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  The waitress came over and offered him a menu, but he waved it aside and gave her his order. He always had the same thing, the chicken club and two Lowenbrau, because “Harry’s” was one of the few places in New York where they put real chicken in the club sandwich, not that pressed-out plastic stuff that comes in a roll and tastes like chicken-flavored putty. He also liked the idea that they made the sandwiches right at the bar where you could see what they were putting in, just in case. And besides, along with the sandwich, they served those little, red-hot peppers that were a welcome relief from the ubiquitous dills that dressed up every other “club” in town.

  The waitress returned with the first Lowenbrau, and poured it in front of him into a tall frosted Pilsner glass. She smiled as she placed it on the little coaster on the table.

  “Your lunch won’t be long.”

  “That’s O.K. I’m not in a hurry.” He smiled back. She was a young girl about Bradley’s age. She had long, long legs and a small heart-shaped face and she wore a ring on the third finger of her left hand. Married already? He shook his head. As she walked away, he noticed for the first time that she had hair like Joyce’s. Thick and kind of reddish-brown, bouncing about on the top of her shoulders.

  Joyce had been a good sport to take that spa story. Not that he had given her much choice, but he needed it done and she was the best by far to do it. They had to boost their circulation soon. The last few issues had been a little too highbrow, and sales had fallen off. What they needed now was something a little spicy, something the average woman could relate to and at the same time be informed by. And now with this new angle about the guy who owned the place becoming a possibility, he knew he had definitely made the right decision sending Joyce. She would do a good job.

  Besides, he thought, taking a long sip of the cold beer, she looked like she could use a rest. She was getting that pinched-in look about her face that said she was under too much stress. Maybe he had been working her too hard.

  He was just wondering if she was mad at him for inviting himself to dinner the previous evening, when the waitress arrived with his club sandwich, some mayonnaise, and a small bowl of coleslaw on the side. She smiled. Freckles danced across the bridge of her nose.

  “Would you like your other beer now?”

  “In a few minutes, O.K.?”

  She went back to the bar and stood leaning on the rail talking to the bartender. She really did remind him a lot of Joyce. Perhaps it was her air of confidence. Her I-can-handle-it demeanor. Perhaps it was those long, long legs. Joyce had long legs. They made her almost as tall as him. Well, not almost, maybe, but standing next to her was a lot different from standing next to Maxine. Maxine was so short he sometimes felt he had to lean over in order to have a conversation with her.

  He spread some mayo liberally on one quarter of the sandwich, appreciating, for perhaps the hundredth time, the thick slices of chicken that invariably escaped out both sides of the bread, and took a bite. He chewed for a minute and then took a small bite of the red pepper. It was so hot it made his eyes water. Just the way he liked it.

  Joyce and Maxine. Now there were two opposite ends of a continuum, and yet there wasn’t all that much difference in their ages. Maxine was forty-five. Joyce had to be in her late thirties. And yet they were as different as night and day. Joyce was all work, ambition, and get-the-hell-out-of-my-way, and Maxine was all soft and motherly with those big brown eyes that said please-let-me-take-care-of-you. He had found that quality so appealing when they first met. It made him want to take care of her for the rest of their lives. So what had happened?

  He scooped up a forkful of the slaw and the waitress topped up his glass with the second beer. He bet she took care of herself just fine. Probably had one of those “equal” relationships that were all the rage these days. What would it be like to be married to a woman who wasn’t dependent on you for everything? Someone who could be counted on occasionally to be leaned on, rather than always the other way around. Things had changed so much in the twenty-five years he had been married to Maxine. No wonder he felt totally out of it sometimes. It was like the world had passed him by and left him with the burden of a marriage that he no longer fit.

  He thought about his shoes again, comfort versus style. And realized that neither word applied any longer to his marriage. Soon, he would have to do something about it.

  Slathering the remainder of the mayo on the last quarter of the sandwich, he popped half of it into his mouth before adding the last of the hot pepper, and chewed contentedly.

  I wonder why Joyce never got married, he thought to himself, taking a sip of beer and washing down the last of the sandwich. She was alright in the looks department, more than alright really, and yet she lived in that funny little apartment with somebody else’s demented cat. Didn’t she ever want to have kids? He tried to picture Joyce with kids. It didn’t work.

  He picked up a crumb of bacon from his plate. Lunch had been just right. It would probably be the only thing he ate today, since he had already decided to sleep in his office again tonight rather than going home to Maxine and face another bout of crying or, even worse, pretending that nothing was wrong.

  The waitress brought the check and he threw his American Express card onto the tray. When she came back, he made sure to leave her a nice tip. After all, she was a working girl, like Joyce.

  He pushed his way through the doors and back out onto 50th Street. The doorman tipped his hat. The wind had dropped. It felt like it might be getting warmer.

  On his way back to the office he decided to call Bradley and take the kid out to lunch during the week. Maybe sound him out about what was going on with Maxine before he broached the subject of divorce, himself.

  Chapter 15

  A “flower fence” of Barbados Pride lined the half-mile-long approach to the spa with a mass of brilliant yellow blossoms, punctuated here and there along the way with a jolt of pink or red from a cluster of hisbiscus bushes. And, towering above both, a double row of royal palms rode the breeze in perfect unison, drawing the eye to its ultimate destination.

  At the end of the drive, the Rolls passed beneath an archway and into the cobbled courtyard that marked the entrance to the spa and the end of the outside world.

  It was an idyllic location, to say the least.

  Mariette came round and opened the doors for her passengers, and then stepped aside so they could get the full effect of the place as they got out of the car.

  On the terrace, in front of the main house, a blue-tiled fountain splashed cheerfully as a statue of the nude Venus spilled an endless stream of water from the jug she carried on her shoulder into the reflecting pool below. And twisting thickly over the ivory stucco walls, vines of red frangipani tangled in an aromatic knot with white jasmine, as they wound their way up and over onto the tiled roof. Meanwhile, hidden in the cool thicket of their branches, nesting doves and tiny island thrushes provided the only competition for the music of the fountain.

  “Someone will put your luggage in your rooms.” It was Mariette. “Please go inside. Dr. Voight is waiting for all of you in the drawing room.”

  “Oh, isn’t it all simply perfect!” Cathy took a deep breath. “and the air. It smells like perfume.”

  “So does the mezzanine at Bloomingdale’s.” Joyce got out of the car and stretched. Perfection always made her leery.

  “It reminds me a lot of the place where Harry and I had our honeymoon in Bermuda,” offered Maxine to no one in particular.

  Great, thought Joyce. A reprise of Harry’s honeymoon was just what she needed. But Maxine had already turned her attention to counting her luggage.

  Joyce made her way up the wide tiled steps and in through the double oak doors which looked as though they had once adorned an abbey or at least the casa grande of an old Spanish family. Whoever financed this place must have been loaded. No wonder they weren’t shy about asking three grand a week for the pleasure of your company.

  Inside, she bli
nked her eyes in the unaccustomed dimness. It was dark in the hallway, after the brilliance of the late afternoon sun, and cool, although not with the coolness one expects from air-conditioning, more like the kind that comes from thick old walls and smooth, tiled floors. The kind that reeks of expensive antiquity.

  Above the foyer, a heavy iron chandeller with eight enormous sconces hung suspended by a single, thick-linked chain from the second floor ceiling. To the right, a wide oak staircase rose half a flight before turning and completing its ascent at the second floor gallery. And, set in the stucco wall, a large stained glass window, infused with tropical light, shed its jewels across the floor.

  Joyce craned her neck to study the glass. It looked very old, the colors too rich and deep to be of recent manufacture.

  “Lovely.” Cliff had come to stand behind her.

  His breath was warm on the back of her neck. She shivered involuntarily and turned around.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “I wasn’t talking about the window,” he said, his voice husky with implication.

  She felt the color begin to rise in her face but, before she could think of an off-handedly casual but worldly response, Cathy and Maxine came through the front doors, followed by the Taylors. Then a maid appeared and directed them through the doors to the left. The doctor was waiting.

  “Ach. Guten Tag! I see you have all arrived in one piece.” This was followed by a little chuckle. “Some of the guests are a little overwhelmed by our local airline. But I can see that none of you were in the least concerned.”

  Dr. Voight was a large, powerfully built man, and he smiled a broad, encompassing smile that showed off his whiter-than-white teeth. Joyce decided that he was good-looking in a sort of dark, heroic, Wagnerian way.

  “I am Dr. Hans Voight, the director and, I am pleased to say, the owner, of the spa.” He spoke with an accent which was German or possibly Austrian. After introducing himself, he began to greet them individually by name. Joyce, who was at the end of the line, realized that he had done his homework rather too well for her convenience, and so she introduced herself before he could say her name out loud.

  A slight frown crinkled his enormous brow and then he smiled and winked. “Of course, Mrs. Allan. We are so pleased you could come.”

  That had been easier than she had expected. Harry must have tipped him off for the need to keep her identity a secret when he made the arrangements for her to be here. And the good doctor naturally went along with the idea. Anything for a little free publicity, no doubt.

  “Please, everyone, sit down. I will order some refreshments and then we will have our little orientation meeting before you go to your rooms to unpack.”

  He rang a small silver bell and the maid reappeared.

  “Six cocktails, please, Gertrude.”

  While they waited for the “cocktails,” Joyce had a good look round the room. It was expensively furnished in a sort of eclectic European style. A Louis XV chair here, a Regency desk there, a Chinois screen on one wall. Very comfortable, yet extremely elegant. Like the doctor himself, it had a well-lived-in but well-kept look about it.

  She tried to decide how old he was. It was hard to tell. He had the glowing look of good health and youthful vitality that were no doubt a necessary prerequisite in this business. In fact, just looking at him made her feel consumptive. But finally, unable to pin a more definite age on him, she settled for somewhere between forty and forty-five. She might have guessed even younger except for his eyes, which said that he had been around for at least a century, possibly two.

  The cocktails arrived momentarily and were duly passed around on a silver tray.

  Joyce sipped hers tentatively, prepared not to like it but finding it rather refreshing, if a little sweet.

  “What is this?” Her mother had always said you should never take a drink from a stranger, just in case he had slipped some LSD into it. Not that Dr. Voight looked like an escapee from the acid farm, but old habits die hard.

  “Ach, that is my special recipe. Pineapple juice, a little bitters, some mineral water, and something special that is my little secret. You will find it very cleansing for the stomach. A good way to start your stay at the spa, to rid your system of the impurities of the outside world.”

  As if on cue, Belle Taylor put her drink down and took out a cigarette. Dr. Voight looked as though someone had just drawn a gun and demanded his money or his life.

  “Mrs. Taylor, please! Was ist das? What do you think you are doing?”

  Unabashed, she lit the Camel, took a deep drag, and sat back in her chair before meeting the doctor eye to eye.

  “Look, doctor, let’s get something straight, up front. I did not come here to ‘rid myself of the impurities of the outside world.’ If anything, they are the only thing that keeps me going, so don’t expect me to give up my cigarettes. I’ll go along with the exercizing thing and the facials and all that crap. I’ll even put up with the bean sprouts and the tofu, or whatever passes for food around here, but I will not give up these.” She held up the pack of Camels. “So don’t waste your time trying to reform me. O.K.?”

  “You are obviously a very determined woman, Mrs. Taylor.”

  Belle blew out a cloud of smoke and raised a plucked eyebrow. “You can say that again.”

  “But at least permit me to point out that smoking is bad for your health.”

  “You said the key word, doctor. My health. My business.”

  “I am afraid that while you are here, your health is also my business.” His voice took on a tone of intimacy then. “Perhaps we could discuss a little hypnotherapy for your problem, later on?”

  Belle narrowed her eyes and flicked a long ash from the end of the Camel. “It’s possible.”

  The doctor smiled just for her. “You’ll be surprised at how much better you’ll feel.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “I can assure you that you won’t feel a thing, if that is what you’re worried about.”

  Belle fixed the doctor with her eyes. “I don’t think I have any concerns in that area.”

  Joyce felt a surge of animal magnetism pass between the two of them. It reminded her of the time she had seen two lions at the zoo about to celebrate the rites of spring. You couldn’t tell if they were enjoying it, but they sure did a lot of growling and roaring before they got down to business. She was relieved when Dr. Voight cleared his throat and the tension from the air at the same time.

  He moved in front of the fireplace which was more decorative than functional and which, with its huge Venetian mirror, provided a good backdrop for his orientation speech.

  “I know that every one of you has come to The Spa at St. Christophe for a different reason. Each of you wants something from your stay and we will endeavor to give you whatever you need. We provide a very personal service here.” And here Joyce saw his eyes flicker over toward Belle. “So if there is anything you want, you have only to ask.

  “As you may not know, if this is your first time at a spa, there are two separate approaches to the idea of what I like to call “spaing.” The European and the North American. The European spa ethic is based on rest and relaxation. The idea is to come to the spa and retreat from the cares and troubles of the everyday world for a period of time, so that you may go back to the outside world feeling not only physically but mentally refreshed.

  “The American concept is a little different. The emphasis is more on the body than the mind. Fitness and diet are very important, and the guest activity-level is usually very high. You can imagine the sort of thing I mean. Up early for a brisk hike, hours of swimming and aerobics, lots of general running about.…” He paused and looked around.

  “Sounds just like work to me.” It was Regina.

  “Ah, the beautiful Miss Taylor has a point. Too much work, too little play, makes for a very dull life.” He tut-tutted and shook his head. “But, at St. Christophe, I like to think that we combine both of these concep
ts. We want you to enjoy your stay.”

  His “one of the gang” approach did not impress Joyce, who had already decided that, for whatever reason, he seemed to be trying too hard. Whoever he was, her instincts told her that he had the word “phony” stamped all over him.

  “Our guests are encouraged to do as much or as little as they like.” He was talking again. “You may decide to take a full program of exercise and diet, or just be lazy and enjoy the sun and the peace and quiet. It is up to you. The only thing we insist upon here is that you eat the dietetic meals we provide. I can assure you that our chef, Adolpho, is a gourmet—no bean sprouts and tofu as Mrs. Taylor has suggested. You will be pleasantly surprised at just how delicious spa food can be. By eating the meals we provide for you, you can be sure that you will feel a hundred percent better and perhaps even a little thinner, by the time you leave here, even if you do nothing more than lift a newspaper.”

  Joyce noticed that Cathy Stewart was smiling. “Thinner” was the word she had been waiting to hear. The doctor had evidently hit home with her.

  “Tomorrow morning each of you will have an individual counselling session and a medical, so that we may decide what program will best suit you during your stay. Now, before I have someone show you to your rooms, are there any questions?

  “None? Very well, then, I will see you all for dinner.” He displayed his teeth again, and rang the bell. The maid appeared a moment later.

  “Please show our guests to their rooms, Gertrude.” He turned, saying “See you later,” and then disappeared through the doors that led to the patio.

  Joyce drained the last of her “cocktail,” and picked up her purse. Thank god it wasn’t going to be one of those regimented health farms that doubles as a boot camp. At least now she would have the time and the opportunity to get to know her fellow guests well enough to do her job. And, who knows, she might even enjoy a little “spa-ing” while she was at it.