The Switch. Olivia Goldsmith

took her for granted, they could fix that now—now that they had the luxury of this time together.

      She looked at her watch. Honey Blank, her next student, was late. Typical. Sylvie heard a noise in the hall and stepped out there again. The mail came sliding through the post slot in the front door. Maybe there was a letter from one of the children. Kenny would be bad about writing, but Reenie might take the time to send a note. Sylvie knelt to pick up the pile. The usual bills, some catalogues (soon the pre-Christmas deluge would begin), and a card from her sister. Ellen was always early with her birthday greetings. Sylvie opened it. “Forty but still fabulous” it said on the front, with a photo of a wizened old woman in frightening makeup. Thank you, Ellen, Sylvie thought. Older but still passive aggressive, I see. Sylvie shrugged. There was a postcard from Reenie. Sylvie read it quickly. Good. It seemed as if Reenie was settling in. She had signed it “your daughter, Irene,” the formality of which made Sylvie smile.

      But it was the Sun Holidays brochure that lit up her face. This was what she’d been waiting for. She felt as if she and Bob needed to rekindle the lamp, the light that had always been at the center of their relationship. And now, with the children gone, there would be time. Here, in her hand, was a ticket to romance. It was up to her. She had always been the spontaneous one, the one who created their adventures.

      The phone rang and Sylvie took the mail to the hall table.

      “Are you in the middle of a lesson?” Mildred, Sylvie’s mother, began almost every phone conversation that way.

      “No, but Harriet Blank is due over any minute.”

      “Lucky you. The only woman in the greater Shaker Heights-Cleveland area with no social boundaries whatsoever. After her, do you and Bob want to come over for dinner?”

      “No thanks. I’ve defrosted chicken.” Bob loved Mildred, but he got enough of Jim, Sylvie’s father, on the car lot most days. As she listened to her mother. Sylvie finished sorting through the mail.

      “Your father is barbecuing,” Mildred told her.

      “Well, that is an inducement. I haven’t eaten charcoal since July Fourth. You know, Kenny says Grandpa’s burgers are carcinogens. Something about free radicals.”

      “The only free radical I know about is Patty Hearst,” Mildred snapped. Sylvie giggled while she opened the Sun Holidays envelope. It was the glossy brochure she’d written away for. She unfolded it, her heart beating a little faster. The photos were like gems, glowing deep sapphire and emerald in the dimness of the hallway.

      “I thought I’d do your birthday dinner on Thursday,” Mildred continued, “in case Bob was taking you out someplace fancy on Friday.”

      The only place she wanted him to take her was Hawaii, Sylvie thought. “He hasn’t mentioned it. I’ll ask him.”

      “Maybe it’s a surprise.”

      Oh no! “No surprise parties, Mom. I mean it,” Sylvie warned. “It’s bad enough being forty. I don’t need the whole cul-de-sac gloating. Not to mention Rosalie.” Just the thought of her ex-sister-in-law made Sylvie shiver. She held up the brochure. There was a picture of a guest room showing a canopy bed hung with white. She and Bob, tanned, lying under the canopy…. Well, she couldn’t tan but she could turn pink and put her arms around him and …

      “Sylvie, are you moping? Not that I’d blame you, with the twins gone. It’s hard that both children had to leave at once. For me, I had six years to get used to Ellen, Phil, and then you leaving….”

      “I’m not moping. I’m happy.” Sylvie clutched the brochure and dropped the other mail into the basket. “I’ve got to get ready for my lesson.”

      “All right, dear. Call if you change your mind.”

      There was a tapping on the glass of the French door. Mrs. Harriet Blank—Honey to her friends, if she had any—was standing at the back entrance. “You have a lot of leaves in the pool,” she said as she stepped into the room. “You should get one of those automatic pool sweepers.”

      “Nice to see you too,” Sylvie said mildly. “It’s been a long summer.”

      “I practiced every day,” Honey assured her, as defensive as Sylvie expected her to be. The lazy students always were. Honey took off her sweater and laid her bag on the armchair. She moved toward the bench, but paused and looked intently at Sylvie. “I saw you at L’Étoile, out by the lake, last week with Bob. You did something great to your face …” Honey took an even closer look at Sylvie, “… that night, anyway. I thought maybe you had a face-lift over the summer. You know, Carol Meyers did. She looks awful. Stretched. I hear she went all the way to Los Angeles for it. Waste of mileage. Anyway, you looked great—at L’Étoile—”

      “Bob and I haven’t been out to dinner for months,” Sylvie said mildly. “Not since Bob started campaigning for the Masons’ grand vizier or whatever the boss is called.”

      Honey made a face of disbelief. “Are you lying or did you forget?” she asked.

      “I wouldn’t lie about being with my husband,” Sylvie said, laughing, “or about a face-lift.” She touched the part of her neck that had just begun to go a little crepey. Lately, when she glanced in a mirror, she sometimes saw a shadow of her mother’s face. God. She pushed the thought from her mind. She was letting this woman get to her. And Honey was such a ditz. She was too vain to wear her glasses most of the time, even when she drove. But … “When was it?” Sylvie couldn’t help but ask.

      “Last Tuesday.”

      “We were home,” Sylvie said. Then she remembered that Bob had been late on Tuesday. But not very late. “We were both home,” she emphasized.

      “Come on. You were there,” Honey insisted. “The two of you were flirting like crazy. That’s why I didn’t even say hello.” Her voice drifted off. “You guys looked so romantic,” she murmured.

      “That proves I wasn’t there,” Sylvie said, relieved. “In Shaker Heights, husbands don’t flirt with wives—at least not with their own.”

      “It was you.” Honey paused. “Only your face was somehow … up. And you had only one chin.” Honey examined Sylvie’s face again. “You didn’t seem to have a wrinkle. And you were tan.”

      “Honey, I never tan. Not since I was born. I turn red, crack, and peel. My mother can verify that.” Honey was a pain. “Shall we?” Sylvie asked, gesturing to the keyboard.

      Honey leaned closer to Sylvie, still examining her face. “Well, you were tan two weeks ago. Did you buy that thing on QVC with the tape and the rubber bands? That temporary face-lift thing?”

      “No, but I once did get the thigh master. It’s still under my bed. Want it?” Sylvie smacked her right leg and gestured for Honey to sit at the bench. “Obviously, I never used it.”

      Honey seemed miffed by Sylvie’s response. They settled down to some finger exercises. It was clear that Honey hadn’t been practicing. Slowly they moved through the lesson. Somewhere near the end of the tiresome hour Sylvie thought she heard Bob’s car. She wanted to finish up quickly with Honey and present her new plan to her husband, but she was too professional to do it. She merely glanced over at the Hawaii brochure, propped at the edge of the music holder, and smiled.

      At last the session was over. Sylvie gave Honey a new assignment and walked her to the French doors. What a day! The autumn air refreshed her, the crisp underscent of apples combining with that of drying leaves. Sylvie took a deep breath, then patted the sheet music she had handed Honey and raised her eyebrows, the strictest she ever got with an adult student. But subtlety was wasted on Honey. They said good-bye. Honey took the sheet music, looked up at her, and moved her hand to her own eyebrow, lifting the skin into a wrinkle-free arch. “If a person is going to look that good, even for one night, I think it’s really mean not to share how you did it with a friend,” Honey sniped.

      “I