Page 7

SEVEN

I’ve returned to The Mistake story several times, adding to it and re-reading it, ensuring it’s the high quality I believed it was when I woke up, frightened and afraid. I even teared up a few times: Layla’s fear becoming my own, hoping against hope her pain was preventable.

My writing rarely provokes an emotional reaction, and yet, I don’t feel overly enthusiastic about the progress I’ve made.

It took a night terror to renew my creative spark, and the connection between what I’m feeling inside and what ends up on the page is frightening.

The Mistake is different, darker. Part of me wonders if this newest story is testing my limits.

Once I arrive at McCallie’s, I make my way to the back booth, happy to be a customer instead of a server after several shifts in a row.

I take in the crowd, making mental comparisons between this place and Mario’s.

I wonder if I’d make more money in fewer shifts working at a bar as opposed to a restaurant, but then I think of all the chances Mario has given me.

I’m lucky to have a boss who cuts me slack when I need it.

To my surprise, April is the only one here. A platter of cheese fries and ranch dressing sits in front of her.

“You’re early,” I say, sitting across from her. It’s no secret April is always the last to arrive, usually due to some unforeseen crisis concerning her kids. “Already ordered, I see.”

“Don’t judge me.” She pops another cheese fry in her mouth, licking her finger. “My husband showed up an hour earlier than expected, and I couldn’t help myself. It’s not every day I get a whole hour to kill.”

The server arrives, leaving a glass of wine in front of her. “Is that your first?”

“Nope.” She gives me a greedy smile. “Let’s just say I’ll be taking an Uber home.”

“Let loose while you can,” I say, unpacking my messenger bag. “Do you have anything to share this week?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been working nonstop,” she says. “It’s like I’ve had an explosion of creativity since our last meeting.”

I relate to how she feels. I’ve felt the same, but it isn’t our meeting that sparked my inspiration; it was the dream. Or, maybe more than that, it’s the reemergence of the black hearts and all the emotions they conjure inside me.

Danielle is the next to arrive, looking chic in a blazer and khaki chinos. “I hope your week has been more productive than mine,” she says, sitting beside me.

“Are you talking about writing or life in general?” I ask.

“Both, I guess. Work is shit, and when that’s a struggle, it feels like everything else is.”

“That’s usually what I say about my kids,” April says. “At least I’ve got some help this week from the hubs.”

“And you’re taking full advantage of it,” I say, clinking my glass against hers. I look at Danielle. “What did you work on this week, writing-wise?”

“I’ll wait for Victoria to get here,” she says, caving and stealing a fry. “After all, she’s the professional. If anyone can help me, it’ll be her.”

The bar gets more and more crowded. It’s soon a struggle to see the front door. The waitress revisits our table, and Danielle and I order a second round—I’m not sure what round it is for April. The three of us dive into the enormous platter of cheese fries, and Victoria finally arrives.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, “but I promise I have a good excuse.”

I turn to face her and see that she’s not alone. There’s another woman standing next to her. A much younger woman. She must be in her early twenties, almost a decade younger than the rest of us.

“Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of the Mystery Maidens,” Victoria says. “This is Marley.”

“Nice to meet you, Marley,” Danielle says, holding her drink in the air.

“It’s a pleasure,” April adds.

“I’m Becca,” I say, smiling. It strikes me that, being the newest member of the group, this is my first time welcoming a new person.

And I didn’t expect her to be so young. I scan the rest of her appearance.

She’s wearing a thick cowlneck sweater and maxi skirt covered in flowers.

Several scarves are draped over her ensemble, and a lightweight bag dangles from her right shoulder.

Her hair comes down to her waist, tiny braids mingling with the untamed curls.

A style that strikes me as unique and familiar all at once.

“How do the two of you know one another?” Danielle asks.

“Marley is the most promising student in this semester’s creative writing class,” Victoria says. “And she cares so much about her craft, she’s agreed to join the Maidens.”

“The more the merrier,” April says.

“So, Marley, what do you write?” I ask.

“Mysteries. Like the rest of you.”

“But what kind?” I say, scooting over to make more room for her on the bench. “Cozies? Procedurals? Thrillers?”

“Psychological thrillers, I guess,” she says. “Really I just try to write whatever inspires me that week.”

“And crime inspires you?” Danielle asks, a quizzical look on her face.

“It does us all, wouldn’t you say?”

Marley smiles. It’s the kind of expression that seems to brighten the world around you, draws you in.

I can’t help staring at her, taking in the other details of her appearance.

The layered necklaces draped across her chest. The small tattoo of a bird on her left wrist. As I watch her, a strange heat climbs the back of my neck, my head swimming with drunken thoughts.

But I’ve not had that much to drink, have I?

From the moment Marley arrived at our table, I’ve felt out of sorts, like I’m meant to be somewhere else.

“Well, let’s not waste more time,” Victoria says, pulling a notebook out of her bag. “Before we share our stories, let’s introduce ourselves. How about we go around and share our writing goals.”

“I’ll start,” April says, carefully placing her glass on the cardboard coaster.

“I’m just trying to carve out some time for me.

Since having kids, my days revolve around them.

And I’m fine with that. Really. But I’ve found writing gives me time to express myself.

If I were to be published one day, that would be great, but it’s really about time for me. ”

“I feel the same way,” Danielle hops in. “I mean, I spent all of my twenties preparing for the job I have now.”

Victoria leans close to Marley and says, “She’s a defense attorney.”

“That’s impressive,” Marley says, with a smile.

“Thank you.” Danielle smiles tightly. “I love my job, but it comes with so much pressure. It really started to get to me, especially when I was in law school. That’s when I started writing, and I find that it’s the best way for me to cope with my stress.

I can channel everything I’m feeling into what I write, and now that I’m part of a firm, I have a front-row seat to endless inspiration.

It would be great to be published one day, but writing will always take a back seat to my primary career. ”

“I’ve been self-publishing for a few years now,” Victoria says, “but I don’t consider it my main job.

I take pride in being a professor, would rather be a mentor than the next great novelist. I feel writing and teaching go hand in hand.

Doing well in one field pushes me to succeed more in the other, and I’ve been able to provide valuable advice to my students over the years.

Plus, my experiences on campus have helped shape my stories.

I’ve been lucky to meet people from all walks of life, and that improves my writing. ”

“Well, you’ve certainly inspired me,” Marley says. “That’s why I’m here.”

When it’s my turn to answer the question, I lie.

I say something about writing giving me a sense of identity, the opportunity to walk in the various shoes of my characters…

Blah, blah, blah. Truth is, I want to be a writer because I’m not suited for anything else.

I don’t have a primary career—a teacher, a mother, an attorney.

What I want more than anything in this world is to be published, to finally feel validated for what I have to say.

Get my side of the story out there, even if I do it through the actions and thoughts of my characters.

I allow them to live the life I’m too afraid to have, force them to carry the pressure of righting my wrongs.

“Now it’s your turn,” Victoria says, looking at Marley.

Marley’s eyes wander around the table, studying each of our faces. We’ve only just met her, yet she’s already been gifted an intimate glimpse into all our lives. She knows our motivations, our desires.

“I guess my goal is to write the next Gone Girl ,” she says, punctuating that sentence with a cutesy shrug. I force my face muscles to not react.

“Well, you just might have that potential,” Victoria says.

Again, I struggle to not react. Victoria, as a writer and a professor, must know how presumptuous Marley’s answer was.

What writer doesn’t want an overnight hit?

But it’s a once-in-a-generation type of success.

Most careers aren’t a fast feat, rather a slow tedious journey.

“I’m curious now,” Danielle says, leaning in. “Dare you to go first.”

“Might as well jump off the deep end, right?” Marley clears her throat. She slips a hand into her knapsack and pulls out a short manuscript. “This is a story I’ve been working on. It’s called Rosebud .”

She begins to read. Her voice is its own type of melody, soothing and calm, not an ounce of nervousness as she reads her work aloud to a group of strangers.

When I first joined the Maidens, it took me two meetings before I worked up the nerve to share my writing.

What it must be like to have Marley’s confidence and excitement and… talent.