Wooing Cadie McCaffrey
Page 28
Painting took too much effort.
Book clubs? Book clubs could work.
I joined seven book clubs in the Greater Chicago area simultaneously. Seven. And that meant I was reading seven novels simultaneously. I thought that was the perfect solution—after all, doing that much reading, when would I have time to think about the shambles of my life? Yeah . . . that sounds good in theory, but every book reminded me of what I’d lost—or worse, what I’d never had. A fulfilling marriage. A life with someone who considered me his best friend.
Children.
Every book, from The Picture of Dorian Gray to Eat, Pray, Love, from Lord of the Rings to The Hunger Games, somehow reminded me of my misery. When my Dark American Romanticism book club started reading The Scarlet Letter, I knew I’d had all I could take. I quit all of the book clubs except for the one on Monday night, because that was the one that met closest to my house. I decided that Monday night book club would be my primary hobby and exclusive social circle.
And I approached that social circle the only way I knew how—with all of the rules and safeguards that had been so necessary for self-preservation in the highfalutin world of the snobs and blue bloods, into which I had made every effort to feel as if I belonged. I would dress for success and speak only when I had something monumental and memorable to contribute. I would hide my scars and shortcomings, and only put forth the most impressive version of myself. I would keep everyone at arm’s length so that if I eventually fell out of favor with them, I would not be impacted.
It would be just like any other social gathering I had ever attended, apart from one striking difference: my last name was no longer McDermott, so I wouldn’t be viewed as nothing more than an accessory from the moment I was introduced.
And with all of the extra time, once I had whittled the book club list down to one, I would write a book of my own. Then I could be in control of the content. Then my emotions wouldn’t be putty in the hands of authors who had probably written to escape their own misery, with nary a care given to the feelings of the miserable divorcée who would one day read their work while attempting to bury her pain beneath enough cheesecake to bestow diabetes upon a small village. I’d never written anything before, but I’d certainly done more than my fair share of reading.
How hard could it be?
My first attempt was a book of poetry, and while I waited for the call from the president asking me to accept the post of Poet Laureate of the United States, I decided it was time to share my gift with the world. Or at least the Monday night book club. Though I couldn’t ever remember their names, the ladies in that circle were, after all, my closest friends. No, I hadn’t known them very long, and yes, our conversations had never plunged any deeper than whether we’d preferred Jim Caviezel as the Count of Monte Cristo or Jesus, but they were the constants in my life of upheaval, and I knew that our bond was true and indestructible.
I’d been walking into that high school library every Monday evening for two months, but that first Monday evening in June was the beginning. That Monday evening represented a fresh start.
That Monday evening was the first book club meeting of the rest of my life.
“Excuse me.” I raised my hand and smiled as the ladies began gathering their things to go, having exhausted all possible thoughts, feelings, and debates over Northanger Abbey. “If you could all spare just a few more moments of your time, if it’s not too much to ask.” I blinked sweetly, conveying humility so well in that tried and true manner I had watched Patrick employ for so many years.
I rarely spoke in book club, so I wasn’t surprised that everyone stopped in their tracks.
“Of course, Sarah. What can we do for you?” asked the leader of the book club, whose name had slipped my mind. And by “slipped my mind,” I mean I hadn’t bothered to learn it.
“I value each and every opinion in this circle. You each present such witty and insightful views, and that, I believe, is what I as a budding poet need in order to develop my craft.” I saw them take in my rehearsed speech, and they responded with enthusiastic support. Once I was fully convinced that they were the eager demographic I was seeking, I meekly proceeded. “You are all just the best. If no one would mind . . . may I?”
I opened the leather-bound binder in my hands and pulled out the crisp linen stationery on which I had lovingly transcribed each poem by hand over the course of the past several days and began to read.
Lights flicker. Kerosene?
Perhaps.
The man in suede wishes me well,
But I doubt his sincerity.
Never you mind.
Suede and kerosene. The two don’t mix.
Boom.
I read poem after poem after poem and, as expected, I was rewarded with stunned silence. They were clearly overcome with emotion and overwhelmed by the power of the lyric. I smiled at them all and gave them a moment to collect themselves. I cast my eyes downward, not wanting to impose upon their deeply intimate moment.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Book Club Leader Lady said after clearing her throat. “That was truly . . . something.”
“Yeah . . . wow . . .” random women in the circle said in unison.
I was so very full of myself that I took it as true, sincere praise.
“Thank you all so much.” I beamed condescendingly. “It was an honor sharing my work with you.”
“I’m sorry,” a woman I had never noticed before said softly. “Can I be honest?”
You want me to take over the book club? You think I’m the next Emily Dickinson? You’re a Hollywood producer who wants to adapt “Lavatory Purgatory” for the screen?
“Of course.” I smiled and gestured to indicate I would allow her to proceed. “Please.”
“Well, I don’t want to be rude, but this group is about honest analysis of the quality of what people write, and it’s also about the way what we read makes us feel. So, I just have to say, I have some issues with your poetry that I would be happy to elaborate on if you would allow me to do so.”
Convinced that she couldn’t possibly be referencing anything more than a rhyme she didn’t like or, more likely, a long-buried emotion within herself that my words had unwittingly brought to the surface, I nodded that she had the floor.
“Okay,” she began, sitting up a little straighter. “I think there is a pretty decent chance that you’ve actually got some writing talent, but let’s face it—poetry isn’t where you need to be. And what’s with the subjects? It’s like you just flipped through the yellow pages until something jumped out at you. What’s next? Exterminators?”
I looked down at the papers in my hands and sheepishly shuffled “Insecticide Nuclear Winter” to the bottom of the stack.
The critic pressed on. “Look, I didn’t feel any emotional connection to any of it, and that’s fine. I don’t feel any connection to Jane Austen, either.” Every other woman in the room gasped, which made her smile, I noticed. “But the problem is, I don’t think you felt any emotional connection to any of it. That is what it is, I suppose, and if you’re running from something or trying to avoid feeling, well, that’s your decision. But please don’t subject the rest of us to it.”
The others in the circle seemed not to breathe, anxious for, and yet dreading, my reply. I knew she was right. Of course I knew she was right.
And that was the moment. The depression and the hole in my heart and the suffocating sadness couldn’t be pushed to the background any longer. I started crying like in an old Looney Tunes cartoon—you know, where the tears shoot out horizontally with the force of a garden hose. Actually, I think it was kind of a combination of Looney Tunes and I Love Lucy, because I think I actually made that “Waaaaa!” sound.
All of the women in the group—the nameless women for whom I hadn’t taken the time or made the effort to develop true respect or affection—gathered around me and hugged me and said generic things like “There, there” and “It’s going to be okay.” I was so touched by that moment
. So much so that I told myself I was going to make brownies for them all and bring them to next week’s meeting. They may be the only thing I know how to bake, but my brownies really are amazing, so that was a big gesture for a social pariah allowing herself to feel again.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people who came along with me on the journey as I prepared to introduce Cadie and Will to you all, and I am going to do my best to thank as many of them as possible. But first and foremost, I owe thanks to the Lord, who introduced me to Cadie and Will, not to mention this love of story that springs from him.
I’m so grateful to my church family at Rock Springs. You guys have been so supportive, and I can’t even tell you how much that has meant. One of the greatest gifts God has given me is allowing me to worship and serve alongside you.
Secily, Jacob, David, LeeAnn . . . you guys ride with me on my emotional rollercoaster more than just about anyone else. Thanks for splurging on the Unlimited Rides pass. Jenny, as always, I’m desperately hoping you think this one lives up to our standard. Zaida, Kaari, Kristi, Kristen, Tonya, Donna . . . thanks.
I have the best street team in the world. Most of the members of the “See Bethany Launch” team have been with me since before The Secret Life of Sarah Hollenbeck released, and I am so grateful for each and every one of you!
Which brings me to all the readers who have embraced me and embraced the stories I write. I’m so grateful for all of you, but especially those of you who follow along on social media, send me encouraging notes, take part in the FB chats, and especially the members of The Book Club Closest to My House. You have become my community, and my affection for you goes even beyond books.
The team I get to work with at Revell is simply the best. Karen and Michele, working with you is such a joy! Hannah, no one has to field more of my questions and ideas than you, but you welcome each one with patience and enthusiasm. Thanks for dreaming with me. Kristin, thank you for challenging me and helping me think new thoughts.
Kelsey Bowen, in every single way, this story is being told because of you. You are a treasured friend and a brilliant editor, and I’ll never stop thanking God for bringing us together.
Jessica Kirkland, I hope you’re even half as happy to be working with me as I am to be working with you, because you’re stuck with me, my friend.
Sarah Monzon, not only did you make my writing stronger, you also kept me going when I was not feeling the love for this story at all. Melissa Ferguson, you crack me up. Always. Thanks for being #TeamJoe. Nicole Deese, I’m really not sure how I made it through as much life as I did before I had you as my co-host. Annaliese Flautt and Maureen Drake, I’ll always go back to that first day as one of the absolute best. Mikal Hermanns and Carol Moncado, I can barely remember a time before MiBeCa. #MiBeCaIsEternalYo
Colleen Coble, Irene Hannon, Kristin Billerbeck, Becky Wade, Liz Johnson, Rachel McMillan, Melissa Parcel, Rel Mollet. You have each encouraged me at a time when I desperately needed it—and you probably didn’t even realize it. You were just being the wonderful, supportive people that you are. But trust me. You made a difference.
Thanks to my parents for instilling a love of pop culture and supporting it through various crazy, obsessive phases. And my sister may not read my books (don’t get me started . . .) but she’s gotten pretty good at acting like she has, so she never misses a moment!
Ethan and Noah, the way you believe in me and encourage me to keep at it, even when it means you don’t have clean laundry, fills my heart to overflowing.
Kelly Turner, you’re still my favorite, and I’m pretty sure I’m your favorite. That overwhelms me. Being your favorite’s favorite? Yeah . . . a girl can’t do any better than that.
Bethany Turner is the award-winning author of The Secret Life of Sarah Hollenbeck, which was a finalist for the Christy Award. When she’s not writing (and even when she is), she serves as the director of administration for Rock Springs Church in southwest Colorado. A former bank executive and a three-time cancer survivor (all before she turned thirty-five), Bethany knows that when God has plans for your life, it doesn’t matter what anyone else has to say. Because of that, she’s chosen to follow his call to write. She lives with her husband and their two sons in Colorado, where she writes for a new generation of readers who crave fiction that tackles the thorny issues of life with humor and insight.
SeeBethanyWrite.com
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Table of Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
1. Four Years Later. To the Day.
2. About Twenty-five Minutes Earlier . . .
3. A Day or Two Later. Three at the Most . . .
4. A Year Earlier (AKA “That Whole Awkward Sex Talk”)
5. 7:00 (Back in the Time of Pigeons and Chromosomes)
6. At the End of the Date (But Not of the Day)
7. A Few Days Later (Long Before the Dust Settled)
8. A Million-and-a-Half Years Ago (Okay . . . More Like Three)
9. (Roughly) This Time the Week After Next
10. Tomorrow
11. While the Sports World Stood Still
12. The Bacteria Portion of the Morning
13. After a Day at the Lab
14. Three Weeks, Seven CDs, and a Billion Tic Tacs Later
15. A Few Hours of Moving Forward (or Moving Back)
16. From Friday Night to 3:15
17. About an Hour Later (the Aftermath)
18. Three Weeks Later (When Cadie Actually Started Her New Life)
19. When All Is Said and Done
20. The Rest of the Evening
21. At the End of the Day
22. Forever . . . In Spite of It All
Epilogue
An Excerpt of The Secret Life of Sarah Hollenbeck
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
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