Oh, dear, no. That simply didn’t work. No one in their right mind would be turned on by my industrial-strength pantyhose. I really had to work on my fantasy skills if I expected to have any sex life whatsoever.

It was then that I realized Mr. Goldman had stopped talking. He’d probably finished his essay, and I hadn’t even noticed. I looked over at him, expecting to see him beaming with pride, the way he always did when he was through reading. But no, he just stood there staring at the doorway, his eyes bulging, his jaw gaping.

I followed his gaze, and my jaw did a little gaping of its own.

There in the doorway stood an eightysomething Las Vegas showgirl.

Okay, technically she wasn’t dressed like a showgirl. She wasn’t wearing pasties or a G-string or feathers in her hair. But she was wearing tight capri pants, towering wedgie heels, and a plunging spandex top that revealed a San Andreas–sized cleavage. Her eyelids were slathered with sparkly turquoise eyeshadow, her fingers were studded with honker cubic zirconia rings, and her copper-red hair was piled high on her head in a hurricane-proof beehive.

I’m guessing she was somewhere in her eighties, because that was the median age of Shalom residents, but it was hard to tell underneath her thick layer of makeup.

“Hiya!” she said, snapping some gum. “I’m Goldie. Goldie Marcus.”

We all just sat there, staring at her. Even Mr. Goldman was at a loss for words.

“I just moved in today. From Paramus, New Jersey. My son took me out to dinner, so I didn’t get a chance to meet anybody yet. Anyhow, they told me about the writing class, and I wanted to join.”

I finally managed to jump-start my vocal chords. “Of course, Ms. Marcus. Take a seat.”

“Here!” Mr. Goldman shouted. “Sit here! Next to me!”

He practically knocked poor Mrs. Rubin off her seat as he wedged in a chair by his side. Goldie Marcus tottered across the room on her wedgies and shot Mr. Goldman a seductive grin.

“Have a Puddin’ Cup!”

And with that, Mr. Goldman grabbed the Puddin’ Cup he’d given me earlier and slid it over to her. “It’s double fudge chocolate.”

The nerve of the bum! Giving her my Puddin’ Cup. Yes, I know I said it was repulsive, but it was double fudge, after all. And I could have always sprayed the lid with Lysol when I got home.

“Thanks, hon.”

Was it my imagination, or did I actually see Goldie wink at him?

“My pleasure, dear lady,” he said, practically bowing. “My pleasure!”

“Welcome to our memoir-writing class, Ms. Marcus,” I said.

“Please. Call me Goldie.”

“Everybody, let’s welcome Goldie to the class.”

The other ladies exchanged sidelong glances of disapproval and murmured tepid hellos.