Wonderful! Thank you so much, Patricia. You’re the best.
XOXOX S.
From: Sam Vetiver
To: Sam Vetiver
Date: August 30
Time: 5:04 p.m.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK. Fuck.
Chapter 14
A Cocktail of Novelists
If a bunch of cardinals is called a radiance, turkey hens a harem, and crows a murder, then a roomful of novelists, Sam thought, should be called a cocktail. She made this observation every Wednesday night, when she stepped off the elderly elevator that stopped, disconcertingly, four inches above or below the top floor of an old building overlooking the Boston Common and heard her workshop all the way down the hall. They’d been put in the last classroom to minimize disturbance to the other writers, but it was futile. It wasn’t the memoirists, poets, or the Writer Moms Mafia making all the noise. It was Sam’s novelists.
She paused outside the door, smiling. From within came a kind of froth and roar: the writers shouting, laughing, bellowing past each other, and somebody—probably Cleo Whittyre—belting opera. These were Sam’s people. She had been teaching this class since she’d gotten her MFA, and she’d never missed one. Not even when she’d been living in the Little House in the Berkshires with Hank; not when he was in jail or on benders or on the ward. Sam had made the six-hour round-trip drive because she knew how rare it was to find others who got it; who understood how important it was to sit in a room alone and download imaginary people and their stories; who believed in each other’s characters and made them real. There had never been a time, no matter what else was happening, that Sam hadn’t walked into her classroom andwalked out again feeling better. When they were all gathered around the table, the power of faith was levitational, and Sam sometimes looked around and thought: This is what love is.
Sam went in and unpacked her laptop. Nobody paid the slightest bit of attention. The novelists went right on laughing, talking, shouting, singing. They were wearing skull-and-crossbones eye patches, and it took Sam a minute to realize why: The heroine of tonight’s historical novel was a pirate. Sam’s workshop took support to a new level.
“AVAST YE, NOVELISTS,” she called, and toggled the light switch near the door. This got results, and the novelists began sifting down into their chairs.
“Hi boss,” said Tabby, sliding an eye patch down the table to Sam. “I ordered them from the giant bookselling conglomerate that shall not be named.”
“That was thoughtful,” said Sam. She put on her eye patch. It stank of rubber and the elastic cut into her cheek. “Are these for children, by any chance?”
“Yep. Sorry. I couldn’t find any adult ones.”
“That’s surprising,” said Iowa Jones.
“Is it, though?” said Daisy.
“Sure! Think of all that pirate porn,” said Iowa.
“And a new niche industry is born,” said Cleo. She and Iowa high-fived. Sam was grateful Iowa and Cleo hadn’t shown up in bawdy wench costumes.
“Where’s Amelie?” Sam asked. Amelie was the author being workshopped tonight.
“I was about to ask you that,” said Tabby. “It’s weird she’d be late to her own workshop.”
“Maybe she’s latebecauseit’s her workshop,” suggested Joe.
“Har harrrrr,” said Sam. She helped herself to some Pirate’s Booty and parrot-shaped frosted cookies. Workshop was fattening. “Has anyone heard from her?”
The novelists checked their phones and laptops. Demurrals allaround. Sam was surprised and a little concerned. She’d been late, partly because of sending William the pantsless selfie he’d requested as she left her apartment, which took thirty seconds to snap and five minutes to airbrush for cellulite, but mostly because, mindful of her stalker, Sam had taken a roundabout route. She knew that if the Rabbit or William’s complication really wanted to get to Sam, they would, but she’d thought: You want to tail me? Fine, I’ll make it hard for you.She left her building by the rear door, navigated her neighborhood through a network of alleys, snuck into the Ritz via the staff entrance, and popped out into the Public Garden, through which she zigzagged to class. If anyone was following her, Sam had given her a run for her money.
Workshop started at six, and it was now six thirty. The novelists were sometimes late because of traffic or parking, and once the guy being workshopped had shown up so inebriated that Sam had to escort him out. But never, in Sam’s sixteen years teaching, had a writer missed class the night her novel was on the table.
“Let’s give her a few more minutes,” Sam said.
“I have an idea in the meantime,” said Tabby. “Let’s go around and vent, like I did at this amazing support group I went to that’s run by... drumroll... our teacher’s new beau!”
“Wait wait wait,” said Jake. “Bow?”
“Beau,” said Lavinia, laughing. “As in love interest.”
