If we can live through three months of Auto Mechanics for Women, we can live through anything. A moment later the same quizzical look that was on Vivienne’s face appeared on mine.

Automatically we turned to Jazzy at the far end of the table. She was trying not to look guilty. I thought it might be something different, she stammered.

Different? Oh, there’s the understatement of the year, Dell scoffed. This isn’t different. This is downright stupid. You can’t be serious.

Viv and I usually ignored Dell when she got bossy but Jazzy cowered. She wasn’t sure what to say. When she had first read the advertisement, she’d been mildly intrigued but had immediately dismissed it as out of the question. But, the more she thought about it the more she realized she really did want to do it. The only drawback would be if the rest of us figured out what she was up to before it was too late. It might be fun, she stammered. It could be a learning experience.

Dell rolled her eyes. Learning experience? I’m not learning that crap! I call for a re-flip. Jazzy’s face fell.

No. No re-flip. Viv said firmly. You know the rules. There is only a re-flip if it’s something harmful or physically impossible for one of us. This is neither. Like it or not, the choice stands.

Oh, come on, Dell groaned. "You don’t seriously want to do this, do you?

It isn’t a matter of if we want to do it or not. We agreed to do whatever was in the winning envelope. It’s the rule. Viv was not one to ignore the rules, ever.

Then we need to change the stupid rules, Dell replied annoyed. I vote to change the rules.

Personally, I had mixed feelings. It certainly was different. It might be fun. But on the other hand, what was the purpose, particularly at our age? Since humor was always a good cure-all for whatever ailed us, I fell back on my hard and fast rule: when in doubt, start laughing. It won’t change anything but you’ll have a better time enduring it. Great idea, I injected. I vote that we change the rules so that the only things we flip on include sun drenched beaches, pina coladas, moonlight and Armand Asante as our personal cabana boy.

Jazzy wrinkled up her nose. Who’s Armand Asante?

If you’d ever seen him, you wouldn’t be asking, I assured her.

Dell rolled her eyes again. She always rolled her eyes when she didn’t like something. Be serious, Nina. That’s not what I’m talking about.

Maybe not but it’s what I’m talking about.

You’ve been too long without a man, she shot back at me.

Dell and I were perfect compliments to one another; the hard-ass versus the smart-ass. Sparring with each other was one of our favorite entertainments. By default, Viv was always our referee, Jazzy the cheerleader. I ignored the comment about being man-less despite the fact that I was and not by choice. Oh, I don’t want to keep him. I just want to rent him for awhile.

Dell looked disgusted. They’ve got names for women who rent men.

Yes, I know. I laughed. Lucky. Fortunate. Smart.

Cheap! she finished

Jazzy missed the point. Rent him?

You couldn’t pay me to rent, buy, borrow or steal another man, Vivienne added sourly.

I turned to my dearest friend who had known only two men in her life and married both of them. I loved watching her bristle every time I suggested that having an affair would spice up her life and most likely do her a world of good. It was ludicrous to think she ever would, but my futile crusade went on at every given opportunity. Not that you have any idea what I’m talking about, but renting has it charms. It has all the benefits of marriage without any of the hassles and with a short-term lease to boot. So don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Besides, I’m not talking about just any guy. I’m talking about Armand Assante.

Viv’s reply was terse. I don’t care who it is. Her tone did not go unnoticed. We all knew there was trouble at her house, there had been for years. From all indications, it had gotten worse lately. None of us knew exactly what was happening but we also knew she wasn’t about to share the details with us until she was good and ready.

You don’t know what you’re missing, I sang at her.

Nothing, she replied flatly. Absolutely nothing.

Dell picked up the discarded piece of paper. Okay, forget Arnold Whats-his-face. Let’s get back to business. Give me those other envelopes. We’re going to re-flip.

Jazzy took a deep breath. It was now or never. I won the flip and I really want to do this.

For a moment none of us said anything. We just sat there looking at her, amazed that she actually had the nerve to stick up for her own idea. She’s right, I said knowing how much it had taken to get her to say that. She won, period. There shouldn’t even be a discussion. The rules say that we do whatever is chosen.

Viv quirked a smile at me. She and I had been friends for more than thirty-five years. And since when do you follow the rules?

Whenever they serve my purpose, I replied flippantly.

You liar. Dell added, finally smiling. You’ve never followed a rule in your life!

Yes, I did. Once in 1975. Or was it ’76? I can’t really remember but I know I did once. I didn’t like it very much. Now I only use them as…… loose guidelines.

Loose is a good description for you.

I beg your pardon. I am not loose. I never was. I was just spirited in my youth.

You were a slut and you know it. You are just too old and too fat to be one now.

Said the kettle to the pot.

Dell and I were laughing, about to launch ourselves into one of our beloved verbal battles when Vivienne the Referee stopped us. Enough, you two. Enough!

Dell pointed at me. She started it.

I don’t care who started it. I’m ending it. Let’s focus on the project at hand. What do we need to do to sign up for these classes?

So we’re doing this, right? Jazzy asked, secretly crossing her fingers.

Viv and I turned to Dell. After a long moment she gave in almost gracefully. Yes, damn it. I suppose we have to. I’m going to hate every minute of it, but yes, we’re doing it. We’re going to make perfect fools of ourselves.

I couldn’t resist Oh, come on. That’s not true. Nobody is perfect. Dell made a face at me.

Viv picked the ad up from the table. We need to call this number and sign up in the next couple of days. It starts in two weeks.

Jazzy beamed. This is going to be great. Really. You’ll see. It will be really great!

It better be, Dell threatened, or next time we won’t let you play. Jazzy was too delighted to care about next time. She couldn’t wait for this time to begin.

After much debating, we decided not to wait but to call immediately and sign up, ensuring that no one chickened out after they’d had a chance to think about it. There was no backing out now. Two hours later, after polishing off the rest of the pie, and discussing at great length what the details of the class might be, the girls went home and I was left to clean up the dregs of the afternoon.

Lost in thought I mindlessly picked up all the unopened envelopes and tossed them into the kitchen trash. A few moments later I fished them out, curious to see what the other ideas had been. Knowing Viv, hers probably had something to do with arts and crafts and Dell’s with tools. I tore open the remaining sealed envelopes, discarding the two I’d put in and sorting the others into piles. I was right. Viv had put in one for scrap-booking, another for flower arranging and a third for a gourmet cooking class. Dell had entered ceramic tile and basic plumbing classes at Home Depot. This time I rolled my eyes thankful hers had not been chosen.

The four entries left were without a doubt Jazzy’s. They were all the exactly the same. I had to smile. Good for her. She’d actually stacked the deck against us. There might be hope for her yet.

Dell was right. We would probably make complete fools of ourselves but it wouldn’t be the first time and certainly wouldn’t be the last. And Jazzy was right too…it certainly would be different, to say the least. I still couldn’t believe that we were actually going to do this. I reread the ad.

Be the woman you want to be.

Discover the woman you really are

and much more with

The Art of Seduction

Classes being February 2, Holiday Inn, Rutland, Vermont

Jazzy must have really wanted to do this. I had a sneaking suspicion I knew why. I could only hope I was wrong.

Chapter 2

Two weeks later, we were standing in the Champlain Room at the Holiday Inn with a dozen or so other soon-to-be-seductresses waiting for the first class to begin. We had planned to carpool tonight as we always did, not to conserve on gas but to ensure that no one came up with a last minute excuse to back out. We loved each other dearly, but trust was an entirely different subject.

At the last minute after a great deal of deliberation, I had bold-faced lied to my friends and driven myself to Rutland, telling them I had some personal errands to run and promising to meet them in the hotel lobby before 7:00. I had to swear on my grandchildren’s lives and promise to give them my Tempurpedic mattress if I was a no-show. I had no intention of backing out. I had every intention of arriving early and alone.

I assumed that Viv would guess what I was up to. Dell and Jazzy hadn’t been around much back then. Dell’s husband had suffered a heart attack and she was busy tending to him. Jazzy’s attention was taken up trying to end the second of her less-than-ideal marriages. Viv had been the one that held my hand through all of it, the good, the bad and the ugly. Yes, she’d know.

During the past two weeks our pre-class speculation had run from the obscene to the outrageous. Dell was convinced the lessons would include tips on street walking and pole dancing, and she was sure as hell was not going to do either.

Jazzy had turned herself inside out, driving us nuts, wishing the classes had started that very next morning and hoping they would include the secrets of what a man really wants. The three of us assured her there was really no secret as to what a man wants: sex, food and freedom and not necessarily in that order. It didn’t even have to be good sex.

Vivienne thoughts included a slim probability of lessons in batting our eyelashes and learning to be simpering and submissive. That wasn’t going to be possible for any of us, except perhaps for Jazzy. Simpering and submissive weren’t even words in our vocabularies. We were much more familiar with snickering, sneering, laughing at and bitching about. I wasn’t sure what to expect but I could not imagine taking modern women and teaching them behaviors from fifty years ago. It wasn’t realistic to think it would be sexually explicit either. I wasn’t sure what we were in for but we were about to find out.

The Champlain Room had been set up as an informal classroom. There was a long table in the front of the room with a stack of colored folders and a small black camera case on one end. In the middle of the room, padded hotel chairs were set in a semi circle, presumably for the participants, although no one was sitting. A video camera sitting on a tripod stood ominously towards the back of the room. The hotel had provided a hospitality cart with coffee, tea, bottled water, fruit, cheese, crackers and an assortment of sweets. We helped ourselves.

The other women in the room were milling about or standing in little groups whispering among themselves as they discreetly checked out everyone else over the rims of their coffee cups. We were doing the same thing. Most of the others appeared to be in their thirties and perhaps early forties, except a group of young girls who looked to be twenty-something, giggling and nodding in our direction. It wasn’t hard to imagine what they were thinking.

See, Dell hissed popping another stack of cheese and crackers into her mouth. I knew we were going to be the oldest ones here, damn it.

Speak for yourself, I replied. I’m not old. My children are.

You’re both old, Vivienne interjected.

Look, Dell said in the direction of the door. A little timid mouse of a woman, somewhat older than we were, was just coming in. The poor thing looked as if she were about to be fed to the lions. I think I know her. I think she used to work with me. That was quite a while ago, but I think it’s her. I’ll be right back. She immediately left us to find out but not before taking a detour back to the food cart for another helping. There was nothing wrong with her appetite.

Viv and I were alone. Jazzy was missing in action. She had gone to the Ladies room ten minutes ago, her second trip since arriving. She was too young to have an incontinence problem so it had to be nervousness. I’d seen cats on hot tin roofs that were less fidgety than she. We talked aimlessly for a few minutes before Viv put me on the spot. Did you get all your…errands done? she asked, emphasizing errands. Old friends have a way of talking to one another that allows them to say one thing and mean something entirely different.

I knew what she was asking. Yes.

And? she prompted waiting.

I knew better than to try to bluff my way out of this one. Look, I know it was stupid, but I just needed to do it…alone. I explained. I didn’t want an audience. I just wanted to…to…oh, hell I don’t know what I wanted. You’d think I’d be over it by now.

And are you?

Yes, of course. This was just a foolish little whim. I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince, her or me.

Viv sipped her coffee, not saying anything right away. Are you going to call him?

I shook my head decisively. No. Never.

She gave a sideways look. Never is a long time.

I was about to tell her that never was not long enough, but Dell reappeared beside us, dragging the little mouse of a woman behind her. She looked as if she’d been exhausted for years. She was clutching two books and a note pad in her arms. I had to wonder what she was doing here, but then again the same question could be asked about us.

This is Jean, Dell announced, making the introductions all around. She’s here alone so I told her she can sit with us. After all, we old gals have to stick together, right? While the three of them chatted, my thoughts drifted away.

Ever since I had seen Holiday Inn on the bottom of Jazzy’s winning entry, I’d been having an emotional tug of war with myself vacillating between living in the glow of old memories and reality. Neither state of being was winning. I tried not to think about it but there was no escape. It was there when I woke up, there when I drove to work, there when I was digging the mail out of the snow-covered mailbox, there when I was making dinner and there when I went to bed. I couldn’t seem to get away from it.

I was amazed to find that it could still rattle me. I took great pride in being as cool as a cucumber at all times, but, for the last two weeks I’d felt more like a zucchini. Having been through so many emotional ups and downs in my life, I was an expert at hiding behind a mask, a facial façade to fool prying eyes. I could feel like a box of crushed cookies on the inside and never let a soul see it on the outside. I was determined not to let anyone ever see the turmoil that was embroiling me now. I didn’t want them to see it. It belonged to no one but me. I had spent days walking around the house talking out loud to myself pretending to be both sides of my own argument which usual cured my problem but it wasn’t working this time. Nothing was.

Less than an hour ago, I had pulled into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn, something I hadn’t done for nearly two decades. I sat in the car for a few minutes just staring at the building, half expecting him to be there, waiting. Ten minutes later, telling myself I was acting like a silly school girl, I got out of the car and headed for the building, resolved not have a reaction, any reaction. Back straight, head held high, I pulled open the front doors, determined to be the picture of calm, collected poise, determined to beat myself at my own game and prove just how foolish I was being. I stepped inside. A moment later I felt the cookies starting to crumble. Two steps inside the memories hit me like a ton of bricks. By the third step it was twenty years ago.

The wallpaper was different. The drapes were different. His chair was different but in the same place. The rest was the same: the same front desk area, the same corridor to the left leading to the banquet rooms and the lounge, the same double doors to the right, leading to the rooms upstairs. Upstairs. The word made me smile all over.

Slowly I sat down in his chair, the one with a clear view of the parking lot and indulgently drifted back. How many times had I met him in this very lobby? I could almost picture him sitting there, pretending to read his newspaper while he waited. I always made him wait. It was one of the rules of the game.

As I came through the door, he would rise, cast his paper carelessly on the stand beside the chair and come towards me smiling that smile, that irresistible, intoxicating, smile. Slowly and deliberately I would walk towards him, my eyes on him and only him; another self imposed rule. I never cared who else was in the room, who else was watching or what they thought. I only cared what he thought. I wanted him to know I only had interest in him. I made sure he knew it.

Twenty years? Had it really been twenty years? I did a quick count in my head. Yes, it would be in March. March 17 to be exact. The St. Patrick’s Day party came back to me as if it had been yesterday. I could almost hear the music and laughter in the lounge down the hall, the over packed room crammed with party-goers practically shoulder to shoulder trying to attract the bartender’s attention over the din.

He’d arrived late. In truth, I hadn’t expected him at all. He had told me earlier in the day that it was out of the question for that night, impossible for him. I assured him that nothing was ever impossible. It was only a matter of what he wanted and what he was willing to do to get it, a challenge I’d been taunting him with for weeks. I had gone to the party alone, perched on a bar stool and waited. I sensed him more than saw him standing beside me. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Those beautiful blue eyes told me everything I needed to know, everything I had wanted him to say for a long time. When he took me in his arms I knew the game was on. We both knew the rules. The rest is history, ancient history now.

I don’t know how long I sat there, letting myself float back to the past, but suddenly I felt the uneasy feeling of someone watching me. Jerking upright in the chair, I barely realized that I had been leaning back, my eyes closed, remembering. I must have looked like a fool. I certainly felt like one.

The lobby was empty with the exception of the desk clerk talking to someone on the phone and a woman, a beautiful dark haired woman standing a few feet away watching me, smiling. She probably thought I was drunk and had passed out in the chair. Embarrassed from head to toe, I sheepishly tried to smile back.

Amazing to look at, she was dressed in a stunning, robin’s egg blue silk suit. She was one of those born-beautiful women of an indeterminate age somewhere between forty and seventy. To my surprise, she winked at me; a slow knowing wink just as if she knew what I had been thinking. I hoped to heaven she didn’t. Without speaking, she turned gracefully and headed off in the opposite direction, disappearing down the hall. I just sat there a little dumfounded and watched her walk away.

I am not in the habit of watching other women unless I can make some catty, derogatory remark about them, but there was something about this woman, something different, appealing and very classy. I couldn’t help thinking that it must be nice to have the kind of money it takes to be that put together.

Feeling a bit foolish at being caught, I immediately launched into giving myself a stern talking to. This was not dignified behavior for a woman my age. Be sensible, I told myself. Some things may not have changed in twenty years, but plenty of other things had.

I was no longer a young carefree thirty year old divorcee with no conscience and no interest in having one, taking life as it came and loving every minute of it. Parties that raged until three in the morning, spurred on by endless bottles of wine and followed by hours of fabulous, steamy sex and a catnap before a full day’s work, were a thing of long ago and far away.

I no longer dressed to kill or wore three inch heels on a daily basis. My legs would fall off now. I didn’t even own a skimpy little silk teddy any more. They had long ago been replaced with comfy, baggy flannel pajama pants with a drawstring that could easily accommodate my growing waistline.

I was no longer slim and attractive. That was fifty pounds ago. The weight, along with the onset of hot flashes and night sweats seemed to magically appear in conjunction with the celebration of my forty-fifth birthday, a humorously cruel little gift from Mother Nature. Face it, Nina, I chided myself. "You are an overweight, middle aged woman with about as much sex appeal as a sack of potatoes. You need to