ground floor of Saks Fifth Avenue. She was wearing spandex from the Sports Authority. She did not trail sophisticated scents from perfume boutiques lining Madison Avenue. Henrietta reeked of chlorine. She loved the solitary pleasure of her morning workout, her translucent hands already wrinkling from the water.
Hedgecock folded against the edge of the marble-and-tile pool, splashing water on her shoulders, prepping for thirty laps. In the adjacent lane a young woman glided through the water. With effortless strokes, she covered the length of the pool and executed a perfect flip turn at the far end.
The maneuver looked impressive, the fluid motion of an elite athlete. Suddenly, the woman bugged Henrietta. It was partly the intrusion. Hedgecock could not remember sharing the pool with anyone during morning laps. It was also the damn flip turn.
Hedgecock had attempted flip turns, on and off through forty years of laps, but never perfected them. Water filled her nostrils every time, either choking her lungs or making her sneeze. Even Hedgecock’s personal trainer had given up. He no longer tried to teach Henrietta the move. That was over ten years ago. And here in the Colony Club basement was a swimmer, violating Hedgecock’s one-woman, one-pool sanctuary and flipping with ease.
The woman paddled closer, her freestyle flawless and smooth, her kick powerful. She touched the side of the pool in the adjacent lane, stopped for a breather at the edge, and smiled at Henrietta. Her eyes shone a brilliant green. A nasty round scar, top of her right hand, bulged with puffy white tissue. It looked like a cigarette burn.
Henrietta averted her eyes. She fought the impulse to stare at the intruder’s damaged right hand. She never noticed what the woman was holding in her left, a curious piece of plastic that did not belong in a lap pool. For that matter, the object did not belong anywhere close to a seventy-six-year-old woman who prided herself on weighing 107 pounds dripping wet.
The green-eyed swimmer, cute and buxom in her late twenties, wore a navy blue swimsuit and white cap. Pretty, but Henrietta knew one thing for sure. The woman was not a member of the Colony Club.
“You must be a guest?”
Henrietta spoke in her most charming and winsome voice. There was no accusation to her tone whatsoever. She was earnest and friendly, a big smile for the guest.
“Yes,” replied the woman. A few ringlets of blond hair peeked through her swim cap. “And this pool is fabulous.”
Henrietta wondered how to ask, “Whose guest,” without being rude.
Rachel, who had learned much about the membership by walking through the clubhouse, read the older woman’s thoughts. “Liz said I would love it down here. She was right.”
“You mean Liz Southwick?” Henrietta immediately approved of the woman with green eyes and navy blue swimsuit.
“Are you friends?” Rachel asked with enough charm to take gloss out of a photo.
“Liz and I meet for lunch every Friday,” replied Henrietta. “Which reminds me, I need to start my laps. Otherwise, I’ll never finish in time.”
“I need to finish a few things myself.”
Henrietta started a steady breaststroke, which unlike the freestyle did not require flip turns. She loved the water. The pool invigorated her, chased the cruel aches that accompany seventy-six years and one false hip, turned her sixteen again if only for brief and glorious interludes. As she swam, however, Hedgecock decided there was something odd about the other woman.
Rachel watched Henrietta’s steady cross. When the older woman covered a third of the pool, Rachel launched in hot pursuit. Her freestyle, a casual stroke to the bystander, was lightning fast. She easily passed Henrietta, executed a perfect flip turn, and drove off the side of the pool like a shark tasting blood.
Kicking. Gliding. Hunting. Rachel rammed her syringe needle into the septuagenarian’s skinny thigh. Her thumb mashed down the plunger, and one
Hedgecock folded against the edge of the marble-and-tile pool, splashing water on her shoulders, prepping for thirty laps. In the adjacent lane a young woman glided through the water. With effortless strokes, she covered the length of the pool and executed a perfect flip turn at the far end.
The maneuver looked impressive, the fluid motion of an elite athlete. Suddenly, the woman bugged Henrietta. It was partly the intrusion. Hedgecock could not remember sharing the pool with anyone during morning laps. It was also the damn flip turn.
Hedgecock had attempted flip turns, on and off through forty years of laps, but never perfected them. Water filled her nostrils every time, either choking her lungs or making her sneeze. Even Hedgecock’s personal trainer had given up. He no longer tried to teach Henrietta the move. That was over ten years ago. And here in the Colony Club basement was a swimmer, violating Hedgecock’s one-woman, one-pool sanctuary and flipping with ease.
The woman paddled closer, her freestyle flawless and smooth, her kick powerful. She touched the side of the pool in the adjacent lane, stopped for a breather at the edge, and smiled at Henrietta. Her eyes shone a brilliant green. A nasty round scar, top of her right hand, bulged with puffy white tissue. It looked like a cigarette burn.
Henrietta averted her eyes. She fought the impulse to stare at the intruder’s damaged right hand. She never noticed what the woman was holding in her left, a curious piece of plastic that did not belong in a lap pool. For that matter, the object did not belong anywhere close to a seventy-six-year-old woman who prided herself on weighing 107 pounds dripping wet.
The green-eyed swimmer, cute and buxom in her late twenties, wore a navy blue swimsuit and white cap. Pretty, but Henrietta knew one thing for sure. The woman was not a member of the Colony Club.
“You must be a guest?”
Henrietta spoke in her most charming and winsome voice. There was no accusation to her tone whatsoever. She was earnest and friendly, a big smile for the guest.
“Yes,” replied the woman. A few ringlets of blond hair peeked through her swim cap. “And this pool is fabulous.”
Henrietta wondered how to ask, “Whose guest,” without being rude.
Rachel, who had learned much about the membership by walking through the clubhouse, read the older woman’s thoughts. “Liz said I would love it down here. She was right.”
“You mean Liz Southwick?” Henrietta immediately approved of the woman with green eyes and navy blue swimsuit.
“Are you friends?” Rachel asked with enough charm to take gloss out of a photo.
“Liz and I meet for lunch every Friday,” replied Henrietta. “Which reminds me, I need to start my laps. Otherwise, I’ll never finish in time.”
“I need to finish a few things myself.”
Henrietta started a steady breaststroke, which unlike the freestyle did not require flip turns. She loved the water. The pool invigorated her, chased the cruel aches that accompany seventy-six years and one false hip, turned her sixteen again if only for brief and glorious interludes. As she swam, however, Hedgecock decided there was something odd about the other woman.
Rachel watched Henrietta’s steady cross. When the older woman covered a third of the pool, Rachel launched in hot pursuit. Her freestyle, a casual stroke to the bystander, was lightning fast. She easily passed Henrietta, executed a perfect flip turn, and drove off the side of the pool like a shark tasting blood.
Kicking. Gliding. Hunting. Rachel rammed her syringe needle into the septuagenarian’s skinny thigh. Her thumb mashed down the plunger, and one
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