date. Your first job. Your first day at school—”
“Can I write about my first colonoscopy?” Max asked. “It’s where I met my second wife.”
Talk about your love connections.
“That’s fine,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” Rita piped up, poking a finger through her wiry curls to scratch her scalp. “Aren’t you going to talk about your books?”
I refrained from telling her that, aside from You and Your Garbage Disposal, I had no books to talk about.
“No, Rita, I’m afraid not.”
“But Mary Higgins Clark told us all about her books,” she pouted.
“She sold her first book,” she said, turning to the others to spread the news, “when she was widowed with five children!”
“How interesting.” I forced myself to keep smiling. “But as I’ve already explained, this is a writing course.”
“But I thought we’d be hearing stories,” Rita whined.
“The only stories in this class will be yours,” I said firmly. “Now, let’s start writing, shall we?”
Rita’s hand shot up.
“Are we going to be graded on penmanship?”
“There are no grades. Just write.”
By now, I was thisclose to giving her a wedgie.
Nancy and David, the married couple, picked up their pens and started writing with gusto. The others were a tad less enthused. A lot of ceiling-staring and what I suspect was doodling ensued. But at last I saw pens crawling across paper. The writing process had begun.
The only one who wasn’t writing was the old lady who’d come in after the class began. Instead, she’d taken a pair of knitting needles from her tote bag and was clacking away at what looked like an argyle sweater.
“Aren’t you going to write anything, Amanda?” I asked. “It’s fun once you get started. Just pretend you’re writing a letter to a friend.”
“Oh, no thank you, dear.” Another sweet smile. “I’ve already written postcards to my friends back home.”
“Don’t you want to write about your life?”
“Oh, no, dear. Living it was enough for me.”
Clearly the woman was not operating with a full deck, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to see a smiling face.
For the next hour I continued to swim upstream with this bunch. Rita kept punctuating every assignment with tidbits from the Mary Higgins Clark files. In a stage whisper that could be heard all the way to Cabo San Lucas, she kept up a running commentary on how much more famous and entertaining Mary Higgins Clark was than yours truly.
At first I was gratified to see Kenny, the teenager, writing industriously, but when I peeked over his shoulder I realized he’d been busy perfecting his pornographic cartoon skills.
Max nodded off somewhere during the second writing assignment, his jackhammer snores echoing in the empty restaurant.
But on the plus side, you’ll be happy to know that Amanda got a lot of work done on her argyle sweater.
My only shining lights were the married couple, who attacked their assignments with gusto.
At last, sixty painful minutes had come to an end. Not a nanosecond too soon.
“That’s all the time we have for today,” I said, hoping they couldn’t hear the relief in my voice.
Kenny’s hand shot up from the back.
“If there’s homework, I’m not coming back tomorrow.”
“There’s no homework, Kenny. Just bring in what you wrote today, and we’ll take turns reading aloud.
“See you all tomorrow!” I said, smiling my most appealing smile. As motley a crew as they were, I couldn’t afford to lose a single one of them. “Any questions before we go?”
My sweet, white-haired lady raised her hand.
“Just one, Professor Heinmann,” she said. “When are you going to tell us about your Arctic explorations?”
Chapter 5
Talk about your demoralizing experiences.
I wanted nothing more than to trot over to the Tiki Lounge and bolster my sagging ego with a frosty margarita, but it was only 11 A.M. and I simply could not justify glugging down tequila at that hour of the morning.
Besides, I needed to keep my brain cells perky for their upcoming bout with Samoa’s masterpiece.
So I trudged back to my cabin, where I found Prozac clawing on a cashmere sweater she’d dragged from my closet. Several pieces of my underwear were also scattered gaily on the cabin floor.
“I’m glad you’ve been having fun,” I snapped, picking up the mess. “I’ve been through utter hell.”
She scampered to my side and sniffed my ankles, then looked up at me with big green eyes that could mean only one thing:
So where are my snacks?
“Oh, for crying out loud, Pro, you ate enough ham this morning to feed an NFL quarterback. I’ll bring you something later.”
After scribbling a note to Samoa, asking him to pretty please bring me another pillow, I grabbed his manuscript and headed up to the pool deck. I found a spot in a secluded nook far from the frolicking crowds at the pool and settled down to do battle with Do Not Distub.
The less said about Samoa’s opus the better. Let’s just put it this way: I’d read better plots in my DVD manual. I spent the next few hours gritting my teeth in frustration, trying to decipher his minuscule scrawl.
All the while I could hear the happy shrieks of vacationers splashing in the pool.
For a mad instant, I considered tossing the whole ghastly mess overboard. But sanity prevailed and I slogged on, breaking only for a late lunch at the buffet (a heavenly roast beef panini, with just the weensiest chocolate chip cookie or three for dessert).
When at last my eyeballs were begging for mercy, I packed it in.
I was heading past the pool en route to my cabin when I heard someone call my name.
I turned and saw Emily Pritchard surrounded by her entourage: Kyle and his wife, Maggie; the formidable Ms. Nesbitt; and, of course, Adorable Robbie, who was looking particularly adorable in cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt.
With a jaunty wave, Emily beckoned me to join them.
As I made my way across the deck, I became aware of someone else in the Pritchard party. Cookie’s boyfriend, Graham, dashing as ever in his nautical blazer, was standing at Emily’s side. I hadn’t seen him at first, so engrossed had I been in Robbie’s cutoffs. But there he was, his hand resting most chummily on Emily’s elbow.
How odd. I didn’t think the hired dancers were allowed to fraternize with the passengers off the dance floor.
“Jaine, how lovely to see you.” Emily beamed as I approached.
“Is that a manuscript you’re carrying?” Nesbitt asked, catching sight of Samoa’s masterwork in my arms.
I nodded wearily. I preferred to think of it as recyclable waste, but I suppose technically it was a manuscript.
“How marvelous!” Emily gushed. “We get to see your new book before anybody else.”
Clearly she hadn’t glommed on to the fact that I was not a famous author.
“Actually, this isn’t my book. I’m editing it for a friend.”
“How