Rewriting Rita

by Kristy Tate

  Fairs are for cows and pigs seeking the prize,

  The blue goes to those of the biggest size,

  The heftiest cow, the piggiest pig,

  The crown goes to the critters most big.

  And if you’ll take a gander at the crowd gathered there,

  You’ll always find a prize-winning bitch at the fair.

  Maybe that was what accounted for Addison’s strange dreams.

  CHAPTER 8

  Addison stood at a podium in the center of an enormous stadium. The seats were filled to the rafters with a cheering audience. Balloons floated through the sky along with the strains of jubilant music played by a marching band led by a baton-thrower. Who were all these people? Why was she standing in front of them? What did they expect her to say or do? A woman in a cherry-colored pantsuit and carrying a clipboard nudged her, signaling that it was Addison’s turn to speak.

  Addison glanced around, terrified and confused. She slid her hands down over her silky light blue dress. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would normally buy, but she loved it and the matching shoes. Before she could say anything, a mean wind ripped through the stadium and pulled at her dress. She tried to hold it down, but the hem fluttered up her thighs. The crowd fell silent as thunder shook the stadium. A cold rain fell in fat heavy drops. Within seconds, Addison was drenched, her silky dress and suede shoes ruined. The crowd magically disappeared and she was alone.

  Addison woke with a start. Sitting up, she pushed the quilt off her and glanced around at the dark room where she’d slept as a child.

  After Paul’s death, she’d rented out their home on Baker Street and moved back in with her mom. After her mom died, she could have moved into the master bedroom with the French doors leading to the back patio, but she hadn’t been able to even consider sleeping in her mom’s bed. Her own room, which faced the street, often had headlights flashing into her window. But it was a quiet street with light traffic, even in the daytime.

  Now, as Addison glanced at the clock beside her bed, she wondered if it had been a car’s light, rather than the odd dream, that had woken her. She flopped back against her pillows and stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to reclaim her.

  Addison woke again before dawn. Pressing her eyes closed, she considered trying to go back to sleep, but after a few restless moments, she crawled from her bed to find her sneakers. It felt good to run in the crisp early morning air.

  She jogged up the hill, passing the Oriental church. The star on the chapel shone in the fading dark, the gate hung open, and hundreds of dark-haired people watched her pass. Why were they worshipping so early in the morning? Why were they staring at her?

  She realized she was naked.

  She ducked into the bushes, disturbing birds who called out, drawing more unwanted attention to her. Dirt clung between her toes. Branches and bushes scratched her arms and legs. Rather than taking the sidewalk, she decided to take a shortcut through the neighbor’s house. She hoisted over their fence and crawled in their window.

  At this point, Addison’s intellect weighed in on the unlikely situation and she realized she must be asleep. Running naked? Crawling through windows? She touched her chest and felt her silky pajamas, but when she looked down she saw skin. Lots of skin.

  The Madsens’ house was messy but quiet. She tripped over things on her way to the front door. Soon, she was on the sidewalk on Merlot Street. She could see her house. She ran as quickly as she could, but time slowed. She would never make it. She would be running in slow motion when the neighbors got in their cars for work, when the children, carrying backpacks, headed for kindergarten, and when the teenagers, carrying cell phones with cameras, would leave for high school. The neighbors would take photos and videos. Someone would call the police and she’d be arrested for indecent exposure.

  Addison imagined her naked self on YouTube and Facebook, running, but never arriving.

  She woke drenched in sweat close to seven, wearing silky pajamas. She was alone, but outside her window Mrs. Madsen was clipping her rose bushes. Mr. Long from across the street was wheeling his trash can through this side gate, and the teenage girl from four houses down was adjusting her earbuds before her run.

  All around her, life carried on in its normalcy and Addison realized that self-publishing was like running naked in a parallel universe. Geneva’s novel—it wasn’t real, it was fiction—but it was still a part of her. A part that she had chosen to share with the world.

  And now she had exposed herself, and Rita, of course, to the world—warts, hairy moles, saggy skin and all.

  #

  “We have to take it down,” Addison announced to Ginny that morning as she entered the shop.

  “Why?” Ginny paused her sweeping.

  “Because it’s…” Addison struggled to come up with the proper response as she crossed the empty room. Without the shelves, books, and furniture, the store looked as naked as she’d felt in her early morning dream. They had two days left before Mr. Patel and his masseuses moved in and set up shop, but Addison thought they’d be done cleaning within a few hours. Then she didn’t know what they’d do. She and Ginny had the book launch to get ready for, but now that she was pulling the book… Her footsteps echoed in the empty space. “Let me tell you about my dreams.”

  Ginny leaned against her broom as she listened. When Addison finished recounting her nightmares, Ginny said, “You’re letting your fears make your decisions. It’s a great book, except for the ending. And you need all the money you can get to pay for the renovation. Unless, of course, you sold your house.”

  “You know I’m waiting for the market to turn around.”

  Ginny tightened her lips. “Is that really what you’re waiting for?”

  “Besides, the McBains signed a two-year lease.”

  Ginny nodded and went back to sweeping.

  Addison’s gaze drifted out the window where Nick and Margaret stood beside the garage. They had already blown out one wall and had poured a foundation for the extended space.

  “It’s going to be great,” Ginny said as she wrapped an arm around Addison’s waist and kissed her cheek. “You’ll see.”

  Because the cleaning took less time than she’d expected, Addison found herself with nothing to do in the afternoon while Ginny left to teach her viola lessons. She supposed she could go and clean her own house, but the thought of picking up another dust rag depressed her. Inspired by her dream, she decided to dig out her sneakers. She and Paul had often run in 5 and 10ks. They’d trained in the early mornings or evenings, depending on Paul’s schedule. They started together, but because Paul was faster, they split off at the corner near the park and met up again near the elementary school. She would run three miles to his four. But since his death, she hadn’t put on her sneakers. They were sloshy on her feet now. She had known she’d lost weight since his death, but because she hadn’t stepped on a scale, she had no idea exactly how much. And she didn’t care. Her clothes had been her only form of measurement and they’d grown baggier and baggier as she dwindled in size.

  She plugged in her earbuds, turned the station to something upbeat, and headed out the door. She intentionally didn’t follow her old route that she’d taken so often with Paul, but despite her best-laid plans, two miles later, she found herself in front of their home.

  Her pace slowed. She tried telling herself to not stop, not look, don’t think…but she did stop. Daffodils and crocuses nodded at her. She’d planted the bulbs along the brick path leading to the front door shortly after Paul’s first commission had closed. She and Paul had painted the exterior themselves. White wood panels, black shutters, a cranberry-colored door. She’d picked out the door color and when they’d started painting, she’d been sick because it looked magenta. She’d wanted to return the paint after the first couple of strokes.

  “Let’s just wait and see how it looks when it dries,” Paul had said. “Maybe you’ll like it.”

  And he’d been right. The color dee
pened to a rich cranberry, and she’d loved it then and she loved it now. She had to admit the McBains took good care of the property. The grass was mowed and trimmed, the windows clean, the rain gutters clear. Maybe Ginny was right, she should put the house up for sale. It was strange, but somehow it didn’t seem like it was hers to sell. She needed Paul to list it. He would know what to do. It had always been more his house than hers. He’d picked out the hardwood floors, the granite countertops, and the furniture that was still sitting in the storage unit because there hadn’t been room for it in her mom’s house.

  It struck her then that it was stupid to pay for a storage unit for furniture she didn’t even like. She should have a garage sale and sell everything she didn’t love—and that included her mom’s things as well. A voice in her head whispered that none of these things truly belonged to her, but if not her, then who?

  Maybe she needed to stop looking at all these things as possessions, but as responsibilities. She’d been given a stewardship over them. It was up to her to make the most of them. She could try to run her life and her business as her mom and grandparents had, but they had lived in different generations. Their world, without the internet, had been smaller. Their business didn’t have to reach beyond the city limits. Their customers wouldn’t hail from any further away than maybe the next town over. But the scope of Addison’s business was limitless. Thanks to modern technology, she could sell books all over the world. She just had to find a way to make that happen.

  #

  Candles lit the path leading to Ginny’s beach-style bungalow. Tiny lanterns scattered throughout the bushes and flowers shone in the fading twilight. The warm spring air carried the strains of soft jazz and the smell of pastries. This was not how Addison had imagined her book launch, but it was, she decided, perfect. She had published a book she loved—even if she hadn’t written it—and she was surrounded by friends she loved and who loved her back.

  From inside the house, a man laughed, and for a wild, brief moment, she thought it was Paul. She had to remind herself that he was gone and that he had left her emotionally long before his death. Bracing her shoulders, she walked the path to the front porch alone.

  A scripture floated to her mind. It’s not good for man to be alone. Where had that come from? Adam and Eve, the book of Genesis. But that centuries-old wisdom surely didn’t apply to her. Rita had proven that she didn’t need a man—or a book contract with a traditional publisher—to make a happy, successful life. She could make one on her own.

  Inside, towering stacks of Rescuing Rita, the novel, were scattered throughout the room—on the end tables, along the mantel, on the piano. It seemed like the only space free of books was the dining room table and that was covered with food. Addison’s heart swelled with appreciation for Ginny.

  Addison slipped into the room and shrugged out of her coat. Someone had lit a fire. “Hello? Ginny?”

  An apron-wearing Ginny bustled into the room carrying a large tray of artfully arranged sugar cookies decorated to look like books. “Help me find a space on the table for these,” she said.

  “Who is going to eat all this food?” Addison asked as she rearranged the platters and bowls to make room for the cookies.

  After Ginny set down the tray, she grabbed both of Addison’s hands. “I’ve invited everyone we know. Publishing a book is a big deal. We need to celebrate.”

  “But it’s not even our book.”

  “I don’t care. We still need to celebrate. You’ve been too sad for too long.” She shook Addison’s hands. “This is the beginning for you. I can feel it. Once you’re successful with Rita, you can move on to your own books.”

  “I don’t know, Gin… There’s a lot more to writing a book than just putting it online.”

  “Sweetie, I don’t want to hear your excuses. You’ve got this.”

  Over the next hour, friends and family trickled in. Margaret, Babbs, and Nick arrived. Maureen trailed in behind them carrying a large floral bouquet. Lauren, wearing a flowy dress and large silver pendent, and her new boyfriend soon followed. The room filled with dozens of conversations, laughter, but the one person Addison wanted to see didn’t arrive until she was seated in a chair of honor near the fireplace.

  A hush fell over the room as she began to read the first chapter. When she stopped at the moonlight kiss, applause exploded. Everyone was smiling and clapping, except for Landon.

  She couldn’t read his expression. His eyes wore the same blank and yet calculated look he’d had during their poker game, except the humor had disappeared. Beside him stood a little old lady with a wrinkly face puckered as if she’d bitten into a sour lemon. A memory whispered in her ear: My sister Erma, no one likes her.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Stand back!” The woman beside Landon whacked Nick with her cane. “Move out of my way!” Wearing a knee-length black skirt, a purple sweater, dark hose and orthopedic shoes, she was the color of a walking bruise. She hobbled forward until she stood just inches away from Addison’s chair. Leaning forward, she braced herself on the cane. “Where did you get my sister’s story?”

  Addison gulped. “Are you Erma?”

  The woman rocked back on her heels, and looked at the ceiling as if consulting heaven on her next move. She returned her gaze to Addison. “How do you know my name?”

  “The woman who gave me the story mentioned you.” Addison thought about telling this Erma-person what her sister had said, but reconsidered.

  Erma squinted her eyes. “I don’t believe my sister ever gave you that story. I think you stole it.”

  “That would be my word against yours. Why don’t you ask your sister?”

  “She’s dead!”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Just recently?” Addison’s gaze shifted to Landon. “Wait.” How coincidental that the woman who gave her the manuscript would have a grandson named Landon and a sister Erma! “When did she die?”

  Landon stepped up and placed a heavy hand on Erma’s shoulder. “Two months ago.”

  Relief swooshed through Addison and she stood. “Then it can’t be the same person. The woman who gave me Rita was very much alive a few weeks ago.” Addison cocked her head at the woman, considering her. Was there any resemblance between the two elderly women? “What makes you think Rita is your sister’s story?”

  “I don’t just think it’s my sister’s story! I know it is!”

  Addison moved behind her chair, envisioning picking it up and using it as a shield, like a lion tamer. “But how?”

  “It’s her name!” Erma shook her cane in Addison’s face.

  “Auntie.” Landon took Erma’s elbow and flashed Addison an apologetic smile. “Granny’s name was Clara.”

  “But Geneva Leigh was her pen name!” The woman shook with pent-up anger.

  “Granny didn’t have a pen name!” Landon said, stepping around his aunt to shield Addison from the cane.

  “Of course she did!” Erma directed her wrath at Landon. “How do you think she managed to send you to all those fancy schools on her teacher’s income?”

  “Oh! It’s true!” Ginny piped up from the back and held her phone in the air. “There really was a Geneva Leigh!”

  Addison felt sick. “We should have checked before,” she said. How could we have been so stupid?

  Ginny giggled. “Oh my! These look spicy!”

  Erma wheeled in Ginny’s direction. “Of course they’re spicy books! Why else would she need a pen name?”

  Landon reached Ginny in three long strides. She handed him her phone. “See,” she said, peering at the screen. “There’s a bunch of used Geneva Leigh books on Amazon even though they’re out of print. The Sheik’s Saucy Sheila, Carolina and the Studly Cowboy.”

  “These can’t be Granny’s,” Landon said. “I need a picture…”

  “Darn straight,” Nick said, looking over Ginny’s shoulder. “I could use some more of those spicy pictures.”

  Ginny elbowed him. “He wants a picture of his grandmother,
not hot sheiks or studly cowboys.”

  Erma rapped her cane against Landon’s leg. “You won’t find any pictures of her online, nitwit! What would be the point in having a secret pen name if you were going to post pictures of yourself?”

  “Then there’s no way to prove Granny and this Geneva were the same person.” He slid Addison a quick glance.

  “I say we can!” Erma exploded.

  “How, Auntie? We can’t raise Granny from the dead.”

  Erma rolled her eyes. “We don’t need to. It’s as clear as day that this young hussy stole my sister’s book.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Addison said. “I didn’t steal Rita. She was given to me by a little old woman on a park bench. Maybe the woman who gave me the manuscript stole it from your grandmother. I don’t know how she got it, but does it matter? Was Rescuing Rita previously published?” She turned to Landon. “And if it had been published by your grandmother, wouldn’t the proceeds belong to you?”

  Erma deflated. All of her bluster seemed to wilt. She slapped Landon with her cane. “You’re just going to roll over and let this charlatan take advantage of you, aren’t you? You’re going to let some pretty face steal your grandmother’s story, heh?” Erma straightened her spine. “Well, I’m not going to stand idly by and watch it happen. I still have some say around here.”

  Landon fought back a smile. “What are you going to do about it, Auntie?”

  “I’m calling the press!”

  “No, stop. There’s no need,” Addison said. “I’ll take the book down.”

  “What? No way!” Ginny pushed through the crowd. “Listen, you can’t let this old crone come in here and start calling you names. This story was given to you! Whoever it was, she wanted you to publish it! Don’t let this woman bully you!”

  “Ginny, you’re the one who thought I needed to rewrite the ending,” Addison gently reminded her.

  “Yes, but…please don’t pull the book. I love this story…except for the ending.”

  “Everyone, don’t buy this book. I’ll…rewrite it. I won’t use one word… and I think Ginny’s right, it needs a happy ending.” Addison took a deep breath. “Erma, you’ve ruined Ginny’s party. You’ve called me a liar and a thief. You need to go. But don’t worry. I’ll pull the book.”