The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) (25 page)

We stayed at Doris’s awhile longer. We laughed, we hugged, we ate cake, and we went home.

“How was the crazies’?” asked my husband, not looking up from the newspaper as I walked in that evening.

I couldn’t answer, and he finally looked up and noticed my red, puffy eyes.

“What?”

“I love them,” I said, bursting into tears again.

He looked bemused as I fell into his arms, sobbing.

He pulled me in close and shook his head, saying, “Yep, never a dull moment living with you, Janet Johnson, that’s for sure.”

EPILOGUE

The invitation came in the mail one week later in a crisp, white envelope. I knew who’d sent it before I’d even opened it because Doris had written a note on the back in black marker which read: “Don’t forget, you
MUST REPLY
!!!!” Then, under that, in pencil, Mrs. Barber, the post lady, had drawn a little arrow toward it and scribbled the words, “Sorry about this. I’m going to talk to Doris about defacing her envelopes. However, she sounds serious, so I would respond if I were you!”

I shook my head. That was a small town for you, all watching out for each other while also butting in. Raccoon nuzzled up against my legs as I opened the letter. It was indeed Doris’s official invitation to the Rejectathon. She had been boiling up the town about it all month. She wanted it to be a big, flashy affair. It read:

The Rejected Writers’ Book Club of Island County requests the pleasure of your company at the Reflection and Connection in aid of the Rejected Children’s Fund of Island County.

Place: Southlea Bay library

Day: Saturday, December 3 at 6:00 p.m. (sharp)

Please bring your partners and all your gifts of rejection. There will be a homemade trophy for the most Rejected Super Star of Southlea Bay.

Please RSVP (soon, I need to know the numbers!)

Kind regards, Doris Newberry

PS: This is a very fancy affair, as I have a hand in the catering, so make sure you all get dressed up.

Then she’d added a note to my letter, also in black marker:

Janet, don’t even think about wearing those gray pants you’re so fond of!

PPS: Remember, respond soon, like now. So why are you still reading?

I found myself jumping up to get a pen to write straight back to her. I couldn’t believe she could still boss me around through a letter.

I waved the invitation at my husband as he came in from closing up the chickens.

“I have news.”

“Me too!” he answered, all excited. “Day sixteen of Raccoon Watch and not a sign of them. That peppermint oil is working great!”

“Good, but that’s not as exciting as mine. We’ve been invited to a party.”

“Oh,” he said, mildly impressed. “Who’s doing the honors?”

“Doris Newberry.”

“Oh,” he responded, his tone audibly dropping to disappointment. Then he added, petulantly, like a small child, “Do I have to go?”

I gave him the “yes, you have to go” look, and he sighed, walked into the kitchen, and made himself a cup of coffee.

“Okay,” he said meekly, giving in. “Can I wear my jeans?”

“Of course, if you’re interested in Doris Newberry rearranging various parts of your body! Apparently the food she wants to make is very fancy-schmancy.”

He smirked and took the invitation from me.

“Then I guess I’d better get out my party suit.”

The week of the big event, the party had been the talk of the town, and the thrift store was completely out of glad rags and evening bags, according to Mrs. Barber at the post office. “They’ve made a whopping profit over in that Second Glance store,” she’d informed me as I was buying stamps one day.

On the evening of the event, we drove early into town, and even though it was dark, a full, luminous moon highlighted the tips of the waves as they jostled jovially in its beams. We passed the florist and Ruby-Skye’s Knitting Emporium. I noted that the Crabapple Diner was unusually quiet. Apparently, Doris had talked the owners into hosting the after-event refreshments. It was rumored that she had wanted all her own recipes cooked for the party and had driven the staff batty all week running in and out of the kitchen, testing dishes and barking her orders.

As we made our way up the hill, the library building was a glowing, welcoming sight and already a bustling hive of activity.

As soon as we were in the door, Doris put us to work. Martin blew up balloons while I checked in the rejection contestants. They all had ten minutes of stage time to dazzle the judges—Ethel and Doris—with their feats of failures. The biggest reject of the night would be presented with a homemade trophy from the worst artist in our community.

The competition was a lot of small-town fun at best, and we raised over six hundred dollars for the Children’s Fund. Over the two-hour event, many odd, disheveled, and frightful things were paraded out. Blackened sunken cakes, curtains with huge puckers, uneven homemade woodwork projects, and even waitress Gladys was there with a menagerie of crispy, black houseplants that apparently couldn’t survive more than two days in her house before they curled up their roots and died.

The winner was Mr. Fritz, a one-legged German landscape painter with a white beard and an overextended laugh. He stole the night by dancing the worst polka ever with more gusto than people who weren’t sporting one leg made of wood.

Once we finished the library event, we all paraded over to the Crab to eat. After a very pleasant meal, Doris got to her feet and banged a gavel on her table.

“I just have a couple of things to say. Firstly, I want to say how proud of you all I am and how this dinner and the bond we share wouldn’t have been possible if it wasn’t for the fact that we’ve all failed so miserably!”

There was a ripple of laughter around the room.

“But there are also some people I feel I need to acknowledge at this time. When my own group of rejects was in trouble, they helped me keep it going. Those are the ladies of the Rejected Writers’ Book Club. Also, Flora’s new beau, Dan, who helped us out.”

Everyone clapped, and Flora beamed at Dan, who had come to Southlea Bay for the occasion. Stacy had also hinted that she had wanted to be here, but the doctors wouldn’t let her travel. The good news was that her babies were thriving, and she had felt them move for the first time that morning.

“And lastly,” continued Doris as the hubbub died down, “I want to thank a lady who isn’t even a member of our Rejected Writers’ Book Club, but we couldn’t have achieved this success without her help. Our local Southlea Bay librarian, Janet Johnson.”

Everybody cheered and clapped in my direction.

“In fact,” Doris added, “we have also decided to bestow a very special honor on Janet to say thank you for all she has done for us. So, even though Janet has never been rejected, we would like to make her an honorary member of our group so she will be able to meet with us all every month.”

“Oh no,” I said through gritted teeth to my husband as I nodded my thanks.

“So, Janet,” Doris continued with gusto, “if you would like to come up here, we have something special we would like to give you.”

My husband pushed me to my feet with utter glee at my displeasure. He was having way too much fun at my expense. “Off you go to join your tribe, newest member of the Rejected Writers’ Book Club.”

I kicked him playfully as I got to my feet and walked to the front of the table. As I approached her, Doris picked up a huge homemade pin from the table, which she proceeded to pin to my dress. It read: “Honorary Rejected Lady.” Everyone clapped and cheered again.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” Doris whispered in my ear while squeezing my arm. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk next Friday when we see you at your first official meeting of the Rejected Writers’ Book Club. I bet you can’t wait.”

“I can’t,” I admitted honestly, as I looked around at all those happy, smiling people, including one who was shaking his head and laughing.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When I started writing my first novel, I was under some strange illusion that just one person created a book. As I have come to realize in the four years it has taken me to bring this book to fruition, writing a novel is nothing akin to giving birth sideways, and you just couldn’t achieve it without a village of people, a village not unlike Southlea Bay. I want to thank all my cheerleaders, editors, and readers, which include Audrey Mackaman, Eric Mulholland, Melinda Mack, Shauna Buchet, Tina Joselyn, Tracy Huffman, K. J. Waters, Susan Hanzelka, Susan Jenson, Rowena Williamson, Dana Linn, and Susannah Rose Woods. My fabulous original book cover team from Blondie’s Custom Book Covers, K. J. Waters and Jody Smyers of Jody Smyers Photography. My amazing models drove through a red dust storm to get to the photo shoot for the original cover; thank you so much for your time and enthusiasm, Mary Johnson, Kate Delevan, Taylor Boudreau, Sandy James, Marjan Wilkins, and Ann Thompson. Also, special thanks to Andrea Hurst of Andrea Hurst Literary Agency, who encouraged me to keep going when I had actually given up on the book because “it just wasn’t funny.” All my amazing family and friends on this coast and in the UK have always been my incredible cheering team. My husband, Matthew, and son, Christopher, supported me even when I was getting up at five o’clock in the morning and going to bed at eleven o’clock at night just to get it finished, and believe me, I wasn’t very funny then either. And to all of you, thank you for buying this book. My hope is you will find your own version of Southlea Bay in whatever form that is for you, a community of loving, caring souls with just enough small-town mentality to be wonderful and infuriating all at the same time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Suzanne Kelman is the author of the Southlea Bay series and an award-winning screenwriter. Born in Scotland and raised in the United Kingdom, she now lives in the United States in her own version of Southlea Bay, Washington, with her husband, Matthew; her son, Christopher; and a menagerie of rescued animals. She enjoys tap dancing, theater, and high teas, and she can sing the first verse of “Puff, the Magic Dragon” backward.