Eve felt surprisingly alert and well rested in the morning. She’d only slept for a few hours, but it had been a deep and restorative sleep, the best she’d had in days. All the agitation she’d been feeling—the cumulative weight of her indecision—had fallen away. What remained was a fizzy, almost buoyant feeling of anticipation.
I’m doing this, she told herself. It’s going to happen.
She knew she’d be working late, so she chose her underwear with care, in case she decided to head straight to Julian’s from the Senior Center. It wasn’t too elaborate—just a red lace bra and matching panties—but it looked pretty on her. She knew he’d approve.
You win, she thought.
She could see it in her head, a romantic scene from a foreign movie. A beautiful woman of a certain age pulling into a dark garage, the door sliding down behind her. She tiptoes through the silent house, heading upstairs, into a candlelit bedroom where a sensitive young man awaits her. She stands in the doorway, basking in his appreciative gaze, and slowly begins to unbutton her blouse . . .
This is the prize.
Her clothes on the floor. Their bodies coming together.
But then what? What would happen when it was over, when she got dressed and went home? That part of the movie was a black hole, the one thing she couldn’t afford to think about if she was going to make good on her promise—to do the thing she badly wanted to do—because he was waiting for her, and it was their last chance, and she was the prize.
*
It helped that it was the second Wednesday of the month—the day of the March lecture—which meant that she was a lot busier than usual, taking care of the last-minute tasks that were normally the responsibility of the events coordinator. She had to run to Staples to pick up the hard-backed poster to place near the main entrance—she’d forgotten all about it—and stop at the supermarket to buy cookies and soft drinks for the reception. She had to set up the folding chairs in the lecture room and make sure the sound system was working, all the while fielding several calls from the guest of honor, a New Hampshire–based journalist named Franklin Russett, who’d written a book called Sweet Liquid Gold: In Praise of Maple Syrup. Mostly, though, she was trying to drum up an audience, buttonholing every senior she saw, reminding them of the start time, and talking up the speaker, who was in high demand on the regional lecture circuit.
She was glad that Amanda wasn’t here for this. Franklin Russett and maple syrup represented everything she’d hated about the lecture series, and had hoped to disrupt. But they’d tried it Amanda’s way, and it hadn’t worked. A lot of seniors had been upset by Margo’s presentation—they’d found it disturbing and inappropriate and even appalling—and the complaints had made it all the way to the Town Council. Eve knew the entire program was under the microscope; she needed to repair the damage that had been done to its reputation and protect the funding that had allowed it to become such a beloved institution in the first place. All she wanted was a return to form—an upbeat talk about an insipid subject, a reasonably pleasant evening that no one would ever have to think about again.
*
There were four rest rooms at the Senior Center—the main men’s and women’s rooms, an employees-only facility, and a spacious, wheelchair-accessible bathroom that was in almost constant use throughout the day. It was the go-to spot for diabetics to inject themselves with insulin, and for people with ostomy pouches to attend to their sanitary needs. Sufferers of constipation or diarrhea also appreciated the privacy afforded by a single toilet and a locked door, as did a large group of people (mostly men) who liked to hunker down with a crossword puzzle while nature worked its leisurely, unpredictable magic.
This popularity had a downside, however. The toilet in the accessible bathroom was notoriously temperamental—easily blocked and prone to overflow—and it had been malfunctioning with increasing frequency in recent months. Eve had formally requested funding for a replacement, but the council was dragging its feet, as usual. So she wasn’t exactly surprised when Shirley Tripko—a grandmotherly woman who looked like she wore pillows under her clothes—approached her a couple of minutes before seven to let her know there was a “problem” with the handicap rest room.
“Would you mind informing the custodian?” Eve asked. “I have to introduce our guest speaker.”
“I already informed him.” Shirley’s voice was tense, a little defensive. “He needs to talk to you.”
“All right,” Eve sighed. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“He said right now.”
“Are you serious?”
Shirley bit her lip. She looked like she was about to cry.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said. “I just flushed. That’s all I did.”
*
Eve stood in the doorway of the accessible bathroom, trying not to breathe. The toilet hadn’t simply overflowed; it appeared to have erupted. The custodian, Rafael, was gamely trying to mop up the mess.
“Did you try the plunger?” she asked.
Rafael stared at her with dead eyes, his face partially concealed by a surgical mask. He was also wearing rubber boots and dishwashing gloves, the closest the Senior Center came to a hazmat suit.
“No good,” he said in a muffled voice. “Better call the plumber.”
Eve groaned. An after-hours emergency call was a huge—and expensive—pain in the ass.
“Can it wait until morning?”
Rafael cast a wary glance at the toilet. It was filled to the brim with a nasty-looking liquid, still quivering ominously.
“I wouldn’t,” he said.
A wave of fatigue passed through Eve’s body. A phrase she’d never spoken out loud suddenly appeared in her mind.
Shit show, she thought. My life is a shit show.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
*
She calmed down a little once she got the introduction out of the way and returned to her office. On the bright side, there was a full house in the Lecture Room; her advance work had paid off. And the toilet thing was manageable. All she had to do was call the plumber and get the problem fixed.
It’s okay, she told herself. It’s under control.
Her usual contractor—the ironically named Reliable Plumbing—didn’t return her call, and Veloso Brothers said they couldn’t get anyone there until ten at the earliest. Eve didn’t want to wait, so she tried Rafferty & Son. She made the call with some trepidation, fully aware of the thinness of the ice she was standing on, asking a favor of a man whose late father she’d banished from the Senior Center not so long ago. Luckily, George Rafferty wasn’t a grudge-holder. He was cordial on the phone, and said he’d be right over.
“Thank you,” she told him. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Eve barely recognized him when he appeared at the main entrance fifteen minutes later, toolbox in hand. He’d shaved off the reddish-gray beard that had been his most prominent feature for as long as she could remember. He looked younger without it, not nearly as imposing.
“You’re lucky you caught me,” he said. “I usually go to yoga on Wednesday night, but I got hungry and ordered a pizza instead.”
Eve was impressed. He didn’t seem like a yoga guy.
“Bikram?” she asked.
“Royal Serenity.” He rolled his shoulders and massaged his trapezius with his free hand. “Doctor recommended it for my back.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes. Gets me out of the house.”
Eve nodded, murmuring sympathetically. She remembered that George’s wife had died in the fall, just a month after his father. She’d meant to send him a note, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “About Lorraine.”
“That was hard,” he said, shifting the heavy toolbox from one hand to the other. “Really tough on my daughter.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s back at school. It’s gonna take her a while.” He gave a vague shrug, and then put on his game face. “So what do you got for me?”
Eve led him down the hall to the shit show. Rafael had made it more or less presentable—the walls had been scrubbed, the floor carpeted with paper towels—and had even posted a warning note on the door, complete with skull and crossbones: Broken Toilet!!! Do NOT Use!!! You WILL Regret! George peered inside and nodded with an air of professional melancholy.
“All right,” he said. “Lemme get to it.”
*
Eve slipped into the auditorium and caught the tail end of the lecture. Russett was explaining the difference between Grade A and Grade B maple syrup, which was a matter of color and sweetness and the time of year in which the sap was gathered. Paradoxically, many syrup connoisseurs preferred the cheaper and darker Grade B to the more refined Grade A.
“It’s a heated controversy,” Russett explained. “But whichever kind you buy, you can’t really go wrong. In my humble opinion, real maple syrup always gets a grade of D . . .” He paused, letting the audience wait for the punch line. “For Delicious.” He grinned and held up his hand. “Thank you very much. You’ve been a wonderful audience.”
The post-lecture receptions never lasted long. Most of the seniors just grabbed a cookie or two on their way out the door; only a handful stuck around to chat with the speaker. By eight thirty the room was empty, and Russett was on his way back to New Hampshire.
Eve tidied up a bit—she decided to leave the folding chairs for the morning—and went to check on the plumbing situation.
“All set,” George told her, drying his hands on a paper towel. “You’re good to go.”
“What was the problem?”
“Adult diaper.” He tossed the crumpled towels in the trash can and wiped his hands on his pants. “Someone must have shoved it down, really wedged it in good. Maybe with a coat hanger or a stick or something. I don’t know. It’s way too big to flush.”
“They get confused sometimes,” Eve said. “Or maybe just embarrassed.”
“Poor bastards.” George shook his head. “That’s gonna be us one day.”
*
Eve locked up and walked across the parking lot to her minivan. The sight of it annoyed her—the bulging, shapeless body, the cavernous interior, all those seats that never got used.
I need a new car, she thought. A tiny one.
She sat in the driver’s seat for a minute or two and tried to compose herself, wondering why her nerves were so jangled. The lecture had been a success, the toilet was fixed, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock.
Everything’s fine, she told herself. Right on schedule.
It was just hard to switch gears, to make the superhero transition from her responsible, professional self to the beautiful older woman in the foreign movie, the one with the lacy red underwear beneath her sensible outfit.
What she really needed was a drink. Just a quick one to clear her head, to get herself into a more relaxed and open frame of mind. She thought about stopping at the Lamplighter for a martini, but a detour seemed like a bad idea.
Just go, she told herself. He’s been waiting all week.
Maybe his parents had some alcohol on hand. It was probably good quality, too, given the neighborhood they lived in and the car the father drove. She could pour herself a tall glass of vodka over ice, Absolut or Grey Goose. They could sit at the kitchen table and talk for a while before heading upstairs.
Nice, she thought. Raid their liquor cabinet before you sleep with their son . . .
It was a bad idea to think about the parents. Mr. and Mrs. Spitzer, enjoying themselves in St. Barts, not a clue about what was happening in their lovely home.
This had nothing to do with them.
It was between her and Julian, and it was their last chance.
She turned the key. The engine hesitated for a moment—it was long overdue for a tune-up—and then sputtered erratically to life. She shifted into reverse and started moving.
*
She circled his house twice—the first time she got spooked by a passing dog walker, the second by nothing at all—before finally working up the nerve to pull into the driveway. She sat there for a while with her foot on the brake, staring straight ahead, gathering her courage.
An overhead light was on inside the garage, which made her a little uneasy. She was pretty sure it had been dark in there on Sunday night when she’d dropped off the cooler. But then it struck her that Julian was being polite, welcoming her into his home, rolling out the red carpet.
The garage in Eve’s house was a disaster area, a jumble of broken and rusted and outgrown objects, the relics of Brendan’s childhood and her life with Ted. The Spitzers’ garage was enviably clean and well organized by comparison—bare cement floor, assorted tools hanging from a peg board, wall-mounted bicycles, shop vac and lawnmower, water heater with shining copper pipes.
Julian’s skateboard, wheels-up on a workbench.
The famous string with the key on it.
Just reach up and give it a tug.
The interior was spacious, the entrance wide. You could just glide right in, no worries about clipping your side mirrors or pulling up far enough for the door to close behind you.
She would have done it, too, except that something smelled a little off inside the van, and she’d begun to wonder about the source of the odor. She brought the back of her hand to her nose and gave it a quick sniff, but all that registered was the sweet chemical tang of liquid soap—not a great smell, but nothing to worry about.
Continuing her investigation, she tucked her chin and tugged at her shirt collar, sampling the air trapped between her skin and her blouse. A familiar, dispiriting fragrance wafted up, a distinctive compound of sweat and worry mixed with sadness and decay.
Ugh, she thought. I smell like the Senior Center.
Of course she did. That was where she’d spent the past twelve hours. It was always on her skin at the end of the workday, trapped in the fabric of her clothes. But today there was something else on top of it, the subtle but unmistakable scent of a plumbing emergency, a rotten cherry on the sundae.
*
She told herself she was just stopping at home for a quick shower, that she’d return to Julian clean and refreshed in fifteen or twenty minutes, smelling the way a seductive older woman was meant to smell. But this conviction faded as she drove across town. By the time she walked through her own front door and saw Brendan playing a video game on the couch, she knew she was defeated. All her courage was gone, replaced by a sudden wave of anger.
“Don’t you have any homework?” she asked.
Brendan didn’t answer. He was totally engrossed in his stupid game, flinching and tilting his body from side to side as he banged away at the controller, trying to kill all the bad guys.
“Turn that off,” she snapped.
“Huh?” He looked up, more surprised than annoyed.
He obeyed. The gunfire ceased, but the silence that followed was just as unnerving.
“You need to treat women with more respect,” she told him.
Brendan blinked in confusion.
“What?”
“I’m not deaf. I hear the way you talk sometimes, and I don’t like it. We aren’t sex objects and we’re not bitches, do you understand? I never want to hear that word in this house again.”
“I never—” he protested.
“Please,” she told him. “Don’t insult me. Not tonight. I’m not in the mood.”
He stared at her for a long time, still clutching his useless controller. And then he nodded.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean anything by it.”
“Life’s not a porn movie, okay?”
“I know that.” He sounded genuinely hurt that she might even think he thought it was. “Jesus.”
“Good,” she said. “Then please start acting like it.”
*
Julian texted three times while she was in the shower, wondering where she was and what was wrong. Eve didn’t know what to tell him.
I smelled bad.
I’m a coward.
I’m way too old for you.
All these things were true, but none of them would make him feel any better. She remembered how awful it was at that age—at any age—to get your hopes up and then to come up empty.
Poor kid.
She lay down for a few minutes, but she wasn’t tired anymore. She got up and stood in front of the full-length mirror in her fuzzy pink bathrobe. Then she undid the belt of the robe and let it fall open.
Not too bad, she thought.
Her body wasn’t what it used to be, but she looked okay. Her stomach not so much, but it was easy enough to frame the image so only her head and chest were included.
Not bad at all.
The first picture was too dark, so she turned on her bedside lamp and tried again. This one was much better. Her hair was wet and her eyes were tired, but she looked like herself, which was a fairly rare occurrence.
In real life, her breasts were a bit droopier than she would have liked—no longer perfect or amazing—but the way the robe fell alongside them, you couldn’t really see that.
In the photo, her breasts were lovely.
In the photo, she was smiling.
This is just for you, she told him. Please don’t show it to anyone else.
After she sent the text, she went to her contacts and blocked his number, so she could never do anything like that again.