The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) (3 page)

She was enchanting.

“Apparently the market is just flooded with World War II memoirs, and my story just isn’t . . . interesting enough.” Her voice trailed off, and there was an intense sadness in her blue eyes.

Lottie, who was seated close in one of the furry orange bucket chairs, patted her hand and reassured her. “But you get to share your stories with us, and we love them.”

Gracie seemed to brighten and lightly covered Lottie’s hand with her own.

“Next to Momma is Flora,” announced Doris. “She’s the poet of our group.”

Flora flushed a deep crimson. “I’ve written 123 of them. I like to write poetry,” Flora squeaked out in a tiny voice.

Lavinia jumped in to help Flora, who had started to squirm with the attention. “But poetry is hard to sell, so we get to hear her poems here. And we love them.”

The woman with the sparkly knitting needles piped up, “I’m Annie.” A bright, warm smile spread across her ruddy cheeks. She had round, soft features, and her head was a mass of tight white curls. She wore bright-white sneakers and a plum velour lounge suit. She hooked a stitch. “I’m not as talented as the rest of them, but—”

There was an outcry in the room. Doris brought them all to order saying, “Annie, remember the rule: There are no bad writers here, only rejected ones. If you were published, you couldn’t be a part of our group.” Doris turned to me. “That’s the only rule here. We want a feeling of solidarity. Having someone get published would just not work. We’ve lost a few over the years due to success,” noted Doris grimly, “but fortunately, as it is very hard to get published, we keep more than we lose.”

Annie brightened. “I like to write dog stories. I love dogs, so I write about them.”

“Janet is going to help us take our stories out to the world,” Doris announced with wild exuberance.

I was going to do what? I wondered if maybe I’d passed out at some point and missed something, but before I could comment, Doris continued without taking a breath.

“But first, before we have Janet talk to us, I hear we have another Fabulous Female Failure.”

Ruby started rooting around in a knitted bag with a purple peace sign adorning the front and pulled out an envelope.

All the women clapped enthusiastically. I clapped absently as well; I was still contemplating what Doris had just said about me.

“Wonderful,” said Doris, taking it from her and holding it high with all the gusto of a circus ringleader announcing its star performer. “Get the book, Ethel.”

Ethel disappeared, and Doris handed a large mason jar around the circle. Everybody except Ruby threw in some change.

Ruby said, “It’s so good when I’m bad.”

I leaned toward Ruby and asked her, “What’s the jar for?”

“Everyone without a letter this month has to throw in some money. We’re collecting for a big celebration when we hit five hundred letters.”

I then asked a question that I’d been wondering about. “Does Ethel write?”

Ruby shook her head. “She’s just a friend of Doris’s. She’s more of a helper to the group.” Then she added with pride, “As I said before, not everybody can be a rejected lady.”

A few minutes later, Ethel paraded back into the center of the room, holding aloft “the book” as if it were a much-anticipated birthday cake. It was a large black leather-bound affair bulging at the seams. She handed it to Doris, who received it reverently before opening it.

Doris cleared her throat and spoke. “As you all know, the Rejected Writers’ Book Club has been meeting for five years now, and apart from that unfortunate bout of dysentery two years ago, we have met every single month, upholding our motto, Connection with Rejection. In my hands is our fabulous file of failure, of which I am proud to announce we now have 475 rejection letters. As is the custom at the beginning of each session, I would like to take a moment to recognize one of them.

“Here’s one of my favorites.

Dear Mrs. Newberry,

Thank you for sending us your manuscript,
Love in the Forest
, but at the moment we are only looking for manuscripts that have a plot, a setting, interesting characters, understandable dialogue, a conflict, a main character, and . . . a point. As your manuscript meets none of the criteria, we will have to pass on this project.

Yours sincerely,

Myrtle Williams

Slivers, Ronald, and Co. Books.”

The whole group clapped and roared with laughter.

“Isn’t that marvelous?” howled Doris as her whole body wobbled like jelly.

As the guffawing continued, I nibbled nervously on the remnants of my lemon cake, deciding I must be in some sort of island episode of the
Twilight Zone
. They were all thoroughly batty.

As soon as the laughter subsided, Doris turned to a blank page and placed Ruby’s letter on it.

“Thank you, Ruby. Only twenty-five now to our goal.”

Doris placed the book down on a table.

“Now, for the real reason for this special meeting.”

She paused for effect.

“We have been reading our books to one another for many years, and we have enjoyed them so much. But I think it’s time that other people in our community had the benefit of our work. So I’ve asked Janet here today to help us organize an event as part of our weeklong rejection celebration. I believe now is the right time to unveil our group to the extended community and connect with other rejected people in Southlea Bay. Our festivities will culminate in an event at the library I am calling Reflection and Connection for Those Who Know Rejection.”

Sipping my tea, I was in an odd kind of awe; only Doris could create a successful event out of other people’s utter failures.

“During the week leading up to the celebration, we’ll hold a number of fun special events, such as the burnt cake tea party and a demonstration of how to kill your houseplants with style.”

All the ladies in the group talked at once.

Doris waited, her domineering silence quickly taking command.

“This will build to our special library event. Available to all walks of the community, it will allow them to bring all their rejected gifts together at one event to share. Tone-deaf singers, dancers with two left feet, musicians that are all thumbs, and nurses that make their patients worse are all welcome. We’ll be there to support them with our rejected letters and books; the only criteria would be they have to love what they do. Anyone sharing his or her gift will have to add some money to our rejection jar. All the money we raise will go to the charity we support, the Rejected Children’s Fund of Island County. It would be like a mighty Rejectathon. What do you all think?”

They clapped enthusiastically, their mutual excitement bubbling in the air as Doris nudged me, saying, “What do you think, Janet?”

What did I think? That I should get out of here before it was too late, that’s what I thought. It was a very noble sentiment, but I couldn’t imagine anyone actually turning up. I just grinned and said, “Well . . . that . . . sounds . . . interesting. Let me talk to Karen and get back to you.” I jumped to my feet then, handed my empty cake plate to Doris, and added, “But I really should be going now.”

“Already?” said Ruby. “This month we’re reading my newest book,
Blood and Gore in Hell Town
.”

“And I was going to read a snippet of
Carnal Love in the Land of Spices
, if Lottie ever went to the bathroom,” piped up Lavinia.

And there it was again.

“Lavinia!” exclaimed her sister.

I just kept moving down the hall; I was on a roll.

“Oh, they all sound so amazing and maybe another time, but I really need to go.” I handed the tablecloth I was wearing to Doris and made my way to the door. Ethel was already waiting for me there, making sure I didn’t leave with the candlesticks, no doubt.

As I started the car, my cell phone rang. It was my daughter, Stacy. I picked it up, but the reception was terrible.

“Mom,” she said. Her tone was odd, frantic. “Mom, I need you . . .” Then she was cut off.

I started to panic. Something was wrong; she didn’t sound like herself. I tried to call her back, but there was no reception. I considered going back into Doris’s and calling from there but thought better of it. I would just get home as fast as I could.

Chapter Three

MYSTERIES OF PREGNANCY
, BY WARE-DID-MA-FEET-GO

Driving home, I mulled over my relationship with my one and only daughter. I had mixed feelings. We did not have an easy relationship. I love and adore my offspring, and I would throw myself in front of a train to save her life. But I have wondered more than once if she’d actually come out of my body.

It should have been a red flag for me when she’d presented as a breech birth, because from the first day, it had been a character-clashing, white-knuckle roller-coaster ride. We seem to knock heads at every turn, like a couple of frenzied bells on a turbulent ship during a hurricane.

When I arrived back at the cottage, there was a note from Martin. Stacy had also called home. Now I was really worried. She never just called me to chat; the last time she called, her kitchen had been on fire. I paced my own blue-and-white, Laura Ashley–decorated kitchen as I redialed. She lived in San Francisco, and at times like this, I hated being so far away from her. She picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, darling,” I said, trying to keep it airy. “Is everything alright?”

“Mom?” She sounded desperate.

“Yes, darling.” A viselike grip was taking hold of my chest.

“No! Everything’s not alright,” she said as she burst into tears.

Oh no. Not cancer or an accident or a death or a—before I could make it all the way through my top ten list of doom, gloom, and dismemberment, she blurted out, “I’m pregnant!”

It took a couple of seconds for my brain to register what she’d just said.

“Sorry, darling? Did you say you were pregnant?”

“Yes.”

She started to cry again. The vice released its grip from my chest, and I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“That’s wonderful,” I said, relieved. “You must be very happy. After all, you and Chris have been—”

She cut me off.

“How can you do that?” she wailed, as if I’d just slapped her in the face with a wet kipper.

“Do what?”

“Do that happy Pollyanna thing you always do. This is the worst day of my life!”

She was starting to get hysterical. My concern returned. This was really out of character for my ice child, who was usually calm and collected, with never a hair out of place. Outbursts were just not her style. But her voice was undeniably starting to escalate. I needed damage control, fast, or I would lose her.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” I asked, coaxing her down off her emotional ledge. “You could be mistaken?”

Suddenly, the crying stopped. Ah, a glimmer of hope. Maybe she hadn’t taken a test or seen a doctor and just suspected pregnancy. I was just about to pat myself on the back for my superior parenting skills when I heard her retch—a loud, grumbling, and gut-wrenching retch at that. What followed was the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up in all the acoustic resonance that a modern telephone can produce.

Oh dear, I thought. She wasn’t going to need to pee on a stick to confirm this pregnancy. By the sounds of it, her hormones were already doing a full West Coast swing.

Between the third or fourth heave, I suggested that I call her back later.

“Congratulations!” I shouted into the phone, but she’d already hung up. I fought the urge to call her right back, reminding myself not to push it when dealing with Stacy. We had moved to Southlea Bay in an attempt to give her the space she seemed to need in California.

Making myself a cup of tea, I mulled over the situation. I had mixed feelings. Excited to be a grandma, of course, but was I ready? I had only just come up for air from raising my own child and wasn’t sure I was prepared to take on a responsible role with someone else’s. Stacy was only twenty-four, and we had only just finished paying for her wedding the year before. Sitting down in my favorite armchair and slowly sipping my tea, I allowed this new realization to sink in. Outside the kitchen window, the sun was just starting to set.

Enjoying its rosy descent, I started to focus on all those Hallmark moments that would come with this new experience, reminiscing about all the lovely times we had enjoyed as Stacy grew up. Trips to see Santa and the Easter Bunny, butterfly kisses, and sloppily painted fridge pictures. Fun-filled days at the zoo and cool evenings warming ourselves, watching marshmallows melt in hot chocolates around a campfire. I remembered fondly the Christmas we had bought her very first two-wheel bike. Martin had stayed up till four in the morning putting it together and then wheeled it under a Christmas tree that was twinkling with tinsel. It had remained there in all its glory for exactly forty-five minutes before an excited six-year-old had bounded down the stairs to greet it. It had been a sparkly purple, princess affair, her favorite color at the time, with white handlebars and silver tassels. I remember the joy on her upturned little freckled face, a broad smile shining through gapped-tooth wonderment, caught in the glow of the tree lights. The joy had lasted for exactly three hours, until her chain had come off and clattered to the floor. She, grief-stricken, had thrown the bike to the ground. Martin had quietly replaced the chain while she sobbed in my lap, elevating him to her instant hero when he was done. If only it was that easy now, I thought.

Just about to add corny music to my inner thoughts, I heard the back door open. It was the hero. He was still grumpy about the raccoons, which were still treating our property as their own private holiday resort, complete with bed-and-breakfast services.

“Do I have some news for you!” I said, greeting him in the hallway as he sat to take off his boots.

He looked up at me wearily.

“Can you guess?” I asked, trying to sound mysterious.

“You made meatloaf for dinner?” he asked halfheartedly.

It was obvious he didn’t want to play. But I wasn’t giving up that easily.

“Let me give you a clue. If you listen closely, you might start to hear the faint pitter-patter of tiny feet running up our hallway.”

He let go of a long, slow breath and slumped forward.

“Don’t tell me that those darn raccoons have made it into the house now.”

I recounted the rest of the conversation with Stacy to him over dinner, but he only seemed to be half-listening as he peered at a book propped up against the saltshaker entitled
How to Catch a Critter
. He smirked when I mentioned our daughter’s feelings toward her pregnancy.

“She’d be disappointed if the angel Gabriel popped down from heaven to tell her the meaning of life, this week’s lottery numbers, and where the treasure is buried,” he quipped. I could tell he was secretly delighted.

“I think it’s because she’s such a perfectionist,” I said protectively. “She likes to feel she’s in control of everything, and pregnancy is a classic situation that is completely out of her control.”

Martin raised his eyebrows over his book suggestively.

“And don’t you go and blame me for her attitude,” I added defensively. “She takes after your mother!”

Martin shook his head in bewilderment. He had long since stopped trying to figure out our daughter, who as an adult had quietly removed his superhero cape and in return offered him a cape of indifference.

Later that evening I wandered outside to find Martin whistling to himself as he lashed yet another thick rope around the top of our trash can. On the deck was a large roll of duct tape and a huge bag of newly purchased birdseed.

“I’m building the perfect trap!” said the Wizard of Oz.

Smiling to myself, I surveyed his equipment, which looked suspiciously like materials needed for the shoddy affair I’d seen on the Internet.

When I asked him if he been surfing the Web, he screwed up his face and shook his head with disgust. “I prefer to consult with people who know what they’re talking about,” he stated with indignation. “Dwayne was over earlier. This is a special trap that he told me about.”

I couldn’t help smiling as I went in the house to make a cup of tea. Maybe Dwayne wasn’t everything he was cracked up to be; maybe he was just the Grizzly Adams of the World Wide Web.

Martin’s hopes were dashed the very next morning, when not only had our trash can mysteriously disappeared but also half the chicken feed that had been locked in an outside shed.

He shook his head and muttered something about not understanding why the birdseed and duct tape trap wasn’t working. Standing in mutual commiseration with him for about five seconds, I left him staring at the empty space where our trash can used to be. I informed him that though I would love to go on a wild trash can hunt with him, I really needed to get ready for work. Then I realized my purse was missing.

Now, if I lived in a big city, I might have rushed to call in the police, SWAT team, and K-9 patrol, screaming about burglaries. But I lived in a town where everybody left their keys in the car so they could find them, and we all still left our front doors open in case someone wanted to drop off a bunch of flowers or an extra helping of stew. In fact, when we went on holiday to Hawaii a few years ago, Martin had decided that we should probably lock our front door just to be on the safe side. When we got home, it took us an hour to find the key.

Wandering back outside, I called to Martin, who was still staring at the empty spot. I shook my head. He was thinking; I’d observed it many times before in our long marriage. I could think while sitting on the toilet, talking on the phone, reviewing the to-do list balanced on my knee as I planned the evening meal, rubbing at a spot on the bathroom floor with my big toe, and putting on mascara. In order for my husband to think, he had to stop perfectly still, like one of those street performers who pretends to be a statue. Then he could just allow his brain to work, without any other bodily movements to distract him. I was always amazed he remembered to breathe.

Breaking his spell, I asked, “Have you seen my purse anywhere?”

“You’re kidding,” he said as he turned to me, a worried look on his face. “Don’t tell me the raccoons got that as well?”

I was going to say something clever and witty about the color of my purse not matching their shoes when the phone rang. I dashed to answer it, hoping it might be Stacy.

“Is that you, Janet?” shouted a gruff female voice. I held the phone away from my ear.

“Yes. Who is this?” I answered.

“It’s me,” boomed the voice. “Doris Newberry. You wouldn’t be missing your purse by any chance, would you?”

I arranged to stop by Doris’s and pick up my purse later that afternoon and left for work.

On the way there, I decided to stop at the vet’s in case he had any ideas of what to do about our raccoons. Happy Paws Animal Clinic was tucked right behind the library. As I got out of the car, I noticed a handwritten sign pinned to the inside of the door: “Off on a call, wounded bald eagle, back in 30 minutes.”

I decided to walk over and pick up my mail from the post office while waiting for the vet to return.

I explained our problem with the furry interlopers to Mrs. Barber, the woman who ran Southlea Bay Post Office. She was a beloved, soccer-ball-shaped woman with wild, bird’s nest hair that always hid more than one pair of sparkly reading glasses. She loved to dish out her daily wisdom as she hung her enormous bosoms, disjointedly, over the post office counter.