Surfside Sisters(85)

Keely hesitated. She could leave. Maybe she should leave. But she answered honestly. “My mother suggested I come. She reminded me that when I was a young girl, I had a best friend. My best friend and I dreamed of being authors. Novelists. We read the same books and discussed them. We were passionate about words. We couldn’t get enough of words, the way they sound, the way they look, what they can do when they’re arranged one way or the other. We were like a very intense, determined fan club of two. We sat in our bedrooms or on a porch, and shared the stories we wrote with our words.” Her chin trembled when she admitted, “I’ve never been happier in my life.”

    Isabelle ducked her head, took a tissue from her bag, and blew her nose.

The man growled, “I see.”

A confident, almost aggressive voice spoke up. “Hi, Keely. Cool that you’re here,” a young woman said.

“Thank you.” Keely’s legs were shaking.

“Yes, welcome, Keely,” Mrs. Atwater said. “Why don’t you take the chair over there?”

Keely obediently sat. Five people stared at Keely appraisingly.

“Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves,” Mrs. Atwater directed. “Also, say something about what you’re working on.”

Keely’s champion spoke up. “I’m Violet Lefebre. I’m writing a novel about Dorothy Wordsworth, you know, the poet’s sister?”

Keely nodded. Violet looked to be about twenty-three years old, with long, glossy black hair, blue eyes framed by thick black glasses, black fingernail polish, a black tank showing off her tattoos, and a short black skirt. If Dorothy Wordsworth knew that this young woman was writing a novel about her, she would faint.

Keely peered closely at Violet. “You grew up here, Violet, right? Did you play Annie one year for the Theatre Workshop school production?”

A beautiful smile spread over Violet’s face and she looked prettier and much less terrifying.

“I did!” Violet agreed.

“I saw you. You were amazing. Are you still acting?”

“No, but I’m singing. And…writing.”

A plump, pretty woman in her fifties, with curly hair and pink cheeks and a shirt embroidered with flowers introduced herself as Bonnie Watts. “I’m writing a mystery about a woman who cooks for a rich summer family. It’s going to have lots of recipes in it.”

“Bonnie. I remember you, too. You did a lot of baking for the Wicked Island Bakery.”

    Bonnie laughed. “It’s a good place to get material,” she said. “Everyone talks about everything when they’re waiting for a morning bun.”

“The Wicked Island Bakery is a good title for a book,” Keely said.

“Why thank you. That’s what I’m calling it.”

Someone cleared his throat, gruffly. The angry man was the fourth member of the group. “Mike Reynolds. I’m writing a thriller about an unfaithful wife.”

Well, that explains a lot, Keely thought. “Hello,” she said, smiling at him.

“Isabelle?” Mrs. Atwater prompted.

Isabelle’s face went red. “I’m writing a comic novel about motherhood. At least I hope it’s comic.”

Mrs. Atwater announced, “Okay. Here’s how we arrange our time. First hour, we take turns reading aloud from something we’re working on. It helps to take notes. We break after an hour, and when we return, we take turns giving feedback. We talk about a general topic, something that might have come up during our reading, for example, how important setting is, or how to pace a scene.”

“Okay,” Keely said. She was aware that when she smiled, her mouth quivered nervously. Her heart was tossing out bombshells of adrenaline and her body was in full fight-or-flight state, but she would not run from this room where Isabelle sat, head high, cheeks flushed.

“Violet, let’s start with you,” said Mrs. Atwater.

The young woman was happy to oblige. Her selection raced along as Dorothy Wordsworth and the poet Coleridge and the writer De Quincey indulged in drugs. Violet obviously had done research on the effects.

“We’ll keep notes on our thoughts,” Mrs. Atwater reminded the group. “We’ll discuss after we’ve all read.”

Mike was next. In a low, gruff voice, he read a section about his hero’s reaction to finding his wife in bed with his best friend. His writing was terse, acidic, fast, and as he read, Keely became sure that he was writing from experience. Her heart swelled with pity, but her mind was making notes about what he could improve and how.

    Isabelle read next. She was nervous, but her voice grew stronger as she read. She had them all laughing by the end of her reading. Keely felt oddly proud.

Bonnie’s few pages of mystery were more about how to prepare pan-roasted lobster than the people who would eat it. Keely made a few notes on her pad.

“Now, Keely,” Grace Atwater asked, “what do you have for us?”

Keely took a deep breath. It was one thing to read from a published book, quite another to read from new, raw material. “Listen,” she said with quiet honesty. “I’m stuck on the book I’m writing. I did really well with my first book, but I missed the island, so I came home. I could really use this group.”

“Good to know,” Bonnie said.