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“I’m so sorry I’m late, ladies!” Nessa appeared at the table all at once, her camel-hair Max Mara coat flying behind her, silver bob artfully wind-tousled from the street. She nodded at the waiter, who had materialized instantly to take her order. “Just the usual, darling. Actually, let’s make it a double.”
Nessa turned to her friends. “I beg your forgiveness. I had to help Telly with a little problem—one of his usual scrapes, you know how he is—before his father found out and made everything ten times worse by picking a fight. Excuse me, I need the little girls’ room.”
Seated at the round, white-tableclothed bistro table that had become their regular brunch spot in the past few years, ever since the Lofts opened, Varda, Estë, Nienna, and Uinen all looked at each other knowingly. Once Nessa was out of earshot, Uinen burst into laughter. “Another scrape, did you hear?” She drained the last of her peach bellini and signaled to the waiter for another.
“I hope this time, the ‘scrape’ is of age, at least,” said Nienna.
“‘She looked eighteen, I swear!’” said Estë, putting on a voice that was somehow both deep and petulant. The four women laughed, the sound sparkling and genuine, that of friends who had known and loved each other for a long, long time.
Anairë, aware of her tenuous position in the group, giggled along politely, though a piece of her heart twinged in loneliness, the part that knew neither who Telly was nor much of the long history these older women had shared. Varda, ever observant, leaned over and stage-whispered: “Nessa’s son with her ex-husband. Thirty-five years old, and the boy hasn’t worked a real job a day in his life.” She held up a perfect French-manicured finger to her creamy mauve Guerlain KissKiss lips and mimed a shush.
“I beg your pardon,” said Nienna, “since when is ‘managing general partner of the baseball team Daddy bought you’ not count as a real job?”
“What a role model that man was,” said Uinen, rolling her eyes in disgust. “With a father like Tulkas, how was the poor boy supposed to amount to anything? At least Telimektar’s a sweetheart.”
“He is,” agreed Estë.
“He’ll end up in jail again if he isn’t careful,” said Nienna.
“Well, if he does, I’m sure Tulkas will bail him out, like always. But no matter. Nessa loves that sweet boy,” said Varda, with an air of finality, “and we love Nessa.”
“Thank you, darlings,” said Nessa, returning to the table. “I love you all, too. I’m simply starved. Have we ordered yet? I’ve been thinking about that goat-cheese-and-asparagus omelet for days. Pass the bread.”
Someone signaled the waiter, who came and took their orders. Following Varda’s lead, Anairë ordered an eggs Benedict with avocado and sun-dried tomatoes, and another Bloody Mary with extra Tabasco.
“Really, though, is everything all right? Does Telly need to a place to stay? He can have my guest room if you’re sick and tired of putting him up when he’s in trouble,” offered Estë. “The cats would love a new playmate.”
Nessa shook her head. “Not that kind of trouble, this time. Just a few indiscreet photos someone snapped at a party—” She sniffed and brushed her fingers over her nostrils conspicuously. “Needs to stay out of the society pages, is all. I talked with my friend at the Times, she’s got her hands on the photos and the negatives, now. But enough about me! How are you all? Lovely Anairë, so good of you to join us. How are your children? Three, you’ve got, is that right?”
“Four, actually,” said Anairë.
“Four!” cried Estë. “You’re a superwoman.”
“If you think four sounds impressive, you should meet my ex-brother-in-law,” Anairë found herself saying. “He’s got seven.”
Everyone exclaimed over that for a while. Inwardly, Anairë wondered why she’d even brought it up. The funeral was the first time she’d seen either Fëanor or any of his large sons in many years, and well, after the way everything had turned out—she didn’t expect she’d see any of them ever again.
“Tell us about your four, dear. Are they all as beautiful as you?” asked Nienna.
“Oh, you’re very kind. Well, my oldest, Findekáno, he’s his father’s son, through and through. On the partner track at the firm, he’s Nolofinwë’s right hand. Then there’s Turukáno, he’s a junior architect. And my youngest two, well, they’re both college-age.” That was true enough, if carefully worded. Nobody needed to know Aredhel had dropped out of Smith after one semester. “Do you have children?” Anairë asked Nienna politely.
Nienna shook her head, her long, gray hair swishing softly around her lovely face. “Not my life’s path, I’m afraid.”
Estë and Uinen shook their heads. No children, and no more husbands, Anairë recalled. Estë kept her Irmo in a jar on a shelf above her headboard (“so he can watch over my dreams”). And Uinen’s husband—well, according to the papers, he was tragically lost at sea, which was how Uinen was able to take over their Jet Ski business and turn it into a multi-million-dollar international enterprise.
The ladies turned to Varda to ask after her two, Eönwë and Ilmarë, who were both just lovely, thank you. Before long, the food was served.
Anairë observed her table companions as they chattered away. Compared to herself, these women were so worldly, so classy, with life experiences that she could hardly even begin to imagine. She was grateful to have been invited into their little group, but she still felt like she was on the outside. They talked about books she’d never even heard of, let alone read; they attended avant-garde plays and gallery openings for the kind of art she wished she understood; they rubbed elbows with the most prominent and influential people in town.
Well, she corrected herself, they were some of the most prominent and influential people in town.
“So, Anairë, darling, how are you finding Valmar?” asked Uinen.
“Well, I did grow up here,” said Anairë.
“Before you fled for the suburbs,” said Varda.
“You made it back, that’s what counts,” said Nessa. “You’re settling into the Lofts all right? I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve got a wonderful decorator. I can give you her card.”
“Oh, that’s all right, thank you,” said Anairë. “I’d like to decorate it to my own tastes.” Just as soon as I figure out what those are. “Anyway, yes, I love it. I can just take the elevator downstairs and walk a block for coffee or breakfast. Although, I do find myself wondering what to do with my time. No children at home, no PTA meetings, no big house or yard or staff to worry about. Just me. Maybe I’ll get a part-time job,” she said idly.
“A job!” cried Varda.
Nessa shook her head vigorously.
“Darling, you don’t need a job.” Varda’s beautiful face scrunched up, her voice dropping low, as though it were a dirty word. “You need travel. It’s still ski season! Aspen’s a delight. Or St. Moritz, if the Alps are more your cup of tea.”
“Or the beach,” said Uinen longingly.
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Estë, “Melian and her husband are back from the Maldives, looking bronze as bells. I saw her in the mailroom, we only spoke briefly. She seemed well, considering. She’s back at work already.”
“Someone should really do something about the bereavement leave policy at Lockheed Martin,” said Nienna. “It’s unconscionable.” Everyone hummed in agreement. (Anairë made a mental note to ask Varda for more details later.)
“What about volunteering, dear?” asked Nessa brightly. “We’re always looking for people to get involved with the ballet. I’m rotating off the board next year, I need to find a replacement, I’m sure you’d be wonderful.”
“Or, if you really do want to work,” said Estë, “I could use a receptionist at the clinic. I’m on the road to retirement, so we’re just open Wednesdays and Thursdays, thank God. It would just be answering phones, checking patients in, that kind of thing.”
Anairë nodded politely. Everyone had such lovely suggestions.
“Dear,” said Nienna, who was a clinical psychologist. “We’re all so full of suggestions, we haven’t bothered to ask. What do you want to do with your second life?”
Thankfully, before Anairë had to figure out a polite way to answer such a question, the waiter reappeared with the next round of their drinks. He flirted effortlessly, sweeping his shaggy highlighted mane out of his face, blue eyes sparkling. When he turned away, the ladies exchanged looks.
“Such a handsome fellow,” said Estë. “Reminds me a bit of my Irmo, thirty years ago.”
“You should ask him out,” said Nessa. “Or at least, give him your number.”
“If you won’t, I will,” said Uinen.
“That reminds me,” said Nienna, turning to Varda. “How’s your beau? What’s his name again?”
Nessa snapped her sparkling gold-and-diamond-ringed fingers. “Melkor, wasn’t it?”
Varda shook her head, sipping mineral water. “Not beau any longer,” she said. “Jealous and possessive, that man. I think he might be a pyromaniac, honestly. I’m screening his calls.”
“At least you got some nice memories out of him, first,” said Nessa, waggling her eyebrows.
“I can have nice memories with my massaging shower head,” said Varda, “and it doesn’t lie about being the real songwriter behind all of Prince’s greatest hits.”
“You’re better off without him. And speaking of handsome men with intense energy,” said Uinen. “You know who I can’t stop thinking about.” She paused dramatically.
Anairë watched as all the women sighed and got dreamy, faraway looks in their eyes. “Guru,” they all said together.
“Who?” asked Anairë.
“Our yoga teacher,” clarified Uinen.
As far as Anairë was concerned, yoga was for hippies and weirdos who were interested in vegetarianism and Eastern spirituality. And Madonna. She didn’t say anything out loud, of course she wouldn’t, but Varda saw the skeptical look in her eye.
“It really isn’t that bad, I know what you’re thinking,” said Varda. “Oprah had a whole show about it, you know. Practicing yoga has been the key to opening my heart to a true mind-body connection, finding inner peace. It feels wonderful.”
“It’s good for maintaining bone density,” said Estë. “And that instructor, phew!” She made a kissy face.
“Such a dreamboat,” said Uinen.
“Gorgeous eyelashes. And that long, dark hair!” said Nessa. “You know who he looks like? The actor from that horror movie, what was it called, You Can’t Get Away with Murdering a Fisherman Like That?”
“Who, Joe Pesci?”
Varda—who loved movie stars—burst out laughing. “You mean Freddie Prinze, Junior! Oh, God, you’re right. He looks exactly like a buff, long-haired Freddie Prinze, Junior.”
Anairë didn’t know this Junior, but she did remember Freddie Prinze. In fact, some had even said Nolofinwë had favored him, once upon a time. If it was true that this guru resembled him even a little—well, that was someone she might want to meet.
“I’ve got my private lesson this afternoon,” confided Estë, a girlish smile turning up the corners of her lips.
“Anairë, love,” said Varda, “you simply wouldn’t believe this young man’s muscles. He wears the cutest little outfits to teach class. You can see every muscle in his legs, his abs, his shoulders….”
“Don’t forget his ass!” said Nienna.
“Or his arms,” said Nessa dreamily. “So strong, he held me up against the wall the entire time he was inside me.”
Everyone exploded into cackling laughter.
“Nessa!” cried Estë. “You finally went all the way?”
Nessa nodded. Everyone offered their congratulations.
“What’s the equipment like?” asked Varda. “I’ve always wondered. When he bent me over into downward-facing dog, I could feel that bulge in those tight little shorts, but we got interrupted before we could get anywhere.”
Nessa opened her mouth to answer, eyes dancing, but before she could say anything, Nienna jumped in. “He’s got plenty to work with,” she said. “But his real talents lie in his hands. Loath to abandon any task to which he puts them.”
“And his mouth,” added Uinen, “don’t forget his mouth.”
“Hold on,” said Estë. “Am I the only one who hasn’t been with him yet?”
“Well, you’ve got that private lesson this afternoon,” said Nessa, “I imagine you can change that pretty fast, if you play your cards right.”
“He only kissed me,” said Varda sadly. “But when he did, I felt like I was soaring.”
“Kissed me too,” said Uinen, who had, by that point, had at least four peach bellinis. She pointed between her legs, wearing classic navy blue silk Eileen Fisher tapered-leg trousers. “I felt so filthy! All sweaty after class.”
“When did this happen?” Estë squealed.
“Where did it happen?” demanded Nienna.
“Tell us everything,” said Varda.
“Oh, the first time was about a year ago, perhaps? I stayed after, asked him for one-on-one help with inversions. I had my forearms on the mat and my feet on the wall, and he wriggled right underneath me. He put his hands on my rib cage, first—to feel my breathing, he said, and then his hands were just all over me,” said Uinen.
“I told you, good hands,” said Nienna.
“Here, there, everywhere,” continued Uinen, flushing a bit, caught in memory, “and then he whispered, ‘I want you to check in with your body. If anything doesn’t feel right, let me know. Only go where you feel comfortable. Can you keep breathing for me?’ So I kept breathing as best I could, and before I knew it, his face was between my legs.”
“Oh, my God,” said Anairë, without meaning to. She would never admit it to her new, sophisticated friends. But she had never experienced what Uinen was talking about. Nolofinwë wasn’t the kind of man who would do—that.
“I know! Through my sweaty workout pants and everything. Well, I couldn’t hold the inversion for much longer, after that. I came down on the mat, he took off my pants, slid my underwear to the side, and then I came down on the mat, if you catch my drift.”
“You’re not subtle,” said Varda, a hint of envy in her voice.
“You said the first time,” said Nienna. “How many times? I’ve only had him twice.”
“Three times,” said Nessa, fanning herself.
“Oh, goodness,” said Uinen, her hand fiddling with a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. “At least five or six. I don’t know, I didn’t count. He’s a very giving young man. So in tune with the needs of a mature woman’s body. He puts me on a block so I get proper lower back support.”
“Well,” said Estë, then bit her lip. “I suppose I better get to that private lesson, then.” She called for the waiter and gave him a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill without even seeing the check, then kissed everyone good-bye and was off.
“Darling,” said Varda, turning to Anairë, “I’m telling you, you simply must come to class.”
After brunch, Nienna and Estë both had to get back to their offices, and Nessa dashed off to a meeting of the historic downtown preservation society, so that left Varda and Anairë to walk together, arm-and-arm, back to their building across the square.
It was unusually warm, for February, and they walked slowly, enjoying the rare glint of sunshine through the grey clouds.
Anairë was so grateful for Varda. When she first moved into the Taniquetil Lofts, six weeks before, she had, for a few horrible nights, regretted everything. Why had she filed for divorce in the first place? Everything had been basically fine. There wasn’t a single moment that changed everything. No infidelity, no secret financial ruin, and they didn’t even argue about the household or the children anymore. True, she and Nolofinwë hadn’t been in love for at least a decade, but in this day and age, who really believed in true love that lasted a lifetime? It was preposterous. They had a lovely, four-thousand-square-foot home with a saltwater pool. A newly renovated master bathroom, with heated tile floors and a bidet. Four beautiful children. All the material comforts she could possibly imagine. What had she been thinking? Nolofinwë was a lawyer. He could figure out how to get her out of a lease. And he would take her back, she was sure of it. If she just apologized for everything she had said about the stupid inheritance and the stupid feud with Fëanor—
No, she wasn’t sorry. She wasn’t apologizing. And she wasn’t crawling back to Nolofinwë.
But she was so lonely.
She had been lonely, that is, until Varda had spotted her one evening in the Lofts’ parking garage, just sitting all alone in the front seat of her Lexus, sobbing her eyes out. Varda politely looked away, waited until Anairë had pulled herself together, for the most part, wiping the running Dior Mascara Parfait from under her eyes, and then, mischievously, Varda shone a blindingly bright light into Anairë’s front windshield.
When Anairë could see again, she had gotten out of the car. “What in the world are you doing?”
“I thought you could use a little sparkle,” Varda had said, showing her the little flashlight on her keychain. “I never go anywhere without mine. Single ladies ought to look out for each other.”
Varda had taken Anairë up to her apartment on the twentieth floor, opened a bottle of Château Margaux 1990, and told her several horrible stories about her own ex-husband, Manwë, “God’s gift to the world, if you ask him,” until Anairë was crying tears of laughter and not loneliness.
Not far outside the heavy double mahogany doors that led into the quiet, marble-floored foyer of their apartment building, there was a newsstand. Varda stopped to buy a copy of the Times, while Anairë flipped through a Newsweek with Monica Lewinsky on the cover.
“I love her beret,” said Varda. Then she pointed at a copy of Movieline. “That’s him! That’s Freddie Prinze, Junior,” she said, voice gone high and giggly.
Anairë studied the cover. I ALWAYS PRAY IN THE SHOWER, said the subheader to the left of Mr. Prinze, Junior’s brooding-but-clean-cut face.
He did bear a striking resemblance to Nolofinwë, after all.
When Anairë arrived at the White Flame Yoga studio that Saturday, five minutes early for the early-morning Gentle Mists class, she wore black Nike bike shorts and a purple Northwestern sweatshirt, just like Princess Di. She carried her brand-new Hugger Mugger sticky mat in a nylon bag over one shoulder. Her heart was beating in nervous excitement.
Nienna and Estë, both in soft, tastefully snug grey sweat sets, were already there, stretching on the studio floor. Anairë hurried over and rolled out her mat next to theirs. It squeaked beneath her hands.
She couldn’t help looking at herself in the mirror. She knew she looked good for her age, a mature woman who had taken care of herself. She went to the beauty salon every six weeks like clockwork to get her roots touched up, her glossy black waves maintained in a stylish but not-too-trendy long bob. She got regular pedicures and manicures. She wore tasteful jewelry, a wing pendant on a delicate gold chain, given to her by her daughter for her fiftieth birthday, sapphire studs in each ear, an opal-and-diamond Art Deco ring passed down from her grandmother. For several years, she had done the Jane Fonda home video workout religiously, when she was still bothering to try and look good for her husband (who did not, she realized all too late, do the same for her); she was still fit, her long legs graceful, just the right amount of curves showing underneath those bike shorts.
But she was still a woman in her fifties. What was she thinking, entertaining a flirtation with a fitness instructor—sorry, a guru—who was probably half her age?
The night before, Anairë had dimmed the lights, filled the tub with raspberry bubble bath, and allowed herself to slip into a self-indulgent fantasy. The master bath in her apartment was equipped with the most decadent tub she had ever seen: teal tiles, gold fixtures, high-speed jets around the perimeter, and a five-speed vibrating shower head she had bought the day after Varda had told her all about hers.
Anairë had lit a candle that smelled like cherry pie, poured herself a glass of red wine, and slipped off her creamy chenille robe. The water in the tub was steaming hot, just how she liked it, and she arranged herself, leaning back against the corner, the shower head at her side.
First, she closed her eyes and let herself picture the Guru as played by Freddie Prinze, Junior. Well, a more muscular, long-haired version, the ladies had said. Wearing a cute little outfit. Maybe something tight and revealing. He would probably keep his hair tied up in a ponytail for class.
“It’s my first time,” she imagined herself saying, as she drew her hands over her breasts under the water, teasing her own nipples to hardness. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“That’s all right,” said the Guru in her imagination, “I’ve coached lots of beginners. You just have to lie back and let me take care of you.”
She pictured the Guru gently easing her onto the floor, hands lingering at her waist. He would twist and pose her body, slowly moving her from one position to the next, stretching out her spine, her inner thighs, her calves. Perhaps he would press down on her hips to make sure she was in alignment. “Your body is perfect for this,” he might say, “I can’t believe you’ve never done yoga before.”
“It’s only because you’re such a good teacher,” she might reply, batting her eyelashes. “What else can you teach me?” She would meet his big brown eyes with her own, let her legs fall open, and beckon him down.
In the tub, Anairë flushed to even think of herself being so bold. She had never done such a thing in her entire life. But—
She thrilled at the idea, tugging the Guru’s head between her thighs, where he might spread her wide, tell her she was beautiful, lick his lips. Maybe he would shake his head in amazement, that he had such a woman before him. And then he would lower his mouth, to—
Oh, to what, exactly?
Anairë didn’t know.
No matter. She had hands. She had the shower head. She turned it on, flipped it up to the fastest, strongest setting, and aimed the powerful jets right between her legs. Within minutes, she was seeing stars. Nobody was around to hear. She let herself pant and moan and scream “Oh, God!” as loud as she liked.
She made herself come twice.
It was just like Freddie said. The shower was a great place to pray.
At class, on Saturday morning, Anairë recalled the fantasy, and felt her cheeks warm. Surely, nobody knew what she was thinking. She was allowed to have sensual thoughts, she told herself. Even if she was a woman of a certain age.
Besides, if her friends were telling the truth, the Guru liked older women, didn’t he?
Several other fit, well-maintained women filtered into the studio, rolling out their mats for class, including their other friends from the Lofts: Nessa, Uinen, and last of all, Varda. They air-kissed and said their hellos in low, calm voices.
A soft bell chimed. The overhead lights dimmed. The quiet hum of conversation faded to silence, and a CD of lapping waves and gentle ambient New Age music began to play over the sound system.
The studio door opened one last time.
Sitting on her mat, Anairë faced the floor-to-ceiling mirror, and she had a perfect angle to see the Guru arrive.
He was just as they described. He was young. He was dark-haired. He was well-muscled indeed, and he wore an intense expression on his handsome face. The ladies hadn’t exaggerated one bit.
There was just one problem.
He was her goddamned son.
Her partner-track, first in his class at law school, on the road to one day fill his father’s shoes at the firm, son.
Anairë couldn’t believe it.
Before she realized what she was doing, she jumped to her feet and whirled on her mat, catching his eye.
He went pale the moment he recognized her, eyes darting to each of the fit, mature women on the mats all around, in child’s pose, in corpse pose, in arched-back cow pose—the women he’d fucked, if they were telling the truth—and back to Anairë.
She crossed her arms.
“Findekáno! Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”