The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay)
Read The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) Online
Authors: Suzanne Kelman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2014 Suzanne Kelman.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle.
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503934146
ISBN-10: 1503934144
Cover design by Laura Klynstra.
Dedicated to Matthew & Christopher, my soul supporters.
CONTENTS
No man is a failure who has friends.
—It’s a Wonderful Life
Chapter One
TYRANTS
&
TRASH CANS
“Come and live in the country; you won’t regret it!” The advertisement in a glossy real estate periodical implored us. The glowing photo that accompanied the ad brazenly flaunted a charming timber-framed blue cottage adorned with whimsical white shutters and stunning window boxes brimming with gorgeous pink geraniums.
“Amazing beaches, rolling farmlands, and the enchanting village of Southlea Bay, voted ‘Best of the Northwest,’ are just minutes from your doorstep . . .” Then, to keep us firmly on the hook, the ads on the opposite page displayed a splashy chocolate-box vista of this dream property, complete with a velvety-eyed deer nibbling clover from a dew-kissed English country garden.
As the advertisement freely extolled the property’s other wondrous virtues, all that was missing was a photo of a double rainbow and a host of heralding angels.
We had drooled over this spectacular sight as giddy empty nesters from California, and we went barreling over to view the house the minute our feet had left the local ferry. We were itching to snatch up this “hard to believe it’s still on the market” three-bedroom wonder with its adjoining rustic five acres.
To clinch the deal, the real estate agent, wearing a flowery apron, enthusiastically opened the quaint Dutch doors as the aroma of freshly baked apple pie wafted out from the limed oak kitchen.
We were toast.
What I never realized as we practically fell over each other to put an offer in on our fantasy abode was that to live in the country also meant the country lived with you.
It didn’t take long to experience the less-mentioned joys of “country living” at its finest.
We have successfully fought off a plague of termites, a swarm of hornets, a gang of carpenter ants, and an attack of crazed moths. We encountered rats in the basement, bats in the attic, and mice in the pantry. We’ve saved nests of baby bunnies, countless injured birds that seemed to want to fly kamikaze-like at our windows, and one dazed, wayward turkey that limped into our yard. We keep pest control on our speed dial because, as we have found, taking care of the “country” is practically a full-time job.
On a balmy evening in the fall five years later, I opened the back door and sighed deeply. It was clear that once again we had received a visit from one of Mother Nature’s rascally rodents. Mangled mounds of leftovers and sloppy piles of food scraps, all remnants of dinners gone by, were heaped haphazardly across my once perfectly manicured lawn. It was now barely recognizable as the carefully coiffed backyard that I’d watered daily to keep as green as the picture on the lawn seed box—the place I’d tottered around precariously in special spiked shoes to aerate in the fall. The pampered yard I’d trimmed, preened, and revived as it recovered from an attack of moles was now a food-fight war zone.
I squelched out onto the grass, weaving around remains of last week’s Irish stew and a soggy Caesar salad. A flattened Swedish meatball box, a hard lump of moldy cheese, half a pork chop that had been nibbled on and then discarded, and a slew of rotting fruit littered the landscape. A sprinkling of eggshell was scattered about like rice at a wedding, and I spotted something unrecognizable that my husband must have emptied out of his own fridge. (Some people have separate beds. Now that we’re both in our late forties, we’d lived twenty-five glorious years together as long as we kept separate refrigerators. Fish bait, guts, and elk in his; hummus, strawberries, and froufrou French chocolate pastries in mine.) As I continued to survey Hurricane Rice-A-Roni, it was abundantly clear that a creature with four paws had devoured the contents of our trash can. Just then, my husband, Martin, arrived back from closing up our chicken coop.
“Raccoons!” he said with that assured tone that had managed to lure me into all sorts of foolhardy schemes in our years together.
I suspect men were given that intense, unwavering conviction to lull you into believing they always know exactly what they are talking about. It takes about six months into a marriage to figure out that you’ve been fooled.
Men seem to be fluent in an assortment of magisterial statements, such as, “It’s not going to rain today, trust me,” or “The tires on the car are fine. You could drive to Albuquerque and back on that tread,” and my all-time favorite, “Go ahead and use the check card. There’s loads of money in our joint account!”
“Yep,” said the king of his domain. “We’ve got raccoons, alright.”
“What shall we do? Call pest control?” I asked the knower of all wisdom.
“Too expensive. I’m going to trap it,” he said with that male assurance. “Then I’ll throw it in a sack and take it to the woods!”
Ding. The spell was broken.
“Trap it? And throw it in a sack?” I emphasized the last sentence in mock horror. “We can’t just trap it. It’s not a mouse. Raccoons are the size of a small mountain lion or something.”
You see, I like to exaggerate a little, just enough to expose his ideas as a little ridiculous. Verbal tennis is about the most exercise we get.
“No they’re not,” he volleyed back. “They’re not much bigger than, say . . . a cat.”
“A cat?” I served high. “What kind of cat do you know that can tip over a full metal garbage can? Why don’t I just call pest control for their advice?”
Point to me.
He squinted and said, “Hmmm,” which translated from “male” means, “I don’t actually agree with that idea, but I don’t have a comeback line to common sense.” Instead, he answered with, “I think I’ll talk to Dwayne about it.”
Set point.
Dwayne was just like Ask.com, except he was a large, beefy tank of a man with a reddened, rugged appearance and a long gray beard. His hygiene wasn’t quite up to par, but according to my husband, there wasn’t much Dwayne didn’t know about living on the land.
Back in the kitchen, I typed “how to trap a raccoon” into my Web browser as Martin reached for the phone. As I scanned through the online pages and all the cute pictures of raccoons, some of the ideas of how to catch them verged on the ridiculous.
There was an odd assortment of “Heath Robinson” cobbled-together projects with even odder people describing them, my favorite being, “How to build a raccoon trap using nothing but duct tape and birdseed.”
Martin had barely hung up with Dwayne before the phone rang again.
“Hello, Doris,” he said with emphasis so that I could hear him.
I shook my head at him furiously; he smirked mischievously.
“Sorry, you just missed her,” Martin said. “She’s just gone to, umm . . . choir practice.”
I threw up my hands in mock horror and mouthed, “What!” I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and wouldn’t be caught dead singing in front of people. In fact, I would rather be caught dead.
He paced away from me to make sure he stayed out of my reach.
“No, she didn’t know she could sing either. It was when she hit menopause that she discovered this amazing new singing voice. We’re hoping the pastor at Holy Souls might ask her to sing a solo in the Christmas pageant this year.”
I slumped my head down onto my desk.
“Yes, yes, it
is
good that you know about this now, especially when you need to organize one of your Christmas carol services at the Senior Center.” He moved rapidly farther away to a position where I couldn’t hurt him. “Oh yes, I’m sure she’d be fine with a microphone.”
Slamming my hand down on the desk, I lifted my head and mouthed, “Stop.” He turned his back to me, but I could tell he was giggling.
“Yes, I will let her know . . . very important . . . yes, I’m writing it down.”
He pulled out a Post-it note, drew a face with its tongue sticking out, and showed it to me.
“Okay, Doris, as soon as she gets in . . . Bye.”
He put the phone down and raced quickly toward the back door as I picked up a pillow and prepared to attack.
“That was Doris,” he said as he bolted out, shouting back over his shoulder, “You need to call her. It’s urgent.” He slammed the door and the pillow ricocheted off the back of it.
I sighed deeply as I contemplated Doris Newberry. She was a fascinating character, a pioneer and instigator of many weird and wooly projects who liked to “instigate” you right along with her. Every village has one, and Doris was ours: a lively individual always throwing herself into some harebrained scheme or other, taking no prisoners as she pulled you into her wild world of wackiness. Doris’s “urgent” could mean anything from the need to raise money for lame goats to singing at the top of a living Christmas tree. About an hour later, curiosity got the better of me.
“Hi, Doris. It’s Janet.”
“Janet Johnson from the library?” she barked. “Good. I’ve been trying to get hold of you. I need you to come to my house tomorrow afternoon. There is a meeting of my rejected ladies here, and you’ll fit right in.”
I furrowed my brow. “A meeting of your rejected ladies?” I was not sure if I should be offended that I would “fit right in.”
“You’ll see,” said Doris enthusiastically. “But it’s invitation only, so don’t bring hordes of people with you.”
I sighed; my mind had moved from goats to camel races to choreographing male strippers. I wondered whether I should wear a riding hat or take a wad of dollar bills.
The next morning, I slept right through the alarm I’d set for work. Skipping a shower, I threw on some clothes, grabbed a cup of coffee, and raced out the door.
Dashing toward the car, I tripped and almost fell over an object obstructing my path. My trash can had been emptied again, even though Martin had tied it shut.
I sighed. The raccoons had enjoyed another party, and my trash can had been the piñata! They’d obviously indulged in a great evening of feasting on our wares and then staggered off the property, loaded up with our birdseed as a little take-home gift!
I jumped into my car. Over the years, I’d become quite skilled at steering with my knees while applying makeup and drinking coffee and could’ve driven myself to the library with my eyes closed. Our cottage was on the outskirts of Southlea Bay Village, only a quick five-minute drive into the hub of our little town. Southlea Bay was everything you would expect from a small town on an island in the corner of the Pacific Northwest, the sort of place where people still stopped on the street to talk while children chained together daisies and created chalk art on the sidewalk. Bake sales, farmers’ markets, street dances, and pancake breakfasts at the firehouse were all regular occurrences.
The village sat in a low rise surrounded by three large hills. My drive to work took me down Main Street, which afforded a stunning view of the water that surrounded Southlea Bay on three sides. It was an ever-changing outlook depending on the time of year. In the winter, the water was choppy and gray as it mirrored the overcast sky and accordingly reflected a cool undertone across the village. During the summer, the water playfully danced beneath cobalt heavens and, when the sun caught it, shimmered like diamonds, bouncing refractive light across the whole town. A stunning vista of the Cascade mountains, frosted with snow year-round, made for the perfect backdrop.
This particular morning was dark and gloomy, and the first thing to greet me as I made my way down Main Street hill was the skunky aroma of roasting coffee. The rich, pungent fragrance hung on the air like a veil, emanating from our one and only diner, the Crabapple. It was tucked in the middle of the square and named after a gnarly old tree that used to dominate the parking lot. The Crab, as it was affectionately known locally, had been owned and run by the same family for generations. We had a pub with a bar menu at the bottom of Main Street and a pizza place at the far end, but the Crab was the only place where a family could sit down and eat a Sunday brunch or dinner together.
Across the street from the Crab was our local florist, All Stems from Here. With its black, swooping-lettered sign and bold, Parisian-style pink-and-black awnings, I always thought it looked a little out of place. But the owner, Carol Bickerstaff, had a passion for anything French, so who was I to argue? Next door to that, and in direct contrast, was a rainbow-colored, hippie-artsy store very majestically named Ruby-Skye’s Knitting Emporium.
I passed the florist and climbed the Main Street hill, heading toward the oldest building in our town. Built in 1896, this impressive redbrick building housed our post office and stood at the brow of the hill, watching over us like a somber old gentleman. Directly across the street was the Southlea Bay library, where I worked.
The library, with its white shutters and overflowing hanging baskets, was painted a rich barn-red and looked more like a charming farmhouse. I believe that’s why it was always a hive of activity; people felt more like they were visiting a favorite elderly aunt rather than coming to a public building. In front, on a bench in the midst of a little rock garden planted by a group of children from Southlea Bay Primary School, sat a honey-colored carved wooden bear reading a book. On a small brass plaque at his feet were the words of Jorge Luis Borges: “I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library.”
