Free The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) by Suzanne Kelman Page B

a mouthful of patty melt. “You’re a book person. You’re an insider, and you know the trade. We’re going to need you to help us strategize.”
    “I would really love to help you—honestly, I would—but unfortunately I have to drive down to San Francisco next week to help my daughter. She’s having some complications with her pregnancy, and she needs me there while her husband’s away. So I’ll have to bow out of this little adventure. I wish I could be there to help the cause. I really do,” I lied, adding my most contrite expression.
    Doris looked at me, and her eyes narrowed. I was getting used to her facial expressions. This meant she was thinking.
    “Did you say San Francisco?” she asked intently.
    “Yes,” I said as I scraped at the bottom of my soup bowl. Something about the turn of this conversation was starting to make me feel uncomfortable.
    “When did you plan on coming back?”
    “Oh, about a week or so later, I’m not really sure yet . . .”
    “Perfect,” said Doris, getting excited. “You’ll be glad to know there is something you can do.” She paused, taking a long sip of her iced tea, then added, “You can take us with you!”
    Her words appeared to jumble as they entered my brain. I could have sworn she had just said, “You can take us with you.”
    Doris was exuberant: “You can drive us all down to San Francisco, where this publishing person has his main office. We can meet with him while you take care of your daughter and maybe catch some sights, and then we can all drive back together. It’s a perfect plan.” She slapped her hand down on the table abruptly, bouncing condiments, unable to control her excitement.
    This was about the point I stopped listening. I stopped listening because I could hear a strange woman’s voice in my head screaming. Was it mine?
    As she outlined the rest of her plan to the others, I pulled myself together and tried to backpedal as fast as I could, only it appeared someone had stolen my bike chain.
    “I can’t think how to . . . make . . . it . . . work . . .” was all I managed to squeeze out as my voice dried up and trailed off.
    I was completely flummoxed.
    “We’ll make it work,” said Doris with renewed confidence. “I can help with the driving, and we’ll all chip in for gas. It’s perfect because I don’t like to fly. In fact, I haven’t flown on an airplane since the seventies, ever since they started making their seats smaller to save money.”
    Making their seats smaller? Here was a woman in denial. I didn’t want to mention that I didn’t think the seats were getting any smaller.
    “So. That’s all settled,” said Doris. “Annie, can you get someone to take care of your dogs? Annie boards dogs,” added Doris, stating the obvious.
    “Trevor can do it,” Annie said decidedly. Even her needles seemed to be clicking together with excitement. As she talked through her plans, they moved faster and faster. “He likes to get himself in front of my propane heater whenever he can. I’ll freeze him some TV dinners. There’s nothing more attractive to an old bachelor than a warm house, a satellite dish, and homemade pot roast.”
    Still glued to my seat and listening to that crazy woman who kept on screaming in my head, I tried to think of anything else I could do to get out of this. I drew a blank.
    Doris was in full flow. “Flora, can you get some time off from Stems?”
    “I think so,” said Flora as she picked at her salad. “I get vacation days with my hours, but I never, ever get to take them. I have nowhere to go. Mrs. Bickerstaff will be more than happy to see me take a vacation.”
    “Good,” said Doris. “So we’re all set then. Let’s get together soon to make our final plans.”
    Walking back to the library, I was in shock. Oliver Hardy’s voice had replaced the screaming woman in my head. He kept saying, “That’s another fine mess you’ve got yourself into,” over and over again.

    At the