The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) Read Online Free Page A

we bond with true affection.”
    Finishing, they burst into spontaneous applause and hugged each other. As bizarre as this whole thing seemed to me, I envied their obvious care for one another.
    Doris brought them back to order with her gavel again, placed her hand on the top of my head, and announced in a tone that sounded as if she were about to auction me off to the highest bidder, “I want to introduce you all to our special guest today. She’s going to help us with our little plan. Mrs. Johnson, from the library.” Everybody started to clap again, and Doris leaned into me and whispered, “I wouldn’t stand up if I were you, dear.” Then she readjusted my tablecloth to cover the rest of my blouse and stood back to study her work with a hesitant smile.
    Not knowing what else to do, I lifted my hand in a pathetic little wave.
    “Janet, let me introduce you to the ladies of the Rejected Writers’ Book Club. I’m sure you know Ruby-Skye, as she volunteers at the library.” I nodded in her direction, as Doris went on, “Ruby writes horror.” I had to take a minute to let that digest. So, the woman who read stories to our under-fives . . . wrote . . . horror.
    “They’re awful”—Ruby grinned ruefully, then sipped her herbal tea—“but oh, so much fun to write.”
    “Next to her is Lavinia—I’m guessing it wouldn’t take much to guess what she writes.”
    Lavinia laughed. “Romance with a good dose of spice, that’s what I like to call them. They’re the kind of books Lottie wouldn’t be caught dead reading. It’s my own little wicked pleasure.”
    Lottie tapped her sister on the hand, saying, “Lavinia,” with the tone of mock horror. Lottie jumped in, saying, “I’ve written a lovely piece about the Psalms and how they can help us find peace in a troubled world. I think it’s perfect, but nobody seems to want it. But I don’t care; now I’m part of this group. We’re just so happy sharing our work with each other, who’d want to be published?”
    Doris continued. “Then there is Momma. She’s writing her memoirs—and a beautiful job she is doing of them too.”
    Gracie’s face lit up. “All about the work I did during World War II. I was living in England when I met Doris’s father. He was this handsome American GI that swept into our small town with his bubblegum and Hershey bars.” She lifted her shoulders and giggled like a schoolgirl before adding, “And swept me right off my feet.”
    She was enchanting.
    “Apparently the market is just flooded with World War II memoirs, and my story just isn’t . . . interesting enough.” Her voice trailed off, and there was an intense sadness in her blue eyes.
    Lottie, who was seated close in one of the furry orange bucket chairs, patted her hand and reassured her. “But you get to share your stories with us, and we love them.”
    Gracie seemed to brighten and lightly covered Lottie’s hand with her own.
    “Next to Momma is Flora,” announced Doris. “She’s the poet of our group.”
    Flora flushed a deep crimson. “I’ve written 123 of them. I like to write poetry,” Flora squeaked out in a tiny voice.
    Lavinia jumped in to help Flora, who had started to squirm with the attention. “But poetry is hard to sell, so we get to hear her poems here. And we love them.”
    The woman with the sparkly knitting needles piped up, “I’m Annie.” A bright, warm smile spread across her ruddy cheeks. She had round, soft features, and her head was a mass of tight white curls. She wore bright-white sneakers and a plum velour lounge suit. She hooked a stitch. “I’m not as talented as the rest of them, but—”
    There was an outcry in the room. Doris brought them all to order saying, “Annie, remember the rule: There are no bad writers here, only rejected ones. If you were published, you couldn’t be a part of our group.” Doris turned to me. “That’s the only rule here. We want a feeling of solidarity. Having someone get