The Rejected Writers' Christmas Wedding Read online

  “You goofball,” she said. “Won’t you get into trouble? Aren’t you supposed to be at work at ten?”

  He smiled and kissed her warmly on the lips. Opening his eyes, he nodded. “Yep. It was worth it.”

  She pulled herself free of his arms, saying, “It won’t be if you lose that job. Jones’s is the only garage in town. You’re lucky that his son decided to take that trip around the world so you could replace him as the mechanic over there. I would hate for you to lose it.”

  “OK,” he said, “but I might need another hug around lunchtime. Can you meet over at the Crab for a sandwich?”

  Someone rattled the front door of the shop.

  Flora looked at the clock. It was two minutes past ten. Taking her fiancé’s hand, she walked him to the door.

  “Now go,” she said. “I will try to get some time off, but I have to work now, and so do you.”

  She unlocked the door, let in the mother and the preschooler with a good morning, and gently nudged Dan out the door. He bent to brush her lips with one last kiss and was gone. As she watched him leave, her heart sank and she suddenly felt very alone. She flipped the sign on the door to “Open.”

  It had been hard making the decision not to live together before the wedding. Everyone had expected it, even encouraged it. But Flora, always traditional, loved the idea of leaving her home as a bride, marrying Dan, and moving in together. That would be their wedding present to each other. There’d been the usual warning of, “You don’t really know someone until you live with them,” from many people, but she wanted to wait. Otherwise, it felt like opening a present before Christmas. She knew there would be an adjustment, but she wanted that to be part of their newly married life. She was going to be with Dan for the rest of her life, no matter what people said about the pitfalls.

  She moved back to her catalogs and smiled. Her tiny cottage in their town would never have been big enough for the two of them to live in, anyway. It had been her individual home for many years, and it just didn’t seem right to change all that, even though she would’ve adored waking up with Dan every morning. She wanted to give herself time to look forward to that. And in a matter of weeks, they would move into a lovely, sunny, yellow-and-white home overlooking the water—a home of their own. She squealed with joy. Just a few short weeks and she would be Mrs. Flora Cohen.

  As I arrived home from working at the library that evening, Martin was waiting for me in the kitchen with a smile on his face.

  “We have visitors coming,” he said in a singsong way.

  “We do?” I asked, clapping my hands with glee.

  “Poopy and Dribble are making a comeback,” he added, referring to our sweet grandbabies. “Time to tie down the toilet seat and batten all the hatches.”

  It had been quite an eventful eighteen months since my daughter, Stacy, had given birth to her twins, James and Olivia, whom Martin insisted on calling Poopy and Dribble.

  I had been there for the emergency delivery, which was assisted by a singing teacher and all the Rejected Writers at Annie’s farm in the woods, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Stacy’s twins had arrived with much fanfare during one of the worst windstorms our island had ever had.

  Martin handed me a cup of tea.

  I looked around my Laura Ashley–style little blue kitchen. Our cottage wasn’t really spacious enough to house rambunctious toddlers, and our cat, Raccoon, seemed to disappear for days when they arrived. But I couldn’t wait.

  “When are they coming?” I asked.

  “In a couple of weeks. Stacy wants them to have plenty of time to practice being the flower girl and the ring bearer for the wedding.”

  I was warmed by the thought but also trying to picture these two balls of energy somehow tamed down enough to be out in public without killing themselves or anyone else.

  My mind started whirring. “What do we need to get ready?” I said. “There are so many things to organize and do.”

  “First, Grandma,” Martin said, settling me down in the chair, “we have to figure out where I’m going to go on vacation for a week while you gals are having a ball.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” I said in my warning tone. “This is what you signed up for when we decided to have Stacy.”

  He smiled broadly. “I only signed up for one baby. Is it my fault she decided to have two at a time?”

  I chided him as I punched him gently on the arm. “Well, twins don’t run in my family, so I think that gives you some responsibility, and the only ball you are going to see is a football. Apparently, James loves to play.”

  “At least with him only being eighteen months, I have a chance of winning,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Don’t be so sure,” I snipped back. “I’ve seen you play!”

  Chapter 2

  Peas in Rain Bonnets & Welcome to Hicksville

  A light, feathery rain started to fall on Washington early the next morning and continued right through into the late evening. Though insignificant in volume, it still had the ability to work its way down collars and up sleeves and soak its way into children’s socks and shoes, seeping through fabric in search of exposed skin until it drenched to the very core.

  The Labette twins, aware of this Northwest phenomenon, were both tightly laced into identical transparent rain bonnets and sat like two peas in a pod stretched under plastic. They stared blankly out of the car window through the dismal weather, having just returned from their off-island clothes-shopping expedition. They had spent the whole day looking for dresses to wear to Flora and Dan’s wedding.

  The Washington State car ferry powered down its engines and pulled in closer to the shore, and a horn blared to inform the occupants they had indeed arrived at the south end of the island. The engines slowed to a low rumble. Lavinia put away a fashion magazine she had been reading as Lottie hummed absently in tune to a Dolly Parton song playing on their radio.

  A blast of wind picked up from the shore and whipped up wayward raindrops that splattered haphazardly across the windowpane, and Lottie, who was staring out, transfixed, sighed. Being from the south, neither one of them cared much for the rain, even this delicate, wispy variety. It wasn’t the rain itself, for Texas had its own share of weather from time to time, but the incessant, continuous presence of it they had to endure through the winter season that still, after all this time, overwhelmed them.

  Lavinia had had to have a lesson on how to put on rain gear, for goodness sake. She remembered to this day the very first rain she saw fall on the town when they’d arrived, back in the 1970s. Lavinia thought about that now as she listened to her sister hit a crescendo in “Coat of Many Colors.” She had cried when their poppa brought her up from Texas to escape a rather unfortunate third husband with a shotgun and a death wish. They had hightailed it out of town in the middle of the night, heading for the end of the earth, and this was the place they had ended up: a tiny island hidden in the top corner of the Pacific Northwest. Back then she’d thought she and Lottie would never survive a Northwest winter. Wearing every one of their clothes in layers that first year, they were soon introduced to the benefits of fleece and thick woolens. Now they had lived here for so long, she couldn’t even remember a winter that wasn’t gray.

  The ferry lurched a little as it found its mooring, and in front of the sisters’ sleek silver-blue Cadillac, a group of ferry workers in Santa hats bustled to life, pulling ropes and securing chains.

  “I do love a boat ride,” said Lottie as she took the prayer book from her lap and placed it into her bag.

  Lavinia started the car in response to the ferry workers, who beckoned her to move forward. She slid gracefully into drive and made her way off the boat and then slowly up the hill. Behind her, a guy in a brown Pinto, obviously frustrated with Lavinia’s pace, slammed his car into second, roared up the hill, and cut her off, almost clipping the side of her car. Lavinia swore a choice cussword that she kept for such occasions like this, and Lottie looked at her in horror, exclaiming, �
�Lavinia!”

  “He deserved it,” she responded tartly.

  “But did I?” asked Lottie. “Mine are the only ears that can hear it. You may as well have called me that awful thing.”

  “Lottie, don’t be so dramatic. A little cussword now and again keeps my blood flowing. Besides, I bet you thought it.”

  “I did no such thing,” said Lottie as she continued to blink at her sister in disbelief. “I’ll pray for that unfortunate young man.”

  Lavinia chuckled as she looked across at her sister. “You were the wholesome side of Mama’s egg, Lottie, that is for sure.”

  The guy in the brown Pinto pulled into a spot outside of what appeared to be the only food store in town. He turned off the engine and looked at himself in the mirror. He had at least a day’s worth of beard growth and his eyes were bloodshot, but he was here. He tried to think of a name that he’d call himself in this town—maybe David or Nick, something forgettable should work. He settled on his grandfather’s name: John. He stepped out into the chilly, damp air and lit a cigarette as he leaned against his car.

  He looked around at this quaint Northwest town and shook his head. Up and down the street, cedar wreaths hung from every lamppost and strings of multicolored Christmas lights adorned the trees. Across the street a group of people gathered in the tiny town square to watch carol singers wearing full Victorian costumes and carrying candles that flickered in tiny hooked lanterns.

  John shook his head in disbelief. So, this is Southlea Bay, he thought to himself. He noticed that the store where he was parked was called the Twinkle and the doorway had been elaborately decorated for the season. A sign hanging from the door apologized for being closed. Under the official sign, a hand-written note with a smiley face announced to their customers that they had won the best-dressed Christmas shop doorway competition. He scoffed at the overly made-up entrance, with its thick white garland and an effusion of silver bows, white turtledoves, and bells. He had been hoping to get some more cigarettes, but everywhere seemed to be closed. He looked at his phone; it was only nine p.m. What kind of a hick town shuts down at nine?

  Outside the store, racks of tiny potted Christmas flowers were left unlocked and unattended. The owner apparently trusted that when he returned the following day, all his poinsettias would still be there.

  John took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, savoring the nicotine as it filled his lungs and made him feel a little light-headed. An older guy walking a dog nodded at him and bid him good evening. For a minute, it took him off guard. John just managed a bob of his head in acknowledgment before the walker slipped by, his golden retriever trotting at his side. That’s right, he thought, in small towns, people speak to strangers. He pulled his coat around his shoulders and shuddered. This kind of place made him nervous. He felt exposed and vulnerable. He preferred the gritty streets of any big city. The grime and hustle suited him so much more than these open, friendly towns, where they could leave a pot of flowers out and had to acknowledge every person who passed by.

  John looked up at the streetlight. He could now see the drizzling rain that was falling. It was so light that he had hardly noticed it, though it had already caused his cigarette and hair to dampen. He took one last full, deep drag, then threw his cigarette down and ground it into the asphalt with his heel. He got back into his car and pulled out his iPhone so he could map the place he needed to go to. It wasn’t far, and a friend of a friend, who had moved from his town a year ago, had offered him a couch to sleep on and some casual work while he got settled.

  John hadn’t had the heart to tell him that settling was the last thing he planned to do in Southlea Bay. Once he found the girl he was looking for, he’d be gone before the guy had a chance to give him his mailing address. He started his car, put it in gear, and checked the address on his phone. With a squeal of his tires, he spun out of the parking lot, disappearing up the Main Street hill in a blast of choking blue fumes.

  Chapter 3

  Neon Waitresses & Backcombed Poodles

  As I made my way home from the library on Saturday morning, I noticed Flora’s thoroughly miserable expression through the window of the Bob and Curl Hair Salon. I shook my head, thinking, I bet she wishes she hadn’t mentioned at last week’s Rejected Writers’ Book Club meeting that she had planned to talk to Sadie about possible styles for her wedding. Because now, as she sat in one of Sadie’s black leather-and-chrome chairs, looking in the large cream-colored framed mirror, eight faces were staring back at her.

  I opened the door and noted that Sadie, our local hairdresser, had been momentarily called away to answer a ringing phone. I approached the station Flora was sitting at and added my face to the bouquet already reflected in the mirror just in time to hear the formidable leader of our group speak.

  “What about a color?” Doris said as she pursed her lips and swung the swivel chair toward her. She then grabbed a chunk of Flora’s hair and scrutinized it an inch from her nose. “Maybe copper or red—it’s so dull and pale.”

  “Oh no,” I said, rubbing Flora on the shoulder. “I’m sure Dan loves Flora’s blonde hair just the way it is.” I emphasized the word blonde to reassure Flora, then continued, “Besides, her natural color will look lovely with the delicate pink roses she’s planning to trim her veil with.”

  Our sweet bride-to-be, who was barely in her twenties, could often feel overwhelmed by this group of eccentric middle-aged women. She was, I knew, already self-conscious of her very pale features, rice-paper skin, and delicate bone structure that was more the epitome of a classic Alma Tada art piece than a Kardashian.

  Flora smiled awkwardly as I caught a glimpse of Ruby-Skye.

  Our eccentric hippie squinted her eyes, as if she were visualizing a whole new look for Flora. “Cut it all off, Flora, you’d be so cute with a pixie.” She jumped down from where she’d been perched on the top of one of the hairdressing stations. Taking both sides of Flora’s hair, she scrunched it in her hands to just under Flora’s chin, making it look like hardly any hair was left. But Ruby-Skye was now in full flow. “With your great bone structure and lovely eyes, a short cut with strong, dramatic lines would just look stunning under your veil.”

  The outcry from the rest of the ladies made it obvious no one else agreed with this suggestion.

  “A girl can’t go down the aisle with no hair!” Lavinia snapped as she took Ruby-Skye’s place behind Flora’s chair. “It’s our one true beauty. And Flora has such a lovely full head of hair.” Taking hold of Flora’s hair, she ran her hands backward through it until it fluffed up like a teased cotton ball. “I would say, go big, Flora. Lots of curls and bounce.” She continued to backcomb and tease Flora’s hair with her fingers. “Why, for my second wedding, I did just that. I don’t regret it; it was stunning. I had a hundred fresh rosebuds and pearl beads sown in all the way through it. Though, to be honest, the hairstyle lasted longer than my new husband’s fidelity.” She pursed her lips. “I found him out back of the wedding reception venue, fraternizing with one of my bridesmaids, if you know what I mean.”

  Ethel, the quietest and most prudish of the group, blinked twice behind her metal-rimmed spectacles, her eyes growing as large as saucers in the mirror at Lavinia’s confession.

  As I looked at Flora’s hair, piled up like a puffy white pom-pom, I couldn’t help but wonder if Flora was beginning to know how a show poodle might feel.

  “You’re making her look like an ice-cream sundae,” Gracie, the oldest member of the group, said and then giggled. “It’s making me hungry.” Doris’s momma, who was well into her nineties and loved playing dress up, wore her signature pink feather boa and red-and-white polka dot rain boots.

  “Real rosebuds,” retorted Doris to Lavinia. “That is ridiculous. It’s her hair, not a garden. It should be a nice, practical chignon or a bun.” With that, Doris pulled back Flora’s now doubled-in-volume hair into a bun off her face so tightly that Flora’s skin tightened till her eyes were practically slits.
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  Annie stopped knitting for a minute to take in Flora’s disappearing hairline and stretched skin. “I think Flora looks fine as she is,” she said with a confirming nod. “I have always loved her hair long, flowing straight down her back.”

  Sadie, the woman who ran the Bob and Curl, returned to her station. Now back at her chair, she took control.

  “Now girls,” she said, taking Flora’s hair gently from Doris’s clawlike grip, “give poor Flora a chance to breathe and think. She’s never going to be able to make up her mind with all of you clucking around her like a bunch of mother hens. Why don’t you let me get out my wedding book and spend some time with Flora alone first?”

  As she talked, she gently combed Flora’s flyaway hair out of its mangled nest and smoothed it down her back. Flora’s expression relaxed as Sadie continued, “Why don’t you go to the Crab Apple for coffee and come back later, when we may have more ideas. I’m sure Flora would appreciate your opinion when she’s made up her own mind of the direction she wants to go in.” Sadie spoke in an assured and tactful way that proved she’d dealt with her fair share of mothers, sisters, and helpful friends of the bride.

  All the ladies stood frozen until Sadie shooed them with her hands.

  I turned to follow the ladies out the door, but before I got to it, Flora grabbed my arm.

  “Thank you both,” she said looking from me to Sadie, the relief obvious in her voice. “You have no idea.”

  “Don’t you worry, Flora,” said Sadie, tapping her on the arm. “I’ve dealt with lots of mothers of the bride before. Never seven at a time, mind, but they have their hearts in the right place. The first thing you need to realize about getting married is that everyone loves a wedding, and somehow that makes them all feel they have a stake in it. If you thought this was just about you and Dan, think again. Weddings are a big deal, especially yours, in particular. They’ve all seen you grow up, and with the loss of your parents, they all feel a responsibility to you. I’m going to make it fabulous. We’re going to start by creating the perfect hairstyle, one you feel comfortable with. So first things first: I’ll get you a cup of tea, and I will get my wedding book.” She patted Flora’s hand. “And Flora, you’re safe with me.”