Rejected Writers Take the Stage

  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. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by 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

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477808931

  ISBN-10: 1477808930

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  To my grandfather, Leonard Frederick Shelley, and my grandmother, Joyce Diana Shelley. Though neither of you will ever get to read this book, your influence is on every page. Thank you for your abundant steadfast love, your unequivocal way of seeing humor in everyday life, and your unflinching support that was the heart and soul of our family.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  FROZEN YETIS & SCOTCH TAPE SHENANIGANS

  Karen, the Southlea Bay library manager, approached the door with her keys and stopped short before announcing through a clenched smile, “Doris alert.”

  I looked up in a panic and caught a glimpse of the most infamous resident of our small town, Doris Newberry, peering at Karen from under the “Reading Is Fun” decal affixed to the window. She was standing atop the library steps, looking akin to a demented yeti. Clothed from head to foot in icy, wet fur, she wouldn’t have looked out of place at a Moscow drinking festival.

  From behind the library desk a few feet away, I allowed a curse word to slip out.

  Karen giggled at my outburst. “Let’s hope that isn’t one of the phrases our preschoolers will be learning in the story corner with Ruby this morning.”

  Turning the library sign from “Closed” to “Open,” Karen acknowledged with a smile the ram waiting to charge and fogging up the window.

  Karen placed her key in the lock. Doris’s nose was practically pressed against the pane as she stomped from foot to foot. Her bizarre appearance was so disconcerting that the mothers of fearful small children had moved across the street to await the opening of the library from a safe distance.

  As Karen unbarred the door, the frozen Attila the Hun stomped in, and her menacing presence domineered the whole space as she surveyed the room.

  “Janet!” snapped Doris pointedly. She was not one to clutter her speech with pleasantries. “I want to speak to Janet. It’s urgent.”

  “Good morning, Doris,” said Karen cheerfully, appearing not at all intimidated by a large, overbearing woman squeezed behind crocheted buttons and beaver fur.

  Karen pointed toward the counter.

  Reflexively, I dropped to the floor.

  “Of course, Doris. Janet is just over . . .”

  Karen stopped short because the space that seconds before had contained me, a cursing Janet, was now empty. Yep, Doris Newberry could have that effect on folk in this quaint Northwest island town. The words “Doris Newberry” worked faster than “abracadabra” to create disappearing tricks all over Southlea Bay.

  From the floor, I chided myself. What was I doing? I was a grown woman. This was absurd. What had possessed me to drop to the floor like that? There was nothing down here that could have needed my attention, and if I just popped up now, I would look ridiculous. In the five years I had lived in Southlea Bay, I had found I was constantly doing things that I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing during my first forty years of living in California. When my husband and I had decided to move to a rural island community in Washington State five years ago as we headed toward our later years, I had images of cooking classes, quilting bees, and ice cream socials. Instead it often felt like being on the lam in some sort of witness protection program. I was always thinking on my feet as I navigated my way through all shades of crazy that is small-town life. Once mistaken for a Jaclyn Smith lookalike, I had noted that my chestnut-brown hair had started to gray the day after I arrived in this “quaint” Northwest town.

  I observed the scene from a crack in the welcome desk. Doris trudged to the counter in her thick, knee-high sheepskin boots as a trickle of protective parents holding bewildered offspring rushed inside, heading toward safety of the Wind in the Willow children’s section.

  “Where?” said Doris gruffly as I continued to watch her peer down at Karen from below the brim of whatever dead animal had been thrust unceremoniously on her head.

  Karen followed her stare with a quizzical look.

  I suddenly had an idea. If I could get to the office, maybe I could pop up in there and walk out as if I had just gone to fetch something.

  “She was just here,” Karen said, making her way back behind the counter, where she caught sight of me crawling on my hands and knees toward the safety of the office. Karen grinned mischievously. “Now, where could she have got to?” she questioned in a singsong manner as she playfully opened drawers and looked under piles of stacked library books.

  Doris pursed her lips, her piercing expression communicating clearly that she was unimpressed with Karen’s lack of sincerity.

  I caught a glimpse of Doris as she stood on her tiptoes and glared over the top of the counter, probably just in time to catch the tail end of me as I tried to scurry on all fours through the office door.

  “There you are, Janet,” she boomed, totally oblivious to the Laurel and Hardy comedy skit that was unfolding right in front of her. “What are you doing down there?” she inquired belligerently.

  Caught in my act of escape, I stopped dead in my tracks and hastily picked up something from the floor.

  “Tape,” I said quickly as I leapt to my feet. “I needed to pick it up.”

  Doris stared at me with obvious irritation. And then, as if to stress the point, I waved a fuzzy piece of tape I had ripped from the carpet.

  I could tell Karen couldn’t resist a playful tone. “Oh yes, we have a lot of problems with that here at the library, you know. Tape sticking to the carpet.”


  I felt the heat spread across my face as I continued my ramble. “It’s not good for it, you know. Tape, that is.”

  With great ceremony, Karen took the piece of tape from me, adding with mock reverence, “Thank you, Janet, for doing us that great service.” We both turned to Doris.

  Doris looked from one of us to the other—two frozen-faced, smiling mannequins, Karen holding the tape aloft like a prize. She didn’t look convinced by our shenanigans, but apparently unperturbed by the needs of the library carpet, she plowed ahead.

  “Janet, if Karen can spare you from tape duty, I have something I need to talk to you about. Something that is very urgent. Very urgent indeed.”

  I looked at Karen with pleading eyes. “Karen, do you need me?”

  “Absolutely not,” stated Karen in a tone of great assurance. “I think we can spare you for a while from protecting our world from Scotch tape strips.”

  And with that, Karen turned on her heels and headed for the office, flashing me an impish grin as she left.

  Doris leaned across the counter toward me, as if ready to divulge a secret, and a whiff of smelly, wet dog arrived before her words did.

  “Need a meeting over at the Crab. Usual booth, usual time.”

  I stared at her wordlessly. Doris had this way of making everything sound as if it were a matter of state security. And what did “usual booth, usual time” mean? Meeting Doris at the Crabapple Diner had resulted in me going on a crazy cross-country road trip with Doris and her band of rejected writers.

  I was going to nip this idea in the bud before it could spring a petal. I was not being dragged into another wacky race, no siree. Since the trip, I had grown to love all the ladies of Doris’s group—and I was an honorary member—but there would be no more crazy escapades with Doris Newberry. That had been my only New Years’ resolution this year.

  I played for time.

  “Sorry, Doris, you know I would love to, but we are really busy here today.”

  Then, as if to emphasize my point, I shuffled purposefully through the never-ending pile of books stacked on the counter, studying each title with great intensity.

  I could feel Doris’s expression boring into me as it changed from urgent to incredulous.

  “But this is of paramount importance,” Doris spat out, emphasizing the word “paramount” as if that word alone would incline me to throw the books in the air and run to our local diner.

  I tried again as Karen arrived back at the counter. “I’m really sorry, Doris. It’s just not possible.”

  “Karen,” said Doris curtly, “I was hoping to talk to Janet here over lunch at the Crab about something imperative, but—”

  I finished Doris’s sentence for her. “I was telling Doris we are too busy today.”

  A mischievous look crossed Karen’s face as she raised her hand. “Nonsense. If this is imperative,” she said, nodding at Doris, “of course we can spare her. I’m sure Janet will be happy to join you for lunch.”

  Doris lit up like a firework. “Perfect,” she boomed. “See you at one, then, Janet. It will rally all the girls to see you there. Serious things to talk about, delicate things of the utmost importance.” She punctuated her sentence by slamming down a meaty, fur-gloved hand on the counter, causing a white-haired little old lady waiting behind Doris to jump out of her skin.

  Then, without further ado, Doris marched out the door in a flurry of fluff and fur, ready to gobble up her next victim.

  I turned to Karen, my mouth agape. “What are you doing to me?” I cried desperately.

  “Oh, come on,” said Karen, her eyes dancing with the excitement of it all. “Where’s your sense of adventure? Aren’t you just bursting to know what’s so ‘imperative and important’?”

  “Not really,” I responded. “You might have forgotten, but I’ve been down this rabbit hole before, and as I recall, there were plenty of mad hatters and very few tea parties. I have no desire to follow that crazy white rabbit dressed in a dead beaver anywhere it is going.”

  “Me neither,” added the little old lady, who was now at the counter. “Doris Newberry once talked me into going on a cross-country skiing expedition with her years ago,” she continued. “We were lost in the mountains outside Leavenworth for two days with nothing but a blanket and a whole bunch of pots and pans she had taken with her. It was the longest two days of my life, and my knees still aren’t right.”

  I looked at the frail old woman with the earnest expression that pleaded with me not to go and tried to imagine cross-country skiing with Doris.

  Karen tapped my hand. “Got to live dangerously, and I love doing that through you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re a real friend.”

  Chapter Two

  HOCKED-UP HIPPIES & CARROT WARS

  An icy wind sliced its way down Main Street, taking hold of the candy-striped awning of the local florist—All Stems from Here—and sending pink scalloped edges up into a frenzied, freestyle cancan. The wind’s chilling presence reminded all residents of Southlea Bay that, though spring was around the corner, the lion of winter was still roaring with a vengeance.

  Flora sank her frigid cheeks deep into the collar of her thick sage-green velvet jacket as she wrestled with the door of All Stems from Here with one hand and swiped away strands of wispy blonde hair from her mouth with the other.

  The door finally gave way, and overhead a bell tinkled as she plowed into a pile of Easter flyers already stacked behind it. The store always received a lot of catalogs when wedding season was just around the corner, but this year there seemed to be more than ever. As she turned to close the door, she glimpsed a character wearing what looked like a floor-length fur coat moving at a brisk pace up the middle of Main Street.

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Flora gathered up the stack of mail, wondering who would have the courage to wear such a thing on their politically correct little island. Meandering to the counter, she searched through the mail for her favorite Victorian flower catalog. As she shuffled through the pile, a cream envelope with large round writing and her name on it emerged from the heap.

  Her heart skipped a beat. It was from Dan. She hurriedly dropped the rest of the mail onto the counter and focused on his letter, precious in her hand. Her mind raced with all it could say, all it could mean, and she couldn’t help but squeal as she ran her fingers over the soft cream-colored paper.

  Her first desire was just to tear it open and devour every word. But she wouldn’t. She had already decided exactly what she was going to do when he had hinted at sending her a letter at work. She would put it aside and wait until her lunch. Then she would make a pot of her favorite Earl Grey tea and climb the rickety stairs to sit outside on their little balcony. No matter how cold it was, she would sit there and look out across the bay, savoring every word he had written to her.

  The bell over the door jangled again, forcing Flora from her reverie. She slipped the letter quickly into her pocket as Gladys Binkley, the Crabapple Diner’s oldest and most unceremonious waitress, stumbled into the shop.

  Flora took in what she was wearing with surprise. The cold weather sure brought out the oddest of wardrobe choices from her fellow Southlea Bay residents. Over her cheery Crabapple uniform, Gladys was enveloped in a monstrous blue afghan, and stretched over her knobby knees were thick brown ribbed tights and chunky burgundy knit leg warmers. To complete her mismatched ensemble, a tatty-looking green scarf was wrapped multiple times around her neck and ears. She made a beeline toward the counter, her curly brown hair a windswept mass of wired wool and her now-fogged glasses perched on a face that looked as if it had eaten grumpy for breakfast.

  Not bothering to pull down her knit muffler to speak, she glared at Flora through the fog. “My cactus is dead!” she spat out through icy, green scarf. “The one you sold me. It’s dead!”

  Then she continued on her own little rally. “I told people everything dies in my house. It’s the kiss of death on living things, that place.
Plants, animals, people. In fact, anything that needs to suck in oxygen to survive just keels over in my den of destruction.”

  Then, peering over the rim of her glasses, she fixed Flora with a beady stare as she added with a powerful assurance, “There’s something in the walls, you know. It was built in the sixties, when builders were all hocked up on lead-based paint. It’s just a mew of plastic and asbestos and a whole heap of other hippie crap, no doubt.” Her eyes narrowed. “My module’s been murdering things for years. I think I’m only still alive because I’m too ornery to die.”

  Flora nodded nervously as Gladys started to parade around, flicking her scarf in front of her as if she were conducting an orchestra.

  “But people said, ‘Buy a cactus, Gladys. Nothing can kill a cactus. Cacti can survive anything.’ So, I bought a cactus.”

  She stopped conducting and hitched up her saggy chest as she delivered her next line with gusto. “Well, it’s dead. So, what are you going to do about it?”

  Flora blinked behind her pink frames and said nervously, “Cacti are usually pretty resilient. They live in the desert, you know.”

  Gladys scowled. “They may be able to make it through the perilous temperatures of the Sahara, but they’re just not hardened enough to tackle hippie plastic and asbestos. So I need help.”

  “I could give you your money back?” said Flora.

  “That doesn’t solve my plant problem though, does it? I need something fresh and clean to soften up the jagged edges of that death trap. Got anything hardier?”

  “Hardier than a cactus?” mused Flora thoughtfully. “I don’t think so, but why don’t you look around and see if there’s anything that you think might work.”

  Gladys huffed loudly, then sank her hands deep into her pockets and slumped around the shop, poking various plants and mumbling to herself.

  The phone rang. It was one of the flower suppliers Flora needed to complete an order. Just as she was finishing with the details, she noticed Gladys was back at the counter, a prize clenched in her bony fist.

  “I found something,” she said triumphantly and then held up her “catch,” a long string of plastic ivy that trailed back behind her. “But there’s no price on it.”