Free The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again by Nancy Thayer

won’t!” Alice agreed. “Look, use your computer—”
    “I don’t know how to use a computer!” Faye sobbed.
    “Well, learn,” Alice snapped. “You’ll be able to talk to Laura and Megan every day, using the computer camera. She’ll see your face, hear your voice—”
    Faye buried her face in her napkin. “But I want to hold her in my arms!”
    The other three sat silent, respecting her misery.
    Then Shirley cleared her throat. “Maybe you’d better find someone else to hold in your arms.”
    “Yeah,” Alice agreed. “Good idea, Shirley. Faye, we need to find you a man.”
    “I don’t want a man!” Faye retorted. “I want my granddaughter!” Raising her flushed, miserable face to Alice, she snarled, “And don’t tell me I’m too dependent on them.”
    “I wasn’t going to say that,” Alice rejoined in her best executive/queen-of-the-universe/don’t-even-think-of-arguing voice. This time she turned her most daunting glare on Shirley, the counter of all calories. “I was going to say this is so upsetting, we all need an enormous infusion of chocolate!” She raised her arm. “Waiter! Dessert menus, please.”

6
    At last
Polly was driving from her home in the Boston suburb of Belmont out along Route 2 toward the bucolic countryside.
    In her blue Subaru, she sped along a rural road beneath maples and birch dripping leaves of gold and crimson. She turned onto a pebble drive winding through Amy’s family’s farm, passed the renovated barn where Amy and David lived, and stopped in front of the charming old colonial farmhouse where Katrina and Buck lived. Someday Amy and David would live here, when they were grandparents, continuing the cycle.
    Polly jumped out of her car. From the trunk, she retrieved the pretty wicker basket she’d filled with David’s baby blankets and clothes and tied with a huge blue silk ribbon. She carried them and her own strange germs to the front door and rapped the brass knocker.
    Katrina opened the door. Like her daughter, Katrina had lank brown hair, huge brown eyes, and emanated a smug vegetarian calm, like a parsnip.
    “Polly, how nice of you to come.”
    Katrina led Polly into the front parlor with its handsome wide boards and rather uncomfortable early-American furniture. The room was hot, for in spite of the warmth of the October day, a huge fire flickered in the fireplace. Between the fireplace and the antique spinning wheel sat Amy in an antique rocking chair, and in her arms lay a small swaddled bundle.
    “Oh, my,” Polly breathed, tears welling in her eyes. She tiptoed close to mother and child.
    Katrina, who always hovered, lurked like a shadow at Polly’s left shoulder. Amy, oblivious to Polly’s presence, continued to rock the baby, holding him tightly to her breast.
    “Hello, Amy,” Polly whispered. “Congratulations.”
    Amy didn’t look up. “Thanks.” She continued rocking.
    “You look beautiful,” Polly said. “How do you feel?”
    “Great,” Amy responded, still not looking up.
    Polly waited a few moments, then quietly asked, “Amy? Could I see him?”
    “All right,” Amy whispered, and moved her arm just an inch or two, enough for Polly to spot a patch of pale skin and a rosebud mouth.
    “Could I hold him?” Polly pleaded.
    “He’s asleep,” Amy said.
    “I’ll be careful,” Polly assured her.
    With a slight pout, Amy rose, relinquishing the baby and the rocking chair.
    Polly settled in the chair, gently drew the blanket away from the baby’s face, and fell head over heels in love.
    Jehoshaphat’s face was as round as the moon, except for a little tab of chin and a bump of a nose. He had a full head of thick reddish blond hair and skin as pearly pink as the sheen of a slipper shell.
    “He’s so beautiful,” Polly said. She pulled the blanket away and gazed upon the baby boy’s body in its white undershirt and diaper. His tiny toes and fingers were curled like baby shrimp. His legs angled up like a little