Chapter 12
Twelve
absquatulate (v.): to leave somewhere abruptly
In spite of my tentative approach, as I lower myself, the vinyl squawks. Ugh. Decidedly unladylike. Also, I’ve probably just imprisoned myself in a cloud of forever chemicals.
It’s a seating arrangement that leaves me two full heads shorter than Lieutenant Hayes on my right.
On the opposite side of him, the elderly scarf-wrapped gentleman wastes no time in extending a limp handshake—directly across the lieutenant’s lap, where there’s a smattering of dog hair (which I find charming).
The gentleman introduces himself as Bernard Vandekamp.
To reciprocate the handshake, I’m forced to stretch from my low perch. Squaaawk. Around the circle, informal chatter continues. I really wish Bernard would let go of my hand.
In a manner worthy of Mr. Knightley, the lieutenant cuts in, offering his. “Lucy Montgomery. So we meet again.”
An intentional rescue? Either way, I’m grateful. “Lieutenant Hayes.”
“Wyatt. Please.”
A gentle throat-clearing sound signals Ian’s attempt to get things underway.
Wyatt leans down to whisper in my ear. Close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath through my hair. “I’m happy to switch seats.”
“All good,” I lie.
“Welcome, writers,” Ian says, in a tone that’s somehow both warm and commanding. “Let’s start by getting to know a little about each other. How about each of us shares two things. First, what is your one superpower?” A low rumble of laughter travels around the circle.
In my case, nervous laughter. Not a huge fan of icebreakers.
“And second,” Ian continues, “what kind of writing do you like to do? I’ll go first. Every day I get a few customers who have absolutely no idea what they want.
I seem to have a canny way of matching them to the right kind of tea.
Or the right book. Or both! It’s quite rewarding.
As far as writing goes, I’ve been tinkering with the same novel for several years, a story set in England during World War II, based on my own family’s history.
With the accountability of a group like this, I hope to make some real progress. ”
Next, Nytasha takes command. Sitting straight and tall, she rearranges her white-gold mane over her shoulder, then launches into a spiel for the self-help book she’s working on. Inspired by her podcast, the book is titled The Twenty-Thousand-Foot Peak Inside You.
It’s hard not to get swept up in all her power words and positive manifestos.
For example, there’s “I am an unstoppable force of nature” and several uses of the word dominate.
I try listening with the intent to understand, I really do.
And I can almost bend my mind around the part about letting go of past experiences at the cellular level and “embracing the full potential of my highest future self.” But mostly I keep thinking about how I’ll bet she grows orchids. Successfully.
No, on second thought, just one single tall, exquisite, white-gold orchid, embracing the full potential of its highest future self.
By contrast, not-so-sunny Sunny recalls how she once had a “humorous little ditty” published in Reader’s Digest. While I work to retrieve my jaw from the floor, she adds that she only joined this group at Ian’s incessant urging and figured she ought to get out of the house anyway.
I squirm in my now-warm butt nest. Sounds a little too familiar.
Where Sunny leaves off, Ian picks up the baton, adding, “Sunny tells me she hopes to resurrect her practice of uncovering the humor in everyday moments through her pen.”
“Fat chance, though,” Sunny says shrilly. “Ever since my Harvey left, the words just . . . well, they left me high and dry.”
“I’m sorry about your husband, Sunny,” Nytasha says. “May I ask, how long ago did the rat leave you?”
Um. Whoa. Add wicked death glare to Sunny’s arsenal of facial expressions. I’m grateful I’m not on the receiving end. “He didn’t leave me, he left this life for the next! Eleven years and three months ago!”
There’s a moment it’s so dead silent I swear I hear a collective gasp from the multitude of shelved books.
Ian and I exchange a sympathetic glance.
“My mistake, but still, that is a long time,” Nytasha says, unhelpfully. “Maybe if you—”
“It’s only a blink!” Sunny turns to address the entire group. “You’ll see!”
Where Mrs. Rachel in Anne of Green Gables “thought in exclamation points,” Sunny speaks in them.
“And Lucy?” Ian says, as if nothing awkward just happened. “Tell us about you.” No way would anything I say at this moment satisfy the warmth and expectation in his eyes. And speaking of eyes, they are all on me.
Why is there a frog in my throat that wasn’t there a second ago?
I attempt to clear it. “Let’s see,” I finally say, willing my face not to brighten to some vibrant shade of fuchsia as it’s been wont to do all my life when addressing a group.
“If I have one superpower, it’s probably that I can fold a fitted sheet flatter than flat.
” I don’t mention that it’s a skill I picked up cleaning vacation rentals.
Nytasha leans forward. “That’s no superpower, woman. That’s a magic trick.” Everyone appears to agree.
“And I wouldn’t exactly call myself a writer. More like I dabble.” No point in heightening their expectations.
Here, Ian jumps in. “In case you don’t know, Lucy works for the Messenger.”
The bright-smiling woman of my mother’s vintage, whose name I now know to be Billie, lifts her travel mug as if in tribute.
“Ohhh, I love the Messenger. The first thing I always turn to is the ‘Sheriff’s Calls.’ They’re a hoot!
” Based on the choir of hums around the circle, there’s a general consensus about this.
Which comes as no surprise. Everyone in town reads and relies on the local paper. And they especially enjoy the comical spin Sam puts on a few real-life incidents torn from that week’s sheriff’s blotter.
“Do you write for them?” Billie asks.
Opening my mouth to downplay my role, I suddenly remember Wyatt’s close presence.
The man I interviewed only today. A conversation that not only took unexpected turns but also unfolded super easily.
Maybe I have sold myself somewhat short.
Truth is, I enjoy asking questions and the process of discovery. People are endlessly fascinating.
A side-glance reveals Wyatt grinning encouragingly, and this puts me strangely at ease. The man is like a ginormous fiddle-leaf fig, anchoring the room, exchanging tension for fresh air.
So I say, “Occasionally,” then attempt to abort center stage.
“Anyway, I’m happy to meet you all tonight and to .
. . have the chance to learn from you.” Whatever I can glean in one night, that is, since the odds of my returning are slim.
I see no purpose in unveiling my attempt at writing a memoir, especially when I’m not prepared to answer the inevitable follow-up question: What is your memoir about?
Introduction behind me, my pulse begins returning to baseline.
Billie raises her hand. “Are you married, Lucy?”
“Oh. No. I’m . . . not married.”
The woman wears a self-satisfied little smile as she draws a line with her gaze between Ian and me.
“Do you journal, Lucy?” This, from Bernard.
“Sure, I’ve always journaled.”
Heads nod. It’s as if I’ve revealed something telling. As if I’m in. Although it’s far too soon to say whether I want to be in with this group.
“What about poetry?” Bernard asks, accompanying the final word with a graceful flourish of his hand. When he crosses one knee over the other, his loose-fitting slacks flow like river water. I can easily picture him relaxing in his home with Pavarotti and a glass of merlot.
“Well, yes. I mean, it’s been a while. Back in high school, I was involved with the poetry club.” Fact is, I served as editor for our school’s poetry anthology, but I don’t mention this. Weird. Dusting off this memory leaves me wondering at how few poems I’ve written in the years since.
Happily, the attention shifts to Wyatt. At some point he removed his hoodie, exposing a black T-shirt. Well-fitted, it bears acknowledging. (I am nothing if not observant.) In thick white Star Wars font across his chest are the words METAPHORS BE WITH YOU.
I can’t help grinning.
“My uncle was a butcher,” Wyatt says, crossing his well-toned arms and smiling at the recollection. “I worked for him through high school and college. So I don’t know if this is a superpower, exactly, but I could probably spatchcock a chicken with my eyes closed.”
Nytasha’s eyes grow huge. “I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds impressive!”
Wyatt chuckles, a little nervously it seems to me, and the tips of his ears go pink.
“I . . . I, too, like to write poetry,” he says, with a slow nod in my direction.
His pale autumn-gold eyes contain dashes of olive.
And also a hint of whimsy, as if, like me, he’s calling up the other commonalities we discovered in our interview.
It puts me in mind of that guy, the one—ugh, I’m yet again terrible at movie star stuff. The guy, the guy.
“Lately, though,” he continues, “I’ve been experimenting with flash fiction. But what I’ve always wanted to do is write for kids. Middle-grade fiction. Adventure stories.”
Nytasha leans in. “Nice to meet you, Wyatt,” she practically purrs in a low, buttery Scarlett Johansson voice. In fact, I get the feeling she wouldn’t mind being the crust to his pie. “What do you mean by flash fiction?”
“Supershort stories. Complete stories told in only a few paragraphs or pages. I like the challenge of incorporating all four elements of a story in so few words.”
“Four elements?” she asks. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about writing fiction.”
“Well,” Wyatt says, “every good story needs a plot and characters. And then you need a hook and hopefully a strong finish. What genres of fiction do you usually read, Nytasha?”
“Me?” She tenses, then shrugs. “Well, to be honest, I’ve never understood how people find time to read novels.”