Sitting hurts. Lying down hurts. The only thing that’s remotely bearable is to keep moving. Once I stop, it becomes even harder to get going again.

The pain is much worse the next morning and the three Motrin I washed down with my coffee haven’t put a dent in it. Julia calls to see if the kids and I want to meet her and her daughters at the park later this afternoon. “I don’t know,” I answer. “I did something to my back. I need a massage, but my regular guy is on vacation.” I’ve been going to Walt for years; he’s sixty-five, a retired marine, and he doesn’t try to manhandle me or press on anything too hard. I trust him implicitly.

“You should go to my guy. If you call him and tell him I referred you, he’ll get you right in.”

“Is he good?”

“He’s the best. I tip very well.” She gives me his number and I scrawl it on a scrap of paper. As soon as I hang up I call; Julia must have some pull because her massage therapist says he’ll shuffle things around and can fit me in at one o’clock. I call a babysitter to watch the kids while I’m gone.

The pain in my back has morphed into a dull, throbbing ache and the anticipation of relief prompts me to arrive early. It looks like a nice enough place, and the reception area is clean, though sparsely decorated. I thumb through a magazine and wait.

When he pops his head around the corner and calls my name, I’m relieved to discover that Julia’s massage therapist is a tall, athletically built man who looks as if he’s in his midtwenties. His handshake is firm, but not crushing, and once I’m on the table and he begins, I can tell he’s not going to be too rough. He asks me about my pain and focuses extra attention on the small of my back where it hurts the most. Gradually I relax, and I think I could actually fall asleep.

After a while he asks me to turn onto my back and I manage to flip over without dislodging the towels that cover the parts of me that are off-limits. He resumes massaging me, starting with my feet and working his way up. I start to doze, but then his fingers graze the inside of my thigh, which is weird because Walt never touches me there.

His hand moves a little higher.

Or there.

He slides his hand between my legs, cupping me, fluttering his fingers gently along my crotch, and I fly off the table, pain ripping through my back as I try to remain upright and keep everything covered.

Walt would neverdo that.

“What the hell are you doing?” I yell.

He holds his hands up in front of him and takes a few steps backward. “I’m sorry. Julia referred you. I thought you knew.”

What, that you give happy endings? No, I didn’t know that.

“Look,” he says. “I’m really sorry, but I’m putting myself through grad school and I need this job. I would never have touched you if I thought you didn’t want me to.”

Seeing his panic-stricken expression calms me down; his explanation rings true, and I’m open-minded enough to chalk the experience up to a misunderstanding. A really big one.

“It’s okay. I won’t say anything.”

Relieved, his shoulders slump and he takes a deep breath. “I’d be happy to work on your back some more. You look like you’re in serious pain.”

He seems sincere, but I say, “No thanks. I’m going to get dressed now.” Before he leaves the room I add, “Hey. I was never here.”

He nods, comprehending. “Okay.”

We walk to the park later to meet Julia and her girls. She notes my slow rate of speed, and my shuffling gait. Her hands are wrapped around a plastic tumbler that contains a clear liquid I strongly suspect is white wine. “Didn’t you call my guy, Claire? I told you he’d fix you right up.” She smiles knowingly.

“I called a chiropractor instead. I don’t think this is a problem that can be solved with a massage.”

And certainly not with an orgasm.

It’s not a lie. As soon as I got home I called a chiropractor and I’ve got an appointment first thing in the morning.

“You look like you’re in agony,” she says.

“I’ll be fine.”

The kids scamper off, eager to play, Josh on the jungle gym and the three girls on the swings.

Julia leans in close, so I can hear her. “Make sure you call him sometime, Claire,” she whispers, and the fumes of chardonnay wafting from her mouth are so potent I’m surprised I don’t catch a buzz. “You’ll want to get on his rotation, especially now that Chris is gone all the time.”

“I’ll keep him in mind,” I say, but I’m flat-out lying because I’m not so desperate for the human touch that I’m willing to outsource it to a man employed by a massage franchise sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a video store in some strip mall across town.

Not yet, anyway.

18

claire

Justin and Julia’s swimming pool is finally done and she invites us over for an inaugural dip one day in early August. Josh and Jordan are thrilled and they run upstairs to change into their suits right after breakfast. Julia extends the invitation to Elisa and Bridget, too. When we arrive Julia turns on the waterfalls and points out the features of the hot tub.

“Everything turned out beautifully,” I say. “It’s heated, right?”

“Yes,” Julia says. “If the weather stays halfway decent, we’ll be able to swim until the end of October.” The kids cheer, ecstatic about the prospect of having a pool at their disposal, and the air soon fills with the sounds of splashing and laughter.

“What can I get you to drink?” Julia asks. “I have beer, wine, vodka. I can make a batch of margaritas. Oh, I almost forgot. I can do mimosas.”

“Do you have any iced tea?” I ask.

Her face falls. “Sure. I always forget you don’t drink much.” It’s true that I’m not a big drinker, but I can have one or two if I adjust my insulin accordingly. But it’s 10:03 A.M. A drink doesn’t sound remotely appealing.

“I’ll take a beer,” Bridget says. “I accidentally walked in on Sebastian having some special alone time. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to erase that image.”

“Oh, God,” I say, laughing.

“A word of advice,” she says, looking at Elisa and me. “ Alwaysknock first.”

We groan. “I don’t think we’re at that stage yet,” I say. “At least I hope not.”

“I’ll have some tea, too,” Elisa says, and Julia walks into the house to get the drinks. When she returns she has a tray with a pitcher of iced tea, two glasses, a bottle of beer, and a full glass of wine. She sets the tray down on the table and hands out the drinks.

I take a sip of my tea and then spread out my towel on one of the four chaise lounges that Julia has arranged next to the pool. I strip off my cover up and lay down, rolling up another towel and placing it behind my head for a makeshift pillow. “This is fantastic,” I announce, feeling the warm sun on my skin. I shield my eyes and do a quick head count: all children are safe and by the looks of it they’re having a wonderful time.

“Are you still really busy, Claire?” Bridget asks.

“Not really. I’ve finished up a lot of my smaller jobs. I’ll add more when the kids go back to school. And I might have an assignment with the police department.”

“Doing what?” Bridget asks, slathering herself from head to toe with sunscreen.

“Designing a new logo. When the officer delivered the speed limit sign the other day we started talking and he asked me what kind of work I did. He told me they were interested in hiring a freelance graphic designer. I submitted a bid.”

“I think someone is a little sweet on our Claire,” Elisa teases. “She’s failed to mention that the officer is ridiculously good-looking and that the speed limit sign showed up mere days after she asked to get bumped up on the list.”