Perfectly Seasoned

By Sarah-Jane Berklin

While dropping their children off at preschool, five women’s lives converge, marking the start of a supportive bond and long-cherished friendships that will last a lifetime. Twenty-five years later on a beautiful spring day, Betts, Parker, Aimee, Ellie, and Jody meet for their seasonal gathering. Ranging in age from fifty-two to sixty, they proudly call themselves “the babes.” As boomers, their days—and nights—are busy and complicated as they balance careers, empty nests, changing relationships, aging parents, and romance at midlife. The sacrosanct gatherings are where their individual journeys unfold, revealing disappointment, heartbreak, triumph, and joy as each faces a crossroad full of surprises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jul 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509215034

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SPRING

Sexy After Fifty

Today’s Hump Day: Take Advantage of the Adage

If you’re like a few hundred of my clients who only have sex on holidays and occasional weekends, then I suggest taking Wednesdays to a whole new height. Break the I’m too tired, not interested, don’t have the energy mold and bring on the romance—midweek. And, get this: the end game doesn’t have to be long, deep penetrations with one having an orgasm while the other only dreams of it. Explore the options…think outside the vagina.

~Dr. G

Chapter 1

Racing down the driveway, I text a quick message before reaching the main road.

—On my way. Order me a glass of vino. Can’t wait to see you guys—

I certainly don’t practice what I preach to my daughter—"Never let me catch you texting while driving." A few months ago, one of her classmates caught her boyfriend in a love hold with another girl—not a happy encounter. The scorned girlfriend split the scene in tears, and while driving home, she texted her boyfriend a last message and hit a tree, head on. What a senseless tragedy. I toss the phone in my purse to avoid temptation.

Today is Wednesday, and while I should be finishing Dr. G’s next Sexy After Fifty blog with a fast-approaching deadline, I’m racing to meet my peeps for a long-overdue girls’ lunch. Parker, Ellie, Mary Elizabeth—nicknamed—Betts, Aimee, and me. That’s us. We met twenty-five years ago and tell everyone we’ve been best friends since preschool. Well, sort of. Our kids’ preschool, that is.

I’ll never forget that first day we lined up waiting for the teacher to open the door. We all began introducing ourselves while our kids squirmed, some with excitement and others with trepidation. After hugging our little ones good-bye, we had three hours of much-coveted freedom, and a few of us grabbed coffee at Wake Up! This became a daily ritual for the next year and the seed of a friendship that has lasted decades.

My 1.3 million blog readers have enjoyed a lot of fodder I’ve gathered from these babes over the years. While they might seem ordinary and everyday to the outside world, each of these women is truly extraordinary in her own individual way.

Sunroof and windows wide open, I’m listening to Billy Joel’s Piano Man. There’s just something about the lyrics that brings me back to a time and place of my boy-crazy teenage years, when things were just…so easy.

I hum along as Billy’s fingers tickle the ivories. With one hand on the wheel, I belt out—off-key, as usual—this glorious tune while using my other hand as a mock microphone. My mind roams back to my high school days. Poor Mrs. Burnette. She was our music teacher and took pity on me as all of my friends had been hand-picked to be in the choir. They knew how to read music, and while I had taken piano lessons for years, I couldn’t read a note or sing on key. I’m certain she placed me in the soprano section, hoping other students would drown me out with their perfectly pitched high notes.

I take a deep breath, enjoying every ounce of spring air as I meander in my new hot red Beemer under the canopy of leafy pin oaks lining Berkshire Road. The loud crunch of leftover acorns under my tires only adds to the thrill. While I know this two-door luxury convertible is a splurge, I deserve it. My alias, Dr. G, and her blog provide a nice bonus income. After driving three mom cars, including a minivan and two diesel station wagons, I’m more than ready for a babe mobile. God, I love this town, I whisper to myself.

Twenty-seven years ago, Evan and I bought our townhouse on a small manmade lake in this pristine planned community of Clayton Highlands, a mere fifteen miles from the heart of Washington, D.C. and a two-plus-hour drive in horrendous traffic. Our end unit backed to wooded parkland and miles of walking trails, which were perfect for our jogging and biking lifestyle. We paid a whopping $97,500, and I never thought we’d get our money out of the place. Who would have thought I’d be living solo in the same three-story, three bedroom, two-and-a-half bath white stucco all these years later? The townhouse has been a great investment—well worth half-a-million plus if one of these gems even comes on the market. A nice little nest egg for retirement.

****

Evan and I met on the first day of a long weekend vacation in the Mexican Riviera. We were both killing time in the hotel’s outdoor bar, waiting for our rooms to be readied, and noticed one another right away. Establishing we were each traveling solo and unencumbered didn’t take long. The natural chemistry between us was magical. We fell head over heels in passion and were inseparable for the next three days. The sex. Was. Mind-Blowing! Steam and scream from dawn to past moonset, practically continuously, with only occasional brief stretches of PG-rated lounging by the pool before our impatient fingers, lips, and hips discovered each others’, propelling us back toward one of our rooms for the next round of exhilarating foreplay…and then some. Damn. We were so good together.

After a two-month, long-distance romance—centered around almost daily phone-sex and a few undeniably satisfying weekends together—we decided we couldn’t take being apart any longer. When we agreed to move in together, without any real discussion, I was the one to uproot and move my life from Vermont to Washington, D.C. Evan had a cushy government relations job with a major trade association, and I was lucky to land a fellowship in a Ph.D. psychology program at American University. A year later, much to the chagrin of my parents—who felt we were moving way too fast—we married and bought our townhouse. Then sweet Abby entered our lives.

For me, Abby’s arrival was beyond my wildest expectations and the greatest gift life could offer. For Evan, being a father was the beginning of the end for us. Somehow, our fiery passion never converted to deep-seated love. He fled, leaving me with a baby to raise, a Ph.D. to complete, a mortgage to pay, and a practice to build. Not exactly the charmed life I’d envisioned when we wed.

****

Today is our spring girls’ gathering date, a ritual etched in stone. When the kids were in grade school, we’d get together almost daily, even for just a skinny latte. Then schedules got complicated with us shuffling our kids, our lives, and our jobs. To get five women together in one place is not easy these days, so we made a pact: no matter what, we ALL meet for lunch, drinks, or a long weekend at least once a season, four times a year. Dates, places, and times are on the calendar. No excuses.

Finding where they were situated wasn’t hard—the laughter and talk led me right to their table. Lulu’s is famous for its homemade pies, and the sweet smell of butter, cinnamon, and cooked apples wafted through the small café and overpowered my sweet tooth the moment I strolled through the door. Only those with superhuman willpower can resist a Lulu’s creation. And with all the generic chain restaurants multiplying everywhere, locally owned Lulu’s, with their farm-to-table menu, is a breath of fresh air. I pulled out the ladder-back chair and placed my twenty-year-old black backpack—complete with peeling leather—on the floor. One bottle of wine was already upside down in the bucket. Well, you girls certainly don’t waste any time.

That’s what you get for being fifteen minutes late, Jody, Ellie says, wagging her finger. Here, we’ve already poured you a glass—and as you can see, we didn’t skimp!

We fondly call ourselves the babes—our tongue-in-cheek reference to the fact we all are boomers and in the throes of midlife: the good, the bad, and the unbelievable. Over the years, we’ve been through a lot together. Preschool graduation celebrations, first day of kindergarten, first communions, middle school drama, Bat Mitzvahs, boyfriend and girlfriend angst, sports events, parties, and even the tragic loss of Ellie’s husband. Somehow, we all survived the painful teenage years, with us and our kids intact and virtually unscathed. And now, our preschoolers who brought us together have graduated from college. How lucky we are to live in an area with top-notch schools and an abundance of high-paying jobs. And the Washington political intrigue never gets old.

We are our usual boisterous bunch, and out of the gate, we raise our glasses to toast Aimee.

To you, dear friend! I say.

Amen! adds Parker, pumping her arms in the air for emphasis.

Alleluia! Ellie sings in her bellowing choir voice.

Betts joins in, wishing Aimee well as tears fill her eyes. Aimee, I apologize. Believe me, I’m so grateful all is A-OK with your health. I’m just totally devastated and struggling to hold myself together. Scrunching her eyebrows, she lifts her half-full glass and takes a long slow sip and continues. Lars came home last night from another late meeting reeking of alcohol and passed out cold.

At our last gathering, Betts had shared her suspicions something was up with her husband. I figured she was just being paranoid. It’s an open secret Lars’ firm seemed especially drawn to hiring young attractive women—part of the job description we joke. For years, he has eagerly volunteered to mentor quite a few, explaining that working with young people gave him new ideas and focus. But in my mind Lars would never cheat—he just wasn’t wired that way.

Until recently, Betts says now, grabbing a napkin and dabbing at her eyes. I could count on one hand the number of late meetings he’s had, and I’ve never known him to be stinking drunk. She takes a deep breath. I couldn’t help myself.

Even into her fifties, she still looks like a Catholic schoolgirl with porcelain skin, translucent blue-gray eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair—helped along by monthly dye jobs—pulled back in a neat ponytail. Favoring turtlenecks, slacks, and crew neck sweaters, she’s ultra conservative in her dress. I’ve never seen her show so much as a hint of her ample décolletage. Even her bathing suits have skirts. We tease they should be plaid.

The next thing you know I was scrolling through his text messages, Betts says. Figuring out his password wasn’t hard. Same one he’s used for years. Idiot. The proof was right in front of my eyes. One after another, a thread of fifty-four messages all about how much they love each other, late-night trysts, blow jobs, and anal sex. She chugs the rest of her wine and breaks down in gasping sobs.

We’re stunned, and speechless, except for Ellie. Betts, this might be a good thing. You’ve suspected something was going on, and now you know. This gives you some answers—you weren’t just being paranoid. You can either salvage whatever is left, or move on and start over while you’re still young enough. Plus, you’re fortunate, Betts, you have the bucks to do it.

Ellie is always convincing and somehow makes you want to believe her. She’s got one of those strong voices that exude experience.

Betts swallows hard then lifts her chin and squares her shoulders. That’s not the worst of it. Lars’ lover is a dude. Three children, thirty years of marriage, and I’m now just finding out my husband is gay.

Chapter 2

After that bombshell, I propose we get another bottle, stat, suggests Parker. And I’m starving, let’s order some food.

A former Miss Rhode Island, Parker’s a stunner. Auburn hair, sea-blue eyes, perky 38Ds—with those new implants—and always dressed to the nines. Today, she’s toting a brand new thousand-dollar, poppy-pink handbag. The signature buckle gives the purse away and, of course, perfectly matches her shiny expensive lip gloss. I’m always amazed how much my dear friends will pay for packaging. For me, it’s drugstore brands all the way.

Besides being a sun worshiper with an all-season golden tan, Parker is an avid tennis player—she even looks stunning while sweating on the court—and never misses her weekly round robin at the club with all the ladies. On the monthly mixed-doubles nights, the guys clamor to be her partner. Parker, who can be a bit of a tease, mostly takes the attention in stride. While surprisingly down-to-earth, she does have a way of putting on an affected, upper-crust East Coast accent, even though she grew up in blue-collar Providence.

****

At fifty-two, Aimee is the youngest of the group and a bona fide Cajun from New Orleans with an irresistibly melodic drawl. She’s perpetually our glass is half full kinda gal, always wanting to mend fences—in other words, sweep everything under the rug just to keep everyone happy.

She’s also mom extraordinaire. When her kids were in school, she was president of the PTA, volunteer lacrosse and tennis coach, and senior prom fundraising chair. And those are just a few of her good deeds. She never misses an opportunity to help the community, especially for fundraisers benefitting the local schools. Back in the day, Aimee was a hospital candy striper. I mean, who does that? With her parents and other family members still living in New Orleans, she evacuated them all before Hurricane Katrina hit, housed, and fed all nine for three solid months. All this, and she works full time as a surgical nurse administrator at our local hospital.

Aimee is her cheery old self these days, which is a huge relief to all of us. During some prolonged foreplay a little over a year ago, her husband Tony felt a lump near Aimee’s right nipple. The growth was hard and painless. As a nurse, Aimee knew the combo wasn’t good, as most cancerous lumps are painless and firm to the touch. She