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

by Suzanne Kelman

  Lavinia poked her head out of an upstairs window. “Are you yelling at me?” she snapped.

  “I am,” said Lottie. “Come down here at once.”

  Lavinia rolled her eyes, closed the window, and made her way down to her sister’s side in the garden.

  “I’ve had the most amazing idea,” remarked Lottie excitedly.

  “Don’t tell me—you’re going to plant petunias this year instead of marigolds.”

  “No, nothing like that.” She grabbed her sister’s arm and led her across their beautifully manicured lawn to a white clapperboard building that sat at the bottom of the garden on the edge of the bluff.

  Lottie opened the hefty wooden doors and allowed the fresh air to seep into the vast musty room.

  “Well?” said Lottie. “What do you think?”

  “What do I think about what?” inquired Lavinia, peeking inside.

  “The games room—what if we were to encourage Flora to have her wedding right here?”

  “Why would Flora want to have her wedding in Poppa’s old games room?” responded Lavinia, screwing up her face.

  “I think it would be wonderful,” continued Lottie. “She talked about having it in the community hall on the beach since the hotel she booked in town burned down. But it’s so cold this time of year, and who needs all that sand in your salad? I think we should propose this.”

  “That’s an interesting thought,” responded Lavinia, nodding, looking around the room and starting to visualize it. “You might be on to something. We could pay a team to clean it up, and the view of the water is stunning.”

  They walked back through the room toward the door.

  “Why don’t we surprise Flora with it tonight? I think we could do a big reveal during the party. Don’t get me wrong, the delicate intimates you bought are wonderful,” said Lottie. “But I think this could be a fabulous gift.”

  Both sisters smiled, looked around the room, and nodded before walking out the door.

  “They’ll probably want to take pictures for the Bay Breeze,” added Lottie wistfully as they made their way back across the lawn arm in arm.

  Lavinia raised her eyebrows in a playful expression. “That would be a change. Normally the only reports about me in our local newspaper are scandals.”

  “Lavinia,” screeched Lottie. She eyed her sister and shook her head. “You do tease me.”

  As they moved into the house, their doorbell chimed “Angels We Have Heard on High.” Lottie had changed it especially for the season.

  “Speak of the devil, here’s an angel now,” said Lavinia.

  “I’ll change into my gardening clothes,” said Lottie. “Why don’t you let him in?”

  Lottie headed up the elegant staircase that dominated the hallway while Lavinia made her way to the door and the keypad that operated the gates.

  “Hey there, Todd,” she said, observing the landscaping truck on the screen.

  “Hi there, Miss Lavinia,” he answered. He never had a problem, like other folk, of telling them apart. “I’m here for your winter spruce-up.”

  She pressed a button on the keypad with her long pink fingernail and watched the gardening crew as they entered the property. Within a few moments, they were at the door. She opened it and greeted them.

  “Lottie will be down in a moment to walk the property with you. We had a tree come down in last week’s storm and . . .” Lavinia stopped midsentence as she spotted a young man on Todd’s crew she hadn’t met before. “Who is this handsome young fellow?” she said, gazing into his eyes and extending her hand.

  Todd stepped back to introduce him. “This is a new guy we just got. He’s a friend of one of our other workers.”

  The young man took Lavinia’s hand gently, saying, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, “I was just going to ask who this lovely woman was. I had been led to believe the ladies here were over twenty-one.”

  Lavinia chuckled and batted her eyelashes. “I know I’m going to like you,” she said as her gaze lingered upon him. He reminds me of one of my first boyfriends, she thought. His sandy hair and blue eyes, along with his casual jeans and T-shirt, were very similar to her beau, Robert. He was older than Robert had been at the time, though, she mused. This young man looked to be in his early twenties, while she had dated Robert in high school. Just then, Lottie joined them at the door in her large gardening hat and gloves. “Lottie, we have a new man,” enthused Lavinia.

  Lottie smiled and bobbed her head in his direction.

  “I didn’t catch his name,” said Lavinia.

  “John, at your service,” he responded without hesitation.

  “I bet you are,” said Lavinia playfully. They all laughed.

  Lottie walked out to the garden as Lavinia waved after them.

  “Have a good work day,” she sang out. “And pleased to meet you, John. I’ll see you later.”

  He looked back at her and smiled.

  John had been working for about two hours when he noticed Lavinia Labette heading out onto the patio at one o’clock that afternoon with a jug and a plate of cookies.

  She placed her tray on the patio table and then called to Todd, who was pruning one of the trees across the lawn. Todd waved to her and shouted back, “I’ll be there in a minute!”

  It wasn’t usual for people doing lawn service to be served tea, but Todd had informed John that the Labettes insisted on it. They had stipulated that if they didn’t get to serve the men a drink, Todd’s crew would no longer be able to work there. So Todd and his team had gotten used to doing just that in the last eight years. It was like a little ritual. They would drink their tea—or, as in this case, hot apple cider—while Lavinia fussed around them. It seemed to do more good for the sisters than for the team, Todd had assured him.

  John put down his clippers. He’d been waiting for the tea call for the last thirty minutes. Now he’d have time to contrive his plan. He walked quickly to the table and beamed at Lavinia. He had spent a good deal of time that morning preparing himself: best green shirt, clean-shaven face, cologne.

  “Why, you look chipper,” purred Lavinia as she looked him over. “Almost good enough to eat.”

  He smiled, saying, “I could say the same about you, Ms. Labette.” He looked Lavinia over. She wasn’t bad-looking for her age: trim figure, cornflower-blue eyes, and only a streak of gray in her thick, dark hair.

  Lavinia waved her hand in his direction. “Hush now. Call me Lavinia. Only my doctor calls me Ms. Labette.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I’m that,” he said with a grin.

  He sat while she poured him a glass of the cider. She added a cinnamon stick and handed the glass to him.

  He needed to be careful. He had done some investigating to find out more about the Rejected Writers’ Book Club, and now he was ready to implement his plan. He looked out at the water and decided on just the right words. “Such a lovely garden,” he said. “You must find it very inspirational for your writing.”

  Lavinia smiled and her whole face brightened. “Why, yes, I do,” she said.

  He tried to sound nonchalant. “I mention it because I write myself. Nothing major, just a detective novel, I’ve sent it out to a lot of publishers but nobody seems to want it . . .” He let his voice trail off. He didn’t want to force it.

  “I know what you mean,” said Lavinia, taking off her hat and placing it on the table. “It’s very difficult to get published. That’s why I love my rejection group.” She took in a deep breath.

  He itched for a cigarette to calm his nerves, but he wanted to give her the impression of a sober and wholesome appearance. Focus. He needed to focus. He took a sip of his drink and tried not to balk at the taste of all the sugar she had added. After he swallowed it hard, he said, “Tell me more about your rejection group.”

  “Oh, hush,” said Lavinia. “You don’t want to know about a group of women getting together to read their stories. Why don’t you tell me about where you com
e from and what brought you here?”

  She fluttered her eyelashes.

  John mopped at his brow with his sleeve. He hadn’t had time to think of a good story for himself. She’d completely taken him off guard.

  “I’m not very interesting,” he mumbled. “I just came here looking for a new experience.” He was thinking quickly. “Good for writing, gives me inspiration.”

  His mind whirred, his heart beating so fast he could hardly breathe. All he could think about was how badly he needed to smoke. When he had heard that the Labettes wrote books with Flora, he thought it was going to be a lot easier than this. He hadn’t been prepared for all these questions—for friendly, open people wanting to know who he was and where he was from.

  Lavinia smiled and he saw that she noticed his hand was shaking. It appeared she seemed to think it was something to do with her presence, and she appeared to like it a lot. Jeez, he thought, this is going from bad to worse.

  Suddenly, the opportunity was gone because two other landscapers arrived at the table and Lavinia went into full-on southern hospitality mode, fussing around them like a mother hen, fixing them cider and making them comfortable. Before he knew it, the time was up and he’d blown his chance to find out more about Flora. But as Lavinia was clearing the tray, she paused.

  “Oh, Todd,” she called after his boss, “I have a special meeting of my rejected ladies group at five p.m. We’re going to surprise Flora with an idea to have her wedding here. Is there any chance you could just clip that tree at the south window? It looks ragged, and I want Flora to have a great view as she pictures how pretty it could be here.”

  Todd nodded. “No problem.” He turned to John and pointed at the tree, sending him with clippers to take care of the job. As John moved across the lawn, he had another idea. He took of his hat, stuffed it behind the bushes, and started pruning the branches. Yes, this idea would work nicely. Maybe even better than the original plan.

  Doris paced around her kitchen, worrying. It was Thursday afternoon, the meeting day for the Rejected Writers’ Book Club, which was usually at Doris’s, but the Labettes were hosting this ridiculous bridal shower. As Doris busied herself around the kitchen while making lunch, she bristled at the thought. Lavinia had called that morning to remind her to be there early, as, apparently, they had a huge surprise for Flora.

  Doris didn’t really like surprises. They often didn’t turn out well. What if the surprise was something Flora didn’t like? There was nothing but anticipation and disappointment. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. As she finished up the dishes she was doing, her mama wandered into the kitchen, wearing a full-length nightie, a purple housecoat, and her polka dot rain boots. Her hair appeared to be windswept and damp.

  Doris sighed. “Mama, what have you been doing in your nightclothes? I hope you haven’t been outside.”

  It was evident by the twinkle in Gracie’s eye that that was exactly where she’d been. She’d come to live with her daughter over a decade before, although her delicate, childlike features were so opposite of Doris’s bulbous figure and large bones, it was impossible to believe they could be mother and daughter at all. Not just in looks but also in manners. Doris was apt to jump to the wrong conclusion and judge people quickly, whereas Gracie had all the time and patience of a child. Gracie walked over to a teapot that was being kept warm under a knitted tea cozy that Annie had made for them. She poured herself a cup of Earl Grey—her favorite tea—and smiled at her daughter.

  “Oh, Dotty, you do worry far too much. I was just fixing a little angel sign that fell over in the flower beds. It was supposed to say ‘Get Lost in the Magic of Nature,’ and instead the words Magic of Nature dropped off and it just said ‘Get Lost.’”

  Doris cringed at her mother’s use of her childhood name. It made Doris feel like she sounded unhinged in some way. She swallowed down her discomfort and said, “You shouldn’t be wandering about outside like that. You could catch your death of cold. I do wish you wouldn’t fuss with that pile of junk you keep out there.”

  Gracie took her time answering her daughter. She sat down at the table and removed her boots, took a long, slow sip of the tea, then explained, “The name for it is ‘garden art,’ and people are always commenting on how welcomed they feel when they arrive at our house.” The garden art Gracie was referring to were dozens of signs, angels, and doodads all adorning their property with breezy sayings encouraging passers-by to have happy thoughts and a good day. Doris didn’t have time for such trivialities, but Gracie insisted that she wouldn’t come and live with Doris unless her little family of “happiness signs,” as she called them, came right along with her. In addition to signs, she also had fairies and sprites and angels and frogs dotted about the garden, all cheerfully bobbing and waving.

  Doris humphed. “Garden art” she pooh-poohed.

  “What cake are you baking for the Rejected Writers tonight?” Gracie asked, changing the subject.

  Doris stopped drying the dishes and sighed. “We’ve been invited to the Labette sisters’ tonight, remember, Momma?” she reminded Gracie, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.

  But Gracie was upbeat. “Lovely. That’ll be a nice change. Will they be serving tea and cake, do you think?”

  Doris furrowed her brow. “I would think so,” she said, but now she was concerned. She didn’t want her standards dropping just because they’d moved the group to another house for the night. Maybe, to be on the safe side, she’d bake one and take it with her.

  Chapter 5

  African Jane Austen & Pop-Up Grooms

  I arrived at the Labettes’ stunning home at 5:30 p.m. for Flora’s bridal shower. I got out of my car and stood in the driveway, taking in the gorgeous view. Because I had arrived so early, I was surprised to see Doris drive in behind me. We had all been told to wear our favorite Edwardian or Victorian outfit, so when I opened the car door for Doris, I was confused to find her wearing her beaver fur coat. Gracie was seated beside her, dressed as a fairy, and in the back seat, Ethel looked as if she was dressed as some sort of stern Amish woman. They looked like a bunch of kids who’d gotten lost in the rummage sale box.

  “I thought this was a Jane Austen theme party?” I said, scrutinizing them.

  “And African, remember?” Corrected Doris. “We said we could do both.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Bennett’s fairy godmother,” announced Gracie, waving her wand as she got out of the car. “I’m here to summon Flora’s very own Mr. Darcy quicker than she can do it herself.”

  I smiled at Gracie, then nodded at Ethel.

  “This was my mother’s,” she said stiffly, punctuating her sentence in the sort of tone that didn’t encourage any further deliberation.

  Doris handed me a set of bongo drums and an enormous walnut cake. Neither of which said bridal shower or Jane Austen to me.

  We made our way to the front door. I pressed the doorbell, and “Angels We Have Heard on High” chimed from within.

  The person who opened the door wasn’t Lavinia or Lottie, though. Instead, a tall man with dark hair loomed over us, wearing a traditional butler suit. “Good evening, ladies,” he said with a perfect British accent. “Are the Mses. Labettes expecting you?”

  Next to me, Ethel sucked in her breath, and I sensed she was contemplating hitching up her Amish petticoats and hightailing it out of there.

  Gracie’s eyes just sparkled. “Wow,” was all she could say.

  “Why, yes,” I said, taking hold of Ethel’s sleeve to stop her from making a run for it. “We’re indeed here to see the two Labette sisters.”

  All at once, Lavinia was by his side, dressed in an elaborate Edwardian ball gown in burgundy silk, her hair piled up in a very elegant style.

  “Good gracious,” I said, feeling totally underdressed in my high-collared white blouse, cameo brooch, and long skirt I had once used for a circle-dancing foray in my younger days. “You know how to throw a party. You look stunning.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, we just went with ‘Depressing Gone with the Wind,’” she responded, enthusiastically. “Believe it or not, we actually had these dresses hanging in our closets from an old Southern fundraiser party we had here years ago. I just Edwardian-ed it up, made it drearier and more dismal, just like their English weather,” she added with a sweep of her hand.

  “And who is this good-looking fella?” I said, nodding at the butler.

  “This is Jeeves,” said Lavinia coyly, squeezing his arm.

  He slid back into his American accent for a moment. “Hi, my name’s Brian,” he said, offering me his hand. “I’m a local actor here on the island. The Labettes have hired me this evening to be their English help.” He straightened up and gripped his lapel with his right hand. “How am I doing?” he added in a very austere British tone.

  “Very well,” I said. “I feel like I’m back in one of Jane Austen’s books.”

  Doris huffed her disapproval behind me. As we moved into the hallway, Lottie joined her sister by her side, dressed identically.

  “Where do you want me to stick this cake?” Doris grumbled at Lottie.

  Lottie blinked twice. “I’m not sure how to respond to that. Oh, Jeeves,” she called, signaling to their newly appointed butler. It took Brian a minute to respond to his butler name, so she waved at him. “Please put this in the kitchen.”

  In character, he did a small bow and strode off to the kitchen with the cake.

  Lavinia pointed to a basket of shoes. “Make yourselves comfortable, and help yourself to slippers. You know we’re a shoe-free house.”

  Doris huffed as she looked at the basket and, turning to me, said in a most indignant way, “I’d forgotten that the Labettes have a whole bunch of house rules. It’s all very tiresome. No rules at my house. You just come in and sit down.”

  Gracie, however, looked as excited as a three-year-old. “Ooh, how wonderful! I’d forgotten how much I liked to play dress-up with my feet,” she squealed, moving to sort through the basket.

  Doris turned back to me and, in a clipped tone, said, “I have a pair in the car. I always keep my own set under the driver’s seat, just in case you end up at one of these ridiculous shoe-free houses.”