Chapter 5 #3
“Gina, such a pretty name. Well, let's go inside.
" She walks ahead of me, and she sure is a sight to behold, with her colorful skirt blowing in the wind and the dog trying to scramble out of her arms. I follow her up the wide stone stairs.
She walks slowly and carefully, with her head held high.
"I cannot wait for you to hear my poetry. Did I tell you that Shakespeare—”
“Yeah, you mentioned that he came to you in a dream and told you that you're the best poet on earth, or something like that."
"Well, not quite. Not the best poet on earth." She smiles and shakes her head, like she’s being modest, but actually believes it to be true. "Wouldn't that be nice, though?”
"Yes, I suppose it would be." I don't really know what else to say because, to be frank, I've never heard her poems, and I want to reserve judgment. Maybe she would blow me away with her amazing talent. I learned a long time ago not to judge a book by its cover. Maybe she would become my favorite poet in the world. Not that she has much competition, as I don’t read poetry. The last poem I can remember reading was Robert Frost’s, The Road Not Taken, because we had to read it in high school.
“I look forward to hearing one of your pieces.”
“And hear them all, you shall,” she bellows back at me as the enormous French doors open, as if by magic.
I want to clarify that I don’t want to hear all of her poetry, but as I step inside the mansion, all thoughts of her creative writing float away.
The fragrant smell of peonies pleases my nostrils as I look around.
I have to ensure that my jaw doesn’t drop as I take in the beautiful interior of this home.
The hallway is large and wide, with light-gray marble floors and clean, ivory-textured walls.
Famous pieces of impressionist art hang tastefully down the corridor, and to the right of the entrance is a large oak console table with a tall, elegant gold mirror on top of it.
Sitting on the console is a bouquet of fresh gardenias and roses that look like they were recently picked and are still in full bloom.
"Come on, dearie. Let me introduce you to the folks." Amethyst sounds excited. “They will be so happy to meet you. We love new members of the group.”
"Of course," I say as I bite down on my lower lip. "Thank you for the offer, but I’m actually here for a job.” My voice trails off, but she ignores my comment.
I continue to follow her down the gilded hallway into what appears to be some sort of living room.
She bursts in, holds her hands up, and lets Bear jump to the ground.
She points toward me dramatically and claps twice to capture everyone's attention.
"Everyone, come here. Come near. Don’t be in fear.
I'd like you to meet a lady. She’s not a deer.
She’s near. She's finally here. The lady, my friends, and not the deer.” She looks at me expectantly, and I offer her a wan smile.
If this is an example of her poetry, I’m not impressed, though I immediately feel guilty for my unkind thought.
Maybe she’s better when she has time to curate her poems and think about word choice.
Maybe only the poems made up on the spot were shit.
“You may be wondering what is going on, but do not worry, I will not burst into song. And I will let you into a secret: I am not wearing a thong. Oh my, did you hear the gong?” She pauses, and I try not to let my jaw drop.
I’m close to bursting into laughter. My internal questions have been answered for me.
Her poetry is crap. I would be willing to bet a million dollars that I don’t have that she will never be a poet laureate.
I stand there with a half smile on my face and watch as a small group of people rushes toward me.
All looking like misfits. I pinch myself to make sure I’m not in a dream.
"Hi," I say, holding my hand up and waving.
"I'm Gina. Gina Spellman." I wonder how many times I will have to introduce myself today.
I stare at the ragtag group in front of me, who are all staring at me like I am an alien creature that was found in the desert and brought to the science lab.
Which is exactly how I feel. "I don't suppose Mr. or Mrs. Waverly is here? " My voice sounds nervous.
"No. Enid has gone to get some sandwiches." An older man with a gray, bushy beard steps forward. "Preston is in his study. He’s not a part of the group.”
“I see.”
"I'm Captain Joe," the older man says, holding his hand up. "Nice to meet you." He looks like he just got off a fishing boat, with his sailor cap and ripped shirt.
"You, too. Thank you.”
"I used to be in the Navy, and I like to write about the feeling of solitariness when in the ocean and—”
"You don't have to give her your full life story yet," Amethyst says, frowning. "Let's just make the introductions. That's Captain Joe." She nods as she interrupts the conversation.
"I just told her my name was Captain Joe," he grunts.
"Well, yes, I was introducing you again."
"But you didn't need to introduce me again because—"
"Don't mind them," a lady with a warm smile says as she steps forward.
"My name's Delilah. Delilah Anderson. I'm 58 and originally from the Caribbean.
I used to live in Barbados, and then I worked in Jamaica for a little bit.
Now I'm here in Whisper Cove and loving my life, even though it does get cold sometimes.
I like to go back home about once a year, and you'll see in my short stories that I write about my life as a young girl in the islands quite a bit. "
"Nice to meet you, Delilah.” Finally, one normal person.
“You, too.” She beams and takes a step back.
“Hey.” Next up is a young girl with large glasses and frizzy hair, who gives me an awkward smile.
“I’m Sally, and that’s Quincy. We go to Whisper Cove Community College.
We’re in the creative writing program there.
I guess our professor knows Enid, and we were invited to join.
” She looks timid, as if she’s not quite sure if she really belongs here.
Or maybe she just doesn’t want to be here.
“I’m Quincy, and yeah, we’re in the creative writing program," her friend says quickly. He is tall, skinny, and has a prominent nose that could rival Pinocchio’s when he’s lying. “I like to draw as well, though. I want to write manga.”
“Well, we can’t all write about mangoes,” Amethyst butts in.
“Though I did have a piece I submitted to The New Yorker last year. Yellow, juicy, oval, the island’s blessing.
My stomach’s happiness. Mango, mango, what are you doing to me?
” She clutches her heart, and I wonder if she thinks she’s on a stage.
“I said manga,” Quincy corrects her.
“I only speak English.” Amethyst sniffs. “I know them as mangoes.”
“Don’t mind them.” A very tall, very handsome man steps forward.
His voice is deep and smooth, and his blue eyes leap in merriment.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who seems to understand how odd this whole interaction has been.
He offers me a cocky grin as he holds out his hand. "I'm Ernest. Ernest Cason."
"Nice to meet you, Ernest."
"I'm single and ready to mingle." He grins and winks, and even though he's handsome, I feel zero attraction to him. The man is full of himself and reminds me slightly of Patrick. The frat guy version of Patrick. No, thank you.
"Introduce yourself, Tina,” Amethyst says after a moment of silence has passed. I don’t bother to correct her. A part of me wants to run out of here and never come back. But too much is riding on this assignment.
"Well, shouldn't she wait until Enid's back to introduce herself?” Captain Joe says with a roll of his eyes. I can tell that he and Amethyst have no love lost between them.
"Did I hear my name?" An old lady walks into the room, and we all turn to her immediately. I can tell that she is Enid Waverly. She just has that air of wealth that only truly wealthy people possess. She looks at me, and then a wide smile crosses her face as she walks over to me.
"Oh, you must be the young lady that Preston hired to write our love story. What a dear you are. What a fabulous surprise."
"It's not really a surprise if you know about it, Enid," Amethyst says, and I'm surprised at the way her tone has changed—it's almost combative. Enid stares at her for a couple of seconds and then looks back at me and grabs my hand.
"Cook has made salmon tartar with wonton chips and some salsa and guacamole. Who's hungry? Let us make our way to the dining room, and we shall eat, and then we'll reconvene for the rest of the writing group. You will join us, won't you?"
"I don't know. I really should be seeing your husband if he's available. I'm not really sure what the plan is for this book, and I would like to find out my schedule."
Enid nods slowly. "I guess that makes sense. You're not here just for the writing group.”
“I don’t think I’m here for the writing group at all,” I say, almost apologetically. I don’t want anyone to take my words personally, but I’m here for a job. Well, two jobs, but they don’t know that.
“Everyone, you go through to the dining room, and I will take Ms. Spellman to speak with my darling husband. Follow me," she says, and she clickety-clacks down the marble hallway in heels that I feel are way too high for someone of her age. Maybe I’m slightly jealous that she’s walking like a runway model in her heels and silk dress, while I feel like a Walmart reject.
I definitely need to get back home to gather some more elegant ensembles.
We stop outside a closed wooden door with wrought-iron trim, and she knocks before opening it.
The door seems more fitting to be on the exterior somewhere or in a medieval castle, but I suppose rich people can do whatever they want with their money and interior design.