The Sisters Hemingway

by Annie England Noblin

  PFEIFFER STOOD IN THE GRASS, HER HEELS POKING INTO soft earth. Hadley and Martha stood on either side of her, all three of them looking down at the black marble stone, new to the old Cold River Cemetery.

  “I think it looks nice,” Martha said. “I think Aunt Bea would’ve liked it.”

  “I think so, too,” Pfeiffer replied. “At least now they’re together.”

  Hadley nodded. “I think she would have wanted it that way.”

  “I think they both would have,” Pfeiffer added.

  The flood, the worst Cold River had ever seen, was trumped only by the news of the body of a young man found in the James family garden nearly a year ago. The young man, later identified as William Lawrence Mason of Bar Harbor, Maine, was now buried next to Beatrice James. He’d been twenty-five when he died, the orphan son of Pearl and Lawrence Mason. He’d had no siblings, no other family to contact besides Hadley, Pfeiffer, and Martha, his granddaughters.

  There were no pictures of him. There were no other memories other than the words written by their grandmother, but Pfeiffer felt a certain connection with him that she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was because he, too, lost his parents before it was time. Maybe it was because in some small way, he’d brought her and her sisters closer to understanding their grandmother, the woman they’d always known as Aunt Bea.

  Pfeiffer wondered if things might have turned out differently if their mother had known that Beatrice was her mother—if Beatrice and Will had run away together as they’d planned. What would their lives have looked like? Would she and her sisters be alive at all?

  Most of the town turned out for their grandfather Will’s funeral, and now the sisters were back to see the newly placed headstone. They’d removed their grandmother’s and had one made for both of them, together, beside their mother and Mary. The hubbub surrounding the Hemingway sisters and the James farm brought people out of the Ozarks woodwork. Nobody could believe that something so awful had happened right under the town’s nose, and nobody could believe that a woman like Beatrice James could have borne the brunt of such a tragedy. Bea’s story made it as far as the New York Times, and the sisters were still sorting through the piles and piles of mail they got on a regular basis. So far, they’d turned down every single interview request.

  The years they’d spent without their father, mother, and sister had been hard, and it wasn’t something Pfeiffer wanted to attempt to explain to anyone. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for their grandmother to lose a child and grandchildren she’d never been able to love like a mother and a grandmother are able to love. What would that love have looked like?

  Pfeiffer didn’t know the answers. In her three and a half decades on earth, the only thing she knew for certain was that people lived and then they died. But it was the stuff in the middle—the good stuff that she sometimes forgot about—that made the difference in the end. She and her sisters had spent too many years avoiding the stuff in the middle. They’d spent too many years avoiding love and life because they were so afraid of what was going to come next.

  She looked down at her grandparents’ grave. Pfeiffer hoped that they, the two of them, were together. She hoped that they could see their granddaughters and be proud of them. She had a feeling that they could.

  “Are you flying out after this?” Hadley asked Pfeiffer, drawing her sister out of her thoughts and nodding to the phone that was vibrating in Pfeiffer’s jacket pocket. “That phone has been ringing all morning.”

  “It’s the publishing house,” Pfeiffer replied, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. “There’s a bidding war over the book.”

  The book that Pfeiffer was referring to was the first book she’d acquired since opening up her literary agency in Cold River—Heart of the Ozarks Literary. She’d followed up on the tip given to her by the woman at the funeral—the one with the niece named Janice who’d written a book. Pfeiffer had expected the book to be terrible. She hadn’t been optimistic in the beginning. However, she’d been pleasantly surprised by Janice, and she’d read the manuscript in one day. It was then that she decided to start her literary agency. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to sell a book, and what she’d found over the last year was that the people in the Ozarks had stories, lots of them, and they wanted to tell those stories. Janice’s book, Pfeiffer believed, was going to be the first of many successful books here in Cold River.

  “That’s wonderful,” Hadley replied. “But I hope you’re back in time for Lucy’s birthday party.”

  “I will be,” Pfeiffer replied. “What about you, Martha?”

  “Amanda and I aren’t set to record until next month,” Martha said. “But the demo we recorded is still in the top ten on iTunes.”

  “And have you gotten any more calls from Travis?” Hadley wanted to know.

  “Not since I blocked his number,” Martha replied with a grin. “I don’t need him to make music anymore.”

  Pfeiffer reached out and gave her sister’s hand a squeeze. “You never did.”

  “What about Reese?” Hadley asked, winking at her sister. “I hear he’s still got quite a crush on you.”

  Martha’s grin widened. “He’s sweet, but I’m not looking for anything serious right now,” she said.

  Pfeiffer didn’t believe her sister for one second, but she knew better than to say anything. She’d heard a few of the songs that were going to be on Martha’s newest record. One of them, a catchy tune about an impulsive kiss in a local bar, was clearly about Reese. Pfeiffer guessed she’d just have to wait and see.

  At any rate, Pfeiffer was excited to be heading back to New York City. She loved it there, and it would always hold a piece of her heart. But her home, her true home, was the farmhouse, the same one in which she’d grown up, and the same one where she’d been spending every waking moment when she wasn’t writing, restoring it with the help of her sisters. Martha, for her part, was splitting her time between Nashville and Cold River, and Hadley had arrived for good just last month after her divorce was final. She’d been spending most of her time with Brody and Lucy. Lafayette also divided her time between the James farm and Brody’s farm, as she couldn’t go too long without her bulldog companion.

  As they stood there, Martha’s brow furrowed, and she appeared to be deep in thought. “Hey, you know how when we first got here, my guitar case kept getting moved around?”

  Hadley and Pfeiffer both nodded.

  “Well, it kept happening for weeks after the flood. Every time I went to look for it, it was in a different place.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t just forgetting where you put it?” Pfeiffer asked.

  “Yes,” Martha replied. “I would put it in odd places just so I wouldn’t forget where I left it.”

  “That’s weird,” Hadley said.

  “That’s not the weird part,” Martha said.

  “It’s not?”

  “No,” Martha continued. “What’s weird is that after we buried Grandfather Will, it stopped disappearing.”

  All three of the sisters turned to look at the headstone.

  “Maybe he was trying to tell you something,” Pfeiffer said.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” Martha teased, giving her sister a mischievous grin. “Isn’t that what you told me once?”

  Pfeiffer shrugged. She didn’t know for sure if she believed in ghosts. All she knew was that this time last year, she thought that her life was over. She thought that she’d never be whole again, and now, looking at her sisters, she knew she’d been wrong. Loss didn’t require that she lose herself, and sometimes it took a voice from the past to show a person just exactly where they needed to look.

  Acknowledgments

  IT IS WITH SINCERE AFFECTION AND ADMIRATION THAT I’D like to thank the following:

  Priya Doraswamy—thank you for being the lovely calm in all of my storms. I owe you so much.

  Lucia Macro—for always knowing exactly where I’m headed, even when it�
��s clear I have no idea the direction.

  Matt and Jude—for guild nights.

  My mom and dad—for always telling me, “We can fix this,” when I was out of duct tape.

  The Vicious Biscuits—for video chats and belly laughs and completely unexpected friendships.

  Emma and CW Hunter—for being Nikki’s parents and for loving me, too.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

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  Meet Annie England Noblin

  About the Book

  * * *

  A Walk in the Woods with an Old Friend: A Short Story

  Behind the Book

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  Meet Annie England Noblin

  ANNIE ENGLAND NOBLIN lives with her son, husband, and four rescued bulldogs in the Missouri Ozarks. She graduated with an MA in creative writing from Missouri State University and currently teaches English for Arkansas State University. Her poetry has been featured in such publications as the Red Booth Review and the Moon City Review, and she coedited and coauthored the coffee-table book The Gillioz “Theatre Beautiful.”

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  About the Book

  A Walk in the Woods with an Old Friend

  By Annie England Noblin

  The old dog went to visit the old woman every day. Her paws beat the gravel each morning as she plodded along toward the farmhouse. Sometimes she’d stop to sniff a bullfrog or take a drink from the mossy pond on the edge of the pasture, but mostly she stayed true to her mission and nosed open the front door at 9 a.m. on the dot.

  On these mornings, the dog found the old woman in the kitchen, and the dog sat patiently at the woman’s feet until the sausage gravy was ready. Then the two would sit—the woman at the table and the dog on the rug—and eat their breakfast together. Afterward, the woman read the newspaper while the dog rested her weary paws from the morning’s journey. After all, two miles was a long walk for an elderly basset hound. Long gone were the days when she might’ve chased a rabbit or a raccoon. Long gone were the days when her ears perked up for much of anything. Well, anything besides the old woman’s sausage gravy.

  When the weather was warm and the sky was clear, the woman spent her afternoons hanging laundry on the line outside. The dog liked these days best. When the woman was done hanging the laundry, she would sit on the porch and watch it blow in the wind. Sometimes the old woman strolled out into the woods behind the house, walking stick in one hand and a book about birds tucked under one arm. The dog trailed behind her, occasionally picking up the scent of a woodland creature she was too lazy to chase.

  Today, the old woman was dressed for walking, but she had no walking stick or book about birds. Instead, she was carrying a small knapsack, slung over one shoulder. She nodded her head toward the forest, and the dog followed her. They walked for a while, deeper into the woods than the two of them had ventured ever before, and the dog started to worry that the woman might become too tired to walk home again.

  Eventually, the dense forest gave way to a clearing. Just beyond the clearing was the largest tree the dog had ever seen. It stood feet above all the others. It was so tall, in fact, that it appeared all the other trees were bowing down, in awe of its presence. The woman, too, knelt down in front of the tree, and the dog, curious about it all, sat down beside her.

  The woman pulled the knapsack off her shoulder and sat it in front of her. Opening the flap, she reached down inside and pulled out a wooden box. The dog, hopeful that the box might contain a treat, began to wag her tail and whine, but the woman shook her head and put her finger to her lips. The dog complied, lying down on her belly, stretching her front paws out so far she could almost touch the tree with them.

  The woman opened the box and pulled out two pictures. They were old and slightly yellowed, but both of the girls in the pictures had sparkling eyes that the dog recognized—they were the eyes of the old woman, younger eyes, neither clouded with age. The woman set the pictures down at the base of the tree and then clasped her hands together. The tree, for its part, began to sway slightly in the wind, as did the other trees, as if they somehow knew the old woman brought them an offering.

  The woman looked up at the tree, her eyes wet with tears. Then she lowered her head again, and the dog rested her chin on the woman’s lap. The dog had always known the woman to be alone. She had no family to speak of, and she rarely had visitors with the exception of an even older man who lived down the road. But somehow, these girls with their beautiful eyes must be related. The dog wondered why they never came to visit her.

  “They’re gone,” the woman said.

  The dog looked up, her ears raised slightly. Had the old woman just spoken? The dog wasn’t sure. She’d never heard the woman’s voice before. The dog cocked her head to one side.

  “The storm took them,” the woman continued, her voice cracked and thin with age. “This forest took them.”

  The dog rested her head back on the woman’s lap, and closed her eyes when the woman began to stroke her head.

  “My granddaughters will be here soon,” the woman said. “Will you look after them for me?”

  The dog licked the woman’s hand.

  “Don’t worry,” the woman replied. “I’m ready to leave this earth. I’ve been here too long already. I’m tired.”

  The two sat there at the base of the tree for a long time, listening to the sounds around them, listening to the trees sway in conversation with each other, listening to the birds and the squirrels and the Cold River just beyond them cutting its path through the Ozarks Hills. Everything was alive, and everything had a story to tell, if only someone stayed long enough to listen.

  Finally, the old woman stood up, placing the box back into the knapsack, the pictures still nestled onto the soft earth. “Come on,” the old woman said to the old dog. “It’s time to go home.”

  Behind the Book

  I can pinpoint the day I decided my next book needed to have more than one female main character. I was in my office at the university where I work, having a text conversation with my two best friends. I’d been friends with these women since high school. We lived hours (and for one of us, an entire continent) apart, but we carried on our daily conversations as if we’d just had lunch together. We were each discussing something happening in our lives, basically having three separate conversations, when I realized despite the fact that our lives were intertwined, we were each the main character in our own lives. We shared our stories with each other, and in this way, we pushed the narrative of our individual experiences forward.

  That’s when I decided that I wanted my next book to have three narratives. Additionally, I was ready for a challenge. I’d already written three books—Sit! Stay! Speak!, Just Fine With Caroline, and Pupcakes—that had a single female protagonist. It was fun, but I worried that my readers would get bored or begin to think that I was a one-trick pony, the kind of writer who could write one thing. Rather, a writer who could write from only one perspective. I wanted to challenge myself while providing a different kind of book for my readers, which is how I came up with the characters of Hadley, Pfeiffer, and Martha.

  Around that time, I was also reading lots of historical fiction (my favorite genre). I was stuck in the 1920s with the Lost Generation—Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, and Ezra Pound. I was reading biographies of their lives, their writing, but also historical fictional accounts of their lives. When I first began writing The Sisters Hemingway, I’d just finished reading The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, and I was on to Hemingway’s Girl by Erika Robuck. I have to admit that I’m not a fan of Ernest Hemingway—neither his writing nor who he was as a person—but at the same time, his personal life fascinated me. His four wives fascinated me, especially Pauline Pfeiffer, Hemingway’s second wife. She grew up in Piggott, Arkansas, not far from where I grew up. I wanted to honor t
hem in some way, and so I decided to name the main characters after them. I guess it’s just my way of saying thank you for making history interesting.

  Reading Group Guide

  Rachael made the greatest sacrifice for her daughter. To what extent has this sacrifice formed the grown-up personalities of her other daughters?

  After Pfeiffer loses her job, she seems to lose her identity. How much of your own identity is tied to what you may do for a living?

  Each of the present-day sisters left Cold River and “never looked back . . .” until now. In what ways does the place you grew up influence the person you are today?

  Aunt Beatrice chose never to speak out loud, but we learn about her through her diary entries. At one point she says that “Maryann says all women ought to have a secret or two . . .” Do you agree or disagree with that statement? Why?

  Do you think Beatrice ever regretted her decision to take care of the three sisters?

  Pfeiffer states about Brody that “Everybody changes,” but also tells her sister Hadley that “I bet he’s basically the same guy you’ve always known.” Do you think she’s right about him? Do you think this holds true for most people, or not?

  At one point it’s said that the sisters had spent too many years forgetting about “the good stuff in the middle” between living and dying. Avoiding love and life. Why is it sometimes easier to be angry in silence than to talk and face the truth?

  Do you think there was a ghost?

  Praise for the Works of Annie England Noblin

  Sit! Stay! Speak!

  “A warm, emotionally grounded story that will delight fans of Mary Kay Andrews and contemporary women’s fiction.”

  —Booklist

  “Readers of Debbie Macomber will enjoy poet and nonfiction author Noblin’s first novel. It’s an enjoyable story full of laughter, tears, and just plain fun.”