Nadine Feldman, Author

celebrating strong female characters and whatever else strikes my fancy

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Sometimes It’s More Than a Hat

by

My grandmother had a sewing shop in her home where a front porch used to be. When I visited her, we would chat while she worked, making clothes for people all over Illinois. She hand-sewed all zippers with tiny, even stitches, patiently ripping out her work if she made a mistake. Her attention to craft, while still listening patiently to the babblings of a little girl, influenced me in ways I cannot begin to measure.

I would often take spare fabric and thread and play with it. One day I chose a white satin with matching thread, and I made myself a little hat. When I put it on I felt elegant, chic, and pretty. I’m sure it was a mess, but Grandma never criticized my childish efforts. She understood that I was experimenting, defining myself in a form of dress-up.

We went out on an errand that evening, and of course, I wore my hat, grinning with pride as we walked up and down aisles. Then we met with one of my aunts, who took one look at my lovely self with its perfect little hat — and started laughing.

In an instant, my sense of glamour was shattered. I saw the hat as it truly was, amateurish and poorly made.

Fast-forward about 40 years. My husband has written a play, “Shelter in Place,” about life in the sandwich generation. We have come to refer to it often as we struggle to redefine ourselves in our fifties. We look at all the things we do “because we’ve always done them,” and are breaking out of our self-imposed, limiting boxes. Where do we want to live? Why are we going to synagogue services when we’re not religious? What if we show our children how to live their dreams by living our own?

I guess I’m saying that I’ve been pretty good at this reinvention stuff, but the other night I got caught off-guard.

It was a simple thing, really. It was just a hat. I seldom wear them, and when I do, they tend to be baseball caps to keep the sun off my nose when I walk. But I saw the cutest little hat in a boutique on 13th Street, not far from Union Square. It reminded me of Barbra Streisand in her What’s Up, Doc? days. Here’s a photo of the hat. My hair is longer these days, so I thought, why not put it on? I did, and for a moment I felt like Barbra. Well, I have no idea how it feels to be Barbra, but you know what I mean. I felt creative, alive, beautiful. For a moment I looked on the outside like I feel on the inside — funky, fun, and artistic.

I should explain that I am a practical woman. From childhood, I felt uncomfortable about frilly and unnecessary things to wear, opting instead for what I needed. The result is that my dress is simple and plain, using combinations that mix and match. Why buy a hat? What on earth would I need it for?

And yet I did. Something in my soul said, you look more like you in this hat. I showed it to my husband. “Well, that’s different,” he said. I showed it to my stepdaughter. “Well, that’s different,” she said.

I was crushed yet again. Somehow no one saw what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Then I did something really stupid. I put the hat back. I stayed in my little practical box, the box without frills, the plain box, the box that doesn’t draw attention to itself.

I cried about that stupid hat this morning. I cried for all the times I put aside pieces of myself because I perceived disapproval. I cried for not understanding that I’m worth spending $24 to feel like Barbra Streisand. I cried for the little girl who thought her white satin hat was ugly, when in fact it was an honest effort by someone who was learning — that the little satin hat had its own beauty in the love and joy that went into making it. I cried because I miss the grandmother who accepted me totally and thought everything I did was brilliant. I cried for all the women who, in some way or form, let someone else define them. And I cried because I’m 52 and going through menopause, and I can’t accept living in that tight little plain box anymore.

My husband, who actually did love the hat on me (he told me so this morning), said calmly, “Looks like it’s time to make a few more changes.” He understands. He’s going through this, too, and he knows that sometimes it’s more than a hat. Looks like I’m going shopping soon!

 

Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends, Ch. 4

by

Happy Friday, everyone, so time for another chapter of my upcoming novel. You’ll learn more about the characters of Claire, Ellen, and Mickey, the remaining characters of the book. Enjoy!

——

CHAPTER FOUR – JUNE 21

Claire wandered her loft, wine glass in hand, and stopped to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the downtown area. She had splurged on the loft when her younger child Anne left for college. It reminded her of her success and sacrifices — putting herself through law school when the girls were still babies. Her home pulsed with sleek, leather furniture and stainless steel appliances, with all of the enviable names: Viking, Sub-Zero, Roche Bobois. In the kitchen, granite countertops gleamed like new; yet, for all the fancy equipment, Claire didn’t cook.

She kept one guest room. Having moved on with their own lives, the girls seldom came home at the same time. Claire still felt daily pangs of guilt about not having spent enough time with them, but what else could she have done? She took another sip of her wine. After her husband died, she could have remained an impoverished single mother, but instead she worked to give her girls the best. She sent them to the best schools and on travels abroad, denying them nothing. They weren’t bothered by wearing used clothing from Goodwill in those early days, though they reminded Claire often that she had frequently left them with a neighbor, a goodhearted woman who had mothered them generously when Claire could not.

“I can get away for the evening.” John’s voice on the phone still excited her, even after ten years. He had a deep, resonant voice that could have provided him a lucrative career in radio, but instead he had opted for life in the oil and gas business, which was where he and Claire had met.

As she waited for him, Claire sat on the sofa, looking around at the art on the walls. All modern, the art served only to go well with the room. She had no idea who the artists were or what the various paintings and prints symbolized. Her decorator had chosen the pieces, and Claire felt indifferent to them. Studying them now, she felt like a stranger in her own home. She hadn’t cared before, and she wondered why she cared now.

She had no real interest in studying Spanish. Honestly, why couldn’t the company just hire some good interpreters and leave it at that? They would still expect her to put in the same amount of hours — not that she complained about that, she loved the job — but she would still have to find time to study.

Already impatient about the class, Claire wondered if there were other alternatives. Should have hired a private tutor to come to the office, she thought as she poured a second glass of wine and decided to catch up on her e-mails. There were drafts to read that would keep her up well into the night. Meeting notices awaited her confirmation. Every now and then someone sent her one of those annoying chain-letter e-mails, always so lovely and glowing until the threat at the end that if she didn’t forward it, her toes would fall off. Most people, though, knew better and left her alone.

She noticed a new e-mail from someone named Julia. Julia, Julia. She tapped her forehead. “Oh, duh,” she said aloud, and opened the e-mail from her new classmate. Nice meeting you, looking forward to the class, blah blah blah, then an invitation to coffee on Saturday morning to get together and practice.

“Hmm,” Claire said. She poised a finger on the delete key, but just then, her doorbell rang.

“Hello, beautiful,” John said as she opened the door for him. “I can’t stay long, but I really wanted to see you.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and handed her plastic bags filled with Chinese take-out. She took them into the kitchen and set them down while he took off his shoes. When he joined her in the kitchen, she was already pouring the wine.

“Red?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said.

At forty, John was far younger than Claire, but he had pursued her relentlessly, probably the only way any man could get her attention. Handsome, with broad shoulders, thick black hair, and green eyes with lashes that any woman would envy, John turned heads. Sadly, she couldn’t show him off in public, because he also had a wife and children. She had never intended to get involved with a married man, but the relationship suited her, because John came and went as he could, and didn’t bother her between visits.

They sat on the sofa looking out on the city and sipped their wine. They talked about their work, as much as they could without violating confidentiality. She told him, in droll detail, about her language class. “They tell me it’s good for business, but honestly, what a waste of time,” she said.

“They’re right, you know,” John said. He had, through the years, offered Claire invaluable insights. While she would rather just work, he helped her plan her future. “There’s not much left in the Gulf, and we’re going to have to keep going deeper or find new sources. We’ve had no luck getting in to some of the offshore areas in Central America, and we need to be able to talk to them.”

“I know, but I just have so much to do. I’ll be working for hours after you leave.”

“Speaking of,” he said, looking at his watch, “I should be out of here in about an hour. Shall we eat in bed?”

“Sounds good to me,” she said with a grin. Claire loved John’s no-nonsense style that extended to the bedroom. She didn’t understand all the fuss about snuggling and spooning. She had needs, he would fulfill them, and then he would leave, allowing her to luxuriate in the entire bed without having to share.

“What are you looking at?” she asked, noticing that he was studying her face.

“Why don’t you take your hair down?” he asked. “You know, in all these years I’ve never seen it out of that twist.”

“Oh, Lord,” Claire said, draping her lean body languidly over his. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it out of the twist. Someone does this for me, you know, and I’m not sure I could get it back into place.”

“Take it down,” he whispered, insistent. “Let me see what it looks like.”

“Whatever.” She reached up and pulled each pin one by one. “I feel like I should have some striptease music going.”

John laughed. “Feeling a bit more naked this way, Beautiful? Who knew that Claire Malone had a shy side?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She pulled the last pin and uncoiled her hair, coarse and thick, letting it tumble past her shoulders.

John gazed at her and propped his body up on one elbow, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You look softer,” he said. “I like it.”

“All the reason for me never to appear this way in public.” Claire shrank away from him, suddenly annoyed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Sex is one thing. This feels different. You’re getting too close.”

He flopped onto his back, then, looking at the ceiling. “Would that be so bad?”

“Don’t,” she said. “We have sex, then you go home. That’s the deal.”

“Okay, fine. You want to have sex?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Now get that gooey look out of your eyes and ravish me.”

He chuckled then, and she knew the awkward moment had passed. He took her hand and led her to the bedroom. What Claire Malone wanted, Claire Malone got: emotionless sex, keeping him at an emotional, if not physical, arm’s length.

After he left, she spent more time than she wanted, trying to get her hair back into place. From now on, she decided, the hair would stay up.

She went back to her e-mails. Julia’s reappeared on the screen, and once more Claire planned to delete it. Then she paused, trying to remember the last time she’d had coffee with friends. “Hell,” she said aloud, wondering about who she could even call a friend. Her co-workers worked as many hours as she did, and she couldn’t even remember the names of their husbands and children. Back when the girls were young, she’d met other mothers, but they seldom talked beyond coordinating transportation and juggling school activities, most of which Claire missed, anyway.

Julia seemed a bit frivolous for Claire’s tastes, and obviously was not the most serious student in the class—Claire had always had that honor from first grade on—but practice would be good, if they could keep the group focused. Besides, Julia seemed nice enough and would probably ask little of Claire in terms of keeping the group organized. Why not? To her own surprise, she responded with a short, “Sounds good. See you there.”

***

Still embarrassed by having her classmates laugh at her, Ellen thought seriously about dropping the class, but she could not discount the fears that had driven her there, the possible ticking time bomb in her brain. Though only in her mid-thirties, Ellen knew that Alzheimer’s could hit at any time. Her father, not a young man when Ellen was born, developed the disease in his mid-seventies. Her mother, however, had sickened sooner. “Early onset,” they called it, and now, though only sixty, her mother had suffered for years and seldom recognized Ellen anymore. Ellen read everything she could about the disease, and the stories of those struck in the prime of their lives stayed with her. With two parents suffering the same fate, what chance did she have?

Just last month she had put her mother in the nursing home with her dad. She had tended to them at home for as long as she could, and her writing work gave her more freedom than most. She worked from home, so she could take care of them for quite a while, but as she became more and more distracted by the demands of caring for her parents’ needs, her work had dwindled. She had to make a living, so she reluctantly “put them away,” as she put it.

Her home rang with silence. There were no doctor appointments to take them to, freeing up hours of time. She hadn’t realized that she had become a full-time caregiver. It had snuck up on her bit by bit as she added an appointment here, sitting up with one of them in the night there, until their needs had consumed her. Only now, without them in the house, did she notice how her life had changed.

Each day she checked herself for new signs of forgetfulness. She knew the odds of avoiding Alzheimer’s were not in her favor, so she had embarked on a program that she hoped would be an all-out assault on the disease. First, great nutrition. Ellen had eliminated wheat, corn, soy, and dairy from her diet, and she limited her sweets to the occasional sliver of dark chocolate. Now that her parents had gone to the nursing home, she was able to do an hour of yoga every day. When breaking for lunch she did crossword puzzles, and she constantly looked for new ways to exercise and challenge her brain. A friend recommended foreign language study, which was what led Ellen to the Spanish class.

With her parents settled in at their new home, Ellen felt ready to take on another work project. She seldom had trouble finding work when she needed it, and over the years she’d had enough flexibility in her schedule to handle her parents’ needs and still make a reasonable income. She never enjoyed picking up the telephone for sales calls, though. She enjoyed her work, but she still struggled, even after all these years, with marketing herself. She eyed the phone, then looked away. She paced the floor. She finally took a deep breath and placed several calls, secretly relieved as one by one they went to voice mail. She made her last call to Jim, who worked for her favorite agency and always came through for her. “Hey, Jim, it’s Ellen, how are you?”

“Great, great, Ellen,” he said in his calm, reassuring voice. Unlike other placement specialists, as he was called, he never seemed frantic or worried. He also offered the best-paying jobs. “It’s nice to hear from you. Are you ready to jump back in?” He didn’t ask her about her parents, though he knew the story, and she silently thanked him for that.

“Yes, please, I’m ready to get going. Sounds like you have something for me?”

“Well, maybe. Are you willing to go into the client’s offices from time to time? I told them you preferred working from home. It would just be every few weeks or so to attend meetings and check in. You know, to give them the warm fuzzy.”

“Yes, yes, in fact, that sounds great,” Ellen said. Although she liked working from home, often she had felt trapped and isolated with her parents there. Once again she noticed the lightness and freedom in her body, followed closely behind by guilt for enjoying the freedom.

“Awesome,” Jim said. “It’s a yearlong project, more or less. Technical manual and online documentation, the kind of stuff you can do in your sleep. They liked your resume and want to chat with you on Monday. The usual pay range, but I think I can get the upper end for you. Is that okay?”

“Sure, Jim, thanks.” She jotted down the time and location for the interview. As she hung up the phone, she felt more excited than she had in a very long time. I get to have a life. She had said those words silently and aloud ever since Mom and Daddy went to The Venice, but now it felt like life was really happening.

With a job on the horizon, Ellen felt emboldened and ready to take on the scariest task: to sign up on an online dating website. Others cautioned against it, saying that the best way to meet men was through mutual friends, but she had not found that to be true. Her married friends hung around with other married friends, never including her in couples’ dinners. She was the odd woman out, the half of a nonexistent couple, the childless trying to have conversations with soccer moms. On rare occasions when she was included, some of the wives seemed to feel threatened by her. Most were more attractive than Ellen, but still insecure and possessive.

When her parents’ condition worsened, she’d had an excuse to avoid worrying about her light social calendar. Now, though, she felt alone, with empty days ahead, one after another. She wanted, needed, to have some fun.

Ellen’s work required detail, logic, and the ability to research, and she applied all those skills to her dating search. First, she browsed the profiles of other women to get a feel for what they wrote. As a writer, she was stunned by the lack of imagination. Was it actually standard fare to write “I like long walks on the beach in the moonlight…”?

Then she looked at the men, uncomfortable with looking at their income ranges. Too personal, she thought. It seemed as though every man looked for a woman at least ten years younger than himself. At thirty-five, Ellen was already too old for some of the men, despite the fact that they were over forty, and some even over fifty. More than once, she ran across profiles where men required their prospective women to maintain regular manicures and pedicures. When did men start expecting things like that? She looked at her own nails, some broken, some long, and all scraggly, and decided she would at least dig up her emery boards, which had to be somewhere in the house.

She spent hours scouring old photo albums, looking for the right photo to put in her profile. Ellen had never enjoyed getting her picture taken, and in fact was often the one taking the photos. She managed to find one of her with her parents, and she was able to cut her parents out of the photograph. It looked far better than the profile photos where a former spouse or lover had been cut out. She had chuckled at those, at least until she discovered the dearth of her own photo collection.

After adding, deleting, and revising text, she finally erased everything she had written and stared at the blank screen, not knowing what to do next. Do you like long walks on the beach at sunset? she wrote, then giggled and deleted her words.

Poising her fingers over the keyboard, she tried to remember what she enjoyed doing. “Well, okay, I can put down that I’m studying Spanish,” she said out loud. “It’s okay that I’m just getting started, isn’t it? Oh, God, I’m talking out loud in an empty house.”

After staring at the screen for a long time, she decided to tell the truth. She didn’t want to play a lot of games with guys, not at this stage of her life.

I’m a freelance technical writer who has worked all over the city, she began. I haven’t dated in a while because… No, that would never do. No point looking like a loser from the get-go. Even though she wrote manuals for a living, she remembered her creative writing courses. Grab their attention at the beginning, they all said. Come up with something to make the readers want to keep reading. She had to laugh. Writing the most complex manual seemed easy compared to a dating profile. Writing about herself, her words came out stilted and bland.

Let’s be real, she began again. I don’t play games, and I don’t want you to play games, either. I’m reasonably attractive and manage my finances well. For the past several months I’ve taken care of my elderly parents… Once again, she paused. She didn’t want it to sounds like a sob story, and she didn’t want to be so straightforward that she put men off.

The phone rang. “Ellen, this is Nurse Anne from The Venice.”

“Is everything all right?” Ellen asked.

Nurse Anne’s voice was soothing and gentle. “Your father has had a fall,” she said. “He may have broken a hip.”

“For crying out loud,” Ellen said, then caught herself. “I’m sorry. But wasn’t he in restraints?”

“Yes, but he managed to get out of them,” Nurse Anne said. “Your father is quite the Houdini, you know.”

“Where is he now?”

“We’ve taken him to the hospital. We thought you might want to get over there as soon as possible.”

Ellen gathered the details and thanked Nurse Anne. As she hung up the phone, weariness smothered her. She glanced around her modest home and the clutter she had looked forward to clearing. She noted the old paint on the walls that needed freshening and sighed. It would all have to wait, at least a while longer. She prepared to shut the computer down before leaving the house but saw Julia’s e-mail and decided to take a moment to read it. She remembered Julia’s kind face, one of the few students who hadn’t laughed at her, and who had invited Ellen to sit next to her. A study group? Her heart picked up a little speed. Maybe continuing the class would be a good idea after all. She could use some friends.

She logged off the dating site and turned off her computer, ignoring the message that all of the information she had input so far would be discarded. Maybe it would take just a little longer to get her life back. She gathered her purse and her keys and walked out the door.

***

Mickey pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Doug wouldn’t be home for another two hours or so, so she decided to spend some time on her Spanish homework. She had finished her day at the medical clinic, where she worked in the billing department. Having taken the job to pay the bills until graduate school, Mickey found that she liked her work more than she had expected. At twenty-three, her regular paycheck, though meager, gave her a feeling of being grown up for the first time in her life. She would be the main breadwinner while Doug completed his religious studies degree. Although she had expressed disappointment at having to wait her turn, secretly she breathed a sigh of relief. Social work had been Mother’s idea, arranged as a compromise when she turned down her father’s offer to put her through divinity school. Mickey preferred divinity in the form of the white fluffy candies that her mother made at Christmastime, and her “day job” had grown on her.

She didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life, not really. She had traveled on missionary trips with her parents since childhood. She had gone along with their plans for her to continue, even though she was tired of it. It was fine when the family had gone together, but the good Reverend and Mary Watson, her parents, had decided they were done. Mary’s parents had left them a nice inheritance, some of which they poured into their church, a small parish where Reverend Watson could sell his unique brand of Christianity. Mary Watson apparently wanted to use the rest of the money as leverage to dictate their daughter’s life path. Mickey knew they just wanted the best for her, but sometimes she just wanted to be left alone. They had been a happier family, she thought, when her parents had been poor missionaries.

She had signed up for the language class in part because her parents thought it would be good for her. After taking a “volunteer vacation” in Costa Rica, she felt frustrated with her inability to communicate.

Mickey had worked at a center for adults with disabilities, and she couldn’t understand a word anyone said. No one admitted to speaking any English, though she noticed during breaks that if she spoke to another American volunteer, the staff seemed to understand her. The volunteer organization offered little consolation, hiring local managers for whom English was also a second language. “You are visiting someone else’s culture,” they told her. “It’s important that you try to fit in.” Yet with each day, she felt more and more uncomfortable, and toward the end stopped trying to communicate. She ended up painting recycling containers and doing other odd jobs that allowed her to stay away from people.

The weekends were a saving grace. She traveled with another volunteer to Monteverde, where she ran along the paths in the cloud forest. There, the air was cooler. She didn’t mind the heat at the lower elevations, because it felt much like Houston, but she found pleasure in the cloud forest, listening to the growls of howler monkeys and stopping from time to time to watch the birds. From the tiniest hummingbirds to flamboyant toucans, colorful birds filled the cloud forest with song. On one of her runs, as she was passing by a group of tourists, their guide motioned her to come over, where he had set up a scope. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a quetzal, a male,” he said, his voice heavily accented, but his English skills, to her relief, refined. “It’s good luck to see such a bird.” Its back feathers were an iridescent green, and at one point the bird turned to reveal a vivid red breast.

“Oh my,” she said. “It’s so beautiful.”

“The quetzal is the god of the air,” he said.

God of the air. She studied the quetzal, wishing she could spread her wings and fly away, far from here, and far from the life she felt forced into.

Other than jogging in the cloud forest, Mickey had enjoyed one other aspect of her trip: helping students practice their English. She had to use English with them, which made her life easier, and they were grateful. So why learn Spanish when she could do just as well with her own language? Because Mommy said so. Mickey groaned at the thought, wondering if her parents would ever see her as a grown-up.

She grabbed her guitar and curled up in a chair, strumming it softly. She didn’t feel like singing just then, and contented herself by just enjoying the chords. She didn’t hear Doug come in.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She stopped abruptly. “Just playing a little,” she said with a sigh.

“Is dinner ready? I don’t smell anything.”

“Sorry.” She put the guitar away. Doug didn’t like it, and she kept that part of her life private from him, justifying her secret-keeping by telling herself that everyone did that to some degree. In Costa Rica, she was surprised when people asked her to play, and even more surprised when they liked her music and asked her not to stop. “How was your day?”

“I have a lot of studying tonight,” he said. “I really need to be able to come home to dinner on the table, Mickey. We’ve talked about that.”

“Sorry,” she repeated, thinking that it must have been one of the first words she’d learned as a child. “I’ll take care of it right now. It will only take a few minutes, you’ll see.” She ran into the kitchen, running into the side of the dining room table along the way, but refusing to cry out. There would be a nice bruise on her hip in no time at all, but she was used to it. She opened the refrigerator door and surveyed the contents. “Hamburgers it is,” she said aloud to herself. She pulled out the meat and pressed it into patties while the skillet heated. As she threw the burgers into the pan, they made a loud sizzle.

“I hope it’s not hamburgers again,” Doug called out from the other room.

“What’s wrong with hamburgers?” She rummaged in the refrigerator for a salad, but the lettuce was wilted and the tomatoes too soft. She decided she might have enough to put lettuce and tomatoes on the burgers, but that was all.

He stood at the doorway of the kitchen. “It would be nice to have something else now and then,” he said. “I am studying hard, and I need to eat some decent food.”

She slammed the refrigerator door and glared at him. “I work, you know, and I get tired, too. It would be nice if you helped me every now and then.”

“It’s not my job,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, tears stinging her eyes. “I’ll try to do better. It’s just that…”

“It’s just that what?”

“Nothing. Go watch TV while I get this on the table. I’ll work on the variety, I promise, but this is the best I can do tonight.”

“Whatever,” he said, and left the room.

In Costa Rica, she had sometimes found herself raising her voice, as though the natives would understand her English if she spoke it loudly enough. They made her the butt of good-natured teasing, which she felt uncomfortable with because she had no idea what they were saying. Yet their faces seemed open, lacking any guile or meanness, so she tried just to go along. Here at home, though, she still felt as though she were speaking a foreign language, and raising her voice to be heard was just as ineffective. So far, the easiest way to deal with Doug was to keep her mouth shut and just give him what he wanted. She had seen her mother do it over and over with her father, and they would tell her that this was her role as a wife.

She started to pull paper plates from the pantry, but thought better of it and used the CorningWare® instead. She had forgotten to run the dishwasher earlier, so she had to scrub the silverware that still sat in the sink. She wished she had made more of an effort to make a proper dinner, but when did she have time? She wiped out some glasses and poured milk into them. She discovered half of a cantaloupe in the back of the refrigerator. It wasn’t exactly fresh, but it would still be edible. Studying her efforts, she felt better. It would probably pass muster with Doug. “Dinner,” she called in her most cheerful voice.

“How was your day?” she asked when they sat down.

“Fine,” he said, his mouth already full of food. “Mmm. It may be hamburger, but it’s good.”

“Cool. Thanks!” She waited, but he said nothing more, keeping his head down as he ate. When he finished, she asked if he wanted another, and he just nodded. She put a fresh burger on the plate, trying to make the simple meal look as attractive as possible. I need to do a better job.

She had met Doug at church, and he fit into all she had been taught about what a mate should be: stable, reliable, and with a similar background. At least he was good looking. She never questioned whether she loved him or not. He fit the bill of “good catch,” and they liked each other well enough. As for Doug, she suspected that he saw a preacher’s daughter as someone who would stand by his side and understand the role of a preacher’s wife. Love, as her parents had taught her, would grow in time, and she had trusted that. She didn’t love him now, not yet, and she hoped that the love would kick in soon.

Now she had Spanish class and studies to tend to, and she would spend time after dinner working on her vocabulary. Mother had arranged it, of course, as Mother arranged everything, including Mickey’s future career plans. “We need you and Doug to help us expand the church in the Spanish-speaking areas,” she said.

Mickey went along, as she always did. She would go to each class, and then Mother couldn’t complain. She didn’t have to like it, though. So when she read Julia’s e-mail later in the evening, inviting her to a study group, she had no real interest. What was the point? And she wondered where she would fit in, anyway. Everyone else in the group was pretty old, maybe even as old as her parents. She decided at first not to reply. Only later, when she realized that her mother probably considered the other class members to be heathens, did she change her mind.

Blog Thursday: The Zen Corner

by

I would like to take a moment to say RIP to Steve Jobs. 56 is just too young, too close to my own age. Being married to a software developer, I live in a house filled with geeky toys, many of them from Apple. I would be embarrassed, quite frankly, to list them all here, but this place looks like a small Apple store. So Steve, thanks for your ingenuity and vision. You will be missed.

Steve loved his work and reminded people to find work that they love as well. I’m fortunate to have done so as well, and even better, I am getting to know other women writers who share my passion for the written word. Since this is Thursday, I am thrilled to share another online friend with the rest of you!

Since we’re lightening up in October, I’m looking for blogs that don’t take themselves so seriously. Yes, I know that I can get pretty serious here at A Woman’s Nest, but I’m up for fun, too! Thankfully, I like to surround myself with funny people, which means I often take the “straight man” role. But who would Tommy Smothers be without brother Dick? Or am I dating myself again?

This week, I thought I would share the blog with the lofty and soothing name of  The Zen Corner. Not to worry, though, there’s plenty to chuckle about here. I bumped into Zen Corner blogger Zencherry on Libboo, a website where writers can collaborate with each other. We were both selected by another fellow writer, Liz Shaw, to take a look at a short story that Liz has been working on. We exchanged a few messages on the site, and I checked out her blog. I enjoy it so much that I want to share it with all of you guys!

Whether writing book reviews, posts about bad hair, or tales of life with cats, Zencherry puts quality time into her craft, and her blog posts make me smile. She offers intelligent, literate humor, and whenever I see a new blog in my e-mail inbox, I’m excited about what she has to say.

By the way, if you check the “about” page, she has a link to more of her writing on Libboo. I have not finished reading the book she has posted there, so I can’t officially endorse it, but if her blog is any indication, the book will be good, too.

Have a great day! I hope you’ll visit tomorrow for the next chapter of The Foreign Language of Friends.

Tuesday Book Recommendation: Husbands May Come and Go But Friends Are Forever

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The cleanse continues, as does the house cleaning. We set out an impressive pile of boxes for a local organization that’s picking them up today. Last night Henry Skyped with his daughter, Sarah, to see what books she wants to keep, and which she wants to donate, making an impressive dent in her room. And, at long last, I have found a home for the fabric that has taken over the upstairs! I would love to use it myself, but I had to admit that it wasn’t likely to happen in my lifetime.

Now I’m ready to prop my feet up and read a good book, and I thought I would share one with you, too. Judith Marshall‘s Husbands May Come and Go But Friends are Forever provides a fun read for our age demographic. Liz, a downsized HR executive, has been in a longtime relationship with Sam, who gets transferred to New York just as Liz learns that she’s losing her job. She does not want to go with him, and the changes threaten the future of their relationship. While trying to process all of this, she learns that her good friend Karen has died in a motorcycle accident.

As the death gathers a group of old friends, we learn about their past, their problems, and their enduring relationships with each other that survive decades of challenges and, at times, betrayal. Through their grief, this lovely group of women find a way to heal, overcome, and forgive. It’s a sort of “Big Chill” gathering for an older and wiser women-only set.

Despite the serious subject matter, author Marshall creates the cozy harmony of close relationships, and there’s plenty to laugh about, too. It’s easy to get lost in the story and feel like one of the group!

Husbands was recently optioned for the big screen and won the Jack London Prize awarded by the California Writers Club.

Have you taken time lately to get lost in a novel? If not, give this one a try.

Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends, Ch. 3

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Book Baby has The Foreign Language of Friends! In a few days I should have some cover proofs to look over. In the meantime, here’s chapter three where the four main characters meet for the first time.

 

CHAPTER 3 – JUNE 20

Rita Martin stood at the front of her classroom, a broad smile on her face, waiting for her new students to arrive. Despite having taught for twenty years, she always felt butterflies of excitement whenever a new session started. The material in Spanish I was always the same, but each new group of students gave the lessons a fresh perspective. Short and plump, with porcelain skin and warm brown eyes that misted easily, she dressed simply in tan slacks and a black sweater that would keep her comfortable in the air conditioning, which tended to be excessive. A hundred degrees outside, she thought, but in here they could hang meat. She rubbed her chilled hands together and hoped for a good turnout to warm the room. Plenty of students had enrolled, but she never knew who would actually show up. Learning a new language scared people, although their usual excuse for quitting was something like a more polished version of “my dog ate my homework.”

Students started to filter in at the last minute. Continuing education classes attracted a wide range of ages, backgrounds, and reasons for taking the course. She greeted each student with a hearty, “¡Hola!” which brought nods and nervous giggles in response.

She had just opened her book to begin when Julia rushed in, her face flushed from hurrying. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said. Glancing around at the group, she smiled brightly and said, “Hi, everyone! I’m Julia Lafferty. Won’t this be fun?”

The class chuckled collectively as Julia took a seat in the front row.

“We were just getting started,” Rita said. “Let’s get to know each other a little bit first. We’ll spend the first bit of class speaking in English, so everyone can relax.” She saw bodies unclenching and smiles that were more genuine. If she had learned nothing over the past few decades, she had at least learned how to put students at ease. “Julia, would you like to tell us a little something about yourself?”

“Great, sure,” Julia said. Swiveling around to face the class, she said, “My husband and I travel a lot, and I thought learning a language would help me communicate with the locals. Plus, I just like to meet new people.” She opened her mouth to say more, and then seemed to think better of it. “That’s all. I’m glad to be here.”

Rita laughed with the rest of the class at Julia’s infectious warmth. “Perfect,” Rita said. “Whenever you’re visiting Central or South America, people will appreciate your efforts. Some pronunciation and grammar varies if you go to Spain, but we will cover that as we go. Who’s next?”

A woman to Julia’s right cleared her throat with a “let’s get on with this” tone. “I’m Claire Malone, and I’m a corporate attorney,” she said. “My company plans to do more work in Central America, so I need to learn the language for business. I’m ready to get done with these introductions and actually learn something.” She flashed a smile that looked more like bared teeth. Rita had watched Claire enter the room like a Category 3 hurricane, commanding the attention of everyone present. Each move deliberate and forceful, she had brought out multiple notebooks, pens, and highlighters, and had already marked several pages of text with sticky notes.

“Don’t worry,” Rita said. “By the end of this class you will be surprised at what you have learned. We have many professionals who do well by taking this class. Who else?”

“I’m Ellen Foster,” said a soft, timid voice from the back of the room. She came across as a mass of brown: mousy brown hair, brown eyes, brown clothes, an ordinary-looking woman who people would pass on the street. “I’m a freelance technical writer. I’m just curious about whether I can learn a language. I think it would be good for me. You know, I’m not getting any younger, and I hear that studying a language prevents Alzheimer’s.”

The group laughed, with the exception of Claire, who had her eye on her BlackBerry, and Julia, who studied Ellen thoughtfully.

Noticing Ellen’s blush, Rita responded gently. “This may be true. Although some doctors say we can’t do anything to prevent dementia, exercise for the brain is just as important as exercising the body. And, as we get older, learning a language, while certainly possible, becomes more difficult. As we exercise the parts of our brains that we haven’t used since childhood, we may notice a sharpening of our minds in other areas. It’s a great reason to be here. Welcome.”

Ellen’s skin returned to its natural, bland color, and she smiled, though she still seemed uncertain.

“I’m Mikhela, Mickey for short, Watson — er, no, Thomas, it’s Thomas now,” said Mickey, her dark eyes darting as she clicked her pen, nerves bouncing out of her skin. “I like to run. I work in a medical office, but I might be going to grad school soon. I just got back from a volunteer trip to Costa Rica, and it was awful. I mean, the trip was cool, but I didn’t know any Spanish, so I couldn’t talk to anyone. No one spoke English at my placement. No one! Oh, and I just got married.” She carelessly flashed a modest wedding band, showing a curious lack of enthusiasm. “I’m not really good with languages, but my mom thought it would be a good class for me to take.” She dropped her eyes, still fidgeting in her seat.

“Well, congratulations!” Rita said. “A newlywed in our midst. We would love to hear more about your trip as we go on. Volunteering is a great way to get to know a place more intimately, and the language lessons will certainly help.”

Others introduced themselves, all earnest, inquiring, and nervous in their own ways. Rita offered a comment in response to each, and then explained how the class would work. She held up the textbook. “This is the book you’ll be using. I know most of you have it already, but those who don’t, make friends with a neighbor who does. Oh, by the way, I find that class works better when we’re in a circle so we can see and speak to one another. So, if you don’t mind, please move your desks into a circle.” She could see doubt and fear arising again, especially from the students who had grabbed seats along the back wall. Inside, she chuckled that adults still managed to hold on to old grade-school behaviors. She clapped her hands lightly and, in a teasing voice, said, “Ahora, por favor. That means ‘now, please.’”

Julia jumped up and moved her chair first, then went back to Ellen. “Sit next to me,” she said. “Here, I’ll help.”

The rest of the class followed reluctantly after Julia led the way.

“Great,” Rita said. “Now, we’re going to learn how to introduce ourselves, only this time in Spanish.”

By the end of the evening, everyone had learned the basics, though some fumbled more than others. Rita had passed around a sign-up sheet and noticed that Julia had copied down several e-mail addresses as the sheet came her way. Every class had its organizers, and she suspected that Julia planned to form a study group.

As she drove home from class, reflecting, she thought about past classes she had taught. Each person came to class for a particular reason, but they often left gaining something unexpected. People’s lives changed in class if they stayed with the study long enough. Those who made it to the advanced classes often traveled together, or ate at local Tex-Mex restaurants where they could practice with one another. Romances blossomed, people found new and better jobs, the list was endless. She wondered what life had in store for this class.

Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends, Ch. 2

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In this chapter, we meet one of the main characters, Julia Lafferty. Have a great weekend, everyone!

 

CHAPTER TWO – JUNE 1

Julia tossed her keys into the basket she kept next to the front door so as not to lose them, a trick she had learned years ago. Well, that was the hope anyway, although they still managed to show up in the oddest places: in laundry askets of clean clothes, on the back of a toilet, or even the refrigerator.

She felt invigorated after a quick match at the tennis club. The activity gave her sun-kissed face a warm glow and brightened her eyes. Although in her late forties, she still turned heads and enjoyed the fact that she did. Periodically, Julia used a touch of Botox® around the forehead and eyes, “just to freshen up a bit.” Where was the harm in a little nip and tuck from time to time? After all, looking young helps one to feel young. She hadn’t gone under the knife yet, but “the girls” might need a little lifting soon.

The phone rang. She dropped her Burberry metallic leather bag, overflowing with everything she needed and many items she didn’t, with a thud onto the kitchen counter, and grabbed the phone. Glancing at the caller ID, she said, “Hi, Lisa, how are you? Hey, sure, I just got back. How about tomorrow, ten o’clock? Then we can have lunch at the club. I think a martini is calling my name. Sound good? Great, see you then. Bye.”  

With tanned hands and manicured fingernails she grabbed the mail, and sat on the patio where she could enjoy the garden. Rows of white, pink, and fuchsia rose blossoms filled the yard with whimsical color and soft scents. A team of landscapers kept the lawn and gardens in symmetrical perfection. A ceiling fan that resembled palm fronds circled lazily above.

Julia had always planned to care for the flowers herself, but her husband Larry just laughed at her. “Don’t ruin those pretty hands,” he said. Sometimes she ignored him and worked in the dirt anyway, happy as a child making mud pies. He was gone so much anyway, he didn’t have to know.

As usual, most of the mail was junk. A few political ads set her teeth on edge, because that signaled the coming influx of annoying robo-calls, trying to get her vote. She put the grocery ads aside, not that she ever actually looked at them, but she always meant to. She tore the credit card solicitations in two, and set aside Larry’s mail.

She almost discarded the flyer for continuing education at Houston Community College, but she found herself holding on to it, unable to let go. “Hmm,” she said aloud. Feelings of excitement mixed with self-doubt crept in. She had never been a great student, not because of a lack of intelligence, but more because she had a social life to maintain.

Still, recently she had thought about wanting “more,” though the desire had remained, to date, a vague, amorphous feeling. She already had so much, she couldn’t imagine what that meant, but it nagged her anyway. She leafed through the brochure as though looking for clues. Religions of the World? Nah, too heavy. Starting Your Own Business? She thought about that one for a moment, then shook her head. She knew entrepreneurs who poured all their energies into getting a business up and running. Worse than a job.

“What are you looking at so intently?”

Julia jumped. “Larry!” she cried with delighted surprise. “What are you doing home?”

He leaned over and gave her a lingering kiss, which she returned eagerly. After nearly thirty years together, his lips still set off electric shivers in her body.

“Packing. I’m off to Paris again. Want to go?”

“Hmm, sounds tempting. How long will you be gone this time?”

“Not long. I’m sure not more than a week or two.”

She laughed. “As great as that sounds, not really.” For years she had jumped at all their impromptu trips, especially to Paris.

“You’re not worrying about the Parisian women again, are you?” he asked. “Because there’s plenty of great shopping there, at least so I’ve heard.”

“Ah, oui, oui, mon mari,” she said in her best French accent, complete with the remains of an East Texas twang. She had once shared with Larry that she felt inferior to Parisian women, who all seemed to exude slim magic and sensual mystery. He insisted that he found the women to be overly consumed with their appearance and even those of their favorite accessories, their perfectly puffed and coiffed little dogs. Julia, however, had found French women to be beautiful, friendly, and engaging. Larry insisted that he saw none of this, but it didn’t remove the unease Julia felt each time he left. She had come to accept it as her only real insecurity. “The shopping sounds lovely, but I really want to stay home.” She ran a hand through short, spiky brown hair. I need a new coat of paint, she thought to herself. She had seen bits of silver at her temples again, and her trips to the hairdresser had increased in their frequency. “But what’s up?”

“Arthur wants me to look at some apartments over there. We’re over there so often that he thinks we’ll save money on hotels. Plus, it gives us more of a presence there. I’m not so sure I want to deal with Parisian bureaucracy, but I’m a good foot soldier, you know.” He sat next to her and took her hand.

“That you are, my love.” She had met Larry in college and knew right away he was a go-getter, but she hadn’t imagined a life of travel and every luxury, from a spacious home filled with art to servants at her beck and call, a life where she was willing to turn down a trip to Paris because she had been there so many times.

“I’ll miss you,” he said. He sat next to her and stroked her arm. “I have a little time before I head to the airport. How about giving me a special good-bye?”

“Larry, you are such a bad boy,” she said, laughing, and crawled onto his lap. She buried herself in their embrace, knowing that their servant Luisa had headed off just a few minutes before to the store, so they would have time. She gave his ear a little nibble and said, “How about right here?”

“Sounds good to me,” he said, and they made their way to the floor without letting go of each other. In the heat of early summer, the tiled floor felt cool. Their bodies danced together as those of a long-married couple who know everything about what gives each other pleasure. Julia didn’t know if that was good or bad; sometimes, as now, it felt a little mechanical, as though Larry’s mind was somewhere else. Still, she felt close to him in these moments, and contentment flooded her, leaving her warm and soothed. She nestled in his arms, and they spent a few more minutes murmuring their love. Then he shifted to face her, running a hand through her hair and kissing her forehead. “By the way, have you thought any more about the Belize thing?”

The “thing,” as they called it, was his offer to buy them a place along the coast of Belize. Larry’s firm handled a lot of commercial real estate there, so he had suggested they find a nice second home. “Mmm,” she said, her eyes almost closed. She imagined the sun and surf as she lay on a lounge chair, soaking up tropical rays. Surprisingly, she felt…nothing. “I don’t know. Larry, it sounds wonderful, but so does staying home. I don’t know if I can keep up with all this running around.”

He laughed, flashing the boyish grin that still melted her after all these years. “Crazy, isn’t it? But exciting though. Think about it. Remember when we stayed at the Four Seasons? Remember the water, how turquoise it is?”

“Oh, yes, beautiful,” she said, not wanting to let go of her afterglow. To her, Belize meant massages and seafood salad lunches with the other wives, giving Julia many much-needed opportunities to socialize. She loved the ocean breezes, the beaches, the refreshing seaweed shakes with rum that arrived at her chaise longue with only a glance needed from her. It was tempting.

Still, the word “more” crept into her brain again like a pesky fly. She didn’t even know what that meant, especially since she already had more than most people she knew, and “more” felt selfish and greedy. She had more than anyone she knew; what else could there be? She sensed thoughts and feelings, all jumbled up and trying to come to the surface, but still separate bits and pieces that hadn’t found each other.

“Jules, where did you go?”

His words jarred her back to the present. “Yes, sorry, love, I guess when you mentioned Belize I started thinking. You know, I saw an ad for a Spanish class, and I’m thinking about taking it. It would probably help if we decided to get a place there.”

“You don’t need to take Spanish. Wherever we go, everyone knows ‘Visa’ and ‘MasterCard.’”

“I know. But I might want to. You know, just to talk to people in their own language. It might be nice.” She heard his disappointment as clearly as if he had shouted at her. She knew he wanted her to just go along with him, for them to have their adventures together, but in reality, he spent most of their travel time working while she looked around for people to talk to. She had found herself turning down his trips, preferring to stay home, play tennis, and putz around in the rose garden.

“Tell you what, Larry, I’ll think about Belize. Just let me look into this language class.”

“Okay, I can live with that,” he said. “I know it’s hard on you, hanging out while I work, but maybe if we have a place of our own there you could make some long-term friends, not just the tourists passing through. Lord knows you’ve never met a stranger. And you could have two gardens, one in Houston, the other in Belize.”

“That’s true,” she said, laughing.

“I have to go,” he said, gently untangling himself from her. “I may be there for a while this time. You can still change your mind, you know.”

“I know,” she said. She watched as he walked away, his physique still trim and strong. Only his hair, graying and thinner than it once was, broadcast his age. She wondered if she was making a mistake not going. It had never bothered her before to say no, but now, uneasiness wrapped itself around her like a corset. She stood and shook the feeling away. They had a life together that most people only dreamed of, and there was nothing to worry about. Best to go help him finish packing. Then she would sign up for the language class, where she would have something to keep her occupied so she wouldn’t worry so much about nothing.