Surfside Sisters(87)

“True.” Grace’s voice broke into Keely’s thoughts. “And yet here you both are, writing, just as you did when you were young.”

With that, Grace clapped her hands, summoning her group back to the room. When they were all seated, she said, “All right. Time for discussion. And may I remind you that even though we’ve got a published writer in the room, I’m the boss here. Okay, let’s talk about Violet’s scene.”

Violet started the discussion and remarks looped back and forth like a Frisbee. People laughed, people scribbled notes. People were kind to each other. When it was Mike’s turn to be discussed, he groaned and covered his head playfully, as if waiting for an assault of rotten tomatoes.

When Isabelle’s scenes came up for discussion, Keely felt her mind click on to super vigilance.

“I adored your scene,” Bonnie crowed. “So sweet and funny!”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t have a plot,” Mike said. “We’ve talked about this before. Just lots of vignettes, no plot.”

“It is kind of more like a memoir than a novel,” Violet agreed. “I mean, I suppose if you have children, you’d find this appealing, but I don’t have kids, so this is kind of useless to me.”

“Well, I don’t have kids,” Keely said, speaking before she realized she was going to speak. “And I find it fascinating…maybe because I’ve been a kid. We’ve all been kids.” She couldn’t look at Isabelle as she spoke, and she didn’t know why she so quickly sprang to her former friend’s defense. How odd it was, to feel protective of someone who’d hurt her. But then, she’d heard other people talk about how they disliked their brother or sister and did all manner of torture to them, but aggressively defended that same sibling from any possible insults or injuries from others.

    And that was something else Isabelle had, Keely thought, her heart plummeting. Isabelle had Sebastian. Could Keely become Sebastian’s partner if she and Isabelle were estranged? Christmas dinners would sure be fun.

“Bonnie,” Grace said. “Let’s talk about your work.”

Violet pounced. “Too much action too fast!”

“Bonnie and Isabelle should critique each other,” Mike suggested.

“Keely? Earth to Keely.”

She glanced over at Grace. “Oh, yes?”

“Mike thinks the action is overwhelmed by descriptions of food. What do you think?”

“I love descriptions of food,” Keely said earnestly.

The discussion continued, heated but brightened with laughter. No one had anything insightful to say about Keely’s scene but promised they would when they’d heard more.

In what seemed like minutes, the workshop was over. They gathered up their pages, folders, pens, and notebooks and wandered from the room, some of them talking, others rushing off. Keely hoped she might have a chance to speak with Isabelle, but she didn’t chase after her, and Isabelle ascended the stairs quickly, almost running, as if she were afraid to speak with Keely.

But when Keely stepped out of the library into the warm, bright summer evening, she found Isabelle waiting by the sidewalk. She held her notebook to her chest like a shield.

“Hi, Isabelle,” Keely said. Behind her notebook, her heart thudded fast. She knew more than anyone else in the world how much Isabelle wanted to write books. She knew more than anyone else in the world how painful it was for Isabelle that Keely had become a successful author. Why someone wanted to write books was a mystery. It was a lonely, crazy-making profession in which a human being could spend hours deciding on the arrangement of ten words in one single sentence. It was mystical, because where did those fictional people come from, so individual and resolutely themselves? Why one book was chosen to be published over hundreds of other equally fine books was a mystery, too. It was a kind of literary roulette. To the author, it often felt like a literary Russian roulette.

    Keely had spent time hating Isabelle for marrying Tommy—but not much time. She was more hurt that Isabelle didn’t call Keely right away with the news. Isabelle had conspired with Tommy. He was Isabelle’s special person now. Isabelle had cut the cord to Keely like a line from an anchor, letting Keely drift away into the world on her own. But she didn’t hate Isabelle any longer. She couldn’t even feel angry. More than anything, she missed Isabelle’s friendship.

Isabelle cleared her throat. “Could we talk about writing, Keely?” Her cheeks were flaming. “Just writing, not personal stuff?”

Keely studied her friend carefully. “I think we can. Certainly we can try.”

“I mean, it sounds like what you’re writing isn’t personal. And doesn’t seem based on anyone I know.”

“Yes, well, that may be a problem,” Keely admitted. “When I write about anything here—I don’t mean you and me or Tommy—I mean the town, and the experiences I’ve had here, well, then it flows. What I’m trying to do now keeps hitting speed bumps.”

Isabelle laughed. “Speed bumps? I just keep driving off cliffs into the ocean.”

“But you’re writing,” Keely said.

“Sort of. It’s hard, because of your success. I mean, what are the odds that I could have a book published, too?”

“What are the odds that I’ll marry someone I love and have children?” Keely countered. She remembered Grace Atwater’s advice. “Come on. Let’s walk down to the harbor.”