“I know. It’s unbelievable. But I’ve got to say she makes the best damn guacamole I ever tasted. She says her secret ingredient is a dash of orange juice. Whatever it is, it’s fantastic.”

“So is this Rochelle the ringleader of the group?”

“Oh, no. Far from it. That’s the funny thing about Rochelle. As much as she loves to entertain, she’s really quite shy. Just flits around, taking margarita orders, making sure everybody has enough to eat. She tends to blend in with the wallpaper, but she’s very sweet. Always sympathetic when one of us has a problem. In her own quiet way, she’s the glue that holds the group together.”

“What about the other club members?”

“Like I said, they’re all terrific.” Then she frowned. “Except maybe Marybeth.”

“Who’s Marybeth?”

“Interior decorator. Very successful.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” she said, turning onto a leafy street. “We’re here.”

She parked in front of an impressive colonial house, gleaming toothpaste white in the moonlight.

I whistled softly. “Nice house.”

“It’s Rochelle’s pride and joy. She’s constantly redecorating. I don’t think there’s an original room left. My theory is that the house is a substitute for kids.”

“Oh?”

“She and her husband haven’t been able to conceive, and she pours all her maternal energy into the house.”

“Very interesting.”

“Just call me Dr. Freud. Too bad I can’t fix my own neuroses.” She snapped off the ignition and turned to me with a grin. “Guess it’s time to hit those margaritas.”

And so I sucked in my gut, poufed out my hair, and headed off to my first meeting of the PMS Club.

Chapter 4

Rochelle Meyers may have been obsessed with her house, but she sure didn’t take any pains with herself. She greeted us at the door in baggy jeans and an oversized denim work shirt, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder. Her wispy brown hair was in desperate need of a good styling and I couldn’t help noticing a bit of a tummy underneath that work shirt.

“Hi.” She smiled shyly, her face flushed. “You must be Jaine. I’m Rochelle. Come on in.”

She ushered us into a foyer the size of my dining room.

“Why don’t you girls get settled in the living room? I’ve still got a few things to take care of in the kitchen.”

And with that, she scurried off down the hall.

“She’s always got something to take care of in the kitchen,” Pam said, leading me into a huge beige-and-white living room, tastefully decorated, with a massive stone fireplace and twin sofas the size of railway cars.