Rejected Writers Take the Stage (Southlea Bay Book 2) by Suzanne Kelman

Author:Suzanne Kelman [Kelman, Suzanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781477808931
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2017-06-05T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

FROZEN HUSBANDS & FLYERS OF FANCY

I trotted downstairs to make myself a cup of tea and noticed Stacy was already up. She wasn’t drinking anything with caffeine and was treating coffee like a poison from hell. Just the smell of it made her gag. So poor Martin had to brew and drink his coffee in his garden shed. As I reached the kitchen, he stepped back in from outside, sending a blast of frigid air throughout the house. His stiff, ice-cold body shuffled through the door, wearing his dark-blue bathrobe and brown leather slippers. Folded under his arm, in frigid sheets, was the morning paper, and clutched in a frozen, white clawlike hand was his empty coffee cup. He looked positively blue.

Fortunately, my drink of choice, tea, was less ominous to Stacy, so I turned on the kettle. As I looked out the window, I noted it was still dark. Now, once again, I questioned my decision to direct this show. The auditions were the next day, and I had never felt less qualified. Martin handed me an advertisement he had circled in the newspaper. It read:

Do you want to be in a show? Doris Newberry could use YOU. The Rejected Writers’ Book Club is organizing a fund-raiser for a friend in need: a musical extravaganza produced, written, and directed by talented local writers. We heartily welcome you. Here is our criterion:

No late arrivals.

No loiterers.

No time wasters.

No kids.

No food or drink.

No bad singers.

No bad dancers.

No bad actors.

Come on down. It will be fun.

I threw the paper down on the kitchen table. I knew that Doris had also made flyers and put them up all over town. I was guessing they would be just as “inviting.” Maybe I was worrying for no reason. God knows who was going to be brave enough to turn up.

Stacy sat at the kitchen table, tossed her toast down on the plate, and complained that she needed different bread. Once again, for the hundredth time since she’d arrived, she complained about how backward the island was and how she could get anything she wanted where she lived in San Francisco, including hot French bread straight from the oven right down the street.

She was feeling extra grumpy this morning because she had received a call from her husband, Chris, the night before. He said that though his mother was much better, he had to go on one last overseas business trip in order to be able to take some time off to help her in the last month of her pregnancy.

I tried to distract myself from biting back by asking her about her job. That was the wrong thing to ask though, because Stacy then went into an emotional rampage about how she didn’t like her replacement and wasn’t even sure she would have a job to go back to once the babies were born. But the company had encouraged her to take some time off and start her maternity leave early, as her job in advertising could be so demanding.

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