The Rejected Writers' Christmas Wedding (The Southlea Bay Series Book 3)

by Suzanne Kelman

  Flora smiled, took a deep breath, and relaxed.

  “You’re right.” Her eyes shone as she smiled at my reflection in the mirror. “My wedding is going to be amazing—I can feel it. I can’t wait to marry Dan.”

  I nodded and smiled back reassuringly before exiting the salon to make my way to the diner. As I walked the short distance to join the others, I contemplated everything I had to deal with living in a tightknit community. It sure was different to California where I had lived before.

  I joined Annie, Doris, Ethel, the Labettes, and Gracie at the Crab. It was Saturday morning, and there was already a large crowd gathered in the foyer. But even back by the door and with a mass of people ahead of us, I could already see Gladys, the diner’s most notorious waitress, behind her welcome desk. That was because she was luminous—literally. Her usual plain brown hair was bright pink. And not a sweet, gentle pink—more like cerise.

  When we finally got to the front of the queue, Gladys threw her eyes to the ceiling and clicked her tongue, not even trying to hide her disapproval of our group as we all stared at the beacon of neon light on top of her head. Before one of us could speak, she sucked in her breath, hitched up her pantyhose, and said, “Before any of you ask, my goddaughter did it. She’s making her way through beauty school and needed a victim to practice on. The girl she’d chosen had just broken up with her boyfriend and couldn’t make it to her color class, so I stepped in last minute. She wanted me to choose one of those lame colors, like mahogany or burgundy, but I said if we’re gonna dye it, let’s make a statement. I always liked pink, so I said, ‘Hit me up.’”

  “It’s very. . . um, nice,” I said eventually. “Bright and cheerful.”

  “Well, I think it looks ridiculous,” snapped Doris. “You look like cotton candy.”

  “Oh good,” Gladys snapped back. “My favorite food.”

  Knowing there was history between Gladys and Doris, I stepped forward and used my most pleasant voice to ask for a table.

  “For all of you?” scoffed Gladys. “Where are we squeezing into today, the bunker booth, where you can plot your next crazy road trip? Or are we back in the forest next to the bathroom, where you can dance around and create your next great Broadway musical?”

  “We have very important business to discuss. Very important business indeed,” Doris stated over my head sharply. Ethel, by her side, nodded her approval.

  Gladys raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Of course you do, Homeland Security is waiting on you to update the president. Let me see if the briefing room is ready.”

  Grabbing a stack of menus, Gladys shuffled back through the restaurant, the whole group of us in tow like a line of bewildered day-trippers following behind our glowing tour guide. As she went, she mumbled under her breath, “Why can’t you come in on Mondays and Fridays? I’m off on those days!”

  “Because we love to torture you,” I joked.

  Gladys stopped and gave me the hairy eyeball. Then she slowly circled us twice around the restaurant like a middle-aged circus procession. On the second lap, I fought the urge to smile and wave or hand out candy. Maybe her thinking was if she walked us around long enough, a table would become free or, better still, she would lose us along the way. We ended up back at the front of the restaurant. Finding two smaller tables that could be put together, she glared at Doris.

  “Will this do, your ladyship?”

  Doris sniffed, then reluctantly nodded. “It’ll have to.”

  Gladys placed both hands on the table and shunted it at a snail’s pace until it joined with the other table.

  We all sat down, and Gladys slapped menus in front of each of us, saying, “I’ll be back when I’ve had a Valium.”

  A busboy arrived at the table and gave us unsure glances. We had never really lived down the rumors that we were just a bunch of cougars after one of the young busboys, even though we’d just been looking for chorus members for our musical show. The sandy-haired boy approached the table, biting his lip.

  “It’s OK,” I said, tapping his hand. “You don’t have to sing for us today. All we want is water.” His face broke into a nervous grin, as if he didn’t like the fact that his thoughts had been read. With his hand shaking slightly, he filled up our water glasses.

  Ruby-Skye arrived after checking on the emporium. Today she looked like she was wearing some sort of a cocktail dress made of sequins, and her hair was still up in a pineapple-shaped style, scattered with even more fruit. “We’ve got to make it fast,” she said. “I have a huge wool event that I’m organizing over at my store.”

  Gladys shuffled back to the table and looked Ruby up and down. “Oh goody, Carmen Miranda has been raised from the dead.”

  Ruby-Skye patted her hair with her hand, ignoring her.

  As soon as we finished ordering, Doris didn’t waste any time letting us know what was on her mind.

  She leaned forward and said the word in a very pronounced way: “Shower.”

  We all stared back blankly.

  “Do you need one or are you expecting one?” asked Lavinia as she looked out of the window, confused.

  “Flora’s,” Doris added.

  “Oh, I do love wedding showers,” said Lottie.

  “I remember all of mine,” added Lavinia. “My first one was so sweet. All my friends came to that one. By the third shower, we were lucky if we could get family members to attend. But as it was a shotgun wedding, nobody seemed that excited about it—apart from the guys with the shotguns, of course.”

  Ethel stopped sipping her water and once again blinked at Lavinia. It seemed that the twins’ need to overshare was obviously hitting all of her buttons today.

  “I have big plans,” said Doris. “Big plans indeed.”

  I shuddered. These were always the words I dreaded the most. The last two times she’d had big plans, first, I’d ended up on a wild road trip, and then the second time, directing her crazy musical.

  “But I want to keep it a surprise for Flora,” she added in a hushed tone. “I have a list of ideas, but this is my favorite.” She laid out pictures of African animals on the table.

  “Are we riding them or eating them?” asked Lavinia distrustfully.

  “Neither,” said Doris. “We’re wearing them.”

  “I’m not sure I will look very good as a zebra,” said Lottie.

  “I will not wear real fur, you know that,” added Ruby sternly.

  “No one has to wear any animals,” said Doris with annoyance. “They have plenty of synthetic stretchy material with spots and stripes over at the fabrics store.”

  “Why are we wearing zebras and giraffes?” I asked, trying not to show my lack of enthusiasm. However, Gracie’s eyes positively glowed at the prospect as Doris continued.

  “I was thinking of an African-themed party for her bridal shower. We could even go mad and stage it at the zoo, if you want.”

  Annie stopped knitting and knotted her eyebrows. “Somehow I can’t see Flora running around in a monkey cage in a bearskin. It sounds very un-Flora-like.”

  It sounded very “un-sane”-like to me.

  “I have bongo drums,” said Doris. “I’ve started playing drums for exercise. We could all do that and wear leopard skins and animal costumes. I could even wear my beaver coat.”

  “I don’t think beavers are in the jungle,” said Lavinia tartly.

  “I was going to do something with it,” said Doris defensively. “Make it look like a deer or something.”

  “I don’t think there are deer in Africa, either,” said Lottie as she sipped her tea.

  “Well, any old African beasts will do,” said Doris losing patience.

  Those were the words Gladys heard as she came back to the table to get our order.

  “Old African beast,” she repeated pulling a pencil from her usual bra cubbyhole and the curled-up notepad that also sat in the same place. “I think African beast is off today, but we’ve got a nice piece of veal.”

  Ruby-Skye
slammed her hand down on the table. “I can’t believe you guys are carrying veal. Have you any idea how that is prepared? I absolutely protest. Whom can I complain to?”

  “Well, not me,” said Gladys, adjusting her bosom. “I only work here, so stop your crabbing and I’ll get you a manager. Oops, he’s not here today, so you’ll have to complain tomorrow, when I have the day off.” Gladys took our orders and shuffled off to do our bidding.

  “What else is on the list?” asked Ruby. I could see she was very unimpressed with the wedding shower on the Serengeti.

  I looked at the list Doris had placed on the table with the pictures of wildebeest that were still wandering across it. I read out option number two: “Fairies.”

  “That was my idea,” said Gracie, lighting up. “I thought we could do a fairy tea party, maybe in the woods. Wouldn’t that be fun? I have the perfect costume for it. We could all dress as woodland folk.”

  I squinted at Doris, who was a very rotund, heavyset woman with a perpetually stern expression. Seeing her dressed as a fairy was not in the realm of my imagination.

  “Why do we have to have a theme at all?” asked Lottie. “I mean, we could just turn up and have some snacks and some drinks, give out gifts and maybe have a couple party games.”

  Doris slammed down her piece of paper on the table. “We have to have a theme. All the best people have a theme. This is Flora’s wedding. We’ve got to do it right. She’s only gonna get married once.”

  “I don’t think fairies are it,” said Lottie, shaking her head, obviously also trying to imagine Doris in a glittery tutu. “I think my fairy days are gone. I haven’t wanted to be any kind of woodland creature or a witch since the last endeavor that you put me through. I think my hips are still out from being raised up and down on that wire during that musical show.”

  “What about some sort of Victorian party?” said Annie thoughtfully. “What about one of Flora’s favorite stories, like Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility? She loves Jane Austen. Can’t we have a Jane Austen–themed party?”

  Everyone paused.

  “Flora would love it,” I said.

  “What about my bongo playing?” said Doris. “Is there a Jane Austen story set in Africa? I think a combination would be perfect. We could call it African Jane Austen.”

  None of us were convinced. As much as we protested, Doris was not backing down.

  “Now where shall we have it?” Doris pulled out her infamous clipboard.

  “We could have it at our house,” said Lottie. “We’ve got the space.”

  Doris balked. “What about my house? There’s nothing wrong with my house.”

  “Well, no offense, honey,” said Lottie, “but I’m not sure your . . . home has quite the right tone to set for Edwardian England.” She said it carefully as we all pictured Doris’s ’70s furniture and white wicker décor. “And we do have a lot more room.”

  “We will be delighted to hold it at our house. We have the Jane Austen–esque sweeping staircase, and we could hire a butler for the night.”

  Doris was outvoted. She couldn’t compete with a sweeping staircase and a butler.

  “Next Thursday evening, then,” said Lavinia with finality. “We will expect to see you ladies in your Edwardian attire—”

  “Or African,” added Doris.

  Lottie sighed, echoing quietly, “Or African, if you feel so inclined.”

  “For our Christmas Edwardian Affair,” proclaimed Lavinia.

  We all nodded and started to eat.

  John pulled into the parking lot of the Twinkle. He’d run out of cigarettes last night. As he entered the store, the sound of Bing Crosby singing “The Christmas Song” filled the air. John walked absently around the store, looking at packets of seasonal candy and colorfully foiled chocolate Santa’s, and thought about how this reminded him of a ’50s TV show. Shelves stacked with Christmas goodies and wholesome homemade, organic foods as local people gathered in aisles, making small talk about pets and children.

  A clean-cut man, wearing an elf hat and a cheerful blue apron with the words Happy to serve you written across it, nodded at him. He was pricing peas as if he lived to label cans. John shuddered. He wasn’t gonna last long in this town, he could tell. Thank goodness he didn’t have to.

  “Can I help you?” asked a fresh-faced young girl with a mass of frizzy red hair, a scrubbed complexion, and a nose dotted with freckles. He’d been stopped in front of the fridge while trying to get his bearings. She continued before he had time to answer. “The hummus is locally made, fresh and yummy,” she added, smiling, pointing to a product in the fridge.

  He looked at the tubs of cream goo and had no idea what they were. In fact, there were many things in the fridge he didn’t know. He knew what seaweed was, of course—which he noticed was next to the hummus—but he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to eat it.

  He broke into a full smile and his voice cracked, a result of drinking and smoking late into the night with his new friend. “Thanks,” he said.

  The girl walked away, saying over her shoulder, “Let me know if you need anything else from me.”

  A wicked thought crossed his mind as she left. He stopped himself and focused on what he was here for. He grabbed a Red Bull, walked back to the counter, and was greeted with another smile by the same checkout girl. She was chatting with a school-aged girl with long black hair, who was bagging groceries. He ordered cigarettes as they continued their conversation.

  “I just saw Flora in the Bob and Curl,” said the young girl at the counter.

  The girl at the checkout almost swooned. “How cool, I hope she’ll put it up for her wedding,” she said. “She looks so elegant with her hair up.”

  John shifted his weight, intently interested.

  “A wedding—nice,” he blurted, trying to remember how to make small talk. He attempted to seem casual. It was hard work, but he was intrigued with what they had to say. He didn’t want to draw attention, though, so he veered off on a different tact. “I really do need a haircut. The Bob and Curl, is that a hairdresser around here?”

  He expected them to tell him to mind his own business, but they didn’t seem at all put out by the fact that he’d asked such a direct question. In the city, they would have told him what to do with himself.

  “Yes,” the checkout girl said, giving him his cigarettes with one hand and taking his money with the other, “it’s right across the street.”

  “Thanks . . . I really do need to get my hair cut.”

  “Of course,” answered the bright-faced young thing as if she didn’t seem weary of him at all. “Just past the Wool Emporium.”

  She grabbed his arm as he started to leave and he froze.

  “Don’t forget your free candy cane,” she said, giggling and twirling a red-and-white peppermint stick in front of his face.

  He took it from her reluctantly, offering a half-cocked smile that even he knew looked pathetic.

  He walked out into the chilly morning, stuffed the candy cane into his pocket, pulled his jacket up around his ears, and lit a cigarette. He took a deep, long drag. He held the smoke in for a moment and then he let his breath out slowly. He walked across the parking lot toward the Bob and Curl, which he could now clearly see across the street.

  He crept cautiously up to the window and looked in, standing back from view so he couldn’t be seen. A woman sat in a chair—long pale-blonde hair, just as he had remembered seeing in the picture. A hairdresser had the young woman’s hair in one hand as she looked at the magazine on her lap.

  John smiled to himself. This is going to be easy, he thought as he continued to watch her until he’d finished smoking his cigarette. Then he made his way back to the car. All he needed now was to wait. He looked at his phone. He was starting a job and meeting his new boss in five minutes. This work would keep him going until he executed his plan. Then he would be out of here.

  Chapter 4

  Frolicking Fairies & Cougar Encou
nters

  The following Thursday, the Labette sisters returned from buying party items for Flora’s shower and drove in their silver-blue Cadillac the short distance to the edge of town, where they lived. Their home was one of the most beautiful in Southlea Bay. Perched high on the bluff, the French chateau–style house was one of a kind. Lavinia approached the tall black wrought iron gates that surrounded the property and pressed a number into the keypad. She took a breath as she waited for them to open. This kind of security wasn’t really necessary in their sleepy little town, but Poppa had insisted on it just in case Hank somehow found her. It used to make her feel secure to see the tall wrought iron gates reassuring presence, but now, as she got older, it seemed like one big inconvenience. She drummed on the steering wheel as her sister looked out of the window.

  “What a lovely day,” remarked Lottie as the gates opened and the view of the Sound slipped into view. It was a stunning vista. The lawn rolled away to an expansive overlook of the water, with the frosted Cascades as its backdrop.

  They glided down their long, looped driveway toward the elegant house they called home. It was far too big for the two of them, but they had lived there for forty years and hadn’t the heart to downsize. Besides, Lavinia would often joke, “I still might want to have children. Women my age are doing it with egg donations all the time,” just to make her sister blush. Lottie would undoubtedly say, “Lavinia!” in that exasperated way, which happened at least ten times a day.

  Lavinia went inside while Lottie lingered in the driveway, taking a moment to enjoy the breath-taking view. All at once, she was struck with an idea. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before.

  “Lavinia! Lavinia! Come quickly.”