on the flagstones and reached for the dog’s webbed canvas collar. Not quickly enough, though.
Fred was off and running again, this time through a stand of hibiscus.
Hunt stared gloomily at the leash hanging limply in his hand. “So what do I have to do to join this class?”
“Nothing…well…practically nothing. Your mother has already enrolled you. All you need to do is show up tomorrow night, with a bathing suit and towel. How hard can that be?”
Hunt sighed as Fred moved on from rummaging through the hibiscus to trampling the fragile pale pink flowers of fall-blooming cyclamen. “Tell me, do you think Mother has any pâté in the house?”
“Why? Are you feeling peckish?” Ben asked.
“No, I’m looking for something to bribe the dog with to get him to come. And knowing Mother, she won’t have anything as mundane as liverwurst.”
Ben laughed. “I’m sure there must be some imported Brie.” Then he glanced down at his watch. “I’d stay and help, but I’m already late for picking up Matt from school. The only thing worse than seeing your mother angry is seeing my teenage son pissed off.”
“And you call yourself a friend?” Hunt teased. “Oh, all right, far be it from me to cause any family disharmony. And just to show you how cooperative I can be, I’ll make nice with Mother and attend this water-whatever class.”
“Light Water Aerobics.” Ben sidestepped to the gate. He rested his hand on the latch. “Hunt, one more thing…”
Hunt was busy weaving and bobbing, trying to out-maneuver the dog. Fred let him come to just beyond arm’s length. Hunt lunged. Fred scampered away. Hunt swore.
“Hunt?” Ben said again.
“I know, I know, tomorrow night. Seven-thirty. I’ll be there.”
Ben paused. “Do you want me to leave the course listing?”
Hunt waved him off. “Don’t bother. I think you pretty much hit the highlights.”
“If you say so,” Ben agreed. He left quickly—Hunt couldn’t help thinking—curiously relieved.
CHAPTER THREE
WEDNESDAYS WERE ALWAYS a bitch as far as Sarah was concerned. She closed her eyes and rubbed her lower back. This particular Wednesday was proving to be beyond bitchy.
She turned her head and eyed the seventy-year-old woman next to her who was adjusting the plunging neckline of her bathing suit. For someone her age, she looked fantastic. Okay, she had the usual upper arm waddle and her thighs, while toned, showed signs of cellulite. But, hey, Sarah wouldn’t mind having that body at that age. Even half her age for that matter.
Sarah looked down at her swollen belly with its spidery stretch marks. “Wanda, do you really think a bikini is the way to go?” Thirty weeks along in her pregnancy, she was exhibiting all the expected signs, like clockwork.
Talk about stretch marks. Besides her belly, pink and purple lines now etched her breasts and inner thighs. Lovely. Then there was her belly button, which had gone from being an innie to a full-blown outie.
All those women who positively glowed in pregnancy? Not Sarah. Her cheeks might be flushed, but pimples had a way of erupting daily on her chin and the tip of her nose. She had found this incredibly expensive “nighttime eruption solution” that seemed to help. A little.
Sarah rubbed her swollen belly and told herself to quit being cranky. After all, it was all worth it, right? Still, just because she could accept the changes in her body didn’t mean she felt obliged to flaunt them. “Maybe I could wear a T-shirt over the bikini top?” she said.
Wanda grabbed the combination lock from her tote bag and slammed the metal locker shut. “Nonsense, baby bumps are all the rage now, isn’t that right, Lena?” Wanda turned to her good friend. Lena was Wanda’s tennis partner as well as Katarina’s grandmother.
Lena adjusted the strap of her bathing cap under her chin. “What’s that? Who’s right?” Lena patted Sarah protectively on her arm. “Never mind. You would look wonderful wearing a burlap bag. And in that suit—” she raised her arms, hands open “—you are the image of a Rubens beauty in all your womanly glory.”
Sarah twisted her neck around. “Are you trying to tell me that my butt looks fat?” She gripped one cheek in an assessment.
“Nonsense, dear,” Wanda said. “You’re every woman’s dream—a long-stemmed American beauty, curvy like the legs of a Chippendale table, and with breasts the size of cantaloupes. That’s why we all agreed that the bikini was absolutely, positively the right choice.”
Sarah shook her head. “Thanks, I think.” She was still trying to wrap her head around the image of Chippendale furniture and cantaloupes until she decided it was just another strange moment in an already eventful day.
Because at the end of a full schedule of running multiple physical therapy sessions, three of Sarah’s late Wednesday afternoon clients had thrown her a surprise baby shower. They included Wanda, a retired high school math teacher, who was having treatments for the tendonitis in her tennis arm. “I know it would probably get better if I developed a two-handed backhand, but at my age…”
Lena was there, too, a sturdy fireplug of a woman who when she spoke still had a hint of her native Czechoslovakia in her accent. Her arthritic knees had started to act up on her. Too many years of standing up at her hardware store and playing tennis. She’d had some arthroscopic surgery over the summer to clean up one knee, and was now diligently doing her rehab.
Rounding out the group was Rufus Treadway. A mainstay of the local African-American community, Rufus had had a hip replacement about a year ago. Unfortunately, he was not yet tripping the light fantastic, which was a real shame, as far as Sarah was concerned. So she’d pulled some strings and got him an appointment with the hip specialist at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.
Anyhow, when the three of them had pulled out the streamers and party blowers, Sarah had been truly taken aback. Lena had made a plum tart. “Not to worry. It’s mostly fruit,” she had said.
And butter and eggs, Sarah had thought.
When they next produced several wrapped boxes, she was overwhelmed. “You shouldn’t have,” Sarah protested, expecting to get several hand-knitted baby sweaters and maybe a baby-size Grantham University baseball cap.
“Start with the squishy one,” Wanda insisted.
Sarah carefully removed the wrapping paper—no sense in wasting perfectly good paper when it could be reused—and found a Speedo bathing cap.
“How lovely. I don’t have one,” Sarah said, confused but careful to affix a smile.
“Now the flat one.” Rufus pointed to an oblong wrapped box.
That one yielded flip-flops. Another had a rolled up beach towel.
Sarah laughed. “I think I see a theme here. I know I always tout the virtues of swimming as a low-impact exercise for you all, so I’m glad to see the message is getting across.”
