Letters in Time

by Reiss Susan

  A glance at my watch made it clear that I had to get going if I was going to take a short nap, dress, and be ready for Catherine when she came to pick me up. I started the slow ascent to the second floor, not sure if I wanted to take a hot shower or a short nap. I suspected that a tall glass of scotch might be a better way to prepare for the evening’s activities.

  As I walked past a mirror in my bedroom, I almost gagged at what I saw. Me… with a messy braid and cockeyed bangs. I wasn’t fit to be seen by anyone, let alone a group of observant writers. I grabbed a pair of scissors and headed to the bathroom. I straightened my bangs and shortened my braid. It wasn’t perfect, but it had to be better than it was.

  Now, I was running late. It took me a long time to decide what to wear to a meeting of writers. I bypassed a pantsuit, too formal. I decided against jeans, too casual. Maybe if I dressed the part, I'd feel more like a writer so I pulled out a black maxi skirt with a black sleeveless top and a funky pair of earrings. Yes, it was a creative type looking at me from the mirror. I was proud of myself that I got downstairs as Catherine drove up in her oyster white Jaguar. She was dressed in a soft, flowing white silk dress that almost matched her car. She seemed to favor the frozen shades of an ice princess.

  I forced an excited smile on my face and made my way down the steps. The walker was inside, leaning against the foyer wall. I held an old cane from the closet firmly in my hand.

  "Oh, Emma," Catherine called out. "I'm so glad you're coming tonight. Every writers group can benefit from fresh blood, especially ours."

  She didn't smile.

  I had to ask, "I hope you don't mean that literally?"

  Her laughter rang out. “You’re so funny. I just know we’re going to be great friends.” And we were off. She didn’t even wait until we were on the main road before she started probing.

  "You know, TJ didn't tell me very much about you. Why don't you use this time to tell me about yourself?"

  I didn't think I'd have to face this question until we got to the meeting, but it would be good practice. "Well, I majored in elementary education in college and have a minor in English. I teach kindergarten now."

  “OH! You must be sick all the time!” She swiveled her head toward me. “You aren’t carrying germs now, are you?”

  “Catherine, keep your eyes on the road.” I chuckled to hide my fear. “No, I haven’t been in the classroom for a long time.”

  “Oh, sorry. One can never be too careful as one gets older.”

  “Now, it’s your turn,” I said. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Well, I’m working on a memoir. I come from a very interesting family.”

  I hoped she couldn’t see me rolling my eyes in the growing darkness as we flew down the road with the waters of the Chesapeake Bay off to our right. The sun almost touched the horizon. It wouldn’t be long before night would fall well before dinner time. The August humidity and high temperatures were still with us, but fall was not far away.

  Thankfully, she soon clicked the turn signal and we drove onto a gravel driveway marked only by a split rail fence. It was one of many roads that branched off the main roads and led into woods or cornfields. Often, these drives did not lead to farmhouses, but to beautiful homes especially ones with spectacular views of the water. The meeting place for the writers group did not disappoint.

  Even though the house was new construction, it incorporated design elements of a Victorian home plus the ambiance of large, brightly lit windows and a huge wraparound porch. Catherine pulled up in a parking area where her Jaguar fit right in with the BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes.

  It was slow going for me to make it up the front steps. I wasn't adept at using the old cane. Halfway up the front steps, I chided myself for letting my pride and vanity overwhelm my need for support.

  Finally, at the front door, Catherine hit the doorbell and walked right in. I followed her into a two-story-high entryway. I caught glimpses of modern furnishings rather than antiques. The hand of a talented interior designer was evident. Catherine continued down the hall to the kitchen that overlooked the water. There, a flood of recessed lighting revealed a collection of women talking and munching away.

  Catherine clapped her hands. “Hello, everybody! Let me introduce Emma Chase, our newest member.”

  The five women felt like a mob as they surrounded me to shake my hand, pat my arm and introduce themselves. I didn’t catch any of their names in the confusion.

  Catherine clapped her hands again. “Okay, girls, let’s give the woman some room to breathe. Denise, why don’t we let Emma sit there then we can all introduce ourselves?”

  With a meek smile, Denise floated off a high barstool at the island counter. She had a petite, willowy body that reminded me of a pixie, but instead of being pert, she was so shy, she seemed to sink into herself. Denise drifted over to stand at the shoulder and one step behind a woman who towered over everyone else by height and sheer will. I estimated she was about 5'11" with ramrod straight posture that made her look taller. Was that a natural position or was she wearing a brace?

  “That is a good idea,” the tall woman declared. “We will make our introductions as a group so Emma only has to tell us about herself once.” The woman smiled, but her black eyes focused on me, full of judgment. "I'm Gretchen Fleischer." Her long bangs hid her eyebrows and just touched her large, stark white glasses. "Welcome to my home." She paused.

  And I responded dutifully, “And a beautiful home it is. Thank you so much for the invitation.” Suddenly, I felt like I was attending one of my mother’s club meetings of Mainline Philadelphia where everyone wore a conservative A-line dress and a strand of pearls and knew her place.

  A middle-aged woman in an olive-green midi skirt and matching short sleeve sweater set that did nothing for her sallow complexion stepped forward. She was so overweight that her boobs blended in with her tummy so her silhouette was flat. “I thought the hostess was supposed to go last, Gretchen, but you know best.” She turned to me and announced. “My name is Zelda. I won’t tell you my last name. It’s too long. You’ll never remember it.” The sentences came out like a bird pecking at the ground. “I hope you fit into our group.”

  What a strange thing to say. The group went right on with their introductions.

  “Hello, my name is Maureen.” This tall woman was an ocean of calm, in sharp contrast to the pecky Zelda. Maureen’s silver hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was wearing shoes that I didn’t see very often on the Shore: two-inch heels. They were a statement that she still opted for looks over comfort. She turned towards the woman standing behind the statuesque Gretchen. “Let’s not forget Denise.”

  “Oh, um, I’m Denise Walters.” Everything about the woman who’d given me her seat blended together. Her strawberry blonde hair with a hint of red hung straight around her pale face. She had a dusting of small freckles across her nose and under her watery blue eyes. “Um, welcome to our group.” Her soft voice would be blown away by a gentle puff of wind. Having introduced herself, she stepped back behind Gretchen, fading away.

  “I’m delighted to welcome a new member to our group,” Maureen said, filling the awkward silence. “I’m looking forward to hearing about what you’re working on.”

  Gretchen rushed towards me. "Oh, we will talk about that after we eat. Now, Emma, tell me, do you prefer red or white wine?"

  And the bustling around the kitchen began. Serving dishes, plates, and utensils appeared. I felt like I had to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we were going to have dinner. I should’ve brought a dish.”

  Gretchen chuckled. "Oh no, that is not necessary. I love cooking and entertaining. When I am executing a menu, I shuffle my husband off to another part of our house. He does not care. He knows there is a tray of wonderful dishes coming his way." She glanced down for a moment then raised her laser-sharp eyes at me. "Are you married, Emma?" Her lips pulled tight in a challenge.

  I shook my
head.

  “I see,” she said and I felt like I’d just been slid into a certain category. Gretchen continued quickly to cover that moment. “Preparing dinner for our writing group each month is a wonderful excuse to play with new recipes.”

  “It’s fun for her, but not so good for our hips,” Zelda remarked. Everybody laughed. Gretchen blinked twice while maintaining her plastered smile. It was with a sigh of relief that we sat around the oval table of rich mahogany in the dining room and enjoyed a gourmet feast.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”

  — Douglas Adams

  At the end of the truly gourmet meal, cups of fragrant coffee were handed around, along with some chocolate cookies. With a brush of a hand over her bangs, Gretchen settled herself at the head of the table again. “All right then, shall we start the meeting? Maureen, why don’t you begin?”

  “Gretchen, as you know, I…”

  I tried to concentrate on what each woman was saying as we went around the table but was soon overwhelmed by too much information: where each one had moved from, where they were living now, their marital status, what they were writing, and what they hope to do with a manuscript once it was done. Watching and listening, I understood a bit more about my Uncle Jack. Whenever I visited him here on the Eastern Shore, we spent most of our time at the Cottage with brief trips to the post office, the stores in Easton, or cruises on the water in one of his little boats. He wasn't involved in the local social scene. Now, I knew why. These ladies, especially the single ones, would have hunted him down like a bloodhound. I shook off this thought so I wouldn't burst out laughing.

  Catherine, sitting primly next to me, was finishing up her comments. “Emma, I’m making really good progress on my story about my mother and father when I was a little girl.” She tittered. “That’s all I’ll say right now, so I won’t ruin it for you when you read it.”

  I can’t wait, glad that she couldn't hear my sarcastic thought. My hope of finding a friend here was fading.

  “And now, why don’t you tell everyone about yourself, Emma,” Gretchen said.

  Catherine took over. “Emma is a working girl from Philadelphia.” She made me sound like a prostitute. Then things got worse. “She is a kindergarten teacher,” she said with a … was it a sneer?

  The older women—Gretchen and Catherine—moved back in their chairs. Were they germophobes? Denise and Zelda both glanced down at the papers in front of them. I figured they’d lost interest in me. Only Maureen kept her attention on me.

  Catherine wasn’t done. “She almost killed herself in a terrible car crash. As you can see, she survived, but she’s dealing with a serious injury to her leg.” She turned to me. “It’s the right one, isn’t it?”

  This ice queen had certainly done her homework. She didn’t get all this information from me. Just wait until I see TJ!

  Catherine droned on. “She’s doing her rehabilitation here and is living in the Cottage she inherited from her Uncle Jack and she’s going to start her first book.” She turned to me with a smile as genuine as a piece of plastic. “Isn’t that right, Emma dear? Why don’t you tell us what your novel is about?”

  My worst fear was now a reality. I, the hotshot teacher who wasn't afraid to face a sobbing five-year-old, was caught flat-footed. Time to be straight with these people who I'd probably never see again. "I hope to write a children’s book, maybe a picture book. I don't have a story yet, but I might do something about the Civil War."

  I thought of that old cliché: you could hear a pin drop. But the rugs were too plush.

  Finally, shy Denise piped up in the awkward silence. "That's different." Her voice was thin like a delicate strand of thread. "I'm thinking of trying something in the romance genre."

  “Oh, Denise,” Gretchen declared. “I don’t think it is the type of story you should even consider doing.” Gretchen made her pronouncement without looking at the small woman who sank back in her chair. “You’re better off sticking to poetry,”

  Taking charge, Maureen put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Emma, have you studied the accepted framework of a picture book?”

  I almost laughed with relief. “Not exactly, but I’ve read a lot of them.”

  “You should become acquainted with it first, then think about the characters in the story.”

  Gretchen cleared her throat to draw everyone’s attention. “Emma, I’m not sure this group can be any help,” she said, dismissing my interest in books for children. “But you’re welcome to participate in one of our writing exercises.”

  She passed sheets of blank paper around to everyone with a flourish. I could feel a tightness starting in my chest. Oh, how I wished I had a car outside and could escape. Of course, that would mean I’d have to drive and I’m not sure which activity scared me more right now.

  The ladies sitting around the table went through their writing rituals. One concentrated on selecting the appropriate pen from a fat pouch while another opted for a pencil. One meticulously put a lined piece of paper underneath the blank sheet so the words would be straight while another one closed her eyes for a Zen moment. Zelda dug deep into her colorful tote, pulled out a tiny doll that looked like a Smurf with ratty purple hair, and put it next to her paper. I wanted to ask if that was her muse, but I didn't dare. Optimistic Denise asked for a second piece of paper in case she hit her stride.

  Catherine seated on the other side of me mumbled, “or gets wordy as usual.”

  "The exercise this evening," Gretchen proclaimed, "is to spend fifteen minutes creating a no-good, very-bad antagonist. Because, as I always say, if you don't have an exceptional antagonist, you don't have a story. Ready? I'm timing you. Begin now."

  I stared at the blank page, rolling my favorite pen between my fingers. I thought of some of my favorite stories for children. They didn't have dark, complicated antagonists. The Brothers Grimm themselves would have fit in well with this group.

  “Fair warning,” Gretchen proclaimed. “One minute.”

  The doorbell rang and Gretchen sang out, “Come in.”

  TJ walked into the dining room and took a small step back when faced with all the admiring ladies. I don't think I was ever so relieved to see anyone in my life. "I'm here to pick up Emma," he said. “but I see I’m early. I’ll wait outside in my truck.”

  He turned to leave, but I wasn’t going to let him go. “NO!” The ladies all stared at me. “No,” I repeated calmly. “I mean, it’s been a long evening for me, and I think it would be good for me to go now. You know, with my leg and all.” It was the first time that I had used my physical condition as an excuse, but there was never a better time to start.

  The ladies got up to walk me to the door so they could talk to TJ. While they were fussing and tittering about my handsome chauffeur, Maureen shook my hand, slipping me a small piece of paper. When she gave me a gentle hug, she whispered, "That’s my phone number. If you want to talk about writing, give me a call. I'll come to you."

  As we walked out the door, the ladies called out, “See you next month and bring your good-looking driver.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “At risk of sounding foully pompous I think that writers' groups are probably very useful at the beginning of a writing career.”

  —Bernard Cornwell

  Once TJ and I had escaped to the porch, he shot me a look of disbelief. “A cane? When did you graduate to a cane?”

  “Not now.” I caught his arm and leaned on the handrail. “Get me out of here.”

  Once in the truck and heading down the main road, TJ said, "Now, are you going to tell me—"

  I interrupted quickly. “How wonderful your idea was to go to this writers group? Absolutely not! It was the worst evening I've spent since I went on a blind date in high school."

  He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "No, that’s not fair,” I said softly. “The idea of going to a writers group wa
s a good one. It’s just that this one was horrible. I've read that a good writers group is supposed to support you in whatever you want to write and will make thoughtful, constructive suggestions. That is vital. Writing is hard, especially for someone just starting. Having the right kind of support can make all the difference."

  I grunted as I remembered their reaction to my teaching career and my kids. “The only thing these ladies are interested in is a good glass of wine, dinner, and an opportunity to snipe at each other. No, change that. I must admit the dinner was fabulous. Gretchen is a great cook, but I have no idea what kind of a writer she is. Nobody brought anything to critique.” I threw my hands up in the air and let them fall in my lap.

  “Okay, now that you’ve had your rant, do you feel better?” he asked.

  I didn’t want to admit it, but I did feel better.

  “Maybe this group wasn’t a good fit for you,” he continued. “I’ll keep my ears open to find another one in the area.”

  I almost blurted out, NO! But I locked my lips tight. Why couldn't he just do handyman things? He was only trying to help. If he found another group, I didn't have to go.

  I settled back in my seat. “Thank you. And thank you for coming to get me tonight. I’m sure you have other things you and Ghost would rather be doing.”

  He smiled as he glanced my way. “No problem, we’re glad to do it, especially while I have the time. A few weeks down the road, I’ll be working all hours with the harvest and won’t have time for anything until it gets cold.” He smiled at me again.

  “What, what is it?” I ran my fingers over my lips. “Do I have something on my face?”

  He chuckled. “No, I like seeing you like this. Not so uptight. Maybe you’re getting more comfortable with my driving.”