women

Free Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends, Ch. 8

November 4, 2011 by admin

Good morning, everyone! I’m deeply enmeshed in NaNoWriMo and have drafted more than 11,000 words so far! Yay! In addition, I am nearly done with the layout for the print version of The Foreign Language of Friends, and next week I’ll do yet another round of revisions on Blood & Loam. It’s a full, busy month, but also a lot of fun.

Thanks for coming over for yet another chapter of The Foreign Language of Friends. Last week, Julia’s character sparked additional conversation, and we’ll see more of her story here. Mickey’s troubles are going to assert themselves, and she’s going to project a lot of anger onto Julia.

If you like what you’re reading, I invite you to consider investing the modest $1.99 to purchase the book…and please, I could use some reviews. Many thanks!

***

CHAPTER EIGHT – JUNE 27

One by one the students filed in to the classroom. Rita Martin always loved the beginning of the semester, when students still felt eager and hopeful that they could learn a new language. Soon enough they would start to disappear, and she never knew for sure who would last, though some were shaky from the start. But sometimes they surprised her.
Claire arrived first and marched up to Rita. “I’ve made a list of questions,” she said. “I also have ideas about ways to speed up the class. When can we talk?”
“Buenas tardes,” Rita said. “¿Cómo estás?”
Claire frowned, impatient to get to the point, but apparently decided that cooperation would bring the faster result. “Bien, gracias,” she said. “¿Pero, mis preguntas?”
Rita never lost her smile. “Your questions are important, Claire, but part of what I teach here is the culture as well as the language. If you are going to work in business in Latin America, you must do so with good manners.”
“Fine. Muy bien. ¿Y tú?”
“That’s ‘y usted,’” Rita said. “I am the teacher, so you will always use the formal form with me. Now, why don’t you have a seat? We will keep busy this class, I promise you. You will leave tonight with more knowledge than when you arrived.”
Claire took her seat with a sigh, which Rita ignored. Ellen strode in with the bulk of the other students, head down and glancing furtively for the seat most suitable for hiding. Mickey ran into the same desks she’d hit the week before, and Julia brought up the rear, rushing in at the last minute, frantically offering apologies.
“Okay,” Rita said, unperturbed, “Let’s begin.” The din of the room fell quickly to silence, save only for the sounds of books and notebooks opening. “We’re going to go through a lot of vocabulary today, so be prepared for a quick pace. For now, though, let’s practice our greetings.” She strode into the circle as students continued to settle themselves into their seats. From the center of the circle, she turned and pointed at each student at random asking questions. ¿Cómo está? ¿Cómo se llama? Mucho gusto. ¿De donde es? With each turn she became more of a dancer, twirling and animated, challenging each of them, correcting, cajoling, encouraging.
After about ten minutes of this, she said, “Bueno, bueno,” and clapped. The students reacted with nervous laughter, having survived this first test.
“Now, we count. Mickey, why don’t you begin? One to ten.”
Mickey tried leafing through her book, but Rita stopped her. “You can do this,” she said. “Do your best. It’s okay if it’s not perfect.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mickey said, dropping her eyes. She closed her book with a nervous bang, causing it to fall on the floor. Julia picked it up for her and whispered, “You’re fine. Remember, we studied this on Saturday.”
“You’re right. I can do this. Uno, dos, tres, cuarto…”
“Cuatro,” Rita corrected.
“Sí. Cuatro, cinco, um. Seis. Um.” Mickey looked up at Rita, her eyes wide with terror. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember the rest.”
“Claire,” Rita called.
“Siete, ocho, nueve, diez,” Claire said, her voice mechanical. She tapped her pencil and took a quick glance at her BlackBerry.
“Perfect. Remember, class, it’s the repetition that will help you in the end. The more you practice and listen to the recordings, the more you’ll remember. Let’s keep going, shall we? Who’s next?”
Rita saw students come and go for years, and students like Mickey generally didn’t last long. She always hoped to find ways to keep them from getting discouraged, and sometimes they worked, but more often than not students at Mickey’s level would leave before they could have a breakthrough.
Ellen, shy as she was, participated easily in the next several exercises. Rita expected Ellen to be prepared, but if she had offered a “most improved award” since the previous class, she would have given it to Ellen. At the break, Rita decided to ask her about it.
“We formed a study group,” Ellen said. “Well, Julia did, anyway, and some of us went along with it.”
“Bueno,” Rita said. “Excelente. I can see you already have more confidence. Who else is in the group?”
“Mickey and Claire.”
Rita did her best to hide a look of surprise. Claire didn’t seem like a joiner to her. “Ah, so you have a place to practice,” Rita said, nodding at Mickey, who had started to walk over.
“Yeah, it does help, I have to admit,” Mickey said, then added, “I’m still not sure I can learn this stuff, but it’s nice to have people trying to help you.”
“Sí, sí. Mickey, Ellen, I think this is wonderful. I wish more of my students would do such a thing. Where is Claire, anyway?”
“I think she’s outside on the phone,” Mickey said. “She said she’s working on some big deal and needed to call her assistant.”
“At this hour?” Ellen asked. “Wow, I don’t think I would like that job.”
“Julia, would you like to join us?” Rita asked. “I’ve heard that you’ve instigated a study group.”
Julia walked over, smiling but somehow more subdued than usual. “Guilty as charged. I thought it would be fun,” she said. “But may I ask you something, Señora?”
“Yes, of course, what is it?”
“Well,” Julia said, suddenly engrossed in the carpet at her feet, “Most of the time when my husband and I travel, we’re staying at a resort or a nice hotel, and I’m not really sure how I’ll get to use the language I’m learning. The staff always speaks flawless English. I know Mickey has been on some volunteer trips, and I wondered if you had any advice if someone like me wanted to do something like that.”
Mickey stared at Julia. “You? Really?”
“Why not me?” Julia asked, indignant.
Mickey reddened and looked away. Ellen jumped in and said, “I don’t think she means you’re not the type. We’re just a little surprised, that’s all. If you wanted to do some volunteering, I think that would be great. What do you think, Señora?”
Rita started to open her mouth, but Mickey jumped in instead. “Look, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, okay? I had a horrible time. I didn’t understand anything, and I don’t think I did anyone any good. I wish I could run off and just have a good time at a resort or something. Some people just don’t know how good they have it.”
Julia’s eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.
Rita put her arm around Julia’s shoulders and gave Mickey a scolding look. “We’re here to explore,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice soothing. “We all have our reasons for being here, and sometimes they change as we go on. We shouldn’t judge each other. Mickey, I’m sure you did more good than you know, though I can understand why you were uncomfortable. That’s why you’re here, ¿verdad? And Julia, if you want to consider volunteering, I have a lot of resources for you to look at. Send me an e-mail, and I’ll help you as best I can. Now, ladies, shall we get back to class?”
Mickey and Julia stared at each other, faces guarded, like fighters in the ring, then broke and took their seats.
Mickey’s outburst had surprised all of them, and Rita wondered how long Mickey’s frustrations had been building. She had seemed so passive before, but the change didn’t surprise Rita. It helped, as a teacher, to have raised children herself, and Rita recognized a phase that her own daughter had gone through, perhaps more as a teenager, but it was clear: the girl was trying to get out from under the shackles of other adults. Rita just hoped she could keep the class intact long enough to get through Mickey’s phase. She also hoped that Mickey would see the other women as helpful support, and not more of the enemy.
The group settled in as the break ended, with one empty seat that Claire filled after class reconvened, offering a quiet “sorry.” Despite her impeccable appearance, her pale skin and puffy eyes suggested exhaustion. The word “haggard” came to mind.
“Now, we learn to tell time,” Rita said. She taught them additional vocabulary, such as de la tarde (in the afternoon) and medianoche (midnight). She explained the use of singular and plural, as in “it’s one o’clock” (es la una) and “it’s two o’clock” (son las dos). She followed her explanations with more rapid-fire review.
As students began to tire, the remainder of class felt disjointed, as though the difficulties that had emerged during the break controlled the rest of the class. Julia’s responses were hesitant, Mickey’s almost nonexistent. From time to time Rita noticed Ellen whispering in Mickey’s ear, and she chose not to confront her about it. Mickey obviously needed calming down. Even Claire, with her spotless professionalism, faded in and out of paying attention and seemed to struggle visibly. By the time it was over, Rita needed a drink. She always looked forward to class, but some nights she wondered why.

***

Mickey stomped out of class as soon as it ended. Who did Julia think she was, anyway? That rich bitch could do anything she wanted. Mickey didn’t know if she felt angrier that Julia lived a life Mickey only dreamed of, or that Julia was stealing onto her turf. The volunteer trip, though difficult for Mickey, set her apart from the others, and she wanted to feel special. She knew in her heart that part of volunteering was to encourage others to work with her, but Julia…well, didn’t she have better things to do, like deliver orders to her servants?
Unaccustomed to the rage that welled up inside of her, she decided to run the path around the campus, even though darkness had fallen. The path was well-lit, and joggers customarily traveled it well into the night. Mickey ran underneath the tree canopy, her nose catching wafts of pine as they fought for their place among the majestic live oaks. She knew that Doug would worry, but she didn’t care. She needed to blow off steam, and she hoped that running would help. Already, Julia’s pained face haunted her as shame rose to match the anger. She’s been nothing but nice to me, Mickey reminded herself. It’s not her fault that I have such a sucky life.
Her anger had arisen well before class, first becoming noticeable right when she got home from work. She had opened the mail to discover a notice that they had exceeded their limit on one of their credit cards. Doug had ordered a few more electronic toys. He never bothered to check with her, or to check the account balance, or to think about his spending ahead of time. He wanted the bright shiny objects, so he bought them, and then left her to clean up the mess. He was more than happy to let her parents contribute to their support, even if it meant following their rules. After just six months of marriage, their arguments about money had escalated.
Footfall by footfall, Mickey admitted the truth, as though she drew it up from the very ground that she ran on. Julia had already proven herself to be friendly, kind-hearted, and generous. She had organized the study group and seemed eager to keep it going, checking with each woman individually after class to make sure she was coming. She did not avoid Mickey after their altercation. At the end of class, she reached out to touch the younger woman’s shoulder and said, “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you, and I’m sorry if I did. I hope you’ll stay in the group.” Mickey had nodded, already ashamed in spite of the anger she still felt.
Running along the path, Mickey felt herself calming. She ran until her legs threatened to collapse underneath her. As she finished, her skin drenched with summer sweat, she felt cleansed, renewed. She was ready to go home and to face the real problem: a life that was not her own.
Doug jumped up from his chair as soon as she came in the door. “Honey, I was worried sick about you! Why didn’t you call?”
Although her anger toward Julia had dissipated, her anger toward Doug erupted with laser focus. She didn’t want to have this discussion. She just wanted all the problems to go away so they could be a happy newlywed couple, and her first words were, “I’m sorry. I should have called.”
“You better believe it! I didn’t know what to do. I even called your parents to see if you had gone over there for some reason.”
“My parents? You called my parents?” Anger turned to rage, and she knew that once again, she would not be able to contain herself. Nor did she want to. Without saying another word, she walked over to the stack of bills and handed him the overlimit notice. “You’re lucky I went for a jog before I came home,” she said. “Care to comment on this?”
He studied the notice, then handed it back to her. “What do you want me to say?” he asked. He didn’t sound angry or challenging. More than anything, he seemed helpless.
Mickey sighed. “Look, we don’t have a lot of money, and we need to stick to our budget. You have to know what’s going on with the bills and not just leave them to me.”
“But you’re the organized one,” he said, his doe eyes soft and pleading. “Besides, that’s part of your job. You know how I am. We men are more about the big picture. You’re the one who needs to keep me on the straight and narrow. We’ll be fine. You just need to relax a little. Once we’ve both finished grad school, we’ll both be making a lot more money.”
Oh, God, she thought, not that again. “I don’t want to start talking about grad school right now. It’s just one more thing that everyone wants me to do. Besides, it’s off the subject. We were talking about your spending habits.”
“Whatever. Anyway, your parents have offered to help us out. Maybe you shouldn’t have so much pride and let them give us a hand. There’s no need for us to suffer. Come on, Mickey, let’s just go to bed and forget about all this. It will work out.” He reached out and pulled her to him.
She melted momentarily once his strong arms surrounded her, but stopped and steeled herself against her attraction. “We’ve talked about that, too, and you know how I feel. I’m trying to have an independent life, and between you and my parents I keep feeling like I’m stuck in childhood. There are always conditions, no matter what they say, and you knew this before you married me. You seem to think it’s going to be different now, that I’m going to change, and I’m not. I want us to stand on our own two feet.”
“Fine,” he said abruptly. “I’m going to bed.” He turned around and left her standing there, still holding the notice.
“Doug!” she called. He did not respond. Don’t go after him, she told herself. He always did this, always walked away when he felt threatened. Over and over she had followed him, begging, giving in to him every time. Every time she did, he won.
When did it become a competition, all about winning and losing? She had seen the signs before they married, but he hadn’t been so stubborn then. He seemed to want what she wanted. She had asked him pointed questions about finances before they married to make sure they were compatible, and he’d always given her the right answers. Now, it seemed, he had changed the rules of the game.
She curled up on the sofa and turned on the television, keeping it low so as not to disturb him. It was always about him and his needs. These things always ended with some sort of negotiation, except that he never seemed to give up anything. He would go to her parents, and they would end up lecturing her. They would write a check that he would deposit before she came home. Was she wrong? Her mother had lectured her about marriage. “The man is in charge,” she said. “The woman is to submit to her husband. I honestly don’t know what we’re going to do with you if you refuse to learn this.”
She fell asleep alone on the sofa, waking once in the night, briefly, to turn off the television. The sofa felt good, and she decided to stay there. She covered herself with an afghan that she kept draped over the back of the couch, a homemade wedding gift from her mother, hoping that sleep would bring happy dreams to counter the nightmare of the marriage trap that was now her reality.

The Fiction of Money

November 2, 2011 by admin

It’s hard to write about money. We’re taught not to talk about it — and as we are seeing from the Occupy Wall Street movement, the more we are forced into the conversation, the more we see the “stuff” that people have about money.

Turns out that when I , my character of Julia in The Foreign Language of Friends is potentially a member of the 1%. A few readers made mention of this in so many words when I posted last week’s chapter. Now, I didn’t invent her tax returns when I invented the character, but the art collection alone suggests a high income level.

When I first conceived the story, I wasn’t thinking about class warfare or the 99% — those discussions didn’t exist. The Tea Party generated conversation about government spending, but the 99% were pretty quiet at the time.

I intended to write about four women who were isolated from female friendships. I wanted to demonstrate how women suffer when they are cut off from each other, and how healing it can be when they learn to give and receive support. Julia’s money just happened to be the way that other people felt uncomfortable around her.

Just as Julia is a fictional character, our thoughts and beliefs about money can be fictional, too. These stereotypes can lead us to the sense of “us vs. them” separation that we see. We are suspicious of the “other,” the person we think isn’t like us at all. Here are some ways we fictionalize people because they are either rich or poor (and note the contradictions):

We can’t raise taxes on the rich because either we a) are rich or b) will be one day when we win the lottery.
People have lost their jobs because they made bad choices or are lazy.
If you’re rich, it’s because you worked harder and accomplished more than poor people do.
If you’re rich, it’s because you did something bad to get there.
Rich people and poor people can’t be friends.
Rich people are happier.
Rich people are miserable and lonely.
Money brings nothing but trouble.
If I had money, I wouldn’t have any trouble.
Rich people don’t care about poor people.

So, let’s look at Julia. I suspect that any reader of my book will recognize that Julia probably doesn’t care as much about taxes as you’d think she would. Her husband would disagree, but I think Julia would be happy to pay a little more because she already has everything she could ever possibly want. She’s grateful, not greedy.

Julia doesn’t strike me as someone who would accuse the poor of being lazy. Julia, in fact, is an East Texas girl who fell in love, not knowing that her husband would strike it rich. I don’t go into Julia’s family at all, but I suspect they were nice, working-class people, the backbone of America. I also suspect that many of them saw their jobs go off to China and India! Did that make them lazy or bad? No. When did we stop saying “There but for the grace of God go I” and start saying, “It’s their own damn fault?” Yet I doubt Julia would have that attitude. I suspect she knows how lucky she is.

At the same time, Julia and Larry didn’t do anything illegal or immoral to get where they got. They weren’t lobbying Congress or buying Supreme Court justices to maintain their lavish lifestyle. While we see the reality that some of the 1% are buying and selling our government, not all of them do. The OWS movement, as I understand it, is not anti-wealth, but anti-corruption, and there is a difference. There are 1%-ers who make a positive difference in the world, and who are willing to pay more taxes.

It’s possible that Julia falls under the stereotype of “rich people are miserable and lonely.” Julia wants friends, and the new women she meets are suspicious of her because of her obvious wealth. I think Julia smashes the stereotype, though, with her determination and persistence to bring this disparate group of women together in friendship.

A reader asked: what would happen if Julia lost her money? Well, I don’t go into that in FLF, though it could be some fun fodder for a sequel. We can imagine that her friend Geri wouldn’t want much to do with her, which is Geri’s loss. I love Julia, because she has spirit, energy, and the persistence to help her newer friends figure out how to get along.

I can also imagine, if I were writing a prequel, that we could look at what happened when Julia and Larry became wealthy. Just as she would lose friends if she lost her money, she would most likely lose friends when she gained it, too. Trust me on this. Now, there are plenty of wealthy people these days playing the victim, and I don’t approve of that, either — but judge Julia on her merits as a human being, not her wealth. Pay attention to how she treats others, regardless of their status, and how equal these women are, rich or poor.

Julia may be one of the 1%, but she’s one of the good guys. I’ve made her suffer in The Foreign Language of Friends, not because she’s rich, but because she’s human, and stuff happens to all of us. I know she doesn’t have to worry about how to pay the mortgage this month or feed her family — and she’s aware of that, too. She knows she’s fortunate. But she’s going to have some rough days ahead, and I hope she gets the empathy she deserves.

It’s Book Day! Free Book Offer Today!

November 1, 2011 by admin

FREE BOOK OFFER AT THE END OF THIS BLOG ENTRY!

Good morning! I’ve started my Day 1 of NaNoWriMo and have, so far, about 2,200 words for the day. I’m hoping to hit 5,000 today to get rolling. There are a few days this month where it will be tough to get in a good word count, so I’m trying to start out with a full head of steam. Good luck and happy writing to those of you who are participating!

I’ve been so busy with The Foreign Language of Friends that I don’t always tend properly to another wonderful project of mine. In 2009 I edited Patchwork & Ornament: A Woman’s Journey of Life, Love, and Art by Jeanette Feldman (my late mother-in-law). Originally I had planned to put Patchwork together just for the family, but the longer I worked on it, the more I felt that others might enjoy it, too.

Patchwork went on to win an Indie Excellence Award for Best Memoir of 2010. Feathered Quill and Midwest Book Reviews gave it five stars on Amazon. But it is the comments we receive from individuals who read it that mean the most. As Jenny tells the story of her life in bite-sized essays, poems, and stories, readers reflect on their own lives. Somehow, Jenny’s warmth shines through, and readers feel as though they are having a conversation with her, as opposed to just reading someone else’s life story. Originally, I had planned to make the book just for the family, but I felt its magic as I worked on it, convinced that others could relate to her story.

Briefly, Jenny grew up in poverty during the Great Depression. In the South Bronx, where she lived, there was little hope for the future, but through the power of art, she gained a broader perspective on the world — one that allowed her to transcend poverty, even though she would never realize commercial success as an artist. Patchwork & Ornament includes several full-color photographs of her work.

Here’s an excerpt, from which the title is derived. Enjoy! A FREE BOOK OFFER FOLLOWS THIS EXCERPT!

Patchwork and Ornament
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Why are your artworks so ornamented, when you love cubist and minimalist art?

Shopping Bag — One of many homemade shopping bags - a piece of art on its own

When asked this question I was intrigued and decided to write about it to clarify my answer to myself. I found the answer in my early childhood, from the lives of my grandmother and mother and from the apartments they lived in and decorated.

My aunt, my uncle, their son, and my grandmother lived in a three-room apartment on Freeman Street in the Bronx. There was one bedroom, another room that acted as a dining room/bedroom for my grandmother, and a kitchen with an eating area where the family actually ate their meals.

The floor in each room was covered with printed linoleum, each in a different pattern with no attempt to match or to complement the other. The floors needed to be covered and covered cheaply, and that was that.

The dining room made the biggest impact on me. That was where our family would sit together for holidays or on our infrequent social visits. The linoleum floor in the dining room resembled a version of a Persian rug, with deep reds and blues. My aunt and grandmother made curtains from a heavy, textured cotton called cretonne that was printed with palm trees, exotic tropical flowers and fruits. The cushions on the dining room chairs were each made of different fabrics and colors. Again, nothing matched anything else in the room.

Dishes in the china cabinet were parts of sets, piled together in random fashion. The table was large and covered in a white cloth embroidered in the center and edged with machine crochet lace. A cut crystal bowl filled with fruit sat on the sideboard, and a small beveled glass mirror hung at a height that reflected no one’s face. One would need to twist and bend in order to achieve such a glimpse. This was a room put together in bits and pieces over a period of time by people who did not care one iota about the way anything looked. They were poor immigrants struggling to survive in the cold depths of the Great Depression. They put together a home using what was at hand and went to second-hand stores for the rest.

Collage — Many of Jenny's artwork pieces had a "collage" look to them.

My grandmother was another strong influence. An Orthodox Jew, she wore a proscribed shaitl, or wig, of what looked like red horsehair. A more unattractive wig has yet to be designed. She made dresses for herself styled like muumuus, with a round neck, long sleeves without cuffs, and the hem just short of floor length. She wore a white apron that covered her almost completely from one hip to the other and was tied around the waist. As parts wore through, she patched it with any fabric at hand. She would do the same to the bosom of her dress when her heavy breasts wore the material to shreds. She wore these patched clothes anywhere at all, whether shopping the outdoor markets on Jennings Street or visiting us.

My mother, whose financial situation was much more precarious than my grandmother’s, would never wear patched clothes, never. Bitterly ashamed of her status in life, she tolerated neither raggedness nor patches. She would alter clothes, setting a new waistband into a dress or skirt to lengthen it, or making a shirt from a too-short dress, or attaching a wide velvet border to a coat when the longer look came into fashion. She made curtains, too, comforter covers, tablecloths edged with printed ruffles and seat cushions to match, and most of our clothes and doll clothes from scraps.

I was exposed to cubist and abstract art at Cooper Union, which gave me a different perspective from my influence at home. For a time I restricted myself to the severity and discipline of such art. I loved it. I found peace and order in the strictures of abstract art. At that time, I needed those elements to help structure my life.

Still, looking at great paintings in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and in the Museum of Modern Art opened me to possibilities in combining textures and colors. And of course, the streets and buildings of Manhattan provided the greatest design class of all. Signage, posters, billboards, shop windows, people dressed in every fashion possible, cars, buses, vendors on street corners; I lived, worked, and studied in a vast collage environment.

As time passed, my work and my life became more dense and complex. More ornament, more richness became evident in the work, and storytelling, which has always been pleasurable to me, became important to the visual work. Instead of fighting and trying to work back into abstract or minimalist art, I went towards the new development, using ornament as narrative.
I see in the work I do, in the manner I have furnished our home, the effects of all these experiences. My childhood world of family influences grew to include, as in the manner a collage is made, layers built up from the complexities of my life, one over the other revealing like pentimento, ghosts of previous experiences.

***

FREE BOOK OFFERS!

Buy an e-book copy of The Foreign Language of Friends from Amazon and post a review by November 30, and your name will go into a drawing for a free copy of Patchwork & Ornament OR a free copy of the print version of The Foreign Language of Friends (your choice).
Buy 1, Get 1 Free! Purchase a copy of Patchwork & Ornament by November 30 and get a free, signed print version of The Foreign Language of Friends.

To claim your free book, provide proof of purchase (such as a confirmation e-mail from Amazon). If you’re going with option one, please let me know which review is yours.

Free Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends, Ch. 7

October 28, 2011 by admin

Good morning! In this installment of The Foreign Language of Friends, we learn more about one of Julia’s dilemmas (she will have PLENTY more by the time this story is over!). It may seem like a problem we would all like to have, but for someone with Julia’s big heart and extroverted nature, it’s a tough one. Some of you like Julia best, so I hope you enjoy this chapter! If you like the story, remember that it’s just $1.99 on Amazon Kindle software, so tell all your friends! Muchas gracias.

Have a great weekend! Next week I’ll tell you all about our evening with Michael Pollan (along with 1,100 of our closest friends). I’m also going to share a book on Tuesday that has meant a lot to me…and I was reminded yesterday yet again as to why it’s worth talking about. There might be a freebie involved, too, so come on over to see what’s going on! Thanks for visiting me, and see you next week!

CHAPTER SEVEN – JUNE 27

With a swing of her racket, Julia slammed a shot in the corner of Geri’s court. “Game, set, and match!” she called.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I even try,” Geri said, laughing. “You’ve gotten too good at this.”

“It’s all the practice,” Julia said. “I’m here almost every day.”

“Shall we get a bite?” Geri asked. “No dessert today, though. Ron and I are going out tonight, and so I need to stick to a salad.”

“You’ll have wine, though, right?” Julia asked.

“Absolutely. Wine is health food, you know. And we must hydrate, right?”

They laughed and took a table on the patio, which the club kept cool by blowing air conditioning outside so its patrons could enjoy the outdoors in the summertime without sweating away their glamour. Each woman ordered a salad with dressing on the side, and they ordered a bottle of wine to share.

Geri and Julia had met at the club ten years before. They were the same age and both had husbands who traveled routinely. They even had similar builds: short and muscled, but curvy and feminine at the same time. Both wore their hair in a similar short style, easy to manage. Their main difference was that Geri had vast experience as a mother. She had four children spaced well apart. Julia found herself envying Geri whenever they got together, longing for the chaos and noise of a big family.

“Thank God for first grade,” Geri said often. “And nannies. I’d never get any tennis in without them.”

Julia laughed. Geri, unlike Julia and Larry, had lived with money her entire life, and she made no apologies for it.

“So, when is Larry coming home this time?” Geri asked, as a waiter refilled their wine glasses.

Geri always seemed to know what lurked under the surface, less because she cared and more because she sought gossip like a heat-seeking missile. “I’m not sure,” Julia said. “He may even be another month this time.”

“Stuck for a month in Paris,” Geri said, running her hands through her wind-tousled hair. “Now there’s a problem. Why don’t you go hang with him?”

“I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know. He’s always working when I’m over there, and a girl can only do so much shopping in a day.”

“Wow, are you not feeling well? Julia isn’t in the mood for shopping? Weren’t you the one that told me there weren’t enough shopping hours in a day?”

Julia took a sip of her wine. “That’s a nice chardonnay,” she said. “I don’t know. I guess. Something’s happening to me, Geri. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I’m changing. I’ve always been happy, even with Larry gone. I have my friends, and shopping, and tennis, and I always manage to keep busy, but I’m starting to feel like maybe there’s more to life.” She hoped she wouldn’t regret her disclosure. They normally didn’t get to deeper subjects. Must be the wine talking.

Geri, who didn’t seem to mind, smiled and patted her friend’s hand. “Listen, when someone like you starts complaining about her life, we’ve got real problems in the world.”

“That’s just it,” Julia said, sitting back in her chair. With a light haze of alcohol descending over her, she said, “What the hell,” and flagged down the waiter for a slice of chocolate cake.

Geri raised her eyebrows. “How many hours of tennis are you playing today?”

“It’s just one piece of cake,” Julia said. “I get so sick of dieting all the time. But you’re right, I don’t have any problems, and lots of people do. I don’t know, maybe I should do some volunteer work or something.”

“But you’re always involved with the fundraisers that we have at the club. Everyone knows that you’re the one to contact when it’s time to organize the next event. You can shake the loose change out of anyone’s pockets.”

“I know, but I was thinking of something a little more hands-on. You know I started taking this Spanish class, and there’s a young lady in it who’s been on all these missionary and volunteer trips. That’s why she’s in the class. And here I am, just trying to communicate with the lawn guys.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Geri said, holding up her glass for a refill. “Remember the old days when our fathers did the lawn, at least until the boys became teenagers? Well, my Bruce wouldn’t know how to start a mower, and whenever I try to give Jay any kind of chore he just laughs at me. Now we hire people to do the work, but if we need something special done we need a Spanish dictionary.”

“Well, anyway, here’s this young girl who’s thinking about other people, about the rest of the world, and I just don’t. I think about how the spa’s going to be in the resort we’re staying at, or whether to order dessert. I’m in a classroom full of people of all different income levels, and it’s just making me think, that’s all.”

Geri shook her head. “You’re never going to be able to make friends there, not like you can here,” she said. “The envy always gets in the way. As soon as people find out you have money, they act differently toward you.”

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? I mean, what happened to looking at what we are on the inside, and not what we drive or where we live?”

“You’re kidding, right? Oh, Julia,” Geri said. She started to laugh, and then the laughter took over her whole body. Julia watched and waited in amazement.

“Hold on, give me a minute.” Geri paused, giggling until little tears appeared at the corners of her eyes, which she quickly wiped away. “Oh, Jules, you’re so naïve sometimes about the world we live in. That would be great, but it’s not how things work, especially these days. No, seriously. I mean it, and you know it, too. You don’t wear your diamonds to class, do you?”

Julia looked down at her hands, perfectly manicured and glittering with precious stones. These were the small rings, the ones she wore when playing tennis. “It’s true,” she said, “I just wear a plain wedding band to class, and I dress down quite a bit. I accidentally wore the good rings to our study group, and they noticed. I guess I was adapting without even realizing it.”

“It works the other way, too,” Geri said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Try going into some little boutique one day, someplace you don’t normally go. Wear something really casual, like some simple shorts and a t-shirt, no makeup, no jewelry. Watch how they treat you when they don’t think you can buy out their inventory.”

Julia finished her wine and stared thoughtfully into the distance. Thoughts churned through her mind. She wanted to tell Geri she was wrong, that it didn’t matter. Instead, she said, “Well, so what good does that do us? Are you saying I can’t make friends in this class?”

“Not really, no,” Geri said. “I’m just saying that once they figure out you’re one of the ladies who lunch, they will find ways to avoid you.”

“Well, there’s an attorney in our group, and I’m sure she’s well off.” Julia felt more and more defensive.

“Yeah, and she’ll dismiss you because you don’t have a career. I’m telling you, you should have hired a tutor if you wanted to learn Spanish.” Geri looked at her watch. “Oh, my I have to go. I’ve got some clothes to pick up for the kids this afternoon. Yesterday I was late picking Baby up, and she decided I’d forgotten about her. Can you imagine? She cried for two hours.”

The two “ladies who lunched” air-kissed good-bye, and Julia zipped away in her cherry red Mercedes Cabriolet convertible, aware of the new car smell and the admiring glances of the men on the road. She and Geri had never agreed on everything. That was part of the fun of their friendship. She didn’t want to agree with her now, and she hoped Geri was wrong. I can make friends with anyone, she reminded herself. A vision of Claire’s haughty face appeared in her mind’s eye, but Julia held firm. Anyone.

Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends

October 21, 2011 by admin

If you’re just joining this blog, please feel free to look back at previous Fridays to get earlier chapters of The Foreign Language of Friends (now available on Amazon as an e-book — Sony, B&N, and Apple soon!). I’m working on a POD version of the book as well.

Have a great weekend! See you Monday!

CHAPTER SIX – JUNE 26

Claire woke in the morning feeling as though she hadn’t slept at all. Her head ached, and her eyes struggled to focus. She stretched, circling her sore left arm. Must have slept on it wrong. She hadn’t overindulged the night before and had, in fact, gotten plenty of rest. Thank God it was Sunday, when she always maintained a light workload, just three or four hours.

She’d planned to meet Heather and Anne for Sunday brunch, a monthly ritual they’d begun after the girls finished college. Claire often lost track of time during the big McClendon projects, so the monthly brunch was her way of not losing touch with her girls. Evelyn’s idea. Evelyn, Claire’s longtime and long-suffering assistant, had nudged Claire toward a more involved motherhood, despite Claire’s ongoing resistance. Claire brushed off a moment of guilt, reminding herself that Heather and Anne were far better off with their hard-driving, ambitious mother than if she had let them stay poor. She had provided them all the advantages she’d had to fight for, and now they were strong, successful women themselves. Claire enjoyed visiting with her daughters and looked forward to their monthly gatherings, where they could relate as adults. She had struggled through their childhood, seeing her children as mysterious and unfathomable creatures. Never playful herself, Claire found their sense of whimsy and silliness confusing. Now that they were grown, they could all speak the same language.

She moved slowly, fatigue adding heaviness to her limbs. When she tried to move more quickly, a wave of nausea stopped her, and she hoped she wasn’t getting the flu. Never having taken a single sick day during all her years at McClendon, Claire couldn’t even remember when she’d last had a cold.

She thought back to the day before, to the so-called study group that looked like it would end up being a waste of time. Everyone seemed nice enough, but the slow pace drove Claire crazy. Afterwards, she had gone straight to work, just as she did every Saturday, relieved to slip into the one environment where she felt like she belonged. She was most productive and enjoyed going into the office when few others were there. Of course, with the end of a major deal drawing near, this time she had plenty of company, but everyone tended to be quiet on Saturdays so they could get home as soon as possible. Claire always outlasted everyone else.

They were down to final clauses. McClendon had won a bid to construct a natural gas pipeline to connect Atlanta Energy’s platform in the Gulf of Mexico to McClendon’s processing plant in southern Mississippi. Atlanta, flexing its “Big Oil” muscle, had sent its lawyers shut down the deal during their last meeting, wanting McClendon to cut its bid to the bone. McClendon had already cut their profits just to get the business, and while Claire knew that deals like this always worked out in the end, those last weeks and days were the worst. One pissing contest after another.

Yes, she had put in a long day, but she’d felt satisfied when she walked out the door that evening. She had picked up an order of pasta primavera from the Italian place around the corner from her loft, and had drunk just one glass of wine.

No matter how much she dissected the day, Claire didn’t notice anything odd or different. Well, there was that sinking spell she’d had at mid-afternoon, but that was probably from lack of lunch. She had been too absorbed in her tasks to take a break, but that wasn’t unusual. An overall indifference to food was what helped her maintain her lean frame.

Still, something had felt a little off. And certainly, today was worse. She would never cancel the brunch, though, and closed her eyes for a while longer, hoping that the feeling would pass. It didn’t, and when she realized she was going to be late unless she got moving, she gathered her will to get up from bed. She waded through the quicksand of her tired body, showered, dressed, and put on her makeup. The shower helped, at least. When she got to the restaurant, she felt triumphant. I just needed a little rest. I’m fine. Squinting under the sun’s glare, she scanned the restaurant until she saw two hands waving at her. Smiling, she went to hug her daughters.

“Mom, you’re late again,” Heather scolded. “Working all morning, I suppose!”

Claire shook her head. For a moment she felt vulnerable — small, as her mother used to say. She ignored the feeling and smiled. “No, believe it or not, I took the morning off to rest.”

Anne laughed as she reached out to hug Claire. “That’s funny, Mom.”

“No, really, I mean it. If it’s any comfort to you, I worked all day yesterday after my study group.”

“How’s that going?” asked Heather. “Have you chewed up and spit out your fellow classmates yet?”

“Not all of them,” Claire said, “but there’s still time.” She made herself comfortable at the table. Heather and Anne had already ordered mimosas, and Claire waved to the waiter for the same.

“My girls,” Claire said, appraising them. Heather looked like her father, something that still pained Claire after all these years. Though tall like Claire, she had a sturdier build, wavy brown hair, and large, deep-set brown eyes. Anne, Claire’s little fairy princess, resembled no one in the family that Claire knew of. Petite and small-boned, Anne looked almost frail. She had straight blonde hair, which she wore loosely down her back, making her look younger than she was, and a dusting of tan freckles covered her nose and cheeks. Annie sometimes deceived people with her looks, disarming them with her soft appearance. She had inherited Claire’s ability to go for the jugular and had followed Claire’s footsteps into the energy industry, though she preferred the “real action” of selling the commercial deals to prospective customers over legal work, which she saw as boring paper-pushing.

“Are you okay?” Heather asked. “You seem a little pale.”

“Just tired, dear,” Claire said. “And I could use some food. I’m famished.”

They chatted as they always did, though Claire at times lost track of the conversation. From time to time she saw Heather giving her quizzical looks, but she just smiled and pretended that nothing was wrong. She talked about work, of course, though she found herself talking more about the Spanish class and the new friends she had made.

“Mom, that sounds great,” Heather said. “You could use some friends who talk about something other than work.”

“Maybe so,” Claire said with a sigh. “I’m just not sure that your mother has anything else to talk about anymore.”

“What about taking a little time off?” Heather asked.

“Not going to happen anytime soon. The big project I’m on now has gone on long past what we expected it to, and we’re going to start negotiations with a multinational corporation soon.” Claire spoke in code to her daughters, as all of her work was highly confidential. She never used corporation names, even when they weren’t out in public.

Heather laughed, the earthy, hearty sounds echoing those of her father. “Seriously, Mother, why don’t you do something fun? They’ve got to let you out sometime.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “Heather, this is how things are done. We’re not all teachers, with the summers off and a long winter break. Some of us have to work for a living.”

“Excuse me for trying to bring out the humanity in this family,” Heather said. “And I won’t even go into the myths about a teacher’s schedule. Mom, I know you’re a big mover and shaker and all, but haven’t you ever considered relaxing for once?”

“Not really,” Claire said, her face deadpan. Seeing the look of horror on Heather’s face, she added, “Honestly, work is my fun. I’m sorry you don’t understand that. Although, Anne,” she added, noticing the triumphant look on her younger daughter’s face, “we should be thankful that we have someone trying to keep us in balance.”

Anne frowned at that, and she and Heather eyed each other warily. Though grown, with fulfilling lives of their own, they had never stopped competing with each other.

Claire changed the subject then, regaling them with stories of outgoing Julia, shy Ellen, and Mickey the human pinball. She wondered aloud what Señora Martin’s story was. Claire and her daughters spent the rest of their brunch in relaxed conversation, and Claire found herself laughing more than she had in a long time. She realized that in the study group, despite her impatience, she had felt — dare she think it — happy. For the time being, her fatigue disappeared.

Friday Fiction: The Foreign Language of Friends

October 14, 2011 by admin

Back home from our visit to the Big Apple, I’m ready to return to a normal daily routine. Today we return to our regularly scheduled programming with another episode from The Foreign Language of Friends. Book Baby has finished converting the manuscript and has sent it off to Amazon and Sony, so the e-book will be available soon!

In this chapter, the women meet for their first Spanish study group, and all does not go well. Enjoy, and have a great weekend!

—-

CHAPTER FIVE – JUNE 25

Julia sat at the coffee shop, checking her watch repeatedly, noticing that only a minute or two had passed each time she looked. She had arrived fifteen minutes early, parking her Mercedes convertible right in front, and found a table with a good view of the door so she could wave everyone inside. She ordered a croissant, fruit, and coffee, her favorite Saturday breakfast. During the week she kept to an omelette made with egg whites, a slice of dry whole wheat toast, and, of course, black coffee, lots of it. She fought the looming middle-aged spread with a vengeance, but a little treat on the weekends never hurt.

She had invited all of the class, but had only heard from three. Claire’s response had come first, much to Julia’s surprise. Julia hadn’t expected her to answer, let alone show up, but Julia operated on the principle that it never hurts to ask for what you want. Claire seemed interesting, especially with all that outer prickliness. Julia felt determined to see what, if anything, lay underneath that tough exterior. She hoped that Claire wasn’t someone who accepted an invitation and then backed out later.

Mickey arrived first. She bounced in, hitting tables along the way like a pinball. She wore baggy, rumpled shorts, and a pink t-shirt with the word “Jesus” set inside a heart. She had pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, and she wore neither makeup nor a smile. She didn’t even say hello. Instead, she began with, “I wasn’t going to come. I can’t learn languages. But I decided my mom wouldn’t want me to join a group, so here I am. Isn’t that awful of me?” She paused to drink in a huge breath.

“Absolutely,” Julia said, her smile wide and warm. “But I think it’s the job of every young person to rebel now and then, right? Or how else do they know you’ve grown up?” She decided not to ask Mickey why her mother would want her to stay away from a study group. She didn’t want to seem too nosy on their first meeting.

“Thanks,” Mickey said. “That’s good to hear, I guess. Sometimes I feel really bad when I think things like that. Wow, those are some pretty rings.” Her face showed a trace of disapproval. “Do they wait on us here, or do we go to the counter?”

Julia, as if acting on reflex, dropped her hands under the table. She could feel her cheeks getting warm. She had put on the “good rings” without thinking. “Thank you. You get the coffee at the counter and bring it back. Say, you’re a newlywed, aren’t you?”

Mickey offered a faint smile. “Yes,” she said, then, “I’ll be back.”

Julia stirred her coffee thoughtfully. She remembered when she and Larry first married, and how excited they both were. She announced her new status to everyone she met. She was surprised, then, at Mickey’s reluctance to show the same enthusiasm. She smiled at Mickey when the younger woman returned to the table, and they sat in awkward silence.

Fortunately, Ellen walked in shortly afterward and waved on her way to stand in line at the counter. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a baby blue t-shirt, with a baseball cap perched precariously atop her thick, plain waves. Claire strode in right behind her, dressed smartly in white capris, a blouse of tiny white flowers on a mint-green background, and a matching green scarf draped over her shoulders with an air of planned casualness. She removed her Maui Jim tortoiseshell sunglasses and glanced around, giving a small nod to Julia before she, too, stood in line.

Mickey leaned over to Julia. “How many people did you invite?”

“Oh, I invited everyone,” Julia said, “but a lot of people didn’t want to commit. I think this is the total of the group. We’re small, but that could work out better, actually.”

“You don’t say,” Mickey said, glancing at Claire. “Hmm.”

“What?” Julia asked.

“Oh, nothing. I’m just younger than everyone else. That Claire is older than my mother, you know.”

“I like having a mix of backgrounds,” Julia said, chuckling. “If everyone is the same, then the conversation is less interesting.”

“Oh,” Mickey said. She opened her mouth to say more, but by then Claire and Ellen had sat down with their drinks. Claire had black coffee, while Ellen had ordered a fragrant herbal tea.

“Great!” Julia said. “We’re all here. I thought this would be a fun way to study and maybe get to know each other better. Maybe we can chat for a few minutes before we get started, you know, get comfortable with one another, and then we can begin.”

The others nodded and murmured, and then they all fell silent. Great, Julia thought. I’m going to have to drag everyone along. Why can’t people just relax and have fun?

Ellen cleared her throat and spoke first. “I guess I just want to say thanks for organizing this, Julia. It never would have occurred to me, and I think it will help. I hope so, anyway.”

More nodding and murmuring, and then more silence. Julia didn’t know when she’d ever sat at a table of women who couldn’t start a conversation. She had never met a stranger, but she struggled to say something that would keep the group going. “So, what do you think of our teacher?” she asked, grateful to have thought of something to say.

“She’s nice,” Ellen said.

“Yeah,” Mickey said.

Claire studied the other women at the table, her perfectly shaped brows raised lightly in amusement. “I’m not much for small talk. It’s obviously not working anyway. Shall we get down to business? I’m a busy person, and I’m sure everyone else here is, too. Besides, we did introductions in class.”

“Of course,” Julia said, her tone even and controlled. “I’m sure as we start studying, we’ll get to know each other better. Did everyone bring their textbooks?”

Ellen’s face went pale.

“Ellen, are you all right?” Julia asked.

“Oh, I forgot my book,” Ellen said. “I don’t like it when I forget things.”

Julia, remembering Ellen’s remarks about Alzheimer’s in class — and her sensitivity about the class’s laughter — decided to downplay the comment rather than draw attention to it. No sense running her off. “It’s okay, dear,” Julia said, patting Ellen’s arm. “I do that all the time. You can share with me. It’s no big deal.”

Ellen looked uncertain, but nodded her head in agreement.

“Well, then, let’s begin. Shall we run through the vocab to start?” Julia wondered if she was going to get anyone in the group to talk today.

“I’ll start.” Mickey looked around at the group. “But I’m not any good at Spanish. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at it.”

“If you take that sort of attitude, then I’m sure you’ll be right,” Claire said with a sniff. “If you make up your mind to learn something, then you will. It’s that simple.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ellen said. “I do think that some of us are more wired to learn languages than others. Mickey has the advantage of being younger, so that might help her, but I don’t think any of us can say who can learn what. Me, I’m just worried about being able to retain what I’m learning.”

Mickey nodded her head. “I know what you mean. I’ve tried,” she said. “I took Spanish in high school and again in college. I didn’t pick up anything when I visited Costa Rica. I think they thought I was stuck up, but I had trouble with anything past buenos dias.”

“If you’re so hopeless, why did you take the class in the first place?” Claire’s blue eyes bore holes into Mickey, who slumped down into her chair.

“I-I-I-well, I…” Tears formed in Mickey’s eyes. She looked around at the others, her face reddening.

Julia glared at Claire. “What’s the matter with you? Didn’t you ever hear about picking on someone your own size? Or in this case, age?”

Claire shrugged. “She looks like an adult to me. I’m sure she’s quite capable of speaking for herself.”

Mickey reddened but said nothing. She slumped back in her chair and crossed her arms, her face defiant, but saying nothing. So young, Julia thought. She’s afraid to speak up.

They were all glaring at Claire, who promptly burst into laughter.

“I don’t see what’s funny about this,” Julia said softly.

“Me neither,” Mickey said, wiping her eyes with a napkin and staring sullenly at the table.

Claire showed no signs of backing down. “If you could see your faces,” she said. “Mickey, I’m not the most sensitive person in the world. I speak my mind and assume that everyone else will do the same. I’ve had to be that way for my entire career.” She looked around at each of them. “Look, I’m used to working with men in the energy industry. It’s a tough, no bullshit environment. I’m not used to hanging around with ladies, and I can see I’ve overstepped my bounds. I apologize. Though I do think, Mickey, you should develop a bit more backbone.”

Julia cleared her throat. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but if we’re going to help each other, then we can’t be worried that one of us is going to attack another. I really just wanted this to be fun.” She choked on those last words, feeling the loneliness and the longing for friends, and lots of them. She loved her life, with all the travel and adventure, but she wanted real friends. While she always found a tennis or lunch partner at the club, she had found those relationships shallow and lacking the real connection she wanted. This group, though, was threatening to blow up before it even got started.

“You’re right,” Claire said, now flashing a winning smile. Turning to Mickey, she said, “Mickey, I apologize. I have two daughters of my own that are around your age, and I should know better.”

“You have kids?” Mickey asked. “Wow, I’m sorry for them.” Life came into her eyes for the first time as they shone with triumph.

Claire’s smile left her face. “Well, I never…” Then she sat up straighter, obviously composing herself. “Yes, believe it or not, I have two daughters. Heather is a teacher, and her younger sister Anne is, for better or for worse, following in my footsteps in the energy biz.”

“Does anyone else have kids?” Julia asked, seizing the opportunity to return the conversation to normal. “I don’t. It just didn’t happen for us, and my husband travels so much, it just didn’t seem like a good idea.” She didn’t talk about the years of trying. She had refused in vitro fertilization, deciding that having children wasn’t meant to be, but the subject remained sore and private, one of those things that married couples keep to themselves.

Ellen chimed in. “I’m still looking for Mr. Right,” she said. “I’m already thinking that by the time I meet a guy, get married, and spend some time with just the two of us, I’ll be too old to try. I don’t really get out much, either, so hey, if anyone knows someone…”

The women all laughed, and Julia noticed that Mickey’s face had returned to a normal color. Maybe there’s hope for us after all, she thought.

They settled in to their study, stumbling through the vocabulary and trying to string together some rudimentary sentences. Claire’s pronunciation was flawless, Ellen’s only slightly less so. Mickey, true to her word, stumbled over every word, apologizing after each attempt. Julia was moderately better; she’d had several tennis matches and luncheons since the class and hadn’t studied as much as she should have.

Still, an hour of study flew by, and everyone seemed more relaxed at the end. “Well,” Julia said, “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Useful,” Claire said. “I wouldn’t mind working ahead of the lesson, though. I think this class is going to go too slowly for me.”

“Oh, God, I can’t work any faster,” Mickey said, “but maybe a study group will help.”

Julia ignored the bemused look on Claire’s face and turned to Ellen. “How about you? Are you game to do this again?”

“Sure,” Ellen said. “Claire, I do think we need to trust the teacher. I checked her out thoroughly before I enrolled. She has a Ph.D., and her former students rave about her.”

“Well, maybe it’s fine for people who just want to order in a restaurant,” Claire said, “but I’m not so sure. I mean, look at this vocabulary. Why do I care about the Spanish word for chalkboard? ‘SMART Boards,’ maybe. ‘Boardroom,’ ‘CEO,’ ‘I want to wring the customer’s neck,’ but ‘chalkboard’?”

“I agree with Ellen,” Julia said. “Let’s give Rita a chance. Besides, I think it would be great for us to get to know each other better, don’t you think? Who knows, maybe we’ll even learn to like each other!” The other women laughed, much to Julia’s relief.

As they left the coffee shop, smiles and laughter all around, Julia turned toward Claire to say something. She couldn’t help but notice that Claire’s alabaster skin seemed pasty, and she suddenly looked older. “Are you all right?” she asked softly.

“What?” Claire asked.

“Nothing, I just…well, nothing. See you in class.” Julia dropped her eyes and found a spot of nothingness on the wall to study with great interest. Something was wrong, she could tell. Julia reminded herself that she didn’t know Claire at all, but she couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding.

“I’ll see you soon,” Claire said.

Julia forced a smile. Looking back at Claire, she blinked in surprise. The pasty color had disappeared. Julia decided she had imagined things and finished saying her good-byes.