Turn Left at Sanity, page 2
Joe was brushing cat hair off his sweater and the thighs of his slacks.
Lydia, watching him with interest, said, “You look like you’ve got a pretty nice package.
What’s the matter? Can’t you get it up?”
Joe stopped brushing cat hair off his pants and glanced up at Lydia as though he couldn’t have heard properly.
Aunt Olive, busy stroking Mae West, said,
“Really, dear. Not in public.”
Betsy merely looked interested.
“Tea!” Emmylou shrieked.
Joe raised his head and blinked at the assembled company. No doubt, they looked like something from a drawing room farce, but if he said one rude or insulting thing to her darling aunts, he’d be out on his ear and that was that.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’d like some tea.”
“I could bring some to your room, if you’re working.”
He looked over at Aunt Lydia, then at Olive and Betsy. “No. I’ll have it here.”
Well, she thought, as she poured him a cup in the best bone china with the pink roses, at least he’d forgotten about the unfortunate incident with Mae West.
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“Joe Montcrief,” she said, belatedly remembering her manners, “I’d like you to meet Lydia Smoltz and Olive Bennet, who live here, and Betsy Carmichael, who’s come for tea.” And please let them behave.
But Lydia, sadly, wasn’t nearly finished. “Well, young man,” she said, sitting straighter and giving him a glimpse of what a fine pair of legs a woman could still reveal at seventy-five years old,
“you were wise to come to us. Did the doctor send you?”
“Doctor?” He held the delicate cup with no awkwardness, and still managed to look manly.
Emmylou had a firm rule about getting involved with guests, but she could look, couldn’t she?
“It’s all right. We’ve helped many men like yourself over the years. An older woman can offer so much more than a clueless young woman. In our day, men didn’t need any of those newfan-gled drugs. They had us, right, Olive?”
“That’s right. We worked our magic the old-fashioned way. Too bad they couldn’t bottle us back then.”
“Sandwich, Aunt Lydia?” Emmylou asked desperately.
But her aunt waved her away. “What is your sexual problem? I’d be happy to help.”
In her day, Lydia, along with Olive and Emmylou’s grandmother, Patrice, had been what Dr. Emmet Beaver termed Intimate Healers.
Lydia, however, hadn’t grasped the concept of retirement.
“Sexual problem?” Joe echoed, looking dumb-founded, while three older women who all ought to have known better stared at his crotch.
Helpless to think what else she could do, Em-
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mylou passed him his tea and placed a propri-etary hand on his shoulder. In a case of desperate times and desperate measures, she said,
“Sorry, Aunt Lydia. Joe is my client.”
As her supposed client looked up and caught her gaze, the trickle of awareness she’d felt built up to a waterfall.
Those silver, gray, blue eyes were shot through with devilry. “Thank you, Emmylou,” he said. “I think I’m going to need a lot of one-on-one work.”
Uh-oh. She had a feeling there was trouble ahead.
Chapter 2
Joe was rarely surprised. A great deal of his success depended on knowing what he was getting into long before he got there. So he’d forgotten one simple fact about himself.
He loved surprises.
He didn’t have the faintest clue what was going on in this faded, overstuffed, over-decorated room with its three old ladies and one very sexy young one, but he was going to sit back and enjoy himself until he found out.
Emmylou gave his shoulder a little squeeze, which he figured was thanks for not laughing in that sweet old gal’s face—as if he would. He got offered sex all the time, so he rarely thought about it, but he’d never been offered sexual healing by someone old enough to be his grandmother.
The only sex problem he had was slipping out of a woman’s bed as easily as he slipped in.
From trial and error he’d discovered two fair playing fields. He dated women who were under
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thirty, before the biological clock hit the alarm button, or over forty, when they’d either already had their kids or decided they didn’t want any.
That way he could keep the relationships about sex rather than lifetime mating. It wasn’t that he minded kids—hell, he’d probably have them someday—but he didn’t like feeling as though he were trying out for the role of forever mate and daddy when all he wanted was some female companionship, a hot, willing body, and some laughs.
“Well,” the same old gal said to Emmylou, “I don’t see why you should get all the nice young men. I’ve had a lot more experience.” She turned to him and asked, “So what is your problem, dear? Premature ejaculation? A reluctant member?” She glanced significantly at his lap.
“Certain needs that aren’t being fulfilled? Or—”
“Aunt Lydia! I should explain. You see—”
But he didn’t want to hear some boring explanation.
“I’ll bet you’ve helped a lot of men,” he said to the woman Emmylou called Aunt Lydia.
“Oh yes, indeed. Dr. Emmet used to say I had a real feel for my work.” She giggled, and he had the strong feeling it was an old joke being trotted out for his benefit. Half the fun was watching out of his peripheral vision the way Emmylou was frantically signaling the other two old gals, and the facial twisting and hand gesturing she was getting in reply. They wanted to shut “Aunt Lydia”
up, but he wanted to hear what she had to say.
And then he intended to get back to the part where Emmylou had announced she’d taken him on as a client. She wasn’t his usual type. Her address was Rosehip Lane, not Wall Street. She
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was a country girl, fresh and wholesome. She wore a starched apron, for God’s sake. But under the apron she wore a hip-looking skirt that fit in all the right places. She smelled of cinnamon and ginger, but there was something far more intoxicating in her eyes.
She also looked to be well under thirty. Mid-twenties at a guess. Definitely not ready to obsess about motherhood. Yep. He could be interested in some sexual healing.
“We worked for the noted psychologist and philanthropist, Dr. Emmet Beaver,” Lydia said.
“Dr. Beaver?” Was she putting him on?
“I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
“No.”
“I suppose you’re too young. His techniques were advanced. He had his own foundation here in town, you see. People came from all over with their problems.”
“Sexual problems?”
“Not only those. Various maladies—”
“Nutbars. Lots of nutbars,” Olive interrupted.
“And he treated them all. We were chosen as Intimate Healers, so we worked mainly with the sexual difficulties. We helped many a man, and many a marriage.”
“Is that what you’d call a sex surrogate today?” he wondered aloud, intrigued.
“I prefer our term,” she replied a mite huffily.
He bit back a smile. He supposed there was snobbishness in every profession.
“Dr. Beaver was such a fine physician, he cured everyone, you know.”
An unladylike snort emerged from the saintly-looking woman with spun sugar hair. “Don’t be a fool, Lydia.” She turned to Joe and explained.
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“The foundation ran out of money so they told all the patients they were cured. They opened the doors of the sanitarium, released the patients, and then closed the place permanently.”
Now he was interested. He suspected that long-empty sanitarium, and the acres of land it sat on, was the reason he was here.
“What happened to the—” He caught himself before he said “inmates” and substituted, “Former patients.”
“Most of them still live around here,” the spun-sugar-haired woman said. “They’re all crazy as loons.”
“They were all cured by the good doctor,” the woman called Lydia insisted.
Olive sent him a sly smile. “She’s as crazy as the rest of them. Hell, we all are, except for Emmylou, and if you ask me, she’d have more fun if she was a bit more crazy.”
Oh, this was turning into a very interesting afternoon. Since the wiring was so old he couldn’t plug in his laptop upstairs, he’d anticipated being bored witless, but that big old cat had done him a favor.
“Cucumber sandwich?” Emmylou asked him.
She didn’t look embarrassed, simply resigned. It must be hell living with a bunch of retired sex healers.
There were places in Manhattan where you lined up for afternoon tea to get surly waiters and be jammed together so tight you knew what brand of deodorant the person next to you used. Or didn’t.
This was much better. Not that he was a tea drinker, and it would take about a hundred and twenty of those doll-sized sandwiches to fill a
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man, but part of his object in coming to Beaverton was to gather information on the potential workforce for the new factory. It was obvious these women had lived here a long time and must know their town, so he could pump them for information while sipping tea out of a cup that was a direct threat to his masculinity. It seemed he was getting some work done this afternoon.
He was about to ask more about the esteemed Dr. Eager Beaver when a new distraction occurred. Two more old gals walked in. The first wore an ancient pink Chanel suit and a string of fat pearls he’d bet were real. Her purse and shoes matched. “I hope we’re not too late for tea,” she said in a cultured tone that sounded like Boston Brahmin. “Madame Dior and I suddenly decided we wanted one of your divine cakes, my dear.” She walked to Emmylou and they air-kissed.
Madame Dior paused until the Chanel woman was well into the room before making her own entrance. And make an entrance she did. She swept in like a thirties actress onto the stage. Her short black hair bobbed as she walked, and she looked around with large, black-rimmed eyes.
Her skin was white and her lipstick dark red. She wore black slacks and a silk blouse with abstract designs on it, and held a cigarette holder with a blue cocktail cigarette—unlit. The kind of cigarette holder that he’d only ever seen in old movies or at costume parties.
“Of course you’re not too late. Come in,” said Emmylou, rising.
“Miss Trevellen, Mme. Dior, I’d like to intro-duce Joe Montcrief.”
He stood, as he’d been taught to do years ago
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in prep school when a lady entered the room. It wasn’t the kind of thing you did these days, but with the over-seventy set it was still a popular move.
Miss Trevellen shook his hand and moved to the chair beside an étagère crammed with china and silver doodads that all looked as though they’d be at home in an antique store or mu-seum.
“Wouldn’t you like to sit here, closer to Aunt Olive?” Emmylou said, offering the older woman a place on the blue velvet settee.
“I’m fine here, dear. Thank you.”
“I am zo ’appee to make your acquaintance,”
said the French woman in a smoky voice, choosing the seat nearest his and accepting a teacup from Emmylou, who was once more in hostess mode.
“My pleasure,” he said. In fact, part of his pleasure was ruined because he doubted there’d be any more talk of intimate healers. However, the more old ladies he could interview, the more information he could gather on this town and its workforce. He was about to ask a leading question when a slight movement caught his eye, and he watched in astonishment as the ladylike Miss Trevellen, wearing pearls that had to be worth ten grand, slipped a little silver dish from the crowd of ornaments beside her and tucked it into her purse.
He glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but they were all talking, pouring tea, or choosing sandwiches.
Joe found himself in a dilemma. Should he point out that the old dear had pilfered from
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her hostess right before his eyes or should he keep his mouth shut?
He decided to keep his mouth shut when he caught sight of Emmylou, who’d paused in the middle of handing out tiny plates and tinier napkins and was gazing at Miss Trevellen with an expression of fond exasperation. He was fairly certain the old lady’s purse now bulged in a second place and that yet another of the knickknacks was missing.
His gaze collided with Emmylou’s for an instant and as clearly as though she’d spoken, he got the message. Keep your mouth shut. He did his best to send back, I read you loud and clear. And his message had an addendum: I want you.
She must have understood the entirety for she nodded imperceptibly, then her chest huffed a little and her blue, blue eyes opened wide. He didn’t get, I want you back. He read something in her eyes, though. Not indifference—more the impression that she was attracted to him and didn’t want to be.
Too bad. Maybe he could help her get over her reluctance. If he could spare the time from work.
Joe forced down three cups of tea as an excuse to stay; he wouldn’t have missed his afternoon for anything. He had the chance to watch his very hot hostess, who wore a short black skirt and an apron and looked great in both of them.
He’d never been much for the French maid fantasy, until now. Apart from the sexy Emmylou, were the entertaining older women. Emmylou managed to quell her aunts, to his sorrow, but Madame Dior sat beside him and told him how
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he reminded her of a boy she once knew in Nice.
“ ’Ee ’ad ze same beautiful eyes, and ze body. Ah, you make me feel young again.”
His cell phone rang a couple of times, but he’d set it to vibrate and didn’t feel like plugging in to the real world. He was picking up enough useful information from the tea party that his time was far from wasted.
“Well,” Miss Trevellan said, looking to the French woman in a silent Shall we go?, when the front door opened and shut with a bang.
Emmylou started to rise, then sank back down when an angry female voice with a southern lilt could be heard ranting, “You will not believe what those mongrel curs have done this time.”
Mongrel curs?
“I told them, ‘This is the Beaverton Little Theatre Company, not Stratford on Avon,’ and those interfering Pyes can take their play and . . .” By this time the owner of the voice had appeared.
She was a faded, skinny woman in a flowered cotton dress that went to the floor. On a hippie chick it would have looked stylish. The woman saw him and stopped. “Oh,” she said, and tilted her chin down so she could look at him through her eyelashes. Which she then batted. Unfortunately, at him. She fluttered her hand near her face and then giggled. “Well, I do declare, listen to me run on, and in front of company, too.”
Once more he stood, then took the small hand held out to him. “I’m Geraldine,” she said.
She gazed expectantly at him as though she expected him to kiss her hand, but he shook it firmly instead. “Joe Montcrief.”
She sat down with a flutter of hands, lashes,
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and flowered dress, taking the tea Emmylou handed her with a soft “Thank you.”
“Are you a theatrical agent?” the woman asked him.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, that’s just as well. They won’t let me be Maria in this year’s musical. Terrea Pye got the part, and you know that’s only because she and her husband do everyone’s hair.”
“You would have been a wonderful Maria,”
Betsy said. “It wasn’t right.”
“I have to be a sister,” the faded beauty said with a pout. “Can you imagine me? A nun?”
Olive guffawed, and it was an odd sound coming from such a dainty woman. “That’s when I decided to be in this play, too.”
“And me,” Lydia said.
“Black is my color,” Madame Dior stated.
Miss Trevellan sighed softly and said she’d always wanted to be a nun. Joe wasn’t an every Sunday Catholic, but he felt that a woman who pilfered the silver during afternoon tea was not cut out to be a nun. Even a pretend one.
“I wouldn’t have even been in this silly play if it weren’t for the fun we girls have rehearsing in the attic. I don’t like practicing along with men.”
Geraldine turned the word “men” into two soft syllables and shot Joe another coquettish look from under her lashes. “Dr. Beaver always let the women and men practice separately. It’s been just like the old times.”
Ah, Joe thought. So the Beaverton Little Theatre Company was an offshoot of amateur theatricals in the loony bin. He’d have to get season’s tickets.
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“In those days, I believe the men and women put on different plays and performed them for each other,” Emmylou said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Olive stated. “The play will flow seamlessly, you’ll see. You will come, won’t you, Joe? It’s Friday night. You can go with Emmylou. She’s not in it.”
“If I’m still in town then, I’d love to come.” It would be good for him to see the community in action. Not to mention spend some time with his hostess, who must be single if the old gals were fixing her up so blatantly.
“Olive!” Emmylou said, clearly mortified to have been set up by the older woman.
“It’s settled then,” Olive said, blithely ignoring Emmylou. “If you ask me, you could both use some fun.”
Not long after that, the tea ladies took their leave. He felt like the groom in a reception line, as each took his hand and murmured pleasantries.
Betsy Carmichael told him he was a dear, sweet boy. Madame Dior clasped his hand tightly and told him to drop in and see her sometime. Geraldine Mullet kissed his cheek, and while her lips were near his ear whispered, “Until Friday, then.”
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